Black Christmas

by Lee Hays

  “No doubt. That’s what I’m worried about. I haven’t met him yet. After Christmas I was going to visit—”

  “So that’s why she wouldn’t go skiing with Barb.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing. Doesn’t matter. Ancient history. What shall we do, Chris?”

  I think . . . I think I’d better go see them. The police. And her father. Damn, damn, damn, damn!”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  In the dim light of the dining room Mr. Harrison sat disconsolately at the table with Mrs. MacHenry and Phyl while off to one side Barbara was slouched in a heavy chair, a drink in her hand.

  Mrs. Mac looked up from her plate where she had been gorging herself and said to him, “Mr. Harrison, really I do wish you’d eat something. Starving yourself isn’t going to help the situation at all. In fact, I always say that you can’t get anything done on an empty stomach. I tell the girls that, too, when they’re worried about,” she hesitated, “an exam or something.”

  “Thank you very much, Mrs. MacHenry. But, no thank you. I just have no appetite. I feel like I should be doing something but frankly I don’t know what to do.”

  “One thing you could do would be to eat to keep your strength up.” When she saw that remark had made no dent she went on, “Well, just stop worrying. The best thing you can do is wait here and I’m sure she’ll call or show up.”

  Mrs. Mac heaved herself up from her chair and went out toward the kitchen as Mr. Harrison said to no one in particular, “I just wish I knew what to do.”

  Phyl nodded sympathetically. She could understand how he felt. She didn’t want to eat, either, but she was forcing herself. Barbara had turned her nose up at the stew and proceeded to pour another drink.

  There was a long silence punctuated by the sound of Mrs. MacHenry in the kitchen banging pots and closing cabinet doors. Both Barbara and Phyl knew that she was looking for her bottle of sherry but neither felt like snickering at the moment.

  Finally Barbara said, “Did you know? And this is a little-known fact . . .” She stopped and took some of her drink while Mr. Harrison eyed her apprehensively and Phyl tried desperately to think of something to say.

  At last Barb continued, “There are some species of turtles . . .” She stood for dramatic emphasis. “Some species of turtles, or is it tortoises? No, it’s turtles. There are some species of turtles that screw for three days without stopping.”

  Mrs. MacHenry entered the room and stood there dumbfounded, trying not to look at Mr. Harrison who was aghast.

  Barbara fell back into her chair and added, “Oh, yes. You may not believe me, but I’m not making it up. They screw for three days. Whoopee!”

  Mrs. Mac came further into the room as though to protect poor Mr. Harrison from Barbara. “Barb, dear . . .” she started to say but she was interrupted.

  “You don’t believe me, do you? Well, it’s true. Three days without stopping! I’m lucky if I can get three minutes. Three days, honest Injun. I know, ’cause after they told us that in some dumb class or other. I went to the zoo to watch them. It’s very boring. I didn’t stay for the whole three days, actually. I took their word for it. So I went over—because I got bored watching the turtles do it—I went over to watch the zebras. They only take about thirty seconds. Reminds me of me. No, it reminds me of a joke about this pony who’s a star and he wants to get fixed up so they send him a zebra up to his hotel room and the next day they ask him how he liked her and he said he didn’t know ’cause he spent all night trying to get her pajamas off.” She started to giggle insanely and then broke into paroxysms of drunken laughter.

  The others stared at the wall, the ceiling, the floor, anywhere but at each other, embarrassed, unsure what to say or do.

  All at once Barbara said, “You think it’s my fault, don’t you?”

  Phyllis said, “Barbara, stop it.”

  “You do. Don’t shit me. Why don’t you just come out and say it? All of you. It’s my fault. Go ahead, say it! You think I drove her off. If she’s dead you’re going to blame me!”

  There was a long, stricken silence. Mr. Harrison’s face turned white as the word he had not dared to think was spoken aloud for the first time. He sat back and closed his eyes as Phyl said, in a low voice, “Barb! For God’s sake!”

  Realizing what she had said but unable to go back, to retract or modify her words, Barbara answered, “That’s what you’re all thinking. Why don’t you just say it?”

  Then she started to sob and Mrs. MacHenry went to her, putting her arm around the girl and saying in a consoling voice, “Barb, you don’t know what you’re saying. I think you’ve had too much to drink, dear. Mr. Harrison is going to have a very poor impression of this house.”

  “I don’t give a shit,” Barbara answered, pulling from Mrs. Mac’s grasp. “I’m sick of people insinuating things around here.” She swayed and steadied herself on the edge of the table. “I’m sick of people never coming out and saying what they really mean.”

  Phyl moved to her and said quietly, “Barb, why don’t you go up and lie down for a while? We’re all upset and no one—”

  “Oh, shut up!” Then she turned to Mrs. Mac and added, “And leave me alone, goddamn it! I know you think it’s my fault. You’ve been implying it all the goddamned afternoon!”

  “Barb,” Phyl said, looking across to Mrs. Mac, “you’re drunk. Now go to bed!”

  Barbara was about to answer but she felt herself grow dizzy. With an effort of will she drew herself up, pushed off from the table and stormed from the dining room, slamming the door behind her. Mr. Harrison, his eyes closed, sat still, except for the slow negative motion of his head as he shook it back and forth in fear and disbelief.

  The lights were burning bright in the police station as Lieutenant Ken Fuller sympathetically watched and listened to a thirty-five-year-old woman wearing rollers in her hair who was trying to keep her voice from quavering as she sat in his office and told him a story. Fighting back the tears, she said, “She’s out of school for the Christmas holidays but you see there was band practice today, over at the high school. Janice plays the clarinet and even though school is out they have practice because they’re going to give a band concert.”

  About the same age as the woman, Fuller could only think that he might be the father of a daughter such as the one she was talking about. That he might have a Janice who played the clarinet. He tried to erase such an image and to concentrate as dispassionately as possible on her words.

  “Go on, Mrs. Quaife.”

  “When she didn’t come home, I called Melody Greene’s place. That’s her best friend. But they hadn’t seen her all day. I talked to Melody and to Mrs. Greene. She’s only thirteen, Lieutenant, my Janice and she’s never been late like this. My husband, he’s a trucker and he’s on the road this week, half way across the country. I don’t know how to get in touch with him. Anyway, I was so worried, so I came over here.”

  Her last words were almost apologetic as though had her husband been home he might have prevented her from doing anything so foolish as going to the police.

  To make her feel more easy, Fuller said, “You did the right thing, Mrs. Quaife. That’s what we’re here for. Now . . . how long since you—or anyone—actually saw her? Saw Janice?”

  “Well, not since band practice this morning. She was there. I checked and she was at practice, then she left and that’s the last . . .” She was about to break down again when her attention was turned to the noise outside as a young man and woman came in the front door of the station house.

  The young man was visibly angry but Sergeant Nash on the front desk nearby did not notice it as he extended a warm greeting.

  “Here’s our star goalie! How’s the boy, Chris?”

  “Listen, Nash, you may be a cop but in my opinion you’re a stupid, s.o.b. with a big effing mouth.”

  Dumbfounded Nash replied, “What the hell are you talking about?”

  Hearing the noise, Lieutenant Fuller cam
e out of his office and was surprised to see Chris Hayden standing there confronting Sergeant Nash.

  “Hi, Chris. How’s your brother? I haven’t seen—”

  Hayden interrupted him. “I’ve got to talk to you, Ken.” He walked past Nash and into the area behind the front desk where Fuller was standing. Jess followed him tentatively.

  “So talk. What is it?”

  Chris looked back at Nash as he said, “I want to know why nothing’s been done about Clare Harrison being missing? And how does this schmuck get away with saying the kind of things he does, especially to the girl’s father?”

  Trying to calm Chris down, Fuller said, “Why? Do you know her?”

  “Yes I know her. I’ve been taking her out. Oh, this is Jess, Jessica Bradford. She lives at the same sorority house as Clare. Jess, this is Ken Fuller.”

  “How do you do,” Ken said.

  “To tell you the truth,” Jess replied, “not very well. We’re really worried, and it doesn’t seem to be worrying anyone else.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t say that. Come on into my ofiice.” As they moved past him he called over to Sergeant Nash, “Sergeant, get me the file on the Harrison girl.”

  Woefully Nash, who looked as though he had been caught in a buzzsaw, dug through the papers on his desk.

  Inside Fuller’s office, after the introductions were performed Ken asked Chris what had happened.

  “Well, I don’t really know. That’s why I brought Jess along. She knows more than I do.”

  Ken turned to Jess and asked, “Okay, why don’t you tell me what you know and we’ll see if we can piece this thing together?”

  “All right. I’ll try. Last night we all celebrated a little at the house. Then Clare went up to her room to pack. That’s the last anyone saw her. Most of the girls have left for the holidays. The few of us that are left were to go over to one of the fraternity houses for a small party for underprivileged kids. Clare didn’t show up at breakfast, but then most of us eat at different times. Mrs. Mac, she’s the house mother, Mrs. MacHenry, went out. So she didn’t see her. Then Clare didn’t show up at the party. In the meantime her father came and was supposed to meet her at one o’clock outside the ‘frat’ house. He showed up but she didn’t. He went to our house and found her bag packed but no Clare. He came here with another of the girls and they reported it. So far she hasn’t returned to the house and no one has seen her. That’s it, I guess.”

  Lieutenant Fuller had followed her story carefully, making notes as she talked. Once or twice he looked over at Mrs. Quaife who was sitting silently listening to Jessica Bradford’s story.

  When Jess was finished he thought for a few minutes before he spoke. “Well, it may be nothing, probably is nothing, but I think that we had better do a search just to be on the safe side. There’s a park between the high school and Mrs. Quaife’s house, and it seems sensible to start there.” He looked over at Chris and added, “Now here’s what I want you to do.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  There they are again. And that man is there, too. The older one. What’s he doing here? I saw him inside with the old lady. They were on the floor together. Picking something up. Why doesn’t he go away? She doesn’t want to have anything to do with him. She’s mine now. Nasty Billy. He would spank you if he knew. Why doesn’t he go? Why don’t they all go away? Then maybe I’d be free. I feel sick again. I’m going to call. Why doesn’t someone stop me, why?

  Inside the house, oblivious of the stranger who prowled just outside and watched through the living room window Phyl was performing the introductions. Once Jess and Chris had met Mr. Harrison Chris told him what the police were planning to do. They all left the room together, Jess, Phyl, Chris and Mr. Harrison followed by Mrs. Mac who helped them into their coats in the hallway.

  “Girls, it’s terribly cold out!”

  “We won’t be very long, Mrs. Mac,” Jess said, adjusting her long scarf.

  As they went out the door Phyl called back to Mrs. MacHenry, “Have a look in on Barb, would you Mrs. Mac? She’s probably asleep but just see that she’s all right. Her asthma—”

  “Yes, dear. Now, for heaven’s sake, stay bundled up! No sense in coming down with pneumonia. And be careful. Stay together, all of you.”

  The door closed in front of her and she stood in the hall for a moment before she turned the lock and went back to the stairs that led to the second floor. Slowly she climbed them, telling herself that there seemed to be more steps every day. At the top she hesitated, then went directly to Barbara’s room.

  Inside she switched on the bedside lamp and looked down at the motionless girl. There was a bottle beside the lamp on the table and she poured a drink from it before setting about the task of undressing Barbara.

  As she removed the girl’s shoes she muttered, “God! You don’t know how well off you are.” Tossing the shoes on the floor she picked up the glass and took a quick swig and then turned her attention to Barbara’s clothes.

  The skirt was easy but she had to struggle to get the blouse off after unbuttoning it. “I’m telling you,” she said to no one in particular. “Hardly in the line of duty, undressing drunken broads. I must be the best goddamn house mother on campus. Come on, you little bitch, roll over. I’ll bet you aren’t this much trouble to those boys who . . . Come on.”

  Finally the blouse came off and she stopped for a moment, breathless, before rolling Barbara on her back. “If they were to give out the award for the best house mother, I’ll bet I’d get it, hands down. In a walk. No competition. Where’s that glass?”

  She finished what she had poured and looked back at Barbara, then lifted her up and slipped her arm underneath the girl’s shoulder. “What a slob! Twelve years I’ve been looking after girls like you and what has it gotten me? Tired feet and a tired back. And no gratitude at all!”

  She unfastened the bra from behind and let it slip awkwardly down Barbara’s shoulders, then one at a time she lifted the girl’s arms and took the straps over them so that all Barbara had on was her stockings and panties. She let the girl slip back down onto the bed, half crumpled into the fetal position. “Shit! What a dead weight. You’d think I’d at least get ‘house mother of the year’ or some-such. All right, Barb, if you insist I’ll have another.”

  She reached over and took the top from the bottle, brought it directly to her mouth, foregoing the glass. “Here’s to you, you drunken slob!”

  Sitting heavily on the bed she glanced around the room, the bottle still in her hand. “God, how can she drink that stuff! Give me sherry any day.”

  She sat for a while lost in a kind of reverie while Barbara snored beside her. At last she said, “Keep snoring, honey. It’s such a lovely sound. That’s the girl. It’ll really turn those boys on. Between your snoring and your dirty mouth you’ll be the most popular lay on campus. Boy, I should have been smart like my sister. She snored. But she married a man with money. Smart girl. Didn’t let him find that out, that she snored, until after she hooked him. Let’s have another drink.”

  The bottle was still in her hand but for some reason she reached and got the glass, poured some of the whiskey into it and held it aloft.

  “Happy days! Up the rebels, with a rope. Boy what a life I’d have. Florida every winter.” Leaning back she rested the glass on the area between Barbara’s shoulder and the small of her back. “Marry a man with money, and don’t let him know you snore, honey. Hey, that’s a rhyme!”

  Barbara stirred and tried to swat the chilly glass from her back. The motion awakened Mrs. Mac who quickly moved the glass away, finished its contents and replaced it on the table saying, “Sorry, honey. I know you need your beauty rest.”

  She rubbed the spot where the glass had been sitting and added, “It’s okay, honey. Mrs. Mac is here. She’ll take care of you. It’s okay. Hey, let’s have another drink.”

  The voice echoed through the woods from the bullhorn which Lieutenant Ken Fuller was holding in his hand. He was standing at th
e base of a statue and there were about fifty people crowded about him, plus two teams of hunting dogs and off to one side sat several snowmobiles.

  The voice sounded hollow and some of the words were lost as it died on the wind but the purpose and most of the words were clear: “Mrs. Quaife and Mr. Harrison have asked me to express their thanks to you for coming out on such a cold night to help.” Fuller paused to get his breath and looked around. Mr. Harrison, erect, his face a mask, stood nearby while Mrs. Quaife sat some yards away in a squad car, looking straight ahead fearfully, fighting back her emotions.

  Fuller continued through the bullhorn. “Now, Mrs. Quaife has told us that Janice would very likely have come through this park on her way home from school this afternoon, so the first thing we’re going to do is comb this park. We’ve got plenty of people, we’ve got dogs and we’ve got light.”

  He looked out over the crowd to make sure that his words were being understood and then he went on, “I’d like everyone to spread out evenly across the south edge here of the park, stay close to one another but far enough apart so that we don’t miss any place, and we’ll walk through slowly. Check every clump, ever tree and bush, every pile of snow. Don’t hurry, keep up a steady pace but don’t get ahead or behind the people on either side of you. Is that clear?”

  When there was a murmur of assent he added, “Don’t bunch up! The two dog teams will lead the way. Spread out behind them. Don’t get ahead or you’ll confuse them. Matt!” When an elderly policeman ambled forward Fuller said to him, “You and Carly and George go out on the flanks. Otherwise the fumes’ll mess up the dogs. Besides the snowmobiles will act as a boundary for us. Don’t go more than ten miles an hour or you won’t be any use.”

  Chris stood beside Jess rubbing her back and shoulders to help warm her up. She was, she knew, shivering as much from fear as from the cold, but his hands would give her a feeling of security as well as warmth that she needed at the moment very much.