Monsters Among Us

by Monica Rodden

  Well, she thought, half hysterical, at least I can narrow it down to people who eat.

  “Catherine.”

  She whirled to see her mother’s face a foot from hers. She looked marginally more composed than she had at the house.

  Catherine tried to smile, unbuttoning her coat. “Just looking,” she said, nodding at the bulletin board, the flyers. “They—they do a lot here.”

  Her mother reached out and squeezed her hand. “I’m so, so sorry, Catherine. I don’t know if I—if I said that, back at the house. You two were so close.”

  Catherine said nothing, just felt her eyes burn and saw her mother’s face waver in front of her.

  “Come on,” her mother said gently, now taking her arm and leading her from the entryway to the wider part of the hall. “Your father’s been cornered by Dave Lester—do you remember him?”

  “No,” Catherine said truthfully as they walked across the room. It glowed from the sun through the windows, casting wide rhombus patches of light onto the carpet.

  “He used to go antiquing with your father. Sold him a knife from the Civil War—supposedly—and then a whiskey bottle that smelled so bad I made him keep it in the garage. No, maybe you don’t remember. Well, your father’s always had doubts about their authenticity. Not that he’d ever admit it to Dave, but still, we should probably…”

  Her mother was babbling, which she often did when she was nervous, and when they found her father and Dave—a stout man with a graying mustache—the former was looking increasingly put out.

  “No, I don’t think I’m interested,” her father was saying firmly. “Not now, anyway, with what’s going on…” He spotted them and his face seemed to relax with relief. “Dave, you remember my wife, Susan, and my daughter.”

  Catherine smiled weakly. Dave snapped his fingers at her.

  “You used to watch little Amy, didn’t you? Came to the museum a few times, if I remember. I used to work there. Retired last year, thank the good Lord.”

  They’d gone twice that first summer, Amy’s mother suggesting they do something “productive” now and again. Catherine and Amy had walked through the small history museum, bored and quiet, for an hour and only went again later in the summer so they could tell Amy’s mother they had done so. Catherine bought Amy a too-large ice cream cone after, leading to a stern morning text message about Amy being sick.

  “Worth it,” Amy had told her later. “Cookie dough add-ins are always worth it.”

  “Yes,” Catherine said now, her chest tight. She struggled to focus on Dave’s face. “A few times.”

  Dave nodded, turned back to her dad, seemed to read his expression correctly, and, with a last smile, wandered off.

  “That bottle,” her father said as soon as Dave was out of earshot, “wasn’t genuine amber.”

  “Richard—” her mother began.

  “And don’t even get me started on that knife.”

  “Didn’t you take it to be appraised?”

  “It’s still undersized.”

  “Don’t do this now, Richard. It’s not the time—Oh, hello, John. And James, isn’t it?”

  Catherine spun around.

  A tall man in his fifties was standing just behind her. He had a slight paunch and a thick head of black hair. His eyes were hazel and serene behind wire-rimmed glasses, his jaw freshly shaved. Next to him stood a boy about her age, who could not have looked more different with his wrinkled shirt, an almost-scowl playing around his mouth.

  John Pechman chuckled. “All we need is Matthew and Mark, but the twins are with Kathleen. She’s around here somewhere. Never did manage to get a Luke.”

  Catherine shared James’s grimace. When he looked at her, he gave a jerky nod.

  “Hey,” he said.

  “Hey.”

  “Ah, yes,” Pechman said, his eyes now on her. “You know James, don’t you? Went to school together? James is a senior now. Are you at college?” When she nodded, he beamed. “How fast the time goes, doesn’t it? I still remember you in Sunday school. You know, I saw you all across the room and I just had to come over. I thought to myself, I haven’t seen the Ellerses in far too long. But you know, I think that’s what happens with tragedy”—at this, his voice lowered—“with loss. It brings people together. We need to gather, to mourn communally.”

  “Are Evan and Jennifer…?” Her mother trailed off, and Pechman shook his head.

  “No, I believe they’re still with the police. I wouldn’t…wouldn’t expect them to come to something like this. It would be overwhelming, I think. But it’s for them all the same.” He gestured to the tables lined against the far wall, the people grouped around them. “We have sign-ups. Meals for the next two months. Donations. There will be a memorial, of course. A funeral. Our goal here is essentially to ensure that Evan and Jennifer do not have to do more than is absolutely necessary during this difficult time. Whatever we can do for them, it will be done.”

  Despite everything, Catherine found herself a little moved by this. John Pechman had always been over-the-top, a little too charismatic—although, she thought, what successful pastor wasn’t?—but within hours of Amy’s death he had gathered and organized dozens of people for the sole purpose of helping Amy’s devastated parents. All she had done was hit a stranger and wonder about a soup kitchen flyer.

  “Did Amy help out a lot here?” Catherine asked. “I know she did bake sales.”

  “Oh, yes. She did so much for us. She was a delight, I have to say. An absolute delight.”

  “Like with the soup kitchen?” she asked, unable to help herself. “Things like that?”

  Pechman nodded. “If there was any event she could make food for, she did so without question. I was disappointed she didn’t manage to make it to the church this year for her Christmas bread, but I think she may have stretched herself a bit too thin. Did you hear she was trying to sell online?”

  “Yes,” Catherine said.

  “So industrious. I know a great many people were interested. What an amazing girl. A loss, a loss for the whole community…” He trailed off, then smiled at them, a more genuine smile than before. “I just want to say…Please don’t feel any pressure. I know it’s a lot to think about, the—the aftermath of something like this. It’s enough that you’re here, showing support. I—we—just wanted to say, welcome.”

  James wiped his nose with the sleeve of his shirt. He had narrow shoulders and red-blond hair. She remembered he’d been nice in high school, if a little awkward. He dated Stephanie Spencer last year. Catherine remembered Stephanie—JV cheerleader, her brunette ponytail always insanely thick and shiny—complaining about him in third-period calculus after they’d broken up.

  His eyes were tinged red, and she realized he smelled—not bad, exactly—but sort of raw, as though he’d just been out for a run.

  “You see Henry?” he asked her.

  Catherine started. “Um, I think he’s supposed to be here. Somewhere.”

  James nodded, looked her up and down through bleary eyes, then said, “Cool. Tell him I’m looking for him?” He walked away and John Pechman sighed.

  “Please forgive my son. He’s…at a difficult age, as my wife and I say. Though I don’t think nine-year-old twins are much easier. Never a dull day at the Pechman house, I can tell you that.” He shot her father a rueful look. “Children challenge us in many ways, don’t they?”

  Her father smiled back, but his eyes were grave. “They do. But I’d take that over the alternative.”

  “Yes,” Pechman said, nodding again. “Absolutely. Anyway…as I said…welcome back.”

  He walked away, after his son, and Catherine’s mother tutted.

  “What?” Catherine said, casting her a look.

  “Oh, I just…”

  “Your mother never liked him,” her father said f
latly.

  “That’s not true.”

  Her father looked almost amused at her prim indignation; Catherine saw his eyes soften.

  “It’s not true,” her mother said again. “John was just always…”

  “What?” Catherine said.

  “Nothing.”

  “Let’s just say your mother was happy when you finished Sunday school,” her father said.

  “Well, that’s not a crime,” her mother insisted. “And anyway, we’re not the only ones who’ve left, you know,” she added, her voice lowering. “It wasn’t just me, or us, or however you want to put it.”

  “If you’re talking about Ken—”

  “Ken?” Catherine echoed blankly. She searched through her memories. “Ken…Itoh? The deacon?”

  “Pastor,” her father corrected. “He became a pastor.”

  “Well, he still is, from what I heard,” her mother said. “Just not here.”

  Catherine looked between them. “I don’t—”

  But her mother waved a hand. “It’s not important. I don’t even know all the details. Just gossip, really. And now’s not the time for it. We’re here for Amy. Richard, should we look at the tables? See what we can help with?”

  Her father gave a noise of assent and they walked off, perhaps expecting Catherine to follow, but she didn’t. Her mind was spinning, full of soup kitchens and half-heard gossip and Amy. She felt like she was falling again, or about to, that strange need to hold on to something coming back to her as her fingers clenched, looking for something to grab, some edge of purchase.

  Then she spotted him.

  Henry was standing by a table in the corner, taking out a spool of cups from thin plastic and stacking them by the coffeemaker. Within seconds she found herself walking toward him with a surge of relief so strong her fingers uncurled from her palms, as though casting a die.

  “James Pechman is looking for you,” she said when she approached.

  Henry turned to her, crumpled the remaining plastic in one hand, and tossed it in a trash can underneath the table. “I’ll bet he is,” he said ruefully. “Coffee?” He gestured to the newly stacked cups.

  She nodded. He poured them each a small amount and Catherine grabbed a handful of creamers from the bowl on the table and began slowly turning her coffee as white as her skin. Henry watched her, appalled.

  “That’s not even coffee anymore,” he said.

  “Well, how do you drink yours?” she asked, taking a sip.

  He held out his own cup so she could see. “Black. Because I’m an adult.”

  She almost snorted, then drank some of hers. “So…how do you know James?”

  Henry looked unabashed. “I buy from him one time during finals last May and the kid won’t leave me alone.”

  She raised her eyebrows.

  “Okay, maybe again a few months ago. Oh, don’t look so superior,” he said, though his voice was low. “We’re…friends. I guess. He asked me over to his house yesterday. We played video games and hung out. He wanted to sell to me again. I said no.” He shrugged. “It’s not like I wanted to make it a thing. You take those things too much and you can’t sleep and your mouth gets so dry you can’t swallow. No thanks.”

  Catherine scanned the room. James was nowhere to be found, but more people were still arriving, faces she vaguely recognized but couldn’t name as they came in from the cold.

  Where was Amy now? Surely she wasn’t still there, outside? What happened to a body after—?

  She slammed her mind shut. Cut off the words before pictures could form.

  There were people milling around them, trying to get to the coffee. Henry jerked his head and she followed him a few paces away, where they leaned against the wall, coffees in hand, watching the room. Catherine saw her parents on the other side, looking at some papers on one of the tables.

  “I can’t remember the last time they went to church on a—” But she didn’t know what day of the week it was.

  “Friday,” Henry supplied. “It’s Friday.”

  Catherine closed her eyes. Just days ago, she and Amy had been watching YouTube videos together, so close she could see the faint flour marks on her red coat, dusting the cuffs.

  “They’re going to make casseroles,” she said faintly. “Everyone in the neighborhood is going to bake something or other and none of it will be as good as what Amy could make.” She glanced at him. “Where are your parents?”

  “Probably with Pechman. Writing him a check, more likely than not. God, they’re predictable.” He looked around the room, slightly annoyed, and Catherine followed his gaze, spotting Mr. and Mrs. Brisbois standing by one of the far tables, indeed talking to John Pechman. Catherine took in Henry’s parents: well dressed and tall and stiff, as though made entirely of corners, like well-crafted origami—though maybe that was too mean of her. At least about Henry’s dad.

  But Mrs. Brisbois had always kind of hated her.

  Henry took a sip of his coffee. “Can I ask you something?”

  She turned to him.

  “What did you say to that Andrew kid? After I left?”

  She felt a smile flick across her face and welcomed it. “He doesn’t think you like him very much.”

  “I don’t know him. I just think he’s…”

  “What?”

  “Weird,” Henry said. “I think he’s weird.”

  “Define weird.”

  “Weird is saying he saw you that night,” Henry said without hesitation. “Weird is how he just got into town last night, when Amy…then he just happens to know exactly how she died?” And when she didn’t budge, he continued, “Come on, Catherine. One of those things, okay, I might buy, but all of them?”

  “I think you’re reaching.”

  “And I think you’re—” But he stopped himself.

  “What?” she demanded. She was very aware of the press of people around them, the biting scent of coffee, and she suddenly wondered if her shower had been enough, or if she still smelled a little bit of night sweats, those nightmares her body remembered more than her mind. “You think I’m what?”

  “Confused,” he said. “Or too trusting. I can’t decide.”

  “Oh, fuck you, Henry,” she said, but her voice was quiet, taking the sting from her words. “I cut his face open, remember? I hardly call that trusting. Not to mention I was wrong. I’m not about to accuse him of—”

  “How do you know you were wrong?”

  She blinked, taken aback. To buy herself time, she drank some of her coffee, feeling him watching her closely. But, she realized, he wasn’t actually that close to her. Not physically close. There were several feet between them, as though he was trying to keep his distance, and she was oddly grateful for it. At the same time, she didn’t like that he was treating her differently now that he knew. It was so strange, not even knowing what she wanted. Even if someone asked her point-blank how she’d like to be treated, she’d be unable to provide even the start of an answer.

  “How do you know you were wrong?” Henry repeated, his voice a little firmer, his eyes intent. “You said so yourself. You don’t remember.”

  “I—” She broke off. “It…” Her face was getting hot, a flush rising to curl around her throat. Strangled. “It wasn’t him.”

  “But how do you know?”

  “Because I know!” she shot back at him, and some people getting coffee turned. She lowered her voice. “I was wrong, okay? I won’t be wrong again. It wasn’t him.”

  Henry gave her a long look. “Fine,” he said. “Fine, if that’s what you want to go with.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “Forget it.”

  “No, tell me.”

  “Catherine—”

  “Tell me.”

  “No!” he shot back at h
er. “You don’t get to boss me around. We’re not kids anymore.”

  She didn’t turn to see if anyone was watching them this time. She was focused only on him, all her indignation seeping away from her like water down a drain.

  Because if she was being honest with herself, there had been a time, shortly before their falling—out? away? apart?—when the scales had shifted between them when she was not much older than Amy. Henry no longer racing ahead of her, always faster, braver, able to climb higher on trees that scraped her palms raw, Catherine thudding onto the grass with a groan, glaring up at him as he swung ostentatiously above her, teasing. No. Fourteen had been…dresses. She’d started shaving her legs, wearing makeup, lip gloss so sticky it clung to errant strands of blond hair she straightened until it shone. She started to catch him watching her, his blue eyes dazed, and she’d realized, one day, one moment, like a light clicking on, that he had fallen for her. An August sun shower. A pale yellow dress, her skin fair, cheeks pink. She’d been in the front porch rocking chair, drinking white grape juice and watching the rain. Henry sat on the porch step, watching as she tucked her legs underneath her and tried not to look at him.

  It’s like a movie, she’d thought. We are a picture that isn’t real.

  That had been the afternoon before the night he kissed her in the backyard, the garden lights violet, green, and gold. She’d reached down and found his hand, squeezed it so hard he’d let her go, breathless, dizzy, and, strangest of all, wanting him to do it again.

  But of course, she hadn’t let that happen.

  “I’m sorry,” she said now. Her voice was quiet. Outside the wide windows, the mist had finally given way to rain. She could hear it like a heart, like his heart. “I’m really sorry, Henry.”

  “Forget it.” He took another sip of coffee, not looking at her, but she saw the tension in his face. It made her want to cry all over again, and she wondered if something had broken inside her, something vital she hadn’t even been aware of until now.

  But then, had she ever been that strong a person? Or—forget strong—even just a substantial person? Wasn’t she flighty and vague a lot of the time? And she didn’t always make the best decisions. She’d been stuck-up in high school and then reckless in college.