by Amy Brashear
He takes it, but he doesn’t open it in front of me. I’m disappointed.
“I didn’t know we were doing this. I don’t have anything for you,” he says, glancing over his shoulder. I can hear his mother puttering around in the kitchen.
“Don’t worry about it,” I say.
“No—I should have got you a present. I will.” His eyes drift past my shoulder. I turn around to see his father driving up. He parks and hops out of the truck, walking to the flatbed.
“I need your help!” his father calls.
Landry puts the gift I gave him on a porch chair and hurries down the steps. His dad hands him some boxes. Not sure what to do, I hold the screen door open for both of them.
“Thank you very much, Carly,” Mr. Davis says. He’s not grunting or straining. The boxes are empty.
“Landry, what’s going on?” I ask as he races past me back to the truck.
“Spring cleaning,” he says.
“But it’s winter,” I say.
“Thanks for the gift” is Landry’s reply.
Afterward, shaken by the strangeness of that visit, I decide to drive to Mary Claire’s. I need to see if everything’s fine between the two of us.
Mrs. Haas answers the door and lets me inside. “Oh, Carly, they’re upstairs, go on up,” she says.
They?
I want to ask her who’s visiting, but the lump in my throat prevents me from saying a word. I hear giggling behind the door. It’s closed, but I don’t even knock.
“Carly!” Mary Claire says, her eyes wide. She’s leaning on a pillow, flipping through magazines. Her hands are frozen in midflip. “You scared me!”
I see then who’s with her. It’s Karen. She’s sitting beside Mary Claire. She’s looking at the magazine over Mary Claire’s shoulder. She offers me a smirk.
“It’s a sleepover,” she says.
“Hush,” Mary Claire scolds Karen, turning her attention back to the glossy pages. “As if your mother would let you sleep over on a Monday night?”
They both giggle again.
I bolt. I run down the stairs and straight past Mrs. Haas, out the front door.
Sitting in my car I wait for Mary Claire to come after me, but she doesn’t.
I won’t let myself cry. I head to Garden. I need cookies. I also need gas for the car.
The Hurd’s Phillips 66 is on the drag where most people stop on their way out of or into Garden when the low-fuel light pops on. An attendant comes running over as I pull up to the pump. Watching him in his grimy coveralls and a ratty coat, his face and hands smeared with grease, I think of the word Mr. Capote used to describe the men who work here: cretins.
What a stuck-up jerk he is. Mr. Capote doesn’t know anything about these men. I can’t wait for him to leave town and go back to New York City.
Rolling down the window, I pull out a dollar from my purse, making sure to smile extra wide. “A dollar’s worth, please.”
The attendant nods politely. “Yes, miss.” He takes the money, unscrews the cap, and starts filling the tank.
A thought occurs to me as I’m tapping my fingers on the steering wheel. I suddenly realize why Mr. Capote came here in the first place. It wasn’t for gas. It was for information. I brace myself for the cold and hop out of the car.
“Can I help you, miss?” the attendant asks.
“Were you working on November fourteenth?” I ask him.
He shakes his head. “James Spor was.”
“Is he here?”
“Just inside there.” He points to the shop.
“Thanks.” Ducking down into the wind, I run across the parking lot and into the garage. Another man, also in grimy coveralls, is working under the hood of an old blue Chevrolet.
“Are you Mr. Spor?” I ask.
“Uh-huh,” he replies.
“That man out there says you worked on November fourteenth. Is that true?”
He peers out from behind the hood, then takes a rag and wipes his hands. He’s taller and older than the attendant outside, and he’s wearing a jacket that’s too small and a hat lowered over his eyes. “What day of the week was that?” he asks.
“A Saturday,” I say.
“I don’t think so,” he says. “I usually take Saturdays off. But hold on . . . that was the night before the Clutters, right?”
I nod.
“I was working the late shift.” He stares at me, his eyes cold. “Now, why do you want to know?”
“Do you remember two men at all? Strangers? They were probably cagey, nervous.”
“Again, child, why do you want to know?” he asks.
“Did they say anything strange to you?” I ask.
“Well, the tall one was talking about a score he was going to do.”
“A score?” I ask, feeling sick. It had to be them.
“If I showed you pictures, do you think you’d remember them?”
“Little girl, you’ve got to tell me, what the hell is going on?”
“I will . . . I promise. Later. But now I have to go. Thank you!”
I turn and race back to the warmth of my car. The KBI has to interview this man. I have to tell Sheriff Robertson about this man. The store-bought cookies will have to wait.
The courthouse is quiet, real quiet, like not a soul in the place except for the janitor. Old Man Miller, Asher and I call him—though never in front of my father, who says that it’s disrespectful. “He’s Mr. Miller to you.” When I reach the second-floor landing, he glances up from sweeping.
“Where’s everyone?” I ask, reaching the fourth-floor landing.
“Gone,” he says.
“Gone where?”
“Vegas. They found them,” he says.
“Found them?” I say slowly.
“Found them,” he says, continuing to sweep the floor. He jerks his head toward the wastebasket by the stairs. “It’s over.”
I turn and spot a crumpled piece of white paper, the word WARRANT printed at the top.
Digging it out, I read out loud, for not just me, but for Old Man Miller to hear, too.
The state of Kansas to the sheriff of FINNEY county: Whereas, Complaint in writing under oath, has been made to me, and it appearing that there are reasonable grounds for believing that on or about the 15th day of NOVEMBER, 1959, in FINNEY County and State of Kansas, one RICHARD EUGENE HICKOCK and PERRY EDWARD SMITH did then and there unlawfully, feloniously and willfully and with deliberation and premeditation, and while being engaged in the perpetration of a felony, kill and take the life of Herbert W. Clutter, Bonnie Mae Clutter, Nancy Mae Clutter, and Kenyon Neal Clutter.
You are therefore commanded, forthwith, to arrest said Richard Eugene Hickock and Perry Edward Smith and bring them before me, at Garden City, in said County, to be dealt with according to law; and then and there return this writ.
“Like I said,” Old Man Miller grunts when I’m finished. He returns to his broom.
Elated, I run up to him, hug his neck, and kiss his cheek. “Thank you, Mr. Miller! They found them! It really is over!”
CHAPTER FORTY-two
You can tell everyone has started to relax a little. Not to the extreme of locking up guns or unlocking doors. But Christmas feels like Christmas is supposed to. Well, at least more than I imagined it would. It’s a relief to have the time off from school. To be with my family. Even Asher is smiling more. He’s still quieter than usual. We all are, it seems. There isn’t as much socializing around town as in previous Decembers. But we’re at the dawn of a new year: 1960. Maybe, like me, the rest of Holcomb is looking to put the tragedy behind us and start fresh in January.
So I’m a little surprised when the phone rings the day before New Year’s Eve, and it’s Landry. He wants to take me to see Suddenly, Last Summer, starring Elizabeth Taylor, Katharine Hep
burn, and Montgomery Clift. Tomorrow night. New Year’s Eve.
I agree without thinking.
My parents might not let me. Of course, Dad overhears; he’s always listening in. But to my surprise, he tells me that I have permission. He looks to Mom for confirmation. She nods. I’m too happy to be annoyed that they’re eavesdropping.
It’s only after I hang up that I ask myself, Did Landry just invite me on our first date?
Landry and I sit in the theater, eating popcorn and drinking Cokes. His treat. We got here early enough to get the best seats in the house, smack-dab in the middle. At first we’re alone, but then the place begins to fill up. Mostly elderly people. The lights are dim. Landry’s anxious, fidgety. It makes me anxious, too. I try to hide it by stuffing my face with popcorn.
“Carly, I’ve got to tell you something,” he whispers as the advertisements begin to roll.
“What is it?” I ask. My mouth is still half full.
“You know the empty boxes I carried into the house the other day?”
I nod. “For spring cleaning?”
“Well, that was a lie. We’re moving,” he says, staring at the screen.
I nearly drop the popcorn. “What?”
A few grumpy grown-ups turn and tell us to be quiet, but the movie hasn’t even started yet. They need silence to watch a dancing popcorn bag? Landry leans in close, his lips nuzzling my ear. My heart is pounding. I wonder if he can hear it.
“The farm up near Olathe isn’t doing so well,” he murmurs. “We have to tend to it.”
“What about school?” I ask.
“I’m going to Olathe High,” he says.
My throat tightens. Before I know it, I’m blinking back tears. I keep staring at the movie screen, but I don’t see anything but a fuzzy blur.
He grabs my hand and squeezes. “It’s not good-bye. We still have the farm here. I’ll be back.”
I’m trying to think of something to say when he kisses my wet cheek. I close my eyes for a moment. So this is a date. Our first, and maybe our last. I’m still crying, but I don’t know if it’s because I’m happy or destroyed or just confused.
Thankfully, when my eyelids flutter open, the lights go down. Landry doesn’t let go of my hand. The movie starts, and we’re transported into a world of mental institutions—where the insane are lobotomized, their memories wiped clean. I’m probably the only person watching who envies what they want to do to Elizabeth Taylor’s character, Catherine. If I could forget everything that ever happened this fall and just start over right here and now, with Landry’s rough fingers intertwined with mine, I’d do it in a heartbeat.
“Movies are not like real life,” Landry remarks as he drives me back home.
We promised my parents I’d be back by midnight at the latest. Dad agreed because he knows Landry wears a watch. How did I not notice? Farmer, Dad explained, which only begged more questions. Such as, how would Dad know what farmers wear?
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“A doctor will never fall in love with a mental patient,” Landry says. “Never.”
“I don’t know,” I say quietly. “Real life gets pretty strange, too.”
He shoots me a quick glance. “Don’t go all mental on me.”
We laugh.
“The mental institution part didn’t bother me,” I tell him. “What bothered me is that the movie was supposed to take place over twenty years ago, but Elizabeth Taylor’s dresses were all the latest fashion. I mean, come on. Get it straight, Gore Vidal.”
“Get it straight . . . who?”
“The man who wrote the screenplay. Didn’t you see his name on the credits?”
Landry shrugs. “I was paying attention to you,” he says.
I’m glad his eyes are on the road. I know I’m blushing. “Don’t go all mental on me,” I whisper with a smile, and he smiles, too.
It’s 11:47 when we pull up to my house. The living room lights are on behind the drawn curtains. Asher and my parents are ringing in the new year together and waiting for me.
“We never visited KU,” Landry says.
“What?”
“You made me promise that if we visited the Hickocks, we’d visit KU. We didn’t.”
I turn to him. “You’re right. Are you mad?”
“No.” He takes my hand. It’s odd that for the first time, even though it’s so dark inside the cab of the truck, I can see that he dressed up for tonight. He combed his hair. He wore pants, not overalls. “I think you’re brave.”
I laugh. I don’t feel brave. I feel terrified that if I don’t get inside in the next thirteen minutes, I’ll be grounded for the next decade. I feel terrified that I’ll lose Landry when he moves back to his old farm.
“What’s funny?” he asks.
“Nothing,” I say. “Can we just . . .”
“Stay here?” he finishes.
I nod.
“Just until midnight,” he says. “I want you to be my first kiss of the new year.” I don’t answer. I just sit there, holding his hand. We’re both silent, looking at his watch. It’s pretty fancy—at least I think it is—but it makes me sad. I wonder if it’s an heirloom, a reminder of better times long gone. Maybe it is. But Landry deserves better times now.
When the second hand ticks to twelve, in unison with the minute and hour hands, he leans over and kisses me, full on the lips. In that moment, close and warm and breathless, I think, He’s right. Movies aren’t like real life. This kiss is better. Even better than the one we saw between Elizabeth Taylor and Montgomery Clift.
CHAPTER FORTY-three
Yesterday, we went to the country club and fulfilled our superstitions for the new year.
Chef Daniel is from the Deep South, somewhere in Mississippi; he talks about Ole Miss a lot. So he cooked up a traditional Southern New Year’s Day meal. We “Yankees” stood in line as he scooped black-eyed peas “for luck,” collard greens “for money,” a hog jowl—which he assured us is similar to bacon; I had my doubts—to ensure “health, prosperity, and progress” . . . and a square of perfectly golden-brown cornbread.
We sat in the dining room, staring at the first course.
Something glinted from the peas. He insisted we eat, even if we had just a bite.
“Superstitions are often true,” Chef Daniel said. “The person who gets the money in their portion will be extra lucky in the new year.” Apparently this was why he cooked the black-eyed peas with a new copper penny.
So when I walk into the kitchen to find Mom holding up a shiny penny—maybe the same one?—as she talks on the phone, I’m naturally curious. Dad stands by the sink, eyes downcast as he examines the Garden City Telegram Saturday edition.
Mom hangs up. “That was Liam! Jack’s running for president!”
“Did you see the paper today, dear?” Dad interrupts.
I squint at the headline.
pair quizzed on clutter case
arrests in nevada seen as major break
I turn to Mom. She’s glowing. Nothing will stop her from feeling happy. Not today. And she’s not even on her first martini.
“How about we celebrate?” she says.
“Celebrate?” Dad and I ask at the same time.
But Mom is looking only at me.
“Jack Kennedy is running for president!” she exclaims. “We can make cupcakes!”
By make she means we go to the bakery in Garden and buy strawberry cupcakes with cream cheese frosting. But I don’t care. For the rest of the afternoon, the entire family—Dad and Asher, too—devour the box while Mom and I sit at the kitchen table coming up with campaign slogans just in case the senator calls and asks us to help with his campaign for the White House. For that afternoon, Mom manages to get back east.
CHAPTER FORTY-four
I’m still on a sugar high by Mo
nday morning, when school’s back in session. Once again, the morning edition of the Garden City Telegram is being passed around, just like it was back in November.
murder charges filed in clutter
slayings hickock confesses part in slayings
I hate the word slayings.
Seth stands in front of his locker, a crowd circled around him. He’s reading aloud.
“‘All four were locked in the upstairs bathroom while Smith searched the house. Hickock apparently stood guard upstairs. It was during this search that Smith took the portable radio from Kenyon’s room and placed it outside the car used by the killers. Following the search, Clutter was taken from the upstairs bathroom to the basement, where he was tied up. Kenyon was taken to the basement next and tied to a pipe.
“‘Lawmen found strands of cord on an overhead sewer pipe near the body of Clutter, and had assumed Clutter was tied to the pipe rather than his son.
“‘Then Mrs. Clutter and Nancy were taken to their respective bedrooms upstairs and tied on their beds. Hickock said Clutter was killed first by cutting his throat. Then Kenyon was shot in the head with a shotgun, and they returned to Clutter and also shot him in the head. The woman and the girl were killed last—both shot in the head while in their beds upstairs. The pair then left the house and drove away in the car in which they arrived. The tragedy was unknown to anyone else until two girl friends of Nancy Clutter came from nearby Holcomb to get a ride to Sunday school—about eight hours later. The girls found the body of Nancy, and the sheriff’s office was notified. Exactly seven weeks later, the case was solved. Last Saturday, Jan. second, would have been Nancy’s seventeenth birthday . . .’”
“Who did the shooting? Hickock or Smith?” Alex asks.
“Does it matter?” I shout. “They were both there.”
Everyone turns to me, their faces aghast.
The day’s a blur after that.
Not everyone in town thinks we got the right men. Some think that there might be others involved. Dick Hickock and Perry Smith might have had accomplices.
