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Subject: {ASSM} Boots 4/14
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No sex in this installment, just further introductions and development
of the characters. If you haven't read parts 1-3... you'd probably be
lost picking up here. :o)
Thanks for all the feedback! Sorry this chapter has taken a while to
post!
Oh, and don't reproduce this elsewhere on the net. If you want to post
stories around the net, write your own. :o)
Lyss mightylyssa@yahoo.com
**********
Boots 4/14
(c) Lyssandra 2000
"I'll get your door," he hops out. I like that.
He comes around and opens the door for me. Clever of him. Puts us in
close proximity for the parting. I step out and get my books from
behind the seat. I turn back and he's right there. I smile up at him.
"This was great, Ellen. I mean, I know, only Sonic. But being with you
was great."
"Thanks. Me too."
"Can I call you?"
"Oh," I brush my hair back. One should never agree to that
immediately. I wanted to, but a bit of hesitation is better. "Ok,
sure. Can you write down my number."
"Oh yeah," he flipped open his notebook, finding a blank page. I saw
pages of notes in a large guy script. He pulled a pen from the spiral
and jotted down my number as I gave it to him. "Great, ok. I'll call
you. Any times I shouldn't call?"
"Well, not past 10. My youngest sister has to be asleep then, plus I
think Dad kind of freaks out about guys calling anyway."
"Understood." He closes the door and we stand for a brief moment
more. He leans forward, to my face. Reflexively my eyes relax, the
lids becoming heavy, staring at nothing, and my mouth parts just a
bit. His lips are then against my cheek in a very quick, very gentle
kiss. He pulls back, his face red. I smile at him.
"Ok," he's really smiling now. "Well, before I make more of a fool of
myself, I better let you get to class."
"You didn't make a fool of yourself," I'm giddy. "I had fun, thanks.
And thanks for the burger. I left some in your truck. You know... on
the dash."
He laughs and walks me back to the class buildings.
I spend time in the library before my last classes. Then, it's all
over at 5 and I head to the library again to print a few study articles
from the archive system. It's all on computer now, and I mentally
congratulate Western Regional for stepping into the 21st century. When
I go to my car, the parking lot is mostly empty. It's still plenty
bright at 5:30. I'm lost in thoughts of the lunch with Craig.
There is a car parked near mine and a man sitting inside it. I stop
and, unable to control myself, begin to tremble. A thousand fears
flood me. Ours are the only two cars left in that section. The man
inside the car is an older adult, clearly not a junior college
student. He is watching me.
I know I have to get back to the building, but I want to see his face.
Is it Dr. Mark? He's getting out of the car. It's a good distance
away, so I'd be able to make it back to the building. I'm a sprinter
after all. So I force myself to watch as he gets out. I develop a
fear that if it is Dr. Mark, I won't be able to run at all. What if
terror roots me to the spot while he comes and ends me.
The man looks fairly young, in his thirties. He is a bit overweight
with a large stomach that starts just under his chest, but he also
looks solid. He is wearing navy Dockers and a light blue button shirt,
the fabric slightly darkened around his armpits. His light brown hair
is close cropped, military style. He is wearing sunglasses and, I note
to my relief, there is a gold badge on his belt. There is also a small
handgun in a belt holster, and this disappears as he slips on a navy
blazer.
"Ms Grant, my name is Owen Jemundt. I work under Detective Raney in
the same department. I didn't mean to startle you."
He's stopped a small distance away from me to show that he means no
harm.
"Oh, ok. I'm sorry, just spazzed I guess. Do you have some news?"
"I believe Detective Raney does and he will come by your house
tonight. I'm not involved in the investigation end. I'm what we call
a presence."
I didn't say anything, so he continued.
"There is still a suspect at large. This shouldn't overly alarm you,
because we have reason to believe he's long gone, but until we get
things in a better perspective we like to keep an eye on the victim."
"You think he may try to get me?"
"No ma'am I don't. This is only a precaution. I think he's running
like a scared dog. But I do want you to know that I'm around. I won't
be intrusive in your life in any way. I'm going to give you my card.
It has all my phone numbers. Home, cellular, beeper. Even my email
address. I'm always in the area. I won't be watching you, so to
speak, but I'll simply be checking each day to be sure you're ok.
Don't worry about that being an interference in your lifestyle. You
won't even know I'm there."
"O-okay," I nod. "That does make me feel better thanks."
He steps forward, handing me his card. It has his picture on
it. "Show this to Detective Raney tonight so he can verify my purpose
to you."
"Okay," I nod again. A car is slowly pulling up and I turn. It's
Steve Jordan, from the Sonic. His window is rolled down and he has a
set look on his face as he eyes Detective Jemundt.
"Hey, Ellen, everything ok?"
"Hi, Steve, yes thanks." I smile at him gratefully. "This is a
detective."
"Ok, I was just headed home. Take care."
"You too."
As Steve drives off, I smile. "Everyone here has been really
supportive."
"That's great Ms Grant. I think your friends are going to be
especially important to you during this time. But I want to stress
that in the unlikely case something happens and you are threatened, you
should contact me and the police, not them. They could just end up
getting hurt or hurting an innocent."
"Oh, ok, I understand that."
The drive home was then frightening. Detective Lemundt had not
frightened me once I knew who he was, but the method of his appearance
had. Walking across a parking lot alone. Isn't that how I had been
abducted in the first place. I found myself checking the rearview
mirror to see if anyone was following me. I realized I probably
wouldn't recognize that fact even if it were happening, and that scared
me more.
So what? What could I do? I could not imagine living out the rest of
my life checking every parking lot and watching every car behind me.
No way. That was paranoia. Anger and frustration flashed through me
as I wanted to be free of this. It was done, I had escaped, and I just
wanted to forget about it all. For those animals to continue to affect
my life was unacceptable.
I pulled up to the curb in front of our house. We have a two car
garage, and those slots are reserved for Dad and Mom's cars. I always
park my Camry on the street in front, so as not to block either of
them. We live in a quiet suburban neighborhood and lots of the
families park some of their cars this way. Matt's Toyota pickup is
there, old but clean. It was now dark and I got out of the car after
looking about out of the windows. I quickly retrieved my books, hit
the lock and closed the door. The solid thunk sounded loud out here.
Our neighborhood is a seven block section bounded by Highway 60, Hardy
Street (the city's main thoroughfare), and the Picotamba River. It was
all nice, and the houses increased in size and value as you progressed
from Highway 60 to the Picotamba. Those houses situated on the actual
river bank were very large and very nice. Our house was two blocks in,
on Marion. All the streets names were taken from Robin Hood. When we
first moved here I was 14 and thought that was cool. Now it was just a
familiar swatch in the tapestry of my life.
I like Marion and the families on it. Our area is uneven terrain and
the street is like a valley, getting more shallow towards the east
end. The yards are all hills that lead up to the houses. The lawns
are all manicured and those who have flower beds and shrubbery take
care of them. It's the really nice all-American neighborhood that
modern entertainment likes to make fun of for some reason. Hey, I love
it. I wouldn't trade my neighborhood for anything. There have been
family disputes on our street, but never serious. Dad says fences make
for good neighbors and almost everyone has a high plank fence around
their back yard.
As well as the driveway, we have a sidewalk that extends up our lawn
from the street to the front door. The home itself is a two-story
split level, with the den and Mom's office being a lower level than the
rest of the first floor. In addition to the kitchen and living room,
there are two bedrooms on the first floor, my parents and Cyndi's. Me,
Matt and Felicia have bedrooms upstairs, along with a large bathroom
and a small everything room.
Our family operates on seniority and I have the largest room in the
front of the house, my window facing the street. Matt has the room
across the hall and Felicia is at the other end of the hall, next to
the bathroom. Her window looks out over the back yard and the roof of
mom's office extension. You can easily step out of Felicia's window
onto the roof and from there climb down a small oak to the ground.
We've, of course, tested this.
The light in the garage is on and someone is moving around in there, so
I take the driveway instead of the sidewalk. Nearing the garage I see
the lawn mower outside in a state of disarray. It's a push model and
the two back wheels are off. It's sitting up on its side. Passing
that I see Matt inside at the work shelf putting something in the
mounted clamp. His back is to me so I stop and watch for a moment.
Matt is already 6 feet tall (he insists 6'1") at seventeen. He took to
athletics like I did and we have a small bench set with extensions that
we share in the everything room. He has very little body fat, all long
lean muscle. He likes to go shirtless and is without one now. Muscles
bunch and ripple in his tanned back and shoulders as he works. His vee-
shape makes me think of Craig today. Craig, a couple of years older,
has already started piling on bulk. Matt has the height, but he's
still baby lean. He has dirty blonde hair like me and beyond it being
obvious we're siblings, people sometimes ask if we're twins.
Matt took what happened to me the worst I think. He has fretted over
it daily, and I see him doing angry aggression things a lot.
"Whatcha workin on?" I ask brightly.
He casts a sharp glance over his shoulder at me, then goes back to
it. "Tryin to straighten out this rod. Got caught on that stump in
the back yard, and tried to jerk it off before it ruined the blades.
Guess the rod caught it and bent."
I go over and stand beside him, watching with no real interest. Just
being near him.
"What's goin on? How was the first day of college?"
"Pretty much like high school," I frown.
"Yeah, well that's because it's a junior college. I bet a real college
would be cool."
"Mm," I nod. "It'll do for a couple of years. I can get the same core
classes out of my way, and the same classes are much easier to pass at
a junior college like this."
"Want to work out tonight?"
"Can't. A girl from the soccer team is coming over, and then I'll
probably study or get with Becky."
"Ok. You need to get back to the weights before too long. Don't need
to stay away from em too long."
I pull up the sleeve of my knit shirt and flex my arm defiantly. The
bicep is female but prevalent on the arm, bunching like ball. "I'm
still okay."
He gives the arm a skeptical appraisal and returns to his work. "That
can disappear pretty quick."
"Ok," I give in. "Can we try tomorrow night? I really need to get a
feel for my course schedule too, so we can see which nights are best."
"Okay," he nods.
He doesn't look at me like he used to. Were I given to overt
emotionalism I would vex that he thought less of me, but I knew he was
trying to hide his own hurt. He felt like he had let me down somehow.
He has always wanted to be protective of me and his other two sisters.
Like every other discomfort associated with the whole sorry episode, I
feel confident time will heal this.
"Going in, see you." I ruffle my hand through the hair on the back of
his head and go to the door that leads to the den.
The den is our family entertainment room, with a large TV being the
centerpiece. The TV is on, but no one is in there. I trot up the
stairs, my calves wincing a bit. I worked them hard this morning and
the one week layoff is showing. The short stairs lead to the kitchen
and Mom is in there with Cyndi. Mom is consulting a recipe book while
cooking. Cyndi is dutifully chopping carrots, slowly and carefully
with a knife. She loves to help Mom cook, and Mom gives her these
assignments to make her happy.
I've never been sure if Mom loves to cook or if, like everything else,
she simply approaches it from a perfectionist's methodology. She's
such a great cook that everyone who tastes her food assumes that she
must love it. Mom is a perfectionist though, and likes complete
control when cooking. This has never generated any problem from
Felicia or I because it meant we never had to help. We take care of
the clean up afterwards, but hey, we never had to cook. Of course, we
probably couldn't boil water now.
Cyndi on the other hand has always wanted to help cook, and has
gradually insinuated herself more and more into the process. Mom has
accepted it and, over time, has given Cyndi more and greater duties.
Felicia and I have privately worried that Mom may decide she likes this
whole assistant thing and make us start helping too. So far, that
hasn't happened.
"Hi Mom, hi Cyndi," I hug Cyndi before going to do the same to Mom.
"CYNTHIA," she protests. "And careful, I'm cutting carrots."
"Sorry," I grin as Mom embraces me with an open arm hug, her hands held
out so as not to get butter on me.
"First day of school?" she smiles up at me, still clutching me with her
arms. "No, sorry, college."
"Fine. The classes looked ok. I don't think 18 hours is going to be
too much with soccer. Oh, one of the girls from the team is coming
over tonight. That ok?"
"Sure, hope she's hungy." She lights up a smile, "Curry. What time is
she coming?"
I frown inwardly. In the past, Mom would have given me the third
degree about someone new. She would have asked what the girl's family
name was and then said, "I don't think I know those people." She would
ask how she dresses, and if she associates with a bad crowd. Maybe
it's because now I'm 19 and offically a college student. Maybe she's
giving me a wide latitude because of what happened.
"Seven. That too late to start eating?" I glance at the clock. It's
6 and it smells like it's almost finished.
"No, that's fine. The longer it stews the better."
"Cool, I'm going to go change. Where's Dad?"
"He's in the living room, reading."
I go into the living room before heading up to my room and give my
father a hug.
"Hey Ellen, love you sweetheart."
"Love you daddy."
Upstairs I pause, looking to the left. Felicia's door is open and
Faith Hill is crooning Breeze on her stereo. I go and stick my head in
the door. She's on the bed, on her stomach reading Seventeen. She's
wearing soft cotton shorts, and her feet are up in the air, ankles
crossed over her thighs.
At 15 Felicia is already beautiful. Guys call her a babe. She has a
great figure all around. Not just good legs and an ass, but breasts
that are already larger than mine. I hope there won't be competitive
problems in the future. Four years age difference will become
inconsequential very soon. A potential argument is looming on the near
horizon, as I will have to ask her to dress a bit more conservatively
when I bring a guy home to meet the family.
For now though, she's still my baby sister and I will hold on to that
for the brief time remaining. Later we will have wars, arguments and
understandings and love each other through it all, but she'll then
become my younger sister. No longer a baby.
"Howdy I'm home."
"Hi El!" She sits up from her magazine. "How was college?"
"It was cool. Guy asked me out today."
She let loose a little squeal and patted the bed. "Tell!"
"I've got to go dump my books and then wash up. A girl on the soccer
team is coming over in just a little bit. Then, when she's gone, I'll
fill you in, promise."
"Great!" she giggles. "He cute?"
"Very." We smile at each other. "Ok, talk later."
I go back down the hall to my room and throw my books on my desk. The
bed looks inviting. I'd like to fall on it and close my eyes for a
bit. But there's too much going on. I'm in the bathroom washing my
hands and face when Mom startles me, standing in the doorway. I see
her in the mirror and I don't like the look on her face. I turn,
reaching for the hand towel.
"What's wrong Mom?"
"Detective Raney is downstairs honey."
Felicia has appeared beside her, looking from her to me in a frightened
manner. She wants this whole unpleasant matter done with and gone.
"Ok. Did he say anything?"
"No, he's talking with your father. He's waiting for you to come down."
"Okay."
My dad is on the couch while Detective Raney is seated in a chair
opposite the coffee table. He stands up from his chair as I come in
the living room, Mom and Felicia in tow, and greets me. I take a spot
by my father on the couch. Matt is there, standing by one of Mom's
china cabinets, studying the contents.
"Ellen I needed to come by and update you on what we've discovered, and
ask you a few more questions. First, is there anything that you need
to tell me?"
"I... no. Oh, ah, a man gave me his card today... he said he's a detective
with you. His card's in my room, I can go get it."
"What did he say his name was?"
"Lemant..."
"Jemundt. Yes, he's with us. It would be good for you to show me his
card. Just to get in the habit of verifying things like that."
"I'll get it El," Felicia is already off the couch.
"Ok, thanks. It's... ah... in my English Comp textbook. Right inside the
cover. On my desk." I look back at Detective Raney. "I don't know of
anything else to tell you."
"Ok Ellen, that's fine," he's pulled his briefcase onto his lap is
popping the latches. "First I want to show you some pictures to see if
you can recognize any of the men."
A chill shoots through me, but I try to not show any emotion on the
outside. Mom squeezes my hand. I had identified Jimmy's picture in
the hospital, and I had hated seeing his face again.
"Ok, sure."
He lays a picture on the coffee table. It's Eric the baseball bat. My
hand goes to my mouth and I take a sharp breath. It's impossible to
keep the memories out. The sight of this man is like a physical blow.
It's astonishing the power that memories possess.
It's an amazingly incongruous head and shoulders photo. Eric smiling
in a button down, in front of a mottled grey backdrop, like the cheap
portraits you can get at Sears. This was such a normal picture, and he
was smiling so friendly. It made me angry. I remembered his smile of
death as he fried on the steps.
"That's Eric."
"Okay good. We know his full name now, and you've verified it. This
is the man you electrocuted. Can you confirm he was dead at that time?"
"I... don't know. Dr. Mark said he was dead. He checked him after he
rolled down the steps."
"Good enough." He removed the hateful picture, only to replace it with
another.
Bradley. This was him standing in a bass boat, holding up a fish. The
fish was on the end of a line, still hooked and in mid twitch, the tail
curled up to the side. Appropriate. More helpless prey for the
animal. This one frightened me more than Eric's. I knew any
remaining fear of Eric was irrational. I had seen to that. But
Bradley was still out there.
"That's Bradley. The man who abducted me." The tremble in my voice
was evident, causing Mom to squeeze my hand again and Dad to rub my
shoulder.
"Okay, some good news on this one."
"You caught him?" Dad asked anxiously.
"Well, better in my mind. Don't quote me on that. He's dead. It-"
"YES!!" Matt punctuated this with a clenched fist, his eyes full of
anger. We all looked over at him, and I smiled, tears forming in my
eyes.
Detective Raney turned back to me, not showing any emotion. "It took
us a while to figure out who Bradley was and then find his hunting
cabin. We just found it the day before yesterday in fact. Everything
was pretty much as you described it when you left, so the two bodies
were in bad shape."
"Did the saw that Ellen threw kill him?" Dad asked.
"No, that's one reason I waited until tonight to come over. I wanted
more information to share, and it would let me know what questions to
ask. The autopsy revealed that Bradley died of oxygen in his blood.
The wound to his head was fairly bad. The cut was deep and the bone
beneath was nicked, but it wasn't life threatening."
"Dr. Mark said it was only a shallow cut," I said quietly, dabbing the
few tears with a Kleenex.
"He lied about that then. We found Bradley sitting on a couch in the
main room of the cabin. His wound was about halfway stitched, as you
described. What we figure is Mark came back, told Bradley he was going
to finish dressing the wound, and told him he was going to give him an
injection. He probably told him it was for pain or infection. What he
really did was inject air into Bradley's bloodstream."
"My God," Mom shook her head. "Why would they kill each other?"
"We can't be sure of that until we get Mark, but..." he placed a picture
of Dr. Mark on the table.
Dr. Mark at a booth table in a restaurant, smiling and holding up a
drink in cheers to the camera. His arm is around an attractive woman
his age.
"That's Dr. Mark."
"Okay good. We now know who he is. He booked a flight to Mexico and
left the country about five hours after you were found on the highway."
"He's in Mexico?" Dad looked angry.
"Yes, we think so. He used his credit card once since then, in Mexico
City, for cash. Next he transferred funds from his bank account here.
That was four days ago. That's the last record we have of him. We've
forwarded a lot of pictures and other information about him to the
Mexican authorities. We're hoping to hear something soon and have him
extradited."
"Is that his wife?" I'm looking at the photo.
"Yes," Detective Raney sounds sad now. "She's been very cooperative
and helpful over the last 24 hours. She's in a bit of shock. She had
actually filed a missing persons with us before we figured out who he
was and went to talk to her."
"She..." Mom was in disbelief. "She didn't know?"
"We don't discount anything Mrs. Grant, but from we can tell so far no
she didn't. She and her husband have been distant over the past few
years, but that's not unusual in a marriage between two professionals.
It would be a perfect situation for him, as she wasn't in the habit of
asking where he had been or what he had been doing."
"So she just... I mean, I can't help but feel angry at her." Mom went
on. "That... situation allowed him to do these things. To hurt who
knows how many girls, and almost kill my daughter."
"I understand," Detective Raney nodded. "There was evidence of
videotapes missing at the cabin, but they had apparently made copies.
We found those. These videotapes document three earlier kills, as
Ellen had relayed. The videotapes in the cameras were also still
present, fully recorded."
We were all quiet for a moment as the point of this didn't sink in,
until Dad raised his head.
"There's videotape of Ellen!?"
"Yes sir."
My face must have gone white because I could feel the blood drain. My
body grew cold. I looked from Detective Raney to my parents and then
back to him.
"There were four cameras and the tapes all show everything exactly as
Ellen described. Of course, we're not surprised at that, just
complimenting her on her excellent memory. Most of the tape is of
course just darkness because she had taken out the lights. Also,
unfortunately, the tapes ran out before Mark returned to kill Bradley.
There would have been nothing to see, but perhaps the audio would have
helped us some."
"But," Dad was voicing my own concern, "these tapes of Ellen. I want
them destroyed."
"I understand that Mr. Grant. Right now they are evidence in a
multiple homicide investigation. We need them to give what information
they can, plus they need to be on file to defend your daughter if the
need arises."
"Defend Ellen!?" Mom's voice raised, and I was now squeezing her hand,
looking at her. "Against what!? You think someone would blame Ellen
for this!?"
"No ma'am I don't. I don't foresee anyone bringing charges against
Ellen for any reason. The state certainly won't. The only people who
could would be the family of Eric in a civil matter. And I believe
they were as in the dark as Mark's family about all of this. They are
in shock as well. All I'm explaining is the reason we keep them."
"Well, how long do you have to keep them?" Dad was angry, fueled by
Mom's distress. "I mean, that's unacceptable to have tapes of
something like this about my daughter lying around."
"They're not lying around I assure you. They are evidence and sealed.
Only members of the investigative team have access to them. As far as
how long, it would be necessary to keep them at least until the statute
of limitations runs out, which is 10 years for a civil case. Since
this involves homicide though, and I don't mean homicide on the part of
Ellen, I imagine that the information on these tapes will be forever
preserved."
"That's not right!" Mom cried.
"Mrs. Grant, Ellen went through a terrible ordeal. But she survived.
Three other girls that we know of were not so fortunate. Thanks to
Ellen, three of the men responsible have already paid the price for
their crimes, but there is still one at large. Those three girls died
in terrible, inhumane ways, and their families deserve closure. All of
these tapes can provide evidence and help in doing that. Please
understand."
"But-"
Detective Raney interrupted Mom with a raised hand, polite but
firm. "Furthermore... I don't know how to say this without sounding
obscene. I've viewed the tapes. They had very little time with Ellen
from the time the tapes were started to the time she escaped. There is
some physical abuse but almost no sexual abuse. I know you're worried
about anyone else, no matter who it is, seeing Ellen in that
situation." He looks at me. "I know you're worried about that too
Ellen. But, for what it's worth, the ones of us who have seen those
tapes found nothing lurid about them. What we saw was something that
touched us all. We even spoke of it to each other. We saw the the
most courageous young woman we've ever witnessed. Ellen, we all have
the greatest respect for you."
"Thank you," I whispered.
"I will call as soon as we know anything about Mark."
I notice he has only referred to them by their first names. He hasn't
told us their family names. He continues.
"Again, we expect to hear something soon from Mexican authorities. He
can't hide forever, and the FBI is now involved as well."
"The parents of the other girls," Mom is crying. "Do they know
everything yet?"
"We've identified two through outstanding missing persons
investigations. We think the third is from out of state. I met with
those families today, which is why I'm here so late in the evening.
They know everything we do now."
"I'm so sorry for them," Mom sobbed. I sit quietly. A heavy engine
can be heard on the street outside. It reminds me of the sound of
Jimmy's engine.
"We are too, Mrs. Grant. I never know how people will take this... I
guess you have to have worked in homicide for a while, but this ends up
being better than not knowing. It's closure. They've worried about
their daughters for so long. One of the couples was in the process of
a divorce. The stress was too much. He had lost his job. They
couldn't sleep. The fate of their child just obsessed them, which I'm
sure you can understand."
He closes his briefcase, getting ready to leave. Felicia returned at
some point, I didn't notice when, and now shows him Detective Jemundt's
card. He confirms it and is obviously ready to leave if we don't have
any more questions. Dad is just headed towards the door with him when
the doorbell rings.
Detective Raney says his goodbye quickly before the door is answered,
so whoever it is cannot hear, "I'll call as soon as I have news. My
bottom line feeling is this. There were four pieces of garbage who
were such cowards they went after young girls. And they would have
kept on killing but for one thing. They picked the wrong damn girl to
mess with and she made them pay the price. Good evening."
Dad opens the door and Joan is there. Her red hair is pulled back and
she is swallowed in a beige canvas windbreaker several sizes too big
for her. A red tee with some black logo I can't make out, and green
twill shorts. And, I notice, she is wearing hard black boots like my
combat boots. The same type of boot, that is, not the same style.
Her's have not been prettied at all, just black leather, all scuffed.
Her laces are bright white. A green canvas bag, edgeworn, is over one
shoulder.
"Oh, hi," she's startled, looking up at Dad and Detective Raney. "I
was here to see Ellen?" She looks past them as she speaks and sees
me. A smile flickers across her face.
"Yes, come on in," Dad motions her in then steps out. "I'll walk with
you to your car Detective."
"Hi Joan," I come across the room. I know good and well my eyes are
red. Mom has walked a little ways off and turned her back so that she
can dry her face.
"Hi Ellen. Did I come at a bad time?"
"No, no. That was a detective with news... you know, of the
investigation. Just an update kind of thing."
"Cool. I guess." She nods.
"Duh," I shake my head to show I'm foolish. "Joan this is Matt, my
brother, and my sisters Felicia and Cynd... Cynthia. This is my mom."
They all greet her. Mom doesn't even give her customary arched eyebrow
at the sight of a small gold stud in Joan's left eyebrow. In the very
recent past body piercing would have been an instant negative with
Mom. I'm sure it still is, but she's not showing any outward sign.
Matt can't take his eyes off Joan's legs, the nicely sculpted thighs
being about all he can see of her. Other than her face of course.
And, being a guy, there are so many places he'd rather look at than a
face. I notice Felicia sizing her up too. Already scouting the
opposition. It's always been a hobby of sorts for me to watch others'
eyes. They say a lot.
We go up to my room and I close the door for privacy. Joan sets the
canvas bag on the floor and removes her oversized jacket as I talk
about being excited for soccer. I notice the jacket has "Danny"
written in marker on the inside collar. So much for her being a
lesbian, I grin inwardly. I'll break the news to Craig when I have a
chance. Her tee is sleeveless and on her back right shoulder I can see
a tattoo peeking out from behind the red fabric. It's one half of a
spider.
"Oh, I hope you're hungry," I smile at her.
"Why, are you feeding me?" she gives me another of those Joan smiles.
I can't tell if its sardonic or genuine yet, but I don't pass judgement.
"Sure! Mom made curry. Mom is an incredible cook. You like curry?"
"You bet. God, Ellen, your family is SO middle class."
I give her a puzzled half-smile. She's getting close to me passing
judgement.
"I don't mean that bad," she laughs.
"Good," I laugh with her.
"I mean so... backbone of America? Two parents, big house in this ... this
suburbia dreamscape. And your brother and sisters all like you, tall
good looking." I'm rummaging through my CDs to put something on but I
pause, staring at her in prolonged bemusement, so she continues. "Your
mom has all her china cabinets down there. The walls are a shrine to
you and the others."
She stops there, and is sitting on the floor, taking some composition
notebooks from her bag. I have two beanbags and she is using one.
"So... I'm not sure yet," I laugh a little. "Is that good or bad for
you?"
"Oh," she frowns a moment. "I'm sure it's great. I just haven't been
hit with such pure dosage of Americana before."
"Your folks are split?"
"Yeah. They're not divorced. My old man's in jail though. I think
mom doesn't divorce him just to piss him off. She won't sign the
papers."
Ok, I relax a little. I had felt an annoyance beginning towards her,
but she's obviously had a hard time. She seems pretty straightforward
and relaxed about subjects I'd find awkward, so I dig a little
further. "Why's your dad in jail?"
"That's a long list," she gives me an expression of wry disgust.
I said I like to read eyes, but I'm having a difficult time with Joan.
She doesn't often make eye contact but when she does, she is a bit
overpowering. Her eyes contain an open and aggressive type of honesty
that backs you down. When she's not looking at you, her eyes don't
flit about but seem to do a single encompassing sweep and then focus on
something. Everything about her mannerisms constitute a challenge to
whoever she's speaking to. I was right. She'll be the team captain.
I'm not a leader anyway. I prefer to be assigned an important role and
work at performing it well.
"He's stolen, sold drugs, all kinds of shit. But I think the
particular he's in for now is trafficking."
"Drugs?"
"Yeah."
"Do you do drugs?"
"I used to. Did some weed with my brother and his friends a lot. Then
tried some Ectsacy. I decided I don't like not being in control of
myself. No drugs in ... I guess about 2 years now. Or close to it."
"Great," I smile at her.
"Worried about me infecting your perfect world?" Her face and eyes say
the statement is not as combative as it sounds.
I laugh, "My world is far from perfect. I'm not worried about that,
just good to know things up front. I'm really glad you stopped doing
drugs though, that's pretty strong."
"Ok, our team sucks. Just want you to know that."
We both laugh. I ask, "It's a hopeless case?"
"Hell no. First off is our coach. Thomas Ridger. Ok, first, he's
gross."
I laugh again. I met Coach Ridger at the initial team meeting and,
while he seemed like a really nice man, he had some grooming
problems. "He has a severe nostril hair infestation."
"Oh God," she scowls. "If he sneezes his nose will look like a party
favor."
This gets me too, and my laughing continues. I like to laugh and, to
allow for this as often as possible, I give a wide zone to what I think
is funny. I'm not a joke critic, in other words. If someone is
telling me something in a spirit of humor, and it's not in bad taste, I
enjoy it and laugh.
"Second, he doesn't know soccer. He's a PhysEd instructor and they
gave him the soccer team by default. It's his second year as coach.
Ellen, in his office, I swear to God, there's like all these Idiot's
Guide To Soccer books on his shelf."
"Oh, that's good." I'm still giggling. "I'm so sure we'll dominate."
"No, I plan for us to," she's serious. "But I'll need control of this
team."
"Why are you here?" I ask as the thought occurs to me. "At Western
Regional I mean. You led the state in scoring last year. Couldn't you
be playing at a senior university?"
"I'm here because you are."
I pull my head back in surprise, my eyes widening.
"We were kind of in the same situation our senior year. Your team and
mine went to the state championships because of us. My team really
sucked. I was the only player on there, which is probably why I led
the state in scoring. I wasn't enough by myself to advance us in the
playoffs. You at least had something of a supporting cast. And, your
team should have won state if you had been more aggressive."
"I don't know... I-"
She has no time for whatever I'm about to flounder out so she cuts me
off, "In high school Ellen, we were really big fish. I believe we were
the best two players in the state. Only one other girl got a soccer
scholarship, and that was a partial to LSU. Only one girl was offered
a full scholarship to a senior university, and that was me."
"You were offered a full university scholarship?? Where??"
"Alabama. Crimson Tide." She smiles a genuine smile.
"God, why didn't you take that??"
"Because I'm not ready. In high school I found I could really dominate
defenders, whether 1-on-1, 1-on-2 or whatever. I loved that Ellen.
But the team couldn't do anything. God, I wanted to dominate as a team
so badly. To go undefeated. To win it all in a perfect season. I
have an opportunity to taste that now. This level is only a step above
high school. You and I on the same team. I think we can dominate."
"You want to have a perfect season?"
"No... I mean, yes of course, but if we lose a game here or there I
understand that. But I do want to win the state championship in a
clear manner. If I can do that here, then I'll go to a senior
university feeling complete. We can both go together. I know we can
be a great duo Ellen. I know you can play offense. You can mark,
shadow, support, do it all. I mean, hell, you do dive headers. How
many in this state do that correctly? With you and I as the strikers
this team can rock."
"Ellen, dinner's ready! You and Joan come on." Mom from the top of
the stairs.
"Okay," I yell back. I look at Joan. "Well, that's pretty big Joan,
you turning down a full scholarship to Bama. But I'm sure you have
your motivation. Yeah, I'm behind you 100 percent. You tell me what
to do and I'll do it."
"Great!" she beams. "So you're behind me being team captain?"
"Yes, of course."
"Should I put my jacket back on? I wore it because I figured your
family was pretty conservative and I didn't know how they'd react to
the tattoo and all."
"If we're going to be in soccer together, they're going to see it
sooner or later," I shrugged. "It's no big deal anyway. Why a spider?"
She smiles at me. The Joan smile. "Because the female is the
deadliest of the species."
She holds her fist out towards me. I grin and rap her knuckles with
mine. I'm starting to warm up to her. She has enough rage against
society to be cool without being overboard. She's got the whole chick
power thing going too. Beyond all that, she seems motivated and goal
oriented. I can really relate to those types of people.
The table is a quiet symphony of silverware clinking against plates,
easy conversation and ice rattling in glasses. When Joan was walking
ahead of Mom to the table I saw her notice the tattoo then raise her
eyebrows at me in a "What have we here?" fashion. That was more like
it.
"Hey Joan," Matt had now apparently devised his opening lines with her,
after speaking loudly to Dad for several minutes about his prominent
position on the football team. "Is that your GTO outside?"
"It's my brother's," she raised her eyes to his and then downed another
spoonfull of curry.
"Cool, wonder what year it is."
"It's a 69."
"Oh, yeah," Matt sounded happy. "That's a heck of a car. Probably got
a 454 in there."
"That's Chevy," she replied. "Pontiacs have 455s."
Matt blinked. Felicia laughed and said, "Guess she knows more about
cars than you Matt."
"Your brother lets you use it a lot?" Matt was not going to concede
defeat and bow out of the conversation. I love Matt.
"I have full use of it for 16 months to 3 years."
Matt just looked puzzled at this, but Dad looked up and settled a gaze
on her.
"Your brother is in prison Joan?"
"Yes sir, Mr. Grant."
"What did he do, dear?" Mom asks innocently. In fact, she makes sure
that innocence is dripping off of each word.
I just eat. Joan seems to be able to handle herself with my folks and
I know they can handle her. They'll either get along or not,
regardless of what I do.
"He stole cars Mrs. Grant." Everyone is silent a beat and then she
grins. "Not the GTO. That's really his."
Some laughter from everyone but Mom and Dad.
"Well I hope he learns something in there," Dad states.
"I do too, Mr. Grant. He's a good guy. Never hurt anybody, but still
hasn't learned that you've got to earn what you get. Well, maybe he
has now."
"That's good thinking dear," Mom smiles at her.
"I like your spider," Cyndi pipes in. Mom frowns.
"Thanks," Joan nods.
"Joan has decided that she and I will dominate soccer this year," I say.
"You pretty talented in soccer Joan?" Dad asks.
"Yes sir, I am."
I smile at her matter-of-fact reply. It ain't braggin if you can do it.
"That's good," Dad nods, smiling as well.
"Can I see the engine after we eat?" Bravo, Matt. After several
minutes of quiet thought, that's the best idea he could come up with to
get some more time with her.
"Sure," she shrugs. "It's not locked, go out and pop the hood any
time."
Whoosh. Crash. Burn.
After the meal, we quickly retreat to my room and she launches into her
ideas on the team. She wants to use a 5-3-2 formation early on in the
season, heavy on defense. After the team gets acclimated and better,
she wants to move to a more offense oriented set. Maybe even a 3-3-4.
This early set will place a lot of responsibility on her and I to get
the scoring done.
I'm making notes and really getting into it. She points out which
plays she's designed and they look really nice. They appear that they
can create good space and angles.
The phone rings and a few moments later Felicia is screaming it's for
me. Some guy. I'm sure the "some guy" can hear her screaming this,
and my face flushes red. Joan keeps her eyes on the playbooks while I
excuse myself. There's a phone in my room, the only one upstairs. I
pick up the cordless receiver and walk over to the window.
"Hello?"
"Hey, Ellen," Craig's nice low easy voice. I like it. "Am I calling
too late?"
"No, hi. How are you?"
"Just kicked back. I kind of wanted to call and say hey. That weird?"
"No, I don't guess," I laugh. I think about it and add, "I'm glad you
did."
"Cool. I had a great time today. Man, that's lame, I know, I just
took you to Sonic."
I laugh.
"You're gonna think I'm a loser now, if I get so pumped about Sonic."
I laugh. "No. I had a great time too."
"Cool. I'm looking forward to Friday. Kind of bummed that it's only
Tuesday night."
"Yeah me too. I think it'll be fun. Of course, Friday's always
better."
We laugh.
"Cool."
"Craig, listen, I'm here with Joan and we're doing soccer stuff so..."
"Oh wow, I'm sorry Ellen! Man I'm such a doof. You told me about that
and I forgot it."
"It's cool, I'm glad you called. You were wrong by the way."
"About what?"
"Nothing," I giggle. "Okay, I'll see you around."
"Yeah, I'll look for you tomorrow, that ok? I'll leave a note or
something on your car."
"Ok," I'm giggling again.
"Ok, goodnight Ellen. Bye."
"Bye." I replace the receiver in it's cradle and rejoin Joan on the
floor. I sink into the beanbag, grabbing my notepad and pen.
"That was Craig Lobrano. He said you went to the same high school?"
"Yep," she nods, but doesn't look up.
Bad vibe, I thought. I change the subject, asking a question about one
of the plays. We get back into it, immersing ourselves in the game.
At 10 we're still going strong, but I tell her I'll have to stop it.
House rule. She understands and we walk out to her car, parked on the
curb.
It's one of those old muscle cars. I don't know much about them. It's
antique gold, with large tires in the back and front. There are two
air vents in the hood. When she gets in and sits behind the wheel, the
appearance is a bit inconsistent, but in a good way. She looks cool.
And though she may look out of place driving such a car, now that I
know her personality it seems perfect.
"Is it fast?" I ask leaning down, my head in the open window. I feel
like a guy. Talkin cars, shootin the shit.
"Really fast," she says. "I'd crank it and rev the engine, but it's
really loud. I don't think it would go over well right here right now."
We laugh.
"My Camry gets good gas mileage," I say brightly, exhibiting sarcastic
joy.
She giggles. "This gets about 16 MPG."
"I'll see you tomorrow at practice then." I back away from the door
with the happy feeling that I've made a new friend.
"Yep," she nods. "Okay, time to wake the neighbors."
She turns the ignition and the engine throbs to life. I note that the
whole car frame shifts a bit and settles back as the engine initially
turns over. Now it's sitting there, rumbling this huge deep bass
idle. I realize this was the engine sound I heard when we were talking
to Detective Raney.
"Wow, that's cool," I have to say it a bit loud so she can hear me.
She grins and pulls up into our driveway, backs out, and throttles
easily down the street. It's a standard and she tries to keep the
engine revs between shifts to a minimum. I think, that's a really cool
car.
I hurry back upstairs and call Becky, hoping she's not already in bed.
If her parents pick up they're gonna be peeved. With Caller ID now,
you can't even hang up because they'll know who it is. Becky answers
on the first ring, and her happy voice completes me.
We laugh and talk until eleven. The known facts of Craig are quickly
dispensed with and the rest of the time is spent in speculation. We
enjoy that. We agree to eat lunch together tomorrow and hang up. I
slide into my bed, thinking how many positive things happened today.
But now is the quiet time. It's dark, just me and my thoughts. Today
was grand because the noise of life for the most part drowned out the
crying fear inside my heart. Now that fear is loud and pervasive. The
psychologist at the hospital had said there might be times like this
and had offered pills to help me sleep. I didn't want that. I don't
want to take pills. I want to defeat this on my own.
But the voice is getting louder.
Dr. Mark is under my bed. He's in the closet. He's on the back roof,
climbing in the window to Felicia's room.
I roll on my side and pull the covers over my head. Only my eyes peer
out. I curl into a fetal position. I don't want to be helpless ever
again. The helplessness of being tied and shackled was the worst.
Helplessness means hopelessness. The fear of that is palpable. God,
that was terrible. Please God, don't let someone tie me up again.
My Winnie the Pooh clock ticks on in the darkness. Tick. Tock.
Tick. Tock. Time crawls in the night. Across the hall, Matt is
snoring. Down the hall, Felica is sleeping soundly. Downstairs Dad
and Mom are spooned, asleep together. Cyndi is sleeping spread out all
over, having kicked her bedcovers off, her Boyd's Bear sharing the bed
as always.
In my room, I lay in the darkness, my eyes wide and peering.
End 4/14
--
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