Cicada Spring

by Christian Galacar

  Gaines didn’t say anything at first, only leaned down, picked up his hat off the waiting room chair and absently ran his fingers along the brim. Finally, he widened his stance, folding his arms across his chest. He glanced back at Julie and said, “I have no idea. But that’s what the girl says. And that’s all we have so far. As hard as it might be to hear, I have to consider it. But this stays here for now, okay? I need to figure out how to handle this.” He replaced his hat on his head and turned to Dr. Hornsby. “And you agree with all this? With what Julie’s said? Her assessment?”

  “Yes. As I said before, Sheriff, Julie is quite capable of doing her job. I agree with her findings.”

  Dr. Hornsby had grown cold toward Gaines since their escalating exchange a few moments before. But Gaines understood it: if Creed Hornsby ever showed up at the sheriff’s station and tried to tell him how to do his job, Gaines imagined he might be ticked off too.

  “Can I get a copy of that report?” Gaines asked.

  “Yes, of course. Might be a few days, though. It won’t be complete until those tests results come back.”

  “Not a problem. I appreciate it. Give me a call if you think of anything I should know.”

  “Yours will be the first number I dial,” Dr. Hornsby said. “Now, are we all done here? It’s almost ten o’clock—I’d like to get home.”

  “I think so.” Gaines looked at Catherine. She was leaning against the wall, looking exhausted. “Yes, that should do it for now. I’ll call if I have any more questions.”

  “Okay,” Dr. Hornsby said, putting his hands into the pockets of his lab coat. He turned to Catherine. “Deputy, it’s always a pleasure.”

  Catherine came away from the wall and yawned. “Excuse me,” she said, and held a hand to her mouth. “Likewise, Creed. Say hello to your wife for me.” She looked at Gaines. “I’ll be in the cruiser, Cal. Try to be quick, I need to get some sleep. I have to be at the station in five hours. Night, Julie.”

  “Take care,” Julie said.

  Catherine left the waiting room and walked out into the parking lot.

  Julie excused herself, disappearing down the hall back toward the exam rooms. Sheriff Gaines and Dr. Hornsby were alone. Their eyes caught for a moment, but they both broke away. Gaines wanted to ask the doctor if he thought that perhaps Kara was lying about Harry Bennett being the perpetrator. He wanted to ask and find out that he wasn’t alone in his thinking. It would provide some assurance that he wasn’t completely terrible for entertaining such a notion if another respected member of the community also had doubt. But he could not bring the words to his lips, the same way he had not been able to flat-out ask Kara’s father the same thing. He wondered whether it was out of fear or respect that he didn’t ask. He wasn’t really sure it mattered, though. “Goodnight, Creed. We’ll be in touch,” Gaines said, and turned to walk away. He stopped. “And sorry if I came across as an asshole. I didn’t mean anything by it. I hope you understand.”

  Dr. Hornsby smiled politely—no eyes, flat lips. “Don’t worry about it. You’re in a tough spot, I can see that,” he said, and walked Gaines to the door. “Listen, it’s a damn shame what’s happened to that girl, it really is. I know that, and you know that. But don’t forget where you live, Calvin. Something like this can tear a small town like Heartsridge in half. Just keep that in mind. People protect their own. It’s human nature. Take that any way you like.”

  Gaines didn’t respond. He wasn’t quite sure what the doctor was talking about. The whole thing sounded so obviously cryptic. People protect their own. What the hell did that even mean? Gaines tipped his hat, nodded politely, and walked out into the night.

  In the car, Catherine was already asleep. Seeing her brought a familiar weight to Gaines’s own eyes. He was exhausted. Thoughts of home filled his mind—his bed, his wife, holding her as he drifted off to sleep, making love. He thought of an ice-cold beer and a hot shower. He thought of Kara Price and Harry Bennett, and his chest tightened. He thought of his daughter. And suddenly, something inside him warned that this was only the beginning of something much larger, only the first of many tired nights to come. But he shook the feeling away, closing his eyes hard. The thoughts ceased.

  When his mind was clear, Gaines started the car. He reached for the radio but stopped himself when he glanced over at Catherine sleeping beside him. No music tonight. He would wake her once he pulled up to her house. They could discuss the case later. For now, she could sleep. For now, he would drive in silence. And that was just fine with him.

  People protect their own.

  CHAPTER 8

  It was almost quarter to eleven by the time Gaines walked in through his front door. The lights in the house were off. He sat down on the bench in the front hall, unlacing his boots and kicking them off one at a time. He removed his hat and hung it on a hook beside the door. “Home sweet home,” he whispered, and walked into the kitchen. The hum of the refrigerator was a lonely sound in the darkness, especially after the day he’d had. He flicked on the light switch. There was a note on the table. He picked it up. It read: DINNER IN THE FRIDGE. PIZZA! TOO TIRED TO WAIT UP. XOXO.

  Gaines smiled. He was finally where he wanted to be. The stress of his job rarely followed him home, and on the off chance that it did, he had ways of quelling it. He opened the fridge, bent down, and pulled out a beer. He saw the plate of cold pizza but passed it over. He had no appetite. He cracked the beer, draining half the can down his gullet. It was cold and made his throat sting, but it was a good feeling. He set the can down, unbuttoned his uniform, and hung it off the back of one of the kitchen chairs. There were a few pieces of mail. He flipped through them. Nothing important. Then Gaines picked up the half-drunk beer, shut off the light, and walked upstairs, leaving his day, Harry Bennett, and Kara Price all behind him in the darkness of the empty kitchen. In the morning they would still be there, waiting for him. But for now, he needed them gone.

  The door to his daughter’s room was open when he got to the top of the stairs. He saw the bright pink sign—MADDIE’S ROOM, PARENTS BEWEAR—hanging on the door. It was the only colorful thing in the dull twilight of the hallway. He stopped and looked at it for a moment, staring at the crooked handwriting and the misspelled word: BEWEAR. He grinned at the sight of it. He remembered the day she’d made it, a rainy weekend about six years ago. His wife, Linn, had come down with the flu and he’d taken the day off to take care of her. Maddie, who was only about nine at the time, had spent the morning cleaning her room, not without ample protest, of course. After she was finished she appeared in the kitchen doorway clutching a pink sheet of construction paper. Gaines recalled the look of determination that’d been in her eyes. “I want to make a sign,” Maddie had declared. “I want to make a sign so people know to stay out of my room.” He had only been able to smile. The idea of explaining to a nine-year-old that he in fact owned all the rooms in the house seemed a little mean spirited. She seemed excited about the whole thing, anyway, and he hadn’t wanted to take that from her. “Okay,” he’d said, and got her the box of markers from above the fridge. “You make it and I’ll hang it. Deal?” There was a cute smile, and she agreed to the terms.

  He left her alone with the paper and the markers at the kitchen table while he went upstairs to check on Linn. By the time he’d returned, Maddie was nearly done. “Look,” she’d said, and turned around in her chair, holding up her sign. “This means you, Dad.” That was when he noticed she’d misspelled beware. But he hadn’t had the heart to tell her. He would someday, but not that day. Not then. Not when it was raining outside. Not when Linn was sick upstairs. Not when his daughter was so proud. Not that weekend.

  Gaines reached out and touched the sign. It was curled around the edges now, most of the lettering had faded, but she’d never taken it down, and that meant something. He wondered if she remembered that day the way he did.

  He pushed the door open a few inches and leaned in, sipping his beer and watching his daughter sleep. She was f
ifteen now. She’d grown up so fast, was in high school now. She was lying on her back and breathing softly, her leg hanging out from under the comforter. Gaines heard the squeak of his bedroom door opening behind him but did not turn around. He knew what came next. There were a few soft footsteps and then a warm body pressed against his back. A hand reached around his waist, rubbing his ribs. Then out of the corner of his eye he saw his wife’s face lean forward and rest on his shoulder. “Hi, sweetie,” she said.

  “Did I wake you?” Gaines asked quietly. They were both watching Maddie sleep now. “I tried to be quiet.”

  “No, I was reading.”

  “Good.” Gaines turned, bent down, and gave Linn a kiss on the top of her head. Her hair smelled of vanilla. “I thought Maddie was going to be at a friend’s tonight.”

  “She didn’t feel well. Came home early.” Linn brushed a strand of hair away from her forehead, tucking it behind her ear.

  “Everything okay?” Gaines turned in the doorway to face Linn. A blade of light from their bedroom illuminated the side of her face.

  “Yeah. I think she was just tired,” said Linn. “We made some pizzas and watched a movie. I left you some in the fridge.”

  “I know. I saw your note. Thanks, hon.” Gaines smiled. “Anything I’d like?”

  “Just cheese and veggie.”

  Gaines laughed gently. There were a few things he believed initially attracted him to Linn when they’d first met: one was her intense, steel-blue eyes; and the other was her penchant for easy humor—put simply, the woman loved any chance to make a lame joke. “I meant the movie,” he said.

  “I know,” Linn said, smiling with a goofy look. “We watched my favorite: Gone with the Wind.”

  Gaines sniffed and grinned. “You actually got her to sit through that?”

  Linn brought two fingers to her mouth, pretending to smoke a cigarette. “Every second, sweetheart,” she said in her best Bogart impression.

  “Great, now you can both quote it at the dinner table.” He shook his head and laughed softly.

  “That was the plan,” she said. “Everything okay at work?”

  Gaines nodded and rubbed the back of his neck. “Can we talk about it later? I’ve had just about enough for one day.”

  “Of course, sweetie.” Linn pushed her face against his arm and gave it a kiss. “Let’s see if we can’t help you relax,” she said, taking his hand, turning, and walking toward their room.

  Linn drew her husband a bath. He slipped in and she massaged his shoulders. His chest. His stomach. Then she reached down into the water and gripped him in her hand. He groaned slightly and let out a sigh in the form of a laugh. Then she kissed his neck and he was hard.

  “C’mon,” Linn whispered into his ear.

  Gaines pushed himself up and out of the water. She ran her hands down his muscled arms and then draped his bathrobe over his shoulders. Dripping wet, he held his wife’s hand as she led him back to their bed. She lay down on her back and beckoned to him. He went to her. And when he finally tasted her lips and pushed himself into her slick flesh, he felt everything that wasn’t right in his life, everything that wasn’t right in the world, melt away. He was finally home, where he wanted to be. For now, Harry Bennett and Kara Price were nothing but a distant thought.

  CHAPTER 9

  The following day, Gaines took his family to church, as he did every Sunday. And while his wife and daughter listened to the sermon, he prayed silently for God to provide guidance on what he should do. No answer came.

  Afterward, he called Catherine at the station and told her he would be taking the rest of the day off. He told her to leave the Kara Price case alone until Monday. She was reluctant, but agreed.

  Gaines spent the rest of the day up at Baker’s Pond, searching the area for anything to corroborate Kara’s story.

  He found nothing.

  ———

  David and Ellie Price tried to go about their day as if everything were fine, but their eyes were always watching the phone, waiting for it to ring, waiting for some update on what was being done about their daughter’s assault.

  No call came.

  ———

  Harry Bennett went fishing and washed his car.

  ———

  Kara Price spent the day in her room, staring up at the ceiling, running her tongue over the cut on her lip, pretending to sleep whenever her parents came to check on her—especially her father.

  ———

  And ten miles away in Greenfield, a man walking his dog in the state park off Interstate 91 found the body of a young man who’d been shot three times and wrapped in a tarp. The Monday papers would name it the fourth murder in a string of recent killings. The authorities finally decided the crimes were connected, attributing them to a serial killer they were referring to as The Highway Hunter.

  CHAPTER 10

  Something electric and new filled the air of Heartsridge, Massachusetts, on Monday. The cicadas, having already emerged from the ground the week before and molted, had taken to the trees and started to sing their springtime love song. It was an endless droning sound, a low hum with an underlying high-pitched chirping. Some found it to be a pleasant sound—perhaps because of what it represented: the continuation of life (simply put, sex)—but Harry Bennett was not one of those people. And as he stood on his front porch drinking the day’s first cup of coffee, looking out over his front lawn, he imagined that if he listened closely enough he could hear each individual bug mocking him with its obstreperous mating call.

  “I should cut every last one of these goddamn trees down,” he muttered. “Then where would you go?” He smiled and took a sip of coffee.

  “Been a while since I heard that sound,” a tired voice said from behind him. “God, last time I did I was in my thirties.” Harry turned and saw his wife, Allison, standing in the doorway nursing a mug of coffee and smoking a cigarette. She was obscured by the metal screen, which made her form look hazy, like an old newspaper print. But her white bathrobe stood out, offering a sharper outline of her body. She was a tall, full-figured woman with a soft, round face. Green eyes and a head of cascading deep red hair that flowed down to her shoulders like silk flames. She was also the daughter of Mark Warren, owner of Bentley Warren Gravel, where Harry had worked for twenty years before setting out on his own and starting Bennett Trucking and Hauling.

  Allison took a long drag off her menthol Moore, the end glowing orange behind the screen. She exhaled a jet of smoke and it drifted outside, lost in the morning air.

  Harry turned back, gazing out over the front lawn in silence. He hated that she smoked. He thought it looked trashy.

  “And don’t you dare think about touching those trees,” Allison continued. “I heard what you said when you didn’t know I was watching. My grandfather planted these before you were even born.”

  Harry turned his head toward her, snorting disdainfully. “Good for him, Ali. A real Johnny Appleseed.”

  “Johnny Appleseed planted apple trees… those are maples,” she said snidely.

  Harry’s eyes narrowed, his jaw muscles rippling, but he offered no retort. He couldn’t stand when his wife was disrespectful to him. Harry Bennett was a firm believer that women had their place in the world, and that place certainly didn’t allow for backtalk. Sometimes he wondered if the only reason his wife had offered to use her trust fund to help him start his own company was so she could behave this way without consequence, like she was purchasing the rights to his dignity. The only woman in his life before Allison had been his mother, Ginny Bennett, and she’d never missed an opportunity to humiliate him as a child, so why should his wife be any different?

  Once when Harry was eleven, one of his friends from school—Nate Brickwell (long dead from lung cancer now)—brought a backpack full of skin mags to school. He, Nate, Sammy Matheson, and Mookie Donner had looked at them under the bleachers of the Heartsridge Middle School gymnasium until their eyes nearly bled and their underwear just ab
out split. The gym teacher, Ms. Birch—jokingly referred to by the students, and probably some of the staff, as Ms. Butch—had heard the four boys laughing under the bleachers. One second the boys were staring at the bare breasts and spread legs of some young harlot in the pages of a nudey magazine; the next, Ms. Butch was ripping the magazines from their hands and yanking the four boys, two collars in each fat fist, out from under the bleachers, through the gym, and into the principal’s office.

  That night when Harry had returned home, suspension slip in hand for his mother to sign, she had already gotten wind of what had happened. “Disgusting, sick, perverted little boy. Beg God for his forgiveness… Beg for his guidance!” she yelled, as she brought the belt down on her son’s bare bottom over and over again. Harry had cried harder with each swing, but not as much as he cried at what she did to him next. For the next two hours, Harry sat in a chair facing the wall in the corner of the kitchen while his mother read the Bible to him. That wasn’t so bad by itself, but the mouse trap she’d clamped down on his penis hurt like nothing he’d ever felt before. He sat there the entire evening, crying, and when his wails rose too high, his mother would stop reading, stand up, cross the room, smack him across the back of the neck and say, “You want another pincher? Might not be much to clamp onto, but I’ll find space.”

  Whenever it came time for doling out punishment or pain, Harry noticed that his mother always accentuated her role in it: “I’ll give you something to cry about.” “I’ll teach you to fart at the dinner table.” “I’ll make sure you never forget to comb your hair before church.” I’ll find some space on that little wee-wee of yours to inflict more torture. Other mothers might not be able to, but I can! As if she were the world’s foremost expert on painful lessons, and she wanted to make sure this was known before she proved it.

  This part of the punishment, the humiliation and hurt of the mouse trap, went on for most of that evening until Ginny was convinced her son’s promises to never look at smut mags again were sincere. Then he was sent to bed without dinner.