No Saints in Kansas

by Amy Brashear

It’s a teacher in-service day tomorrow. We won’t have school the next day, either. Asher will be leaving for Deerfield for the basketball tournament. And that means I’ll be stuck here, at home, all alone.

  Dad rubs his glasses on his shirtsleeve and shakes his head.

  I want to shout at him. How can you do this to us? How can you defend a guilty man? But I already know his answer. I’ve heard it before. “A lawyer’s job is to believe that his client is innocent.” End of story.

  All my friends have stopped calling. Even Landry, though he promised me he’d stay in touch. I wonder if he feels the same way they do.

  It’s been a while since the shots were fired at our house. Some people may have put away their guns. But not us. Our shotgun is still by the door.

  Dad and I sit on a hard, cold bench inside the jail. The police officers watch us but don’t say anything to us. Dad taps his fingers on his briefcase in rhythm to the music playing over the radio while I keep the beat with the bottom of my shoe.

  “Fleming,” an officer calls.

  We stand.

  “I don’t think it would be right to take your daughter in there with a murderer,” the officer says, looking at me.

  “Alleged,” Dad corrects.

  The officer laughs.

  “And I don’t think it would be all right to leave Carly out here,” Dad says, ushering me into a tiny room.

  The officers in the bullpen, who are in earshot, groan.

  The room is familiar. I’ve been here before. We sit in silence waiting for Perry to be brought in. Within minutes the door swings open and an officer escorts a short man in shackles, cuffs on his hands and feet, across the room, shoving him down on the chair. He takes a key and unlocks the cuffs on his hands.

  “Be good and no funny business,” the officer scolds.

  Perry doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t even make a sound. He just sits there, staring past Dad, past me, rubbing his leg.

  “He’s all yours,” the officer says to Dad, closing the door behind him.

  There’s a pitcher of water sitting on the table, with three glasses.

  “Perry, would you like some water?” Dad asks.

  He mumbles something, and Dad takes the pitcher and pours water in all three glasses. I take one and sip, as does Dad, but Perry doesn’t.

  “Do you need some aspirin?” Dad asks, opening his briefcase.

  Perry nods. He doesn’t look like the type of person who could kill four people with a shotgun and cut one man’s throat like Dick claims Perry did all on his own. But I guess looks can be deceiving. Dad pulls a bottle of aspirin from his briefcase. He takes two pills and lays them in front of Perry, who tosses them in his mouth and swallows without any water.

  Dad goes over every detail of what will happen this weekend. Perry and Dick are going to have mental evaluations done at the State Hospital in Larned to see if they are mentally competent to stand trial. Dad’s planning a defense. The “he doesn’t know what he did because he is too stupid to realize what he was doing” defense. He thinks Perry’s brain-damaged due to an accident back in 1950, which left him maimed.

  I don’t buy it.

  Perry stares at me. He has the biggest brown eyes I’ve ever seen. But he doesn’t smile. He has no expression at all on his face. And no life in his eyes.

  “I think that’s it for today,” Dad says, gathering up the folders scattered on the table. “I’ll see you bright and early tomorrow morning.”

  Perry’s eyes leave mine and move to Dad’s, who’s walking over to the door. I follow, watching Perry grab his water glass and drink the whole thing in one big gulp.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-one

  I’m not sure if it’s a good thing I ran into Mrs. Smith at the grocery store. If I hadn’t, I might have been able to scream and cry and fuss and beg to make Mom take me with her to be with Aunt Trudy. But now I’m truly stuck alone in Holcomb. With a virtual stranger, no less.

  Dad has been called away with Mr. Smith to visit Dick Hickock, wherever he’s incarcerated. They’ll be gone two whole days. I’ll be staying with Mrs. Smith. I have no say in the matter.

  On the other hand, I know why Dad chose her to watch out for me. He trusts the Smiths. Mr. Smith does the exact same dirty work he does. We’re all on board the same sinking ship.

  Dad gives me a hug, a kiss on the cheek, and some just-in-case money when he drops me off at the Smith home. It’s Thursday night. Tomorrow, she says, I can borrow their car to go to the movies, but after dinner and only if I don’t have any homework due Monday.

  I force myself not to cry as Dad and Mr. Smith drive off into the darkness.

  “If you want, we can make a pie,” Mrs. Smith suggests cheerily, tying on her apron.

  “Okay,” I say.

  “I think I have all the makings for a cherry. You like cherry pie?”

  “I do,” I say.

  She hands me an apron and we get started. She talks me through each step. “Your mom doesn’t do a lot of baking, does she?” she asks.

  “No, ma’am.”

  Once it’s in the oven, Mrs. Smith teaches me how to play bridge, which is really just math disguised as a card game. Apparently it’s best played with four people. It’s strange, though. How much I enjoy it, I mean. Mom plays, too—or she used to with her (former) Holcomb friends, but she never bothered to show me how. Then again, I was never interested.

  “What are you smiling about, dear?” Mrs. Smith asks me.

  “Nothing, ma’am. Don’t people usually have cocktails when they play bridge?”

  She flashes me a crooked grin. “Nice try, dear.”

  I start laughing. “No, I don’t mean me . . .”

  “I wouldn’t be able to offer you anything anyway,” she says. “We’re teetotalers.”

  My smile widening, I turn my attention back to the cards. I savor the delicious aroma of the pie. Maybe staying here won’t be so bad after all.

  Friday afternoon I head to the State Theater. Mrs. Smith lets me take their car, even though it’s only a mile or so from their house. She insists. It’s too cold for walking.

  I’m probably the last one in the county to see Ben-Hur. Not that anyone has spoiled it for me. How could they, when nobody even talks to me anymore? I slump down with a bag of popcorn, staring at the screen as the house lights dim. I never realized how lonely a packed movie theater can be, because I’ve never been to a movie by myself.

  After the movie, I’m tired. The weird thing is, I barely remember the story. I know the story, of course; everyone does. But even though it was nearly four hours long, all I can recall is how sweaty and miserable Charlton Heston looked. I can relate to his misery, if not the heat.

  Out in the cold, I stop dead in my tracks when I see Seth, Alex, Karen, and Audrey on the next block, walking toward me. They’re headed to Candy’s Café. Instantly I turn and head the opposite way. I’ll take the long way around back to the car. I can’t handle seeing them. I can’t handle the persecution.

  “Carly?” someone yells after I round the corner.

  I keep walking. No, no, no.

  “Carly!”

  Footsteps. Someone is running toward me.

  “Carly, it’s me—”

  My heart beats fast. I stop and turn.

  “Bobby,” I say with a sigh.

  “Didn’t you hear me?” He walks closer.

  “Um, yeah, it’s just—” I look over his shoulder. Seth, Alex, Karen, and Audrey are nowhere to be seen. They must already be inside.

  “Where are you going?” he asks.

  “To my car. Well, Mr. Smith’s car. I’m borrowing it.”

  “I’m going to see Ben-Hur,” he says. “I know I’m probably the last guy in town who hasn’t seen it.”

  I chuckle.

  “If you’re not busy, do you want to
come with me?” he asks.

  “Well—” If I say no, I’ll have to walk right past those big open windows.

  “I’d sure like the company.”

  “Sure, why not.”

  I follow him to the ticket office, hoping that the ticket guy doesn’t recognize me. If he does, he pretends not to.

  “Two tickets for Ben-Hur,” Bobby says, handing the man at the counter some money. The man slides the tickets over and we go in. “Do you want some popcorn?” he asks as I stand behind him.

  “Sure,” I say, even though I’m full from the last batch.

  “Back again,” the man at the counter mutters as we turn away.

  Bobby glances at me. “Carly, do you come to the movies a lot?”

  “You could say that.” I laugh nervously, hurrying into the theater.

  We sit in the exact spot I did before. A few kernels of my last batch of popcorn litter the floor. The music starts, the title appears on the screen. I want to concentrate; I really do. But four hours later, I still couldn’t tell you what the movie was about.

  It’s past midnight when I return. Mrs. Smith’s sitting in the living room, reading a glossy magazine. She doesn’t look up when she says, “Did you know that Sammy Davis Jr. is dating a white woman? A Swedish actress. May Britt is her name. People say that they’re going to get married later this year.” She grins absently. “Good for them.”

  “I’m sorry I’m so late,” I say, sitting on the couch. “I ended up seeing Ben-Hur twice.”

  She nods, her eyes still on the pages. “Was he worth it?”

  I blink. “Ma’am?”

  “The boy you sat through the same movie twice for?” she asks. She finally looks up, peering at me over her glasses. “Was he worth it?”

  I burst out laughing. “I . . . I don’t know.” I shake my head. Bobby seemed eager to leave me and go home the instant the movie ended. It was late, but still, he wasn’t very polite. Not as polite as Landry would have been. “No.”

  She closes the magazine and sets it on the end table. “Well, just as long as you weren’t with Sammy Davis Jr. I’d hate to think he’s the cheating kind.”

  The next morning, we sit around reading gossip magazines from cover to cover. I know more about Elizabeth Taylor’s love life than one should. But it’s fun.

  At lunchtime, Mrs. Smith instructs me to call my mother. She insists that she’s just following the instructions Dad gave her. I don’t want to, but I oblige. Mom answers after the first ring. Apparently Aunt Trudy’s getting better, but Mom doesn’t know when she’s coming home. Of course not. I know that she wants to stay in New York until after the trial. I don’t blame her.

  “Do you want me to bring anything back from New York, honey?” she asks.

  “A bridge partner,” I say.

  “What’s that, Carly?”

  “Never mind. Give my love to Aunt Trudy.”

  Mrs. Smith stands at the counter, kneading dough. She opens her mouth, then closes it. I know she wants to ask me something, but before she can, the doorbell rings.

  It’s a neighbor, Mrs. Neely. After introducing herself, she starts peppering Mrs. Smith with questions about the case. If Mrs. Smith is perturbed or upset, she doesn’t show it at all. She’s as genial and polite as ever.

  “It was a miracle, a stroke of luck, that these two were ever caught. In my humble opinion, some thanks goes to that Floyd Wells. If he didn’t tell the KBI what he knew, they’d still be looking for the killers—sorry . . .” Mrs. Neely says, looking at Mrs. Smith. “Alleged killers. I know how your husband gets.”

  “Yeah, let’s give credit to Floyd Wells,” I mumble sarcastically.

  “Now, now, little girl,” Mrs. Neely says. “He didn’t know they would go and kill the poor family.”

  My fists clench at my side. “Floyd Wells bragged about Mr. Clutter’s nonexistent safe to a conman. What do you think about that? He knew what he was doing. Without Wells’s doing that, the murders would not have happened. They’d be alive!”

  Mrs. Smith clears her throat. “Carly, shouldn’t you go upstairs and call your mother?” she asks me.

  I nod, swallowing. I’m ashamed. I know what she’s doing. She wants me out of the kitchen so she can apologize for my inappropriate behavior.

  After washing my face, I go to the guest room and sit, staring at the telephone. I actually do have someone I can call. I pick up the receiver and dial the operator. “Davis, Olathe, Kansas,” I say.

  The operator connects me. It rings and rings and rings until I hear a man say, “Hello, Davis residence.”

  “Is Landry there?” I ask.

  “Hold on . . . Landry? Telephone!” the man shouts. He must be covering the mouthpiece with his hand; his voice is muffled. “I don’t know. Some girl. Here.”

  “Hello, who is this?” Landry asks.

  “Carly.”

  Silence.

  “Landry?”

  “Carly,” he says in a dry voice. “Do I know a Carly?”

  “I know. It’s been a while—”

  “I moved. I didn’t die.”

  “I’m sorry. I should’ve called you sooner.”

  “Yeah, you should have. I’m sorry, too.”

  “Why are you sorry?” I ask.

  He laughs, his voice softening. “I could have called you.”

  “Yeah, you could have.”

  I flop down on the bed. It feels so good to talk, so easy. We talk about school, about my not-so-friendly friends, about our parents, about the case.

  “Are you going to go to the trial?” he asks me.

  “I—I don’t know. I want to, but I don’t want to go alone.”

  “If I was there, I’d go with you.”

  “You would? Thanks.”

  Mrs. Smith knocks on the door.

  “Landry, I’ve got to go,” I whisper.

  “Okay, talk to you soon—really, I’ll call,” he says.

  “Me too,” I say, hanging up the phone.

  After a moment, Mrs. Smith slowly opens up and leans on the door frame. “Feel better?” she asks.

  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have gotten upset at Mrs. Neely. I’ll apologize to her.”

  She waves it off. “We’ve all been there, trust me.”

  I smile.

  “Dinner?” she asks.

  We have leftover stew and homemade bread for dinner. Then we sit in front of the television set and eat while we watch Perry Mason. For the very first time, I realize how silly and unrealistic this program really is. Mrs. Smith agrees. We finish the cherry pie and are in our beds by ten-thirty.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-two

  Monday after school, I stay to finish up the last of the yearbook layouts. They’re a pain. You have to take each student’s photograph and place it just so on these blue-and-white templates. Then type each name, in each grade, in alphabetical order. I’ve been waiting to the last possible minute to finish two of the students. But I have a deadline.

  Mrs. Newsome sits in her office one door down. Needing a break, I pop out to say hello. She asks me how I’m doing.

  “Not great.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ve seen it time and time again. They’ll pick on someone else once they get tired of picking on you,” she says.

  That really isn’t a comforting thought. “You know why they hate me, don’t you?”

  She nods.

  Before I can add anything, she stiffens, peering over my shoulder. I turn and see Mary Claire in the hallway. She doesn’t say a word. I thank Mrs. Newsome, then leave her office and go back next door. I return to my task as Mary Claire sits at the other end of the table—watching me.

  I feed the sheet in backward in the black Olympia typewriter and set my fingers on the keys and type. “Kenyon Clutter {deceased}.” Lifting the lever, I slowl
y remove the piece of paper and put it in order with the other pages.

  Mary Claire gets up from her chair at the end of the table, walks over, pulls out the chair beside me, and sits down.

  “You know I don’t believe everything they’re saying,” she whispers.

  “Then why are you whispering?” I ask. “No one is here, except you and me.”

  “And Mrs. Newsome,” she says.

  I roll my eyes.

  “Don’t be that way,” she snaps. “I took pity on you when you moved here—from the wrong Manhattan, I may add—and this is how you act?”

  “Seriously? You’re talking about how I’m acting . . . You’ve lost your mind, Mary Claire, seriously, lost your mind.”

  She slumps forward. “I don’t want to fight,” she says.

  “Then what do you want?”

  “I . . . I’m sorry to hear about Asher,” she says, biting her bottom lip.

  I shrug. He’s been benched. Not a team player, apparently. The conditioning excuse no longer holds up. Why else would the coach suddenly bench the second-leading scorer on the team?

  “It’s not right,” she says. “He’s a good player. I like watching him.”

  “You like watching him?”

  “Not like that—”

  I laugh.

  “Is your mom still in New York?” she asks softly.

  “Yeah, I don’t think she’s coming back,” I say.

  “Seriously?”

  “Not until the trial is over.” I turn to her. “You know I don’t want them to be found not guilty, right?”

  “I know that,” she says, looking down.

  “Then why are you acting like I’m on their side?”

  “I’m not.”

  “Yeah, you are.”

  “I don’t mean to. I wanted to . . . I wanted to show you something.” She’s choking on her words.

  “What did you want to show me? A picture Alex drew of Bobby and me, swinging from a tree? D-Y-I-N-G?”

  She looks up, her eyes fierce.

  “You’re being horrible.”

  “I’m being horrible? You’re treating me as if I’m personally standing behind the people who killed Nancy Clutter and her whole family. Look, I know she wasn’t my friend. But she was your friend. She deserves better than you.”