Kids my age believe that life is fair, that there is justice in the world. We never think that someone we love could be hurt and no one would care, that no one would be punished.
Eric had talked so much about The Underground Railroad. That, too, was a million years ago in my perception. In those days, some people helped the runaway slaves. Some people hunted the humans who were trying to escape. I wonder which side I would have been on.
20
People who had probably never met Coach Russell demanded that the Columbus Police solve his murder, and now. They were afraid to go out at night. The usually calm and uninvolved citizens transformed into a rabble calling for justice. It was not clear toward whom this justice was to be directed, because evidently there were no actual suspects.
Many people changed their patterns. Fewer parents allowed their children to play on the summer baseball teams. Concerts at the Riverwalk were poorly attended.
No one was at all concerned about my aunt and her friends being the victims of gang violence. That was small potatoes compared to murder.
Interestingly enough, those closest to the coach remained mostly silent. Current and former members of the track team had little important information to contribute.
Sue Ellen and the ubiquitous Roxanne found a lot to say, however. Their comments were confined to the coach's sterling character, his great love for young people, and his twenty years in education. They did not appear to be giving the police much pressure about solving the crime. In interviews they appeared less outraged than strangers did.
One evening, after dinner, I asked my dad what he thought about the murder. "Do you think the murderer is long gone? Maybe he left town and will never be found."
"Well, I don't think it was done by some random criminal. It takes a lot of anger to kill another person with your bare hands."
I hadn't thought of that. In my mind, criminals were strangers.
"Yes, but everyone liked the coach. Who could do that?"
"Gertrude, I have no idea. Our lives are filled with irritation and annoyance. Road rage, jealousy, the resentment of just being trapped in a bad job, or a bad marriage, all of these sometimes make us furious." He took a drag from his cigarette and stared down at his slippers. "But, few people have enough fury inside them to do something so violent." He smiled at me and added, "No matter how much we are tempted."
I thought about Aunt Fleur telling me that mysteries have layers. There must be more to the story than I, or anyone, could piece together from the news.
Mom came into the room with a tumbler filled with red wine. The glow from Dad's reading lamp reflected in the glass. It almost looked as if the wine was illuminated from within, flickering on and off when she moved. I knew she had been drinking during dinner. She must not have stopped.
"What I think," continued Dad, "is that not only did the murderer know Coach Russell, but that someone, or even several people know more than they are telling. The police are not as bumbling as you might think, but they need leads, help. For some reason no one wants to talk to the police."
Mom listened quietly. "Everyone has secrets," she said.
21
Since her accident, I had been spending more time with Aunt Fleur. OK, I knew that technically she was a man, but to me she will always be a woman. I considered her to be wise.
"Aunt Fleur, do you think that everyone has secrets?"
"What on Earth makes you ask such a question?" She had returned to making her Accessorines. The table was once again strewn with bits of fabric and sequins. She held a strand of purple thread between her red lips, narrowing her eyes, straining to focus on the tiny needle she was threading.
"My mom said that everyone has secrets. I got the feeling that she was talking about something specific."
"That is most likely true." She tossed a ball of white stuffing to Jimmy-James. He batted it back to her with a lazy, uninterested motion. She had not let him outside since Michael-Ray was killed. I think he was beginning to get cabin fever.
"But," she said, "those secrets are never as horrible to others as people imagine that they are. Almost everyone's are about sex. People keep secrets about sex." Then she added, "And lies. People lie about sex."
"I don't know much about sex." I wish that I did, but it is apparent that this subject is destined to remain a mystery to me. "What sort of things?"
"Mostly, who they slept with. Sexual attraction is a strong force. We usually know who we are supposed to be attracted to, and how far we should go. So many times we are drawn to someone that we shouldn't be, or let our feelings get out of hand. Later, we may want to hide our actions, and our partners."
"Yeah, I know that I should go out with boys whose father has the right sort of job, and whose mother came from a family that my mom finds acceptable."
"That is exactly what I mean." She looked up from the tiny garment she was stitching. "I didn't ask to be attracted to boys. I never understood why I was so driven to dress like a woman. I have always been an embarrassment to my family. That is the major reason I left home so young."
"Why did you come back after all these years?"
"I guess I thought that all would be forgotten. My parents are both dead. I believed that most people would not remember a teenage boy who was bullied and made fun of. I was wrong. Memory in this place is like evolution. It is inherited from one generation to the next." She dropped her arm heavily against the table's surface with a clatter of her bangles.
I thought about her old boyfriend, James. She once told me that he was now married. "Aunt Fleur, do you think that James keeps you a secret from others?"
"I am sure of it. He married into a wealthy family and would have to be discreet. You might even have heard of him, Judge Sanders."
"Yes, I have heard that name."
"But, Truly, do not forget—this is a secret that you must keep. It could cause him a great many problems."
"Wouldn't you like to out him? Make him confess to your old romance?"
"Absolutely not. I want only the best for him." She squinted at the skirt she was hemming with tiny stitches of the purple thread, a bright contrast against hot pink felt. "He is a husband and a father now, well-known in the community. Anyway, what purpose would that serve? It isn't ever a good idea to be unkind. There is such a thing as karma." She looked up from her sewing: "However, Truly, there's a catch to secrets. They seldom stay secret forever."
"Your romance with James was so long ago, you probably don't even love him anymore. Does that secret even matter now?"
"Truly, you get smarter every day. We grow. We change."
"I didn't exactly get 'smarter.' I figured it out, because I just don't feel the same way about Eric as I did a couple of weeks ago."
"Why not?"
"I don't know. He is all worked up about slaves who have been dead for more than a hundred years, yet can't seem to muster any sympathy for people right here in Columbus."
She took a sip from the tea cup. There was a long silence, as though she were choosing her words very carefully. "I thought he was slightly distant when we met. I could tell that I made him uncomfortable."
"Yeah, that's true. But he never gave me a good reason. I guess there are folks he doesn't like—his old coach, you, and maybe me, too—at least at first. I wish I could understand what makes him tick."
"There is no real need to know why someone doesn't like us. It all goes back to what your mother said: we all have secrets." She stared into her empty cup, as if something fascinating was printed at the bottom. "What do you mean about not liking you 'at first'?"
"It's weird, really. Now he says he can't stop thinking about me. Aunt Fleur, I think that attraction charm really worked."
"I tried to warn you. Even the most innocent spell has power. Magic should be practiced with great caution." She stopped for a moment and added, "Every spell has an opposite reaction. If you do something hurtful, then it will come back to you . . . or to someone you love—usually more than
one time."
"I get that. I didn't do anything 'hurtful,' at least not to him. Um, can a spell be undone?"
"Possibly... Just one wish can change many things."
"I don't think my wishes are all that strong."
She went into the kitchen and came back holding the tea pot nestled in a crocheted cozy. She poured some slowly into each of our cups. "There are reversals. Most are more complicated than putting the magic in motion, especially since it was your spell to begin with. That confuses our spirit guides." She rustled around in the mess on the table. "You might try this. No guarantees." She selected a scrap of black felt and dropped some fragrant oils onto the cloth. "Now, Truly, do you have a pearl, or even a faux pearl?"
"I could probably find one."
"Wrap the bead in this cloth with some rosemary from the kitchen. Tie it with a red string. Tonight at midnight go outside and walk around the house backward. Repeat three times:
I now ask the favor of having the spell removed.
I understand to take back a spell means giving up something of my own.
To show my spirit is true and my intentions are good
I give this pearl from a necklace I own.
This is my will, so mote it be.
Then burn the cloth. Make sure you can see the moon while it burns."
I took the cloth and went home.
22
Mom made tuna casserole that night. I'm not sure what is in it besides a can of tuna, cream of mushroom soup, and peas, all covered with crumbled crackers. It is one of her staples.
"Mom, do we have any rosemary?"
"You mean the herb?" She isn't exactly a gourmet chef. "I'm not sure. Maybe."
That night, around 11:30, I fumbled around in the kitchen, looking for the rosemary. Surprisingly, I actually found a small sprig. The jar had an expiration date from four years ago, but it was the right herb. I didn't have a pearl-colored bead, but I did stumble upon a pearlish button buried deep in the junk drawer in the kitchen. I placed these things into the cloth and secured it with a red rubber band.
Outside, a lovely half-moon hung high over Columbus. It looked like it had been deliberately suspended just over our roof. I began walking backward around the house, saying,
"I now want the spell removed.
To show I mean well,
I give this button from the junk drawer.
This is my will—make it so."
I knew these weren't the exact words my aunt had given me, but I think they were close. Next time, I will ask her to write them down.
I went over to the barbeque pit and set the bundle on fire. It took a few seconds for the flame to completely catch. When it did, the package flared up in blue and gold flashes. That was probably a good sign.
It hadn't completely burned up when my folks came running out of the house in their rumpled robes. Needless to say, this took me totally by surprise. It never occurred to me that they would see me from their bedroom window.
"Gertrude! Gertrude! What are you doing?" Thin wisps of white smoke curled toward the moon. You would think I had just set off a bomb.
"Just burning some rosemary." Yeah, that was believable.
"Get inside, young lady!" Mom said, grabbing my shirt. Dad went over to the barbeque pit and stirred the ashes into the charcoal briquettes.
We sat at the dining room table. They blinked under the glare of the hanging fixture. "We saw you walking backward, then burning something. What are you up to?" I couldn't tell if Mom was more angry or confused.
"Mom, Dad, everyone has secrets. Why can't I have some, too?" OK, not the best answer when in trouble.
"You live under our roof, young lady," said Dad. "We have a right to know. We have to protect you."
"Protect me from what? I never get into trouble. I don't know any criminals. Dad, you told me yourself that the murderer probably knew Coach Russell. I feel pretty safe."
"And what about Fleur? Was she safe?"
"I was in my own yard. What could happen?"
They exchanged glances. "Lots," said my mother, "lots more could happen." She went into the kitchen and came out with two glasses of wine.
"You guys are overprotective. Why is that? I just don't get it." I went into the kitchen and got a jelly jar from the cabinet. "I am almost sixteen; can't I have some wine, too?"
Dad pulled the box from the refrigerator and poured some into my glass. I took a big sip. They both smiled when I scrunched up my face. The second sip was better.
They were quiet, not even trying to answer my questions, so I kept talking. "You don't approve of Eric, but his father was good enough for you to date, Mom. You act like Clementine is a horrible person who could never be friends with Grandpa Hyrum. Yet it is clear that they are friends, and have been for many years. I need to understand these things!"
"Gertrude, I don't think you are old enough to understand," said Mom.
"Some things belong between adults only," Dad added.
"How will I ever know who to trust, who to date, if you don't explain things to me?"
They were on their second glasses of Pinot. The late hour, the wine, maybe even my persistence, had worn them down. Dad took a deep breath. "This is the story." Mom put her hand on his on his wrist. "No, Tommy, let me tell it."
She looked at me without smiling. "Gertrude, I was a senior in high school when Hunter and I began dating. He had already developed an interest in cars. He was always working on them, fixing them for other people, making all kinds of deals on parts. Those old cars gave us a freedom we had never experienced. We drove all over the county, looking at the moon, speeding, making out."
She finished her wine and poured more into our glasses. "Once or twice, we went too far. I loved him, thought we would be together forever. I was wrong. He got tired of me. Pretty soon he was dating Ruby. I can't tell you how much I detested her."
"I guess everyone has a broken heart at that age," I offered. "Is that any reason to hate him now, or hate his son?"
"I suppose not. Except that I couldn't just get over it. I was pregnant."
"MO-OM, did he know?"
"I didn't tell him. Maybe he figured it out, but it made no difference. He was in love with Ruby, and I was out of the picture."
My dad picked up the story. "I knew your mom, but I don't think she had noticed me. One day I was walking along the river, and saw her sitting alone on a bench. I could tell she had been crying, so I sat next to her and asked what was wrong."
"I just opened up to him..." Mom seemed ready to talk again. "He was so kind. I told him the horrible secret that I was 'in trouble'."
"I had figured out that she was pretty close to jumping into the river. So I said, 'You won't be in trouble if you get married. I will marry you.'"
"But you didn't even know each other, and just like that, you decided to get married?"
"It wasn't quite that easy," she said. "Our parents had to be convinced. We were forced to tell them about my condition. They assumed that Tommy was the father. He never told them any different."
"Oh, my goodness! So you were pregnant with me when you got married. Does that make Eric my half-brother? No wonder you didn't want us dating."
"Hold on there, young lady." Dad held up his hand. "You are one hundred percent my daughter."
"Yes, Gertrude, I had a miscarriage about a month after we married. I told your father that he didn't have to stay with me. He said he would think about it. He never left. Eventually, I was expecting again. He was so happy, and we are still together, with you."
The sun threw a wide beam across the floor. Mom yawned. "Let's go to bed," she said. "It's Sunday morning."
23
We all got up around noon on Sunday. I didn't feel refreshed, and I doubt if my parents did either.
I went onto the porch to grab the Dispatch. When I unfolded it, the headline struck me as violently as a slap. Johnny D., the father of Skip, had made some horrible accusations. He said that Coach Russell had sexually abused
boys on the track teams, all the track teams, during his years in the school system. That, he claimed, was the reason his son committed suicide.
Suddenly, weird things began to make sense. The overnight "parties," the costly "gifts," the reason that a married man would have a separate and secret home away from his wife—all fell into place. I remembered how Eric had said Coach was "mean." At that time, Aunt Fleur suggested that "mean" was not the whole story. Once again, I was reminded how wise she is. The coach was much more than just "mean." He was a vile predator.
Evidently, Johnny D.'s accusations opened a flood of other claims. Boys who had attended classes years back came forward to condemn the dead man.
"Dad," I asked, "do you think this could be true? Why would they say these awful things now? Why not sooner?"
"Gertrude, I do think it could be true. If only one boy had accused the coach, or even two or three, there may be some question. But so many... It's very incriminating."
"I still don't get it. Why would they wait so long to tell something so horrible?"
"I don't know. You would have to ask them."
I dialed Eric's number. He must know as much about this as anyone. The machine clicked on three times. On my fourth try, the line was busy. I suspect that he, or his father, had taken it off the hook.
Mom and Dad read the paper quietly that morning. I'm not sure that they understood it anymore than I did.
Sue Ellen Russell was quoted as saying that the charges were completely false. It was horrendous to speak so badly of the dead. These hoodlums must have some atrocious vendetta against her wonderful husband, Lewis Russell.
I headed over to Aunt Fleur's house, knowing she could explain it to me. There were several police cars in front of her house. She emerged, with a policeman on each side of her. Her hands were bound in handcuffs, and she was crying.
Witch Ball Page 7
