The warm air in the staircase clung over the landing. It was considerably hotter in the vestibule. My shirt was soaked through by then, covered in filth and debris from scrambling through the window.
Early morning rays of the sun poured through the stained glass, filling the sanctuary with light and steadily causing the heat to rise. I cut across the pews and rushed to the door in the hall, which would take me out by the offices. Down on the right were the associate pastor and the minister of music’s office.
I walked past them to the next entryway. A large, black iron handle protruded from the jamb of Warren’s office. The door was closed. Stepping up to the threshold I gave the handle a twist. It was locked. Grabbing at my back pocket for the rope, I pulled it out and fastened a figure-of-eight knot with a loop, then dropped it over the knob and cinched it tight. With my fingers I studied the knot, still running them over the cord, until I gave it a secure tug. Leaving it on, I walked down the hall and found the bathroom door and fitted it twice around the handle and pulled it back up. There was rope to spare. I observed the jambs again, both doors opened on hinges leading into their rooms. However, with a rope tied in place, neither could be opened easily. At least, that was what I was counting on. I freed the figure-of-eight knot from Warren’s doorknob and coiled the rope into my hand and walked into the room across the hall and pushed the door nearly closed. Back in the far corner was a closet. I opened it and stepped in, closing it behind me, but not into the striker plate, and took a seat on the floor. Only a dim crease of light fed my eyes.
It was less than an hour I had to wait. Through the walls I focused on the first set of tires. And minutes later the second car’s approach chewed up dirt on the gravel drive. Their laughter filled the hall coming in, and it made me angry, gave me more reason to do what I wanted to do. My legs had begun to cramp where I had taken a seat on the floor in the closet.
After I heard the door close to Warren’s office, I stood up out of the closet. Air blew in through the crack and covered my face, cooling my skin. The camera was in my left hand and the rope gathered together in my right. I wiped my face repeatedly as I listened for any sound coming from the hall. Using the hand with the rope, I tugged at the door to form a crack. When it was wide enough to place my head through, I looked out around the hall and found it empty.
I ducked back against the wall and wiped at my face again, but could never quite get the sweat out of my eyes. And I realized I was gnawing at my bottom lip, had worked the right edge into a groove that stung horribly with the sweat. I touched it. The faint smear of blood spread at the tip of my finger. What was I doing? Losing my mind? I thought maybe so. Maybe you forget the pain by welcoming destruction.
I nearly dropped the camera stepping into the hall. For a second I fumbled between it and the rope in an effort to hang on. Rope slithered to the floor as I grabbed the juggling camera with the tips of my fingers and pulled it against my body. Every bone in my body cringed under the strain of keeping silent. I stood in the middle of the hall, feet spread wide, and with both hands rigidly latched on, staring into the camera.
It had been about seven or eight minutes since they’d come in the building. From outside Warren’s door I could hear the sound of the oscillating fan working back and forth in the room. Carefully, I set the camera on the floor so that I had both my hands free. The rope labored in my fingers as I slipped it over Warren’s doorknob one more time. I hurried to the bathroom, double fed the rope around the handle post and slowly pulled it taut and worked a constrictor knot across its base.
“What do you think you’re doing? Raise your arms,” Warren said from behind me.
I froze with my fingers still perched over the knot, eyes flooded wide at the sound of his voice. Like standing with seashells at both ears, the powerful wave of my heart slammed into the shore of bones that were my chest. Fear receded out in a tide that left me slack and weightless in the skin of my body. And I couldn’t run, although, it was my first instinct. My legs were pilings in the sand of desperation. They only worked to turn around.
Slowly, I did just that and discovered I was still alone. Then I jumped at the sound of his lock thrown in the door.
“Now, I want you take your shirt off. No! No, no, my angel, do it slowly. I want to see you spread your wings,” he purred. “That’s it, the way God intended you to be seen.”
Warren remained with his back to the door. I traced his shadow as it dragged along the threshold, then stopped and gradually lengthened across the bottom of the floor and faded away. My hand slipped out and touched the wall. For every bit of a minute my legs quivered in place. After three quick breaths, I pushed off down the hall, willing my body to work. I had to fight through the fact my stepfather was in the other room and what he would do if he caught me. What would come of the pitiful excuses I used to explain the rope.
I located a chair in one of the rooms and used both hands to carry it out. Resting it squarely in the middle of the front of his door, I found the camera on the floor and snagged in one hand. Up near the ceiling, I studied the glass transom. A foot tall and as wide as the door itself. It was latched closed or so I thought. A panel of light came through it into the hallway. I backed away ten steps and looked through the viewfinder and adjusted the knob until the two images of the chair became one.
Through the door I could hear the loud exaggerated moans of Becky Odel and a quick, rhythmic slapping of skin, joined by Warren’s heavy breathing. The constant fussing for her to spread her legs wider and then to turn around. Something struck the floor amid all that. And the steel comb hum of a music box and four simple chords floated in the air—a gift from our mother—followed by thick panting and a shuffling of bare feet.
Warren’s throat gurgled like an animated wolf, a black and white cartoon of violence and mechanism. I imagined his eyes bulging out of his head with a carrrhhoooggga, one foot stamping the floor in a frightful predatory look that said he wanted to rip her limb from limb. It was a mask of rage and hate that I pictured behind the door. Nothing of love or tenderness; he was more animal than man. And I wanted to hunt him down and skin his hide. What made her lay there, legs pressed wide, with the full of him deep inside her? And how had Mother done it? I was sure the answers would be as painful as the questions.
Gripping the back of the chair, I planted a foot on the seat and stood up and touched the outside doorjamb with my elbow, bracing my weight there. I held the camera with one hand, cradled tight to my chest. If I got lucky I wouldn’t drop it. Below my feet the wooden legs of the chair listed slightly right and I tried to space my feet in a way that helped with my balance. Last thing I needed to do was fall.
I raised the Leica over my head and leaned on the doorframe, cocking my wrist back so the camera wouldn’t be seen. Using my free hand I latched onto the base of the transom and took a second to steady myself. Out near the focus knob I found the button that would take the picture and placed my finger over it. I counted to three, lifted my wrists over and angled the lens down where it would capture the room, then depressed the button and pulled the camera back. Next, I grabbed the right knob and advanced the film another frame, held up my arms one more time and repeated the shot.
Standing with the camera in front of me, I wound the film forward a third time. Terrible silence grew out of the hall with lengthening bones. I fixed my eyes on the wood of the door. Just stood there, not moving. A cold stillness yawned over the room in front of me. And the air carried the sound of nothing, if that was possible.
Run! Run, now!
Immediately I jumped down and grabbed the chair in one hand and barreled up the hall. Opening the last classroom door, I sat the chair inside under the table with two others, closed it and stepped back out into the hall. The sound of the bolt sliding out of its lock hit my ears with the impact of a gunshot. Glancing back I saw my rope stretch tight down the hall and hold. Initially the door sprung back in place, followed by the repeated bashing of it into its seams. My legs went to j
elly. As I spun around I lost my balance on the floor, caught myself with one hand and lifted my hips to regain some footing and burst through the sanctuary door, only to fall down again and catch my ribs across the front pew. I snapped open my sack and swept the gold cross, candles, and everything else I could reach from the table into the bag, slung it over my shoulder and bolted for the nearest door and the river.
I hit the bank of dirt and slid down the side with one leg out, hand sending up a trail of leaves behind me, and broke my fall on both feet. On the other side of the riverbed I stepped over rocks and jumped the sandbar into the woods. For the next two miles I sprinted through trees, scrub brush and pine, using the lay of the land as a point of direction. Twenty minutes later, I broke from the woods and crossed the road, scatting under the barbwire fence that bordered Rupert Tribble’s place and shortcut his field until I was standing behind the high school. My shirt was matted with sweat, filth and spider webs. And a long rip filled in for the knee of my jeans. I dropped over and grabbed my legs, breathing deep with exhaustion.
I took out the camera from my pocket, shed my clothes into a ball and wadded them up under the bottom of the bleachers and shoved them in an open hole of cinderblock, which left me wearing only my gym shorts and sneakers. At the back of the concession booth I found a larger trashcan and heaved the sack with the stolen goods from the church inside and closed the door.
Outside the locker room, I jimmied the handle on the window I had unhooked Friday night and pushed my way in, turning back to secure it behind me. I walked to my locker and fixed the dial and popped the lock. Near the top was a pair of tube socks. I unfolded them and brought up the camera. My spirit darkened when I noticed the lens was shattered. Must’ve hit a rock coming down the hill. I shoved the camera deep into the first sock, lapping it over, and shoving it into the other one and replacing it up on the top of my locker out of view. I pulled down a clean gym shirt and stretched it over my head and chest, spun the lock and left the building. Half an hour into running the stairs, I saw Dusty Clausen, the school janitor and Saturday morning clean up man, and turned to wave. He was smiling and I smiled back.
*****
The weekend came and went with very little said about the break-in at the church. It was touched upon at the Sunday service and noted that everyone, please be careful. The robber or robbers—no one was sure which yet—police had learned had broken in through a basement window and gotten away with very little, after attempting to trap the Reverend Warren Tucker in his office. He had been there working alone on his Sunday morning lesson plan when he heard a sound outside his door. It was both to his surprise and dismay, when he went to check, that he had been barricaded into his office with the use of a rope. As the Reverend explained, by the time he managed to phone the authorities and climb down out of his window and cover the grounds, the would-be intruders had vacated the premises with little more than a few odds and ends, but nothing of any real value.
Monday proved a busy day at the school. Several class meetings were going on in the building and it was impossible to have a chance in the lab alone. Tuesday opened up nicely and, after practice, I managed to get back into the school building under the guise of having forgotten a book for Chemistry class.
Dusty Clausen exhibited no qualms with giving me the key; he’d done it before. Ten minutes later, I showed up with his master key ring and a textbook as proof of my unbridled passion for learning. Then I made my way around the back of the school, near the cafeteria entrance, and kicked the brick I’d propped the door open with over into the stale pile of cigarette butts left by the lunch staff and went inside.
Yearbook staff rounded out an elective for me and provided an easy A. Including football and baseball, I covered all the sports stories and a few other puff pieces. I had a natural flair for the human-interest stuff I was told—though I didn’t know why—did a little editing when needed, and handed in my assignments by deadline. I was proficient with a camera, although not an expert—that was E.E. Matban’s job, one of the two principal photographers on our staff, my sister, Amy, being the other. Most of all, my understanding of the camera came from either E.E. or my sister. Yet, E.E. let me help in the dark room from time to time.
I prepared the film developer, stop bath, fixer, and washer like I’d seen in the past. When that was done I looked at my watch and walked back out to the cafeteria door and opened it. E.E. Matban stood with his shirt collar flipped up, the picture of coolness. Sharp witted, he was barely 5 foot 4 and weighed in at a buck thirty-five soaking wet, bow-legged and a natural prankster. His Daddy owned the only photo studio in the county.
“Somebody gave you the keys?”
I hustled him through the door. “That somebody doesn’t know I’m still here.”
“Who cares? So, are you gonna tell me what we’re doing here?” He pulled out a black felt-tip pen and wrote “Peter Pumpkin Eater was here” on the inside of the door. It was his running joke and I was the only one that knew about it. He’d written it all over the school a few hundred times, much to the chagrin of Albert Van Mayhew, the long standing principal. “And the deal is still the same. You want my services, you gotta produce the goods.”
“I know, I know. Let’s go.” I tugged the door completely closed and led him down the hall.
“Jesus, you’re big, Lee. Anyone ever tell you that before? Not just big big, mind you, but you’re the size of a horse now.”
I turned around and laughed. “Just you, E.E. Just you.”
“Of course, being as big as a horse does have its privileges.”
“So what’s E.E. stand for again? You told me the other day, I just forgot.” I tried for the hundredth time to get it out of him.
“Don’t even bother—you know the answer’s no.” He shot me a wary look. “Nobody, and I mean nobody’s getting that outta me.”
I reached back and grabbed his shoulder. “For a funny guy, you’ve got your secrets.”
“And it’s gonna stay that way. Bet on it.” His finger was wagging in the air. “I’ll go to my grave before I tell any of you people what my name means. Now that that’s over, what are we doing in the darkroom—while the school’s closed, I might add—that we can’t do any other time of the day?”
“First things first, sire,” I announced like a knight, humbly bowing before his Lord. “Your just and dutiful reward, Sir Peter Pumpkin.”
E.E. uncapped his pen with a side winding grin. “It’s like the Holy Grail. Really, it is.” His eyes grew large and cheerful. “And if that were here I’d write on it, too.”
I watched him begin on Principle Van Mayhew’s desk. “I, the Great Peter Pumpkin Eater, was here and so on and so forth.” He must have written it thirty times inside of ten minutes, scrawling it on the walls, the filing cabinet, across his desk, under the cushion of his seat, standing on the chair and having a go at the ceiling light, even down a narrow crack in the wall, something about “The Great Peter Pumpkin Eater made a visit to the crack in your wall, had I been earlier it would have been your ass I paid a call.”
“Gosh, you’re a poet.”
“I am many things, my friend.” He stuck the pen in his pants. “And a man of many talents.”
“You done?” I asked.
He stood back and remarked on his work, before pulling the door closed. “Tis a masterpiece if ever there were.”
“Van Mayhew’s gonna shit when he sees that.” I laughed as we headed down the hall.
“Shit is the operative word, yes. Now, what great trouble will we cause for you, my equine-sized friend?”
“You’ll see. And remember,” I warned him, “the best secrets are the ones that stay that way, Mr. Eater.”
“Don’t worry. After what I just did, you’ve got my word.”
When the two negatives were cut and the enlargements made and run through the developer and processed, the first words out of his mouth were, “Holy fucking shit. And I don’t mean that figuratively, either.” He never took his
eyes off the shots as he clipped them on the drying line. “Where in the hell did you get these?”
“I took them.” I noted how good they looked, considering the fact that I hadn’t been able to see anything.
“What? Are you crazy?” He looked at the one on the right, which captured the mood better; Warren’s hand had moved up from her hip to cupping her breast with greedy fingers. “I’m not for sure, but that looks an awful lot like Becky Odel. Tell me that’s not Becky Odel. Ralph’s daddy’ll kill him if he sees—”
“What’s the E.E. stand for?”
The expression on his face flowered into something brittle and wide. “Earl Eberts. It’s on my mother’s side.”
“Earl Eberts,” I said slowly, letting the names sink in. He looked like an Earl now that I looked at him. It suited him. “Earl, I like you. And I’m gonna need a hundred of those. Tonight.”
His brow came together in a worried set of wrinkles. “Okay, we can do it—no problem—but I just hope you know what you’re doing.”
“Don’t pay any mind to that, Earl,” I said with a wink and snapped the bottom of the picture where Warren’s hand was gripped around Becky Odel’s breast like he was palming a piece of fruit out of a tree. “I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”
The Weight of Glass Page 26
