Wanted

by Annika James

  The bailiff escorted the prisoner out. The men at the long desk started to speak among themselves.

  “He’s crazy.”

  “He just had to find some way to get to that girl.”

  “Why are we even giving him another chance?”

  “Gentlemen, we need not concern ourselves with him any longer. We will launch our own investigation in Canada and he will be preoccupied in Utah while you supervise, Curtis. We’ll give him three months, and then we’ll lock him up. Be sure to make him disappear.”

  “I believe, sir, that that should have been taken care of after the first incident,” Curtis said. His teeth nearly cracked under the pressure he put on them.

  “That's neither here nor there. But this time, I don’t want any second guessing. Make this disappear. The police force in Blanding can never know that our unit exists. The world can never find out about the E.T.'s.”

  Chapter One

  My seat was hard, wooden, and very uncomfortable. And yet I sat without moving, just staring at my surroundings, taking it all in, despising it. The plain, matted carpet whispered of all the people that had said goodbye to their loved ones. They’d attempted to clean it over the years, but the many feet that had shuffled, stamped, or simply stood on it had worn it down to the point that cleaning was pointless.

  The walls were an ugly, dirty beige, covered in smudges and handprints. The podium and the pews were a solid enough wood and didn’t look so bad compared to everything else. The lighting was poor, making my already limited vision even worse, and the perfume from the flowers was making me queasy.

  Then again, it might not have been the flowers.

  “Beth? Are you ready?” Robert came up behind me, resting a hand on my shoulder. I barely noticed the tingles anymore. It seemed they were always there, my body constantly numb. I glanced around the room again, finally realizing that it was the end.

  Ready?

  Ready to say a final goodbye to my mother, who tried for eighteen years to find a comfortable compromise between friend and parent?

  Or ready to welcome the inhabitants of Blanding who had let in the creeper who’d murdered her?

  You're not being fair.

  All right. Maybe they didn't know.

  Was I ready to let go?

  No.

  But I was ready to try.

  “Yes,” I lied, standing and brushing off my simple black dress. I’d taken the sleeves off the year before, and regretted it as I shivered. I grabbed my sweater and silently prayed it would at least warm my body, if not my heart.

  I grabbed Rob's outstretched hand and walked with him into the hallway to the large wooden double doors at the back of the building. Lizzy was already there, preparing the sign-in book, dressed in a 1940's-style black dress she’d found at a thrift store. Her hair was pulled into a tight bun, giving her features a pained look.

  Victor—his black second-hand suit so faded it almost looked gray—and the funeral home director, Mr. Morris, were bringing in last minute flowers that had been delivered, taking them into the main room and setting them with all the others around the urn on its pedestal.

  “Ready?” Robert asked again. He watched me closely, ready to grab me should I collapse. He knew the strain I’d been under the past week—and which, if I was honest, actually began in August, nearly six months prior—and was trying desperately to be a strong support for me to lean on. It was hard to remember that he knew exactly how I felt…but I couldn't lie again.

  “No. Let's get this over with.”

  He opened the doors and I signed my own name in the book, followed by Victor, Robert, and Lizzy. Mr. Morris signed, and he had all his employees that were present sign, which I presumed was traditional. I wondered if we would be the only persons to sign. I couldn't imagine that no one else would attend my mother's funeral.

  I didn't have to wonder long.

  We waited only a few more minutes and Mr. Bostwick arrived with his wife, Maggie. They brought two of their three sons, Phil and Peter, and I noticed their daughter Clare wasn't with them, or her twin Paul. I knew he wouldn't be. He’d run off to Vegas the previous week, like the perfectly selfish boy he was.

  “Hello, Beth,” Mr. Bostwick said, his eyes downcast. He held out a hand which I shook firmly, trying to give the illusion that I was strong and managing well. It was a trick I’d be using a lot.

  “Hello, Mr. Bostwick. Mrs. Bostwick.” I turned to her, my hand outstretched. She was fighting back tears and pulled me into a hug, ignoring my hand.

  “Beth. I'm so sorry,” she said with a quiver in her voice.

  Why was she sorry? It wasn’t her fault an insane man broke into my home and killed my mother.

  Those thoughts were best kept to myself. Maggie was only saying what I’d be hearing the entire evening.

  Better get used to it now.

  “Thank you again for all your help—”

  “No, dear, please don't mention it. We're so saddened by your loss and you know we'll always be here to help you,” Maggie interrupted me. Richard nodded fervently beside her as we walked into the main room together.

  “Oh… okay, thank you. And thank you for the flowers, they're lovely.” The Bostwicks were responsible for most of the flowers, including a particularly large arrangement covered in lilies and roses. It was larger than the podium it was perched next to. “Have a seat. Will Clare be coming?”

  I felt entirely too formal as I welcomed them to such a morbid event.

  “Yes, dear, of course. She's coming soon, with Lee.”

  Not able to keep up conversation for very long, I simply nodded and went back to the lobby. Robert was sitting on a bench along a wall, his head thrown back and his eyes closed. The whole process had been tiring for everyone. I looked him over, taking in his new black suit. The only reason he’d bought it was for the funeral Victor had insisted he buy a new one instead of a thrift store special. I took a seat next to him and laid my hand on his knee. He must have been dozing, because at my touch he jumped slightly and looked disoriented. It was enough to bring a little smile to my face for the first time in over a week.

  “I'm sorry, Bethie. Do you need me?” he asked, concerned. He looked slightly embarrassed that he’d been caught.

  “No.” I smiled again. He seemed to be the only person able to bring a smile to my face now. “But more people are coming in.”

  Even as I spoke, the Cottons came in with their two daughters, bearing a sympathy card. After them a steady stream of people started to filter in, most bringing cards—which were placed in a basket near the door—and by the time Clare came running in, about sixty-five people had crammed into the tiny room. I was mentally exhausted from all the sympathy I was receiving.

  “I'm not late, am I?” she asked, giving me a quick hug and throwing her coat onto the overloaded coat rack before dragging Lee behind her into the main room. I barely had time to register that she’d straightened her normally curly blonde hair. It hung limply on her bare shoulders. Her black strapless dress was plain—not at all like Clare.

  I shook my head and—after several deep breaths and clutching my tissues—walked into my mother's funeral with Robert at my side.

  * * * *

  The speaker was talking, but I wasn't listening. I was actually trying not to listen. I didn't want to break down into tears again, so my mind kept going off in random directions.

  For one, I kept looking at all the flowers and remembering what they were really for. They were used to cover the smell of a dead body in the days when the coffin was kept in the home before burial. Candles were used, too, but not so much anymore—they’d burned down one too many houses.

  I started trying to remember what traditions were used around the world for the dead. I recalled one that called for placing soup on the gravestone…or something like that.

  I also seemed to recall that the colors in China were swapped—white for mourning, black for weddings. At least, they used to be…

  Was th
e color for mourning in Spain still yellow?

  But such thoughts could only distract me for so long.

  Staring at my mother's urn, I thought how useless those flowers surrounding it were. Pretty, certainly, and they did smell good…but they were utterly useless. When would she ever come back for them? Could I plant them in her memory later? Donate them for another funeral? Useless.

  “…tear from their eyes, and death will be no more, neither will mourning nor…” The speaker rambled on.

  What was I going to do with all the flowers? Would they even fit in Robert's car?

  “…former things have passed away.”

  Where did they find flowers in the middle of winter anyway?

  Robert reached over and grabbed my hand, squeezing it tightly. He released the tissues clenched in my other hand and he started dabbing my eyes. They leaked annoyingly, blurring my vision more than it already was from the blow Creeper had given me the night he killed my mother. I found myself squinting to bring things into focus and more than once it had already given me severe headaches.

  I thought you were past crying.

  Focus on the flowers.

  There were mostly carnations organized into shapes, including a heart. One was a key…I'm not sure what that was supposed to represent.

  The Bostwicks had purchased a second large arrangement of red roses to sit directly behind the urn, overpowering it. On either side there were bright, spring-colored flowers in smaller arrangements on pedestals. I would’ve preferred just plain white. I wanted to see something pure, not springy. We weren't in spring, for crying out loud. What was the use of trying to make things brighter than they were?

  The urn itself looked Victorian. I knew my mother had always been drawn to that era. It was also the only one I myself could stand to look at. Large with gold tone handles, it had big red roses painted on a black background. Again, I would’ve preferred white, but I had to take what was available.

  The speaker had finished, and it was time for random people to get up and talk about how much they’d loved my mother, and what an angel she was, etc. Sure, my mother was a good woman, but she was no saint. And none of those people cared one stitch for her. The rather large woman from down the street took the podium. Her flowered dress and oversized hat screamed, ’Look at me!’. She seemed completely self-absorbed.

  “…remember when Alexandrea was just a tiny…”

  Case in point. She didn’t even know my name.

  All right, she had my name right. But I preferred Beth, and anyone who really knew me knew that. Alexandrea was a horrible name I’d never really liked.

  I remembered when I’d told my mom to start calling me Beth. I was only five, and had difficulty telling people what my name was.

  “Momma, I wanna be called Beth from now on,” I’d announced in the car. We’d just left the grocery store where the clerk had asked my name and I’d tripped over it for the umpteenth time.

  “Beth? Why Beth?”

  “’Cuz people keep saying my name wrong.” Typical of me to blame it on others.

  “You don't like your name?” She saw right through me. “Well, okay. We’ll call you Beth until you decide otherwise, all right?”

  I nodded, feeling immensely grown up. I’d won the name battle and I never needed to hear “Alexandrea” again. It never occurred to me that it might have hurt my mother a little that I didn’t like the name she’d chosen for me—I was such a selfish child.

  The tears came harder after the remembrance, and the woman who was currently speaking thought it was her fault. She took a dramatic breath, closed her eyes as though she couldn't continue, and finally stepped down. I didn't even know who she was. I was grateful she misread my tears, but it wasn't over.

  People continued to come up, most of them probably just wanting the attention of being in front of everyone, and cried their little eyes out. I was angry at them all. For eighteen years we’d lived in a town the size of a toothpick, and none of those people had really cared about us. We’d lived in a crap house with crap cars and had barely survived with crap food. The only people who really cared were the Bostwicks and, recently, the Sheltons.

  One kid got up and started to read Poe's The Raven. Who on earth reads that at a funeral? Did he think he was poetic? Did he think I needed to be reminded that I’d see my mother “nevermore”?

  What a jerk!

  “Beth? They’re coming now,” Robert whispered into my ear, trying to get my attention.

  “Huh?” I looked around, finally noticing everyone in the room had gathered into a line and was getting ready to bother me with their condolences. The last thing I wanted was for those people to see me crying point-blank.

  They came one by one, most repeating things I’d already heard—I tuned most of them out. Too many of them felt the need to try to hug me, or attempt some semblance of a hug. I wanted to push each one away, especially the over-dramatic ones.

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “She’s smiling on you.”

  “Be strong.”

  She was my mother, not theirs.

  The Bostwicks came around, hugging me, not saying a word. They seemed to be the only ones to understand words weren’t what I needed. Nothing they could say would tell me how they felt. Nothing they could say would bring her back. Nothing would make me feel better.

  Once everyone was done—and most had trickled out the doors—I took a deep breath and let it out slowly, finally stopping the tears that had never really ceased.

  “What now?” I asked Robert, who was constantly at my side. My voice came out as a whisper. I was so exhausted from the whole ordeal, but I knew it wasn't over.

  “The Bostwicks have a luncheon set up at their home. But we don’t have to go if you don’t want to.”

  I thought about it for a moment. I knew I didn’t want to go, but it was for my mother. Not that she’d ever eat the food, but it was a chance to be around so-called friends who’d try to make the day end better than it had started.

  It was, after all, a day for remembering the life of my mom. Wallowing in self-pity wasn't going to bring her back. I needed to try to bring a form of normalcy back to my life…whatever normal was.

  “No, we’ll go. I’m hungry.” I grabbed my jacket off the coat rack and put it on over my sweater, ready to go back into the chilly December air.

  He took my hand and gently led me toward the door. Before we could reach it, I stopped in my tracks and pulled him back slightly.

  “Wait! We can’t leave the—” I couldn’t bring myself to say “urn” out loud. It sounded too dreary. I turned around and went back into the main room, only to find that it was already gone. “Where…?”

  “Richard took it. He’s brought it to his house and has it set up. We’ll take it to your house from there.”

  Already there?

  I hadn’t realized that I wouldn’t know what to do with it. Would I have left it in the car while we were inside eating? Carried it around with me like a doll? Out of the question. Richard thought of everything, it seemed.

  How grateful I was to the Bostwicks.

  When we arrived at the house, the long, white rock driveway and half the front lawn were already filled with various cars and trucks. It seemed that over half the funeral attendees had come to the luncheon. I’d been hoping for a lot less.

  I noticed the palm trees that once lined the driveway had been removed, most likely to prepare for fresh ones come spring.

  Everything was dying.

  The mood inside was almost surreal. People moved slowly, everyone dressed in black, while classical music played in the background. The Bostwicks had really tried hard to make it soothing for me. I almost wished for some upbeat music to lighten the mood.

  Some of the flowers from the funeral were set up around the urn in the main living room, cocooning it.

  I’d completely forgotten about the flowers. When we’d left the funeral home, I hadn't realized most of them were gone. I was glad I
didn't have to worry about those, either.

  But they're still worthless.

  Focus on something else.

  My stomach growled, defying me when I wanted to believe I couldn't eat.

  Fine. Try to eat.

  There were cold cuts, various cheeses with crackers, fruits and vegetables for dipping, and a few other things. I picked up a small paper plate and grabbed a few crackers with cheese, but once those were gone so was my appetite. The people around me were picking at it, everyone hungry but no one willing to look like a callous pig, whispering in corners.

  A few people tried to talk to me, but I had nothing really to say. They tried futilely for a few minutes before moving on to their next victim. Robert had been accosted by the kid who quoted The Raven, Lizzy was a shoulder to cry on for a woman I'd never seen before, and Victor was in deep conversation with Mr. Bostwick.

  I wandered around aimlessly, not really sure what I was doing, when someone caught my eye.

  Clare stood near the sliding glass door, waving her hand to catch my attention. She looked anxious and after pulling me outside and out of earshot, I found out why.

  I was pulled into another hug that I’d just as soon avoid. Her lip quivered as she spoke. She was obviously near to tears.

  “It's just not fair, Beth!”

  Oh no, not more 'me' chatter?

  “Why did this have to happen to you? You've been good your whole life and never done anything to anyone, and here you are in the worst pain imaginable. Now they're taking your house. Where are you going to go?” She squeezed a little harder before finally letting go. Wiping her eyes, she began again, calmer.

  “I just don't think it's right. I'm not saying anyone deserves this, but you're such a good person. And then there's me, who's been a spoiled, selfish brat and here I am with a second chance.”

  I knew she’d probably found out about the foreclosure from her dad. He was a lawyer, and more than likely knew everything that was happening in Blanding. But no one had known my mother was behind on several mortgage payments.

  “It's okay, Clare. I don't need the house. We won't be here long.” On the spur of the moment, I added, “The Sheltons are going back to Canada and I'm going with them.”