by Joseph Souza
We arrive full circle back at the house. I hold the front door open for him, and he goes inside and collapses in his easy chair. His face is red and chafed from exhaustion, and he looks to be in some measure of pain. I grab his jacket and cane and hang them up. He asks for some water, so I go in the kitchen and pour him a tall glass from the tap. Wendy is sitting at the kitchen table and peeling potatoes for dinner, her stiff hands doing an awkward job of it. Tattered brown potato peels lie over the kitchen table like discarded playing cards.
“How was your stroll around the neighborhood?”
“How did you know I went for a walk?”
“I was watching out the window to make sure he got down the steps okay. That’s when I saw you get out of the truck and join up with him.”
“It was fine. We had a nice chat.”
“It’s so good seeing the two of you getting along after all these years,” she says. “The exercise is good for him, and he needs more of it. I keep telling him to get the blood moving, but he never listens to me.”
“He seems to be in a lot of pain.”
“When isn’t he in pain?” She stops peeling and sighs. “What I wouldn’t give to walk around the block again.”
“Sorry.”
“Not your fault. I’m just glad you and Russ are getting along.”
“I didn’t really know him when I was younger, our age difference and all.”
“That’s understandable. Maybe you two can catch up on things later.”
“We’ll see.” I scoop some peels in my hand and throw them in the trash. “You married a good guy, sis.”
“Think I’d marry a jerk?” She grabs another spud. “Will you be eating dinner with us tonight?”
“If I’m feeling better.” I hold up the glass and nod toward the living room.
“Go give him his water before he dies of thirst.”
I hand Russ his glass, and he leans sideways in his chair. It takes me a second to realize that I’m blocking his view of the TV. He’s watching as a pride of lions gang up on a water buffalo and struggle to bring it down. One lion rides atop the beast’s back, gnawing horribly into his bloody hide. The others move in and attack the buffalo until it’s brought down and becomes dinner.
I can’t watch these grisly nature shows, because they depress me. Is nature really a battle of survival where the fittest always win? Like kitchen work? I hobble up the stairs until I’m safely ensconced in my room. The silence both frightens and calms me, and I know I won’t sleep tonight. I’m not the least bit hungry, and yet I know I have to eat dinner with them or risk hurting my sister’s feelings. Surprisingly, the walk with Russ has helped me in ways I can’t quite comprehend. He seems to get me in a way that all the others don’t. I felt at ease talking to him, despite not telling him the full extent of my history, or my problems.
The potential for violence in this town is something I’d intuited long before I returned home. It’s always been there, waiting for the right moment to rear its ugly face. There’s a primal urge subsisting below Fawn Grove’s surface that’s borne out of hardship, familiarity, and benign neglect. I’ve always known that it’s been lying dormant all these years.
I head upstairs to get some rest and am surprised to see Brynn standing in the middle of the hallway. There’s an odd expression on her face that puzzles me. I walk toward her, but she doesn’t move out of my way.
“You don’t look so good, Lucy. Have you been drinking?”
“Of course not. Why would you even say something like that?”
“You’ve been acting strange lately.”
“I could say the same thing about you.”
“What do you mean by that?” She folds her arms tightly around her chest.
“I drove by the school today and saw you smoking cigarettes with some classmates.”
“How dare you spy on me like that,” she snaps, her face turning bright red. “How would you like it if I followed you around town. Bet you wouldn’t think it was so cool.”
“I wasn’t following you, Brynn. I just happened to be driving by your school when I saw you.”
“Please, Lucy. Do you think I’m that dumb?”
“I swear I wasn’t keeping tabs on you,” I say, hoping she buys it. “Of course I’ll never mention it to your parents. It’s just that I care about you and want you to grow up to be a healthy young woman.”
“That’s priceless, Lucy,” she says, rolling her eyes. “You’re gone from my life all those years and suddenly you care about me?”
“I’m so sorry about that, Brynn. There’s no excuse for what I did. But believe me when I say that I do care about you.”
Her body appears to relax. “I know you do. And I’m sorry for snapping at you like that.”
“No worries. And you have plenty of reasons to be upset right now. Two of your classmates have been murdered and the killer is still out there.”
“I know smoking is bad for me, but sometimes I do it just to fit in. And right now, with everything that’s happened, I need to be with my friends more than ever.”
“I completely understand,” I say.
“I can’t promise you I’ll quit right away, but after this ordeal is over, I’ll make it my goal to stop smoking.”
“Thank you.”
“No, thank you for caring so much about me,” she says, moving in for a hug. “And again, sorry for yelling at you like that. That was totally my bad.”
“I’ve forgotten about it already,” I say, releasing her from my grip. “Can you see it in your heart to forgive me?”
“I’ve already forgiven you.”
“I love you, Brynn.”
“Luv you too, Lucy. Got to get back to my homework.” She slips back into her room and closes the door.
That was a close call, I think, as I barricade myself in my room. Brynn’s short fuse is something new. But why shouldn’t she be upset? No teenager wants to be spied on and then lectured by an adult. I’m at least glad I was able to repair our relationship.
I need to go to that cornfield tonight and see where that boy was killed. If Dalton and the police won’t let me inside, I’ll sneak in and observe it myself. The army taught us covert methods of travel. Maybe it’s time to make use of that training.
Everything is bearing down on me in ways I’d never expected. Cooking in that East Village restaurant kept me from thinking about my own problems, and then finding a solution to them. By working all the time, I avoided the inevitable pitfalls that would arise from self-reflection, and I knew that it would catch up with me eventually.
I lay my head down on the pillow and close my eyes. It doesn’t take long before I hear the voices again. It’s hard to be mad at them, as much as I’ve resented them in the past. They’re children’s voices and they need my help. They’re calling out for me. Beseeching me to come to them when I can’t even help myself. Come for them in a way I couldn’t help that poor girl from the fruit market. Do I experience regret for what I did? Was it worth having these voices plague me? No, I don’t regret my impulsive actions at all. I only wish I’d done it sooner for the girl’s sake.
18
THE DUTY OF ALL CHILDREN IS TO CARE FOR THEIR PARENTS. MY mother is dead, most likely caused by a broken heart. She suffered from both the loss of a son and a husband who didn’t care for her. Or else was too selfish to care for anyone but himself. She was forced to lay eyes on a scarred and disfigured child suffering in debilitating pain and with an expressed desire to die. It was all too much for a sensitive woman such as my mother, for whom life in Fawn Grove represented the epitome of a happy existence. It’s a good thing she didn’t live to see this day. It would have broken her heart to witness such economic hardship, heartache, and senseless death. Most of the mills have closed or are near bankruptcy, leaving cancer and illness in their wake. She would have been mortified to see her daughter and son-in-law in such bad health. And it would have caused her much sadness to learn that two kids in this town had been brutal
ly murdered. It would have shattered her illusion of a perfectly lived life. That’s all my mother really wanted. That’s all any of us really wants, when you come right down to it.
The headlights illuminate the dark road ahead. Do I even want to visit my father? I know I said I didn’t want to see him, but I lied in spite of myself. I want closure more than anything—to forgive and be forgiven so that I can start to deal with my problems. The thought of seeing him makes my stomach wobble like a water balloon being squeezed in the middle. My father and I need to have an honest talk. To be real with each other and get everything out in the open. It feels as if that’s the only way we can move on in our relationship.
In the short time since I’ve been residing in Fawn Grove, Wendy and Russ have been the closest thing to parents I’ve had in life. It makes me sad that I’d neglected calling them all those years. I thought I had valid reasons, but they seem inconsequential now. I’d been a selfish fool like my father. But being selfish was the only way I knew how to exist back then. Selfishness was my sole survival mechanism and the only way I knew how to protect myself from all that threatened to destroy me. I wanted to smash all memory of the past and start anew.
The walk with Russ put me at ease. I never really got to know Russ before I left town. I was too young at the time, sixteen when they married. Wendy was twenty-six, and Russ was three years older than Wendy. He had two years under his belt working at the paper mill and was earning a nice living. Wendy became pregnant with Brynn before I left. They looked to have a bright future together—until tragedy struck at almost the same time.
I park the truck alongside the road, roughly a quarter mile from the Garrison Farm. I wonder if the entrance is still being guarded by that stuttering, racist police officer. But why take a chance? I reach down and make sure my boning knife is secure in my pocket.
The night is crisp and cold. A legion of galaxies sparkle above. After grabbing my flashlight, I push my way slowly through the dead stalks of corn, barely able to see in front of me. The darkness out here is stifling and completely blankets everything. I turn on the flashlight, but it struggles to project a strong-enough beam into the matrix of molasses. The ground rises up and down, slowing my progress. Roots and rocks jut out of the ground and nearly trip me.
Is something burning? My nose detects smoke, although it could be from one of the many wood-burning stoves that everyone in these parts uses. I put one foot in front of the other, trying to mentally calculate the distance in my head, which is based on the aerial photograph published in the paper. By my best estimate, it should be three hundred yards east of the main road. That’s roughly one hundred fifty yards south of the barn. If my internal compass is correct, I’m heading straight in that direction.
Yet the scent of smoke becomes stronger the deeper into the corn maze I travel. My mind wanders, and for a brief second I think I’m hallucinating and am back in Afghanistan. I stop and compose myself, debating whether I should turn back. Maybe the owners of the farm are burning harvested stalks. But at this hour? No, that doesn’t make sense. It has to be something else.
I stop to catch my breath, realizing that I’m not in the same shape I used to be, traveling back and forth to battlefields to collect and heal the wounded, working days on end through stress and strife, the charred smell of artillery fire strafing my nostrils, blood on my hands and caked under my fingernails along with the dirt and sand.
I hear a faint noise. Voices? But they’re not the voices I’m accustomed to hearing at night. I’m not even sure they’re voices as much as low murmurings. I move forward, cautious, curious, gently spreading the dead stalks out of my way, careful to move in the direction of the feeble beam of flashlight illuminating my narrow path.
The smell of smoke gets stronger the farther I travel. The hushed voices become more evident as well. Someone else is out here in this cornfield with me. But who? A clearing appears up ahead lit up by a small fire. I see a group of people sitting and standing around the faint glow. I shut off the flashlight and move closer, crouching to keep hidden. It takes a few seconds to realize that they’re kids and not adults and that they’ve gathered around the spot where the boy was murdered. I must have passed the downed stalks without even realizing it.
The kids pass a joint among them. Each takes a long hit before giving it to the next person. Someone lifts a bottle and takes a swig. I’m twenty yards from them and fearful of moving, not wanting to alert them to my presence. Knee to the ground, I remain perfectly still, struggling to see in the dark. The kids take turns tossing cornstalks into the fire. The flame flashes bright orange before fading, creating a smoky scene that only further obfuscates my view.
I take out my phone and begin to record them. But why would they have a party here? Why in the spot where their classmate was murdered? Are they memorializing him, this being the way kids pay their respects these days?
A tall boy wearing a wool cap stands and walks toward me, blocking my view of the others. Panic flushes through my veins. Has he seen me? Or suspects that someone’s spying on them? I drop to the ground and watch as he unzips his fly and begins to piss on the caked dirt. He totters drunkenly where he stands, smiling like a goofy teenager. Typical high school boy. When he’s done, he zips up and staggers drunkenly back to the group. Before he reaches the fire, he trips on something and collapses face-first to the ground. The others laugh hysterically at his clumsiness.
Then I see her and it surprises me, although it shouldn’t. Brynn sits on the dirt, near the fire, opposite from where the boy had been perched. She’s laughing, cross-legged and a can of beer in hand. Someone passes her the bottle, and she takes a long swig. Her faces mashes up from the harsh taste before conforming to its natural beauty. From the shape and label of the bottle, it looks to be peppermint schnapps. A girl with raven black hair stands three feet away from her and snatches the bottle out of her hand. She passes Brynn the joint, and Brynn takes a hit off it before passing it over. When the girl turns around, I notice that it’s Stefania. This is the second time I’ve seen the two of them together. Apparently, they’re closer than they’re letting on.
This friendship surprises me, as they seem to be two temperamentally different kids. Both are beauties but on opposite sides of the spectrum. Funny how certain people end up in the same crowd.
The drinking and smoking is not that unusual for anyone who grew up in this town. During our walk, Russ hinted at his daughter’s various troubles, but I never really took notice of it until now, despite Brynn admitting as much. But this is what kids in Fawn Grove do: party. It’s in our genes. Parents pray that someday they’ll outgrow it and become productive citizens, and get a job at the mill like they did. But since there are no more mills . . . I like to think I survived my juvenile antics. As did Dalton. Kids here party for lack of anything more constructive to do, and I hope Brynn will one day grow up and move on to better things.
There’s no sense checking in on the crime scene. Besides, there’s probably nothing much left to see after they’ve trampled everything around it. The police won’t know or care at this point. All the evidence has been likely gathered, recorded, and entered into the record. This farm is so big that they can’t possibly block access to it forever, and the Garrisons will eventually need to clear the withering stalks before winter hits so they can replant come spring.
I want to head back home, having seen all I need to see. But something prevents me from moving. Maybe I’m afraid of making a noise and being discovered for the creepy adult I am. What if Brynn suspects I’m watching her? She’d never trust me again. It could forever ruin whatever relationship we’ve been trying to nurture. And because of that I remain deathly still while continuing to film her and her friends on my phone. Something about these drunken kids intrigues me, and I don’t know why.
A few moments pass in silent observation before another girl stands and comes into view. She turns, and I’m so struck by the familiarity of her face that I almost let out an audible g
asp. Her hair is long and black, and it cascades down over her shoulders, practically covering her face. It’s Nasreen, the girl from the Afghani grocery. In the dark, and without her hijab, she looks totally different now. She looks like every other American teen girl who likes to smoke weed, drink booze, and flirt with boys.
The sight of her shocks me. I try to reconcile her face with the image of that quiet girl wearing the headscarf and stocking shelves at the market. Is she trying to fit in with the popular kids at Fawn Grove High, and in the process break away from the cultural restrictions holding her down? It strikes me as odd that she could be so easily accepted into their clique, especially after all the scuttlebutt around town about the Afghani refugees.
Is this diversity at its best? Or worst?
While I’m trying to process this, a man’s voice cries out somewhere in the distance. The kids rise to their feet as if trying to discern where this voice is coming from. Brynn stares in my direction, and for a brief second I think she sees me hiding among these decayed stalks. But that’s impossible. There’s no way she can see me in this pitch-black field. The kids empty their bottles into the pit, and the fire sizzles and flickers out. Darkness falls over the land. One moment the kids are standing like statues. The next moment they’re scattering into the black void, calling out to one another as they sprint through the cornstalks.
I crouch low as the voices become louder. Should I stay or go? In my condition, running is not always the best option. Two powerful beams of light flash against a row of cornstalks, and I realize that I’m in danger of being discovered. Is it the police? I picture myself being arrested and hauled into jail, my name and photograph plastered over the front page of the local newspaper. Having my identity revealed in this manner seems unthinkable, especially now that I’ve made a connection with Dalton.
This is the motivation I need to start moving. I turn and make my way out of the field, careful not to cause any sudden sound. I walk blindly, praying that I’m heading in the right direction, afraid to shine my light for fear of giving myself away. The voices sound menacing and right on top of me. Could they be the ones who murdered that boy? I pick up my pace, grabbing on to the wispy stalks for support as much as for guidance. I trip and fall, trying not to groan in pain. Someone hears my fall and shouts for me to stop. I get up and walk as fast as my rebuilt legs will take me. My stumps feel bruised and sore from the constant pounding of the terrain, but I need to keep moving or else my life might be in danger. Errant bands of flashlight illuminate the harvested brush, and I half expect police dogs to come snarling after me. Or men speaking in foreign tongues, ready with knives to slit my throat.
