Shadows of Ashland

by Austin,Robin

  “Only research,” I say.

  “Oh my G O D. Are you a ghost hunter? I just love, love the paranormal.” He says this so seriously I hate to laugh, but I do anyway.

  “Nothing that exciting. An article for a client,” I lie.

  He seems to ponder this but doesn’t question me. Then he asks to use my phone to call Stevie. I try not to listen but he’s too lively, too dramatic to ignore as he insists that his car does too have a carburetor. “Men,” he says, as he disconnects.

  “Tell me about it,” I say, and we both laugh and I relax– feel happy for no other reason than the stranger next to me is so easily happy. A possible, but not likely, crazy killer stranger.

  I take the Millet exit and follow my GPS to the cemetery. Millet is the size of DuPont but thankfully the cemetery is smaller.

  Chris jumps out of the car, excited as a kid on an Easter egg hunt. He bounces between headstones searching for the prize: a child named Ruby with no last name, no known date of birth or death.

  I don’t tell him about Eunice or Matilda and certainly nothing about Ira Kaufman. He doesn’t ask, too thrilled by the mystery of our shared adventure.

  Together we cover the grounds in barely thirty minutes and are back on the road, munching on potato chips and onion dip, mine which he prepares for me with precision and poise.

  Chris wants me to know all of his woes in glorious detail. Besides his car, there’s his job and barracuda boss, his father who’s all but disowned him, and Stevie. “Don’t get me started on him, girlfriend,” he says. I’m no longer Jan.

  “So e-mo-tion-al.” This he says throwing his head back so far that I think he’s cracked a vertebra. His hands fly in the air with the onion dip, plopping some on his shirt. He nearly goes through the dashboard panicking over the stain before retrieving hand wipes from his bag. He gives me one to clean the grease and salt that I’ve already licked from my fingers.

  Forty five minutes later, I take the exit to Baxter and we troll the town’s main road for a restaurant where he can hole up for awhile. He calls again to confirm that Stevie’s on the road and to provide the address where he’ll be waiting. They seem to makeup and Chris promises Stevie the full scoop on the Millet cemetery ghost hunt, where now he insists he saw at least one ghost boy who, G O D, told him his name was Chris! His story will no doubt grow in direct proportion to the time he waits for Stevie to arrive.

  I don’t want to leave Chris. Maybe I even want to go with him, find out where his reality exists because it’s truly outside the realm of my own, and that of most everyone else I know. Instead, I give him twenty dollars, and he hugs me tighter and longer than I’ve been hugged by a man in more years than I can remember. He waves his pretty fingers before disappearing inside the restaurant.

  Kaufman’s home is fifteen minutes from town, according to my GPS. I study the soft blue and orange street lines, the arrow that points me westward. I consider turning off the engine, going inside the restaurant, delaying the purpose of this trip, if not abandoning it completely.

  I don’t feel the same post-Chris. I don’t feel the need to prove myself and fix my wrongs that can’t be made right. I wonder what it would be like to just live and feel and breathe, and to even pretend that searching for a dead child is merely a ghost hunt.

  A dead child. I pull onto the road and devour the remaining beef jerky, then notice the wrapper says pig jerky. I spit into a napkin and slosh soda in my mouth to get rid of the taste, which I didn’t previously notice. Then I pull to the side of the road, open my door, and curse and retch.

  I see Roger Cohoon’s face in the sour puddle of soda and hear pigs squealing as they slop it up. The ghosts of the Cohoons, past and present, remind me of my place and purpose in their world. Whether by choice or duty or faulty fortune, it’s my world too. I take two Tylenol and pull back onto the road.

  It’s five thirty when I stop at the curb in front of a small but well-maintained rambler, white with blue trim. No one would guess it isn’t the home of a normal, respectable citizen. The lawn is mowed, the shrubbery neatly trimmed, curtains are open in the front window, an older SUV is parked in the driveway. The mailbox beside my car is labeled Kaufman. Like it or not, I have arrived.

  I’m shaky from all the junk food I’ve eaten all day. I tell myself this as I go to the front door. Tell myself that Kaufman has nothing to do with my trembling hands or racing heart. Before I knock, a dog begins barking from behind the door, a small one from the sound of its high pitch.

  Kaufman’s likely been watching me since I parked in front of his home. I doubt he’s someone who gets much company. He’s probably wondering what I’m selling or just what the heck I think I want. I expect a terse greeting, and a swift reply to my introduction; reactions I’ll have to appease to keep from being sent on my way. I don’t intend to mince words, but I do plan on sugar-coating them.

  I’m going to tell him I work for Matrix, call him Dr. Kaufman, mention Ashland. If I get those out without the door slammed in my face, I’ll skip his past and go straight to his contributions at Ashland. How can I leave his work out of my article? How can he not share his accomplishments?

  He’ll see through my pitiful attempts at ego manipulation, but I doubt he’ll resist them. I’m counting on the inner predator seeking accolades, remorseless and unable to resist the thrill of a curtain call.

  Footsteps are followed by whispers that quiet the loyal pet. I hear more than one lock snap open, a slight creak of the door. An aged man, pudgy and bent with fuzzy gray hair stands before me. His head tilts as he adjusts his thick eyeglasses.

  I start to deliver my introduction but I’m not sure this is Kaufman, a man just fifteen years older than myself. This man looks far too worn and weary to be the confident man I watched so intently in that Ruston courtroom.

  He pulls the door wider, glares at me, then there’s a soft, silent blink of his eyes, a satisfied smile one would offer an old friend.

  “Hello, Ms. Abbott. Please come in.”

  Chapter Twenty One

  §

  At Kaufman’s trial, I don’t recall him ever making eye contact with me. I tried to get statements from him when he entered and exited the courthouse with his attorney. He never responded, never even acknowledged me. Now thirty years later, he welcomes me into his home like he’s been waiting for me, maybe even wondering what kept me so long.

  “Dr. Kaufman?” I say, still not sure it’s him.

  “Yes.” He turns to tend to his furry companion, who is a little undecided about me. I understand and even share its hesitation. Kaufman excuses himself and returns without the dog.

  “You remember me?” I’ve come inside but am still standing at the door, which is wide open for a quick departure.

  “I remember you,” he says. His eyes meet mine then dart away as he motions me towards an open living room. I hear the door’s locks click behind me. The room is tidy, void of a lived-in look, of recent use. I take a seat in a chair while Kaufman goes to the sofa.

  “It was so long ago. How?”

  “Some things are best forgotten, others cannot be.”

  I don’t know if he is talking about me or the trial, but let it go. No need to go down that road or drag this out. He may be an old man now with a cute little dog who would defend its owner to its death, but Kaufman still has the creep factor going on. A creep factor that crawls on my skin like stoneflies. Even behind his chunky glasses, his eyes look angry or maybe that look’s hunger, a hungry focus. The dominant wolf looking for a new mate or his next meal. I want to get back on the road.

  “The reason I’m here—”

  “Anniversary issue?” He’s smiling in a grandfatherly sort of way, if my grandfather was a rapist.

  “No. Do you mind?” I ask, removing my notebook from my bag. He shifts his knotted hand in agreement. “I’m not here about the charges or the trial or your time in prison.”

  He looks surprised, perhaps disappointed. I tell him about the article I’m
writing, about the research I assume will interest him. He nods his head slowly and stares past me as if remembering, reminiscing.

  I want to skip the small talk and ask him straight out if Eunice became pregnant while at Ashland, if he knows where the wee one’s bones are, but I don’t. Instead, I ask him what he recalls about Eunice and Matilda.

  “The Cohoon girl?” he asks, staring pass me. “Yes, I remember her. Very damaged. Mentally and physically. She rarely spoke, not much more than a yes or no or a grunt when she did. I admit the girl bored me to despair. Those arthropodous eyes, so annoying. I couldn’t stand to look at her. As I recall, a mere stick figure of a thing that folded into itself, as though trying to disappear.”

  I start to ask him what she might have wanted to disappear from, but he goes on as if I’m no longer in the room.

  “Of course I assumed, and rightfully so, that she was quite feeble-minded. Then one day she announced that her name was Matilda. I hadn’t actually been paying attention to the girl. No reason to bother.”

  Kaufman’s pompous words are spoken so slowly, they’re hypnotic. He stops a moment to watch me then looks away.

  “When the girl became Matilda, she spoke in a very sexually suggestive tone. Of course, she still had that strange face. The mouth… something was wrong with her mouth as I recall.”

  “I believe it’s nerve damage,” I say.

  “What? Yes, quite possibly. She couldn’t help that, now could she? But when she became Matilda, ah then she opened like an eloquent, supple flower… so eager. Yes, yes. She would hold her shoulders back, show off her perky little breasts. Her hips had widened by then, the blossoming woman. She so wanted to please—”

  “Doctor,” I yell.

  He looks at me like he can’t recall me. His hand, which has been slowly rubbing his leg, relaxes to his side.

  I clear my throat, my mouth is too dry. “What led to the alter personality? She was fourteen years old then. What happened at Ashland that caused the dissociation?”

  My voice is shaky. I squeeze my fist, dig my nails into my palm. He’s old and weak, I tell myself. Old and weak with little self-control even after a prison term, even more than thirty years after his crimes, at least the ones he served time for.

  “What trauma caused Eunice to—”

  “I have no idea. As I stated, one day Matilda, fully formed, just appeared out of nowhere. She’d long since ceased her educational instructions at Ashland. Other than that despicable brother of hers, she had no visitors.” His voice has turned harsh, rapid in places.

  “She did little more than sit in her room, on a bench on the grounds, or in the recreation room. She was oblivious to everything and everyone. We did the best we could, but resources were few, training of staff marginal, and professional therapists were certainly not in the budget. My goal was to make her feel safe. I didn’t have any expectations for the girl.”

  My stomach burns and I want to remind him that none of the residents were safe when he was there, but I need to get this over with.

  “Did Matilda ever tell you her last name?”

  Kaufman denies that she did. I ask him if he remembers Pastor Davenport visiting her on Sundays. He tells me in a tone of pure privilege that he never worked on Sundays.

  “You don’t ever remember talking to the Pastor?”

  Kaufman shakes his head, dismisses me with a slight raise of his hand.

  I write in my notebook, but I barely register the words or recognize my handwriting. Then I take a deep breath, ready to ask what I came for.

  “Doctor, did Eunice become pregnant when you were at Ashland?”

  I rush the words, pose my pen as if ready to write his answer. I can hear a clock ticking in another room. A furnace clicks on and I jump. The smell of burning dust fills the room, which is already too warm. The sun is slipping behind the horizon.

  “Doctor? I’m not here to accuse you of anything. I’m not here to cause you any problems.”

  “Why are you here, Ms. Abbott?”

  I tap my pen on my notebook. My practiced voice doesn’t work, my common sense doesn’t either. “To help a woman I doubt many ever tried to help, maybe never helped in her entire life.”

  These are wasted words on the man, but I go on. “Matilda told me her child, Eunice’s child, was named Ruby and that she died. Matilda doesn’t know where Ruby is and she needs… both she and Eunice need to know. I think they deserve this one small thing. Just to know where… what was done with their baby. I’m here for your help.”

  My speech is uneven. The Tylenol I took earlier is ineffective. Kaufman’s lips are parted and his teeth are pressed together. The room is too dark now to see his eyes behind his glasses.

  “I think you know the answer, Doctor. No one has to know that you’re the one who told me. No one knows I’m here,” I swallow hard, wishing I could take back that last disclosure. “I promise no one will ever know that I spoke to you. I’m doing this for Eunice. No other reason.”

  Kaufman has his head turned away from me. To a sociopath, altruism is merely a theory to reflect upon and discard. A single light bulb in the entryway shines a diagonal line between us. I want to get up and turn on a lamp, open the front door so I can breathe normally again.

  Kaufman hasn’t moved. Maybe he’s thinking about a knife or gun he slipped into his pocket before we sat down. I’m not feeling as much brave as reckless. His most egregious transgression is seeping out, congealing before us. I’m the only person who can take it beyond this room.

  “Dr. Kaufman? Was Ruby your daughter?”

  “I believe it’s time for you to go, Ms. Abbott. You’ve confused the fabrications of a deranged girl with reality. You’ve insulted my reputation—”

  “You’re a convicted rapist for God’s sake. That’s your reputation.” This I say so loud we’re both jarred, though him less than me. “You hurt innocent girls. Young women who depended on you to help—”

  “You need to leave now. Don’t force me to do something you’ll regret.”

  “You’re threatening me?” I laugh, an hysterical laugh I don’t recognize. “What are you going to do? Rape me? You’re a little too old for that now, aren’t you?”

  I’m standing up, barely remember doing so. As I move towards him, I watch his hands, his face in the dim light. His brows are pinched and his jaw clenched again, but now his breathing is strained and I know it isn’t from fear.

  “Tell me, damn it. For once in your worthless life, say something that isn’t for your own sick pleasure. You raped that defenseless girl, traumatized her, split her mind in two. You owe her the truth about her child. Tell me what happened to Eunice’s baby.”

  I’m inches from the sofa, my hands are in fists. I can’t believe the things I’m saying. The things I’ve held on to for so long have turned into rage, rage at a man I didn’t even realize I despised.

  “Tell me you son of a bitch… or else.”

  Kaufman gasps and puts one hand to his chest. His other hand rubs his bent arm. I’m so close I can see sweat beading on his forehead.

  “You can’t prove anything.” These words I can hardly hear. “Get me a glass of water. Quickly.” He tries to bark his demands, but his voice is no more than a whimper.

  “Save your orders for someone you can intimidate into following them. Someone weak and helpless. That’s your style isn’t it? Well, that person isn’t me. I’m warning you, Kaufman. Answer me or you’ll find out what it feels like to be the victim.”

  Kaufman is tapping his chest with the palm of his hand. His breath is wheezy and his efforts to cough jerk him instead.

  “Not feeling too good, are you? What’s wrong? Weak and powerless doesn’t excite you anymore?”

  “I need a doctor. You’ll go to jail for this.” He removes his glasses, tears and sweat cover his face. His eyes expose his panic; the injured bird looking at the alley cat.

  I lean in and ask him in a slow, calm voice, “Who’ll be there to testify?”


  “Behind… the grounds. In the woods.” He stops to grab the sofa arm as if afraid of falling. “There’s a wooden cross. It never had a name. It wasn’t mine. I never touched… that girl.”

  “She wasn’t an it, you stupid ass. She was a baby and her name was Ruby. How did she die?”

  “Please, I’ve told you all I can. I need medical help.”

  “Not yet old man. Not until you tell me what happened to her.”

  “It… she wasn’t right. You don’t understand.” Kaufman is wiping his forehead and trying to sit up straighter. He swats tears from his cheeks. “She would have been worse off than any of those people. It was the humane thing to do. Good God, woman, back then it was all we could do.”

  “Who was we? You and who else made the decision to take the life of Eunice’s baby?”

  “Please, call an ambulance. I’m having a heart attack.”

  “That would be my guess. So you, the rapist and murderer, think you have a right to live. Touching.” I remove my cell phone from my purse and hold it up. “Who helped you kill Ruby and who was the father?”

  “Please….”

  Kaufman slips to his side and clutches his chest. I know he’s dying. I’m watching it happen, sadistically satisfied that the fear of further punishment might be what kills him.

  “Answer me or I’m letting you die right here and now.” I press 911 on my phone and hold it up to him. “Your choice, Doctor.”

  “That nurse, Fowler helped me and—” Kaufman screams, collapses, and I press send.

  Chapter Twenty Two

  §

  After the ambulance took Kaufman away, I handed the man’s dog over to the neighbors who had come out to see what all the commotion was about. The elderly neighbor woman patted my arm and told me what a kind man Ira was. She asked if I was his daughter, then assured me that he would be just fine. “Good as new in no time,” she’d said. “He’s strong, dear. He has so much to live for.”

  As they were wheeling him out of his house, one of the EMT’s told me Kaufman’s condition was serious. I declined an offer to ride in the ambulance. All I cared about was that he didn’t have time to tell me the name of Ruby’s father. He was no longer in any condition to do so.