Beside me, Clare leaned around to stare at Ward Lynch. I’d stopped looking at him, I’d seen enough. I held Clare’s left hand while Rob, seated on her other side, held her right hand. She was quivering, trembling. In Clare, hatred was a force like a geyser. I could feel it building up, aching to discharge. Of the two of us, I had always been the “emotional” one but that was only on the surface.
People had told Clare to avoid the hearing, her presence wasn’t necessary. Of course, she’d had to attend. I’d been told that, as soon as my testimony was over, I might leave. But I would not.
The hearing began twenty minutes late, and passed in a buzzing blur. There was nothing exciting or dramatic about it. A calm recitation of facts. As the “witness” who had found Gwendolyn Eaton’s body, I was required to testify under oath. I had told my pathetic story a dozen times to various official parties and each time my words had been taped and yet, here I was testifying again. Yes: I’d entered my mother’s house at 43 Deer Creek Drive on the early evening of May 11, 2004. Yes I’d entered the house through the kitchen door, that was unlocked. Yes I’d seen signs of “intrusion and upset” inside the house. Yes I’d entered the garage and yes, I saw—on the cement floor of the garage, I saw—
I began coughing. I could not stop coughing. Tears leaked from my eyes though I wasn’t crying. Out of the buzzing blur someone, a man, a man whose name I had forgotten, handed me a glass of water. I was called Ms. Eaton. I was told to take my time, to speak clearly. I saw that everyone in the courtroom was observing me, listening to me. The judge, an older man seated at a slightly raised desk to my right, wearing an ordinary dark suit and not judicial robes, appeared to be listening sympathetically. I continued my testimony, gripping my hands in my lap. I’d memorized these words as a tightrope walker might memorize each inch of the high wire she must cross, and cross again, and again re-cross without daring to glance down. I’d been coached by the prosecutor and was looking toward him as I spoke, I did not want to glance at Clare, or at Rob, or at anyone in the courtroom whose face was familiar to me; above all, I did not want to glance over at the defendant sitting slump-shouldered in his bright orange jumpsuit who was staring at me.
“Thank you, Ms. Eaton. You may step down.”
In that instant, as I was released from my ordeal, I lifted my eyes to glance in Ward Lynch’s direction, and for a fraction of an instant before I looked away our eyes locked.
I stumbled back to my seat, to Clare. I had seen in Ward Lynch’s eyes nothing but glassy belligerent emptiness.
The prosecution attorneys had warned me not to look at Lynch, and Wally had warned me. Look at the attorney who is questioning you, look at the judge. But not the defendant. Don’t make eye contact!
Now I was frightened, my heart was beating hard. Until this moment I had not thought If he could, he would hurt me. He is a murderer, he would hurt me, too.
“Nikki! I love you.”
Clare gripped my hand tight to pull me close beside her. Clare slid her arm around my shoulders to comfort me, for I seemed to be crying after all. I was shaking, I was so frightened. Why had I glanced at Ward Lynch, when I’d been warned not to! Somewhere at the rear of the courtroom my lover Wally Szalla was seated, he’d insisted upon coming to the hearing for he was concerned for me, why hadn’t I looked for him!
I was shaking, I was so frightened. How naive it seemed to me now, how childish, to think of “forgiving” Ward Lynch—as if the man wanted to be forgiven, and by me.
As if I had the power to make him repent. As if anyone had the power.
I was made to realize: if I’d returned home while Lynch was still in the house, if I’d walked into the house or the garage, having seen my mother’s car in the driveway and calling Mom? It’s me, Nikki as I’d done a thousand times, Lynch would have killed me, too.
Of course. This was so obvious.
I must have known, and yet I had not wished to comprehend. I had wanted to think that, now the murderer had been arrested, and would stand trial, it was in my power to “forgive” him. At any rate, not to press for his execution.
Of the witnesses for the prosecution who followed me, the plainclothed Mt. Ephraim detective Ross Strabane gave the most detailed testimony. Strabane had spoken with me on the phone several times about the upcoming hearing, but I had not seen him in weeks. I had forgotten what he looked like. His skin was olive-dark, swarthy. His eyes were earnest. He was edgy in the courtroom, aware of the judge’s frowning scrutiny: he had a maddening habit of squinching up his face in the way of an edgy teenager, and he cleared his throat compulsively. His clothes! Earnest, off-the-rack. A stone-colored suit with oddly wide lapels, white nylon shirt and braided necktie in smudged-aqua. (Braided neckties? Where did men find these? Somehow, Dad owned several, and persisted in wearing them often. His brothers Herman and Fred favored braided ties, too.) Strabane was sitting square in the witness seat as he spoke, leaning slightly forward out of nervousness. Or maybe he was excited. I was touched to see that he wore mismatched socks: both were dark but one was just perceptibly striped and the other not.
Reaches in a drawer, he’s in a hurry, distracted. Puts on his socks not noticing they’re a mismatch.
Or, seeing they are, he’s got more important things on his mind and what the hell.
Strabane was describing the “events” of May 11, 2004: the actions of the defendant Ward W. Lynch from approximately 10 A.M. onward. In his nasal accent describing Lynch’s behavior after he had “abducted” Gwendolyn Eaton who’d given him a ride in her car, until police arrested the defendant in Erie, Pennsylvania, on May 13, at the home of his maternal grandmother Mrs. Ethel Makepeace.
I found it difficult to listen to the detective’s testimony. I found it difficult to continue to watch him. I thought I don’t have to hear this! I felt a strong impulse to lower my head, my forehead against my knees, I was very tired suddenly, frightened. It was the sensation I’d sometimes had as a girl, at the end of a diving board. I don’t have to do this, I can turn back. I don’t have to be here.
…the discovery of Gwendolyn Eaton’s 2001 Honda, and her Visa credit card, emptied wallet in a barn on the Makepeace property. The discovery of the “murder weapon”: a Swiss Army knife bearing traces of Gwendolyn Eaton’s blood, as identified by DNA testing, and covered in Ward Lynch’s fingerprints.
The buzzing in the courtroom grew louder. I was gripping Clare’s hand that was cold and sweaty as my own. My eyes had begun to hurt. I was frightened of what the detective would say, I was frightened of his knowledge. I could not bear listening to him. Yet I understood, He is a good man. He is helping us. I was having trouble concentrating for I yearned to be somewhere else. I was smiling, I was already somewhere else. Mom would comfort me, if I could find her. But Smoky would comfort me, too. I knew where to find Smoky. He was waiting to rub against my ankles when I returned to the apartment. He would purr loudly. If a cat can purr anxiously, Smoky would purr anxiously. He would purr aggressively. He would purr seductively. He would purr percussively. He would purr like a jealous lover. A mildly deranged lover. Oh, I smiled to think how I would discover in my bedspread, a quilted spread of squares, triangles, and pineapple figures that Mom had sewn for me, the warm imprint of Smoky’s burly body, and a scattering of silvery cat hairs.
“…may step down, Detective. Thank you.”
Was it over? Strabane’s testimony? I opened my eyes, disoriented. Strabane was looking grim, yet elated. He’d spoken well, he’d been forceful and persuasive. He’d presented “facts” as a narrative of what-had-happened. He was a professional, the rest of us were amateurs.
Especially Clare and me. “Daughters of.”
Amateurs in grief.
Afterward I would remember: Detective Ross Strabane passing close by us. He was feeling good about himself, was he! A homely man made impressive, on the witness stand. Except his stone-colored suit fit him oddly in the legs, the trousers slightly too short. And the smudged-aqua braided tie, a fas
hion blunder. His dark-lashed eyes slid onto mine. His mouth wished to twitch in a smile.
I am your friend, trust me!
I looked quickly away.
In all, the hearing lasted three hours, forty minutes.
Like squeezing out your blood drop by drop. Those three hours, forty minutes.
“Prosecution” witnesses. Called to the witness stand, sworn to “tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth so help you God.” Uniformed police officers, plainclothed officers, forensics specialists, the proprietor of Tiger Mart on Route 33, garage attendants, store cashiers, a county sanitation worker who’d discovered, in a Dumpster behind Hal’s Mobile Service at the intersection of Routes 33 and 39, a plastic bag crammed with bloodied men’s clothing to be identified as belonging to Ward Lynch. During some of this testimony, Lynch squirmed and shifted in his chair like a restless teenager. He scratched at his caved-in chest, he shivered. But during some of the testimony, his face was slack as unbaked bread dough. His narrow jaw drooped, his mouth twisted suddenly into a yawn he didn’t trouble to hide with his hand.
Seeing that yawn, Clare whispered in my ear, “Oh! He’s bored! I want that man dead.”
At the time of his arrest, Ward Lynch had “voluntarily confessed” to Mt. Ephraim police officers but later, after acquiring a lawyer, he’d “recanted” his confession. Now, Lynch’s lawyer (who was looking grim and defiant, like the coach of a badly losing team) announced that his client would not be testifying. There was but one witness for the defense, Lynch’s grandmother Mrs. Ethel Makepeace, a stocky woman in her mid-sixties with ragged-looking tea-colored hair and a belligerent manner with even her grandson’s lawyer. On the witness stand Mrs. Makepeace declared shrilly that her grandson Ward had not only been staying with her for “all of May” in her home in Erie, Pennsylvania, but on that day, May 11, he’d been “always never” out of her sight for twenty-four hours. Lynch’s lawyer asked quizzically, “‘Always never,’ Mrs. Makepeace? Do you mean, ‘almost never’?”
Ethel Makepeace sneered at him. Her hair had an explosive look that contrasted with her creased, tired-looking face. “You know what I mean, mister, don’t you be putting words in my mouth, any of you. My grandson Ward did not plunder and kill any lady up here in what’s-it-called, I am here to swear on a stack of Bibles he did not.”
The judge ruled that charges against Ward W. Lynch were not to be dismissed and that the defendant was remanded for trial, the date for which would be set on another day.
The hearing ended. Ward Lynch in his glaring-orange jumpsuit was led away by guards, hobbling in shackles. Mrs. Makepeace had to be restrained by bailiffs, shouting: “What? What is going on? Where are you taking my grandson? I told you, Ward is innocent.”
Suddenly, I wanted to be with Mom.
I wanted to run away from everyone, to be with Mom.
We staggered out of the Chautauqua County Courthouse and into the startling sunshine of a day in early summer.
So exhausted! And this had been only the “preliminary” hearing.
On the pavement in front of the mournful limestone courthouse Clare and I were surrounded by well-wishers. Some of these were relatives who’d crowded into the small courtroom to show their support, others appeared to be strangers. But by this time I knew to pretend that I recognized faces, for probably I’d met these people at Mom’s funeral or Clare’s luncheon. I was learning that public grief is a social responsibility, you can’t hide your face like a child or turn away crying For God’s sake leave me alone, I am so tired!
We were being told that it wasn’t likely that there would be a trial, since evidence was overwhelming against Lynch. Possibly his lawyer could try a plea of not guilty by reason of temporary insanity caused by methamphetamines but that wasn’t likely either, Lynch’s lawyer was a sensible person who’d never let the case come to trial.
“But maybe there should be a trial,” Clare said, “and let jurors decide. If our mother’s murderer should be executed.”
Weakly I said, “Oh, Clare. No. I don’t think I could endure a trial. I was only up there a few minutes and I’m wiped out and I don’t even want to think about it, ever again. No.”
“Nikki, you will do what you have to do. For Mom.”
We were headed for the parking lot at the rear of the building. We’d come in separate cars but I knew that Clare wanted me to remain with her and Rob for a while, before they drove back to Mt. Ephraim. I wondered if Clare had noticed Wally Szalla amid the crowd and if she was expecting me to introduce her to him. (“Your friend” Clare alluded to Wally, sometimes in a wicked mood, “Your married friend.”) And I knew that Wally, gregarious Wally Szalla who wanted everybody to love him, was eager to be introduced to my sister and brother-in-law.
Wally was never to know how my mother had disliked him. He’d have been heartbroken since he’d liked Gwen so much and had been devastated by her death.
Lately, Wally had been spending several nights a week with me in my brownstone apartment. Sharing me, as he said, with Smoky-the-cat. (Wally was mildly allergic to cat dander, we’d discovered. So Smoky was welcome in my bed only on those nights when Wally wasn’t there.) Our days were spent apart for Wally was enormously busy with the radio station and other responsibilities, he traveled frequently to Rochester, Buffalo, Albany and New York City. Since the so-called crisis of several months ago his wife Isabel had decided, yes she wanted a divorce, but on her terms, and these would be mean-spirited and acrimonious terms, but at least negotiations were moving forward now, finally. More and more often Wally and I were seen together if mostly in romantically dim-lighted inns and restaurants in the Chautauqua Valley and weekends out of town. “I’m your ‘other woman,’” I teased Wally. “The one you can’t bring home.”
Wally had said, “I’ve been expelled from that ‘home.’ It’s time for me to make another.”
I hadn’t wanted Wally to come to the courthouse that day. Not because I was ashamed of our relationship but because I was concerned that, if I broke down on the witness stand, Wally would want to come forward to comfort me. Wally was an emotionally extravagant and impulsive man who sometimes behaved in ways not in his own best interests.
Well, I hadn’t broken down. A coughing spell, but I’d managed to continue. Nikki you were wonderful! You spoke so bravely I could hear Mom insisting.
Outside in the bright sunshine my eyes were aching. Clare had slipped on her oversized dark glasses that were both stylish and a little sinister, white plastic frames and near-black lenses. We were in the parking lot now, Rob was jingling his car keys and asking if I’d like to have a drink with them, we all needed to unwind didn’t we!
In the corner of my eye I saw Wally Szalla on the sidewalk, hesitating. Waiting for me to acknowledge him.
Oh but I loved Wally Szalla! And yet.
Clare nudged me in the ribs: “Nikki. Your friend.”
In this way, without my needing to make a decision, the matter of introducing Wally Szalla to the Chisholms was decided.
“the house where the lady was murdered”
So disappointed! Clare’s car wasn’t in the driveway, or anywhere in sight.
It was ten days later. Ten days after the hearing. Thursday morning, 8:38 A.M. I’d driven from Chautauqua Falls to Mt. Ephraim to meet Clare at Mom’s house, to begin our task of sorting through her things, housecleaning, preparing the house to be sold.
Strange how calmly we spoke of these matters. Clare had a way of saying Putting the house on the market as if the house we’d grown up in was only just the house and not something more.
On the market was a neutral matter-of-fact term. It was one of Rob Chisholm’s terms, brisk and businesslike.
Arriving at 43 Deer Creek Drive and seeing that Clare wasn’t here yet, I tried not to be upset. Not to be angry. Parked my car in front of the house. (Not in the driveway. Nowhere near the garage. Though I understood that the garage had been “thoroughly cleaned.”) The redwood-and-stucc
o ranch house with its flat graveled roof was looking forlorn and vacant. Someone had drawn blinds shut over the plate-glass “picture” window, like a large clumsy bandage.
The house where the lady was murdered. So neighborhood children would speak of it, staring as they bicycled quickly past.
Thank God, Rob had arranged for a lawn service crew to mow the raggedy grass around the house and to clear away the worst of the weeds springing up in Mom’s flower beds. I knew that neighbors had been picking up newspapers and flyers from the driveway, which was kind of them, but still litter was accumulating.
It’s as if, in a neighborhood where there is an empty house, litter just naturally accumulates around it: blown into shrubs like confetti, wrappers and Styrofoam cups and advertising flyers in the stubby grass.
It wasn’t Thursday June 3 as Clare and I had originally planned but Thursday June 10. We’d had to postpone our meeting at the house because after the court hearing we’d both been sick for several days (“flu” was the catchall word, “a touch of the flu” as Mom would call it) but we’d had a definite plan for this morning.
Clare had even insisted on arriving before me, to open up and “air out” the house, that had been empty now for almost a month. “No problem for me, Nikki! I can’t sleep past dawn anyway.” There was the unspoken acknowledgment that stepping into our old house might be harder for me than for Clare.
Except: where was Clare?
She’d suggested that I arrive at about 8:30 A.M. We would work through the day. Naively we believed that the task of “sorting through” our parents’ possessions might be accomplished in a day.
Mom had never gotten around to seriously sorting through Dad’s things, we knew. It hadn’t been a task either Clare or I had much wanted to help her with.
I waited for a few minutes, listening to WCHF FM on the car radio, some National Public Radio news, and a startling interlude of “Opera Highlights” (Maria Callas as Tosca), but Clare didn’t show up and so I called her on my cell phone.
Missing Mom: A Novel Page 15
