Dodging and Burning

by John Copenhaver

  To Mom, because without you, there would be no Ceola, no Bunny.

  Why print this picture anyway of three American boys, dead on an alien shore? The reason is that words are never enough. The eye sees. The mind knows. The heart feels. But the words do not exist to make us see, or know, or feel what it is like, what actually happens …

  —Life magazine, September 20, 1943

  PART I

  February 6, 2000

  Washington, DC

  Dear Ceola,

  I thought I might begin this letter by reminding you who I was, but that would be pure pretense, and I know you wouldn’t stand for it. I would like to say I’m writing to reminisce, to recall those “halcyon days” of our childhood in Royal Oak, but knowing you as I once did, I suspect you would prefer I just get to the point.

  It’s been fifty-five years, but I still recall your last words to me and the terrible look on your face. Your eyes were bright and wet, and you had blood on your lips—no longer the face of a girl, but something fiercer and finer—and you said to me, “Bunny, you’re a murderer.” To this day, I believe it. I really do.

  Someone, it seems, wants me to remember that time in our lives. Two days ago I received one of Jay Greenwood’s photos of Lily. It arrived in the mail with no return address, no clue to its origin. I need to know—did you send it to me? If you didn’t, do you know who did?

  I must admit, as horrible as it is to say, I still see beauty in the photo—or perhaps allure. That’s really the word for it. I’m looking through his eyes when I’m looking at her. It’s what he saw in her poor broken body that makes it extraordinary.

  If you are willing, please write to me or phone me as soon as you can. I’ve enclosed my home address and number. I would be so grateful to you.

  With sincerest regards,

  Bunny Prescott

  1

  CEOLA

  There we are, Robbie, at the train station seeing you off. It’s July 1943, and you’re headed to Bainbridge, Maryland, for basic training. Mama, in that dim way of hers, suggested Papa shoot it. She’s clutching you tight to her, her arm around you, her fingers squeezing you through your striped shirt, digging into the cotton and pulling the fabric tight across your body. You’re staring at the camera with a blank, hot look on your face, your anger boring back through the lens and piercing the surface of the photo. And I’m standing away from you a little, my small hand around two of your lanky fingers, like I’m trying not to let go.

  I’m sure I was sad at the time, but all I remember is your anger at Papa, at Mama, and—although I hope it wasn’t true—at me. Two days before, you came to me with that same look: eyes bright, cheeks flushed, turbulence roiling underneath. You asked me if I wanted to go to Hersh’s, because the new Dime Detective might be in. I said yes, punching as much good cheer into my reply as I could muster. We made our way to town, mostly in silence. You were withdrawn, your hands buried deep in your pockets and your shoulders high and tight. Like a barometer before a storm, I could feel the pressure of your emotion. I wanted to touch you, but I didn’t dare. Even at that age, barely ten, I could tell how distraught you were.

  Our narrow wooded road gave way to open stretches of rolling farmland and then the paved streets of Royal Oak. The town, just a cluster of well-appointed brick buildings, fanned out from the county courthouse with its impressive columns and wide steps. The First Presbyterian Church, the tallest building in town, sat across from it, both its counterpart and its challenger: God’s law versus man’s. As we passed by, the American flag over the courthouse lawn swished against its pole and fluttered a weak salute.

  We went to Hersh’s Pharmacy and found only old issues in the magazine stand. You cursed at it several times. The buxom models, grim politicians, and handsome soldiers on the covers of Life, Harper’s Bazaar, and Photoplay all seemed a little startled and flustered to me, like they didn’t understand why you were angry at them. It wasn’t like you to be so short tempered.

  We turned to the counter for a consolation prize, two vanilla malts. With our drinks in hand, we sat on the bench outside, sucked on our straws, and nursed our disappointment, watching an afternoon thunderstorm edge its way over the mountain ridge. You’d cooled off, but you remained distant, fidgety. I began to believe your mood wasn’t so much about the war as about me.

  “Cee,” you said, after tossing your empty cup in the trash and sitting beside me again, “I want to tell you that I …” You looked out across Main Street, studying something, maybe our blurry reflections in Brickles’ wide windows, or the chipped plaster mannequins staring back through the plate glass. “There’s something I need to …”

  You looked at me, your face strained, your left knee bouncing up and down. “Jesus Christ,” you said, shaking your head and standing again.

  “What?” I said, feeling the swell of the rich ice cream in my stomach.

  You rubbed your forehead, smoothed your hair back, and gave me a long hard stare, like I was the Sphinx and had just told you some impossible riddle. “It doesn’t matter. Forget it,” you said, and began to pace the sidewalk.

  “What is it?” My stomach gurgled.

  “Just forget it.”

  “Come on!”

  You stopped and gave me a hot look—part agitation, part humiliation, and part fear. Suddenly your eyes lost their intensity and your expression caved in. Something was very wrong, but I had no way to nudge it out of you. At least that’s what I recall now, as I hold this photo of you, Mama, and me.

  “Let’s go,” you said, turning to the street. “This was a waste of time.”

  As we made our way home, I remained silent. You walked loosely and quickly, leaving me a few paces behind you, struggling to catch up. I felt like an afterthought, like I was being punished, making me wonder if I’d somehow been to blame for your fickle mood. The air grew heavier, closer, and by the time we reached our driveway, my head was throbbing and my stomach was doing somersaults. I took a step or two toward the house and heaved, and out came my malt: a frothy white streak across the dirt, soon to be washed away by the storm. You guided me down the drive, and as we walked together, your arm loose around me, I felt like we were moving in different directions, that by the time we reached the porch, you’d be gone.

  Two days later, the train swept you away for real, and all I had was this photo. It has hung above my desk for years, shaping how I remember you; that look on your face is what I think of when I remember the days leading up to you leaving. Photos have that power. Photographers have that power, whether they realize it or not. Papa didn’t understand that, of course. He was just commemorating you at the threshold of manhood—a proud occasion, in his view of things.

  Unlike Papa, Jay Greenwood did know what he was doing when, two years later, after you went to war, after you died in the Pacific, he showed us the photos of that murdered woman. Like any good photographer, he saw everyone and everything as open to interpretation, as in need of interpretation. Even his own demons, God love him.

  It all began on another summer day not so different from the day you boarded the train. The weather was swampy and thick, and I was stretched across that slab of cool limestone near the Greenwoods’ pond—you know the spot, near the weeping willows, a little down the hill from the Greenwood house—swatting mosquitos with my bare feet, reading “A Date with Death” for the umpteenth time.

  I’d just come across the lines, She heard the door open behind her and felt someone approach. A man., when a shadow flitted over me. I sat up like a spooked rabbit.

  Jay loomed above me, his long bangs swept forward, shading his eyes, his strong chin tilted down, and the collar of his loose linen shirt twisted out of shape, catching the sunlight behind him. He seemed
vague and uneasy, like he couldn’t quite maintain his balance and needed his cane. He was only twenty, but he seemed so much older.

  The war had done that to him, knocked him off-center, but I didn’t fully understand that at the time. That spring, he’d returned to Royal Oak, honorably discharged from the army because of his wounded leg and physically changed, a bony and blue-veined ghost of himself. His civilian clothes were loose around him, his hands always shoved deep in his pockets and his posture bent, like he was avoiding looking directly at anyone. With a little rest, some decent food, and sunshine, he’d begun to resemble the young man who’d been your best friend, if skewed.

  He had started coming around earlier in the summer, when I was outside escaping Mama and Papa’s den of despair. He’d talk about you and tell me about the fun things you did, like exploring the old quarry, or fishing in the lake, or sneaking into the Sunday matinee at the Lincoln to see creature features or detective dramas. He’d tell me what you were like—how you were funnier than most people realized, or how you could quote movies after seeing them only once, or how you could make up ghost stories on demand. Of course, I already knew most of those things, but I liked hearing him tell them. It brought you back, if only for a moment or two. We had even taken to reading your pulp magazines together. We pored over Bradbury and Wellman tales and whatever was in Dime Detective and Weird Stories that month—and of course, there was “A Date with Death.” He liked it more than I did.

  “I just saw something, Cee,” he said, ending the awkward, wavering moment. “I’ve witnessed something, something terrible.” He stepped into the sun and offered me his hand. His blue eyes lit up, glossy and intense. He looked shaken.

  “What was it?” I said, as I took his hand. He faltered a little—in pain from his injured leg—then pulled me to my feet.

  I softened my voice, a little guilty that I’d been the cause of his pain. “What’d you see? Are you going to tell me?”

  “I’ll tell you when we get there,” he replied, standing straight again, seeming to ignore his leg. “Let’s go.”

  We crossed his family’s overgrown pasture, as forgotten and unkempt as their huge farmhouse, tore through a haze of pesky gnats, and hoofed it to the oak-lined drive that curved up the hill to his home. When Jay and I were only several yards from the drive, he stopped short and tilted his ear up. I heard it, too: the faint grind of a motor. A sedan rounded the bend and barreled down the road, kicking up streamers of dust, its windshield glinting in the sun. He grabbed my arm and we rushed toward a large oak, knobby and twisted. Before we could duck behind it, a gloved hand popped out the driver’s side and waved us down.

  Jay dropped his shoulders and, through his teeth, hissed, “Jesus Christ.”

  The dark green, chrome-trimmed Oldsmobile rolled to a stop a few yards away. The engine idled and died, and Bunny Prescott, in all her glory, leaned out the window.

  “Hello, you two!” she called, removing tortoiseshell sunglasses with pitch-black lenses and squinting at us. I knew what she was thinking—Ceola Bliss is such a tomboy. Look at those dirty cheeks. That grass-stained sailor’s middy. That sloppy ponytail. I wasn’t a bit interested being girly, but all the same, she made me feel dumpy.

  “I apologize for all the dust,” she said, “but Mother has sent me on a very important errand. I’m to deliver not one but two pies to you, Jay. A cherry-vanilla thing she made this morning. Really, it’s quite good. And the lemon pie—your favorite.”

  I could smell the warm crusts wrapped in cheesecloth on the seat beside her.

  “Leave them with Grandma,” Jay said, a rough edge to his voice.

  “Oh, do I have to? She hates me. She really does. Can’t I just leave them with you? Besides, they’re for you, not her.”

  “We’re in a hurry,” I said. “We’re on our way to see something.” I wanted her to go away. Vanish.

  “Oh, all right.” She frowned, then leaned toward us, parting her waxy lined lips. “What sort of something?”

  “Got to go,” he said, taking my arm and spinning me around. My feet sent a little cloud of dust across the road. Over his shoulder, he tossed out, “Tell your mother thank you for the pies.”

  “Hold on!” The heavy door of the Olds swung wide, its hinges squeaking and popping with the weight of the steel. Bunny’s footsteps crunched on the gravel behind us, moving toward us with a determined gait.

  Despite Jay’s bum leg, we kept up our pace, but it didn’t matter. When I felt Bunny’s grip on my elbow, I whirled around like I’d been stung by a wasp.

  “What are you up to?” she demanded to know.

  “Damn it, Bunny,” he said, his face flushed. “Just leave us alone.”

  “Why are you being so cagey? Both of you?”

  “You really don’t want to know.”

  “Of course I do.”

  “You don’t.”

  “Jay.”

  They regarded each other for a moment. Tinged with sweat, her silky makeup glowed in the midday sun, and even as a rush of humid air swept across the drive and rattled the branches above us, her chestnut curls didn’t budge. With that practiced posture of hers, not to mention the professional tailoring of her strawberry-red halter dress, she could’ve passed for one of those mannequins in the windows at Brickles’. I wanted to topple her over to see if she’d look as polished and manicured on the ground. If I’d known then how much you hated her, Robbie, I would’ve done it.

  All summer long, she had been our shadow, wagging her finger at Jay and me and chirping criticisms. She would find us sitting out in front of the courthouse having ice cream, or perched on the library steps reading, or getting malts at Hersh’s. “You two,” she’d say, “do nothing but lay around, soak in sunshine, and use up oxygen.” She thought she was being funny, I guess.

  She even gave us a hard time for liking pulp stories. She’d creep up behind us while we were reading and say something like, “That looks positively grisly. Your father and mother wouldn’t approve of that sort of thing, Ceola.” Jay fended her off by explaining that I knew the difference between fiction and real life. He always blocked her attacks, which I was grateful for, but I wasn’t sure how he really felt about her. I knew they’d met up several times that summer and hadn’t included me.

  Jay broke eye contact with her and glanced around, concerned, it seemed, that the trees and the meadow grass might be listening in. He said, “You really want to know?”

  “That’s why I’m asking,” she said.

  His eyes shone. An impulse was emerging, pushing itself out. I’d seen film stars have the same dazed look moments before they blurted out declarations of love or admitted guilty secrets. I thought of Mary Astor’s pale cheeks and pleading eyes as Bogart pressed a confession out of her in The Maltese Falcon.

  Jay took a deep breath and said, “I’m a witness to a murder.” In a whisper, he added, “At least, I think I am.”

  I took a step back, mouth open, speechless.

  “What?” Bunny said, startled into a laugh. “You’re joking, right?”

  “I found her body in the woods, badly beaten.” He straightened his back and frowned at her.

  She cocked her head to the side. “Are you serious?”

  His still eyes and straight lips told us he was. “I’m not a witness to the act itself,” he explained, cupping his elbows in his hands, as if a chill had run through him, “but I was going to meet her to take her photo. Her name’s Lily—Lily Williams, I think—and she lives just over the mountain in Jitters Gap. I don’t know her, not really.”

  “Where were you meeting her?” Bunny asked.

  “You know the spot, where we picnicked a few months ago.” Again, he made a show of studying the field and the edge of the forest behind us.

  “You should report it to the police,” she said, narrowing her gaze at him. “That’s what’s done in situations like this.”

  He shook his head. “It’s too risky.”

  “How’s that?”


  “The police treat witnesses like they’re suspects. I don’t want them to come calling at the house. I know what they think of Grandma.”

  “When she waves her gun at the neighbors on a regular basis, what can you expect?”

  “That’s my point. They’ll say, ‘That grandson of crazy, drunk Letitia Greenwood—he must be even crazier and drunker than she is.’”

  “I don’t think they’ll say—”

  “That’s not all,” he interrupted, glancing to the ground.

  She crossed her arms. “What else?”

  “I dropped my camera, not far from the clearing. I heard something in the woods, maybe just a deer or something, but it startled me and I ran. I snagged the strap on a branch, and it yanked it off.”

  “Is that why you’ve been looking around?” I said. “You’re worried it wasn’t a deer.”

  He nodded. “We need to go back.” He glanced at Bunny, who gave him a stony, challenging stare. “I’m sure whoever killed Lily was long gone by the time I found her. I’m just being careful, that’s all.”

  “Okay,” Bunny said. “You’ve completely baffled me. Why—even for a second—would you consider taking Ceola with you?”

  “She understands these sorts of things.” He flashed a smile at me, and I smiled back. “We’ve been reading about them all summer. In Robbie’s magazines.” He cleared his throat and added, “I didn’t want to go back alone, Bunny. Would you?”

  She mulled it over, blushing slightly. “I see,” she said with surprising tenderness.

  I was relieved at first, glad that she seemed to understand, but her dark eyes lingered on him too long. Desire surfaced through layers of makeup. My stomach did a nervous flip-flop, and I blurted out, “Are we going to investigate the scene of the crime or not?” I emphasized “the scene of the crime.” I wanted Jay to know I really knew the lingo, that I was taking him seriously.

  “I certainly hope not,” Bunny said without much force.