Dangerous Habits

by Susan Hunter

  “Paul, I know this is awk—”

  “It’s more than awkward Leah, it’s insulting. Don’t call again.”

  Thirteen

  When I got home, I didn’t bother to tell my mother what I’d been up to, and she didn’t ask. We had been tiptoeing around each other for days, neither wanting to get into it again. So, she pretended that I had heeded her advice and dropped things, and I pretended that she had decided to let me do what I had to do. We Nashes are skilled in the art of denial.

  However, as soon as I walked in, she pounced on me with a box of groceries and some old clothes and said, “Good! You’re home. Could you deliver these to Vesta Brenneman? I have to go back to the office. Karen’s out of town and needs some information from the files ASAP.”

  “What is it?”

  “Just some summer clothes from St. Vinnie’s and a few groceries and treats.”

  “You know Vesta hates it when people go to her house. The last time I delivered something, she threw crabapples at me. She’s crazy.”

  “What are you, 12? She’s not crazy. And you’re not kind. She’s old and she’s eccentric. It’s not a crime.”

  “Eccentric? Mom, she stares right through you when you talk to her, or she starts shouting Bible verses. She rides around on her bicycle all day, scares little kids—and some big ones too. She looks—and smells like—she hasn’t taken a bath in months. Is it really ‘kind’ to let her fend for herself? Maybe she needs social services help, not random charity.”

  “She’s living as she wants to. What’s wrong with that? And if we can help her do it with just a little effort, shame on us if we don’t. If you go now, she won’t be home. She’ll still be out riding. You can leave the things by her door.”

  “OK, OK. I’ll fill in for you, Mother Teresa, but remember, I’m just the understudy. Don’t plan on me taking over your starring role. Give me the stupid box.”

  She grinned because she got her way. She usually does. “Kid, you’re walking out there an understudy, but you’re coming back a saint!”

  I laughed because I have the same stupid sense of humor she does, and because it felt nice not to be quietly tense with each other as we had been for the past week or so.

  She handed me the box, gave me a shove and sent me out the door.

  Vesta lives in the only house on the last block of Birch Street before the metropolis of Himmel gives way to country roads. It’s not much of a street, cracked asphalt instead of concrete, and there isn’t a birch tree in sight, just a few scraggly box elders. My heart sank as I turned in her driveway and saw her faded red Schwinn leaning next to the front door. She was out on the front step before I got the box off the back seat, her little mixed breed terrier tagging at her heels.

  She wore a shabby gray cardigan over a flowered print house dress of the kind someone’s grandma might wear on The Waltons. Underneath was a pair of tan men’s work pants rolled up to her ankles, and on her feet were black high top tennis shoes with no laces. Her stringy gray hair was pulled back in a long ponytail, but wisps trailed across cheeks that were as brown and wrinkled as old ginger root. She stared at me, arms folded across her bony chest.

  “Hey, Vesta. Remember me? I’m Leah Nash. Carol’s daughter. Just dropping off a few things Mom was hoping you could take off her hands.”

  “You got any tin foil?”

  “Why, yes, yes I do. As luck would have it, here’s a nice roll of it.”

  Her eyes lit up the way mine would if you offered me a box of chocolates. She came down off the step and rooted around in the box. I struggled to balance it on my knee to give her easier access as she dug through the contents. Apparently satisfied, she said, “In there,” pointing to the front door, then motioned for me to follow her. I’d never been invited in before.

  It was dark and crowded inside but relatively neat. A metal bed with springs was set in the corner, covered by a pink chenille bedspread. A wooden rocking chair was next to it and beside that was a basket full-to-overflowing with balls of aluminum foil of various sizes. A table made out of an old door and two saw horses were in the middle of the room, bowed under the weight of glass jars filled with rocks and gravel. Beside them was a large family-style Bible. Plastic bags filled with feathers lined the window ledge above her kitchen sink. She had a mini fridge and an ancient apartment-sized electric stove in the corner.

  I let out a gasp when I turned to the left and saw a chest of drawers piled high with dozens of babies, then quickly recognized them as naked plastic dolls.

  “My collections. You got collections?”

  “No, not really.”

  She nodded as though it were to be expected.

  “Well, can I set this here?” I nodded toward the table and she nodded back. “There, that’s that then.”

  “Charity never faileth: but whether there be prophecies, they shall fail; whether there be tongues, they shall cease; whether there be knowledge, it shall vanish away.”

  “Absolutely. Well, I’d better get going. See you, Vesta.”

  “My Dorrie is dead.”

  I wasn’t sure if Dorrie was a daughter or a sister or a friend—or a figment of Vesta’s imagination.

  “Dorrie?”

  “My Dorrie,” she said a trifle impatiently, as though she’d explained all this to me before. “My sister. Your sister is dead.”

  “Yes.” I wanted to get out of that hot, musty room, away from the uncomfortable presence of this suddenly intense, more than slightly crazy lady, but my mother’s words, “if we can help her with just a little effort, shame on us if we don’t,” inconveniently came to mind.

  “I’m sorry about your sister. When did she die?”

  “You were there. In the twilight, in the evening, at the time of night and darkness.”

  “No, Vesta, I wasn’t there. Do you mean you were with your sister when she died?”

  “Her feet go down to death; her steps lead straight to the grave.”

  Oh boy. Had I just encouraged her into a full-blown psychotic break?

  “Vesta, are you all right? What’s wrong?”

  “And I looked, and behold a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was Death, and Hell followed with him.”

  Her eyes were unfocused, and she started making little humming noises.

  “Vesta!” I said as sharply as I could. She looked at me in surprise.

  “Don’t take my collections.”

  She pushed at me with unexpected strength.

  “It’s OK. I’m leaving. Just dropped the box off from Carol Nash,” I repeated trying to reorient her in reality. “But I’m going now.”

  I backed out lest she bash me in the back of the head with a jar of rocks and then beat me to death with a dead doll baby. I got in my car and shoved it into reverse, while she stood on her front step and watched me. An involuntary shudder ran down my spine as I sped down the street. That was spooky.

  And that was the last time I was running this particular errand for my mother. I took the corner onto River Street just a hair too fast, and the squeal of my tires reminded me I needed to get air in them. There was a gas station just a few blocks away, but within several yards of my Fast & Furious turn, I saw a blue light flashing in my rearview mirror.

  Great. I pulled over and watched as the cop got out and came toward me. Darmody. Even greater.

  I rolled down the window, and he leaned in. “Where’s the fire?”

  “Nowhere. My tires are just a little low, so they squealed when I rounded the corner.”

  “Uh-huh. I clocked you at 45 in a 25.”

  “Come on, Darmody. I was just doing a good deed. Took some food and stuff to Vesta.”

  “You want to watch out there. She’s kinda unpredictable. Where you been lately?”

  “Oh, pretty busy at the paper.” I tried to be pleasant in the hopes he wouldn’t write me up, but I wasn’t anxious to pass the time of day with Darmody.

  “Yeah? I heard you and the lieutenant got into it at McClain
’s the other night. Sherry said that—”

  “Yeah? Well Sherry doesn’t know what she’s talking about.”

  “I get it. You got a little cat fight going there, Leah?”

  “Darmody, I think you need a refresher course from HR on sexual harassment. Are you going to give me a ticket or what?”

  “Nah. I’ll let you off with a warning. Don’t use a hair dryer in the bathtub.” He then laughed so hard he started snorting and had to wipe the tears from his eyes. I shook my head.

  “Thanks.”

  Seeing Darmody reminded me how much I missed Coop. But I wasn’t ready to talk to him about Lacey again. Not until I had enough to tell him so that he couldn’t blow me off.

  To my surprise, I’d had no trouble booking an appointment with Sister Julianna when I called, though Sister Margaret warned me the director was on a tight schedule. I’d have to be there before eight o’clock, so she could make her flight to a conference. Early mornings are no problem for me, but when I arrived at 7:30 Sister Margaret wasn’t at her desk, and the door to Sister Julianna’s office was closed. I walked to the reception desk and called, “Hello? Sister Margaret?”

  There was a thudding sound from the direction of the small room that housed the copy machine behind the reception desk. A second later the little nun came scurrying out, a guilty look on her face.

  “You caught me! I was just closing the window in the copy room before Sister Julianna gets in.”

  “You’re not allowed to open the windows? Sister Julianna runs a tight ship.”

  “It’s not a problem during the day, of course, but when the security system is on at night, we shouldn’t,” she said, in a voice that sounded like a small child repeating a parent’s reprimand.

  Then she grinned. “But it’s just a small window, and I open it just a smidge. It makes such a nice little bit of fresh air here in my corner in the morning. I just turn that zone off on the alarm system and no one is the wiser.”

  “Your secret is safe with me.”

  She sat down and wiggled around on her chair for a minute like a bird getting comfortable in its nest, then looked at me with her bright eyes. “So nice to see you again. Sister should be here in just a few minutes. Did you get a chance to talk to Father Hegl about Lacey?”

  “I did, thanks. And I’ve talked to a few other people as well. It sounds odd, I know, but I really don’t think I knew my little sister as well as I thought I did.”

  “Well, we all have our secret selves.”

  I wondered what dark depths might be hidden beneath Sister Margaret’s cheery persona. “Sister, do you remember Lacey’s roommate?”

  “Oh, yes. Delite Wilson. She was a tough cookie, that one.”

  “Did she finish out at DeMoss?”

  “Yes, but it was touch and go, I don’t mind telling you. Sister Julianna didn’t want to give up on her though, especially after she came forward and told the truth about going drinking with Lacey that night. Sister thought it showed some evidence of conscience. I wasn’t convinced.”

  “Why was that?”

  “Well, it sounds unkind to say, but I’m afraid Delite didn’t have much spiritual integrity.”

  “You mean like faith?”

  “No, not exactly. I’ve seen many children come and go, and the ones who make it have what I think of as spiritual integrity. You know, a core of basic decency. I pride myself on being able to spot it. Sister Julianna may be the expert, but I know what I know.”

  “What happened to Delite?”

  “If I remember correctly, she moved to Appleton to live with a sister after she graduated. I hope I was wrong about her, but I’m usually not,” she said, with more regret than complacency in her voice.

  “I’d really like to talk to her. Do you think you could get me her sister’s name and address?”

  “Well…,” She hesitated.

  “Please? It’s just that she was the last one to see Lacey.”

  “We’re not supposed to give out student information, but I suppose in this case…well, it’s not really student information, is it? It’s just her sister’s address.” She struggled with her conscience for a second, then said, “All right dear, I’ll see what I can find.”

  “And, I wonder, could you give me Father Hegl’s phone number? He was really helpful and I’d like to talk to him again.”

  “Oh, I know that one by heart. 292-5731.”

  The light on her phone blinked, and she picked it up. “Yes, Sister. She’s here. I’ll send her right in.”

  She saw my puzzled expression. We’d both been standing in the middle of the room, and Sister Julianna had definitely not passed us on her way to her office.

  “Sister has a door with direct access to the outside in her office. There’s a nice little courtyard there just off the side drive.”

  Sister Julianna smiled as I walked in and moved around the corner of her desk, her hand extended. I shook it and said, “Thanks for seeing me, Sister, I understand you have travel plans this morning.”

  “That’s quite all right. I know you weren’t very happy with our last conversation, Leah. I’m hoping to hear that you’ve found some peace of mind.” She surprised me by sitting down in one of the chairs in front of her desk and motioning me to the other, instead of moving back to her power seat.

  “Really? I thought that you called my boss to complain that I was harassing you.”

  “I did call,” she said, showing no sign of embarrassment. “But not because I felt we were being harassed. I was worried about your state of mind. And I suppose when you tried to link Lacey’s disappearance with Sister Mattea’s death, I was a little concerned that you were trying to sensationalize things for the paper.”

  “Sister, if I wasn’t clear before, let me be now. I’m not representing the Times in any capacity here. I’m asking questions as Lacey’s sister, not as a reporter.”

  “That’s what your editor said. I’m sorry if I caused you any problems there. It’s just an upsetting time for everyone. Are you feeling more at ease now that you’ve had time to reflect on things?”

  “Actually, I’ve got more questions now than I did before.”

  “Oh?”

  I plunged right in.

  “I think that Lacey was sexually abused before she came to DeMoss. I want to know if there’s anything in her records or counseling files that would confirm that.”

  She flinched, but she answered calmly. “That’s very serious. If we had had any knowledge of sexual abuse, it would have been reported to the police. It’s both a legal and moral obligation. Are you sure about this?”

  “Pretty sure. Lacey showed all the typical signs of sexual abuse in adolescence—the behavior changes, the anger, the sexual acting out, drug use. It all fits.”

  She relaxed a little and put her hand on my arm. “Leah, you must know those behaviors are common in troubled adolescents. Sexual abuse is far from the only cause.”

  “I understand that. But Lacey confided in someone at the time. Just not in me. I blame myself for that.”

  “And you blame DeMoss as well?”

  “No. But I’m hoping DeMoss can help. Are there any case notes or a counseling file I could look at? Maybe I’d see something there that wasn’t apparent to a counselor at the time, or maybe—”

  She was shaking her head before I even finished. “Our counselors are professionals, trained to help children in crisis. It’s highly unlikely that you’d find anything in a file that they had overlooked. In any case, we purge the records of minors five years after treatment ends. There are no counseling files to look at.”

  “What about talking to her counselor?”

  “Our professional staff comes and goes—it’s not a very well paid job, I’m afraid. They usually leave for more lucrative practices once they get some experience. I don’t believe we have anyone here now who was on staff then. And I really can’t recall who Lacey’s counselor was. We have over 200 students and that was almost six years ago.”r />
  “So, you’re saying there’s no one in the whole school who can tell me anything about what Lacey might have been thinking while she was here?”

  “I’m sorry. I really am.”

  “I’m going to find out who sexually abused her.”

  “To what end, Leah? And how can you even hope to know for sure that she was abused after all these years and without her corroboration?”

  “Sister, do you know who the young boy Lacey was seen with that last night might have been?” If she was startled by my abrupt shift she didn’t show it.

  “This is the first I’ve heard of a young boy. You think another student was with Lacey? I doubt that. I would have known about it at the time.”

  “But you didn’t know about Lacey. I think there were a lot of things that none of us knew. Someone got away with sexually abusing her. I’m beginning to think they may have gotten away with killing her as well. And I have to wonder if that isn’t what Sister Mattea wanted to tell me.”

  “You can’t be serious.” Her mouth had dropped slightly open in astonishment.

  “Oh, but I am.”

  There was a light tap on the door, and Sister Margaret stepped in. “I’m so sorry to disturb you, but Sister Esther is waiting in the side drive. You’ll miss your plane to the conference if you don’t leave right now. Here are the reports you wanted to take. Your luggage is in the car.” She thrust a brown leather briefcase into Sister Julianna’s hand and gestured toward the door that led to the side drive. Uncharacteristically, Sister Julianna dithered. “Ah, Leah, just—Sister Margaret—please—”

  I took the opportunity to slip through the main door. “No problem, Sister Julianna. I think we covered everything. Don’t miss your flight on my account.”

  In a few seconds, Sister Margaret came hop-stepping into the reception area where I waited by her desk. “I’m sorry I had to interrupt. But Sister Julianna has no sense of time. As it is she’s cutting it fine to make her plane. I don’t envy her. I couldn’t stand all that flying around the country giving speeches. But, like she says, the board does like the recognition it brings DeMoss. Oh, I did get the name and address of Delite’s sister for you.” She tore a sheet from a pink notepad and handed it to me.