Night of Fear (2 page)

T.J. dribbled the basketball across the driveway and leaped in the air for a slam-dunk shot. Mentally, he heard the crowd cheer. As he went after the rebound, a horn honked directly behind him. Startled, T.J. missed the basketball and it bounced off the driveway into the bushes. While he retrieved it, his father opened the garage door and parked the car.

“There’s been another fire,” Mr. Stenson declared, waving the evening newspaper at T.J. “Just on the other side of Ridge Road. A tractor shed burned, with the tractor still in it.”

“Arson again?” said T.J.

His father nodded. “The police say there’s a pattern,” he said. “They think the same person is responsible for more than a dozen fires.”

T.J. carried the basketball to the free-throw line that was marked by two small stakes on either side of the driveway. He bounced the ball twice, aimed at the basket, and shot.

His father watched the ball swish through the hoop before he opened the door and called, “Amelia! There’s been another fire.”

T.J. shot one more basket and then went inside, too. His parents stood before the television set, their faces reflecting shock. Grandma Ruth sat near them, examining the play money in her purse.

T.J. asked, “What’s happened?” but his father motioned for him to be quiet so they could hear the newscast.

T.J. looked at the screen and gasped, “That’s
our
bank!”

His parents nodded silently.

“I’ll buy flour today,” Grandma Ruth said. “I need to bake bread.”

T.J. stared as the newscaster gave details.
The man held a gun on the teller while she pushed cash across the counter to him. After grabbing the money, he pulled the trigger and then ran out of the bank.

T.J.’s mother covered her mouth with her hand. The color drained out of her face.

The teller was taken by ambulance to Cascade Hospital, where she was pronounced dead on arrival. Her name was not released, pending notification of her family.

“Murder,” said Mr. Stenson.

Mrs. Stenson nodded. She had tears in her eyes.

“Bank robbery and murder,” Mr. Stenson said.

“Is it time for church?” Grandma Ruth asked.

“No, Mother,” Mrs. Stenson said.

Bank employees described the man as thirty to thirty-five years old, with dark hair, wearing jeans and a T-shirt. The
man was last seen driving east on Ridge Road in a dark-colored truck.

T.J. felt as if someone had just kicked him in the stomach. He had seen hundreds of news reports of robberies and murders, but it was different when the crime happened in a place he knew well. Just yesterday, he had gone with his mother to cash a check at the Pine Ridge Bank. He had stood in the lobby, in the very spot where a man had shot one of the clerks.

“I wonder which teller it was,” Mrs. Stenson said.

In his mind, T.J. saw the smiling faces of the women who worked at the small branch bank. He didn’t want it to be any of them.

“We can’t be late for church,” Grandma Ruth said.

“It isn’t Sunday,” Mrs. Stenson said. “We aren’t going to church today.”

“I’m going.” Grandma Ruth stood and put on her hat, a broad-brimmed straw hat, with blue ribbons hanging down the back. Years ago, Grandma Ruth had pinned clusters of yellow artificial daisies all around the brim. The bright daisies always gave her a jaunty, youthful look, despite her gray hair and lined face.

Grandma Ruth began walking around the sofa. She moved in slow, deliberate circles, around and around the sofa.

T.J. wished she would stop it. It drove him crazy when she walked in circles like that.

Mr. Stenson, still watching the TV, shook his head in disbelief. “Murder!” he said. “Right here in Pine Ridge.”

One of the other tellers was also hospitalized, suffering from shock
, said the annoucer.
In other local news . . .

T.J.’s father clicked off the television.

Grandma Ruth continued to shuffle around the sofa.

“I can hardly believe it,” Mrs. Stenson said. “A murder, practically in our own backyard. I hope the police catch him quickly.”

T.J. hoped so, too. It gave him a creepy feeling to think there was a murderer on the loose in his neighborhood.

“Why would he shoot her?” T.J. said. “If the bank teller gave him money, why wouldn’t he take it and run?”

Mr. Stenson shrugged. “People who rob banks are not rational,” he said. “He’s probably on drugs.”

Mrs. Stenson moved toward the kitchen. “Our dinner’s ready,” she said. “We’d better eat while it’s still hot. We’re having tacos.”

Normally, tacos were T.J.’s favorite meal, but his appetite had disappeared.

“Come and sit down, Mother,” Mrs. Stenson said. “It’s time to eat your dinner.”

“I don’t want to be late for church,” Grandma Ruth said.

Mr. Stenson patted her arm reassuringly and led her to her chair. “You won’t be late. You have plenty of time.”

Grandma Ruth smiled at him and sat. She said, “Thank you, David.”

David was Grandma Ruth’s brother, dead more than ten years. Mr. Stenson never corrected her when she called him David. He never corrected her when she called him Edward, either, apparently thinking he was her late husband. When that happened, Mr. Stenson only smiled sadly and patted her hand.

She occasionally thought T.J. was David, too. When she called him that, he either didn’t answer or he told her his name. He refused to pretend he was David. He didn’t even remember his Great Uncle David. Besides, he couldn’t stand it when Grandma Ruth didn’t know who he was.

He couldn’t stand having Grandma Ruth talk about church all the time, either. Not that he had anything against going to church but it was out of character for Grandma Ruth. As a young woman, she left the church of her childhood and had never again attended any organized religious service.

When T.J. was old enough to be curious about her beliefs, she explained that, although she didn’t follow a particular doctrine, she tried to lead a loving and moral life. “All the world is my church,” she told him, “and my daily life is my religion.”

In recent months, however, she frequently said she was going to church. She had taken to singing hymns, too, and T.J. was thoroughly tired of hearing them.

The Grandma Ruth that T.J. loved used to sing “You Are My Sunshine” and “How Much Is That Doggie in the Window?,” complete with a realistic bark. Where did she go? T.J. wondered. What happened to the
real
Grandma Ruth? Who was this odd, befuddled stranger who clutched her purse and sang “Holy, Holy, Holy”?

T.J.’s mother said that Grandma Ruth sang hymns and talked about going to church because she sometimes slipped back in time to when she was a child. “Grandma Ruth grew up on a farm,” Mrs. Stenson explained, “and the church provided her main social activities. She enjoyed church, especially the music.”

“She isn’t a little girl anymore.”

“In her mind, sometimes she is. She goes back and forth, somehow, to different times in her life. Because she was poor as a young mother, she insists on always carrying a purse full of money now. And her childhood memories make her want to go to church.”

It isn’t fair, T.J. thought. She can remember something from sixty years ago but she can’t remember what day it is now. And she can’t remember my name.

When Grandma Ruth started singing hymns or counting her play money, T.J. usually left the room. His parents humored her, sometimes even pretending to be in church. They said if it made her happy, what was the harm?

A few months ago, they had taken her to a Sunday service but Grandma Ruth talked out loud during the sermon, called the minister David, and created such a disturbance that they had to leave. They had sat near the front, so Grandma Ruth could hear, and T.J. thought the walk back up the aisle, with the whole congregation watching, would never end. He had wanted to shout, “She wasn’t always this way. She has a terrible brain disease.” Instead, he stared at the floor, his cheeks burning.

T.J. wanted Grandma Ruth to be the way she used to be—vibrant and laughing, always interested in what T.J. did
and thought. When she used to call him on the telephone, she never asked the dumb questions that most adults ask kids, like, “What did you do in school today?” Grandma Ruth asked, “If you could have lunch with anyone in the world, who would it be?” or “Who do you think will win the World Series?” And she always listened to T.J.’s replies.

When T.J. was small, Grandma Ruth read books to him and played what they called hide-and-sneak. When he got older, she often invited him to spend Friday night at her house. They would play Monopoly and make milk shakes and eat pizza at midnight. In the morning, they read the sports page and then T.J. always made pancakes. Grandma Ruth had let him cook breakfast since he was seven years old and she didn’t hover over him, watching every move, either. She just set the table and poured the orange juice and told him what a treat it was to have a man in the kitchen, for a change.

Back then, she never called him David. Back then, she knew exactly who he was. Back then, she didn’t have Alzheimer’s disease.

“I wish we didn’t have to go to that school meeting tonight,” Mrs. Stenson said, as she passed the plate of tacos.

T.J.’s attention returned to the conversation.

“I thought you liked Open House for the parents,” Mr. Stenson said.

“I do. I just don’t like leaving T.J. and Mother here alone.”

“We’ll be OK, Mom,” T.J. said. “You leave us alone all the time.”

“Not when there’s been a murder in the neighborhood.”

T.J. wished the Open House was a different night, too, but since it wasn’t, he did want his parents to attend. His
basketball coach planned to tell them about a basketball camp that was scheduled for next summer and T.J. thought he’d have a better chance of getting permission to go if his parents heard about the camp from his coach, rather than from him.

“That bank robber is probably in the next state by now,” Mr. Stenson said. “We can’t cancel the rest of our lives and cower in a corner.”

“I suppose not,” Mrs. Stenson said, though she still looked worried. “We won’t be late,” she told T.J., and then added, “Keep the doors locked.”

“I will.”

After his parents left, T.J. started his homework. He wanted to finish so he could watch
Top Gun
on TV.
Top Gun
was his favorite movie and, although he could practically recite the script by heart, he never missed a chance to see it again.

Grandma Ruth entertained herself by dusting the same table over and over. She hummed a hymn as she worked. After ten minutes or so, she began to sing the words. “Holy, holy, holy.”

“Will you please sing something else?” T.J. said. He felt edgy tonight, and cross.

Grandma Ruth stopped singing and looked at him.

“Why don’t you sing ‘You Are My Sunshine’ for a change?”

“I don’t know that song.”

“Sure you do.” T.J. began to sing: “You are my sunshine, my only sunshine. You make me happy, when skies are gray.”

Grandma Ruth looked blank. It was clear she did not remember the song she and T.J. had sung together hundreds of times when he was small.

She’s the one who had taught the song to him. She always changed the lyrics and sang, “You’ll never know, T.J., how
much I love you.” How could that be erased from her mind?

T.J. quit singing and returned to his homework. He had enough trouble with biology without trying to sing at the same time.

Almost immediately, Grandma Ruth began to sing again. “Holy, holy, holy. Lord God Almighty.”

“Stop it!” T.J. said, his voice coming sharper than he had intended.

Grandma Ruth broke off in the middle of a note. “What’s wrong, David?” she asked.

“I can’t concentrate when you’re singing,” T.J. said. “I’m trying to do my homework. And
please
quit calling me David.”

T.J. was perfectly capable of concentrating. He often did his homework with the TV on or with his stereo turned up to full volume, especially when his parents weren’t home. It wasn’t Grandma Ruth’s singing that bothered him, it was the choice of songs. She sang the same few hymns over and over and over, and each time it reminded T.J. that Grandma Ruth was slowly losing her mind. I will never, he thought, for the rest of my life, be able to hear “Nearer, My God, To Thee” or “Holy, Holy, Holy” without wanting to cover my ears and run.

Grandma Ruth, looking hurt, sat down on the sofa and opened her purse.

“And don’t count your money, either,” T.J. said. “It’s the same amount you had ten minutes ago. You counted it then.”

“I need to be sure I have enough.” Grandma Ruth removed the stack of bills and started putting them, one at a time, in
a pile beside her. “We need eggs,” she said, “and milk for the girls.”

It was pink, green, and yellow money from T.J.’s old Monopoly game. Grandma Ruth counted carefully, making sure no bills stuck together.

T.J. sighed and returned to his homework. Sometimes he wished Grandma Ruth could leave this earth the way his other grandma had. One day Grandma Doris was the picture of health, planning a trip to the Grand Canyon, and the next day she was dead in her chair, from a heart attack, with the crossword puzzle beside her.

It had been a terrible shock but it was still better than this. At least Grandma Doris had been
herself
right up to the end. She had not left her body behind while her mind and personality went to some dark, unknown place where no one, not even her family, could follow.

“Good,” Grandma Ruth said. She put the money back in her purse and snapped it shut.

When T.J. looked up, she smiled at him, a loving childlike smile, full of trust. Guilt settled like a cape on T.J.’s shoulders. How can I wish she would die? he thought. It isn’t her fault she’s like this. What’s the matter with me?

“Is it time to go to church?” Grandma Ruth asked.

T.J. slammed his book shut and stood up.

The telephone rang.

“T.J., this is Edna Crowley. We’ve had car trouble and aren’t home yet. Can you be our critter sitter one more time?”

The Crowleys were the Stensons’ closest neighbors. Their house, an old barn, and a large pasture adjoined the Stensons’
five acres on the west side, although it wasn’t visible because of the thick stand of alder trees along the property line.