Mister Death's Blue-Eyed Girls

by Mary Downing Hahn

  I must have looked like I didn't believe her, so Ellie laughed. "If we'd waked her up last night and she'd seen the state we were in, she would've killed us both."

  We take our sodas down to the basement, where it's cooler. Ellie loads her little record player with forty-fives. We loll around listening to the Platters, the Penguins, Fats Domino, J erry Lee Lewis, Elvis, and Little Richard while we read old magazines. In Life, we find an article on Grace Kelly's marriage to Prince Rainier, and we wonder what it would be like to marry an old ugly guy and become a princess. Would it be worth it? We don't think so. Modern Screen has a story about Eddie Fisher and Debbie Reynolds's honeymoon. He's got a nice voice, we think, but he's not all that good-looking. We find some good photos of J ames Dean in his last movie, Giant, and wish as usual he hadn't died. So unfair that people like him have to die.

  Just as we're about to find out who Marilyn Monroe will marry next, we hear sirens. Lots of them. It sounds like they're coming down Ellie's street, passing right by her house.

  "What the—?" Ellie stands up and starts toward the stairs. "Somebody's house must be on fire."

  I hate the sound of sirens. They cry out danger, they scream bad things are happening, someone's hurt, someone's sick, someone's dying. It's not you this time, but maybe next time it will be.

  I follow Ellie upstairs. She opens the front door. Police cars and ambulances are speeding across the park toward the woods, sirens screaming. A fire truck follows them, bouncing over ruts in the ground, kicking up clouds of dust.

  Some kids are running after the fire truck. I watch Charlie and Paul and Walt disappear into the woods along with the others, some I know, some I don't. I don't want to go to the park. Something's wrong. I can feel it in my bones.

  Bobbi Jo's mother stands at the fence, watching. She holds a toddler on her hip; her other arm encircles Julie. She's so young, I think, almost like a teenager in her short shorts. Not a mother mother like mine in baggy women's jeans with a side zipper. But there's something about the way she's standing there that makes me worry. Tense, watchful, holding her children so close that the little one squirms to free herself.

  "Hi, Mrs. Boyd," Ellie calls. "What's going on in the park?"

  She turns toward us, her face pale. "Have you seen Bobbi Jo?"

  Ellie crosses the lawn and stops at the fence. "Not since this morning. She and Cheryl came to get us, but Nora and I weren't ready so they left for school without us."

  Mrs. Boyd turns away. Her eyes follow the flashing lights into the woods. She holds the struggling toddler tighter, pulls Julie closer. "Something's wrong."

  To avoid seeing the worry, the fear in Mrs. Boyd's face, I study the grass, already turning brown from the June heat. Her words echo my own thoughts. Something's wrong.

  "You mean all that?" Ellie gestures at the emergency vehicles disappearing into the woods. "It's probably nothing. A kid playing in the water or something. You know how the firemen and the police are. They overreact to everything."

  "Did you see Bobbi Jo at school?" Mrs. Boyd asks.

  Ellie hesitates. "No, but—"

  "Something's wrong," she says again.

  The words are almost a wail this time, a child's cry. Julie puts her thumb in her mouth, her forehead creased. The toddler says, "Down, I want to get down."

  My skin prickles and my chest tightens. All of a sudden I want to go home. I want my mother.

  But Ellie says, "Don't worry, Mrs. Boyd. Nora and I will go down there and see what it's all about."

  "No," I whisper, but Ellie doesn't hear me.

  "Come on." She runs across the road, hurrying to meet what's waiting for us. I follow her, not because I want to but because I'm afraid to be left with Mrs. Boyd.

  The short dry grass is sharp under my feet and I realize I forgot to put my shoes on. Ellie's barefoot too. We run in a limping way, our feet still tender from months in shoes.

  "Ellie," I cry. "Ellie, wait. Don't go down there."

  Ellie turns, puzzled. "Why not? How often do we see this kind of action in the park?"

  "Mrs. Boyd is right—something's wrong."

  We face each other in the blinding heat. Insects buzz. Crows make a racket in the woods. Somewhere a dog barks. Slowly Ellie's eyes widen. She stares at me, her cheeks pale under her freckles. "You're scaring me," she whispers.

  "I'm scared." My voice is tight and small. Sweat trickles down my spine. I take her arm, tug at her. "Let's go back to your house."

  "It's Bobbi Jo and Cheryl," Ellie says. "You think something's happened to them."

  I nod. My mouth is dry. It's all around us, in the silent trees, in the hot June air. The crows make my head ring with their cries. A murder of crows, a murder ... Something's wrong, something's not right.

  Then we hear them. Kids burst out of the woods, run toward us, shouting, crying.

  "Cheryl's dead!" a girl screams. "They shot her, they killed her!" My bones are melting. The trees spin, the world turns upside down. Speechless, Ellie and I cling to each other, hold each other up, afraid to let go.

  The kids run around us as if we're trees. I recognize Cheryl's little brother, Davy. They're little, too little for this. Especially Davy. He's Billy's age. Ten. Just ten.

  "What about Bobbi Jo?" Ellie shouts after them. "Where's Bobbi Jo?"

  Gary comes out of the woods. Paul and Charlie and Walt are behind him. All four are crying.

  "Bobbi Jo's dead too," Gary cries. "Somebody shot them both. Killed them. They're dead, both of them. Dead." Tears run down his face.

  Ellie grabs my hand. "No," she whispers, "please God, no no no no." Pulling me with her, she runs away from the woods, across the ball field, toward Eastern Avenue.

  "Wait," Charlie calls. "Come back."

  Ellie doesn't wait, she doesn't stop, she just keeps running and I run too. We don't look back. We cross the park on a diagonal, come out on Eastern Avenue, run uphill. Behind us we hear the sirens again. An ambulance speeds past us, then another. Maybe they're not dead after all, maybe they're being rushed to the hospital, maybe we'll visit them tomorrow, bring them flowers and get well cards.

  At the top of the hill we run past the Parkside apartments, a maze of two-story brick buildings, courtyards, and parking lots. We see Buddy's car. He's leaning against the door, looking toward the park. His friend Gene is with him.

  "What's wrong with you two?" Buddy asks. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

  "If we have, you know whose it is." Ellie's voice is cold with fury.

  I stare at her, shocked by her anger.

  Buddy looks puzzled. "What are you talking about?"

  At the same time, Gene asks us what's going on in the park.

  "Ask him," Ellie shouts, and pulls me away. Without giving me time to ask why she's acting so strange, she keeps running.

  I'm hot, I'm tired, the soles of my feet burn with pain. Most of all, I'm scared and confused. It's as if the whole world has changed. Nothing is what it used to be. It will never be the same again.

  Accused

  Friday, June 15

  Buddy

  I'VE been looking for Cheryl all morning, and here's Ellie acting like I should know what she's talking about when it doesn't even make sense. Shit, how should I know what's going on in the park? Man, it's too hot for this crap.

  I glance at Gene. He's still leaning against my car, smoking, his eyes narrowed against the sun, sweating in the heat.

  "What the hell's wrong with Ellie?" I ask.

  "Females." He shrugs and exhales. "Maybe we should drive down to the park and find out what's going on. Didn't you notice the ambulances and cop cars coming up Eastern Avenue?"

  I light a cigarette. "An accident on Route Forty or something. Happens all the time."

  There's nothing else to do, so we get in my car and head for the park. Just in case there's something to see. Just in case Cheryl is there. I grip the wheel a little tighter. Who am I kidding? She won't be there. She's gone somewhere with Ralph in
that big goddamn fancy convertible he drives. Girls—is that all they want?

  When we turn down Thirty-Third Street, we see at least six patrol cars. Cops stand around talking and smoking in front of Bobbi Jo's house. Inside, someone's crying, wailing, almost screaming. I start sweating. Something's wrong, you can feel it everywhere. I see Charlie and Paul and some other guys on the corner, all huddled together.

  I park the car and Gene and me walk over there. "What's going on?" I ask Charlie.

  They look at me. Their eyes are full of hate. I step back. "What's wrong with you guys?"

  Paul hits me hard enough to knock me flat. I sprawl on the ground, too surprised to get up. What the hell's going on, what did I do? I look up at Gene. He's standing there, not doing a thing to help me. I start to get up and Walt spits in my face.

  Gene comes to life then and grabs Walt's arm. "Cut it out, you little shit."

  I'm no sooner on my feet, ready to fight all of them, when a cop comes up to me. "Harold Novak?" he says.

  "Yeah." I give him a look I learned from watching old crime movies on TV, sort of a sneer and a smirk combined. I don't want him thinking I'm the kind of guy who gets knocked down all the time.

  "We want to ask you a few questions."

  "About what?" I'm getting a little nervous. There's something about the way the cop's looking at me, like I'm dirt under his feet. Scum.

  "Get in the car." He takes my arm. I can smell coffee on his breath. His face is red and sweaty. "We're taking you down to the station house."

  "What the hell for?" I'm scared shitless now, but damned if I'll show it.

  "You know why," Charlie yells. "You goddamn bastard SOB!"

  "That's enough, son." Another cop has appeared. He pats Charlie's shoulder. "Go on home now."

  The boys back away, muttering and cussing at me. If the cops weren't here they'd jump me, all of them. I can feel their hatred like fire in the air, burning me.

  "I haven't done anything," I yell at them, but the cops are leading me away, handcuffing me, shoving me into the back seat of the patrol car. "Why are you doing this? What did I do?" I ask them, but they just look at me like they hate me, like they'd like to beat me.

  Out the window, I see the people in Bobbi Jo's neighborhood. Women with their hair in curlers, kids with their mouths open, kids crying, kids shaking their fists at me, Gene standing by my car as confused as I am. It's like a movie you start watching in the middle and you don't know what's going on but you know it's bad.

  The driver turns on the siren, the car speeds up. Eastern Avenue flashes by in a blur of traffic getting out of the cops' way.

  "What did I do?" I ask them, but they keep the backs of their heads to me. So I sit there, scared out of my mind, trying to figure out what's happened and why everybody thinks I had something to do with it. I hope Bobbi Jo's okay. And Cheryl, too. Christ, where is she?

  At the police station, the cops take me into this little room with cinderblock walls painted piss yellow. They tell me to sit in a chair facing a table. One sits across from me and opens a notebook. The other one sits off to one side, just out of my line of sight. He asks the questions. I have to turn my head to look at him.

  "State your name," he says.

  "Harold Novak."

  "State your address."

  "Forty-eight fifteen Forty-Third Street, Elmgrove." I want to ask him again why they've brought me here, what do they think I've done, but he doesn't pause between my answer and his next question. Nor does his face ever change. He's got one expression. Grim. One voice. Flat.

  "Where were you at eight a.m. this morning?"

  I shrug, trying to be nonchalant, getting back into my usual pose. Tough. Scared of nothing. Humphrey Bogart in Key Largo. "Driving around, I guess."

  "Was anyone with you?"

  "No."

  "Did anyone see you?"

  "Maybe. Probably. It's the last day of school, lots of kids were around. Some of them must of seen me." I shift my position but the chair's seat is hard vinyl and sort of slippery. I feel like I might slide off it. I wish I had a cigarette, but I left the pack in my car.

  "Were you looking for anyone in particular?"

  I shrug again. I could really use a cigarette. "I wanted to give this girl I know a ride to school."

  The two cops look at each other like I've said something important. "What's her name?"

  "Cheryl," I say. "Cheryl Miller."

  They look at each other again.

  "Did you leave your car on Chester Street and go into the park?" I nod. "I was thinking she'd come along and I could take her to school." It's getting hard to act nonchalant. Something bad has happened. Something to do with Cheryl. I can tell by the heavy silence in the room. I'm sweating now, worried, scared. The guy who's been writing everything down lights a cigarette. I wonder if he'd give me one. Probably not. "Is Cheryl okay? Is this about her?"

  Instead of answering me they ask me another question. "Do you own a rifle?"

  I'm getting scared now. Really scared. Something's happened. Something bad. I'm pushing stuff away, things I don't want to think about, things I don't want to know.

  "Yeah," I say, still trying to be tough, but my voice sounds funny now, kind of squeaky, like it did when I was thirteen. "It's a twenty-two, what they call a cat and rat gun." I stare at the cop even though it makes my neck hurt. Why can't he sit where I can see him better? My heart's beating faster. I wonder if the cops can hear it. If that makes them think I'm guilty of whatever it is that's happened. "What's my twenty-two got to do with this?"

  The one sitting across from me says, "We ask the questions. You answer."

  "Did you have your rifle with you this morning?" the other one asks.

  I shake my head. "No. It's home in my closet. I never take it anywhere unless I'm target shooting."

  "Do you shoot a lot?"

  "I'm on the rifle team at school. I practice out in the woods. With tin cans and bottles."

  "Do you consider yourself a good shot?"

  "Yeah, pretty good."

  They look at each other again and I start worrying I've let them lead me into saying something I shouldn't have.

  The cop takes a deep breath. "Did you hide in the park this morning and wait for Cheryl Miller to come along?"

  I shake my head again, really nervous now. "Why are you asking me these questions? What's happened?"

  It's bad, I know it is, and it involves Cheryl. Something's happened to her. I want to get out of the police station. I want to get in my car and drive as fast as I can. I want to leave this town. I don't want to hear whatever it is they're about to tell me. If I was a little kid, I'd put my fingers in my ears, I'd shut my eyes, I'd hide under my bed or something.

  The one across from me puts down his pen and leans across the table. His breath still smells like coffee. "Don't play dumb. You know why we're questioning you. You know what you did, you cocky little bastard."

  The other one starts talking and I have to turn my head back to him. "You took your rifle with you this morning," he says in that flat, grim voice. "You went into the park and hid near the footbridge. You waited for Cheryl Miller. When she and Bobbi Jo Boyd came in sight, you shot them both."

  At first what he says makes no sense. You shot them both, you both them shot, shot you them both. The words roll round and round, like cannonballs. Them you both shot, both you shot, you shot them, you shot them both.

  I grab the edge of the table to keep myself from sliding off the chair. No, no, no, what kind of lie is this? Cheryl and Bobbi Jo shot? Dead, are they both dead? The piss yellow walls close in on me. They're dead. Dead. It can't be true.

  It's like the cop has kicked me in the guts, knocked the breath out of me, killed me. I shake my head, I say, "No, no, no, they can't be dead, no no no I didn't do it, I'd never never never—"

  The cop in the chair, the one I can never see right, jumps up and grabs me, shakes me, shoves his big red face into mine. "You lying piece of shit," he yel
ls. "She busted up with you, she had a new boyfriend, you made a scene in the park last night. This morning you got your rifle and you went to the park and you shot them."

  I shake my head, I struggle to get myself together, I'm scared I'll piss my pants. He's twisting my arm, he's pulling me off the chair, he's threatening to hit me. All I can do is shake my head. I didn't didn't didn't. I didn't didn't didn't.

  "You were seen on the footbridge," the cop shouts. "What did you do with the rifle?"

  "Nothing! I didn't have it with me, it's at my house."

  "We searched your house," he says. "The rifle's not there. What did you do with it?"

  "I didn't do anything with it," I say.

  "It's in your car, in the trunk, wrapped up in a blanket," the cop says. "Where you hid it after you killed Cheryl and Bobbi Jo."

  "No," I say. "No."

  "Tell the truth, son," the one sitting across from me says. His voice is soft now, his face calm. "Admit it. It'll be easier for you."

  "I am telling the truth." I'm trying so hard to convince them but they don't believe me, they're sure I did it, they're so sure I begin thinking maybe I did do it, maybe I have amnesia, maybe I'm crazy, maybe they'll send me to Spring Grove.

  Then I remember something. I lean across the table toward the cop sitting there. I do my best to look him in the goddamn eye. "Wait, wait," I say. "I saw this guy in the woods while I was sitting on the bridge. I didn't think anything of it, it was just a glimpse, but I saw him. Maybe he—maybe, I mean, you know, it could of been him. The one who did it." Even to me it sounds like a lie, something I made up.

  The cops look at each other and laugh. "Oh, yeah," the one who sits where I can hardly see him says.

  I try to tell them more, but there really isn't any more. I glimpsed a guy in the woods. I couldn't see his face. He was there and then gone like some goddamn Robin Hood. No wonder they don't believe me.

  After a lot of yelling and a lot of threats, they take me into a small room with the same piss-colored walls to give me a lie detector test. A guy who looks more like a biology teacher than a cop is in charge now. He puts rubber tubes across my chest and belly to check my breathing, then he attaches little metal plates to my fingers to record how much I sweat, and then he straps something around my arm to record my blood pressure. I keep telling myself he's not going to electrocute me, but I don't trust him. Even though he talks in a soft voice, I know he's not my friend.