by Zoe Whittall
“Yup.”
“Great. Let’s get the hell out of this shit-hole.” I suppose she didn’t realize I was still standing there next to the bright yellow sign advertising Coffee and a Fresh Muffin— $1.79!! “This town gives me the creeps.” She reached down to fix the clasp on her shoe and noticed me.
“Sorry,” she muttered, “I’ve had a bad day.”
She got back into the big black Hummer with the news station name on the side before I could say, “You’ve had a bad day?”
I was calmed by her telling the public he was on foot. That way he’d know that I wasn’t a liar. I’d be safe. I pictured him in my car, the insurance papers in the glove box. He’d know my address. He’d see the paperbacks borrowed from the library down the block. He could piece me together. I can’t believe I gave a criminal my car. Would my insurance count that as stolen? I certainly didn’t feel like I really had a choice. It was the only way I could think to get him to leave.
At the police station Christina and I drank the warm diet pop they offered us and gave our official statements. First we wrote down what happened in our own words. Then we answered their questions.
“Why didn’t you just tell Jerry right away about the holdup?”
“Like I said, he said he was going to shoot everyone if Jerry came inside. Missy came up with a plan to let him get away without it becoming a hostage situation, right?”
“I decided,” I jumped in, “that it was better to let him run off with the hundred bucks or whatever than try to catch him and wind up getting us all killed.” The cop looked unimpressed.
“Why did you eventually decide to tell Jerry, Christina?”
I was sweating so hard I felt like they could tell right away that I was lying. I was part of it all. But what I was doing still made sense in some weird way. To protect us.
“Because Missy said she’d come right out after he got away, and she was taking so long I thought maybe he was hurting her.”
“He wasn’t going to just let me go—”
“Of course not,” Jerry interrupted, like I was a total idiot.
I glared at him. I bet he’s never had to deal with anything like this before. I kept explaining, “…like I expected him too. He didn’t seem like he wanted to hurt anyone. He was just desperate. I thought, given the option, he’d run away. But he was confused, he thought I would tell.”
“The police are trained in these kinds of situations. Did you ever think that maybe you shouldn’t have taken the law into your own hands?” I had this vision of Jerry walking lazily into Callie’s. He’d be taken completely off guard and shot in the chest before he even knew what was happening. And then the robber would have had to shoot Christina and me before he ran out. It could’ve gone that way. I explained the possibility.
“You watch too much TV, Mrs. Turner. It’s a long way from robbery to mass murder.”
I shrugged. “Maybe my quick thinking saved you.” I couldn’t help but egg him on. “He seemed desperate. He said that was what he would have to do. He did have the means, after all.”
“You said he was polite, but then he threatened to take you all out? Which one was it? Was he a nice robber or a potential mass murderer?”
I swallowed hard, cheeks burning. “I guess he was a mix of both.” Jerry looked down and made a mark on his paper. “I mean, he was crazy. Obviously, right? Criminals aren’t exactly known for being predictable.” Jerry stood up, and the other cop continued asking questions.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Turner. I understand this was a traumatic experience for you.” He looked back at Jerry to make a point. I didn’t believe the whole good-cop–bad-cop thing was actually a thing. “Was there anything distinctive about the way he looked? A scar, a tattoo?”
He had reddish blond hair and one black hoop earring. The kind you get at specialty piercing shops that stretch out your lobes. When he loosened his lumberjack jacket, I noticed he was wearing a Corrosion of Conformity T-shirt. I would have been the only one to see these things. In my periphery, I saw Jerry strutting around the office with older state police officers, looking like the pride of the county.
“No,” I lied. “It all happened so fast. And he had the hat over his eyes. The tattoos on his hands, they were clovers, I think.”
“No,” Christina interrupted, “I think they were letters.”
Truth is, there was one red heart, but that was it. It was all fading so fast. I just wanted him to get away and start over. I’m not certain why. He’d scared the shit out of me and I was angry. But mostly I felt adrenaline surge through my body and heard his desperate childlike voice exclaiming, “I have kids!”
When I tried to understand what I was feeling in that moment, it felt closest to sympathy. Sympathy? It made no sense.
I could have helped them solve the crime right there, but I didn’t. I held the secret in my pocket. They could run the plates on his car and find his name. Search it for clues. But I knew the new, bizarre, alien version of me wanted to be the only one who knew. Wanted to take the car to him and try to figure out what would make someone pull out a gun to solve his problems. And I didn’t want to hand it all to Jerry like a gift.
After all, they could scrutinize all the cars on the street and figure it out. If they did, I would simply bury the keys in my garden and be done with it.
At the time, my plan seemed simple. In retrospect, I long to be able to go back and make different choices.
When I left the interrogation room and went into the lobby of the police station, Dale was standing there. “Missy! Jerry called me! Are you okay?” His eyes were pleading with me.
I looked right at him but didn’t answer.
“Don’t come home,” I said eventually.
I turned to Judy, the female cop who had promised to take me home. I’d said I was too anxious to drive. I didn’t bother to mention that my car was currently being driven by a maniac.
“I’ll take that ride now,” I said. I walked right passed Dale and down the steps. I waited next to the cruiser out front.
Judy was new in town. She had frizzy red hair and was from New Jersey. I found myself nervously chattering, pointing out all the places she might not know about yet. Like the best place to get pizza, and the story of the Carmichael triplets who still lived together above the old department store. The weird way they never made eye contact with anyone. Judy’s husband was a painter. They wanted a quieter life and were drawn to the pace here, the inspiring scenery. They had recently bought a farm out near my sister’s place. I nodded.
“How come you didn’t go home with your husband?”
“Let’s just say, I’m so mad at him I’m afraid I’ll haul off and hit him.”
Judy remained expressionless as she pulled up in front of my house. I thanked her for the ride. She nodded.
If this were a normal day, Dale would be waking up at four o’clock, the automatic coffeemaker already on.
The house was so empty and quiet. The house next door was also empty. No one was home during the day on our street except Mrs. McGiven across the street. I felt like I was a spy on my own life. I looked into the living room, to the left when you walk in the front door. On the right was a cubby for boots and coats and the door out to the garage. You walk straight through to the dining room and turn left into the kitchen. It was small. We always talked about taking out the wall between the kitchen and dining room but never figured out what we’d do with the stove that was on that wall. Off the kitchen were the stairs that lead both downstairs to the basement and up to our bedroom and Mike’s old room, now a guest room.
Simon brushed up against my leg. The robber’s car keys weighed heavily in my pocket. I went downstairs to Mike’s room. I stripped his bedding and put his sheets in the wash, along with the pile of dirty T-shirts thrown in the corner. His room seemed so empty. I hadn’t had access to it in years, not like this. Even while he was at school and I happened to be home, I’d only glance in and occasionally retrieve a moldy cup or plate. I
never wanted to be one of those mothers who snooped. It was odd to have the time to look at all his objects, everything he thought was important.
I felt the weight of him being gone all summer. Then it dawned on me that this was only the beginning. One day he’d be gone for good. And perhaps I’d be single again. I’d have a whole new future, without the men I’d loved for fifteen years.
I dusted off his dresser, bottles of deodorant spray, a baseball trophy, a small comb. I wiped down his bookshelves, rows of science fiction, sports biographies, wilderness guides and horror paperbacks. A few true-crime books that used to belong to Dale. I picked up a biography of a cult leader who killed all his followers before the FBI moved in. In puffy red letters on the back, What Makes a Man So Evil? I tucked it under my arm and went back upstairs.
I tried to pretend everything was normal. But one moment I’d see the scene in the kitchen that I’d stumbled into that morning, the next I’d feel the gun on my neck. The house didn’t feel my own anymore. The walls made me anxious. The sound of the clock ticking loomed. Outside, a car backfired, and my skin was instantly covered in sweat.
I’d rarely felt the house so empty without Mike and Dale. I normally relished the rare opportunity to be alone, but the quiet was unnerving. I kept seeing Christina yelp and drop her book. I felt the pressure of the robber’s arm against my neck.
I heated up some leftover pasta but couldn’t eat it. I didn’t want to be alone but couldn’t bear the thought of calling anyone either. The phone rang and rang, and the answering machine filled with messages from nosy neighbors and Mr. Harlowe and Jackie and my mom. Everyone who had heard about what happened. I turned on the TV but only paced in front of it, until the coverage of the robbery came on. It was a very short clip, mostly Christina, with me standing beside her like a goofy, useless tree. Is that what I really look like now? So old. I used to be stylish and young. How did I start dressing like a mother who had given up?
The keys in my pocket continued to weigh me down. The obligation to drive his car. This criminal’s car. I knew once I got in and turned the key, I was no longer a victim, but an accomplice. It made me want to throw up. Ever since I could first understand the messages in Sesame Street episodes as a child, I’d always felt I could determine right from wrong. This middle ground, it was new.
I considered calling the police station and explaining everything. Confessing. There was relief in that option, certainly. But also fear. And pity. What if this guy made a mistake in judgment, out of desperation? Certainly I could have compassion.
Finally, around eight in the evening, I took Mike’s ten-speed out of the garage and adjusted the seat. I rode along the river and into town, like I was getting some exercise after dinner. Just like the gaggle of families walking in pairs, or the super athletic bicycle enthusiasts, zipping by me in their matching helmets.
Inside I was starting to feel like a criminal. Nothing like Missy Turner, hardworking, chatty, everyone’s good friend and helpful neighbor.
It didn’t feel terrible. It felt exciting.
CHAPTER FIVE
By dinnertime Main Street was pretty much empty. Only Jonny’s Gas Bar and the tavern across the street were still open. Callie’s was a full block away and closed at six. Every other business on the block shut by five. I had decided on the ride in that I would simply walk up to the car as though it were my own. I’d lock Mike’s bike to a pole in the alley beside Callie’s and come back for it in the morning. If anyone saw me, I would say it was my sister Jane’s car. The one from the city who only comes home once a year. I’d invent an errand she’d sent me on.
My plan went smoothly. When I got in the car, I paused briefly to look around. I don’t know what I expected to find, maybe drugs or a stash of weapons. A girl tied up in the trunk? I laughed out loud nervously.
Who was this man? In my head, I’d started calling him Red, for his hair, and the red jacket. His anger.
Even though it was hot out, I wore my thin black driving gloves. Just in case the car got fingerprinted later on. A distinctly real possibility, I thought. In the backseat was a car seat and several squished juice boxes. A rabbit’s foot hung from the rearview mirror. In the glove box was a photo album trimmed in bright green fun fur and the insurance documents encased in a plastic folder. I picked up the photo album first. Inside were pictures of Red and his kids. Around a Christmas tree, at the beach, playing on the swings in a park. The insurance papers identified the robber. Roger MacMillan. Age thirty-six. 345 Miller Street, Philadelphia. A long way from here. What was he doing in my little town?
He seemed like such an ordinary guy, not hiding anything. The car seat in the back was comforting. I am doing the right thing.
I drove out of town on Route 16 and veered onto the expressway. I started to feel almost comfortable. I could be anyone on this highway. I drove with purpose for five miles. That’s what I’d liked about working at Harlowe’s—every day I had tasks to fulfill. I was good at them; the focus drove me.
When I pulled into the Walmart parking lot, it was pretty full for a weeknight. But magically there were two spaces next to the McDonald’s entrance. I got out my cell phone and turned it on. In the bottom of my purse I found the canister of pepper spray Dale got me for when I closed the store on Thursday nights. Not because anyone had ever hassled me or was likely to, but because Dale watched too much CSI.
I was early, so I turned on the radio. I sang along nervously, as though anyone could hear me outside the car. The autodial was mostly set to all-news radio stations, with one country and one classic rock. I watched people push their carts in and out of the store. Tired parents, excited children, people I could easily be.
I imagined what Red might be doing. I wondered if he was feeling nervous. I went over the vulnerable points on a man’s body and tried to remember what I’d learned in a self-defense course so many years ago.
Then I scribbled a note to him and stuck it to the dashboard using a bit of chewing gum. It read: I promised not to tell anyone, and I didn’t. I’m waiting in the Walmart McDonald’s, if you want to talk.Things happen for a reason. 812-555-8765. M.
A few minutes later I saw my car drive up and park in a spot across from me. Red emerged with a small child in tow, a girl of about four. She had long black hair, uncombed, and wore a Dora the Explorer T-shirt. In her arms she held a little brown puppy about the size of a rabbit.
I got out of the car and smoothed the skirt of my red dress, one I hadn’t worn since our tenth anniversary. It had embroidered cherries on the hem and a scoop neck. When I left the house it had made me feel confident. Biking along the river, I’d felt like a postcard of the kind of girl I’d never been. Now I just felt sweaty and overly bright in the already too-bright parking lot.
I nodded at Red—Roger—and said hello to his little girl. “Here are your keys, Roger,” I said. We stood across from each other, as though we were both in the receiving line at a wedding. Oddly formal, like a version of ourselves we played out at a job interview. He didn’t seem surprised that I knew his name.
He handed me my keys, hanging from the mini-level keychain we sold at Harlowe’s. His hands shook a little. “That’s a nice puppy,” I said to the girl, who looked me up and down silently.
After perhaps ten seconds she said, “His name is Strawberry Fields, and he has special powers.”
“Wow,” I said. “What powers?”
“He can see into the future,” she said, shrugging.
Roger pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He took one and offered me the pack. I took one and handed them back. He lit mine with a silver Zippo, then his own. We stood for a moment, smoking.
“But he can’t tell me what’s in the future because he doesn’t know English.”
“Maybe you could learn how to speak dog,” I offered.
She thought about this. “Yes, that is a good idea.”
“Well, we better be going,” said Roger, throwing down his half-smoked cigarette and stubbing it out wi
th his boot. “Thanks for doing me that favor.”
He opened the back door for his daughter and strapped her into the car seat. The puppy curled up on the floor below her. As he walked around to the driver’s seat he said, “Have a good night, Missy Turner.”
He drove off. I stood there and finished my cigarette. Then I walked to the curb and sat down in front of the line of stacked shopping carts. I burst into tears. Of relief, I suppose…relief that I had my car back and that a swarm of cops hadn’t descended upon me.
I hadn’t cried that much in years.
Finally I went into McDonald’s and ordered a cup of terrible coffee. I sat down and pretended, for the second time that day, to read a newspaper. My phone rang and rang. Dale calling repeatedly, my mother, Jackie. Over and over, leaving concerned messages. Normal Missy, pre-today Missy, would have felt terrible guilt and returned all the calls immediately. Normal Missy would now be making egg-salad sandwiches on whole-wheat bread for Dale’s lunch. Preparing to watch her regular Wednesday night TV shows. Her most pressing contemplation being whether or not to make a hair appointment or sign up for another yoga class.
I felt no guilt. They could all just relax. If they wanted to know what happened at Callie’s, they could watch the news. I was feeling so done with it all.
Done.
After two hours Roger didn’t show. The staff at McDonald’s swept and mopped around me, eventually an overly cheerful Anna, according to her nametag, ushered me out the door.
By this point I was feeling foolish for suggesting the meet-up. Like one of those desperate women on Oprah who write criminals, hoping to snag a boyfriend. I could hear the voice of Judge Judy squawking at me in her shrill superior tone: “You trusted a criminal?”
I decided to call Jackie and confess everything. But when I got into the car, clicking on the wipers to clear away the sudden torrent of rain, on my dashboard was a note.
Dear Missy,
I’m so sorry for scaring you, and for threatening your family. Know that I would never really have hurt you, someone so beautiful and obviously loyal. I just needed the money, and I didn’t want to go to jail. I know, these are sorry excuses, but I have become a weak man. I know now, after having watched you be so brave, that I will change. I have to change. I would like the opportunity to tell you I’m sorry in person. If you would like this, meet me at Johnson’s Steakhouse just at the junction of Highway 12, tomorrow at ten a.m. I’ll be in one of the back booths. My daughter will be back with my mother by then, so we can talk.
