Baggage

by S. G. Redling

  Death guilt works like one of those ethics experiments that use hidden cameras on unsuspecting people. They’re left in a room all alone, unsupervised, unaware. A bowl of candy is left on the table, or maybe a file or an unmarked button. Do they eat the candy? Open the file? Push the button? They’re not told of any consequences. They entered the room in the middle of their day, in the middle of their lives, their minds and hearts preoccupied with the busyness of their own wants and needs. Maybe they eat the candy, maybe they ignore the file. Regardless, the experiment ends; the moderator comes into the room, judging them on a test they had no idea they were taking. In a heartbeat, they are thieves or cowards or rule breakers or sheep. Branded. The test is over. No do-overs.

  That’s what death does. It rips someone out of the stream of your life, the life you’re living with varying levels of success and selfishness, and holds that raw absence against you like a measuring stick. Were you kind to them? Did you make their life better? Did you ever think of them, put them first, go out of your way to love them a little more? Did you only think of yourself? Are you sure? Or do you hear the echoes of every less-than-kind thing you ever said, every gentle encouragement you ever withheld out of pettiness, fatigue, or apathy?

  Too late now. Test over.

  And unless you’re a psychopath or a saint, you probably failed.

  You earn a G for guilt.

  “Are you okay, Anna?”

  Meredith puts her hand on mine, leaning close to me. I’m just sitting here, frozen. I almost say something before I remember I’ve got a mouthful of Tostitos and dip that have turned to warm putty on my tongue. I nod and swallow, trying to remember how to sit in a chair and be normal. “Yeah, yeah,” I manage to say. “So awful, oh my god. How awful.” The words roll out on their own as my mind runs its own litany.

  No dog in this fight.

  No skin in this game.

  Not my monkeys.

  Over and over, faster than a blink, reassurances based on flesh and animals swirl around my head, drawing me away from the gravitational pull of death. I can’t judge these people, these decent people being pulled into a wave of mourning that will grow as they feed it. It’s a basic human reaction; to be enthralled by the sharp ache of grief at a life snuffed out is as inevitable as death itself. Ellis Trachtenberg is probably the first murder victim any of them have ever known.

  “Are we sure about this, Lyle?”

  And then there’s Meredith. There should always be a Meredith. Someone who keeps their cool, remains human and compassionate and feels no compulsion to grieve more than any other. I suppose it’s a level of maturity, although I haven’t seen enough of it in my life to know if it’s a common step. Meredith’s eyes aren’t red but her face is somber. She’s still holding my hand and I can feel a slight tremor in her grip.

  Lyle is not faring so well. His cheeks glow with a rosiness that contradicts the anguish he’s trying to project. He looks up from the phone he has been hammering at with his thumbs to challenge Meredith’s question with a look of hurt outrage.

  “Well, Shanea from the President’s Office said she heard the police talking in his office. She’s right there in the same room as Bev, his secretary, and I don’t think she would have just made that up. It’s kind of a messed-up thing to lie about, don’t you think?”

  As I suspected, Lyle has claimed this story as his own, lashing out at anyone who dares challenge his narrative or its source. Meredith gives me a look that tells me she understands this too and thinks about as highly of it as I do. She squeezes my hand and lets it go.

  “I just think we should be respectful and be careful about spreading any information we haven’t received officially. God forbid word gets back to his family before the police have had a chance to talk with them. They don’t need to hear rumors.”

  “Especially if it’s not him.” Desiree Jackson, Lyle’s office mate, leans in behind Lyle. A small crowd has gathered around Lyle, the event crier, who has unfortunately chosen to camp out in our doorway. “Nothing like hearing about your own death when you’re just running late.”

  “Is he running late?” Lyle asks like the question offends him. “Ellis is never late. In all the years he has worked at this school, he has never been late. That’s not his way. He takes his classes very seriously. He would not—”

  “Nobody is questioning his devotion,” Meredith says, and I think again how lucky the world is to have Merediths who can tactfully shut down scenes like this. “We just don’t want to jump to any conclusions. Has anyone tried to call him?”

  “He’s not in his office,” Desiree says. “Shanea told us that.”

  Lyle scowls at her. “He’s not in his office because he’s dead in our building.”

  “Has anyone tried his cell?” Meredith’s voice has that tone it takes when she’s tired of dumbing things down. “Maybe the snow held him up. Lyle, why don’t you call his cell?”

  Lyle’s mouth opens and closes a few times, then he focuses on his phone. I can see him scrambling to save face. He can’t very well play Dead Man’s Grieving Best Friend if he admits he doesn’t even have the man’s phone number.

  Meredith saves him from his lie but sacrifices me. “Don’t you have his number, Anna?”

  There is probably some pathology I suffer from that makes me think that cramming something in my mouth will save me from answering questions I don’t want to answer. My first impulse is usually alcohol but in its absence, Tostitos and dip seem a fitting substitute. I’m seriously tempted to just shove a mitt-full of chips into my mouth even as I know that won’t work. Instead, I go with my other standby.

  “Uh, I don’t think so.”

  “Yes, you do,” Meredith says, surprised at the stupidity of my answer. “You did.”

  “I did.” Of course I did. Ellis typed it into my phone the second night I met him at a staff mixer. Meredith had been there and had teased me about it the next day. Playing dumb is harder when you have smart people playing beside you. But I try. “I don’t have my phone.”

  “You don’t have your phone?” Lyle’s tone is a vocal eye roll. I suspect Lyle eats, sleeps, and showers with his phone.

  “I don’t.” I pat my pockets, prepared to lie until I realize I don’t have to. I really don’t have my phone. I don’t have my purse, my wallet, not even my lip balm. I’d been so dazzled by the snow and so thickheaded from my hangover that I’d just charged out of the apartment with nothing in my hands but my mittens. I don’t even know if I have my keys. Shit.

  “I have his number on my desk,” Desiree says, and I’m pretty sure Lyle is close to not speaking to her anymore. “Let’s call him.”

  “And say what?” Lyle snaps. “‘Are you dead?’ ‘Who did it?’”

  “Enough!” Meredith bangs her hands on the desk. “Desiree, please go try Ellis’s number. Let us know if he answers. Either way, we’re all then going to go home and enjoy this lovely snow day. We need to pray for whoever it was that died in our building and maybe try to keep in mind that someone has died. Someone we probably know.” She stares at Lyle and Desiree, who both looked chastened. “Okay?”

  Like sulking teenagers, the two turn away from our door. A moment later we hear Lyle chastising whoever else is out in the hall, repeating Meredith’s orders almost word for word. She shakes her head as the noise from the hallway fades.

  “Unbelievable,” she says. “We work with children. Not the students. The students are almost adults. We work with children.” Then she sighs, resting her chin in her hand. “I hope it isn’t Ellis. I mean, I wish it wasn’t anyone, but I hope it isn’t Ellis. He has so much of his life ahead of him. It would be such a loss for the school and the students.”

  She sounds sincere, none of that gleeful titillation masked as grief. It strikes me again how very grown up Meredith is and how few people like this I’ve known in my life. Her genuine sadness awak
ens a dull throb deep within me, an ember of grief banked in layers of cynicism and self-protection. In the dark heat that blooms from it, I think of Ronnie. His face rises unbidden in my memory, not with any of the anger or anguish I’ve attached to it this past year, but the way I saw him when we were in love, when he lit me up and took my breath away and made me happy.

  I almost say something. I almost bring that memory to life by letting it slip out my lips, but I catch myself. Bringing that up, talking about my dead husband when Ellis Trachtenberg may be lying dead in an ambulance, murdered, could appear as manipulative as Lyle’s attention-grabbing scenes. Today, this moment, this horror that has occurred so close to us is not about us. It’s not about Ronnie. It’s not my grief. It’s not Meredith’s. We’re free from the burden of immediate pain. That’s for someone else to bear. Some unlucky soul has to lean into that knife. There’s no need to borrow that agony. We all get our chance.

  “I should go,” I say.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Collins, Illinois

  February 1998

  Anna Shuler, 12 years old

  Transcript: assessment session 1, AS #426911-S - juvenile. Marsteller

  Rep: Bakerton, MO, PD—Case Ref C7-2690X

  JDM: Hi, Anna, I’m Dr. Marsteller.

  Patient: Hello.

  JDM: Are you comfortable? Good. Anna, do you understand why you’re here?

  Patient: Aunt Gretchen said I’m supposed to talk to you.

  JDM: Do you know why?

  Patient: You’re with the police.

  JDM: Hmm, sort of. I work with the police but I’m not a police officer. I’m a counselor. Do you know what that means?

  Patient: That people tell you their problems and you tell them what’s wrong with them.

  JDM: Well, you’re partly right. People do tell me their problems, but then we talk about ways to make them better. To make them easier to deal with. Sometimes all it takes is talking about a problem to make things feel a lot better.

  Patient: Oh.

  JDM: Your Aunt Gretchen thought that maybe talking to me would make all of this a little easier for you to handle. You know, maybe we could talk about some things that you don’t feel comfortable talking about with the people in your family.

  Patient: The police want me to talk to you, too.

  JDM: The police want to make sure you’re okay. You’ve been through a lot these past couple of weeks. They mentioned how smart you are and how grown up you’ve been through all of this.

  Patient: They think I’m lying about what happened. They think there’s something I didn’t tell them, that I . . .

  JDM: That you what?

  JDM: Anna, what do you think the police want you to say? It’s okay if you tell me. Anna?

  JDM: Are you angry with the police? Because they arrested your mother? Do you understand why they arrested your mother?

  JDM: Anna?

  JDM: It’s going to be a long hour if we just sit here not talking to each other.

  JDM: Anna?

  JDM: Anna?

  Jeannie’s mother was going to kill her. She was late picking up Anna from the counselor. Jeannie drummed her hands on the steering wheel, waiting for the light to change. She wasn’t that late, not really. Fifteen minutes? Twenty? Anna wasn’t that little a kid. Yeah, she was only twelve, but she was really grown up. Jeannie didn’t understand why Mom and Dad freaked out about just letting Anna walk down to the library after her appointment. It was only, like, a half a block away. It wasn’t like she’d be sitting alone at an airport or a bus station. But no, Jeannie had to pick her up at the counselor’s office.

  Mom and Dad were worried about her, Jeannie knew. Really freaked out by the whole thing, which was totally understandable since she herself nearly passed out when Mom showed her that newspaper article. God, what a mess. Jeannie felt a sick tumbling in her stomach every time she thought about it. Stuff like this wasn’t supposed to happen in the real world. This was the kind of stuff that showed up in movies and those gross true-crime TV shows.

  Aunt Natalie had killed Uncle David. Aunt Natalie. Tiny little Aunt Natalie with all that pale blond hair, all those bangles and beaded necklaces and clunky wooden clogs. One time, an old rattrap truck rattled past their house and Dad had winked at Jeannie and said, “Sounds like Aunt Natalie.” She was always just this crazy mess of a woman, kind of cool but always so weird. She had opinions on everything and Mom spent most of their time together sighing and telling her to chill out. And Uncle David, god, he was such a drag. Always so pissed off about everything.

  But as weird as they were, who murders people?

  “My aunt is a murderer.” Jeannie tried the words on, seeing how it felt to say them aloud. She could only do this when she was alone in the car, which wasn’t often. “My aunt killed my uncle. There is a murderer in my family.”

  The family shame. That’s what they would have called it on TV. On TV it would be the secret that would haunt Jeannie, that she would keep to herself but that other people would somehow sense about her. It would cast a shadow on her, make her mysterious, maybe a little dangerous. Jeannie hadn’t told Leighanne yet; she’d just hinted that something really serious was going on in her family that she couldn’t talk about. Leighanne wanted to know what it was but also didn’t want to act like it was any big deal. Leighanne was already kind of jealous over all the attention Jeannie was getting for regionals, so she would probably try to play it all off like the whole thing was no big deal, but there was no way anyone could think this wasn’t a big deal.

  The light finally changed and Jeannie made the turn onto Emerson Avenue, where the counselor’s office was. Anna sat out front, on a bench, her book bag between her legs. God, Jeannie thought, how is a little kid like that supposed to deal with this? Jeannie felt ashamed at her earlier musings. This wasn’t a TV show; this wasn’t about attention. It didn’t make anyone look cool. It was as far from cool as anyone could possibly get.

  There was a space open a few doors up from where Anna sat but, pulling up alongside it, Jeannie doubted her parallel parking abilities. It would take forever and it wasn’t like they were staying. She pulled ahead to the loading zone at the corner. As she put on her flashers, she looked in the rearview mirror. A man was on the bench, too, talking with Anna. At first she’d thought he was just waiting there for the bus, but now that she really looked at him, Jeannie could see he was talking with her cousin.

  Jeannie slammed the car door. “Anna!” If this guy was some kind of creeper, Jeannie would bust him out, big-time. Jeannie had no problem at all with the idea of going into one of the offices on this street and calling the police. Anna was just a little kid; grown men shouldn’t be talking with her.

  Anna stood up when she heard her name, pulling her backpack up to her chest. Jeannie marched forward, her eyes on the guy, ready to give him hell if he made trouble. He was old, like in his forties, and paunchy like the guys who hung out at the American Legion watching when the girls’ basketball team did wind sprints in the parking lot. She wasn’t scared of him. She had her basketball shoes on and she had no doubt she could both kick him in the balls and run with Anna if need be.

  Then he smiled at her. She hesitated.

  “You must be Jeannie, right? The famous cousin? Running a little late, huh?”

  Anna didn’t say anything, just hugged her bag to her body. Jeannie stepped closer, slower now but ready to jump in between him and Anna if she needed to. He didn’t look at all worried.

  “You were late getting here and I didn’t want to leave Anna just sitting by herself. She doesn’t really know the town, does she?”

  Oh shit, busted. “Drills ran late. And there was traffic by the mall. I didn’t want to speed.” Jeannie knew she was talking too fast. Would this guy rat her out to her parents? She didn’t want to lose the car this week. Time to turn on the charm. Smile. “Are
you Dr. Marsteller?” He accepted her handshake.

  “So”—he kept shaking her hand—“tough times for your family. How are things? How are you dealing with all of this? Happy to have your cousin living with you?”

  “Of course, oh my god, I love Anna. It’s like I finally have a little sister.”

  “How much do you know about what happened? The murder?”

  Jeannie didn’t want to be rude but this handshake was lasting way too long. She pulled her hand back gently at first. Then she saw Anna’s face. Her cousin’s eyes were huge and dark; she looked like she’d been slapped, staring at Jeannie with what looked like an accusation. Jeannie jerked her hand away from the man’s grasp.

  “He’s not Dr. Marsteller.” Anna’s cheeks burned red. “He’s a reporter.”

  The man didn’t lose that oily smile. “Can you tell me how you’re dealing, knowing your aunt is a murderer? Has it made it tough at school?”

  “Oh my god.” Jeannie jerked Anna closer to her, pushing her in front of her toward the car. She kept glancing over her shoulder as the man shouted after them.

  “Did you see her do it, Anna? Did you see what she used?”

  “Don’t listen to him.”

  “Or is she covering for you, Anna?” He was following them.

  “Get in the car.”

  He pounded on the window beside Anna’s head as Jeannie hurried to start the car.

  “When did he die, Anna?”

  “Ignore him.”

  “How long was the body in the house?”

  Jeannie floored it, shooting the car through the intersection, not even worrying that the light was red. Horns blared and tires screeched somewhere behind them. The only sound Jeannie Fitzhugh heard was the muffled, panicked breaths of her cousin.