Margie exploded when they got back in the car. “Do you know what you’re doing? Those girls, those women are simply encouraging imaginations. And for what? To get out of accepting responsibility for our parents’ deaths. They were there that night! They were there when our parents were killed! They’re just protecting their husbands!” She jerked open the door, slid behind the wheel and slammed the door shut. She watched others going to their cars while Lydia seemed to be taking her time getting into the car.
“You’re getting irrational,” Lydia said, her voice soft in an effort to calm the emotions, and slipped into her seat. “Their husbands didn’t kill anyone. It was just Dale,” she reminded her. She pulled the seat belt over her and locked it. “And they know they can’t change what happened.” She looked out the window, then muttered, “Isn’t that something to live with.” Turning back to Margie, she said “It could be they’re trying to protect their children, though. I mean Jennifer’s awfully curious about what her uncle did, don’t you think? Don’t you wonder what she’s actually been told? She and the other children?” Lydia felt a tingling on her head, at the back of her neck, and down her arms. Something had been going on in that group she couldn’t quite put her finger on. Some feeling like when you just about find the right word in a game of anagrams but have one letter missing. Almost as if the heightened emotions in that discussion were vibrating into the air and attracting a listening energy looking for that answer to “why?”
“Well, you think their husbands are really in the fields just because it is good weather? I get the impression church is pretty important to people around here. I think they’re just avoiding us. I think they really are afraid of us, Lydia. Afraid we’re going to bring some kind of trouble into their lives.” Margie started the engine, pulled her seat belt over her shoulder and checked Lydia. “Ready?” she asked. “To the cemetery?”
“Yeah,” Lydia agreed. “I’m ready.”
“Of course, we probably are bringing trouble into their lives,” Margie said as she backed out and hit the highway.“They’re probably like Jake, wanting to tear down everything so there won’t be any physical evidence to remember.”
“That’s not how you get rid of ghosts, Margie,” Lydia said. “If our mom is still asking why she got killed, then we need to find the answer and convey it to her. That will put her to rest.” She dared not look over at Margie so she watched the countryside, the brown fields that extended like an ocean without break of trees or houses.
“Lydia! Listen to yourself! You act as if this is all real. As if you could talk to our mom, who is dead, Lydia. You can’t talk to her killer, either. He’s dead.” Margie drove so slowly that a car coming up behind began honking, then rushed past them showering them with gravel and dust. “Well, I guess that guy’s in a hurry,” she said bitterly, but then picked up her own speed.
“Yeah,” Lydia said, thinking of her new experiences and how incomprehensible they would be to Margie. “But have you wondered what kind of relationship Mom had with Dale Harris as her student? What made her care about him so much?”
“No, Lydia, I have not.”
Ooookay, Lydia thought, vowing to keep her thoughts to herself for a while. It was the draft counseling that she wondered about. Had her mother put undue pressure on Dale to become a conscientious objector? Did he go into the military in defiance of her advice? And what part did his own mother, Alice, play in all this? Lydia got the feeling of a young man being pulled in two different directions. “If we could find something Dale wrote in her class, maybe we’d get a better picture of him,“ she said out loud without thinking.
Margie humphed. “I suppose you’re going to ask Mike Harris what he thought went through his brother’s head and really arouse some feathers.”
“Hadn’t thought of that. It’s an idea,” Lydia said, giving Margie a teasing smile. “But I think I’ll look into the shed a bit more and see what I find before I do that.” In the distance Lydia noticed birds flocked behind a moving object. Probably a farmer discing or planting or herbiciding or whatever. She hoped the birds weren’t being poisoned.
“I’ve never heard Dianne mention one teacher that she likes,” Margie said in a more thoughtful tone. “She and her friends find bashing teachers and principals, and all adults, ‘cool.’ It’s like finding anything in common with them would be disloyal. Sometimes she seems to hate the whole world.” Margie gestured with one hand then dropped it on the steering wheel with a bang, making Lydia wince. Then she added “Maybe it was that way back then, too,” as if pondering the bitterness of that teenager we were wanting to hate, or in lieu of that, to explain.
“Maybe,” Lydia agreed, thankful for Margie’s contemplation. “The teenage years are a chaotic time in life when the brain isn’t quite fully developed and you’re in a battle between reason and feelings. Or should I say between brain and hormones. They haven’t formed a clear idea of who they are.”
“She comes home sometimes with the oddest requests. Demands, really. Like she just has to have a certain piece of jewelry, or clothing, or haircut, or makeup, or she just has to go to some party, or performance.” Margie sighed. And sighed again.
“I don’t remember being so out of sorts all the time like Dianne,” Margie went on. “I remember us being pretty disciplined. We did our chores. We did our homework. We even played those awful piano exercises for Aunt Nora. Remember those old, torn books?” Margie sounded almost amused, much to Lydia’s relief.
“The ones her daughter had used,” Lydia laughed. “We should be grateful, I guess. They couldn’t afford to give us lessons but Aunt Nora at least taught us scales and how to read notes. You didn’t do so badly, you know. You got past the Third Grade Thompson book and I didn’t.”
“You could have, if you’d wanted,” Margie retorted. She had pulled into the fenced-in cemetery lane and followed the tracks in the grass. “I left music stuff when I went to college,” she confessed. When they got to a locked gate Margie stopped the car, wondering how they were going to turn around, how they were even going to get in, but then she spotted a break between gate and fence just big enough to squeeze their bodies through. She’d deal with turning around later.
Lydia had brought a map of the cemetery, locating graves. She and Margie studied it awhile before setting about to walk between graves. They commented once in awhile on the marker inscriptions. “Gone home,” “beloved wife/husband,” “Here for a little while,” “Just at rest,” “called home,” until finally they came upon what they were looking for. A flat stone identified Brenda May Kinnen, wife of Ed (January 5 1930-May 30 1969) and next to it another flat stone identifying Edwin Elliot Kinnen, husband of Brenda (July 20, 1929-May 30, 1969), with neither having an inscription of any kind. The two graves next to them were Robert Roy Kinnen (1909-1996) and Emma Jane Kinnen (1910-1997). It was a small family. There were almost as many graves in their backyard. Those were Kinnens who had emigrated with others from North Carolina in the 1850’s. Jake, and the superintendent said they had been vandalized years ago as a Halloween prank. Lydia was glad the superintendent made them replace and repair them.
“You know,” Lydia said, “if our place ever becomes a park, our own little graveyard might become a visitors’ attraction. We might need to put up a fence around them.”
“Mr. Lambert thinks a park and museum would be a way of honoring our family,” Margie added. “But how many people in New Hope want to honor our family?” Margie kicked at a clump of dried grass left from mowing, slowly breaking it apart.
“You like Mr. Lambert,” Lydia said, wondering if Margie were making him a sort of grandfather substitute. “Well, he is a worthy man. Didn’t someone say he was the town mayor for many years, as well as town board member?”
“I believe so,” Margie answered. She stared at the family graves, then bent down and brushed off bits of grass and twigs. She wished she’d thought to bring a flower. Violets,
maybe, one of the early flowers they used to put in May baskets when they were little. She remembered the thrill she and her friends felt when secretly leaving them on people’s porches. That was one thing her mother loved to help with, making up those baskets.
Lydia interrupted her thoughts by suggesting they look for the Harris family headstones. She stood and they looked around just in time to see a figure kneeling and placing something on a gravestone not too far away. They waited, not wanting to interrupt the man’s private moment. Soon the man got up and started walking away, but not toward the gate they had come in. He disappeared down a little hill and behind bushes. Soon they heard the noise of a tractor and noticed dust rising from a neighboring field. Curious, they went over to where the man had been. There, they saw he had left a sprig of blooming plum, or perhaps apple. It was placed on the grave of Alice Harris. Nearby, a similar sprig was left on Dale Harris’ grave.
The sisters looked at each other. “Mike,” they said in unison. Had he seen them? Lydia thought not. He was too engrossed in what he was doing. Margie agreed. They both had tears in their eyes and reached for each other’s hand. Neither could speak.
Dale’s grave was marked with a flag and a military sign, with dates 1948-1969. Around the grave were other Harrises, his grandparents, uncles, aunts. His mother, Alice Harris had the dates 1927-1980.
Lydia felt the sadness coming up from those graves, no ghost necessary to address the unfinished business in this family. So sad that Alice could not admit the reality of Dale’s action. So sad that Mike was still trying to do it for her. She would indeed have to talk to Mike Harris, but how? It wouldn’t be easy. Would she sympathize with his mother’s death? Not refer to her suicide? And how had Mike’s father reacted to all that had happened? Was he still in Arizona, alive? No grave. Not here, anyway. She’d have to ask. Maybe Pearl would know.
Margie nudged her, said she was ready to go. “This is too depressing. I’m cold.” Margie hugged her arms to herself, shivering.
A breeze had come up. A dust devil whirled in the dirt tracks of the road that ran the perimeter of the cemetery. Lydia suggested Margie go stand in the sun. “I’ll come in a few minutes.”
Margie left. “I’ll see you in the car,” she said.
“What would you have me do, go to Vietnam and kill some mother there? Mothers, mothers, mothers. Protective, possessive, pushing, pushing. What do they want? What do they want?”
The familiar goose-bumps rose on Lydia’s arms. The words came whispering like insects swarming. Bees buzzing. It was time to leave. It was hard to distinguish the impressions she was getting from the thoughts she was thinking. The sun was out. It was warm, she told herself. The small cemetery was really quite peaceful. Tall oak trees and bushes lined the outside, provided shade. One could have a picnic here. The newer section had flat smooth stones to make mowing easier. The older section had upright stones that would look like figures in the dark. They could be guarding the place.
Walking back to the car, Lydia tried to put her mind to something practical, something non-analytical, not involved with figuring out people’s behavior. She thought about what she could give to the girls for their treasure hunt. Perhaps one of those bookmark ribbons with the peace symbol on it. There were several of them, as if it had been a promotional item. It was probably better than any of the jewelry items, which weren’t many. Mother hadn’t been into jewelry.
One time Grandma Kinnen had given her and Margie the few things of their mother’s that she thought they might like to have. A watch for Lydia. Her diamond ring for Margie, being the older. Her wedding ring had been buried with her. There were a few necklaces, some scarves, a couple hats that were in fashion in the fifties.
Back at the house, they changed clothes and each made a sandwich for lunch, eating in silence. Speaking seemed impossible, as if voiced words would disturb the air, the mood, the very fine line between the living and the dead. Margie finished quickly, rinsed off her plate and placed it in the rack, took her coffee with her to the room she had dedicated as her office, what used to be the first floor bedroom. She even closed the door, something she’d never done before. Lydia heard her call and leave a message for Dianne. Then she heard her computer start up.
Obsidian meowed for attention as Lydia sat alone at the table staring at her empty plate and cup, trying to find the energy to get up and write a brief report to The Ranch on her newest feelings about Truth in Interpersonal Relationships. It was more and more elusive, this truth, this relationship thing. One question that occurred to her was whether truth was easier as one got to know another, or whether truth was easier with strangers. But that wasn’t it entirely. There had to be a feeling about what the Other would do with the truth. Would it be protected? Would it be used against the truth teller? Would it be believed? But then, what was truth, anyway? What if their parents, for example, had been so determined that they knew what was right that no other belief could be accepted. If they believed war was totally wrong, acceptable in no circumstance, how did they answer to aggression against a country, against them. She needed to learn more about the pacifist position, needed to go to the internet again. She needed another talk with Pearl, maybe with the Lamberts. She wondered if they agreed on things, or did they have different points of view.
Lydia got up to let Obsidian outside. It was a warm afternoon, but clouds were building in the west, a breeze was picking up. She wandered outside anyway, noticed daffodils were in bud out in back along the fence shaded by bushes. A young rabbit suddenly bounded out from the shadows. Obsidian perked his ears but made no move, rabbit being too big an object to pursue. She felt drawn toward the shed, though she didn’t intend to get too involved knowing she would dirty her clean clothes.
She pushed open the door though and ducked inside. The box of papers she had started to look through were right where she left them. She squatted down, pulled out the file with Dale’s letter.
“Dear Sgt. Palmer—Something happened my last night in New Hope,” Lydia read, “and I want to say I’m sorry. My actions that night are unexplainable. Probably a combination of tension, anger, uncertainty, and yeah, maybe that hit of, well, whatever it was. Something one of my buddies had given me. I don’t even know why I sniffed it. Just something to try, but it didn’t help. Made me feel outside myself. So, please, if I did something terrible, I’m really sorry. I think maybe I did because I remember being with Mike and these kids and we were on the way home and they wanted to hear about the service and I wanted to see the basketball court one more time and we kind of made an agreement. But then, when we were talking around this table and the candles giving off this wax and smoke odor, it was all private like and then here comes Mr. Kinnen and I guess I got mad and maybe hit him. I didn’t mean to hurt him, but I may have. I really regret that. And then his wife was there, too, I think and I may have hurt her too. I just hope they’re okay now, but you know, I’m writing to you because if anyone else is in trouble over that, I want you to know it was me. And I’ll take the whole blame. So please excuse anyone else if that comes up.
We’re on our way to the jungle and I just wanted to clear my mind before, well, before whatever happens happens. Tell the Kinnens I’m sorry and I would really like their forgiveness. Because I am... Dale Harris.”
Lydia could barely read through the anger that welled up. How about us, Dale Harris? Did you ever think about two little girls when you killed their parents? But of course, you weren’t thinking at all, were you. You’d turned your mind off, and your conscience, just let your emotions rampage on. With a little help from that coke, or whatever. Lydia‘s earlier attempt to understand teenager angst fled out the door. You didn’t mean to hurt? Your actions were unexplainable? You hope they are okay? Dale, Dale, Dale. You ran away, didn’t you? Oh sure, the army ordered you to the jungle, but tell me, did you hope to get killed so you wouldn’t ha
ve to face what you did?
Lydia’s hands were shaking so the letter slipped from her hands and drifted to the floor. She wanted to stamp on it. But no, she needed that letter. She crumpled to the floor and crossed her legs, bringing to mind what she had ‘heard’ at the cemetery. Mothers pushing. Who did you kill, Dale? My mother? or your mother? And why my father, Dale Harris? You didn’t like him coming into your private little enclave and see what you were teaching to your private audience? Where does this leave us, Dale Harris. If you can’t explain your actions, who can? Your therapist on the other side? Well, my mother wants an explanation. She’s over there, but yet back here pestering me. You, Dale Harris have got to meet her and make it right with her. God, God, God, what kind of world have you made?
Lydia shifted to her knees, rocked back and forth. Karma, reaping what you sow. Cause and effect. School. OK, God. Why am I being used in this exchange? What would the Yoga Ranch say? Psychics say they have a gift. It can be painful, seeing what they see. They use it to help find answers. Well, God, if I’m to be some kind of intermediary, help me.
This is some crazy dream, Lydia moaned, caring no longer about keeping her slacks clean. As for Dale’s ‘sorry,’ Mom and Dad never got to know that. Why Dad hadn’t bothered her, Lydia didn’t know. Maybe he’s paid his karmic debt and is free. Maybe Mother has more to work out. So, God, you leave us in mystery, we come and go, live and die, over and over. And you watch us all puzzling and worrying and crying over the unfairness of it all. Why don’t you just come like an angel and explain it? But of course you have sent angels, messiahs, haven’t you. But people don’t listen very well. They don’t have the ears to hear and the eyes to see. But God, I can’t imagine my mother ever in any lifetime killing someone. Lydia shuddered, remembering that somewhere along the line she had heard that Dale’s mother in this lifetime thought her parents were responsible for Dale’s death. How gross is that? The truth is, ah, yes, the truth is what? Lydia closed her eyes a moment, only to feel more intensely the hot, stuffy air in the small shed. The letter lay where it had fallen and though she felt like crushing it up into a ball, she instead put it carefully back into the folder where other “evidence” of the event had been stored. It must have been Sgt. Palmer that had given her grandparents this stuff. And they had kept it, for what reason? Had they ever figured out the truth? Or had they just left it, let it go, forgiving and moving on. Without her and Margie. Why couldn’t they have just stayed and gone to school here and...
Lydia stopped her wailing. Margie was calling. Lydia stood up, dusted off her slacks and heaved a sigh. She would leave this conversation with God for another time.
Chapter 14
The Return Page 20
