Defiled

by Margaret Buffano

  “Howdy,” Helen says, thinking a country style greeting would be more fitting, and then feeling foolish for saying it.

  “Howdy,” says one of the men. “Can we hap ya?”

  “Yes, please. I just got into town. I’m here to see my aunt, Eleanor Russell. Would any of you gentlemen know where she lives?”

  The oldest-looking fellow, sitting at the far end of the bench, speaks up.

  “Old Jerry Russell’s widow…sure do…Just follow this road here, ‘bout a mile and a half, till you see an old gray house with a white porch and trim. You can’t miss it. …It’s the biggest dang house in the county.”

  “You mentioned my late Uncle Jerry – did you know him?”

  He turns his head and spits into the grass, takes a handkerchief from his chest pocket, and wipes his lips before speaking.

  “Sure, I knew him; everyone knew him. He was a good ole boy, always smiling and willin’ to hap a friend. He coulda run for mayor, if he wanted. He would have won, too. …Everybody liked Jerry.” The others nod. “Always helping out at church and the school…ran the Boy’s Club down at the gym till the day he died.”

  “The Boy’s Club, you say?” Helen’s eyebrows go up. “Well, gentlemen, thank you very much.”

  She makes her way back to her car, feeling their eyes on her. They watch in silence till the car is out of sight.

  ***

  The old fellow told it true. A little more than a mile down the road is a large gray house with a white porch and trim. It is huge, even bigger than it seems in the flashes of memory she has of the place

  Helen stands on the porch, looking through a screen door into the dark house. She can’t see anything except for the shapes of windows.

  “May I help you?” The voice startles Helen. It is an older, white-haired woman dressed in a nurse’s smock.

  “Yes, I’m here to see my Aunt Eleanor.”

  “You must be Helen,” says the woman, opening the screen door. “She’s been expecting you. My name is Joyce McDonald. I’m Eleanor’s caretaker and companion.”

  Inside, Helen’s eyes adjust to the dark. It is a large home, plainly decorated, neat, clean, and comfortable.

  “She’s asleep in the living room. Let me tell you something before we go in. And, please, don’t take offense at what I’m about to say. I tell this to all of Eleanor’s visitors. She’s a very ill woman; that’s why I’m here. Her speech is slurred from the stroke, but if you listen carefully, she’s not hard to understand. Her memory is poor. …She often gets the past and present mixed up…so don’t let that throw you. All in all though, she’s a very smart and sensitive person. Don’t talk down to her. She’s not stupid, and she’s not crazy. Those are the ground rules.”

  “I understand,” Helen says.

  Joyce walks ahead; Helen follows.

  “Eleanor, there’s someone here to see you. Wake up. …It’s your niece, Helen, all the way from the city to see you. Remember your niece, Helen?”

  Sitting in a wheelchair in front of a large window and warmed by the sunlight pouring down on her is Aunt Eleanor, looking as one would expect – a worn, old, sickly version of what Helen remembers.

  Her eyes open slowly. Then her face shows bright with delight as she focuses in on Helen.

  “Helen!” she calls, “Your mother said you were coming. How wonderful! Let me look at you. My…I haven’t seen you since you were little. Just look at you! What a lovely woman you’ve become.”

  “Thank you, Aunt Eleanor,” Helen says, sounding slightly embarrassed.

  “I’ll just leave you two alone,” says Joyce. “I’ll be in the kitchen, if you need me.”

  Helen spends the next hour answering one question after another. It clearly gives the old woman pleasure, so Helen does her best. She realizes none of her own questions are going to be addressed for now.

  “I’m here on business; I’ll be staying in town at the hotel. I was hoping I could come and visit again tomorrow?”

  “A hotel? Don’t be silly. …You’re staying here with me. Joyce! Joyce!” her aunt hollers.

  The woman comes running in from the kitchen.

  “My niece is staying with us. Help fetch her belongings and set her up in the upstairs guestroom.”

  “Aunt Eleanor, that’s very kind but…”

  “No buts,” says the old woman, “You’re family…I won’t hear another word about it.”

  “Thanks, Aunt Eleanor,” Helen leans over and kisses the old woman’s cheek.

  ***

  The guestroom is no different from the rest of the house – clean, comfortable, and decorated in a simple country style. The ceiling slants with the angle of the roof. Two small windows overlook the back of the house. The one-car garage by the large backyard is open. There is the memorable station wagon – idle and rusting.

  Dinner is simple fare, meat and potatoes. Helen has no trouble getting Aunt Eleanor to answer questions about her uncle; only, the answers shed little light. As far as Aunt Eleanor is concerned, Uncle Jerry hung the moon. He could do no wrong – he was a wonderful husband and father. Still, there is a single piece of information which might hold promise. When speaking about how great a father he was, Aunt Eleanor mentions the many hours he and the boys spent making pieces of small furniture in their makeshift woodshop in the basement. Helen knows somehow she will have to go down and investigate, and the thought of it stirs up some deeply buried fears.

  When speaking about her two sons, the subject of the now-deceased Nicholas is never mentioned. She focuses her praise on Victor, the oldest, how he has done so well for himself with two strong, handsome boys and a newborn daughter, a lovely wife, and a beautiful home. It is not until later Helen learns this is all to be only wishful thinking. While helping with the dishes in the kitchen, Joyce gives her the true story.

  “I’m not sure if your aunt doesn’t remember or refuses to admit the truth. Victor and his wife separated nearly a year ago. We have no idea where he is or what he’s been doing. His wife and kids live in some rundown old shack on the poor side of town. I’ll give you her address. …Maybe she knows where he is.”

  After they put up the dishes, Joyce writes the address for Helen on a slip of paper. As Helen leaves the kitchen, she notices the dark wooden door in the corner of the room – the door to the basement.

  The next two hours they spend sitting in the living room, Aunt Eleanor asking questions about Helen – her parents, her marriage, her life. Helen shares only as much as she thinks will be enough to leave her aunt content.

  “Time for bed, Miss Eleanor,” Joyce says, standing in the doorway.

  “I’m so happy you’re here, my dear. It’s been such a treat to see you again,” Aunt Eleanor says to Helen. “Make yourself at home. I’ll see you in the morning. Goodnight, dear.”

  “Goodnight, Aunt Eleanor, and thank you,” Helen says as Joyce wheels her off.

  Twenty minutes later, Joyce reappears in the living room.

  “Well, don’t forget to turn off the lights before you go to bed. This is a small country town. There’s no need to lock up at night, but if it makes you feel better, then go right ahead. Don’t worry; I’ve got a key.”

  “But I thought you stayed here?” Helen asks.

  “Oh, I only lived here for the first year of your aunt’s condition; there’s no need anymore. Don’t worry; she’ll sleep through the night. A cannon blast couldn’t wake that woman. TV is in the back sitting room over there. There are books in there if you feel like reading. I’ll be back early morning. Breakfast is at seven. Have a goodnight.”

  “Goodnight, Joyce.”

  Helen is relieved; it makes investigating the basement possible and trouble free. Still, she waits more than an hour, reading magazines until she feels it safe to assume her aunt is most likely asleep.

  She doesn’t turn on the kitchen light. She feels what she is doing isn’t right, and the cloak of darkness comforts her.

  She tries the door to the basement –
locked. There must be a key somewhere. She rummages through every drawer in the kitchen – nothing. Finally, in despair, she turns on the light. She takes a knife, figuring she can jimmy the lock.

  When she turns to the door again, she notices something not seen when the light was off, but now visible with the kitchen fully lit up. Over the door is a wooden shelf. On it is a dark piece of metal – the key. She moves one of the kitchen chairs in place. Standing on it, she takes down the key. She slowly places it in the lock and turns it. It opens with a click.

  She searches for a light switch and finds it on the wall to one side. The light coming from the cellar below is brown and weak, just barely enough to see by. Each of the wooden steps creaks under her feet as she slowly descends.

  At the bottom of the stairs, Helen looks around the dimly lit basement. Sprawled about the room are pieces of incomplete furniture. A dirty old mattress is on the floor in the corner. The main wall has a workbench in front of it. Above it is a large pegboard with various tools attached. To the right of the workbench is an electric saw with cobwebs now decorating the rusting blade. To the left of the bench is a tall metal cabinet. Helen tries the dual handles – locked.

  She runs back upstairs to the kitchen, selects the longest and thinnest knife from a wooden block, and returns to the basement.

  The thin blade slips easily into the front chink of the cabinet – just under the lock. She slowly raises the blade up. And with little force, the lock clicks, and the two cabinet doors swing open.

  Inside are rows of old work clothes dangling from rusting metal hangers. There are glass jars filled with nuts and bolts, screws and nails – all in all, nothing of any great interest. But at the bottom of the cabinet is a metal box, the kind used to store important documents.

  Helen takes it out and places it on the workbench. It is large, perhaps two feet by two feet and one foot deep. There is a small, inexpensive lock on the front – poor security, but a lock, nonetheless.

  Helen looks over to the pegboard and spots a hammer. So as not to make too much noise, she wraps a dirty old rag around the lock. She hammers until it gives way, breaking into pieces.

  At a glance, the contents of the box tell volumes to Helen. Inside are hundreds of photos of naked boys in compromising positions – mostly of Nicholas and Victor, but there are one or two of other boys. Most of the photos were taken there in that basement, many on top of the same mattress now lying discarded in the corner, filthy and molding.

  Though it sickens her, Helen searches through the photos, looking for evidence of her past – and she finds it.

  She holds in her hand a faded picture of a little girl in a lime green swimsuit with a ragdoll in her arms. It is a picture of her at Sandy Beach in a clearing in the woods. She is sure she’ll find more photos of herself on that fateful day, but at the moment she does not feel strong enough to look further through the box. She tosses the photo back in and closes the lid.

  That instant, she hears a click come from the top of the stairs. The light goes out; the basement is pitch-black. The sound of heavy feet rushing down the stairs sends terror all through Helen. She can’t move.

  When the intruder lands at the bottom, Helen feels strong hands grab her and toss her aside. She tumbles over the disarrayed pieces of furniture and lands face down on the discarded mattress.

  There is the sound of metal clanking. The stranger fumbles about and then runs back up the stairs. Helen hears him run across the house above her and rush off the front porch. Next is the screeching of car tires and the roar of an engine fading off into the distance.

  Helen slowly shuffles her way through the dark to the top of the stairs. She turns on the light and looks back down at the workbench. The metal box is gone.

  Upstairs, Helen looks around – nothing else is missing. Whoever it was knew she was there and suspected she would be looking for something, anything. Also, they knew their way around the house and basement like the back of their hand.

  For a moment, Helen considers calling the police. But that would only hinder her plans. She must be brave and continue on her own.

  Small town or not, Helen locks every door in the house, goes upstairs to her room and locks the door. Not until well into morning does Helen get any sleep. Most of the night she spends seated on the edge of the bed, holding the long slender knife in her hand.

  ***

  Next morning, Helen descends the stairs following the pleasant scent of morning coffee and bacon coming from the kitchen. Joyce is standing at the stove cooking. Her Aunt Eleanor sips coffee at the kitchen table.

  “Good morning,” Helen says.

  “Good morning,” Aunt Eleanor smiles. “Sit…sit…Joyce can whip up anything you’d like.”

  “Oh, just coffee, please.”

  “Did you sleep well, my dear?”

  “Okay, I guess. I always have a hard time sleeping in a new place.”

  Helen decides not to say a word about what happened last night. What could she say? Last night, while I was burglarizing your house, someone snuck in, knocked me down, and ran off with your late husband’s collection of child pornography. That, surely, will not go over well.

  “So, Helen, what would you like to do today?” Aunt Eleanor asks.

  “Well, I am here on business. I’m afraid I won’t be back till late this evening.”

  “Oh, what a pity,” pouts Aunt Eleanor. “Oh, well…business is business…my husband used to say…and it must come first.”

  “I’m afraid so,” Helen says, feeling a twinge of guilt for lying to the old woman.

  “Will you be back in time for dinner?” Joyce asks.

  “I’m not sure,” Helen responds. “I’ll call and let you know as soon as I do.”

  “I’m making my pot roast,” Joyce beams with pride.

  “Joyce makes the most heavenly pot roast,” coos her aunt.

  ***

  It is still early morning when Helen drives back toward City Hall. She has the address and instructions to get to the home of Victor’s estranged wife and kids.

  Theresa Russell

  421 Mockingbird Lane.

  Just before the town square, while she is passing the high school, she sees a small group of young boys holding basketballs and waiting for the gym to open.

  “The gym…the Boy’s Club,” she whispers, remembering what the old men on the bench told her about her uncle.

  Her curiosity stirred, she parks the car and walks over to investigate. As she approaches, a man comes from the opposite direction, dangling a set of keys. He opens the door, and the boys all dash inside.

  The man is tall, well-built, and handsome with a country-boy charm in his eyes and smile. His hair is sandy and full, and his skin tan from outdoor sports. He looks to be around Helen’s age. He is just about to enter also when Helen calls out to him.

  “Sir…excuse me…sir, may I have a minute?”

  “A minute…sure…how can I help you?” He smiles. His tone says even if she asked for an hour, he would gladly give it.

  “Is this the Boy’s Club?” she asks.

  His smile gets even bigger.

  “You must be Helen Russell…Eleanor Russell’s niece?”

  “It’s not Russell anymore; I’m married now,” Helen says, tangling her fingers to draw attention to her wedding ring. “But how did you know?”

  “Heck…small town like this, everybody knows everyone else’s business. It’s hard to keep a secret around here. You spoke with Toby and the old boys in front of city hall, yesterday. …That’s as good as takin’ out an ad in the local paper. My name’s Kyle Adams. …It’s a pleasure to meet you.” He holds out his hand for Helen to shake.

  “I hope you don’t mind me intruding, but they tell me my uncle used to donate his time to this gym. Did you know my Uncle Jerry?”

  “Sort of…not really…I mean, I saw him around when I used to come here as a kid. I went to the same school as his sons. …Didn’t hang out with them much; they were a little
too wild for me.” He tilts his head to one side. The thoughtful look leaves his face and his smile returns. “So how do you like our little town?”

  “It’s charming, at least what little I’ve seen. I’ve mostly been with my aunt at her home.”

  He tilts his head in the opposite direction, never losing his smile. “Listen, maybe later, I could show you around?”

  “I don’t think that’s such a good idea. Besides, I’ll be leaving first thing in the morning, and I’ve a few things I need to do before I leave.”

  “Well, how about having lunch with me? You do eat lunch, don’t you? It’s just lunch…all very innocent and respectable. Besides, I’ll let you in on all the local gossip.”

  Helen smiles and thinks for a while. It is obvious he is coming on to her. Normally, she would never even entertain the notion, but normalcy changed drastically in her life lately.

  “Okay,” she says to her own surprise, “What time and where?”

  “Just follow this road, two blocks north…Kathleen’s Copper Kettle. You can’t miss it. They’ve got great hamburgers. I’ve got a late lunch, today…how’s two o’clock sound?”

  “Sounds just fine. See you then.” Helen turns and walks toward her car. Kyle stands at the door and watches her every move, then waves as she drives away.

  ***

  Helen follows Joyce’s direction to a Tee. She parks in front of an old, wooden-frame house whose powder-blue paint job is in desperate need of refreshing and much repair.

  After no response to her knocking at the front door, Helen presses her face up against one of the windows. The house is dark, save for a light coming from the kitchen in the back of the house.

  Helen walks around to the back of the house. In the backyard, she finds herself confronted by a very unfriendly dog, thankfully, tied to a tree. The dog strains against the rope, choking itself. The yelping is loud and sharp.

  The backdoor opens and a woman holding a small baby on her hip stands behind the screen door. Two small boys play at her side.