Killer's Diary

by Brian Pinkerton

  Ellen shrugged.

  “Not like you,” said George and his eyes locked on her. “You’re thin, you have a nice figure.”

  Ellen felt a chill and folded her arms over her breasts. She sensed arousal behind George’s gaze and lost her appetite.

  After drinking another glass of wine, George began leaning into Ellen’s mother, pawing her, while still glancing at Ellen—as if the daughter became the source of excitement for manhandling the mother.

  When George’s hand slipped under her mother’s skirt, Ellen jumped up from the table and said, “Excuse me.”

  “Go play with Seymour,” suggested Ellen’s mother in a slurred voice, as if Ellen and Seymour were six years old.

  The last image she took in was George’s tongue licking the side of her mother’s neck.

  Ellen moved to the family room, where the television played without an audience. She paced for a moment, anxious.

  When she heard George grunt and her mother moan, she knew she had to get out of the house.

  Ellen grabbed her coat and exited through the back door. She stepped onto a small, chilly patio. Seymour sat on a picnic table bench. He looked up, startled, a hand cupped over his mouth.

  He brought the hand down, revealing a joint.

  “Hi,” said Ellen.

  “Hey,” said Seymour. He exhaled slowly.

  “Okay if I sit out here with you?” she asked.

  “Sure.”

  She sat on the other side of the picnic table. Leaves skipped across the ground, occasionally mingling with garbage: a fast-food wrapper, a crushed Budweiser can.

  She didn’t expect conversation to follow, but Seymour surprised her with a low, rambling monologue.

  “He’s a piece of shit,” Seymour said. “He used to be normal, when he was sober. Then my mom left him. She married his best friend. Everything went to hell after that. My dad had a good job, but he got fired, and now he’s got a shit job. He just got angry and stayed angry. You best stay away from him. I brought a girl here once. He hit on her while I was out of the house. I see how he looks at you.”

  She said nothing, turning her eyes to the ground.

  Seymour took a long pull on the joint, held his breath with a hard face, then let it go as his eyelids drooped.

  “I’m leaving next week,” he said.

  Ellen looked at him. “What?”

  “Getting out,” he said. “Would you stay here?”

  She shook her head.

  “My buddy is going to Chicago,” he said. “He’s going to pick me up at school and away we go. I’m never coming back.” He took another hit off the joint and then said, “Freedom,” smiling at the taste of the word as it rolled off his lips.

  Ellen rarely blurted out anything, preparing and thinking through every remark, but in this instance, she surprised herself with the impulsiveness of her words:

  “Let me go with you.”

  Seymour shifted his weight and looked at her.

  “Please,” she said. “Just let me ride to Chicago with you. You can kick me out when we get there. I can’t stay here any longer, either.” Then the tears surfaced, wet and cold on her cheeks. “I have to get out. I’m going out of my mind. I need to leave home or I’m going to go crazy.”

  Seymour studied her. “Can I trust you?”

  “Who am I going to tell?”

  He shrugged. “You hardly talk as it is.”

  “Please.”

  Seymour grew silent. After a few minutes, Ellen feared he would not reply.

  Then he spoke.

  “Okay,” Seymour said. And Ellen’s escape was set into motion.

  Each morning, as she prepared for school, she stuffed some clothes and personal items into her backpack. Once, as Ellen headed out the door, her mother noted the bulging backpack and said, “A lot of homework, huh?”

  In gradual installments, Ellen accumulated the belongings in her locker, fearing suspicious looks from her peers, but no one seemed to take notice.

  On the day of her escape, December 4, she brought two large trash bags to school. At precisely eleven a.m., she excused herself from algebra class, stating that she felt dizzy and needed to see the nurse. Heart pounding, she headed for her locker.

  She filled the plastic bags with clothes and toiletries for her move to Chicago.

  Mr. Murphy, her chemistry teacher, walked past as she was emptying her locker. She froze in terror, but he kept going.

  Sometimes it pays to be invisible, she thought.

  No one’s going to miss me, that’s for sure. The quiet girl in the back row with nothing to contribute, no friends, no life…

  Ellen met Seymour in front of the school. “Jesus,” he muttered, watching her drag the bulging plastic bags.

  “Where are your things?” she asked.

  “We’re going to pick them up on the way,” he said. His eyes darted nervously. Seymour had a reputation for trouble at the high school—ditching classes, acts of vandalism. Lurking outside school with Ellen, Miss Goody-Two- Shoes, while class was in session would surely draw attention.

  Fifteen minutes late, a red Saturn pulled up to the curb. The driver was a scruffy, bearded man in his twenties with bloodshot eyes and a black baseball cap.

  “Open the trunk,” said Seymour.

  As they shoved Ellen’s bags inside, a voice erupted from nearby. “Hey! Ravenwood!”

  Ellen turned. It was Mr. Daniels, the assistant principal. He walked toward them, squinting.

  “Is that…Ellen Gordon?” he said, in a tone of surprise.

  “Get in!” shouted Seymour, shutting himself in the front seat. Ellen jumped into the backseat. The car took off before she had a chance to close the door. The tires squealed from the curb. She slammed the door with a mighty pull.

  Mr. Daniels stepped into the street, then stopped, hands on hips.

  Ellen watched him get smaller and smaller in the back window.

  She giggled.

  The Saturn blew through a red light. A delivery truck slammed on its brakes, missing them by a few feet.

  “Fucking Christ,” muttered Seymour.

  “What’s your name?” asked the driver. Ellen saw his eyes looking at her in the rearview mirror. They twitched, creating a strange rippling across his face.

  “Ellen,” she said.

  “I’m Randy. But you can call me Racer.”

  “Hello…Racer.”

  Seymour opened his window. He unzipped his backpack and started tossing out his school books and supplies. “Good-fucking-bye,” he said.

  Ellen watched through the back window as a trail of books, pens and pencils bounced on the pavement behind them. A blue binder struck the street, split open and sent a flurry of white pages into the wind.

  “Freedom,” said Seymour.

  The Saturn pulled up in front of George’s house. Just the sight of it gave Ellen the creeps. Seymour jumped out. He retrieved a full suitcase hidden behind a bush and stuffed it in the trunk. Within two minutes, they were back on the road, accelerating toward the highway.

  Ellen had rarely been out of Decatur. As they cut through a steady stream of unfamiliar towns, she felt exhilarated. Racer played hard rock on the car stereo, blasting it until her ears rang. She thought about George Ravenwood never being able to touch her again. She thought about her body shedding the history of his touch like an ugly, dead skin. She wanted to feel fresh again.

  The trip from Decatur to Chicago covered two hundred miles, a dramatic shift from the “Soybean Capital of the World” to a major metropolis. Chicago’s crisp skyline and beautiful lakefront took her breath away.

  Racer drove past the downtown area and entered a crowded, rough-looking residential neighborhood. Traffic slowed and the sidewalks filled with pedestrians wrapped in winter coats. The Saturn pulled up to a narrow building with a flapping awning that read Amber Hotel.

  “This is the place,” said Seymour.

  Racer helped them unload the trunk. He shook Ellen’s hand,
his face still twitching as if an invisible force pulled at it. “Nice to meet you, miss. Good luck.”

  “Where are you going?” she asked him.

  Racer grimaced. “Best I not say.”

  After he drove off, Seymour explained, “He deals. He gets his supplies in the city, takes them back home, sells around town, in the school. Hell, he makes more money than my dad.”

  Ellen and Seymour settled into their hotel room, a plain, square space. Seymour quickly laid out the rules.

  “Tomorrow, we’ll go looking for our own places. We can’t stay together. How are you on money?”

  “I’ve got enough to get started,” she said. In recent years, her father had started sending her cash gifts for Christmas and birthdays, a token and empty gesture to stay in touch. Ellen’s mother, seeing the return address, expressed no interest in the content. She held the envelopes distastefully by the corner and tossed them on Ellen’s bed. Ellen’s money stash quietly accumulated without her mother’s knowledge.

  “You sure?” said Seymour. “Because before I left, I ripped off the old bastard. He had a secret hiding place that wasn’t so secret.”

  Seymour pulled out his wallet—it was fat with cash.

  “No,” said Ellen. “But thank you.” She didn’t want to touch bills that had once touched George’s hands. She wanted absolutely nothing to do with George ever again.

  The first night in the hotel was the worst. She couldn’t sleep. The noises of the city—why the constant sirens?—kept her up. Her thoughts whirled.

  Was this a bad impulsive decision? Who was going to take care of her? Where was she going to live? What was she going to do for employment?

  She slept in the king-sized bed with Seymour, wearing more layers than she had on during the day. She was careful not to accidentally touch him, and he kept a distance from her, despite his bulk. But now, as he snored, she secretly wanted to move toward him and hold him, like a big security blanket. She needed her arms around something.

  She was scared.

  She thought about her mother. What was she thinking about at this moment? Ellen had left her a short note. She didn’t want her mother to worry. She wasn’t out to punish her. She just wanted to be free. The thought of her mother alone, the victim of another abandonment, filled her with guilt.

  Ellen barely slept at all that night.

  The next morning, Seymour woke early, muttered about finding an apartment, and left before Ellen had even sat up.

  Well, so much for having breakfast together, thought Ellen.

  For two hours, she walked the busy neighborhood, without a real destination, soaking in the new surroundings. The amount of stimulus soon overwhelmed her, and she felt anxiety throb in her chest and arms.

  Ellen noticed a sad-looking old woman, face lined with worry, leaning against a brick wall covered with gang graffiti. She couldn’t tear her eyes away. The woman appeared lost and alone. The image haunted her. In that instant, Ellen felt she had to call her mother.

  She found a pay phone at a diner.

  Her mother picked up on the first ring.

  “Where are you? Where are you?” she screamed.

  “Mother, please—”

  “I’m worried sick. I’m throwing up! I’m out of Valium. I’m losing it, Ellen.”

  “Don’t worry about me. I’m fine.”

  “I thought you were kidnapped. I thought you were dead!”

  “Mom, I left a note.”

  “Kidnappers could have made you write that.”

  “I’m not in any trouble. I just thought it was time to move out and be on my own.”

  “You belong in school.”

  “I’ll be okay. You’ll see.”

  “Where are you? You have to tell me. Please!”

  Ellen sighed. “Chicago.”

  “Oh, God. Where in Chicago?”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Chicago is not an answer! Where are you, Ellen?”

  “A hotel.”

  “What hotel?”

  “The Amber Hotel. But I’m not going to be there long, so don’t come looking for me. It’ll be a waste of gas.”

  “Come home.”

  “I can’t.” Ellen started to cry. She looked around and saw patrons of the diner staring at her. “I have to go.”

  “Ellen, you come home right now!”

  “Goodbye, Mom.” Ellen hung up. She hurried out of the diner and burst into tears on the sidewalk.

  She returned to the hotel room.

  Seymour sat on the bed, surrounded by newspapers and a map.

  “There are a lot of possibilities,” he said.

  “What?” she said, still in a daze from the conversation with her mother.

  “Apartments. Here.” He shoved one of the sections at her.

  She glanced at the cramped columns of small print.

  He circled another listing with a pen. “We should have no problems finding apartments.”

  She pulled the pages toward her and started to read. She soon found several possibilities and planned to visit them the following day. Seymour studied the listings for a while longer, and then they broke for a fast-food lunch across the street. Returning to the room, Seymour turned on the television and found a channel showing old sitcom reruns.

  She watched television with him, even though the programs didn’t interest her in the least. After two hours, the lack of conversation felt awkward. During a commercial, she got up and paced the small room. She spotted a wrinkled piece of paper—a certificate—in his open suitcase on the floor. Curious, she stepped closer to get a better look.

  Seymour saw that she was checking it out. He moved off the bed, picked up the certificate and handed it to her.

  “I won the spelling bee,” he said.

  She examined the piece of paper, and sure enough, it was an award for placing first in a school spelling contest.

  “When did you do this?” she asked.

  “Fifth grade,” he said.

  It was several years old. Why was he still carrying it around? She didn’t know what to make of it and handed the certificate back to him. He took it and said, “My dad’s always calling me stupid. Well, he’s the idiot. He never won anything. I won a spelling bee. I was best in the class. I’m not stupid.”

  “I don’t think you’re stupid,” she said.

  “An idiot doesn’t win a spelling bee,” he said, and he placed the certificate back in his suitcase. She thought about all the times she had heard George belittle his son, criticizing his weight and intelligence.

  “Don’t listen to your dad,” she said. “He’s a jerk.”

  Seymour replied, “I know.”

  He returned to the bed. The commercial break had ended and his show was back on.

  Ellen felt sorry for him.

  Night fell early and cold. For dinner, she suggested a pizza place she had seen during her walk that morning. When Seymour said that he’d rather eat at Burger King again because it was closer, she offered to go pick up the pizza and bring it back. Seymour shrugged, his hands resting on his large belly, his eyes glued to the Dick Van Dyke Show. “Okay. Fine. Whatever.”

  She left to get the pizza. On her way back, as an extra treat, she picked up a bag of chocolate chip cookies at a small grocery store. She was preparing to cross the street to return to the hotel when she saw a familiar face that took her breath away. She dropped the sacks of food to the ground.

  George Ravenwood emerged from the Amber Hotel, pulling Seymour by the collar. George looked positively ferocious. Seymour stumbled to keep up, trapped, frightened and red-faced. He dragged his suitcase alongside him.

  Ellen choked, mortified. She realized all at once what had happened. Her mother had told George where they were. Why did I tell her the name of the hotel? It’s all my fault. Oh my God, why why why?

  She remained frozen, hoping they wouldn’t see her.

  George and Seymour entered George’s Honda. Rust outlined the doors. The car took
off, headlamps burning into the night, a boomerang back to Decatur.

  Once the vehicle disappeared from view, Ellen hurried across the street. She entered the Amber Hotel. She had to get her things before anyone came looking for her next.

  She went to the room and quickly collected her belongings.

  As she packed, she saw several of Seymour’s items scattered across the floor…a sock, a T-shirt. Then she noticed the spelling bee certificate.

  During the abrupt exit, it must have fallen to the ground. She picked it up, looked it over, and felt overwhelmingly sad.

  She put it with her things. She vowed to one day return it to him.

  Ellen left the hotel. She didn’t have a plan, a destination or anyone to help her.

  She was really on her own now.

  Ellen found her first apartment, a genuine dump but cheap, later that week. She made the deposit, swallowing back the separation anxiety that plagued her. She resisted calling her mother for several months. She jumped at her first job opportunity, waiting tables in a Greek restaurant.

  Over the next few years, Ellen changed jobs on a regular basis, working as a bank teller and then as a pharmacy clerk, generally bouncing around where needed as the economy twisted and turned. She moved to Lakeview, a neighborhood on Chicago’s North Side. She found a “garden unit” apartment, basically a converted portion of the basement on the other side of a wall from the laundry room and storage units. She installed a massive bookcase in her living room and packed it with books.

  Ellen faced the world alone, hungry for approval and acceptance. More than anything, she craved an intimate relationship. On some days, her unanswered desires filled her with sadness.

  On other days, she felt a glimmer of hope that her soul mate truly existed, somewhere in the world, simply awaiting discovery.

  Chapter Five

  Ellen returned to Pacific Coast Coffee earlier than normal with a mission. Who is the author of this journal?

  She purchased a large latte and brought it to an empty table in the back, near the booth where she had discovered the notebook. Before sitting down, she repositioned her chair for a better view of the customers coming and going.