8
(Mr. Tweed) What now? No! No! No! Oh God, what is she doing? Why is she getting out of the car? Don’t come any closer! Oh please, oh please, don’t have a gun! Tears stream down my face, and now I’m crying like a baby. I can see my wife at my funeral,looking lost like a little lamb, her glasses all fogged up. Oh, and Danya, sweet Danya. Please God, don’t let her find the photos of Danya!
9
(Rose) "Mr. Tweed?" He still isn’t moving. I get out of the car and trot over to him. "Mr. Tweed?"
"Please don’t hurt me! Please don’t!" he cries.
"Oh Mr. Tweed, I’m not going to hurt you!" I reach out my hand to help him up, but he won’t take it. He just hides his face and begs me to leave.
It’s all over when the sirens pierce the air. Now my tears flow right alongside Mr. Tweed’s. "I wasn’t going to hurt you, I promise! I was just playing a game! I thought you were playing too!"
Mr. Tweed finally pokes his head out of his shell, and there’s both fear and rage in his voice. "Playing?" His salt-stained face’s still wet, and his eyes are full to the brim. "Who the fuck plays like that?"
10
(Mr. Tweed) Oh, thank God for Cassandra! She always fixes everything!
The sirens are music to my ears. I’ve never heard a melody so sweet in all my life! The police are coming to rescue me! I’m going to live!
But with relief also comes anger. "You don’t play with someone’s life!" I scream. "It is not a fucking game!"
She plops down next to me uninvited, her knees curled up and hugged to her chest, her head hung. And she cries. No, whimpers is more like it; she whimpers the most ridiculous question you could ever imagine: "So does this mean I’m fired?"
I try my darndest to mimic that psychotic chortle that she chased me with—the one that will haunt me for years, PTSD and all. "Of course you are fucking fired!"
She looks at me with eyes wide and wet like a scolded child. "Why can’t I ever do anything right?"
11
(Velma) Rose was a horrible child, absolutely horrible. She was a terror. A curse. I have not even told you the half of it! She was manipulative too. No matter what she did, she always tried to turn it around, make it look like just a big misunderstanding. And her lies were bold. The ninth commandment never meant anything to her.
She was six when she gave me the first real taste of what she was made of. I had a beautiful papier-mâché parrot hanging in the living room. He was red and green and so lifelike that visitors tried to talk to him. A couple even tried to feed him. Jimmy, I used to call it, after the twins’ father. He had made the bird for me a few years before he died, and it sat up there in the corner watching over me. Until Rose got it in her fancy to destroy him. She climbed up on the couch and took him down, and she peeled him apart, layer by layer; left him lying in strips on the living room floor. Now I ask you, what kind of child would do such a thing? She knew little Jimmy was sacred to me! She knew he was all I had left of her father!
I was devastated, completely and utterly devastated. It was all I could do to fall to my knees weeping and pray to God for strength. It felt as though my dear old Jim had been shot down all over again. Like he had been ripped from my heart a second time over. Rose knew what she was doing. She knew what she was doing to me! She was always trying to hurt me any way that she could.
Her sister found me kneeling on the floor in front of the mess. My sweet little girl burst into tears at the sight of poor Jimmy. She knew what he meant to me. And she saw what I went through with her twin. To this day, I thank God for Darla. Had it been just Rose, children and parenthood could have gone to hell in my eyes. The whole kit and caboodle be damned. But my precious Darla made everything worth it. She was my shining light, my pride and joy. And she was always there for me. She knew how evil her sister could be, and she made up for it by being extra good.
Rose waited until well after supper to come home that night. Darla had gone out looking for her, knocked on all the neighbor kids’ doors, but she was nowhere to be found. She was hiding, a sure sign of her guilt if ever there was one. But did she accept the blame? Did she fess up and take responsibility? Of course not!
"But Mommy, we were just playing," she lied.
"There is no ‘we’!" I yelled.
Little Rose looked up at me with those big puppy dog eyes she always tried to fool everyone with. She tried so hard to look innocent, but even as an angel, the true devil in her heart always shone through. I made sure she knew she did wrong, that I did! No one can ever accuse me of going too easy on her. No one can blame me for the way she turned out. I tell you, she was a rotten seed from the start.
And what she did, it plays over and over in my imagination. I can just see her ripping off his paper flesh, piece by piece, laughing that crazy laugh of hers!
12
(Darla) Mom talks about the Jimmy incident like it was a defining moment in Rose’s childhood. Like that was when she knew beyond a doubt that our Rose was crazy. Of course, the truth is that Mom and Sis had agreed much, much earlier that she would play the role of dysfunctional child. It was like some kind of twisted emotional Münchausen by proxy the way Mom enjoyed this near sainthood she felt entitled to. Any lesser mother would have willed the beast to the state by now! But what motivated Rose to go along with it? Well, Rose was just Rose. I can’t even begin to understand her logic. What could she possibly have to gain from being a pawn? A mouse in a cat’s game? Sometimes I hated her for it. Why couldn’t she just be normal?
The Jimmy incident didn’t happen the way that Mom told it. It was the first real secret between Rose and me. It was the first skeleton we shoved to the back of our closet. We were pretty young, just about to turn seven. For as long as I could remember, there had been this strange paper bird suspended from the ceiling of our living room. No matter where we moved, that bird followed, and it always perched right above our couch. I didn’t understand why the bird was always there. I had some vague idea that my father had made it, but he was no more than a haze in my memory. A romantic at a young age, I had the brilliant idea that maybe my father had hidden a treasure inside the bird for Mom, something for her to find after he passed to remind her of his love. I stared at that bird and daydreamt about what could possibly be hidden within. Maybe a ring? Or a necklace? A love note? The possibilities were endless! But of course Mom would never think to tear it open. She would never find whatever it was father had left for her!
I remember standing on the arm of the couch and petting the parrot on its papier-mâché beak. "Hello, Jimmy," I greeted him in a singsong voice. "We’re going to play a game today."
It just so happened that Rose chose that moment to walk into the room. "A game? What kind of a game?" she asked. "Can I play?"
I am almost too ashamed to admit that a part of me saw a terrible opportunity there. I had learned much earlier on that my sister would always take the fall for my trespasses. Rose was the bad one. It was her role, and she played it well. Still, my tone was extra cautious. "I don’t know. I don’t know if you should play too. Maybe I can’t trust you."
"You can trust me!" Little Rose insisted. She jumped up and down saying, "I promise!"
"You promise? You won’t tell anyone?" I scolded her as if it had ever been a problem in the past.
She shook her head. "I won’t tell, I won’t! I promise!"
I plucked Jimmy from his perch and plopped down on the living-room floor cross-legged. I invited my sister to join me. She sat across from me so that Jimmy was between us. Then I let her in on the secret. I filled her head with visions of jewels and keepsakes buried deep within the layers of paper and plaster. "We’ll be heroes," I claimed. "Mommy will be so proud of us for finding Daddy’s surprise." It wasn’t as easy of a sale as I thought it would be. Rose was skeptical. "Oh, come on," I chided as I tore a long red strip off of the parrot’s side. "Here," I handed him to her. "Your turn!"
She fumbled with a thin strip, showing no enthusiasm whatsoever
.
"Well?" I prodded. "I thought you wanted to play the game too?"
She shook her head and handed Jimmy back to me. "I don’t like this game," she whispered as she got up and ran out the door.
"You better keep your mouth shut!" I yelled after her. "No one will ever believe you." It was true; no one would believe her. I took advantage of that. Maybe I did play a small role in what my sister has become.
Looking back, I tore that ridiculous bird up with something of a sick and maniacal fervor all my own. Strips of Jimmy flew everywhere—up in the air, across the room—as I ripped him apart in search of the treasure that I probably knew all along was never there. At the time it felt right, and for whatever reason, the destruction seemed inane enough. Why would anyone care about a stupid paper parrot anyways?
Turned out Mom did. I was a little shocked by her reaction to say the least. I wish I could say that I owned up to my sin right then and there. But I was a dumb, self-centered kid, and the reason this secret is so dirty is that I have never confessed, never told the truth about Jimmy—not when Mom was in the heat of giving Rose the beating of her life, not when she denied her food, not even when she continued to lambast Rose with unprovoked insults for months to come, not even when she brought it up on her deathbed.
13
(Velma) Like the Bible says, I spared no rod with that child. Her behind was bruised and swollen when I was done with her. Truth be told, there was no goodwill left in my heart for her after that. Jesus beseeched each of us to forgive those who trespassed against us. I tried. Believe me, I tried! But I never was able to forgive Rose for what she did. It was an unforgivable act. I tried to hold myself back, tried not to show the hate I had for her in my heart. But it crept through my eyes, out of my lips, and through the switch I made her pick out anyway.
14
(Officer Charlt) "I’m sorry, you say she did what to your boss?" It can be really hard to concentrate in this job. There is so much pressure. And you always have to be hypervigilant about your environment. So it does not help any when you are trying to get a witness statement and there is a perfect pair of tan and supple double D’s staring you right in the face.
"She chased him around the lot!" Sara, Sandra, whatever she said her name was, is very upset. Her boobs bounce in her excitement. This is a good day to be a cop.
"She chased him around the lot?" I furrow my brow. It is very hard to make eye contact, but somehow I manage to break from the magnetic draw of her breasts and actually look her in the face. "Like she ran after him?"
"No." Miranda sounds annoyed. She rolls her eyes and bounces again.
Is that a little hint of her areola I see peeking out? I pretend to be taking notes while I stare at the darker bit of flesh that has worked its way out of her blouse.
"She chased him in a car! Just like I told the dispatcher. Don’t they brief you guys before you show up?"
"I’ve got to get your statement directly, ma’am. So then what happened? Why are they sitting there talking now?"
"I don’t know," she answers, surprised. "She just stopped the car and got out. Then they started talking and yelling and crying. I have no idea what it’s all about. She’s probably crazy or something." She saunters over to the showroom window and looks out towards the yellow car parked across three spots. "She left with someone on a test-drive, but she didn’t come back with him."
I stand just far enough behind her to take in the full view. Would it be unprofessional of me to ask her out for a drink? "How was her background check?"
"I don’t . . . I don’t recall that we did one." She looks surprised. "I don’t think that we really do background checks. And she had a very impressive résumé."
"Who checked her references?"
"Uh," she stutters. "Um, I don’t know if anybody did. Like I said, her résumé was very impressive."
"Impressive résumés can be fake just the same," I point out knowingly. "How about her driving record? You are required by law to check her driving record, aren’t you?"
"Well, I suppose this company is responsible for that, but it isn’t my job," she answers. Sassy, I like it! "I can check her employee file if you would like, see if it is in there."
"That would be helpful, thank you." I follow her into the office. She bends over a two-drawer oak filing cabinet, and the thoughts that run through my head send blood rushing to my other one. When she straightens back up, I pretend like I was looking at the Van Gogh print on the wall and not her ass. She hands me a file folder that is empty except for a hand-written application—an obviously padded one at that. "I’m going to call her into headquarters. We’ll see what kind of record she’s got . . . see what we’re dealing with here."
Sandy nods but doesn’t take her eyes off the scene outside.
15
(Officer Gibbles) Motherfucker. I was just about to enjoy a fucking turkey on rye and this shit fucking goes down. What the fuck? Don’t these fuckers know I gotta keep my blood sugar up?
So what do I see as I drive up? What is so important to take me away from my lunch? A couple of pansy-ass whiners sitting on the ground in the middle of a fucking car lot! Do I need to say it again? WHAT THE FUCK?!
I get out and slam the door. No point in hiding my disgust.
Both the victim and the perp look like they're immune to my approach. Maybe they didn’t hear the sirens or the screeching brakes. Maybe they don’t see the lights flashing on top of my squad car. I stomp harder the closer I get, but they still don’t look up.
16
(Rose) Sometimes after I’ve done something terrible, it’s like I’ve woken up from some sort of fucked up dream and have no clue what possessed me to do whatever I did. It’s like there’s a little idea in my head, off-kilter, like a seed that grows and grows and does not seem all that bad until it is fully mature and obviously it's a huge fucking weed and you need a goddamn machete to chop it down. At one point, I thought the seed might be a flower, so I nurtured it. It’s hard to cut something down that you’ve nurtured.
Next to me, Mr. Tweed is crying. His face is wet with tears and sweat, and he looks like a swollen bloody roast. Then, out of nowhere, the voice of authority I always hope I’ll never hear again: "So what seems to be the problem here?"
17
(Officer Charlt) "Yes . . . Uh-huh . . . just as I suspected. Yeah, thanks." I turn to the secretary and pause without saying anything right off the bat. Instead, I click my tongue and pace; one foot rolls into the other, just like on the old-time detective shows. "So it turns out your little Rose here has quite a rap sheet, mostly mischief but a couple of assaults as well. And if your employer had done their legally required Oregon Driver’s License check, they would have found that not only does she NOT possess a license to drive, but her privilege to do so has been revoked indefinitely thanks to multiple unpaid fines and DUIs."
18
(Rose) OK, play it cool. That is all you have to do, just play it cool.
Shit . . . I’ve got this!
Man, that's one hell of a beer belly. Don’t the police have to pass physical standards or something?
19
(Officer Gibbles) "Hey there!" I yell louder this time. Maybe they can’t hear me over their fucking sissy tears and all. "What seems to be the problem?"
The female looks up. She is hugging her knees to her chest and rocking back and forth like she is having some sort of a breakdown. I see this shit all the time. I place my right hand on my Taser. Just in case. She fakes a smile and answers, "Oh nothing, Officer. There was just a little misunderstanding. No biggie."
I look over at the old man next to her. "Sir?"
His head shakes and tears and sweat fall to the ground. All of a sudden, he is up on two legs and backing away. "She is fucking crazy," he yells. "She tried to kill me! She tried to run me over with a car! Take her to jail, please Officer. Take her to jail!"
"No, no, that isn’t true," she insists, waving her arms as she stands. She is screaming now. "Th
at isn’t what happened! It was just a misunderstanding!"
My hand moves from my Taser to my gun. "I’m going to need both of you to calm down," I command. They both fall to the ground before I can finish my sentence. I pull my cell phone from its holster and dial dispatch. "This is Officer Gibbles. I am going to need some backup."
20
(Rose) Play it cool . . . play it cool . . . play it cool.
More sirens, lots of them. More cops but also an ambulance. And a fire truck? Plead the fifth . . . plead the fifth . . . plead the fifth.
21
(Officer Gibbles) "This situation definitely calls for a swift takedown."
Officer Turner shakes his head. He’s new around here. "I really don’t see how that is necessary." He thinks he knows better than the rest of us ‘cause he’s from the big city. "She is not showing any signs of aggression. We should try to reason with her first."
What this young whippersnapper right here don’t understand is, we ain’t dealing with sane people in this city. Even the so-called normal folks are a little off.
Officer Dane steps in. "You can’t reason with crazy folk."
"Thank you, Officer; my sentiments exactly."
So we take her down. Textbook police work. Simple as that. "Piece of cake!" I clap my cohorts on the back. "Good job, guys! Great teamwork."
Jane. Page 23
