The Best American Mystery Stories 2013

by Otto Penzler (ed)

  “We’re nearly there,” Amy said. Then she said, “I’ll go back and get your car for you.”

  Hawley hoped she would. He hoped that when he woke up and stumbled out of the doctor’s house into the blazing desert heat, she’d be there with the baby and the money and it wouldn’t just be his truck covered with dust on the side of the road, the keys in the ignition. That he wouldn’t have to check the trunk for the guns, and that there’d be at least a grand left for him in the licorice jar. She owed him that, at least, he thought. She owed him something.

  Hawley pressed his face against the back window. He eyed the side mirror, the highway as it stretched behind them. A black line reflecting through the desert morning. A single, lonely path. Then the car went over a bump, and there was a flash of fur and feathers. Roadkill—something already dead. A rabbit and an eagle, he thought. A coyote and a vulture. In the seat beside him the baby moaned and whimpered. His tiny mouth opened. He began to cry.

  “He’s hungry again,” said Amy, but they couldn’t stop, so she started singing. “Twinkle, Twinkle” and “Hush-a-bye, Baby.” Hawley closed his eyes and listened. Her voice was off-key, but she was trying.

  “You’re a good mother,” Hawley said, or at least he thought he did, and then the bullet pulled him the rest of the way into the dark.

  MAURINE DALLAS WATKINS

  Bound

  FROM Strand Magazine

  YES, MR. HEDGES, I’m deaf but I can read your lips and understand perfectly: anything I say may be used against me, and I’m making this statement voluntary and of my own free will. And I’ll write down exactly what happened last night, and how. But I wish you wouldn’t read over my shoulder like that—I’ll hand you each page when I’m done.

  Miss Thyrza took me to raise when I was thirteen.

  “I don’t want a boy that’s too bright,” she said. “None of these young smart alecks for mine. In fact, I’d rather have him more on the dumb side.”

  “We’ve got one here that’s all on the dumb side,” said the matron. “Ha, ha.” She was always a great one for jokes that way. “Fetch Ernie, girls.”

  I was less than a rod away, reading every word they said, but I waited for the girls to fetch me, for if Mrs. Simpson had ever learned I could read lips like that, it would have been much harder for me to find out her plans and pass them on to the boys.

  Miss Thyrza and me eyed each other, and I wasn’t any more pleased than she was. That was seven years ago and she was in her middle thirties, but she looked to me like an old woman: partly her blue-gobbler nose and long yellow neck with its folds of fat going round and round, and partly that “ancestral” look, as I learned later when I studied her family photograph album on Sunday afternoons. People who resemble their folks too close always look old before their time, as if they’ve inherited their age along with the features.

  “Of course, if you want a boy for company, Ernie can’t gab none,” said the matron brightly, laying an affectionate arm around my shoulders and giving me a pinch that meant I should close my mouth. It’s a bad habit I have, letting my mouth hang open.

  “Not for company,” Miss Thyrza answered shortly. “But with Pa’s death it leaves just me and the hired hand, Amos McGill. And you know how tongues wag—a woman alone that way and a man.”

  Then she turned and her black eyes burned me through. “Humph, is he healthy? Is he strong? Has he had all the children’s diseases? For I can’t spend my time nursing boys through the measles—I’ve got a hundred and sixty acres to tend!” And she ran her fingers over my teeth—just like I was a horse—to be sure there’d be no dental work till she’d had me a few years.

  “How’s his appetite? Will he eat me out of house and home? Can he work? Is he willing? Milk? Look after chickens? Hogs? Chop wood? Any bad habits? Does he lie? Steal? Smoke? Chew? No goings-on like that, mind you.” She paused for breath, then finished: “And what schooling has he had? I aim to board a teacher this winter, and he can pick up some there if he’s eager.”

  The matron wrote on the slate, which I wore around my neck: “Ernie, wouldn’t you like to go with this nice, kind lady and have a nice, good home?”

  And I wrote back, “Yes, ma’am.”

  But Miss Thyrza wasn’t one to leap before looking, so she said she’d take me on trial from Friday till Monday.

  When I explained to the boys how it was, they all went without apples for dinner and gave me half their biscuits that night to put in with my bundle of clothes, so that I could eat them between meals and be sort of delicate at the table. For our experience at the Home had taught us, unless you were a little girl with golden hair and blue eyes, the best way to make a good impression when tried out was to go easy on the victuals, do chores without being told, and keep from underfoot.

  Yes, sir, I know what you want, Mr. Hedges, and I’m getting to it. But first I’ve got to make you see how things were, so you’ll understand all that led up to last night.

  Well, the next Monday Miss Thyrza signed up the papers, not adopting me, you know, but binding herself to give me room and board, clothes, and medical attention, in turn for which I was to “help reasonably” around the place.

  And many’s the time I wished I was back at the Home.

  It wasn’t the work: up at four for milking and feeding, and filling the woodbox; breakfast by lamplight; then to the fields for whatever was to be done, or working around the barn or henhouses, fixing fences, clearing out timber, blasting and digging stumps; and at night rounding up the stock and doing evening chores before supper and bed.

  And it wasn’t the food, though Miss Thyrza had a way of cooking up great batches ahead: biscuit and salt pork for the week, stacks of buckwheat cakes in crocks from morning to morning, and green-grape pies by the half dozen.

  And Miss Thyrza wasn’t mean to me. She didn’t have time to be.

  But the lonesomeness of it, that’s what I hated. Of course I’d never had anyone to talk to, but the boys at the Home always let me watch them play and kind of help along carrying water, chalking off bases, keeping scores, and things like that. I used to nearly die in the evening when Miss Thyrza would sit sewing carpet rags and Amos, who was over forty and had false teeth, would nod in his chair an hour or so before bed. I would get so homesick for something young that I’d chase the calves around the barnyard for company till I don’t wonder folks thought I was simple.

  Yes, Mr. Hedges, I’m getting on. I just want you to see what it meant to me when Jasper Thorley came to board.

  If I had just one word to describe Jasper Thorley, it would be kind. Kind to everything and everybody. He’s the first teacher Oak Ridge ever had who didn’t have to lick the daylights out of the older boys just to prove he could. Jasper would just smile and get their minds off on something else, or maybe laugh with them if the trick was really good. He seemed to feel they were all there to learn something, him along with the scholars. Why, once he took a whole afternoon to let Pete Marsden talk about trapping, and then Jasper showed them how to make a new kind that caught but didn’t hurt the rabbits.

  And it came out at the trial how he and Amos had almost come to blows over the mare Amos used for plowing when he shouldn’t. And he walked all the way to Tabor to find homes for Priscilla’s kittens, the ones Miss Thyrza had told him to drown. Why, Mr. Hedges, that cat didn’t even have a name till Jasper came; it was just the cat to rid the barn of mice, but he made her a personality.

  And as for me—

  It wasn’t only that he was always patient and ready to explain, while most folks cut it short rather than bother with a slate and squeaky pencil, but he acted like he was glad, that it meant something to him, too, that he was learning from me. And he used to tell me how Edison said it was a blessing to be deaf as it let him concentrate on his work, and that Beethoven, who was a famous musician, couldn’t hear a note. And he said nature always made it up to people like me by increasing their other faculties, that I could “feel” things other people couldn’t—
like the corn shooting up on hot nights, or a rain coming on miles away, or bees getting ready to swarm.

  And he gave me books.

  It’s hard for you to understand what that meant to me, Mr. Hedges, for you believe the world is the way it seems here at Tabor and are content. But life isn’t like this. There are places where it’s bright and exciting, gay like a song, where people are noble and great and kind. Whatever comes to me, I’ll be happier for knowing there are people like that, someplace, wherever it may be, though I’ll never see them myself.

  They were books from the school library, and he’d slip them, careless-like, into my room at night with a candle (for Miss Thyrza would miss the oil from the lamp), and there I would sit, propped up in bed, with the quilt tucked around like a shawl, and my fingers stiff and blue, so cold that my breath was smoke, while the green-plastered ceiling dripped sweat and the frost traced pictures on the windowpanes—and ride with d’Artagnan and fight with Ivanhoe and dream of Lorna Doone.

  But Dickens was the one I loved best. Oliver Twist and Little Dorrit—I know them, and they would know me better than any of you in Tabor ever could. David Copperfield and Sidney Carton—“It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done . . .”

  Yes, Mr. Hedges, I was only resting a minute. My fingers were cramped. This is the longest, and hardest, writing I’ve ever done. And I’ve hardly started. But I know what you and the district attorney want and I’ll be to it soon. “We’ll be here all day if that dummy keeps on at this rate,” you are saying. Have you forgotten I can read lips, Mr. Hedges, or don’t you care? There’s all the time in the world. (I never noticed before how Mr. Morgan bites off his words: “Let him tell it his own way. Give him rope enough . . .”)

  I never knew why Jasper married Miss Thyrza, but I’m sure it wasn’t for money like you folks thought.

  And I don’t believe Jasper knew either. Maybe he felt sorry for her, or maybe she told him there had been gossip. All I ever knew was what she said to Amos at breakfast one morning: “Me and Jasper was married Saturday”—they always went to town on Saturday to take the eggs to market—“and you and Ernie can start plowing the crik field today. Everything will be just as usual.”

  And it was, except that she started wearing wrappers to breakfast. Amos and I still called her Miss Thyrza, and every now and then Jasper would catch himself doing the same. That’s the way he felt toward her, too, I think; ten years’ difference between them seemed even more, for he was young for twenty-five.

  As for her, she never loved him, leastways not what I mean by love. But she liked to feel he was hers, that all the girls and women could flutter around him at church socials and school suppers but she owned him.

  Like she used to stand on a hilltop in the wind, and her nostrils would quiver and her jaw set tight, because as far as she could see the land was hers and all the crops on it, and the grain in the barns and the silo of fodder, horses, cows, hogs, and chickens—everything that breathed belonged to Thyrza Rudd!

  She took me because I could be “bound,” and marriage was her way of binding Jasper.

  That’s why she was willing to take Effie, when her father skipped out to no one knew where and her mother died and it looked as if she would have to go on the county, since she didn’t have money enough to get back to some second cousins in Tennessee and she was too old for the Home—seventeen.

  “Bring her here for a couple of days,” she told Jasper, and he did: an ugly, scrawny little thing, with peaked face, leaf-brown hair, and dull eyes, red from crying, who trembled all the time and jumped when anyone spoke to her. Miss Thyrza liked that, and when she saw how the girl took hold, what a cook she was, how quick and quiet, how grateful and beholden for any kindness, like a stray half-starved dog, she gave her a little room under the eaves and let her stay on to do for us all.

  You’ve seen spring beauties, all wilted and drooped, come back to life when you put them in water? Well, that’s the way it was with Effie for the next two years.

  Yes, sir, like spring beauties, sturdy but with a delicate grace. Her face and throat still white but stained now and then with a wildflower pink, her hair still brown but with glints of gold, and her eyes a deep blue, quiet and steady, except when she was talking to Jasper over her books (he’d helped her go on with her schooling outside), and then they’d turn black with excitement and glisten like stars.

  For Jasper helped her, lifted her up, as he did us all, and with him she had wings.

  Then suddenly Amos stopped teasing her. He’d always done things to annoy, such as tracking up the floor when it was fresh scrubbed, upsetting her kindling, eating slow to hold her back with her work. But now he began to pay her compliments and bring her store candy from town and make excuses to follow her about her work and brush against her. And once, when she was carrying a crock of milk from the springhouse, he slipped up in back and kissed her cheek. She wheeled around and threw the milk, crock and all, straight in his face, then ran to the house, crying, to scrub her cheek with lye soap. Miss Thyrza scolded her terrible for her carelessness, and she took it, afraid to tell the truth. But from then on she hated Amos and drew back whenever he came near, shivering like he was some animal she feared. And that’s the way things were up to the trial.

  Yes, Mr. Hedges, I know you know all about the trial and you needn’t swear at me either. But what you know was like the wrong side of a carpet; the pattern’s the same as on the right, but the colors are all turned about. That’s the way it was with what really happened and what came out in court.

  It was Saturday night, you remember, and Jasper and Miss Thyrza had gone to town in the afternoon as usual and stayed for the band concert. Amos was out in the yard smoking (Miss Thyrza wouldn’t allow it in the house), Effie had gone to her room, and I was reading in bed. I remember it was Heart of Midlothian. It must have been pretty late, anyway after nine, when I felt a sudden shaking of the rafters and walls, and an instant later there was the smell of smoke. A lamp’s overturned, I thought, and rushed to the door.

  There, across the hall, on the threshold of her room, stood Effie, in her nightdress, hair flying, hand clutched to her heart, and eyes wide and staring in horror. And by her side, with one arm around her shoulders and the other holding a gun, was Jasper.

  And Amos lay dead at their feet. That was the thud I had felt.

  I know that’s not the story you got at the trial, but there’s nothing you can do about it. I looked that up last night in the eighth-grade history book: the Constitution says no man shall be twice in jeopardy of life and limb for the same offense; and Jasper’s been tried once for killing Amos McGill. Else I shouldn’t be telling you now. And there wasn’t any perjury either—but I’ll come to that later.

  I don’t know how long we stood there, the three of us, for you can’t judge time in a moment like that.

  Then the front door opened and closed, the stairs quivered and trembled, and Miss Thyrza stood on the landing. She didn’t see Amos’s body, nor me, just the two in each other’s arms, for Jasper had dropped the gun and was trying to hush Effie’s sobs.

  And you could tell from her face all that was in her mind.

  If it hadn’t been so awful, it would have been funny. In fact, it was kind of funny anyway—at least I wanted to laugh or scream, do anything to break up the hideous thoughts that were racing through her brain.

  At last she found her tongue. I’m not sure of the words, for they poured out so fast; you’ve heard of tongue-lashings—this was one.

  “So this is why you pretended to go to Hebron and left the Birches to bring me home! No wonder you wanted to get an early start! No wonder you didn’t want me to go with you! I can see now why you were so anxious! And this hussy—” She started on Effie. “That’s what comes of taking in trash! How long has it been going on? How many times have you two—”

  Jasper cut in to explain. His face was turned so I couldn’t tell what he said, but as I learned afterward, Amos had watched
Effie from the yard and when he saw her lamp go out had sneaked up the stairs to her room. Her screams had roused Jasper, who’d been home an hour or so, he’d grabbed his gun, which was always kept handy for chicken thieves, and it had gone off in the struggle.

  For the first time Miss Thyrza noticed the dead man, but even that didn’t stop her.

  “What’s it to you where Amos was going or what happened? Why should you care? Tell me that! Answer me! Tell me!”

  Tears were streaming down her face, her eyes were hawk-bright, and her fingers clasped her throat as if she was choking while she waited for him to speak. In spite of all that has happened, looking back, even now, I’m sorry for her then, for she was stripped of her pride and vanity and saw things as they were: that she was old and yellow and wrinkled and Jasper had never loved her, that no one had ever loved her or ever would.

  His answer was quick and stern: “She’s a young girl we’ve taken in our home and it’s our place to protect her.”

  Her color flowed back at that. “You’ll swear there’s been nothing between you?”

  “Yes, I’ll swear it, but I’m ashamed of you for asking, Thyrza. I’m ashamed of you and for you.”

  She believed him. It was so clearly true—you could have told by Effie’s innocent eyes as well as Jasper’s words.

  He went on: “But whatever you think, there’s no time for it now. There’s a man that’s dead—and I’ve got to give myself up.”

  Effie gave a little moan and caught his arm. Miss Thyrza’s fear came back. “What’ll you tell them?”

  “The truth,” said he.

  “And what’ll they say?” Thyrza replied. “I believe you, Jasper, but they won’t. You know they won’t. And they’ll say you’ve been carrying on with the hired girl under my very eyes. And they’ll say—” She broke off, and the awfulest fear a human can know came into her eyes—the fear of laughter. An old wife made a laughingstock by a young husband who’d married her for her money—that was in her eyes.