by Cheri Lewis
Sasha’s family really wants no stone unturned and they’re paying me so I’m going to do my job. But it worries me. Are they concerned parents who want their child back? Or are there underlying issues that they’ve managed to hide until now? Tank assures me he’s checked into each parent and has turned up nothing unusual but I’m still going to do my own investigation.
I keep my eyes peeled for a large cross mail box. When I see it I’m stunned and mutter to myself out loud, “Jesus Christ.” I’d hate to be the mailman who had do deliver mail here daily. I pull off Hwy 67 onto a driveway paved with gravel. I stop and stare at the cross mail box. When she said a cross I thought she meant the posts holding the mailbox made a large cross. No, she meant an actual cross with a replica of Jesus hanging on it with thorns on his head and nails in his hands and feet. The mailbox itself is placed right below his feet, where you have to see his bloodied nailed feet each and every time you visit the mailbox.
The bright sunny day disappears under the large weeping willow trees that line the drive all the way to the house. I pull up and park in front of the house. I check the time to make sure I’m not early because I know she made a big to-do about how busy this kid is and I don’t see a car but there is a building big enough to be a garage around back so maybe they’re parked back there. I get out and the first thing I notice is complete silence. If it wasn’t for the wind blowing causing the trees to rustle I’d swear something was wrong with my hearing. I scan the surroundings and the yard is well-kept. Plants neat and tidy. Grass recently cut. I look back to the house and nobody has come to the door. I walk up the one step onto the wooden porch and read the sign as I finish crossing the porch to the door. “In this house we serve the Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. No solicitation. No Jehovah’s Witness.” I blow out a breath and remind myself, no cussing, Willow.
I ring the doorbell and wait long enough to find myself with the urge to look through the front windows to see if anybody is home. Finally the front door opens and a small man crippled with a hunched back is on the other side. He’s straining his neck to be able to look at me.
He offers a kind smile then speaks softly, “Hello ma’am. I’m sorry to keep you waiting it takes me a while to stand when I’m seated. Are you the investigator who called to speak to Jacob?”
I return the smile. “It is no problem and yes I am. My name is Willow Matthews.”
He steps back so I can step inside. “It’s nice to meet you. My wife and grandson will be back shortly. They were held up at church this afternoon.”
I nod and follow him slowly through the foyer into the next room which is the living room. He shuffles his feet slowly walking toward a chair I know has been modified for him. It’s raised in the air and has an odd cut out in the back in the shape of a cross. I find myself hoping that is a chair made for someone like him and they didn’t do it themselves hoping the cutout cross would somehow heal his back.
He turns to sit and motions for me to sit down on the couch that runs across the front wall of the house. I do and watch as he sits back and his bent backbone slides into the cut out. He presses a button on the chair and it lowers slowly until it sits down like a regular chair as his legs begin to come forward like a recliner. I do everything I can not to stare at him. It’s in my nature to study people, watch them, their actions, how they operate. In this case it would be plain rude even though I’m still curious.
I place my hands in my lap and glance around the room. No television, stereo or electronic anything that I can see. Actually if the ceiling fan wasn’t moving I wouldn’t be able to tell they had electricity. I continue to look around, to see more crosses hang on the walls. Cross-stitch work with Bible verses. I look to my right and on the end table there’s an old black and white photograph in a timeworn wooden frame, with paint I’m sure at one time was white. I fight hard to keep my face expressionless when I realize what exactly is going on in the photo. It’s a couple on their wedding day. They’re standing at the altar in a church and the preacher or whatever the hell the man is supposed to be has a rattlesnake held out and the couple is accepting the snake. I do believe in God, miracles, and all that stuff and I know I haven’t been to church in years. Oh hell, the truth, I haven’t been to church since I lived with Mrs. Maybelle and even then she made me, but this is a bit over the top and starting to make me feel a little uncomfortable.
“Fifty-four years,” the man spoke and I looked away from the photo to him.
“Excuse me?”
“We’ve been married fifty-four years.”
“Oh…” I swallow hard then continue, “This is you and your wife on your wedding day?”
“Yes. It will be fifty-five in October.”
Who in the fuck gets married with a damn rattlesnake? “Is that a real live snake in the photo?” I ask trying not to sound like a big chicken. He smiles and nods. Every internal alarm in my body begins ringing danger and it’s so loud I can physically feel myself begin to slightly shake. I take a deep breath to calm my nerves. I don’t normally find myself caught off guard but today I’m neck deep amongst crazy. “Was it just for your wedding or do you still participate in snake handling at your church services?”
He looks down at his hands picking at the fingernail on his left hand. “Snake handling is illegal in the state of Alabama.”
Good to know and really good to hear. But I get the feeling he might be telling me that because it is illegal. “Oh.”
“Do you believe in the Lord?”
I feel myself begin to squirm. “I do.”
“Where do you attend church?”
I want to roll my eyes and tell him to mind his own damn business but I don’t want to sit through a lecture of why he thinks I need God while I’m waiting. Lord knows this man has probably heard of me and my fornicating sinning ways so I spin it where I’m technically not lying. God forgive me please. “Good Steward Missionary Baptist Church.”
His brows instantly furrow and I swear he grew three inches when he sat up tall. “The black church out on 14?” he asks and I can hear it in his tone, he thinks I’m a liar.
I want to defend the church, myself, Mrs. Maybelle and anything else that man might have offended with just his tone. Yes, it was predominantly black but they accepted Heath and me because we were Mrs. Maybelle’s children and surely he knows God doesn’t see color. Mrs. Maybelle taught us that the few years we lived with her. But I don’t, I remind myself I’m a guest in his house, here to do a job so I bite my tongue and answer his question politely as possible, “Yes sir, that would be it.”
He begins to ask me another question as I hear a car pull up outside and I’m thankful for the distraction. He touches the button and his chair begins to slowly rise. I look out the window behind me then back to him when I hear the click of the button and he’s lowering back down. “Mother and Jacob are home.”
Thank God! No God, I mean it. Thank You and I’m sorry I haven’t prayed to You sooner. I swear You have my word I will go to church with Mrs. Maybelle as soon as I can… next Sunday. I mean it. Let this boy say everything right so I can get out of here and please… whatever happens no damn snakes. Sorry… no snakes. It’s only a few moments before I hear who I’m assuming to be the grandmother giving orders to Jacob. “Get changed out of your worship clothes then join us in the living room.”
She walks in and the first thing I notice is she’s slim, tall, pale, and gray. Gray hair, gray wool dress, her skin even looks gray with no makeup. I think the frames on her glasses are gray. Her thin lips form a small frown and I know I’m an annoyance, an outsider. I stand from the couch and extend my hand. “I’m Willow Matthews.”
She takes my hand for a half of a second then releases it. “I’m Elizabeth and this is my husband, Samuel.”
I wanted to say, yes I’ve been here fifteen minutes with your husband… you’re late. But once again I don’t. “It’s nice to meet you both.”
I reach in my pocket and pull out a little notepad where I h
ad jotted down a few questions I didn’t want to forget. She sits in a hard back chair next to her husband with her hands folded in her lap. Her husband now has a book in his hands and I don’t even bother looking. If I had one guess and had to stake my life on it, I would guess the Bible. I think hard of some simple chitchat but then give up. I’m okay with no small talk and they don’t seem bothered by the quiet. I read over my questions one more time when Jacob walks in and I’m instantly surprised. He looks nothing like his grandparents. He’s tall, athletic, and I’m sure all the young girls find him very attractive.
I nod and open my mouth to introduce myself but his grandmother beats me to it. “This is a private investigator and she’s looking into the disappearance of that little girl from your old school.”
By the look on his face I can tell he had no idea I was coming and I find that odd. To me this would be something you would discuss as a family. When I was seventeen and an investigator wanted to speak to me it would be a big deal. I would have been scared, nervous, a little excited. But none of them seem the least bit any of those. Jacob looks to me and I smile. “Why don’t you have a seat?” I ask and motion to the other end of the couch where I’m sitting.
He looks at the couch then to me. “Excuse me for a moment.”
He leaves and almost immediately returns carrying a chair that looks like it belongs to a dining room set. He places the chair beside the chair his grandmother’s is sitting in and sits next to her. All righty then… “I just have a few questions about Sasha Wachowski. Did you know her?”
“Yes ma’am.”
I wait for him to elaborate but he doesn’t. “Were you good friends?”
“We had a few classes together. We partnered once on a science project and she needed help with Geometry so I tutored her a few times.”
“Tutored her at school? After school?”
“At school during our lunch break.”
“How many times would you say you tutored her?”
“Seven, maybe eight times. I’m not exactly sure.”
“Did she have any boyfriends that you know of?”
“No, ma’am.”
“So you weren’t her boyfriend?”
The grandmother quickly interjects, “Jacob is not allowed to have relations with girls. In this day in age it turns into fornication.”
I nod at her. “Yes ma’am, I understand that but he wasn’t living with you at the time. So I wasn’t sure what rules he had when he lived with his mother.”
“He wasn’t living with his mother.” She replies curtly.
I’m shocked and confused. “He wasn’t?”
“No. He was in a foster home before he came to live with us. He was there for seventy two days before the court allowed him to move here with us.”
I look back at Jacob. This doesn’t add up or make sense. Why was he in a foster home and not immediately placed with his grandparents? I’m sure the case file said he was living at home when this happened. Something or someone screwed that up. “Do you mind if I ask why you were in foster care?”
“It’s a personal family matter that stays within the family,” the grandmother answers for him again.
“Okay.” I jot a note down to make sure to dig into this and call Tank. “So outside of school did you ever hang out with Sasha?”
“No ma’am.”
“Why were you at the bank that day?”
He looks down at the floor and I can tell he’s embarrassed and ashamed. “I had rolled change and was cashing it in to buy something to eat.”
“Why were you rolling coins to buy something to eat?”
He shrugs. “I was hungry and there wasn’t anything at the house.”
“Your foster parents’ house?”
“Yes ma’am.”
“When you say no food in the house… you mean there wasn’t anything you liked to eat in the house or there was no food at all.”
“There was ketchup…and beer…and a half empty jar of old pickles. Which was the norm.”
“How many other foster kids were in the house with you?”
“Two.”
“What were your foster parents’ names? Do you remember?”
Jacob looks between me and his grandmother. She nods and he finally answers, “Tonya and John Stroghn.”
I jot the name down so I can also do some investigation into them. He might be lying but he might also not be and I know how devastating a shitty foster home can be having been in one or two myself. “Can you think of anything I might need to know that will help me find Sasha?”
He shrugs. “Not really. One day she was at school and the next she wasn’t. I wouldn’t have thought anything of her not being there because it was the end of school but everybody was talking about her going missing.”
“Do you know if she was having trouble with any of the kids at school?”
“Not really. I know Tiffany used to pick on her but I don’t think she would have killed her or anything.”
“Do you think she’s been hurt or possibly dead?” He shrugs and again not making eye contact with me. This makes me a little suspicious. “Why would you think something might have happened to her?”
“I don’t know… stuff happens. It’s on the news all the time,” he answers in annoyance but his grandmother reaches over and places her hand on his leg and he immediately apologizes. “I’m sorry. I don’t know it was just a statement.”
I nod. “You said Tiffany picked on her. Tiffany who?”
“Tiffany Jenkins.”
“Picked on her how?”
I notice his eyes quickly cut to his grandmother and then back to me. “Just that she was a preacher’s daughter. Stuff like that.”
He’s holding back but I know he’ll never tell me what he knows in front of his grandparents. “So calling her names and stuff?” He nods. “Okay. Jacob, I’m going to give you my card and if you can think of anything else that might help me. It doesn’t matter how small of a detail. It could be the names this Tiffany Jenkins called her or if you think of someone else. You give me a call.”
I stand and pull a card from my pocket then reach my hand out to hand it to him directly. Somehow I knew before I did that the grandmother would take it before he could. I let her take the card but I don’t give up. “Jacob, I’m not sure I properly introduced myself other than being an investigator. My name is Willow Matthews. I’m not sure how familiar you are with the area only being here a short time but I live right up the road in Brooksfield.” I tried not being a complete bitch about it but I wanted him to know my name and where he could find me if he needed me. Then I did something I don’t normally do and that’s tell somebody I barely know something personal about me. “I know what it’s like to be in foster care. I was in it almost my entire life. I’m glad you have grandparents that were kind enough to take you in.” The last sentence was a lie. These people freak me the fuck out and I intend to look into them as well and that means my to-do list was piling up quickly.
I address everybody in the room. “Thank you for letting me speak with you. I think I have all the information I need right now.”
The grandfather looks up from his Bible and nods. The grandmother rises from her seat and follows me to the front door to see me out, I thought. She continues out the door with me and straight to her car. I pull my phone out of my pocket and look to see if I had missed any calls or texts. I turn back to look at the grandmother one more time before I climbed in my truck and my heart hits my stomach when I see what she is pulling out. Odd small clear but dingy boxes from the trunk of her old four door Chevrolet Caprice. I know that’s not what I think it is. Jacob isn’t long out the front door to help her and I notice he avoids looking at me. I put the phone to my ear and pretend a phone conversation while I watch and it doesn’t take long to confirm my suspicions. Those are snakes in those damn boxes! I pull the phone away from my ear. Who the hell are these people? I can’t leave a kid in these condition, handling snakes. I crank my truck and b
ack up carefully to get turned around and sit watching them, not sure what to do. I hit speed dial to Heath.
Heath answers on the first ring. “Where have you…? I’ve been trying to…you. You never…off.”
“My phone didn’t ring and I’m having trouble making you out.”
I pull the phone away from my ear and I have no 4g and only one bar of service. He’s steadily trying to talk but it’s all garbled. I hang up and drive out onto the highway and call him again.
“Willow?”
“Can you hear me now?”
“I could hear you fine. Could you not hear me?”
“No listen—”
“No, I have to tell you something that’s real important first.”
“Okay… what?”
“Stacey is pregnant”
My heart hits my stomach as I sigh but I can’t worry about that right this second, we have nine months to figure out what he’s going to do. “Listen. I swear we’ll talk about it in just a second but I have a bigger problem right this minute. Do you have the number to one of the DHR ladies? I need to talk directly to one of them.”
I can hear the anguish in his voice but he focuses on my problem. “Yeah, what’s up?”
“To be honest, Heath, I don’t even know. I went to interview this kid for a third party case I picked up and he was in foster care before coming to live with his grandparents and I’m not quite sure but I think they have this poor kid going to church and praying with snakes.”
“Snakes?”
“Yes. Snakes.” He lets out a light laugh. “It’s not funny Heath. I’m serious. This freaked me the fuck out.”
“I’m not laughing at that. I’m just happy that I have one thing going for me today. I’m off until Tuesday. It won’t be assigned to me. You know I don’t do snakes.”
“I feel bad. I don’t know his story but he was already removed from one home and now he’s probably going to be removed from this one.”
Heath gives me the number and I hang up with him to call the woman who works for DHR and explain everything I witnessed. It doesn’t take me long to grow annoyed with her less than caring attitude. I get I called her at home on a Sunday but does child endangerment not happen on weekends? Or just because it’s your off day? She asks if I saw the child be abused or actually handle the snakes. Of course I hadn’t. She assures me she would check into it. I sure hope she does. Something is not right in that home.
