The River Killings

by Merry Jones

  “Okay. I won’t touch it again. Ever.”

  “Of course you can, Nick. I was just making a point—”

  He folded his arms. A patient, patronizing pose. “zoe, what’s going on? Is this about me using your computer? Or is it about you trying to pick a fight?”

  I didn’t answer. I was feisty and cranky and I hated it that he understood.

  “Because I think you’re upset about what happened last night. And angry about what happened here today. And you can’t do anything about those things, so you’re taking your frustrations out on me. Which is understandable. Everybody needs a punching bag sometimes. So don’t be shy. Don’t stop halfway. Go for it. If you want to fight, let’s fight.”

  In the lamplight, Nick’s shoulders glowed golden and perfectly sculpted. His muscles bulged, casting soft shadows across the slopes of his skin. I stood in the doorway, tears flooding, unable to put my feelings into words. Anger? Confusion? Love? Fear? Rage? I couldn’t separate one from the other, didn’t know big from small, real from imagined. Maybe Nick was right. Maybe I was trying to start a fight to purge the turmoil inside me. I was definitely being picky and bitchy. Apologize, I told myself. It’s not Nick’s fault you’re boiling inside.

  “I don’t want to fight, Nick. I’m just mad.”

  But Nick didn’t back off. His pale eyes zeroed in on me, and his voice taunted. “Bullshit. You want to fight. Fine.come on. Bring it on. I dare you.”

  He came closer, his arms reached out, grabbed my wrists. His mouth brushed mine; his unshaven face scraped my cheek, my neck, my shoulder.

  “Nick.” I tried to push him away. “Come on. Stop it.”

  But he didn’t. He held both my wrists with one hand, yanked at my T-shirt with the other, pulling me to the floor. “You want a fight?” His voice was a growl. “Okay. You got one.”

  For a long time, we stayed on the floor, rolling and twisting, grunting and grappling. Sweaty and panting, our bodies struggled in silence, slamming each other roughly, like animals. Afterward, breathless and spent, we went back upstairs and lay on the bed in each other’s arms. I felt calm, tired, not as angry as before. I wasn’t sure that what had happened had actually been a fight. But if it had been, I’d kind of liked it. And I didn’t know, didn’t care who’d won.

  TWENTY-ONE

  THE NEXT DAY, MOLLY ABSOLUTELY REFUSED TO GO TO SCHOOL. The good mother in me knew I should talk to her in depth, uncover the source of her resistance, help her work through whatever problems there were. But I was tired and overwhelmed, and I didn’t do any of that. I simply accepted that Molly was Molly, making up her mind and not budging from her position. Even as a toddler, before she was two years old, she’d been strong-willed, rejecting food she didn’t like, holding a bite of broiled salmon in her mouth for hours rather than swallowing it. Or climbing a tall kitchen stool onto the counter, scaling the highest cabinet shelves in order to reach a forbidden box of animal crackers. Now, with that same determination, she recited another litany of reasons why she should be allowed to skip school.

  “They make you go to lunch even if you’re not hungry. And you have to wait in line and hold hands with another kid.”

  “Molly,” I reminded her. “You have just a few days left till summer vacation.”

  “That’s just the point, Mom. I won’t miss anything. I mean, seriously. What are they going to do in just three days? Besides, that lady’s there. I don’t like her following me around.”

  The lady was what convinced me. Maybe she wasn’t actually following Molly, but I didn’t want to take the chance. So I caved and made arrangements for Molly to spend the day with my friend Karen and her son Nicholas. Nicholas went to a Catholic school; he was already on summer break. If someone was hanging around the school watching for Molly, she’d be disappointed.

  Meantime, the kids would get hot and bored in the city, and I hoped that school, by comparison, would seem not so bad. But, as we were leaving, Karen called.

  “Send a bathing suit,” she said. “I’m taking the kids to the swim club.”

  Karen and her family belonged to Delancey Swim Club, a square-block urban haven of water slides, pools, restaurants and video games. Molly loved it there; it was where, in toddler classes, she’d learned to swim. By comparison, school wouldn’t stand a chance.

  Oh, well, I thought as we walked to Karen’s. Maybe one day off school would refresh her; tomorrow, she might go willingly. But I knew better; once Molly made up her mind, she rarely changed it. Oh, Lord. I hoped she’d like day camp. If she didn’t, what would we do all summer? I had to go back to work, couldn’t entertain her. I could make occasional play dates, but most of Molly’s friends went to camp. Hari. Emily. Nicholas—all of them. Scanning the street, looking for potential slave traders, I tried to figure out how many times I could miss work to go to the library or the zoo. Not many.

  “What’s wrong, Mom?” Molly grasped my hand.

  “Nothing, Molls.” I tried to sound cheerful.

  “You look like something’s wrong.”

  “Do I? I was just thinking.”

  “Can I ask a favor?”

  “What?”

  “Pleeeeze don’t ever clean the house anymore? It smells sickening. My nose burns from it.” I smiled. “Okay.” “Promise.”

  “Promise that I’ll never clean the house again?” “Yes. Never ever. Not with that pneumonia stuff.” “Ammonia.” “It stinks.”

  “How’s this. I won’t clean with ammonia if you’ll keep your room neat.”

  “That’s not fair. I like my room the way it is.” There was no point arguing. I wouldn’t win. I caved again, promising never to use ammonia again, ever, period. No conditions. “What are you doing while I’m at Nicholas’s?” “I’m not sure.”

  “You’re not rowing, are you?” She eyed me cautiously. “Not until later. Why?” “Don’t row. Please?” “Molly, I’ll be fine.”

  Molly stopped walking. “Don’t go, Mom.” “Why?”

  Her brows furrowed. “Just don’t.”

  “Nothing will happen, Molly. I promise.”

  She shook her head. “How do you know?”

  “Well, Coach Everett will be with us. He won’t let us flip again.”

  She thought for a moment. “When are you rowing?”

  “Later. About five.”

  “Can I go with?”

  I saw the worry on her face.

  “Can I?” she repeated.

  “Molls, what would you do? You can’t stay all alone at the boathouse.”

  She pouted. “Maybe Emily can come. Like last time.” “I don’t think so.” “Why not?”

  Once again, I explained that the boathouse wasn’t a place for children. That Tony, the manager, didn’t want kids hanging around. But Molly had been acting strangely lately, unwilling to go to school, thinking some woman was following her. And who knew how the break-in at the house had affected her? Not to mention the terror of the night before on the river. Damn, how could I be so insensitive? Molly was just a little girl; how could I expect her to take all these traumatic events in stride? I stooped beside her and faced her eye to eye.

  “Everything’s okay, Molls.”

  She avoided my gaze.

  “I promise. You don’t need to worry. Okay?” She set her jaw. “I want to go with, Mom. I won’t bother anybody.”

  I thought of Tony, his aversion to children and pets. Still, Molly’s feelings were more important than Tony’s fussiness. “I don’t want to leave you alone.”

  “So let’s have Emily come.”

  As if two six-year-olds would be better than one?

  “I’ll talk to Susan. Maybe Julie or Lisa can stay with you.”

  Instantly, Molly’s shoulders relaxed and her face brightened. “When you row, can I get water ice?”

  “Sure.” Why not? I hugged her and stood, amazed at how quickly her mood had reversed itself. If only the promise of syrup-flavored ice could affect everyone that way.

&nbs
p; “From Harry,” she went on. “Not the other guy. Harry’s is better—he scoops it out fresh.”

  “You got it.”

  We walked along Pine Street and passed the quaint historic row houses of Society Hill, Molly waxing eloquent upon issues of water ice. The merits of fresh versus prepackaged, the assets of cherry versus mango or root beer. She continued her monologue all the way to Karen’s, where Nicholas was waiting on the porch. As soon as he saw us, he ran down the steps.

  “Finally.” He grabbed her hand and pulled her to the door. “You took forever to get here.”

  “I had to pack my swimming stuff,” Molly explained, but Nicholas had moved on, talking about the bicycle he was getting for his birthday, asking if she could come to his party, telling her about the magician who was going to entertain. The two, lacking front teeth, had matching lisps, and they were still exactly the same height, although Molly had slimmed down while Nicholas had grown sturdier and stockier. They’d met in a play group when they were ten months old and had been fast friends ever since.

  “Come in and cool off.” Karen hugged first Molly, then me. “Thank God for air-conditioning.”

  “Did you hear about my mom?” Molly sounded boastful.

  “What, sweetie?” Karen hadn’t heard the question.

  “ ‘Course we did.” Nicholas was positive.

  “My mom found a drowned person in the river.”

  Karen’s mouth opened, then closed again.

  “Molly,” I began, “that’s not something—”

  “No, she didn’t.” Nicholas was loud, almost shouting. “She did not find a drowned person—”

  “Nicholas.” Karen frowned. “Remember? We agreed we were not going to talk about that.”

  But Molly’s hands were on her hips, indignant. “Yes, she did. Ask her. Mom? Tell him you found a drowned—”

  “Nicholas. Drop it.” Karen spoke through her teeth.

  “No, Molly,” Nicholas interrupted. “You’re wrong. Your mom didn’t find a drowned person—”

  “Yes, she—”

  “She found nineteen. Nineteen drowned people. Everybody knows that.”

  “Nineteen? Uh-uh. You’re making it up.” Molly turned and gaped at me, stricken. “Tell him, Mom.”

  Karen watched with wide, tortured eyes.

  “Molly,” I fudged, “it was like I told you. Our boat flipped on one person.” I’d made an omission, but that wasn’t really a lie, was it? “But it turned out there were more people in the water with her.”

  She eyed me, wounded and suspicious. I recognized that look; I often wore it myself.

  “You told me one person drowned.” “Molly, I never said how many.” “You lied.” She was near tears.

  “No, I didn’t. I’d never lie to you.” Oops—damn. Another lie. “We just never talked about how many people there were.”

  “There were nineteen,” Nicholas announced again. “Look, I’ll show you. I have pictures from the newspaper.” He ran into the living room. “Come look, Molly.”

  “Nicholas, wait—” Karen called, but he was gone.

  Molly kept staring at me. And in her eyes, I saw them again— floating women, all dead. Someone’s daughter. Someone’s sister. Someone’s lover or friend.

  “Molls. When we talked about it, I didn’t know yet that there were nineteen.” Actually, I’d thought there were hundreds. “And it was awful that even one person died. I don’t see why it’s important how many there were.”

  “But Mom, it’s important that you tell me the truth.” Who was the child and who the parent? Not for the first time, Molly seemed older, more savvy than her years. “So, if you’d known how many there were, would you have told me nineteen?”

  I closed my eyes and lied again. “Yes. Of course.”

  “Swear?” She pouted.

  “Swear.” I kissed her head, feeling awful. I hated lies, even small, friendly ones. Even lies meant to protect her, make her feel secure, keep the peace, explain the inexplicable. I tried always to be truthful with Molly, but one simple omission had led to a chain of lies, and now I couldn’t seem to stop adding links. Hell, I was even lying about lying. “Now go and have fun at the pool. I’ll see you later.”

  “Molly!” Nicholas called from the back of the house. “Come look at the pictures. Your mom’s in the paper!”

  “Coming.” She pounded off after him. “ ‘Bye, Mom.” She kissed me and ran off.

  “How about some coffee?” Karen sighed, studying my face.

  “Thanks, I can’t. I’ve got to take off.” I couldn’t begin to explain why.

  “How are you holding up? Have you recovered from the shock? It must have been awful.” “I’m fine.”

  She shook her head. “How could that happen here, in this country, in this century? All those women … Does anyone know who they are? Aren’t their families searching for them at home? The press says they’re all unidentified. I can’t imagine.”

  I answered that I couldn’t either, hiding behind glib answers and shrugs, not mentioning my break-in or Susan’s car-jacking, not wanting to revisit the past day even in conversation. Instead, I steered Karen’s attention to the new Spanish tiles in her kitchen, then to Nicholas’s approaching birthday. And, as soon as I could without being rude I took off, alone, heading home.

  TWENTY-TWO

  I PLANNED TO STAY INSIDE FOR THE REST OF THE DAY, ALONE,

  feeling sorry for myself, talking to no one. I collapsed onto my big purple sofa and sat curled up in a fetal position, sulking. I stayed there for a while, but moping was no help. My mind ricocheted from topic to topic, crashing into an idea and bouncing away. I should finish cleaning, I thought. I hadn’t done the office yet, or the laundry room. Crash—zoom. I should call the glazier to fix the window from the break-in. Duct tape wouldn’t provide much protection from a slave cartel, but then, glass hadn’t either. Crash—zoom. What was going on with Nick? What had been going on with the computer? And was he ever going to ask me to marry him? Crash—zoom. Poor me. I’d worked hard, earned a master’s degree, recovered from a divorce, adopted a child, created a home. And now my home had been invaded. My entire life—everything I’d struggled to build—was falling apart. Crash—zoom. I should relax. I shut my eyes and saw the blackness of the river, felt cold water swallow me and bumped slippery flesh. Trying to breathe, I gagged on a mouthful of wet hair. Crash—zoom.

  Stop it, I told myself. You’re just beating yourself up, making yourself miserable. Do something productive. Get off your butt and take charge of your life. Look forward. Be active, assertive. Make a plan. Okay, I thought. A plan. A plan was absolutely what I needed.

  I got up, pacing, brainstorming randomly, and without even knowing what sort of plan I was trying to make, found myself in front of the bathroom mirror, silently talking to myself. You can do this, I told my face. You’re tough. Independent. Strong. Pull yourself together and deal.

  No, the face whimpered. I’m not strong, not tough. Not really. I’ve been faking. Pretending. underneath, I’m a wimp, scared to death. A fraud and failure. I was a failure at marriage, so I got divorced. I couldn’t make it as an artist, so I did art therapy. And I had no business adopting Molly; I don’t know the first thing about raising a child. After all, look what I’ve gotten us into—trouble with some huge invisible international multibillion-dollar slave cartel? The face dissolved into tears, proving how weak and utterly pathetic it was.

  I watched myself cry with a mixture of contempt and pity, feeling distant, regarding myself objectively. Crying, I decided, didn’t go well with my face. It was aesthetically wrong. I was too old, had too many streaks of gray in my hair to be crying like a child. My cheekbones were prominent, bones too strong for weeping. And the smile lines around my eyes contradicted the tears. Physically, the face in the mirror was mixed up, full of in-congruence. I pulled my hair back and dried my eyes, staring into them, seeking strength from my own gaze. Hazel eyes probed themselves, searching for a core, a sou
rce to connect to. Breathe deeply, I told myself. Stand up straight. Find your center.

  “Zoe?”

  I jumped, startled. I hadn’t heard Nick come in. I checked the mirror for telltale smears or blotches of red.

  “Nick. I wasn’t expecting you.” I stepped into the hall.

  “I had a few minutes, so . . .” He touched my cheek. “I. . . well, I wanted to make sure you were okay. I mean, last night, you seemed . . . we were both . . . it was . . . kind of strange.”

  I hugged him, partly to hide the new wave of tears threatening to gush. I nodded. We’d been like beasts. “I’m okay. Are you?”

  “I’m fine. If you are.” He seemed tentative.

  “I just spent an hour wallowing, so I’m better.”

  “Wallowing?” A hint of a smile brightened half his face; the scarred side remained ruggedly stoic.

  “Yup.” I rubbed my eyes, trying to erase any lingering puffiness.

  He watched me closely; I felt like a specimen slide in biology class.

  “Really, I’m okay.”

  He kept studying me, apparently unconvinced. “I got sick of feeling sorry for myself, so I stopped. I’m fine now.” I moved away, feeling exposed. “Just like that?”

  “Just like that. Never underestimate the value of a really good hard—”

  “—Believe me, I would never.”

  “I was going to say ‘a really good hard wallow.’“

  “Yeah? I like mine better.” Again the half-grin.

  “Okay.” I smiled. “That, too.” I headed into the kitchen. There was chaos to clean up in there. “How long can you stay?”

  “A few minutes only.”

  “Well then, for a few minutes you can help. Here.” I handed him a pile of baking pans. “These go in the high shelf over the oven.”

  “Zoe,” he complained. “Can’t this wait?” But he put them where they belonged.

  “Be careful with these.” I handed him a stack of Aunt Edith’s flower-patterned china plates and pointed to the top shelf in the corner. “They go up there.”