The Church of Dead Girls (32 page)

Captain Percy went up on the porch to talk to Powell. “The best thing,” he said, “would be to invite two or three of them into your house and I'll come along with Chief Schmidt. Or you can just call your lawyer.”

“But this is absurd,” said Powell.

“I don't want to tell you what to do,” said Percy.

“If I let them in, will the rest get out of my yard?”

“If they're satisfied.”

“I hate this,” said Powell.

Captain Percy tried to look patient but he only grimaced. Chuck Hawley said that Powell was on the verge of hysterics, though I don't know if that was true. Think of living your whole life in a town, being a respected member of the community, and suddenly you are suspected of perversion, of murder, and over a hundred people surround your house. Even in his worst nightmares, Powell could never have anticipated this.

“Come in by all means.”

Donald Malloy, Sandra Petoski, and Dave Bauer of the YMCA represented the Friends. Percy, Chief Schmidt, and Chuck Hawley represented the police. Powell led them through his house.

“Dave Bauer crawled into the backs of closets,” said Chuck. “The basement didn't have a dirt floor. It was solid concrete.”

After a lifetime in the same house, Powell had acquired a lot of belongings. And he had his dead wife's things. And his three grown-up children had things in the house. Shortly a TV truck pulled up outside. The fact that Madame Respighi had seemingly pointed a finger at Irving Powell was significant news.

The police and the Friends spent an hour in the house. Nothing was found.

“Of course, something could still be hidden,” said Malloy.

“Get your laboratory people,” said Powell almost in a panic. “Spend as much time as you want. You're welcome to do whatever.”

“I don't think we need a lab crew,” said Sandra Petoski.

“Then how'll we be sure?” asked Malloy. They were on the front porch. There were TV cameras and freelance photographers.

“Please,” said Powell, “if it means a lab crew, call them.”

So Captain Percy called the lab crew. But why draw this out? Nothing was found. But once Powell was suspected it was hard to get him unsuspected. Several of the Friends, including Donald Malloy, suggested that the lab crew could have looked harder. And that Saturday evening someone threw a rock through Irving Powell's front window. As a result, a policeman was stationed outside his house twenty-four hours a day for the next five days. Powell himself volunteered to help the Friends in any way he could. He had been frightened and it was pathetic to see him.

Madame Respighi never apologized, but then again, it wasn't necessarily his house she saw in her “images.” I blamed the whole thing on Suspicion with a capital
S
. It was like a revolving searchlight. Sometimes it illuminated one person, sometimes another. For a short time Irving Powell lived in a state close to terror. Then attention turned elsewhere.

—

Among the people gathered outside Powell's house were Barry Sanders and Jaime Rose. They had been walking past. Make Waves closed at noon on Saturdays. Barry was on his way to the college from his mother's house and Jaime was accompanying him more out of idleness than anything else. It was a mild fall day and many people were getting their yards ready for winter. Barry, as was usual during the day, wore a hat—a golfing cap, actually—and dark glasses. Jaime was fond of leather and wore leather pants and a black leather jacket over a sweatshirt. Both looked rather out of place in Aurelius.

I had mentioned to Franklin my talk with Jaime some days before. And I may have exaggerated a little to make my story more interesting. Franklin decided that he wanted to speak with Jaime himself. So he strolled over through the crowd. He and Jaime knew each other, though not well.

“Oooh,” said Jaime, “a newshound.”

After they had traded greetings, Franklin said, “I'd like to hear more of your thoughts about people in Aurelius.”

“I have to get over to school,” said Barry, and he walked away rather quickly. Perhaps this was from shyness, but anyone watching might have suspected something else. And that was the trouble, people watching: there were over a hundred people who might have noticed the three of them together.

“I have many thoughts,” said Jaime.

“Someone told me you weren't surprised about what had been happening here,” said Franklin, misquoting me a little.

“The rascal,” said Jaime. Campy behavior was a total act with Jaime, who mostly behaved like anyone else. Of course, he was aware of having an audience. “I hate how people talk,” he added.

The two men began walking slowly down the sidewalk toward town. They were about the same height and both were slim. Franklin wore his Irish fisherman's hat. Jaime was bareheaded. He was vain about his hair and disliked covering it.

“Do you have any idea who might have taken the girls?” asked Franklin.

“I never said I did,” said Jaime. “I only said I knew people with a certain nastiness about them.”

“Who?”

“Don't be silly. Do you think I care to have you print their names in the paper?”

“But if they had anything to do with Meg or Sharon?”

Jaime looked scornful. “I never said that. They just have desires slightly out of the ordinary.”

“How many people are we talking about?” asked Franklin, who had begun to imagine several dozen.

“Two or three, no more.”

“Docs that include Jesse and Shannon Levine?”

“Of course not. They're boorish, that's all.”

“What kind of desires do you mean?”

“That's the trouble. Just because a respected member of the community likes to be tied up and spanked is no reason to think he had anything to do with the disappearances. And what would happen if I gave you names? Look at Irving Powell. Who in the world would think that silly man guilty of anything? And now they're ransacking his house. I think we've talked long enough.”

“But if one of these men—” began Franklin.

“No,” said Jaime, “I shouldn't even be seen talking to you.”

But by then it was too late.

T
he idea of brutality as a cry for help was one I had trouble understanding. It made the motivations of the person responsible for the disappearances increasingly enigmatic. The return of Meg's clothes gave us further assurance—as if we needed it—that the person not only lived in Aurelius but had inside knowledge about the activities of the police. We needed such reminders because otherwise we might tell ourselves it was impossible that the person was one of us.

Sunday night I was downstairs dozing over a book when there was a sudden knocking at the front door. Startled, I dropped the book, a Daphne du Maurier thriller that I was rereading. It was close to eleven. I was going to refuse to open the door but then I forced myself out of my chair. It was Sadie.

“Someone's trying to get in our back door,” she said. She wore an old-fashioned flannel nightgown and her feet were bare. She kept glancing over her shoulder and I let her in.

There is nothing so infectious as fear and I wished I had a pistol or rifle—many people had been buying them—but I only had a few dull kitchen knives.

“Where's Franklin?”

“Out.”

“And Mrs. Sanders?”

“Asleep on the couch in front of the TV. I can't wake her. Shadow's locked in the basement. She keeps barking.” Sadie stood by the fireplace. In her slenderness and with her small breasts, she reminded me of a plant before it blossoms. She pushed her hair back over her shoulders.

“What happened?” I asked.

“I heard the screen door in the back squeak, then someone turned the handle of the door. It was locked. Then the person yanked it hard. That's when I ran.”

Though I felt her fear, I didn't want to think it was true. The night was windy; perhaps the screen door had banged in the wind. My hope that there was no one there kept me from calling the police. I had heard of many false alarms that had made the callers look foolish. Old Mrs. Sherman had locked herself in her bathroom after hearing mice in the pantry. She had refused to come out even for the police. Finally her daughter drove up from Norwich. Chuck Hawley had a good laugh about this.

“Let's go see,” I said.

“By ourselves?” Sadie didn't move.

I took the poker from the fireplace set. “At least we can wake up Mrs. Sanders.”

Sadie nodded and followed me. I gave her an old wool jacket from the hall closet and put on my overcoat. We moved quietly onto the porch. The street was deserted. The wind sent a few dead leaves skittering across the yards. Most of the houses were dark, but the blind girl's bedroom light was on. A fragment of moon hung over downtown and dark clouds kept crossing its face. Sadie nudged me from behind and I jumped, then I recovered myself. I have never been particularly brave. As a child I found even camp-outs too scary.

We crossed Pete Daniels's yard. The streetlight sent our shadows right up his front steps. We moved into Sadie's yard. Only the living room light was on in her house. Even the porch light was out. I held the poker along my leg so it wouldn't be obvious. I wondered how often a person endangers himself just from fear of getting laughed at.

We climbed Sadie's front steps, which creaked. She stayed right behind me. I opened the front door and we entered. Shadow was still barking in the basement, a steady yapping. The living room was to the left off the hall. The TV was on. The eleven o'clock news from Syracuse was reporting a double marriage at Saint Joseph's Hospital. There were images of happy celebration. Mrs. Sanders lay on the couch with her head on a cushion. Her shoes were off and her mouth was open. If she hadn't been snoring I would have wondered whether she'd had a stroke. She was a large, round woman with fiercely permanented silver hair. Her Scottish plaid skirt was rucked up so I saw the mottled white skin on the inner part of her thigh. I looked away. A muted chatter came from the television.

I went over to the couch and shook Mrs. Sanders's shoulder. She didn't respond. I shook her harder and her head slid off the cushion. She opened her eyes, then sat up quickly.

“What are you doing here?” she asked.

“Sadie couldn't wake you. She was worried.”

“I'm a good sleeper,” said Mrs. Sanders.

Sadie stood behind me. I began to leave the living room.

“Where're you going?” asked Mrs. Sanders. She was looking at the poker and I realized she was nervous about me. I looked down at the poker as well.

“Can't be too careful,” I said. I proceeded down the hall to the kitchen.

Behind me I could hear Mrs. Sanders saying, “I don't like him being here.”

I didn't hear Sadie's reply. I went to the back door, which was locked. I turned on the back-porch light and unlocked the door. A garbage can was on the back porch with its lid off. Sometimes we have trouble with raccoons and I wondered if that was what Sadie and the dog had heard. I replaced the lid. Nothing on the porch indicated that somebody had been trying to break in, but I didn't know what those signs would be. Something broken, probably. Sadie had let Shadow out of the basement and the dog pushed through the screen door behind me, jumped up on my legs, then scampered down the steps. Immediately, she started barking.

I looked across the yard. Someone was walking toward me between the trees. Instinctively, I raised the poker.

“Are you really going to attack me?” came a voice. It was Aaron. I recognized his ponytail before I saw his face.

“What are you doing back there?” I asked.

“Short cut. Is Sadie still up?” Shadow stopped barking and ran up to him. Aaron bent over to scratch the dog's ears.

“Were you here earlier?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Sadie thought she heard something.”

By this time Sadie had joined me on the back porch.

“Aaron,” she said.

Aaron stopped at the bottom of the steps and looked up at us. His ponytail was pulled tight so it pulled at the corners of his eyes, giving him a somewhat Asian appearance. “I got news for you,” he said, speaking to Sadie. “Your father's going to marry my sister. They're going to do it this week.”

I thought it was rather good news, but looking at Sadie and Aaron, I could see that my feelings were not shared.

“What's going on out there?” called Mrs. Sanders.

“A wedding party,” said Aaron. Then he laughed.

—

After my visit to Jaime, I began to notice the Levine brothers' hostility to him. Of course, Jaime had told me about the encounter at Gillian's bar, though he didn't say specifically what he had said to them. Possibly Jaime had addressed them and they didn't like his tone. But that was not the case. What they objected to was Jaime's friendship with Barry Sanders.

Then on Monday morning, as they were walking by Make Waves, they stopped to look in the door. There was Jaime putting curlers in Mrs. Adams's hair. Her husband was on the city council. Jesse and Shannon stood in the doorway, pointed at Jaime and laughed. It was not a real laugh but a cartoon laugh, a Woody Woodpecker laugh. Cookie chased them out. At first it seemed they would refuse to leave but then she sprayed them with some sort of sweet-smelling scent, which quite offended them.

On Tuesday Jesse and Shannon went into the Aurelius Grill when Jaime and Barry were having lunch together. I think that Jaime and Barry were no more than friends, or incipient friends, but the Levines found their friendship objectionable. In their minds they seemed to have confused Marxism with a kind of puritanism. And perhaps they felt that Barry was letting down the IIR.

Barry and Jaime were sitting at a table and Jesse and Shannon joined them. Their identical blond goatees made them look slightly goofy.

“Nobody asked you to sit down,” said Jaime.

“Little Pink did,” said Jesse.

“He winked at us,” said Shannon.

“I never did,” said Barry.

“What's for lunch?” asked Jesse.

“Leave us alone,” said Jaime.

“Don't we have a right to eat?” asked Shannon.

“He wants to keep us from eating,” said Jesse.

Jaime signaled to Ralph Stangos, who owns the Aurelius Grill. Ralph is also a volunteer fireman and athletic. Whatever he felt about Jaime, he knew that Jaime was a steady customer. Stangos wiped his hands on a towel and began to come over.

“Looks like you're eating soup,” said Shannon, pointing toward Jaime's tomato soup.

“I'd like a little soup myself,” said Jesse.

“Let me give you some,” said Shannon. He reached out, put his finger under the lip of the bowl, and flipped it into Jaime's lap. Jaime shoved back his chair. “Ooops,” said Shannon.

“You did that on purpose,” said Barry.

At that moment Ralph Stangos grabbed Shannon by the back of the neck. “Out,” he said. “Both of you.”

That was perhaps the most significant episode. But there were others, and I may have forgotten some. Twice they hooted at Jaime on the street. This went on for several days and I know Jaime considered getting an injunction against them.

Barry came by my house that evening and told me about the business at the Aurelius Grill.

“Jaime had to go home and change,” he said. “There was tomato soup all over his pants.”

We sat in armchairs on either side of the fireplace and drank tea.

“Why are they bothering him?” I asked.

Barry's eyes behind his thick glasses were a pinkish blur. “Shannon says homosexuality's reactionary. But I guess Jaime spoke to them at Gillian's and they didn't like what he said.”

Barry sipped his tea and blinked. We discussed Franklin's marriage to Paula, which was to occur the next day at the courthouse in Potterville.

“Sadie's very upset about it,” I told Barry.

Franklin felt that Sadie would have to accept their relationship if he and Paula got married, which they had been talking about for some months. He also felt bad about leaving Sadie by herself and thought it would be better if Paula was in the house. Paula was kind and intelligent. Franklin could see no rational reason why Sadie would continue to dislike her. Of course, Sadie needed no rational reason.

I also thought of what Jaime had said about the secrets of some of the men in Aurelius. It made me wonder about the man with whom Barry had been briefly involved while he was in high school.

I asked Barry if he was sexually involved with Jaime.

“No, nothing like that. We're just friends.”

“Do you ever see that man you used to be involved with?”

“What man?” Barry was on the defensive immediately.

“When you were in high school.”

“I don't want to talk about him.”

“Is he still in town?”

Barry repeated that he didn't want to talk about him.

“Does Jaime know this man?”

“I don't know.”

Barry stood up and said he had to leave. I apologized and tried to calm him.

“Have some more tea,” I said.

“I really have to go.”

There was no keeping him. His mother had told him to come over to Sadie's at eight and it was shortly after. I was annoyed with Barry. We had known each other a long time and I felt he should trust me.

Meanwhile the Friends continued their patrols. They talked to people; they were in contact with other groups around the country. Even though it seemed obvious that Irving Powell wasn't involved with the disappearances, they talked to his neighbors. And they had their own police scanners, so that when someone thought he heard a strange noise or saw something out of the ordinary and called the police in a panic, the Friends would respond as well. Sometimes they even arrived before the police. Captain Percy made various protests to the city council but the council members didn't interfere. In the midst of this fear a few more people left Aurelius and several others sent their daughters to stay with relatives in towns where they thought the girls would be safe, though the whole idea of safety was increasingly problematic. There were empty seats in my classes. When I reported them, I was told that so-and-so had transferred temporarily to a school in Rome or Baldwinsville. And the word
temporarily
would hang in the air and no one would question it.

As suspicion grew, people's gossip and allegations became increasingly nasty, often verging on slander. I know for a fact that I was talked about, but it was at a level of such ignorance that it was more provoking than frightening. For instance, one day I entered my fifth-period classroom after lunch to find someone had written “Ferry” on the blackboard. Some years earlier we had had a history teacher by the name of Margaret Ferry and I thought at first it was a reference to her. One look at the grinning faces of my eighth graders, however, proved that the word was a misspelling. The hearty cheer of their attentive faces was repugnant. I was tempted to say something but instead I erased the word and began class. We had a surprise quiz that hour in which no one did well. The message was not lost on them.

But suspicion was felt throughout the school. The teachers' lounge became increasingly silent. Usually it was a place of criticism, backbiting, and gossip. But now people were uncertain as to the identity of whomever they were speaking to. Was the Sandra Petoski I had seen every day for years the same Sandra Petoski who was co-chairman of the Friends? And what if there was a third Sandra Petoski, someone more sinister?

I tend to use the term
dark side
almost as a comic term. Mrs. Hicks's passion for chocolate was her dark side, as was Harry Martini's affair with the lady teacher from Utica. But now we had evidence of something truly dark. It increased our sense of how dark such a darkness might be. Someone among us had stolen two little girls. And what had this person done with them? That was the question we didn't ask. So in the silence of the teachers' lounge, I never had the sense that my colleagues had nothing to talk about; rather, they were afraid of what there was to say.