Terry left a note in Davey's pigeonhole in the school office. He found it Monday morning. Two words: “Call me.” He knew what it must mean. At least Terry had the foresight to tell him first, before going to the police, so that he could be prepared. Fair warning. But he had to stop her. He went through the day like a robot, teaching mechanically, watching the clock.
At home, he roused himself. Sue had ordered a Christmas tree, which the man from the tree farm had delivered and set up in the living room. Sue had brought out the boxes of lights and decorations. I may never have another chance to do this, Davey thought as he stood on a chair to attach the star to the top of the tree. He might not have been a good husband, but he was a good father. Ten days till Christmas. Would this Christmas be his last as a family man?
While Sue read the girls a bedtime story, Davey poured two liters of milk down the kitchen sink. Then he went to the front hall and donned his overcoat, boots, and hat. Sue, coming down the stairs, saw him pulling on his gloves.
"You aren't going out, are you? It's a terrible night."
"Just to the Hasti Mart. We're out of milk for breakfast."
"I don't think so. There were two unopened bags last time I looked. Let me check.” She went into the kitchen. In a moment she called, “I guess I was wrong, or else the girls got really thirsty."
"I'll be right back,” Davey said.
With the freezing rain still falling, the street was like a skating rink. For traction he had to drive with the passenger-side wheels in the snow banks that edged the curb. He parked around the corner from the hairdresser's salon, and walked there with his head bent, sleet lashing his cheeks.
Terry was startled when he let himself in.
"Why didn't you phone? You shouldn't go out on a night like this."
"You know I can't phone from home. And cell-phone calls can be traced."
He took off his gloves, hat, and coat, but not his boots.
"I thought I should tell you that I'm going to tell the police what I saw."
"For God's sake don't!"
"I have to. Giddy didn't kill that woman. He's innocent."
"Not that innocent. He has a record. B and E. Muggings. Corner-store holdups. Keep him locked up for twenty-five years and the world will be a safer place."
"You can't mean that."
"Terry, he's trailer-park trash."
Her eyes were wide, watching him watching her.
"I was raised in a trailer park. And I'll tell you something else. Maybe you went to university and I didn't, but I know more about what's important than you do."
"Do you want to ruin my life?"
She laughed. “It looks like you wouldn't hesitate to ruin Jason Giddy's life, or mine, for that matter. So yes, it might give me a certain satisfaction."
Davey heard a groan and did not realize that it came from him. As he lunged, her hands flew up, and he saw the moonstone and silver bracelet on her slender wrist as he grabbed her neck. Her fingernails clawed at his hands. Her eyes bulged and reddened as his grip tightened. He heard the gurgle of air trapped in her closed-off throat.
In the end, it was silent and still. Terry lay crumpled on the floor, her long black hair spread like a fan. Sudden weakness came over him, and he sat down heavily on the sofa.
"Why did you make me do that?"
Davey looked at his hands as if he had never seen them before. When he finally managed to stop shaking, he put on his hat, his coat, and his gloves. Leaving Terry's apartment, he closed the door behind him. As he descended the steep staircase, he had to grip the banister to prevent himself from falling.
Ice coated the BMW. He had to scrape the windshield before he could drive away.
When he reached home, Sue met him in the hall.
"I've been worried. What took you so long?"
He looked at her, dazed, until he remembered his excuse for going out. “The Hasti Mart was closed, probably because of the ice storm. I drove around looking for someplace open.” He pulled off his gloves. “It's murder out there."
"Did you get...” Her voice faltered. “Did you get the milk?"
He shook his head. Words would not come. Sue unbuttoned his coat, helped him to doff it, then led him into the living room.
"You better tell me what happened."
The Christmas lights glowed, and the star shone from the top of the tree. When she pointed to the sofa, he sat down. She knelt facing him, her back to the Christmas tree. She was so close, kneeling between his thighs.
"Look at your hands."
"No,” He turned his head aside. He could not bear to see the scratches oozing blood. Suddenly he was weeping.
"Davey. Tell me. What have you done?"
He choked on a sob. “I've killed a woman."
Sue stiffened. Her body pulled back, away from him. He heard the change in her breathing, how she fought to keep control. He felt his blood shiver colder and colder, and his mind cried out, It is over, it is over...
"Your mistress?"
"What!"
"Oh, I know all about her. Everybody knows. Terry Loucks. Isn't that ... wasn't that ... her name?” A pause. “What could she have done to you ... to deserve ... that?"
He buried his face in his hands, muffling his voice. “Remember the day you took the girls to Toronto to see The Lion King? I took Terry up to the cottage that afternoon. We saw Al Tofflemire with a girl in his canoe."
"Go on."
He looked up and saw that her eyes were on him. What did she see when she looked at him, what kind of monster? She did not interrupt.
When he had finished, she said, “So you were afraid that you would lose everything. Me. Kate and Sally. My money.” He could see her throat working, trying to keep her voice steady.
"No,” he sobbed. “It wasn't the money."
Her voice rose. “Don't lie. You've lied too much already. Those sordid little affairs with secretaries, filing clerks, classroom assistants!"
"You knew? Why did you stay?"
"Kate and Sally love you. You're a great father. When you're with the children, the best of you shines. Our daughters needed you in their lives every day, not just two weekends a month. Kicking you out would have devastated them. So I decided that I could bear the humiliation.
"Besides, I was sorry for you. I had money and you didn't. It was my money that took away your manhood. We didn't need your salary. The money you earned wasn't important, and that bothered you. It hurts a man not to be necessary. That's why you turned to all those interchangeable women. They looked up to you."
"And you didn't."
"It hardly matters now.” Sue rose. “That was a terrible thing you did. You must tell the police everything that you've told me."
"No!” He raised his face to her. “If I go to prison, think what that will do to Kate and Sally."
"To all of us."
"Then let's say nothing. Please, Sue, for the sake of the children. If the police ask questions, tell them I was here with you the entire evening."
She shook her head. “Look at your hands. Your skin will be under her fingernails. Lies will not save you. I'll hire the best criminal lawyer in Canada and stand by you until the trial is over."
"And then what will you do, you and the children?"
"Leave the country, I suppose. Go back to using my maiden name."
Sue rose, went into the hall, and took the cordless phone from its cradle. Her hand was shaking as she brought it to him. “Phone nine-one-one. Ask for the police."
She faced him, dry-eyed. Behind her the tree lights shone.
"I'm sorry, Davey. You could have been a very good man."
Copyright © 2009 Jean Rae Baxter
[Back to Table of Contents]
Fiction: ERIN'S JOURNAL by David Dean
"If it appears improbable that someone's journal would be found intact washing around in the surf, let me assure you, I actually found one, and after it dried out, it was remarkably legible,” author David Dean told EQMM. Of course, th
e contents of Erin's journal are entirely fictional. But like the story's detec-tive, Mr. Dean is chief of police in a New Jersey resort town. Maybe that's why he was able to bring the tale's setting and his police chief's thoughts and actions so vividly to life.
Father Gregory was a speck of darkness on the wide white sands of the deserted beach as he trundled northward against a slight headwind. To his right, the great Atlantic broke into pieces some twenty yards out, releasing a flat, rushing wash of saltwater that sought his shoes and cuffs, and though a short, rotund man, he danced lightly out of its reach each time, chuckling at every success; delighted as a child.
He inhaled the salt-washed air greedily, as he did each day that the weather allowed him to walk to morning Mass, and was doubly rewarded with that mysterious tang of wood smoke and dying leaves that he had been reliably informed constituted the aroma of autumn. It was like nothing he had ever encountered in his native India and he found it quite alluring, entrancing really, as it awoke those feelings of loss and mortality that made each moment of living all the sweeter. In his native land, the odors of decay were cloying and carnal; difficult to romanticize, the physical manifestations of death being swift and ugly, victim of the unrelenting heat.
As the sun broke free of the horizon, Father Gregory stopped for a moment to admire the palette of colors unleashed across the sky to rout the last vestiges of the night and smiled hugely. And as he turned away to witness the effect upon the dunes, the goldenrod glowed into life as thousands of Monarch butterflies finished drying their wings and detached themselves to flutter aloft like a silent “Te Deum” picked out in black and orange.
"Well done,” he congratulated God delightedly, even as he fingered the crucifix hung round his neck as a reminder not to fall too much in love with the glamour of this world.
At that moment, the sea caught him off guard and swept across his shoes, depositing the journal there as if in offering. It lay open across his feet, drowned, yet intact, its pages decorated with leaves and tendrils by the publisher while the owner's scribbled writings competed for space on its crowded pages.
Without conscious thought, Father Gregory snatched up the sodden book before the next wave could reclaim it; so astounded at his improbable discovery that his shoes and socks took a second soaking before he recovered himself and hastily, if belatedly, backed out of reach of the tide. Once safe, he stood for several moments with the splayed-open journal dripping in his hands, and looked both right and left, half expecting someone to run up exclaiming, “That's mine! Give it back,” and snatch its secrets from his grasp. Yet, no one did.
Off in the distance, however, a man stood at one of the beach paths and appeared to be looking in the priest's direction. He was too far away for Father Gregory to identify, though he suspected it was Chief Hall, who sometimes met him on his walks and escorted him to morning Mass.
He looked back down at the dripping book he held in his hands and was thrilled anew at his discovery. What mystery might lie in his hands! The finding was like something from a pirate novel—perhaps this was a modern-day buccaneer's journal and the map to a hidden treasure lay within! As silly as it sounded, it nonetheless made his heart leap, and he felt as he had as a boy in Goa, standing at the edge of the Arabian Sea contemplating all the mystery and adventure that lay just beyond its horizon and his small reach. Now he lived beyond that horizon in a foreign land and, perhaps, adventure had found him at last!
He resumed his walking carrying the waterlogged diary, or whatever it might be, before him, much as he might the Eucharist. The man at the beach path held up one arm and with the other pointed exaggeratedly at its wrist, tapping it several times.
"Mass,” Father Gregory said aloud as the meaning of these gestures occurred to him. “What time is it?” He glanced at his own watch and saw that he had less than fifteen minutes; if he hurried, there was still time. He broke into a trot made awkward by the journal and shoes that extruded water with each step; his short, plump body rocking side to side as he hurried towards his friend, the policeman, and St. Brendan's, its slated steeple and ship's bell appearing very far away in the brilliant autumn sun.
* * * *
It had become a ritual that on those mornings when Father Gregory officiated at Mass, he and Chief Hall would breakfast together. As they both loved watching the sea, they invariably found themselves at the Luna Boardwalk Cafe, within sight of the great, moody Atlantic. Here, Julian Hall sat across the small, wobbly table from the little white-haired priest and marveled, not for the first time, at his remarkable friend, who had left behind everything familiar and dear to him to minister to the souls of foreign men in a strange land. It occurred to Julian, also not for the first time, to wonder whether he would be capable of such a sacrifice, and he concluded, as usual, that he would not. But he could see that these were matters far from the priest's mind at the moment; he was busily recounting his finding of the sodden journal even as he made hasty work of the last of his Western omelet, liberally doused with pepper sauce.
"It was as if God wanted me to find it,” he said again in his thick, sing-song accent. “Wouldn't you agree?"
Julian set his coffee mug down and smiled. “Acts of God would be more in your line of work, Father. Let's just say it's highly unusual—I've never heard of anyone, ever, finding a diary washing around in the ocean before, and I've lived here all my life. If I were you, I'd give some thought to running up to the casinos—just might be your day."
The object of their discussion lay by Father Gregory's elbow, drying on the tablecloth and leaving a large wet spot. He had laid it open and facedown to facilitate the effort and Julian could read “Journal” printed on its pink spine. A publishing-house logo was just discernible near the bottom edge and a variety of flowers graced its cover. It's something a young girl would write in, he thought. He noticed a rust-colored blotch staining the lower portion of the cover that appeared to have seeped into the pages within. It could not have been in the water for long, he surmised, otherwise the waves would have torn it to pieces.
Father Gregory giggled nervously and covered his mouth with one hand in case food had stuck between his teeth. “I see, yes, you are a funny man, a comedian. Monsignor Cahill would definitely appreciate the humor of my visiting the casinos with parish funds."
The monsignor was renowned for his dearth of humor and generally bleak demeanor. It was rumored that the old prelate had once been a keen and devilish prankster but that enforced sobriety had displaced this characteristic.
"So,” Julian asked, “what shall you do with your find? Do you intend to return it to the owner; that is, if you can find her?"
Father Gregory dabbed at his lips with a napkin and held up a surprisingly long finger, “You have concluded that the writer is a woman, Chief J? Is that not judging a book by its cover?"
Julian always found it amusing that Father Gregory, a circumspect and reticent man in most instances, insisted upon this unusual and familiar moniker with him—Chief J. He smiled and glanced out at the deceptively summery sea. “I'm probably stretching on this one, but I'll chance it. Have you looked for a name yet?” He reached for the book.
The priest placed his hand holding the napkin protectively atop the journal and said, “Oh no. I must insist that I have the pleasure of this investigation. You may have the entire Camelot police department at your beck and call, such as it is"—he risked a sly glance at his American friend—"but this mystery is mine by the immutable law of the sea, and you, Mr. Policeman, have no jurisdiction.” He chuckled quietly, then looked away to avoid giving offense.
"Besides,” Father Gregory resumed, “whatever is written in this book was not meant to be public, and you, after all, are a public servant. But as it was delivered into my hands, I will read it and consider what's best to do."
Julian stared flatly at his friend. “I see,” he murmured. “I had forgotten how pompous ... I meant important, of course, priests can be. Please do carry on, Father."
&nbs
p; "I will do just that, I assure you,” Father Gregory answered airily.
Julian noticed their waitress hovering close by and signaled her over. She was a tall, slender girl with an abundance of dark curls who appeared to start awake at his gesture. She stumbled mechanically in their direction, the coffee-pot assuming threatening potential in her hands. The police chief raised his hand like a traffic cop. “The check, please."
This halted her and she turned as if she had forgotten something. After a few moments she came back with their check. Julian took it from her and hurried to the cash register to settle up the bill.
In spite of Father Gregory's protests, the chief always insisted upon paying, as he knew that the Indian priest sent nearly his entire paycheck to his home parish in Goa. The difference in pay he made by coming to America had financed the addition of three rooms to his parish school and provided scholarships for six children. Julian understood that his friend's exile was made bearable by the good he was doing from afar, and would not allow him to spend a cent in his presence.
"They do pay priests, you know,” Father Gregory admonished him from behind his back. “Not as much as police officers, especially police chiefs, of course, with the supplementary gifts and favors they receive from the public."
Julian glanced over his shoulder at his antagonist and said, “People do disappear in New Jersey, you know.” He saw that Father Gregory had wrapped the diary in a cloth napkin and asked, “Do I have to pay for that, too?"
His friend ignored him and smiled sweetly at the owner of the small restaurant who had taken the money. “Mrs. Colluzzo, may I take this along and return it upon my next visit?” he asked. “It would be most helpful."
EQMM, December 2009 Page 5
