The Girl From Blind River

by Gale Massey

  “See anything you want?”

  He was teasing, but the first time he’d asked she’d taken it as an insult and realized that everyone in town knew her story. But then she’d seen his face go red and decided he meant nothing by it and it had become a joke between them. Between his morning breakfasts at the diner and her afternoon visits to his store, an unexpected ease had built up between the two of them.

  At the beginning of her parole it had taken such an effort not to be pissed off at the ordinary comments people made—people said stupid things to her all the time—but he made an effort to put her at ease. She felt welcome visiting his store even though it was understood that she could never afford to buy a single thing.

  And yet, it seemed any question she asked resulted in a lecture, like he meant to train her to work as a salesclerk in a store where nobody ever shopped. Two weeks ago she had looked twice at a toaster only to get caught in a ten-minute discussion on housewares. Once, she’d helped him polish a tea set and learned that it had been sitting in the store for nearly a decade. They never sell, he’d said, and always tarnish. One time he’d tried to give her a few pieces but she refused, embarrassed as hell—he clearly had no idea how she lived—and she hadn’t come back to the store for a week.

  She bent to look inside a display case and felt the ring shift beneath her blouse. She tucked the string under her lapel, but he had seen. “You looking to upgrade that string?”

  “Huh? No, it’s just a key.” She hoped he hadn’t seen the ring hanging there.

  “That makes you a latchkey kid, then,” he said, and laughed a little.

  She pointed to a tray of rings. “How do you figure out how much these things are worth?”

  He set the dustrag down and found the keys to the case. “There are lots of ways to appraise a piece of jewelry,” he began, and she knew she’d have to put up with another lecture. The man could never give a simple answer. He picked up a wedding band. “See this? This isn’t worth much in weight, but they sell pretty well. A man on his way to the courthouse will pay a hundred bucks for it.”

  “What about the one next to it?”

  It was a big rock, set in twenty-four-carat gold. He glanced at the front door before he took it out of the case, like he always did with expensive pieces. “This one is special. Beautiful, isn’t it? Lots of color.” He held it up to the light and the facets caught fire.

  “It’s pretty, but how do you price it?”

  “It’s tricky sometimes, but I had this one appraised by a jeweler last fall when I was in Atlantic City.”

  He could sound so pretentious.

  “Priced it at twenty thousand, though it’s only worth that if someone is willing to pay it.”

  She stared at it. She’d never owned a diamond and guessed she never would. In another life she might’ve had a living husband, be celebrating a twentieth anniversary. She might’ve had all sorts of jewelry by now, but these days, when she bothered to look in the mirror, all she saw was a worn-out woman whose clothes didn’t even fit. There was never anything her size at the thrift store, the only place in town she could afford anything at all. That might change soon.

  “Try it on,” he said, handing it to her. “It is a universal truth that any woman hanging out at the jewelry counter loves to try on rings.”

  “Well, this one doesn’t.” She set it on the glass, suddenly aware of her reddened hands, her fingernails that hadn’t seen polish in ten years.

  He smiled. “You know, looking’s free.”

  “What about that one?” She pointed to a gaudy piece with dozens of diamond chips mounted in white metal.

  “Not much,” he said, getting it out. “Maybe two hundred.” He held it up for her to study.

  “It’s as pretty.”

  “Not to the trained eye. I can show you the difference in these catalogs.” There were dozens of old copies stacked on the counter. “These prices are outdated, but it’ll give you an idea of how diamonds are rated.”

  He opened to a page and started explaining the difference between styles and cuts, but she tuned him out and flipped through the photos, checking prices.

  “If you tell me what you’re looking for, maybe I can help. You want to sell something. Maybe a family heirloom?”

  She shut the catalog and stooped to pet the Doberman one last time. “No, I was just killing time.”

  “Hey. I didn’t mean anything.”

  “No offense taken,” she said, and managed to give him a smile. “I just need to get back. Tommy will need help peeling the potatoes.”

  At the front of the store, he made her take an old copy.

  She hated being the constant recipient of charity, but sometimes it was better to take what was offered than to insult someone out of pride. Phoebe folded the catalog into her apron pocket.

  CHAPTER

  23

  JAMIE WATCHED HER mother come out of the pawnshop and slip between the buildings to the alley that ran behind the storefronts. Phoebe turned over a plastic bucket and sat on it, lit a cigarette, and started flipping through a magazine. The back door of the diner was propped open and the air was filled with smoke and the smell of frying grease. It was a full minute before Phoebe looked up from the magazine and saw Jamie. When she threw her cigarette down, its smoke drifted sideways along the wet ground. She lit another one and offered the pack to Jamie.

  “I don’t smoke.”

  Phoebe blew a cloud out the side of her mouth along with the words, “Don’t start.”

  Jamie leaned against the back porch steps and wondered why it was so hard to talk to the woman. Never mind that their lives hadn’t been normal for years, mothers and daughters should be able to talk. A decade ago there’d been an ease between them. At least that’s how Jamie remembered things.

  “What is it?” Phoebe asked.

  “What do you think?” She closed the back door of the diner and checked over her shoulder. “That cop has been following me.”

  “Asking questions?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “He’s been coming in the diner, too. Tommy says he’s not from around here, came down from Albany a few years back. Moved here after a divorce or something. He gives me the creeps. Nosy effer. I think he might’ve seen me catch a hanger sticking an ace on that last hand. But they were all too drunk to be sure.”

  “You caught a hanger? That’s it? All this happened because of a hanger?”

  “It wasn’t just that. It was a big bet.”

  “Bets are always big at the end of a game.”

  “A really big bet. Keating wanted fireworks. You know how it is. He doesn’t care about the money. He just wants to crush people, leave ’em reeling, stand back and smirk.”

  “Maim and neuter.”

  “Yep. But he pays, so he gets what he wants.”

  “What about the next night? Why were you there?”

  Phoebe sucked on her cigarette and studied the dirt beneath her nails.

  “Jeez.” Jamie shook off the image of that bloated man and her mother, alone in the dark. Jack came to mind but she pushed that thought away, too.

  Phoebe exhaled a long stream of smoke. “I was lonely. It was just one night.”

  “You think TJ came back to get even?”

  “He came to get what he’d lost.”

  “In the middle of the night? He broke into a judge’s house to get his money back, or did he really come to get that ring?”

  Phoebe looked around the alley and got to her feet. She felt under the neck of her lapel and pulled a string from under her blouse. “Look at it.”

  The ring was enormous. Bright and shiny. Impossible to mistake for anything other than a Super Bowl ring.

  “How the hell did you get ahold of that?” But she knew the answer as soon as she asked. Her mother in the window that night at Keating’s. His rage that Phoebe had stolen something from his house.

  “You had that all along, didn’t you?” She looked up and down the alley. “That compl
icates things.”

  Phoebe tucked the ring back under her blouse. She opened the catalog and pointed to a dog-eared page. “Look at these prices. With these diamonds? This is worth a fortune. Enough to get us out of Blind River forever. Enough to start over.”

  All her life, Jamie had heard random bits and pieces of stories about her family. Jilkins often hinted at the criminal tendencies of the Elders clan. Loyal never talked about his brother or his death, but she knew they had been in business together. Every story she’d ever heard had the same thread running through it: theft.

  She couldn’t look her mother in the eye. She looked at the buttons on her blouse instead and, referring to the thing hidden there, said, “You’re going to fence a dead man’s ring?”

  Phoebe stood and held the catalog at her side. Jamie waited for the slap, wanted it, and the permission to walk away it would bring. One single blow would make it easy to leave. But her mother turned and threw the catalog into the dumpster. Her hair was uneven in the back where she’d tried to trim it in the mirror. The waist of her skirt puckered at the belt loops. And Jamie understood—it was stupid to think Phoebe Elders could resist a payout this big.

  “They’re going to be looking for it, you know? If they find the body. That thing will tie you to that.”

  “We could get a long way from here before then,” Phoebe said, flipping the ashes off her cigarette.

  “We?”

  “You and me.” She cocked her head sideways. “You could come with me.”

  Jamie considered the idea. “What? You want to be a team now? Go all Thelma and Louise or something?”

  “Don’t be stupid, Jamie. You need to get out of here. There will be trouble if you stay. Why do you think Loyal had you help him that night?”

  She raised her shoulders. “I owe him, so sometimes I help him.”

  “Is that what happened to your face? You helping him?” Phoebe reached out and touched Jamie’s cheek, but Jamie pushed her hand away.

  “You’re a scrawny kid who eats like a bird. He needed you to help him move a two-hundred-and-fifty-pound man?” She pushed her bangs off her forehead. “Watch yourself, Jamie. He put you at that scene for a reason. DNA, fingerprints. He’s leaving a trail in case he needs to cover his tracks. He and Keating need to put this on someone, and it’s not going to be me. I am not going back to prison. Not in this lifetime.”

  “What happened that night?”

  The back door bounced open and Tommy stuck his head out. “Pheebs!” he yelled. “They’re backing up at the counter.” He tapped a spatula against his leg and locked eyes with Jamie. “Everything okay out here?”

  “Go back inside, Tommy. I’m coming.”

  Tommy went back inside and Phoebe took a long drag off her cigarette.

  “He recognized my face, Jamie. From the Saturday night game.” Smoke clouded the air in front of her face and she waved it away. “He charged. What do you think happened? He surprised us.”

  “So you what? You just killed him?”

  “What?” Phoebe stepped backward, her face turning to a sneer. “God. I never know what to expect from you.”

  “To expect from me? What you expect is for me to clean up after you.” Liquid rage weakened her legs, but she couldn’t back down now.

  “What mess did I ever leave for you to clean up?”

  “Toby! You left me to take care of him.”

  “Lower your voice,” Phoebe said. “I couldn’t help that and you know it.”

  Jamie braced herself against the back porch, the muscles in her legs turning hot.

  “Fuck this.” Phoebe threw her cigarette on the ground and went inside.

  “Right, just walk away!” Jamie yelled, but Phoebe had already slammed the door behind her.

  The woman was weak. Weak and selfish and she obviously didn’t care about anything but money. Jamie picked up the bucket and slung it against the dumpster. Picked it up and threw it again. The handle flew off and hit her leg. The pain calmed her down. As she rubbed her shin she watched the smoke from her mother’s cigarette snag on a breeze, twist, and disappear into the air.

  CHAPTER

  24

  AS PHOEBE WALKED from the bus station back to the diner, she contemplated the cash she had left, adding it up to the dollar. Three hundred and twenty dollars wasn’t much for a start in a new city. All that could change, though, if she played this right. The two one-way tickets to the shore had cost her plenty and the second ticket was probably a waste of time, but it was redeemable for cash if things didn’t work out the way she hoped. She’d hated watching Jamie throw that fit, but she hoped if she gave it some time, the girl would cool off and maybe come with her.

  When she got to the alley behind the diner, it was quiet. She had five minutes left on her break, so she turned over the mop bucket and sat down. It struck her, not for the first time, how comfortable she was out here, away from the eyes of the good people of Blind River. It seemed there was no end to their curiosity about her, the woman who’d spent time in prison. Sometimes she felt like the town’s only novelty. Sometimes she just needed to be alone on the outside of fences and walls and feel the freedom to walk down a dank alley at any time of the day or night. People complained about their bosses or the price of milk—they had no idea how lucky they were to simply open a door and walk through it. When she got out eight months ago, the world had seemed too large, the sky too high, the colors of sunset gaudy and bright. Getting to work on time, opening a checking account, buying aspirin at the drugstore—it was all she could do to get through a day. The choices overwhelmed her. How could there be so many brands for a single product, and why would anyone buy expensive shampoo when the knock-off brand was half the cost?

  She’d been determined to put the past behind her, to never look back or think about prison. But with what she’d done at Keating’s, those gray walls loomed behind everything. Behind the dumpster, a gray wall. Behind the metal barrel where Tommy burned trash, a gray wall. Even the wall behind the metal staircase that led to her apartment was gray. The color was closing in on her. And it was her own fault. She’d put herself in this position. She’d had help, that’s for sure, and maybe she had some leverage, but this had come about because she had gotten comfortable with freedom and the few things she owned. And she had wanted more.

  She finished her cigarette, went inside, tied on her apron. When she pushed through the kitchen’s swinging doors, Loyal was sitting on a stool at the middle of the counter, waiting. The way he stared meant he had something to say, so she was glad the diner was empty.

  “What do you want?”

  “Coffee.”

  The pot from the lunch service had gone cold, so she started another one. “That isn’t what I meant. What else?”

  “Pie.”

  It was awful being alone with him. She owed him so much, hated him even more. “I got apple and sweet potato but they’re still frozen.”

  “Give me the sweet potato.”

  She got it out of the freezer, popped it out of its tin, and whacked a piece off with a knife big enough to field-dress a buck. The coffeepot beeped and she tossed the pie in the microwave, punched a few buttons. From five feet away she smelled the whiskey on his breath, his unwashed hair. His silence pissed her off, like he had all the time in the world. She grabbed the coffeepot and filled his cup. It would be easy enough to accidentally trip and send that scalding liquid flying across the counter at him.

  “What do you want from me?”

  He pulled his old flask from his jacket pocket. It stunned her to see that thing again and it brought back a memory she hadn’t thought of in years.

  The whole gang had gone out drinking. She and Jimmy had hired a sitter for the first time ever and left the kids home to go to Bobby Smiley’s birthday party at Crowley’s Pub.

  Bobby Smiley. Everyone called him BS for short and it was an apt nickname. He was Loyal’s best friend on the high school football team and the only person Loyal ever spent any
time with, a fact people noticed. Some folks talked. Joked about Loyal being Bobby’s center and snickered about just how tight Bobby’s end really was. Bobby moved to Key West a few years after graduation and gave Loyal that flask as a parting gift. No one saw Loyal for months after Bobby left, but the rumors about the two of them remained as some of the best gossip in Blind River.

  Loyal poured some whiskey in his coffee, stopped when he saw her staring.

  “You ever hear from him?” she asked, motioning to the flask.

  “Who?”

  “You know who.”

  “Sends me a postcard sometimes. Want some?”

  She took the flask and read the inscription though it was nearly rubbed off: Friends Forever. It was silver-plated and dented in the middle. A piece of junk like that wouldn’t bring five dollars in the pawnshop.

  “Looks like it got run over by a truck.”

  “I didn’t give it to you to inspect. Give it back if you don’t want some.”

  She handed it back. “No, I don’t want any of it.”

  Loyal poured cream in his coffee and drank half the cup. She thought about refilling it but wanted him to ask for it or, better yet, just leave.

  “Tommy’s in the back doing dishes, so we’re alone. Why don’t you just say what you came in here to say?”

  “I don’t know. It seems redundant.”

  Sometimes he threw out a big word like that, like he thought he was so smart. She laughed and it came out mean.

  “I saw that cop’s car parked outside of here yesterday. You know he is not your friend, right?” he said.

  “You came here to tell me who my friends are?”

  “There’s no way he will help you, okay? The only thing for you to do is sit tight and let me take care of things.” He forked the pie and stuffed half of it in his mouth.

  “Last time I let you take care of things I ended up with a dead husband.”