The Burgenton Files

by C. Ruth Daly

  “This isn’t bad, Donna. This isn’t bad.” And he patted me on the back. “I have a wedding to go help plan.” Gil smiled at me and strode into the house.

  The next day after school, when I went to see if Glynda was at Grandma Becker’s, I noticed the Hollis house seemed even stiller than usual.

  Nothing changed at the Hollis house except for the campaign supporters who appeared at his door to no avail. And the discovery of vacant bottles of whiskey in Hollis’s trash cans by the back alley.

  It wasn’t until that Saturday before suspicions arose. The Burgenton rumor mill had bolted into full gear. Everyone around town was talking about the strange disappearance of Ned Hollis.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  The church was decorated with the colors yellow, orange and red. Fall colors for a wedding in October. Eva, Toni and Rene made it home for the wedding while Margaret and Rick sent gifts and regrets from Los Angeles and Germany. Terry of course was out of touch, which saddened my mom and dad, but Irish hoped that she could soon contact him to tell him he would be an uncle. Tim and Stewart were ushers, and Eva, Toni and Rene were bridesmaids. Anna was the maid of honor, and along with Irish, the five of them were busying themselves in a classroom of the old, three-room school attached to the church. I was chosen to serve at the reception table, but in the meantime, my sisters needed my help. “Donna, get me my brush; Donna, go to the car and get my make-up bag.”

  There was no time to be annoyed with their servile attitudes. It was Irish’s day and after this day, for me, the first time in my life that I would have the freedom of sleeping alone in a bed.

  My sisters did look beautiful in their long flowing orange taffeta gowns with yellow ribbons drawn underneath their busts to give fullness to the skirts. Irish’s white bridal gown was designed the same way as to not draw attention to her full belly. The scheme drew confusion to the situation as every McNally girl looked as if she was going to deliver within the next few months.

  It was another task of mine to run from the school and around the church to the vestibule to see if people were arriving as planned, then report back to Irish. The autumn air was cold and crisp, and complemented the leaves changing colors on the maples which lined the sidewalk of the church. I darted down the walkway, smiling and nodding to the arriving guests. I was relieved to see Glynda, Grandma Becker and Mrs. Myer arrive, along with Rodney who looked like he had to have been wrestled with to get into a suit too small for his growing seven-year-old frame. The pant legs rose above his ankles as his mother and grandmother dragged him from behind, scuffing his shoes and leaving a trail of black polish down the sidewalk.

  Once inside the church, Tim seated me in the first pew on the right side. Behind me sat my two aunts and Mrs. Randall, who seemed like a relative. Dad would be escorting Irish down the aisle in a matter of minutes. It was Stewart’s job to seat his mother and then Tim followed with Mom. Next Father came out onto the altar along with two altar boys. The organ creaked and a melody groaned from the pipes. I think it was supposed to be The Wedding March, but it didn’t matter how it sounded because the crowd in the church was smiling and beaming because another Burgenton family was marrying.

  Gil and his mayoral candidate brother stood by the priest as the congregation turned to see a swarm of orange McNally sisters stepping down the aisle, each carrying a small bouquet of yellow roses with orange and red oak leaves. After Eva, Toni and Rene were released from the arm of a groomsman, in walked Anna as the maid of honor in a yellow taffeta gown accented with an orange ribbon below the bust line.

  The organ hit a dramatic note and Dad came down the aisle with Irish on his arm. Irish carried a long bouquet of yellow roses that cascaded down her front. The plan was for the roses to hide her pregnancy, but instead, they pinpointed it like a target on a map. Eyes of the crowd were drawn away from the beaming bride’s face and to the rounded stomach protruding beyond Irish’s bust line. A few unknowing women gasped when they noted Irish’s pregnancy, but then regained composure so as not to put a damper on the bride and groom’s special day.

  Like most weddings, the ceremony was quick and painless for those who weren’t exchanging the vows. Instead of waiting to exit behind the crowd, I quickly darted across the altar and through the hallway to the school house where the reception was being held in the largest classroom, which now served solely as a reception room since the closing of the school. My job was to dish out and serve punch to the seventy some guest who were beginning to file into the room and create a line for refreshments.

  LBJ, Mrs. Jameson, and Grandpa Todd were all there. I tried to wave, but ended up slopping red punch across the table’s white linen. When the line died down, and the crowd seated themselves, Irish and Gil lined up behind the long table with presents, spent the next two hours opening gifts, then headed off to their new home down the road from the Rolf’s house. It was “Katie’s” house: the house where LBJ and I had gone last December when Grandpa Todd dropped us off and I had my first encounter with Gil Rolf.

  Funny how things work out, I thought as Anna and I walked home after the wedding. It was dark and we followed the same route we normally take, through town, past the bank, past Ned Hollis’s campaign headquarters, which was dark and dormant, pending the return of the elusive Mr. Hollis. The election was only three weeks away and now Robert Rolf was the clear front runner. Weird how people still stuck with Hollis even though the word now was that Hollis was a suspect for the murder of Linda Miles and the college student, Theresa Davenport. I felt safe now that Hollis was long gone. Probably back to Florida, as most people suspected. Anna and I continued through town, past the shoe shop, the Baptist church and to the safety of our front porch. Mom, Dad, Eva, Toni, Rene and Tim were already at home. And Irish was now in her own home, no longer a McNally, but a Rolf.

  Ugh ... and I’m related to Stewart Rolf. It was a distasteful thought which brought stomach acid up into the back of my throat.

  The big blue room was full of excitement as five McNallys spent the night, with the four older ones sharing the two double beds and I resigned myself to the floor’s hard linoleum.

  So much for relishing my first night in a bed by myself, I thought as I positioned a couple of blankets under my back to compensate for the dip in the floor.

  It was good to have most of my sisters back in the room together, but sadder in a way for we would no longer be together sleeping in the same room, now that one of us had become a wife.

  Saturday, October 13th ... why did Irish and Gil choose this bad luck day for their wedding? ... The 13th...” I began to nod off while the older girls sat on the beds and jabbered. “I miss Rita Brennan,” I thought as I mumbled a goodnight to my sisters and dozed off to sleep.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  The rain arrived as usual during the week of Halloween. The temperatures dropped in the teens and made for a miserable night of trick-or-treating. LBJ, Glynda and I met at Glynda’s house for a quick trick-or-treat in the neighborhood. Our mission was to take Rodney around to as many houses as possible in forty-five minutes before Grandpa Todd arrived to take the three of us back to LBJ’s for a sleepover. We were all in eighth grade and felt much too mature for costumes and bag carrying, but we threw on some makeup anyway. My dad had some old jackets in the garage and we grabbed those to go along with the eyeliner which marked our faces.

  “Who you being fo Twick O Tweat?” Rodney wanted to know as he bounced between us. “I Batman ... naa naa naa naa na-Batman!” And he twirled in a circle so fast he almost knocked LBJ to the ground.

  “Cut it out, Rodney!” LBJ screeched, her hands held in fists stiffly against her side. She was used to being the only kid at her house and did not have much appreciation for his exuberance.

  Glynda gave her a look of triumph. “LBJ, you just wouldn’t survive in my house ... hey let’s go to Mr. Robert’s house.” Glynda grabbed Rodney’s hand and ran ahead of us past Mrs. Cruz’s house.

  “Hey wait, Glynda. We can’t miss her. She a
lways gives out bags of candy with the little ties on the top.” I looked behind me as we skirted by and knew that Mrs. Cruz would be hurt if we did not stop.

  “We’ll hit her on the way back to my house.” Glynda called as she and Rodney entered the screened porch of Mr. Robert’s house. LBJ and I followed and let the door slam behind us as we walked into the Roberts’ screened front porch which was covered with a maze of spider webs, and corn stalks tied in the middle to create a treacherous path to the door.

  Rodney pounded on the wooden screen blaring, “Twick O’ tweat” as Mr. Roberts came to the door holding an orange bowl of candy. He smiled at us and let us each stick our hands in to take a fist full of jaw breakers and bright foil-wrapped chocolates.

  We all thanked him and Mr. Robert’s waved to us yelling in a cackling voice: “Be careful out there! Watch for creatures lurking in the dark!” LBJ, Glynda and I laughed as we finished delivering Rodney to the remaining houses in the neighborhood.

  “Creatures lurking in the dark ...” I snickered at the thought as LBJ, Glynda and I climbed into Grandpa Todd’s four-door and sneaked out of town toward LBJ’s farm.

  TWENTY-SIX

  The Jameson house was like a palace compared to the McNally and Myer homes. It was a grand brick two story with bay windows in the front which opened into a view of a large parlor full of furniture from a century earlier when neighbors traveled by buggy to come and visit on a Sunday afternoon. The settee was trimmed in silk fringe and the sofa sat upon wooden claw-feet giving it an appearance of a beast sleeping through an enchanted spell. The furniture was covered in plastic, just like a museum. We pussyfooted with reverence through the room, across the woolen carpet, and into the hugely modern kitchen, where we set our bags down and let loose. Grandpa Todd told us goodnight and resigned to his room adjacent to the kitchen.

  “Okay guys!” Glynda was excited. She was excited and free from the drudgery of her brothers and her slovenly house. Glynda ran her fingers along the chrome top of the electric stove built into the red brick wall. “Ooooh ... LBJ. Can we cook on it?” Still in the absence of her brothers and her unkempt domain, she maintained her domestic air.

  LBJ opened the refrigerator, took out a package of hot dogs and tossed them at Glynda, smacking her. The cellophane covered meat bounced off her shoulder and hit the floor, sliding across the white marble tile. We all giggled as I picked up the package and tore it open with my teeth.

  We sat at the long farmhouse table covered in a red checked cloth, munched hot dogs and mapped out our night. Grandpa Todd’s TV blared through the closed door and we had to talk above the sound, our mouths full of the soft and squishy hot dogs in their buns.

  “It’s 8:30 now ...” LBJ spoke, shifting a mouthful to the side of her cheek. “We can either go upstairs and stay in my room or we can take a Halloween walk out in the field and go down by the river. You know whose house is on the river, don’t you?”

  Glynda and I shook our heads. Dumfounded. “Whose house?” I asked.

  “Where have you guys been? You know whose house.”

  I guess we should have known whose house. LBJ had been babbling about Trevor Morrelli for a couple of weeks now. A groan escaped me, and Glynda let loose a long sigh. Trevor Morrelli was a jerk—or at least he was to Glynda and me. Trevor played basketball and was very good, but he knew it too well and reminded everyone of his athletic prowess—how he would be an All State player some day. He would be even good enough to go pro.

  “LBJ, why are you trying for Morrelli? He’s not going to be interested in you. You’re not blonde enough for him and you’re not an airhead. Give it up.” I said as I took a bite out of my third hot dog.

  LBJ gave me a sharp look. “I’ve been using peroxide on my hair for three weeks now! Can’t you tell?” And she aimed the top of her head in my direction to expose the lightening part-line of her scalp.

  “Oh yeah—it’s kinda blonde. But your hair is too dark. It will never get that blonde. It actually looks kind of orange. Your hair will never be blonde enough for Morrelli. He’s a dumbass, LBJ. Try for somebody else.”

  “I have just enough of a chance as anyone else. That’s why we’re going to his house tonight. He usually plays basketball in his driveway until late. We’re just going to happen to walk by and say hi. You know. Then he’ll come over and start talking to me. I’ve got a plan.”

  “He’s not going to talk to you with me around.” Glynda shook her head. “He called me a fat ass the other day so I threw my science book at him. It hit him in the stomach and broke the binding on my book, but it was worth it. Except now I owe my Mom money to pay Mr. Roberts for it before school gets out. At least I have until May to come up with the cash.”

  “Why don’t Glynda and I walk behind you—about twenty yards.” I said with a hint of sarcasm in my voice.

  “Yeah. Donna and me can just hide in some bushes while you and “Mr. Pro Basketball...” And Glynda pursed her lips like a fish and made sucking sounds. “... Try to play kissy-face.” She opened her mouth to reveal her chewed up hot dog. “I hope I can keep all these hot dogs down while you two...” And she made the fish face and sucking noise again, then grabbed her throat and pretended to gag.

  LBJ held fast to her conviction. “I have just a good enough chance as anyone else.”

  With that in mind, twenty minutes later, after the kitchen was clean and the water spots on the chrome stove top removed to reveal its shine, we found ourselves trudging across the cornfield with its downed stalks. The ground was bumpy and muddy and grew even muddier as we neared the woods which lined the river. The moon was not quite full but at three-quarters. It was just enough light to guide us across the mud tract and to the river.

  Silently we made our way through the thicket of willows and the underbrush that snarled each step we took toward the edge of the water. The moon shone on the Tippecanoe as we reached the shallow waters of the river and headed north along its bank. Security lights from houses across the river reflected on the water to help guide our path to the low section where we could cross. With shoes off we maneuvered the rocks and watery stream to reach the opposite side. Back on the bank, we brushed off our cold feet and put both socks and shoes on, then continued north and up the stone pathway of a house to the sound of barking dogs, finally reaching the asphalt of the road which stretched before the homes that lined the river.

  We walked in step and three across the road as we turned and headed south down the road toward Morrelli’s house. A few kids were still finishing their trick-or-treating and ran past us as they darted from home to home. A car waited for the kids near the end of the row of houses. The headlights beamed in our faces as we walked closer; then past the car and to the next-to-the-last house where, just as planned, Trevor Morrelli was in the driveway shooting hoops.

  LBJ froze in her tracks. “How do I look?” she asked as she turned to us and smoothed down her knit sweater.

  “How would we know, LBJ? It’s dark out. How would we know what you look like?” I was feeling rather disgruntled. Here it was one of the most sacred nights of the year for fun and LBJ was going boy crazy again. I sighed. “Okay. You look fine. You actually look good. What do you want Myer and me to do?” I dreaded what she was going to say next.

  “Okay. You guys just wait here and I’ll be back in a minute. I’ll tell Trevor that we’re looking for my lost dog. Yeah—that sounds good. I’ll let him know you guys are out here, but you need to walk along the road and whistle or something like you’re looking for a dog. Start whistling or something and call the dog’s name.” LBJ pivoted and slowly walked off toward Trevor’s house. We watched as Trevor stopped dribbling and turned to look at the girl strolling across his lawn.

  Glynda and I dutifully walked along the side of the road whistling into the dark.

  “Here boy, here boy,” we cried out.

  “This sounds dumb Donna. The dog should have another name besides boy.”

  “You’re right, Myer. Hmm... Let�
��s call him Stewart” And we continued up the road yelling “Stewart ... Steeewaaart!” Until we heard the slam of a house door. We looked behind us to see LBJ and Trevor were no longer in the driveway.

  “We’ve been ditched, Myer. Now what?”

  “I don’t know Donna. It’s going to get cold out here and who knows how long she’ll be inside.” Glynda was irritated and started rubbing her arms. “This jacket isn’t very warm. I’m getting cold. I don’t want to stand here all night.”

  “Me neither.” I had enough of LBJ and her boy crazy attitude. “I don’t know what’s gotten into her. Come on Myer. Let’s see what’s in this thicket at the end of the road. After all, it is Halloween!”

  “I don’t know, Donna. Them woods are awfully dark.” Glynda held back as I walked forward.

  “Come on Myer. There’s nothing out there but raccoons and bats. Come on. Let’s go.” I turned, grabbed her arm, and led her for the half-mile down the road and into the woods.

  The woods were damp, musty and thick like a jungle. The air outside the thicket was cold, but in the woods with the undergrowth, oaks, maples, firs and bushes growing from the ground so close together, it was warmer. Raindrops dripped from the tall branches and onto our heads as we pushed our way through the foliage. I could tell we were moving away from the river because the sound of its flow grew fainter as Glynda and I maneuvered through the increasingly dense brush and deeper into the woods. I looked behind me to see Glynda right on my heels, but no complaints came from her mouth. A look of determination was on her face as she marched a foot or two behind my steady pace.