Little Whispers

by Glen Krisch

  A simple brown bi-fold picture frame stood next to the reading light. One half of the frame was a headshot of Nan from her early twenties. Her cheeks were rosy, her smile broad with an underlying deviousness Krista had never noticed till now. Nan had been drop-dead gorgeous. The other frame showed Poppa in a tan tweed jacket over a beige turtleneck sweater. His arms were crossed, and he faced the camera at a haughty angle—an early author photo, judging by the posture. His bushy sideburns matched the dark shade of his hair. Poppa had been an unabashed geek. Krista made a mental note to ask him how such a dorky-looking young man had landed a head-turner like Nan.

  She smiled, sifting layers of paper on the desk, until she uncovered a black vinyl binder. She freed the dark wedge from the rest of the pile. Thick as a phonebook. Curious, she opened a ream’s worth of typed pages held together by three silver rings. She read the title of the manuscript, and had to read a second time, and third:

  FALLEN: THE MIND AND MOTIVATIONS OF A SERIAL KILLER

  “What the …” she muttered and turned the page. The writing was imperfect: words had been slashed through, notes jotted at the margins in pen, arcane editing symbols littering the page. She flipped through what looked to be a draft of a new work she had never encountered.

  A word caught her attention as the pages whirled past: Edgar.

  She desperately tried to find the page again, but couldn’t. Frustrated, she returned to the introductory pages and began to read:

  The concept for this book had a long gestation period before I finally decided to explore its sometimes-gruesome subject matter. Over the years, I have often explored how the natural world tends to balance itself for the sake of the continued health of the entire ecosystem. Predator animals prune away the sick and weak. The remaining prey animals—the ones with inherent strength, smarts, agility and speed—reproduce. Their offspring are stronger for the pressure exacted by the predators in their midst.

  It is a basic concept, yet one that has left me utterly fascinated, even as I reach my twilight years. I am an old man. I have reproduced, and I have witnessed the birth and life of three generations following me. If it were up to nature, I would have long ago fed the predators stalking my pack. But humans have overcome the balancing force of nature, so I get to live long after my biological usefulness.

  As I have explored the predator/prey dichotomy, and how it applies to human interaction, I have been drawn to the concept of the human predator, the humans who embody the exacting force existing in nature. Humanity’s desire to kill has been explored at great length in other well-researched books, for many years, so I won’t get into a long psychological exploration of that general topic. But one particular killer has made me interested, perhaps obsessively so, in the subject matter. Edgar Jenkins is a man, who, as of this writing, is spending his life in a maximum-security prison. He is still relatively young, not yet fifty, so he is facing possible decades of isolation for his crimes. He can no longer act as his basic nature dictates. He can no longer kill. He can no longer act as he sees himself, as a predator pruning away the weak.

  Edgar Jenkins lived in relative anonymity for the first quarter century of his life in an unincorporated area outside of Green Bay, Wisconsin. He killed for the first time the year he became a teenager. For over a decade, no suspicion ever fell on him. It was only when he crossed Lake Michigan and abducted and killed eleven-year-old Tanya Williamson that he was finally cornered, and finally brought to justice.

  The page fell from her fingertips as she backed away from Poppa’s writing desk. She couldn’t believe he would write about such a horrid subject. Why would he spend his final days writing about a monster like Edgar Jenkins?

  The view through the front windows was steeped in fog. The vibrant colors of early summer were gone, draped now in banks of misty white. Goosebumps traveled from her wrists to her shoulders. She rubbed her palms against her arms, but she couldn’t shake the unsettling feeling.

  Someone was walking down the hallway, dragging slippered feet along the hardwood. Krista left the library, glad to put it behind her.

  “Hello?” she called out as she neared the kitchen.

  She found Leah opening cabinets.

  “It’s just me.” Leah rubbed her eye with the knuckle of her index finger. “Couldn’t sleep, so I thought I’d start on breakfast.”

  “Waffles?”

  Krista guessed the meal by the ingredients her sister had already gathered.

  “Is that okay?”

  “Sure, as long as I can help.”

  Leah smiled and hesitated, as if she had something important to bring up. “Sounds like an offer I can’t refuse.” She hauled out two waffle irons from a cabinet under the island. “You’re up early.”

  “Yeah, no idea why. I should still be dead to the world.”

  “Especially with how drunk you were.”

  “I was not drunk!”

  Leah placed her hand on her hip and pursed her lips.

  “Well,” Krista said, “maybe I was a little drunk.” She remembered the walls spinning, how they still hadn’t fully regained their stability. “Okay, I was a lot drunk. So, you see my predicament. I should be asleep, but I’m not.”

  “Must be all this fresh country air,” Leah offered with a smirk.

  “Could be.” Krista grabbed a couple large mixing bowls. Since she and her sister were little, they had always doubled up on the waffle makers, otherwise it would take all morning to make enough to feed the family.

  “What do you think?” Leah said, eyeing a big bag of flour, a measuring cup in her hand. “A triple batch?”

  “At least.” Krista figured the basic math in her head. “Might want to make it a quadruple. We can always serve scoops of ice cream over the leftovers.”

  Leah grinned. “Yeah, definitely a quadruple batch.”

  Baking with her sister while the rest of the family remained asleep would bring normalcy to her otherwise unsettling morning.

  “Okay, let’s do this.”

  The sisters went to work, and the years fell away. They worked as a team, not needing to say much as they passed ingredients. They readied the waffle irons, warmed the maple syrup, set the table. They were nearly finished when Clara entered the kitchen.

  “Good morning,” Krista said.

  Clara yawned. “Good morning.”

  “Sleep well?” Leah asked.

  “Heidi snores, but I don’t mind. The only problem I had were the boys.”

  “Robby and Trev?”

  “Yeah, they kept sneaking up to our door and giggling and tapping on the walls. I’d see the shadows of their feet passing by. When I’d get up to chase them away, they were already gone. Happened, like, three times, each time after I’d fallen asleep.” Clara yawned again, as if to emphasize her misery.

  Leah nodded and ladled a dollop of batter onto the sizzling waffle iron. “Boys sure can be a pain sometimes.”

  “It’s a big house, but there are a lot of us under one roof,” Krista added. She couldn’t help but wonder about the laughter, if that’s what she’d also heard.

  What you thought you heard, which wasn’t anything but your drunken mind playing tricks on you.

  “Breakfast is almost ready,” Krista said. “Can you go wake Poppa?”

  “Sure, I guess.” Clara hesitated before slowly turning away, not entirely up to the task.

  Treading into unfamiliar territory usually created anxiety for her daughter, but Clara would forever remain within her tiny comfort zone without a gentle push.

  “Clara …” Krista called. “Thanks. He appreciates every moment he can share with you.”

  “Okay.” Clara’s frown turned into a straight, tight line. It wasn’t even close to a smile, but it was an improvement. Her quiet strides padded down the hallway.

  “That girl of yours …” Leah shook her head.
“I swear she’s more mature than anyone else here.”

  Krista rolled her eyes. “I have to admit, she does worry me sometimes.”

  “She’s been that way since before she could walk. She’s always had a dour, serious expression, even in diapers! Not that she was angry … more like she was examining the world around her. And, however much she doesn’t like it, she does interact socially, so I don’t think it’s anything to worry about.”

  “Are you sure? I see how she is around other kids, adults even, and I can’t imagine her grown up and in the real world.”

  “Trust me. She’s just a kid. The only thing you need to worry about with that girl is helping her figure out which college will have the honor of paying for her scholarship.”

  Krista sighed but still took solace in her sister’s words.

  She carried a platter laden with golden waffles to the dining room table. The fog must have been breaking up; a wedge of sunlight splashed across the polished maple wood table. Seeing the place settings laid out, and the delectable waffles wafting at the center of the table, brought a surprising surge of emotions to the surface. She had long avoided this place, and in all that time she had missed out on sharing innumerable memories, both good and bad, with her family. Instead of memories, she had a gnawing void, an absence of memories.

  Leah paused at her side. Neither said anything, but they shared something in the silence.

  “When we were kids,” Krista said, “do you remember making blanket forts in the spare room?”

  “Nan’s extra room? Yeah, that was a blast. We’d dress up in her old clothes, the polyester suits with the garish patterns. Oh, and her ridiculous hats.”

  “I’d forgotten about those! Remember, we used to call them Jackie-O hats?”

  Krista smiled at the memory. “I don’t think we even knew who she was at the time.”

  “Right! Just that it was a glamorous way to spend a rainy day.” Leah’s face lit up. “Just you, me, and …”

  “And Breann,” Krista said softly.

  “You know … I always liked her.” Leah fidgeted, straightening a fork that wasn’t out of place to begin with. “I still think about her sometimes. Her smile with the crooked eye tooth. The freckles on her nose. Her spirit … so free.”

  “Yeah, me too.”

  “And sometimes I wonder … why her? Why not me? Why not some kid down the beach?”

  “Leah, you shouldn’t do that to yourself,” Krista said, hearing Neal’s words coming from her mouth.

  “I just know.” Leah paused to steady her nerves. “I know that she was just about the sweetest girl ever.”

  Again, silence filled the room, but its tone had changed and was no longer welcome.

  Krista spoke, if only to say something, anything. “That’s how we should remember her then, don’t you think? Like she’s still that sweet girl and nothing bad ever happened to her.”

  “Easier said than done.”

  Krista embraced her sister. Neither cried. They’d had years of misery, many decades worth between them, and while they shed no tears, they both still needed the embrace. Krista breathed deeply, knowing that if for no other reason, waking at such an ungodly hour was worth it for this very moment. This was a memory she would cherish for years.

  Finally, Leah pulled away. “Thanks, Krista.”

  “So much about coming back here sucks.” Krista crossed her arms. “It really does. But I’m also glad we’re here.”

  “That’s twisted, but I think I know what you mean.”

  They went back to the kitchen island and sat on stools as they let the morning unfurl around them.

  “Shouldn’t we wake everyone?” Krista asked.

  “Let’s have a minute without any chaos.”

  Krista asked, “Did you know Poppa is still working?”

  “What, on a book?”

  “Yeah, it’s …” Krista hesitated, “it’s about Breann.”

  Leah’s face twisted, as if she’d eaten something sour. “No … really?”

  “Not her exactly, but about him.” Krista refused to speak his name aloud, and just recalling Edgar Jenkins in her head made her lose her appetite. “Poppa’s making some connection to predators, like some of his other books about nature.”

  Leah furrowed her brow. “But, why … him? ”

  “Her disappearance has bothered him as much as the rest of us. Just imagine, this has always been his refuge. He built this house from nothing. He’s been a leader in the community. The McCorts lived next door. I didn’t read much of the manuscript, but it seems like he’s exploring the psychological profile of someone who could do such horrible things.”

  “I guess I understand.” Leah’s expression didn’t match her words. “He’s tying up loose ends. He called us all to stay at the summer house. He’s trying to say goodbye.”

  “On the one hand, it makes perfect sense. But, really, who wants to dredge up the details of a monster like him? ”

  “I say, whatever brings him peace. Whatever it is, we should support it.”

  “I’m not going to bring it up with him. He might be okay dwelling on what happened, but that doesn’t mean I am.”

  “Agreed,” Leah said.

  Clara entered the kitchen, and both women looked at each other, wondering if she had heard any of their conversation.

  “Poppa’s awake, but tired. He asked me if I’d bring him his breakfast in bed.”

  “Is he okay?” Leah asked.

  “Yes, he said he’s not used to such a full house. He’s happy, really happy, but he’s tired.”

  “Okay, I’ll make him up a plate,” Krista said. She piled up a plate and placed a fork and knife next to the waffles. Leah poured orange juice into a glass and handed it to Clara.

  “I’m going to drop this off,” Clara said. “Would it be okay if I sat with him?”

  “Sure, that sounds like a great idea,” Krista said.

  Clara nodded, took the plate from her mom, and went back out down the hall.

  “See what I mean?” Leah whispered. “You don’t need to worry about her.”

  The door off the deck slid open and Jack stepped inside, his clothes dripping wet, his eyes bloodshot.

  “What happened to you? ” Krista asked.

  “I, um …” Jack looked down at himself. “I went for an early swim. Best time of day for it.” He hurried across the kitchen, peeling his sodden shirt from his skin.

  “Didn’t you wear that yesterday?” Leah asked.

  “Yes, Mom, thanks for noticing,” he said, leaving sandy footprints and a trail of droplets along the floor.

  “Breakfast is ready,” Krista said. She found some levity in his pained expression; if she felt hungover this morning, she could only imagine how horrible her brother was feeling.

  Jack grunted. “Not now. Not for me.”

  “We’ll keep an eye on Trev for you,” Leah called out before he got out of earshot.

  “Thank you, Leah. I owe you.”

  Krista wondered if she’d missed something, considering Leah looked deeply concerned as she stared off in the direction Jack had gone.

  CHAPTER 12

  While sitting on the wooden rocker at Poppa’s bedside, Clara balanced her plate on her lap and methodically cut into a waffle. A handmaid quilt hung from the back of the chair, and swayed as she rolled her feet from heel to toe and back again.

  Poppa swallowed some of his breakfast, cleared his throat, and said, “Thank you for sitting with me.”

  “I don’t mind,” Clara replied. She brought a forkful of syrupy waffle into her mouth and had to turn her mouth sideways to wedge it in between her teeth. Poppa’s eyes went wide as she struggled to chew and she couldn’t help laughing.

  A shout came from down the hallway—Trev declaring his intention of stringing a zip l
ine from the back deck all the way down to the lake—and Clara’s eyes went as wide as Poppa’s.

  “I’m guessing you like the quiet solitude of our dining experience.”

  “Yes, Poppa,” she said with a nod.

  “I like raucousness every once in a while, but with everyone’s arrival … well, I’m not used to so much excitement at this point in my life.”

  “Raucousness,” Clara whispered. She took a sip of orange juice to clear her throat, and then mouthed the letters, barely audible. “R-a-u-c …o-u-s-n-e-s-s. Raucousness.”

  “Nicely spelled. You’re going to do quite well at the next National Bee.”

  She rocked faster, appreciating the compliment. “Dad doesn’t want me to practice while we’re on vacation. He thinks I need to let my mind wander.”

  “I think minds do what they want to do. If yours wants to spell, let it spell.” Poppa leaned forward, lowering his voice as he said, “Don’t tell your father I said that.” He gave her a conspiring wink.

  Clara took in the room as they ate in amenable quiet, the only sounds coming from their cutlery scratching against their plates.

  Large framed black and white photos filled nearly all the available wall space in Poppa’s bedroom. It didn’t look cluttered by any means, but the intimate, intricate detail of the landscapes was awe-inspiring. One photo captured a dense stand of trees in a wooded hillside, the bark like wrinkles in ancient human skin. Another showed craggy mountaintops ringed in cloud cover. From her Earth Sciences class, she knew that even though the mountains looked incredibly old, as if they existed as long as the earth itself, they were relatively young, as far as mountains were concerned. The earth’s geology followed an opposite trajectory to human beings; mountains, born rough and sharp, were old when wind and rain battered their surfaces smooth.

  “Those are all by Adams,” Poppa said, drawing her away from the stunning photos.