It was an A-frame-style house. One huge room front to back consisting of the kitchen and living room, with a screened-in porch and two small bedrooms; upstairs was one huge room that was more like an attic than an ordinary second floor. Two entrances, one off the porch, facing the main road, the second off the kitchen and looking onto a smaller side road. A detached, oversized boat garage out back had been converted into a workshop. The driveway onto the side road was covered with broken quahog and oyster shells. The good-sized yard was covered in brown, early spring grass. A large oak at the corner angled slightly toward the house; a few well-shaped cedars were scattered throughout the yard. In the driveway sat a battered red truck.
The light rain trickled off my hair and slipped down under my collar. Shivering, I shoved my hands into my pockets and closed my eyes as the music in my ears pumped solace. I was starting to feel it again, even though she had said, "It's perfectly safe; it just makes things better."
How long I stood there listening, thinking? I don't know. I didn't know what time it was, or even what day, though I knew I'd stood like this before in the rain, looking at this house, then heading down the road to the beach.
But today, suddenly, he was there. He wore a khaki rain slicker with the hood pulled over his head. His eyes were two brilliant black beads staring at me.
"Herbert J. Sawyer!” he snapped. “Hell, boy, what are you doing out here?” He had something large and shiny in his hands, something made of metal. He pushed it down in the muddy ground in front of him. “Damn fool you are, Herbie. You'll catch your death out here! Get in the house."
Mr. Hornton made me coffee, grunting disapproval when I took off my jacket and put it over a kitchen chair to dry. The sound was for my hair, I guess. I just half shrugged, and though my concentration was off, I offered to help. He waved me away with an angry shake of his head.
I tucked the headphones under my collar and looked around at the small, spare surroundings, which hadn't changed in—what?—six months perhaps, maybe a year. Same small television with its crooked antenna, even though he had finally installed cable a year ago. The same ragged horsehair sofa and chairs. Same caned coffee table where I had worked on math homework many a Saturday afternoon. Same knickknacks and pictures on the wall: a whaler's harpoon up near the open-raftered ceiling, a couple of kerosene lamps converted to electric, and an odd assortment of crab shells, ship's bells, and framed photos. One of the photos was of me and him with Jake and my mother.
"Heard you were going to school in Falmouth,” he said, setting a mug, some sugar packets, and a pint of milk in front of me. “How is it over there?"
"Okay.” I shrugged.
"And I've seen—” He settled into a chair opposite me and pushed aside a walker with a belligerent grunt.
The shiny metallic object I had seen him with outside. “You need a walker now?” I asked.
He ignored that and continued. “—where your house is up for sale. All for the best, Herbie."
"Best?” Everything suddenly had a very fine cast to it, as though I were looking at him, the coffee, this whole room—and the whole world—through a silvery mist. “Yeah, I guess it is.” I wanted to laugh.
"Look, boy—” He sighed heavily and ran a hand over his mouth. “—I know it's not been an easy haul. If things had been different, if I hadn't taken that fall and had the stroke, damn it, you'd be right here staying with me."
Such a dreamer this man was. When my mother had been taken away, the courts hadn't allowed me to live with my own aunt, so what made Elmer Hornton—this elderly, disabled, retired sign painter—think the state would let me stay with him? I smiled and wrapped both hands around the mug. Well, let him have his fantasies: It seemed everybody wanted to save me lately.
"As for Jake,” he went on, “he talked to the principal of your school, and things aren't all that ‘okay.’ You got in another fight, you skipped school last week, and your teachers say you aren't keeping up with the work. I got to admit, boy, I'm more than a little worried about you."
"The fight was nothing,” I said. “Kid shoved me into a locker, I shoved back.” I set the mug down, ran a hand through my hair. It was short and spiky; the rain left just a sprinkle of dampness there. “And I'm doing okay at school. Don't worry about me."
"And these people you're staying with, the Wenlows—” He was worried; maybe coming back to the old neighborhood wasn't such a good idea. “—Do they treat you ... ?"
My whole body grew cold for a second. “Mr. Hornton,they treat me just fine."
"Foster family, damn it,” he said, shaking his head and giving his walker a kick. “Here I am, worthless old cuss, and Jake, as well, and damn state won't let you stay with either of us."
"Or my aunt,” I said. It didn't matter. I couldn't let it matter.
"Your aunt is a good woman,” he said, “Just a bit overwhelmed at the moment, what with your mother in the hospital."
"My aunt has six kids, a drinking problem, and is on her third husband. My mother is in a state mental institution, which she's never going to get out of, and you and Jake aren't blood relatives. I'm back in school and living with a foster family. But it's okay, Mr. Hornton. It really is.” I got up abruptly, jarring the table, almost knocking the mug over.
He reached out and grabbed me by the wrist, as if he wanted to keep me there, and perhaps he might have succeeded. Though he was approaching eighty, and incapacitated to some degree, he still was a strong man, having done physical labor all his life. His grip was tight. Looking at me, he said, “Listen to me, Herbert J., don't talk to me like that. You, your mother, and Jake are the only family I have."
Were his eyes welling up? Yes, they were, and though I should have felt like a complete ass, I was just annoyed.
"Look,” I said, “I came by to see how you were and if you could hook me up with any odd jobs next week. It's spring vacation.” He let me go. “I can do anything, you know that. Painting, woodworking, yard work.” I shrugged again. “I need to keep busy."
* * * *
The jetty felt funny to me that afternoon, like each rock was made of some spongy material. Kind of made me laugh as I walked out to the end. I found a dry rock out there, one without the usual seagull droppings, and sat down. I was wearing one of Mr. Hornton's flannel-lined slickers. He had insisted I take it before I left.
I pulled the hood up over my head and for the third, maybe fourth time this week, sat there and listened to a little Rammstein on the MP3 player I'd stolen. I had downloaded about twenty gigs of music using a teacher's computer at the place I'd been sent to last spring. I had a lot of rock, but also some metal and electronica.
I closed my eyes and suddenly felt very relaxed, very peaceful. So far the day had been pretty boring. The Wenlows had said something about not forgetting my chores this morning, but strangely, I had forgotten exactly what chores they wanted me to do. Maybe they should have reminded me.
Nah, I wouldn't have done them anyhow.
* * * *
How could she have disappeared so quickly?
I lifted my head, opened my eyes. It seemed like a fog was rolling in, casting a mist over the water. That seemed odd, but then I figured it must be going on three, four in the afternoon. Up on the beach were a man and woman and two little kids. The adults were arguing and pointing out toward a boat in the water. It was a small white skiff tied to a mooring line that ran off a post staked in the beach. The line went out into the water for about eighty feet, where it was tied to a second metal post in the water. The woman seemed sort of upset, and every now and then she'd point toward the boat, then turn back to him with her hands out in a pleading sort of gesture. The two kids, both girls in orange rain slickers, were just standing there.
Funny thing, people like that, arguing about a boat on a miserable Saturday afternoon, although suddenly the sky seemed to be clearing. I looked out to the open water to see if there was a larger boat moored farther out. Some people used small skiffs to get out to larger cr
aft.
Nope. There were a lot of boats moored in the river on the other side of the jetty and farther up in the marinas, but there wasn't a single boat out here in the open bay, except the little white skiff.
Well, none of my business. I pumped up the volume on the player and put my head forward against my knees to listen. A few minutes later I reached into my pocket, found a small foil packet, and pulled it out. For a minute I just stared at it, then looked up at the brightening sky. The light wind out of the southwest felt good against my face. In fact, suddenly everything felt pretty good. I snapped the packet open with my thumb, tipped it up to my mouth, and swallowed.
* * * *
I hadn't been listening for that long, maybe fifteen minutes or so, but this music was known for its long tracks. It had happened that I would be lying on my bed, listening to remixes of Depeche Mode or Delerium, and time would fly by. I'd glance at the clock, see it was eight at night, then suddenly raise my head again and it'd be eleven and Mrs. Wenlow would be shouting up, “Lights out, Herbie."
So I had a hard time judging how long I'd been sitting there. When I looked up, the sun was turning into the west. Long enough, I guess. I stood up, pushed the headphones down around my neck, and walked back down the jetty and onto the beach.
* * * *
For a moment I was confused. I was there on the sand, my stomach felt a little sick, and there was someone beside me saying, “Get her."
I turned. Beside me was a little girl about five years old, with long dark hair and dark eyes. Wearing an orange rain slicker, she stared up at me earnestly.
She pointed out to the water. “My doll fell in the water."
"Your doll?” I relaxed and felt the beat of the music rolling against my neck. I hadn't shut off the player.
"Get her,” she said again, her voice very low, very flat.
I looked out to where she pointed and could see a shape, small and white, bobbing up and down in the water about sixty feet from shore.
"You know how cold that water is?” I said. “Get her yourself.” I started to walk away. Did I really care about some kid who'd lost a doll in the water? Then my eyes fell on the mooring line which ran from the beach out to the post in the water.
Damn, I was in such a strange mood. The urge to pull the hood up over my head and walk away was overpowering. I was cold, then warm, and the shudder rippling through my body was alternately painful and strangely pleasant. The skies were so bright and clear, the wind so warm—and then suddenly I felt a light sprinkle of rain touch my face. I blinked my eyes and looked straight up. Rain again?
Something made me turn around. What if the kid went out in the boat to try and get the doll herself? I looked back toward Long Jetty, but she was gone.
For a moment I stood there puzzled. Where had she gone? How could she have disappeared so quickly?
I glanced up and down the beach, then up to the row of cottages above the seawall. I turned around and walked back toward the jetty, but there was no sign of her.
"Okay, I'll get the damn thing,” I muttered as I grabbed the mooring line and slowly pulled the boat up to the shoreline. There were no oars or paddles, but I climbed into the boat with a sigh, sat down, and hauled myself out by pulling on the line. I was trespassing on someone else's property to fish a stupid doll out of the water.
Barely in six feet of water it was, and hardly thirty yards out, but the skiff took a wave and started to buck. Then just as suddenly the water calmed and I pulled the boat out to the end of the line. The doll was jammed up against the metal post, head down at a funny angle. I reached out, careful not to capsize myself—I know boats pretty good—and grabbed the doll's hair, which was the closest part of it to me. I yanked and pulled it forward, thinking, “Damn, this is one heavy doll.” A bit waterlogged, the doll was bigger than it appeared from the beach. It was wearing a thin little dress, like a slip.
I pulled it up close to the side of the skiff and carefully leaned over to haul it aboard, but it must have weighed at least twenty pounds. “What the heck is this thing made of?” I muttered. I couldn't lift it, and that made me laugh. I'd hauled lobster pots with twenty pounds plus of lobster in them, and heavy gear off and onto boats, no problem. I guess six months tucked away in an alternative school setting had done a number on me. I was weak, slow, and out of condition.
So as I struggled to get the thing up and drain some water from the doll, it slipped and turned in my grip. As it did, I saw the face briefly—dark eyes, sort of floating, like marbles. There was a wrinkled, greenish cast to the plastic skin.
"Damn weird doll,” I said, deciding then to pull myself back to shore using the mooring line, dragging the doll behind the skiff. “Probably not much good anymore."
"You know,” I said to myself, “I've done some pretty stupid things, and here I am bringing this thing to shore for a kid who just can't wait to get it back.” I sighed, swore, pulled the boat to the shoreline, and stepped out into the shallow surf, which immediately lapped over my work boots and into the cuffs of my socks. I swore again and pushed the boat onto the sand, then reached into the water to pull out the kid's precious doll.
But what had felt stiff and plasticlike in the water, now was limp and heavy as I dragged it onto the sand. I stepped back, wiped my hands on my jeans, and reached into the hood of my jacket to pull up my headphones ... then I looked down at the thing.
Thing. Doll. I bent down to flip it over, and suddenly I saw, as Delerium rocked through the headphones and into my brain, the faint pink-white froth inside the open mouth.
It wasn't a doll. It was a dead child.
I turned away, fell to my knees, and threw up in the surf.
* * * *
"Look at me."
I was sitting at Sergeant Jake Valari's desk, my head forward on his blotter pad, arms over my head.
"Herbie, you know you've got to talk to me. You've got to tell me everything you did, you saw. You know that."
I lifted my head. “I already told Officer Andersen everything.” I ran a hand back through my short, spiky hair. “I thought she was a doll! I already said all this to Officer Andersen!"
"I am really struggling to maintain my patience,” was Jake's reply. I could sense the subtle shifting of his body, and I knew that if the law had allowed, he would have pinned me to this desk and slapped me silly long before now.
So I eased off. “I told him I've been going back to my old neighborhood, to check things out.” I eased out a long sigh, realizing things were getting clearer and that the headache was finally gone. I looked up at the clock on his wall. Five fifteen. That was about right, time for things to wear off. I looked at Jake directly.
Detective Sergeant Jake Valari, the only detective on the Manamesset Police Force. Jake, my friend, who had once dated my mother and had helped her get a job in the Manamesset public school system. He had also helped us buy our house. Also the same Jake with whom I had lived a few weeks when my mother was first hospitalized. Jake, who had gone through situations like this with me before.
I continued, “I've been out to Long Jetty a couple times this week, and I was just sitting there today, listening to a few tunes.” I showed him the phones around my neck, careful not to reveal the player tucked in my shirt pocket. “There were some people arguing on the beach. I ignored them. A little while later...” I paused; the more I told this story, the less I liked it. “...when I was on the beach, this kid asked me to get her doll."
"A girl about five years old, with long dark hair, wearing an orange rain slicker.” Jake looked up at me from what must have been Officer Andersen's notes. “Anything else?"
"What more do you want?” I asked. “It's all right there.” I nodded at the notepad.
Jake ignored me, went on, “So you pulled in the skiff and hauled out of the water what you thought was a doll. You brought it up to the beach and then realized it wasn't a doll, but the body of a child?"
"Yes."
"What you got in your poc
ket, Herbie, jeans pocket, lower right?"
"What?"
Jake turned back to the notepad. “Don't be so obvious. You keep putting your hand there to make sure it's still there."
Suddenly I grew a little nervous. Had I forgotten how good a cop Jake was?
"Just the Wenlows’ house key,” I quickly lied. “They gave me one because my room is over their garage and they, I don't know, trust me, I guess."
"Any reason they shouldn't trust you?"
"Hey, is this an inquisition into me, my life?” I demanded. “I pulled the body of a ... a little girl out of the water and I thought at first it was a doll, and then when I saw...” I ran the back of my hand across my forehead; the headache was coming back.
"You got sick, then went up to Briarwood Road, saw some utility workers, and had them call us.” Jake eased back in his chair, folded his arms across his chest.
"Yes, I did."
"You covered her with your rain slicker first."
"Yes...” I felt thirsty and cold. I swallowed and looked across his small office. Above a tall bookcase near the door was a framed photograph, the same one that was in Elmer Hornton's living room. “I did. It was Mr. Hornton's. His rain slicker."
Jake sighed, which was more like a grunt, and stood up. He slapped the notepad on his desk and said, “Sorry if I made this sound like an inquisition, but you touched the body. The Wenlows are on their way to take you home, but we need to take some hair and fiber samples from you first."
I looked up at him and swallowed; my throat was so dry it hurt.
"I didn't hurt that kid, Jake."
"Yeah, I know,” he said. “Tell me, Herbie, are you on something?"
"Something?” I looked at him and smiled. “No, no. I'm just ... upset, Jake. This has been a bad day. Can I use ... ?"
He nodded and I got up and went into the bathroom off his office.
* * * *
I am no longer that twelve-year-old boy who discovered a body in a marsh four years ago. I do not know where that boy went, or when he went away, but he is gone.
AHMM, October 2008 Page 10
