by Austin,Robin
“I was visiting my father. He’s more important than whatever you wanted.” I cringe at my words, but don’t slow down. “Much more important than alleviating your fears about what the neighbors might think, or how I might screw up your career in the way I’ve screwed up my own.”
I feel Rick slump, hear the air escape his lungs like that last sad birthday balloon at the end of the party. “I was worried about you,” he says.
“I have work to finish. You know how it is when you have to work late.”
He’s silent, but still there.
“Jan, I’m sorry about your father. I’m sorry about whatever’s going on with this assignment of yours. How complicated things are for you. I mean about Ruston. I know it wasn’t easy for you to go back there.”
His words, this sympathy, surprises me. Before I’d taken the Ashland job, I’d gone without an assignment for over a month. The jobs come further apart as years of experience go from being an asset to being a liability. Cocky and energetic are clearly winning in this new tech-driven industry, a fact I’ve never shared with Rick.
“I don’t want to talk about Ashland or your career or mine for that matter. My father’s not doing well. Neither is my mother under all the pressure. Sometimes Rick, you and appearances and success and needs and desires…. Sometimes it’s just about doing what you have to do even when it’s the last thing you want to do.”
I think I hear him mumble again that he’s sorry. I’m busy blowing my nose, too busy wishing there was a trap door I could open and fall through.
I’m awake when Rick leaves for work the next morning, but pretend to still be asleep. I stayed up late last night to watch a movie. I caught the news before finding one. Or rather, I caught the view of a news camera sweeping across the front of Ashland. A short two minutes recounted “the asylum’s dark past,” made even darker by the discovery of the grave of an infant, and the suicide of the head nurse.
“We’re still obtaining information about Patricia Ann Fowler,” the on-scene reporter said while standing with a backdrop of the woods, still flanked by police tape. Then the scene was replaced by a much younger Patricia Ann in an outdated nurse’s outfit, including a sort of sailor hat the women wore– there were no male nurses back then.
I leaped from the sofa to get a better look at the old photograph on the screen. A short fifteen seconds, if that much, was all I got. It was all I needed. I knew I’d seen that face before.
The reporter came back on the screen with a stern expression. He asked viewers to contact the Ruston Police if they had information regarding any of Ms. Fowler’s family members.
This morning, I can’t help but think about the Ruston Morgue, the black bag where Fowler lays, the thirty six degree temperature keeping her ready for viewing. Mostly though, I wonder why nobody knew to tell the waitress at the diner to come take a peek inside, just in case.
I’m grateful for one thing. Still it’s hard to believe the reporter failed to make the connection– there wasn’t a word about Kaufman’s death.
Despite what I told Palmer, most stations wouldn’t miss the sensationalism of showing the poorly-aged face of the romance writing, rapist doctor next to Ashland’s now deceased head nurse. Not when it would boost ratings on the story of an unearthed baby, one just bones. The bones which are likely in the same room with Kasey Ann’s mother. Two chilly black bags waiting to be unzipped.
I dress then go downstairs for breakfast before calling the hotel in Ruston for a room. The clerk is happy to accommodate me until I give her my name. She pauses and puts me on hold. I fear I’m being demoted to stay in one of the awful and dank motels run by rude staff. When the clerk comes back on the line, she’s professional in booking my room but clearly uncomfortable. Why wouldn’t she be? I know I would be with someone whose conversations turn deadly.
Before the cavalry is dispatched to take me back to Ruston, I call Detective Martin. He’s relieved to hear from me. Even more relieved to hear that I won’t be bringing my attorney to the interview.
“Do you have any more information you can share about Ms. Fowler?” I find the question as ridiculous as I know Martin does. The reporter in me couldn’t help but ask. I don’t let him answer. Instead, I tell him I’ll be in his office at three.
My writing is choppy in a note I leave for Rick. It says I’m helping the police with the investigation of the incident at Ashland. I’m assuming he’s heard something about it on the news by now. I tell him I expect to be home by the weekend, and that he should do whatever he needs to do. I’m not sure what I’ll do myself the rest of the week in Ruston, but the note is already written.
The landscape is unrecognizable during the two hour trip. The leaves on the trees have transformed nearly overnight, and the wind is whipping them to the ground, blowing them across the road. Puffy gray clouds hide the sun. Best not to see the things that lie ahead, they say.
Before I left home, my mother called to say she was leaving my father with the nurse to do some shopping. She didn’t call to tell me that. She called to tell me not to come over, not to call.
“You wear your father out, Jan. He had to lie down for three hours after you left yesterday. He doesn’t have the stamina to deal with his own health issues let alone all your problems.”
I told her I didn’t talk about all my problems because there wasn’t enough time, but she wasn’t interested in my stale humor. I know she’s just protecting me, not wanting me to see his confusion, hear what she now refers to as his nasty talk. The talk she says he’s been engaging in with all the women he comes in contact.
Who are these women? What contact? I wanted to ask, but didn’t. These days, she doesn’t leave enough gaps in her ranting to fit in any of my questions.
“I didn’t even know he had those thoughts,” she’d said.
She said this as though she was talking to herself, so I didn’t comment. These new rules of engagement require a style of accommodation that I haven’t yet grasped.
When I get to Ruston, I stop at the diner and order a sandwich to go. A waitress I’ve never seen before hesitates when taking my order– looking for fangs or claws, I imagine. The other diners glance in my direction then quickly away, not wanting to turn to stone.
I’m dangerous. Powerfully so. These strangers should be easy to ignore, but they sting my skin. I check my clothes to make sure nothing is undone or hanging out.
I take my lunch to eat in my car, and call Ashland to see if my ban’s been lifted or at least forgotten. After giving my name, I’m told I need to talk to Dr. Rodham who is busy with a resident and will be for the rest of the day.
“The same resident all day long?” I ask. When the receptionist doesn’t respond, I leave my number so Rodham can return my call. I’m almost certain she doesn’t write it down.
The dark clouds that followed me to Ruston hang over everyone. I’ve made the entire town a little less happy, made others feel a little less safe. I check into the hotel then drive to the police station. Martin’s again relieved, but he’s not happy either.
“It’s time to come clean, Ms. Abbott,” he says, before I’ve even sat down at the card table in the little room. I’ve already decided to do exactly that. Decency won out over duty.
I go through my assignment with Matrix, my need to determine just how Matilda came to be, just how she became the highly functioning model patient that was so critical in making my article a success. I told him I couldn’t figure it out and no one could help me.
“Except Ira Kaufman.”
“Yes, but by then Matilda had already told me about Ruby. I couldn’t let that go. While his knowledge of Matilda would have been useful, I didn’t plan on using anything about the child in the article. Still, I couldn’t let that part go.”
Martin relaxes a little, settles into his chair.
“So, I found Kaufman’s address and paid him a visit. He confessed to knowing about the baby. He claimed there was something wrong with her, a deformity or somet
hing. He didn’t exactly admit to killing her, but close enough. He said Fowler helped him. He suffered the heart attack just before he was able to tell me the father’s name. Of course, he denied it was his. I believe about fifty percent of what he told me.
“I called Fowler to get her side of the story. I guess she decided to take the truth with her, or perhaps, it’s in the note you’re keeping a secret.” I wait for Martin to respond, he doesn’t. “I assume neither could live with what happened back then. I regret nothing I said or did. Eunice Cohoon was entitled to the truth, even if she’ll never understand it.”
Martin is staring at the wall across from me, doing his cop thing before turning to me with weary eyes. “I appreciate your honesty, Ms. Abbott. I think you were trying to do the right thing as best as any reporter could do. I’m not going to tell you what Fowler wrote in that note of hers. But I will tell you it wasn’t anything about that child buried in those woods.”
Chapter Twenty Eight
§
Martin walks me out to my car. “How long you plan on staying in town?”
It’s a curious way of saying he knows I’m not driving back to Stratton today. Maybe the hotel clerk or others with watchful eyes are keeping tabs on me. Good citizens doing the right thing to ensure their town stays safe. Or maybe I’m just being paranoid.
I want to, but don’t ask Martin if he’s talked to Rodham. I don’t want the police telling me to stay away from Ashland. This thought comes right before Martin warns me not to bother Pastor Davenport again.
“Can’t keep you from attending church,” he says, “but just because a mentally ill woman took the man’s last name, doesn’t make him guilty of anything.”
I start to protest, ask him just exactly when or how I bothered the man, or if he preferred I’d kept information from the police, but it’s a fight I’ll never win. Instead, I agree not to return to the Methodist Church. I have other things I want to do, besides not going p.
I’m determined to see Eunice one last time, to tell Matilda that Ruby is safe, at last cared for… and about. I want to make sure that the baby’s bones are given a proper resting place and a real headstone with her name. I need to see that right things are done in all the wrongs I’ve uncovered. To many, wrongs I’ve instigated.
Martin reminds me he’ll get the DNA report back at the end of next week. He says he thought I should know… in case.
“In case what?”
“Can’t just assume Ms. Cohoon’s the mother. Don’t mean we’ll have all the answers, but we’ll at least have that one. As for the father, could have been anybody besides Kaufman– a visitor, janitor, another patient. Hell, who knows. After thirty years, man’s probably dead. Statute of limitation’s long since expired. We don’t have the resources to track down leads anyway. No witnesses, no proof it wasn’t….”
“Consensual?” I ask, when he doesn’t finish his thought.
He shakes his head and tells me either way, the findings will go in the DNA database. “Best we just lay that child to rest and let it be.”
I remember giving myself similar advise, but it’s not me he’s trying to convince. I almost feel sorry for the man.
“As for the death, coroner said he can’t determine the cause. Could have been stillborn for all we know.”
I ask about Joyce and Roger, but Martin cuts me off with a tough cop, butt-out kind of warning.
“This is a police matter. Not the type of thing you find out from strangers or reporters,” he says.
It’s a little late for that, but I don’t say so out loud.
I go back to the hotel and head straight for the bar. I’ve been checking my emails since sending the draft to Palmer. I check again and am glad I demanded partial payment. I may need it to collect the rest.
The bartender brings me a gin and tonic and some potato skins with extra sour cream. Then I log onto the freelance journalist job site and scroll through the postings.
There were no freelance journalists when I started in the business. Now they’re commonplace and the competition is growing. I search for the opioids abuse listing and see it’s been filled, and not by me. I need to get serious about finding work, about finding a third time’s the charm career. Instead I order a second gin and tonic and search YouTube for something to distract me.
“Jan, nice to see you again. Mind if I sit down?”
Denton Sledge is already sitting down across from me, rearranging my table to make room for a glass of beer the bartender is bringing.
“Are you old enough to drink?” He laughs at my question. “What are you still doing in town? The scandal is over. Doesn’t The Herald have enough to keep you busy?”
Sledge laughs again. He’s young, life’s still fun and funny. “I had a meeting with Detective Martin this morning, and I just finished interviewing Pastor Davenport.” The latter he says with a big grin, then his eyes watch me over the glass as he drinks his beer. “I just stopped in for dinner and a cold draft before heading home.”
“Alcohol and a two hour drive are always a wise combination.”
“You’re not speaking from experience are you?” Another laugh on his part, which is quickly getting old.
Denton Sledge is about my age that first time I came to Ruston. He has that perpetual scrubbed clean look, short hair that stays in place, a dimple always at the ready.
The bartender brings enough food for three people and Sledge digs in after ordering a Coke, followed by a grin, and a raised glass for a one-sided toast.
He doesn’t seem interested in talking about Ashland or Kaufman or even Fowler. Or maybe he’s waiting for me to order another gin and tonic or two before attempting to get some juicier answers. I’ve been behind such tactics myself, and that almost makes me want to like the kid.
“So The Herald is done with the story.” I say this like I’ve already confirmed it.
He nods his head as he chomps his food. “Unless something else breaks. It made a good headline, but it’s not current enough to hold our viewers’ attention. Old mysteries are for fiction writers.” He teases, and makes me feel old and foreign to news reporting. Still, his ego is too tempting not to entertain.
“Any story with Davenport?” I ask, while signaling for another gin and tonic.
“Probably not,” he says, but as I’d hoped, he can’t let it pass that quickly. “You know, man of God, care for the lost sheep, tragedy builds character… yadah, yadah.”
“Not guilty, no guilty conscience,” I suggest.
“Exactly. He’s not happy with you.” More laughter, more chomping.
“Who would be?”
“Hey, not me. Just saying.”
“Mention me by name?” I stir my drink, squeeze the lime, hope I seem disinterested.
“Didn’t have to.” Sledge puffs his chest and belches while pushing his empty plate aside. “Went into some Bible passages about false accusations, persecution of the masses, Jesus and the carpetbaggers. I zoned out.”
“Money changers.”
“What? Oh, yeah, those guys.” Sledge pauses, gives me a half-grin as if fearing he’s insulted my faith. “So, this woman at Ashland, she implemented Davenport?” He isn’t making eye contact.
“I suspect you already know the answer to that. If not, you should have a pretty good idea about it after interviewing the man.” I finish my drink and close out my tab. “When you go fishing for information, make sure the fish sees the bait and not the hook.”
“Jan,” he says, as I get up to leave. “You think Kaufman was the father?”
“What difference does it make? The story’s not current enough to hold viewers’ attention. It’s little more than small town gossip at this point, isn’t it?”
The next morning, I decide to spend the day at the shops on Old Ruston Highway– on the edge of town, away from the cold glares of strangers. Maybe I’ll even run into Shirley again. I halfway want to know what she wanted to talk to me about on Sunday. The other half of me thinks I’m be
tter off not knowing, especially where Martin’s concerned.
Before I get on the road, I call Ashland and ask to speak to Rodham. I’m told he isn’t in today so I demand to talk to whoever’s in charge in his absence.
Despite a headache, I’m feeling more sure of myself after putting Sledge in his place– my old crony impression of how things went last night. Either way, it feels good. Still, I should probably check The Herald’s website to be sure.
I’m about to disconnect the call and ring Ashland again to prove they aren’t getting rid of me so easy when a male voice comes on the line. “Dr. Newman.”
After an unnecessary introduction on my part, I tell him Eunice has a right to receive a visitor. I throw in a few words about denying her that simple right under the circumstances and of my signed legal release from her sister, Joyce. Newman hesitates then tries to convince me that it’s better that Ms. Cohoon not be upset during these difficult times.
“So she’s been told about the child?”
“She doesn’t understand things of that nature.”
I want to ask him how the hell he knows what Eunice understands, but he’s just the unfortunate person who had to take my call. Instead I speak gently, the way I know the good doctor would prefer.
“I’m certain Matilda will be less upset if she knows the baby was found and will receive a proper burial, as she requested. She came to me for help. I’m the person she should hear this from.”
“I’m sorry, Ms. Abbott. I’ve been told not to allow you on the grounds again.”
“By who?”
“Dr. Rodham thinks it best. He predicts things could get out of hand as they did once before with Ms. Cohoon. He only wants to protect the residents, all of them. These matters are best left to the professionals.”
“Protect the residents from me?” I laugh at this and don’t let him answer. “When will Dr. Rodham be in or where can I reach him? I’m not in town much longer, and I’m not leaving without talking to Eunice. If I have to get an attorney to have the court enforce the release by Eunice’s legal guardian, I will. But first, I’ll contact Detective Martin to inform him I’m being denied this right. He may be curious as to why Ashland is refusing Eunice visitors. Perhaps others in this town would also like to know, including the press. Now again, when will Dr. Rodham be available for me to speak with?”
