The Grove (3 page)

I didn’t call Greg.

After Liz hung up, I stayed in the kitchen and stared out the window at the darkening field and the cottonwood grove in the distance. I thought about what she had said.

I had no memory of the previous night, that was true, but I knew with every part of me that I hadn’t hurt anyone. I didn’t know how the girl wound up in my field, or who’d killed her, but I was sure it had nothing to do with me.

Still, once the news got out and people in town heard where they’d found the girl’s body, the rumors would be everywhere.

No one around here forgets.

Over the years I’d become accustomed to the stares and whispers when I went into town. They’d tapered off since Clara but never completely stopped. All it would take to bring them back was a spark.

Like another murder.

I got up and took the Johnny Walker bottle from the cabinet above the refrigerator, then went outside to sit on the porch. The sun was almost gone, and the sky was red and heavy. There were several dark clouds to the east trailing thin blue curtains of rain. I sat on the steps and drank.

Lightning flashed, and I thought about my tractor. It was going to get wet sitting in the ravine, but there wasn’t anything I could do. Calling Greg to help wasn’t a good idea. We went back a long time, but if he thought I had anything to do with the girl’s death, everything we’d been through together wouldn’t matter.

Telling him wasn’t an option unless I could prove that I wasn’t involved.

I took another drink and watched the cottonwoods in the grove fight against the wind.

Could I prove it? There had to be something out there that pointed away from me, something I’d missed. If I could find it and give it to Greg, then I could show him—

No, that was a bad idea.

Anything I’d come across, someone with training would also find. I’d just make a mess out there, probably without accomplishing a thing.

Still, the idea wouldn’t go away.

Bad ideas rarely do, with me.

When we were kids, Greg fell out of an oak tree we’d been climbing in front of his house and snapped his leg in two places. I remember seeing the bone sticking through the skin and knowing I had to do something. His parents weren’t home at the time, so I ended up carrying him for two miles on my back to Dr. Whitfield’s house for help.

When we finally got there, Dr. Whitfield braced Greg’s leg and drove us both down to the hospital. I stayed in the waiting room until Greg’s parents arrived. When they did, I told them what’d happened.

I exaggerated Greg’s injury and the difficulty of carrying him all that way to make myself sound more heroic. When I finished the story, I was beaming.

Greg’s father looked down at me, frowning. “Why the hell didn’t you call from the house? Why do all that for no reason?”

I didn’t have an answer.

When we got to see Greg, his parents commended him on his bravery and told him how proud they were of him for enduring the pain of being carried so far with a broken leg.

I kept quiet.

Later, back at his house and alone, Greg thanked me.

“I would’ve done the same thing,” he’d said. “I didn’t think of the phone either. Don’t let it bother you.”

I didn’t believe him. Greg was always good under pressure. Greg was always good at everything. That’s just the way things were.

Me? I was the crazy one with the alcoholic father. It wasn’t until high school, when I’d learned I could hit a baseball better than anyone else, that people began to notice me for something positive, and eventually things got better.

I met Liz, I had scholarship offers from several schools, but best of all, I stopped being Donald McCray’s messed-up kid for a while.

Then everything crumbled.

And now it was all crumbling again.

No, I couldn’t call Greg, and yes, investigating the girl’s death was a bad decision, but it was the only one I could see.

I capped the bottle of Scotch and slid it into my pocket then started for the break in the rows of corn that led out to the grove.

I thought again about my new plan and wondered if going off my pills might be affecting my judgment.

I didn’t like the answer that came to me, but in the end, I decided it really didn’t matter.

The girl was on her side, facing the corn. Her hair, falling over her face like a veil, shimmered with movement. As I got closer I saw the flies, thick and black, covering the ground by her head.

I stepped over her and the flies scattered, revealing a dried yellow trail of vomit running into the dirt. There was no blood that I could see, and her uniform looked clean, no rips or stains.

I waved more flies away, then bent over and ran a finger along the girl’s forehead. I wanted to push her hair back from her face, but it was stuck to the dried vomit on her skin. The sound of it tearing free made my throat clench.

The flies gathered around my feet as I knelt over the girl. Her lips were purple and cracked. One of her eyes was half-closed; the other, milky and gray, stared toward the sky. The black makeup under her eyes had clumped into the lashes and smeared against her pale blue skin, making her look as though she’d been crying.

Once again, I slid a finger along her forehead, looping her hair behind her ear. There were three small silver rings in her earlobe and another through the cartilage at the top.

When I pulled my hand away, the back of my fingers brushed across her cheek. I’d expected her skin to be cold, but it wasn’t. The sun, which had now dropped just below the horizon, had kept her warm, but with night coming, that would change.

I balanced on the balls of my feet and looked over the ground around her. Nothing stood out.

There was a red ant crawling in the upturned palm of her right hand. I reached down and squeezed it between my fingers, then tossed it aside. When I did, I noticed a class ring on the middle finger of her right hand. It was too big for her, and she’d wrapped tape around the underside of the band to make it fit.

I leaned in closer and saw a football and goalposts embossed on one side and on the other the initials JHS.

Jefferson High School.

I had one exactly like it back in the house, except mine had an embossed baseball and an American flag.

I had never let anyone wear it.

I leaned in and tried to get a better look at her face. I’d seen the photo on her driver’s license, but it wasn’t enough.

Reaching for her shoulder, I hesitated.

Moving her would look bad. I tried to think of excuses I could use if anyone ever found out.

I could say I wanted to see if she was really dead. It was as good an excuse as any, and good enough for me.

I turned her over.

I’d heard that when you die your body becomes heavy, but when I rolled her onto her back it felt like she wasn’t there at all.

After I moved her, I had to look away.

The left side of her face was a deep black where the blood had settled, and the arm that’d been out in front of her now pointed over her head. I was able to pull it down to her side, but when I did, the muscles popped with the movement.

Her legs, still bent at the knee, now peaked toward the sky. The angle made her skirt slide up toward her waist, exposing thin blue panties underneath.

I reached down and pulled the hem of her skirt toward her knees. It wouldn’t stay, so I pressed down on both her legs until they were straight.

This time, the skirt stayed down, and I ignored the twinge in my stomach, the growing tightness in my pants.

Thin blue panties?

I looked down at her face and tried to piece together what had happened to her, how she’d wound up in my field.

Lightning flashed in the east, and I felt the first few touches of rain on my skin. I looked up and saw the clouds coming in fast. If I was going to find anything, I needed to hurry.

I took another look around but didn’t see anything unusual. I noticed the purse again. It was sitting on the edge of the grove by the cottonwoods, right where I’d dropped it after I’d first found her.

I thought there might’ve been something I’d missed the first time, a connection or clue that I’d passed over when I didn’t know to look.

I picked up the purse and unsnapped the latch. A small green case sat on the bottom. I took it out and opened it. Inside were several tampons. I closed the case and dropped it back in the purse, then reached for the bottle in my pocket, unscrewed the cap, and took a drink.

A few minutes later I tried again.

I found a black address book closed with a Velcro strip. I opened it and thumbed through the pages. They were all blank. There was a zipper compartment on the side. I looked in and found two photographs. The first one was of Jessica and two other girls I didn’t recognize. They were standing outside in the sun, smiling and laughing. All three wore sunglasses and small shirts with wire-thin straps.

The other photograph was of Jessica with a kid who looked a few years older. They were leaning against a black and silver Ford Mustang. Jessica had her arms around his neck and her head against his chest. Neither of them was looking at the camera, or smiling. I assumed the photo was meant to be serious.

In high school, love was serious.

I set the photos between my feet and went back to the purse. I found a pack of Juicy Fruit gum, four pens, and a tin of Altoids. There was some loose change in the bottom along with a business card for a temp agency. The copy on the card said

ACE STAFFING: Call today, work today

I tried to imagine what kind of high school student worked two jobs. Did she need money that bad? Could that have had something to do with her death?

I looked at the photographs one more time, wondering if anyone even knew she was gone.

A raindrop landed on one of the pictures, and I wiped it away with my thumb. The sky had turned from red to purple to black. I knew if I didn’t want to get wet, it was time to go.

Tomorrow, I decided, I’d go into town and see what I could find out about Jessica Cammon. Someone had to know what had happened.

I took one more look at the photo, studying Jessica’s face, and imagined her wrapping her arms around my neck, hugging me and thanking me for helping her.

It made me smile.

I put the photos back and closed the purse, leaving it where I’d found it, then turned away from the grove and headed toward the house. When I crossed the ravine, I looked back. For a moment I felt bad leaving her outside in the rain, but I forced myself to keep walking.

The wind pushed and fought, and the corn surged around me. I walked faster, then ran, and when I reached the house I was out of breath.

A sharp cramp dug into my side. I took the bottle out of my pocket and drank, waiting for the pain to pass.

It went away, but the wind never stopped.

I stood on the porch and stared out at the shadows of the cottonwoods in the grove. The sky was now completely dark, and the rain was coming down hard. I had to remind myself that she’d be all right out there, but something inside me didn’t believe it.

She was alone, like me, and for a moment, through the rain, I heard someone crying in the distance.

Then nothing.

I listened for a while longer, then turned and went inside, locking the door behind me.

MONDAY

The Riverbank Café was a one-level brick building on the far end of Main Street, windowless except for three small squares of glass on either side of the door. Originally it had been a bar, but the old owner retired and left it to his nephew, who’d turned it into a restaurant.

Apparently, the nephew had found Jesus after running into some trouble with drugs in the city. He’d decided a small business in an even smaller town would go a long way toward healing his soul and saving his marriage.

As long as the business wasn’t a bar.

So, the Riverbank Café opened nowhere near a river.

Liz told me once that the name had something to do with John the Baptist, but I’d never been one for fables, and if I’d heard the story I didn’t remember it. She’d said, “He was the guy who baptized Jesus then got beheaded by the Romans.”

I’d told her they made good omelets.

That had been the end of the conversation.

I pulled into the dirt lot in front of the Riverbank Café and parked next to a black Wentworth truck pulling a cattle car. Inside, pigs shuffled and grunted in the heat. The grill of the truck was a spray of dead bugs covering a confederate flag.

I got out, crossed the parking lot to the front door, and went inside. The air in the café was cold and felt good on my skin. The woman behind the counter looked up and smiled. There was a flash of recognition behind her eyes, but to her credit, the smile didn’t fade.

“Back from the dead, I see,” she said. “Just you today, or is your wife coming?”

“Just me,” I said.

She nodded, then motioned toward a line of booths along the wall. “Well, sit anywhere you like.”

The only people inside were an old couple in one of the booths and a guy in a Harley Davidson T-shirt sitting at the counter. I sat in the corner where I could see the entire room. A minute later a young girl came out of the kitchen, took a menu from the front counter, and crossed over to me.

“Coffee?”

I nodded and took the menu, even though I knew what I wanted.

The girl turned, and I watched her walk away. She didn’t look much older than Jessica, but it was hard to tell if she was one of the girls in the photograph or not. If she’d been wearing sunglasses, maybe.

I dropped the menu on the table and leaned back in the booth. Country music drifted through the cook’s window into the dining room. The woman behind the counter was refilling ketchup bottles and humming along to a song I’d never heard.

The old man in the booth leaned across the table toward the old woman and whispered something. The old woman giggled then covered her mouth with her napkin. The sound was light and young.

A few minutes later, the waitress came with my coffee and set it on the table. “You know what you want?”

The tag on her uniform said her name was Megan. I handed her the menu and said, “Denver omelet, please, Megan.”

She nodded, scribbled on her notepad, then took the menu from me and smiled. “Be right up.”

She turned to go and I stopped her. “Where’s the other girl who works here?”

“The other girl?” Megan bit her lower lip and glanced over her shoulder toward the woman wiping the counter. The woman didn’t look up.

“Long, dark hair,” I said. “Haven’t seen her around much.”

Megan tapped her pen on her notepad then said, “That’s Jessica. She’s not here today.”

“Not here, but she should be,” the woman at the counter said. “She might just find herself without a job soon.”

“That’s too bad,” I said. “She seemed nice.”

Megan looked from me to the woman behind the counter then disappeared into the kitchen. I heard her say something and a man’s voice answer. His head appeared in the cook’s window; then it was gone.

“That’s the trouble with hiring kids,” the woman said. “They have their own priorities, and most of them don’t understand the meaning of hard work. They’re too distracted these days.”

“That so?” I sipped my coffee, tried to appear disinterested. “Was Jessica easily distracted?”

The woman laughed. “Boys, boys, boys with her, and that’s that.” She tapped her finger against her chest. “I grew up with four sisters—I know how girls can be, but that one is something else.”

“A lot of boyfriends?”

“Not a lot.” She capped one of the ketchup bottles and reached for another as she spoke. “One in particular, but at that age, one’s enough.” She shook her head. “Her poor mother called here yesterday wondering if she’d shown up for her shift. I had to tell her no, but I left it at that. What else am I going to say? ‘Sorry, Mrs. Cammon, but your daughter ran off with her boyfriend?’”

“Ran off? You think so?”

She shrugged. “Oh, I don’t know, but it wouldn’t surprise me a bit.”

The man at the counter in the Harley Davidson T-shirt looked over his shoulder at me, then back at the woman. “You don’t want a daughter these days, that’s for sure.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” the woman said. “Boys can be just as bad.”

The man shook his head. “That ain’t true. With a boy you only got one dick to worry about.” He turned back and smiled at me, his mouth full of chewed egg. “With a girl, you worry about ’em all.” He laughed, loud and rolling.

I did, too, just to be polite.

“Ben, don’t come in here and be crude.” She leaned over and brushed his arm with her hand. “You know better than that.”

“Just telling the truth as I see it.”

The woman smiled and shook her head. “Well, keep it to yourself.”

After that, the topic switched to the weather and how thankful they were for the rain considering how dry it’d been. When Ben started talking about having to haul the load of pigs to the packing plant in Clarksville, I dropped out of the conversation and thought about Jessica.

This had been one of her places. She’d spent time here, walking these floors, cleaning these same tables. I’m not one to believe in ghosts, but I felt like a part of her was still there in that room.

If I tried, I thought I could see her come through the doors leading from the kitchen, each hand holding a plate of food. I glanced up and waited.

A moment later the doors opened and she was there.

Her black hair tied in a ponytail, her skin warm and pink. She crossed the room toward me.

I closed my eyes. My chest felt tight, and I couldn’t catch my breath. I kept my eyes closed until I heard the plate touch the table in front of me, then looked up.

Megan took a bottle of ketchup and a bottle of Tabasco from her apron pocket and set them on the table.

“You need anything else right now?”

I stared at my plate and a single chunk of ham, pink and steaming, trapped in the yellow omelet.

My stomach twisted.

“You doing OK?”

I nodded. The last thing I wanted was to come into town and draw attention to myself. I squeezed my fists tight, then looked up and smiled.

“Doing fine, thanks.”

Megan hesitated, then said, “If you need anything else, just yell.”

She started toward the old couple in the booth, but the woman behind the counter stopped her.

“What’s your opinion? You think Jess ran off with her boyfriend?”

Inside, I thanked her.

The girl didn’t say anything for a moment; then she looked back at the kitchen and the man watching through the cook’s window.

“I—I guess I don’t know.”

“If anyone knows, it’ll be you,” the woman said. “I know you two talked.”

“I don’t think she would’ve run off. I mean, she didn’t mention it to me.”

The woman looked at me then pointed at the girl. “Secretive as cats, all of ’em.”

The man in the kitchen cleared his throat and said, “Megan, give me a hand with something.”

Megan slipped into the kitchen.

This time I didn’t hear them talking, and I made a note of it.

“Well, one thing’s for sure,” the woman said. “When she does show her face again, she’s going to have a lot of questions to answer.”

I looked down at my omelet. The smell settled in the back of my throat, and something bitter rolled up to meet it. I had to eat. I couldn’t come in and order a meal and then leave it untouched, especially not after asking all kinds of questions. People would remember.

I picked at the eggs, then took a bite. At first I thought it was going to come back up, but I forced it to stay down. A few minutes later I tried again. This time it was easier.

The old couple paid their bill and walked, arm in arm, out to the parking lot.

“Sweet,” the woman said after they’d gone. “Been married forever and still holding hands.”

I ignored her and cut into the omelet. When I’d finished most of it, I folded my napkin over the rest and leaned back. The woman called for Megan, who came out and handed me my bill.

“Didn’t mean to put you on the spot,” I said.

She smiled, and I thought it was the fakest smile I’d ever seen.

“You didn’t at all,” she said. “Can I get you anything else?”

“You working all day?”

She shook her head. “Just through lunch.” She picked up my plate and waited, then said. “More coffee or anything?”

I shook my head and reached for my wallet.

“Thanks for coming in.” She gave me the same smile again and walked away.

I dropped a couple bucks on the table then took the bill to the front counter. The woman rang me up, and I told her they made the best omelets I’d ever tasted.

She thanked me, then said, “Bring your wife next time. We haven’t seen you two together for quite a while.”

I nodded. “I’ll definitely do that,” I said.

And I almost meant it.