Defiled

by Margaret Buffano

  “It’s morning,” Angela says, stating the obvious. “Would you like more coffee? How about breakfast? I could…”

  “No, thank you. I need to get going. I’ve got such a long drive home,” Thomas says. “I’ll just go get my stuff.”

  “I’ll make some sandwiches to take with you,” Angela calls out to him.

  “That would be nice,” he replies, disappearing into the bedroom.

  Angela’s hands are shaking as she makes up the sandwiches. Now’s not the time to break down, she says to herself. I won’t make a scene!

  But in her heart, she is crying. She wants so badly to run to him, throw her arms around him, and beg his forgiveness. To hold him close and cherish him, to never let him hurt or want again, to make up for so many lost years. Has he forgiven her? She tried so hard to explain the past, but is it enough to make up for a lifetime of never being there. Has he learned enough to hate her, or worse, enough to never want to see her again? She can never bear that, not after seeing him, not after hearing his voice. It is better to be hated than forgotten.

  She puts the sandwiches in a paper bag, and then takes a deep breath, trying to calm herself. She puts a smile on her face. If this is the last time they see each other, he will not have to carry the memory of a pitiful woman with him for the rest of his life.

  “I’m ready.” Thomas is standing at the doorway with his overnight bag.

  “Here, nothing special, just ham and cheese,” she says. “Come on, I’ll walk you out.”

  Outside, his car looks out of place in such a well-off neighborhood. It is old, the paint is fading, and a collection of dirty clothes cover the backseat. He opens the car door and tosses his overnight bag in the back and turns to Angela.

  “I wish I didn’t have to go. It’s been…” He stops in mid-sentence. “Oh, heck, I don’t know what to say. I had a speech all planned out, but now I don’t even remember the first word.”

  “Maybe it’s one of those moments in life where nothing needs to be said. Maybe words are not what are needed?” Angela says, surprised at her own wisdom.

  “Could I have that hug now?” It was clear he is holding back so much.

  “I thought you’d never ask.” Angela extends her arms, and he falls into them like a trapeze artist landing into a net with his eyes closed.

  She holds him so tightly; she wants her arms and hands to always remember what he feels like. She inhales long and deep, wanting the smell of him to go deep into her lungs and rest there – to be able to recall his scent whenever she misses him. And she will miss him.

  He straightens up and slowly backs away. “I really do have to go,” he says as he makes his way into the front seat. He turns the key and the rusty old motor turns over one more time. His window is down. Angela reaches out and takes his hand.

  “I’ve got your phone number,” he says, “and you have mine. …I don’t want this to be the end of it.”

  “Neither do I.”

  “I’ll call you. …Maybe you’ll come visit me next time?” He puts the car into drive.

  Angela feels as if her heart is leaving her body.

  “I’ll call you when I get home,” he says as he pulls away. “Thanks for everything, Mom!”

  She stands there, watching the car go off into the distance. She stands there after there is nothing left to see or say. He called her Mom, and the word feels as if the lips of God rest on her forehead in a gentle kiss.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Top of the City

  Tannersville is just a small backwoods town, but a person has to have a lot on the ball to be elected sheriff year after year, as Sheriff Gibson has. He is dedicated, smart, personable, and he makes the townspeople feel safe. But to most city folk, Sheriff Gibson comes across as just another country bumpkin, and he knows it. Often, he will use this to his advantage. Many times, a criminal looks back to see if old Sheriff Gibson is on his trail only to see nothing, because Sheriff Gibson is usually a couple of steps ahead of them.

  The phone call from Detective Benson disturbs him. For days he thinks of little else. He keeps going over and over in his mind the night they found Nicholas Russell dead, if that’s what really happened? The phone call floods his mind with doubt. Had he missed something?

  And then there is his memory of Jerry Russell’s funeral. There had been no body, just an urn full of ashes. He accepted and believed, as everyone else in Tannersville, that Jerry had been cremated in Europe – there was no reason to suspect otherwise.

  Late that night, while lying in bed next to his wife, he questions her on the subject. He shares nearly everything with his wife. Over years, Rita developed a keen sense of the criminal mind, as well as powerful intuition and just plain good sense. He respects and relies on her opinions.

  “What a weird thing to ask, ‘Do you think Jerry or Nicholas Russell are still alive?’ What did you answer him?”

  “What do you think I said? I just laughed it off, but now he’s got me thinking. I mean…no one ever did see Jerry’s body, and Nicholas was nothing more than a cinder.”

  “As I see it,” says his wife, “the question isn’t how someone could do such a thing and get away with. …The question is why. If Jerry Russell faked his death, what would be the reason to do so?”

  “Well, for one, insurance. His wife, Eleanor, did well for herself when he died. Maybe they split the money? Who knows, maybe Jerry stayed in Europe?”

  “And what about Nicholas?” Rita asks.

  “I can’t think of a reason.” He shakes his head.

  “You need to check insurance records on him also,” she says. “But first, you know who you need to talk to? Old Doc Miller – he oversaw both cases for the state. You should talk to him.”

  “Not a bad idea,” he admits.

  “Besides, it’s been months since you drove out to see him. Since his retirement, he looks forward to seeing all his old friends. It would do you both good to chew the fat together.”

  “You’re right. I think I’ll head out to Doc’s place after lunch tomorrow.”

  ***

  The drive out to the Millers’ place takes a little more than fifteen minutes from downtown Tannersville.

  Doc Miller bought the property and the old house years ago for a song, with the intent he and his wife, Grace, could spend their golden years there together. The house was what most folks call a fixer-upper; it was in great need of repair. For years, Doc spent all his holidays, vacations, and free time working on the old place. Now three years into his retirement, it is still a work in progress.

  Sheriff Gibson parks and looks around. Doc has done wonders with the place – it is a fine spread, indeed.

  “Land sakes, Sheriff Gibson!” exclaims Grace as she pushes the screen door open. “Haven’t seen you in a coon’s age! What…you come here to arrest old Doc?” she says, jokingly.

  “No, not this time…” He smiles up the porch stairs at her.

  “Too bad. …The old goat could probably use a little excitement…get his blood stirring! Lord knows a pretty face don’t do it for him anymore.” She strikes a pose like a fashion model. “He’s around back puttering in the garden. Why don’t you go surprise him? I’ll bring both of you some lemonade.”

  “Good to see you, Doc,” says Sheriff Gibson as he turns the corner of the house.

  Doc is leaning most of his weight on a tall shovel, surveying his backyard.

  “Damn rabbits…damn those rabbits! I put poison out, and I swear it just gives them an appetite…kind of like a hors d’oeuvre!” He turns to see Sheriff Gibson and his face lights up with surprise. “Well, if it ain’t Sheriff Dave Gibson! Good to see you. Hell, I thought you was dead.”

  “No, at least, not yet,” laughs the Sheriff. “You’re looking fit, though.”

  “Fit? Hell, I’m on my last leg! Of course, I’ll still outlive you. …You look terrible! Here, sit down and give me an update on all the local gossip.”

  The two sit at a round patio table. Grac
e brings out a tray holding three tall glasses of ice and a pitcher of cold lemonade. After serving, she sits down also.

  Sheriff Gibson enlightens them both on all the local talk going around town, which leads to the subject of Victor Russell.

  “I know,” Grace says. “We read about it in all the papers. Poor boy…must have gone mad to do all those horrible things.”

  “That’s really what I came here for, Doc: to ask you what you remember about the deaths of Jerry and Nicholas Russell. Seems some city detective suspects one or both of them may still be alive.”

  “I can’t see how that could be,” Doc says. “I checked Nicholas’ dental records myself. That charred body was definitely Nicholas Russell.”

  “What about Jerry?”

  “What about him? His ashes were sent back home with all the right paperwork. I signed the receiving papers myself.”

  “Do you think it’s possible,” the Sheriff asks, “the documents could have been tampered with?”

  Old Doc makes a fist and gently taps the Sheriff on the forehead. “Hello…is there anyone at home? What…were you born yesterday? You’ve been in law enforcement for how long, and you’re asking me if it’s possible to pay off a government official to falsify documents?”

  Sheriff Gibson can’t help laughing when he realizes the foolishness of the question.

  “But why would Jerry Russell fake his own death? That is…providing this fantasy is true.”

  “Insurance money,” answers the Sheriff.

  “Maybe so,” says Doc, “but that was a long time ago. If he were still alive, someone would have seen him eventually, unless he’s been living under a rock.”

  “That pretty much sums up my feelings on the matter, too,” says Sheriff Gibson, getting up from his seat. “Well, thanks for the drink; but I do need to get back to work.”

  “Wait one minute, Sheriff,” says Doc. He turns to his wife, “Grace, go inside and get my camera.”

  Sheriff and Grace both look at him, questioningly.

  “I just want to take your picture for a keepsake. Seeing how, I’ll probably never see you again.”

  “No…I promise…I’ll be back for a visit real soon.”

  “You’re just afraid of getting your butt whipped at chess again,” says Old Doc.

  “That’s not the way I remember it, but I’ll take that as a direct challenge! I’ll just have to come back and teach you what-for,” declares Sheriff Gibson.

  “Good!” smiles Grace.

  ***

  Helen looks at the wall clock. At three in the afternoon, the project she is working on is only half complete. It will be another late night at the office for her.

  She spins around in her chair from her computer to her phone, when she hears it ring.

  “Helen Haywood speaking.”

  “Bonjour, chérie…”

  As expected, the slightest mummer of a foreign word sends cold shivers all through Helen. But in the next instant, she knows it isn’t him. The voice sounds much too friendly.

  “Who is this?”

  “It’s me…Kyle Adams. You said to give you a call if I were ever in town. Well…I’m here!”

  “Kyle, you took me off guard. I wasn’t expecting to hear from you so soon.”

  “Neither did I, but something unexpected came up.”

  “Where are you staying?” she asks.

  “I’m here at the Durham Hotel.”

  “Oh…the Durham,” she says, sounding impressed.

  “Yeah, only the best,” he says, jokingly. “Say, they’ve got one of the swankest restaurants in town on the top floor; it’s got a great view of the city. Why don’t you come over and have dinner with me? I’d really like to see you.” He puts a soft whispering emphasis on the last sentence.

  Helen is silent, as she looks at the pile of work on her desk.

  She shakes her head. I’ll just have to come in early in the morning, she thinks.

  “So, what do you say?” Kyle asks.

  “Kyle…there’s something you need to understand. My husband and I have separated, and we’re sure to divorce soon, but it doesn’t mean I’m looking to start up with someone. If anything, I’m a bad candidate for such things right now.”

  “We’re talking just a friendly dinner…no strings attached,” Kyle replies.

  She thinks for a moment.

  “Okay, but I’ve got some work to finish first. I won’t be able to get there till…” She is going to say seven, and then she remembers she has on her business suit, hardly fitting for a romantic rendezvous – “nine o’clock…is that all right?”

  “Nine o’clock it is! I’ll be counting the minutes.”

  Helen puts down the phone and looks at her workload once more.

  “Heck with it,” she says out loud as she shuts down her computer and grabs her purse.

  ***

  It has been a long time since Helen had a reason to get dressed up. Walking across the hotel lobby and passing the front desk, she feels all eyes on her. It is a good feeling to know she can still turn heads.

  “Good evening, Ms. Haywood,” says the concierge.

  Helen giggles, clearly taken by surprise. “How do you know my name?”

  “Monsieur Adams described you to a tee…although I believe his description, though complimentary, does not do you justice.”

  Helen feels a hot blush coming on.

  “Monsieur Adams asked me to tell you he waits for you at our Top of the City restaurant, which is atop the hotel. The express elevator is down this hall to your left.”

  “Thank you,” she says, making her way in the direction he points.

  In the express elevator, Helen finds only two buttons – one marked “Lobby,” the other “Top of the City” – she presses the later.

  Her breath is taken away as she soars up along the outside the building to the top floor. The doors open; she is greeted by the maître d’ who escorts her to a table where Kyle sits waiting.

  He smiles and rushes to his feet the instant he sees her. He has on a dark suit and tie, looking debonair. He offers her a single long-stemmed rose as she sits down.

  “Why, thank you,” she says, holding the flower to her, and taking in its fragrance.

  From that moment on, the evening is a fairytale. Kyle orders for the two of them – a chance to make use of his fluent French. They drink nothing but champagne. They dance to soft romantic music and hold hands as they look out at the view of the world far below. The city lights are like stars sprawled at their feet and the lights of the moving cars bustling up and down dark streets are like white and red corpuscles flowing through the veins and the arteries of the city.

  “If you don’t mind me asking, what’s this unexpected something that brings you into town?” Helen asks.

  “You may not believe me if I tell you.”

  “Go ahead…try me,” she says, smiling into his eyes.

  “You…you’re the reason I’m here…the only reason. I was so desperate to see you.”

  “I’m glad you did,” she whispers as he pulls her in closer to him and kisses her – soft, gentle, and quick.

  ***

  They are alone in the express elevator. Kyle presses the Lobby button.

  “It makes me feel so dizzy to look down,” she laughs nervously.

  “Then don’t look,” Kyle says, holding her tightly and kissing her.

  Downstairs in the lobby, Kyle begins to guide Helen toward a row of elevators.

  “Kyle, it’s not that I don’t want to,” Helen says, pulling on his arm, trying to steer him in the opposite direction. “I really do want to be with you. …It’s just it’s all too fast.”

  “Just for one drink, if I promise to be a perfect gentleman? Besides, I have something very important to show you.”

  She reflects a moment and decides she believes him. “Well, just one drink. …That’s all.”

  Up in his room, there are glasses and a bottle of champagne on ice.

  �
�Just one drink…” he says as they click glasses.

  They hold hands, sipping their drinks.

  “So what is it you need to show me?”

  “I have something I want to give to you.” His face grows serious. “But first, I want you to understand…I’m only giving it to you because I care so much for you. As for me, I would sooner destroy it, but I think it’s something you can use.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  He breaks free of her hold and walks over to the bed. He bends down, pulls something out from under it, and places it on top. Helen moves in slowly to get a better look – it is a small, gray metal box.

  “My God, it’s the box from the basement!” Helen says in horror. She looks at Kyle, questioning. “Was it you that night in the basement?”

  He shakes his head. “No, it wasn’t me. …It was my mother.”

  “Your mother…? I don’t understand.”

  “Joyce McDonald, your aunt’s caretaker…she’s my mother.”

  “But I could have sworn it was a man who pushed me aside in the basement!”

  “My mother has been a caretaker since I was little. Years of lifting deadweight from beds onto wheelchairs, into tubs, and out of tubs…she’s surprisingly strong.”

  “But I don’t understand!”

  Kyle sits down on the edge of the bed and buries his head in his hands.

  “It was a long time ago,” he speaks softly as if others might be listening and he doesn’t want them to hear – only Helen. “I was only eleven at the time. Victor and Nicholas were friends from school. I used to go to their house to play. One day we were playing in the basement, and their father came down. He asked me if I wanted to be a member of their secret boy’s club. Victor and Nicholas were members, and it would be fun.

  “Next thing you know, we’re all drinking whiskey, smoking cigarettes, and reading girly magazines. I thought I was in juvenile delinquent heaven. I became drunk. … The rest was all a blur, but I wasn’t so drunk I didn’t remember what happened.”