The Church of Dead Girls (8 page)

Barry asked what Aaron meant by saying that he was going to “get” Harriet Malcomb.

“I want to make her my soldier.” Aaron cocked an eyebrow at Barry as if to suggest that Barry understood his meaning.

“How can you do that?”

“By making her my whore.”

Barry disliked talking about sex and he had come to think such conversations intrinsically wrong. Of course he knew that Harriet was beautiful but he prided himself on being immune to her charms. He began to stutter.

“Wha . . . what do you plan to do?”

“I want you to take her a letter.” And Aaron withdrew an envelope from his canvas book bag.

It was then that Barry understood that the day, the lunch, the time had all been chosen with the idea of delivering this letter. After all, the letter was already written. It was Thursday and Harriet had no classes on Thursday. Indeed, she made it clear that she reserved Thursdays for her IIR reading.

“What does the letter say?”

Aaron handed it to him, then grasped Barry semi-affectionately by the back of his neck. Barry wasn't sure if Aaron meant to stroke him or to lift him like a kitten.

“It invites her to talk. It flatters her mind.”

B
arry delivered the letter. It was two o'clock on a Thursday afternoon in May, a blustery spring day with the sky clear one moment and full of dark clouds the next. Dust blew from the sand spread on the streets during the winter. A few retired people raked dead leaves from under their rhododendrons. Barry drove a rusty Ford Fairlane that had been his mother's, a car with broken springs and collapsed shock absorbers that swayed like a ship on the ocean. From the rearview mirror hung a deodorant dispenser in the shape of a pine tree.

Harriet Malcomb lived in the attic apartment of a house on Adams Street, two blocks from campus. Barry parked in front and went upstairs. Despite Janice McNeal's murder, houses in our town are never locked, though Harriet had a lock on her apartment door. She didn't look pleased to see him, seemed exasperated and scornful, but I am sure that was to some extent his own anxiety. Harriet was wearing shorts and a Colgate sweatshirt. Barry gave her the letter and she began to shut the door, “in my face,” Barry said.

Barry put his hand on the door. “I'm supposed to wait for an answer.”

“Then wait,” she said, shutting the door.

Barry stood in the hall. He wished he had something to read, not really to read it but to seem occupied when Harriet reappeared, to show he wasn't simply waiting but was reading as well, that he had forgotten about the waiting. The window in the hall faced the campus and he could see the white cupola and bell on top of the administration building. A dog barked downstairs. In the distance, he heard a motorcycle rushing through its gears, whining to the top of each.

Ten minutes later Harriet opened the door. She still wore shorts but had replaced the sweatshirt with a white blouse. Barry didn't like the blouse because it made her look demure and he didn't trust that. Her black hair was gathered behind her head in a loose braid held by a thick red elastic. She also wore a necklace of blue beads.

“I'm ready,” she said.

Since Barry didn't know what was in the letter, he wasn't sure what she meant but he hated to seem confused. “My car's outside,” he told her.

They walked downstairs. Barry held neither door for her, not the front door nor the door of the Ford Fairlane. All the way over to the brick apartment complex by City Hall, he tried to think of something to say. Harriet stared straight ahead and Barry thought she did this in imitation of Houari Chihani.

Aaron's apartment complex was called Belvedere Apartments. His particular building contained four apartments with a hall in the middle rising to the ceiling of the second floor, from which hung an ornate but cheap-looking chandelier. Aaron's apartment was on the second floor. Harriet followed Barry upstairs and Barry knocked, twice, then once, which was his private signal, not that Aaron demanded a signal.

When Aaron opened the door, he seemed in no way surprised to see Harriet. “Come on in,” he said. The apartment had a large living room facing State Street, a bedroom, and a small kitchen. Aaron's work space and computer were in the bedroom. On the walls in the living room were posters of Zapata and Pancho Villa over the word “
Huelga!
” There was a bookcase jammed with books, a stereo, several armchairs, and a modernistic blond couch, long and low to the floor. There was also a braided rug.

Aaron turned to Barry and said, “Why don't you go into the bedroom and wait.”

Barry understood they were engaged in a sort of adult game. “Sure,” he said. He went into the bedroom, shutting the door.

There was no keyhole and this disappointed him. Over the single bed was the Vermeer portrait of the woman with the yellow scarf. The life in her eyes, her zest for living, contrasted with the ascetic nature of the room. White walls, white floor, a desk made from a white door, a Compac computer, telephone, and fax machine, a Hewlett- Packard printer. The only decoration on the desk was a framed photograph of a young woman with turned-up eyes and a large mouth, a face Barry found slightly froglike. He picked up the picture and after a moment he realized it was Janice McNeal, Aaron's mother. Perhaps he would have guessed this earlier if the woman in the photograph hadn't been so young, not much older than Aaron himself.

Barry walked to the door. He heard Aaron talking but he couldn't make out the words. The tone was insistent. Barry assumed they were talking about their Chihani discussions, then he heard Harriet say “No” quite loudly and he heard Aaron laugh. A chair was knocked over. Barry stood with his hand on the knob. He thought of Harriet's willingness to come with him and what that might mean.

Barry grew increasingly unhappy. He walked to the phone and wanted to call someone but he didn't know whom. He felt apprehensive and didn't know what was happening. Now Aaron's voice was louder and insistent. Barry approached the door again and heard a slap, then a second one and a cry from Harriet. Again Barry put his hand on the knob. After a moment, he heard Aaron pronounce the word “Asshole,” almost affectionately.

Barry hurried to the window. He was nineteen and many things frightened him, especially things he didn't understand, which was a lot. He blinked into the sunlight. He saw Houari Chihani's red Citroën turning the corner onto Monroe Street. He recognized many of the people he saw, even if he didn't know their names.

After a while he heard Aaron calling.

“Little Pink, Little Pink!”

Barry hurried back to the door.

“Little Pink, come in here!”

Barry opened the door. Harriet was lying on the braided rug. Her shorts were off and the skin of her hips was very white. Aaron was on top of her with his khaki pants around his ankles. Harriet was staring at the ceiling, then, slowly, she looked at Barry. He thought there was something wrong with her eyes. She looked at Barry and said, “Little Pink,” very quietly. Aaron was propped up with his hands on the floor next to Harriet's shoulders. He wasn't smiling; rather he seemed to be glaring at Barry, who jumped back and shut the bedroom door. Turning his back to it, Barry pressed his hands against his ears and slid down until he was sitting on the floor. He stayed there. He looked at how his sneakers were double-knotted. He removed his hands from his ears and heard a cry. Quickly he pressed his hands to his ears again. He felt lonely. He watched the shadows move across the floor and up onto Aaron's single bed. He looked at the window and imagined throwing himself out but he knew he would only hurt himself. Soon, however, he needed to go to the bathroom, which was in the other room. He kept his hands to his ears. Soon the shadows completely covered Aaron's bed.

Then the door abruptly pushed against his shoulders and stopped, then a fist hit it three times. Barry scrambled to his feet. Aaron stood in the doorway, Harriet a few feet behind him. Both were dressed.

“We're going out for pizza,” said Aaron. “Want to come?”

Barry started to say he wasn't hungry, then he didn't say anything. He nodded. But he still had to go to the bathroom. He went in and locked the door. As he was washing his hands he saw a piece of paper on the floor. It was the note he had delivered to Harriet. Barry put it in his pocket.

After Barry got home that evening, he took out the note and read it. “We have much to give each other. I need your help. Come with Little Pink.” He didn't see why the note had convinced Harriet to come to Aaron's or what Aaron meant by “help.” He felt betrayed that Aaron had referred to him as Little Pink.

Barry didn't go to the IIR meeting the next week, nor did he go to the discussion at Aaron's house on Thursday, nor did he go to the meeting on the following Monday, the last Monday in May. On Tuesday, Aaron called him.

“Be at my house Thursday night,” he said. Then he hung up.

Barry kept having sexual fantasies about Aaron. He imagined himself on the floor where Harriet had been, with Aaron on top of him and thrusting himself into him. At first Barry tried to stop these fantasies, then he gave himself up to them and masturbated. As for Harriet, he hated her. And he imagined, quite foolishly, that if it hadn't been for Harriet, Aaron would have paid more attention to him, sexual attention, that is. He kept reading the note that Aaron had sent. “We have much to give each other.”

When Barry went to Aaron's apartment on Thursday, he found all the members of the IIR. Aaron sat on the couch and Harriet sat with him. Although touching, they weren't caressing or showing affection for each other.

From that time forward Aaron was the unofficial leader of the Inquiries into the Right. As for Chihani, he was the group's mentor. He didn't direct the IIR; rather, the members came to him for guidance. And it was Aaron who took them to Chihani, or that was the impression. At the Thursday night discussions at Aaron's apartment, they went over the assigned reading and Aaron made sure they understood it. Friday evenings, many of them went to Chihani's house for discussion and coffee, but Aaron often didn't attend. He was friendly with Chihani but also cool. He didn't fawn like some of the others, especially Jason Irving, who followed Chihani around like a dog. Aaron kept his distance, though intellectually he always deferred to Chihani. And when Chihani asked a favor, to get something or fix something, Aaron did it efficiently. But he never hung out at Chihani's house.

Aaron and Harriet were often together. She would spend the night at Aaron's and it was hard not to imagine them in Aaron's narrow bed. This was torment to Barry. In public Aaron and Harriet were rarely demonstrative. Sometimes they held hands but even that seemed cold, as if something had accidentally entangled their fingers: the wind or circumstance. But in private they were passionate, even loud, because a teacher at the high school, Martin Tyson, had an apartment in Aaron's building and he said he had heard glass breaking and furniture being overturned. Once he knocked on Aaron's door to see if everything was all right.

People remembered Sheila Murphy and they looked carefully at Harriet, searching for a bruise or some unhappiness. But her skin was as clear and pale as ever. If Aaron left marks, he left none that showed. Probably there were no marks. But given Aaron's history, people almost hoped to see marks, see an outward manifestation that his peculiar history was continuing as they had known it would. Sheila Murphy still worked in Bud's Tavern and she was skeptical. “You wait,” she kept saying.

I
t is perhaps unique to a small town that the narratives of people's lives continually cross one another. Someone is part of your daily existence for a while, then drifts away, then comes back again. You see the same people on the streets and in the stores. You have brief conversations and receive news about your neighbors. Even I, who lead a secluded life, can't go shopping at Wegmans on Saturday afternoon without talking to four or five people. I discover that Mrs. Dunratty has had the flu, that Tom Henderson's daughter Midge is graduating from Cortland State, or that old Mrs. Howster hit a deer with her Dodge Caravan. I look forward to these talks. And I make a point of buying my
Independent
and
Syracuse Post Standard
at Malloy's Pharmacy, instead of having them delivered, because of the brief conversations such visits afford me.

Vicariously, my life is quite extensive. And of course the result is that I feel more involved than I really am. I worry about Mrs. Howster and feel glad for Tom Henderson, though some might argue this sort of contact allows me to feel involved yet celebrate my isolation at the same time.

For a year or so after his wife's death, Franklin Moore remained very private. He looked after Sadie. He maintained his friendship with Ryan Tavich. He worked hard at the newspaper. But he was in his midthirties. It stood to reason he would develop interest in other women. And given the size of our town and the small number of available women, it was probably inevitable that he would turn his eyes toward Aaron's half sister, Paula.

Paula was thirty and single. People spoke of her as having lived with a man in Binghamton for four years but he drank and it ended badly. Indeed, it was said she had to get a restraining order against him, and people claimed this was one of the reasons she had moved back to Aurelius. Perhaps another reason was the availability of her father's house, which was standing empty. I expect Patrick meant to sell it since he was determined to teach in Utica and was clearly finished with our town. But when Paula returned to Aurelius, Patrick rented his daughter the house for a small sum. That was typical of Patrick. He couldn't let her use the house for free. He had to impose a restriction that put distance between him and his own child, though I never heard that Paula complained about the arrangement. But Patrick always felt more comfortable if there were paperwork and lawyers, which was something for which his late wife had mocked him, that he used lawyers as other men used condoms. Coincidentally, Henry Swazey, Patrick's lawyer, had been one of Janice's lovers.

Paula had been back in Aurelius for several weeks before I knew she was here. She kept to herself and rarely went out. Although one might ask where there was to go in Aurelius if one didn't bowl, play bingo, or belong to a church or fraternal organization. Several times she attended cultural events at the college—a speaker or a chamber group. I'm sure most people had no idea that Paula had returned, though if they paid attention they might have seen her walking her dog, Fletcher, in the evening, a tall tan and black mongrel, part Lab and part shepherd.

But Franklin's position as editor of the
Independent
gave him access to whatever was happening. So it was inevitable that he would visit the dean of students' office and it was inevitable that he would see Paula.

She had cut her wavy black hair so it reached no further than her jawline and it had become quite curly. Patrick's first wife, Rachel or Roberta, had been Jewish and the mixture of Jew and Scot gave Paula an exotic appeal. Her eyes, for instance, were light blue. On the other hand, she was slightly old-fashioned in her clothes and mannerisms, which is more common of people in small towns. And her glasses gave her an apparent seriousness that seemed in keeping with her position at the college.

Paula and Franklin made a handsome couple. Franklin with his khakis and tweed jackets, Paula with her plaid skirts and white blouses. People wished them well. Their unfortunate histories—Franklin's first wife dead of cancer, Paula's stepmother murdered—probably saved them from the touch of malice found in most gossip. Not that Franklin and Paula carried on a great public romance. They were too discreet for that. But they would be seen together at the movies or a restaurant and sometimes Franklin's white Subaru station wagon would be parked in front of Patrick McNeal's house late at night.

Ryan Tavich might have dated Paula as well if he hadn't been involved with her stepmother. Ryan was squeamish about such connections. But because Ryan and Franklin were friends, the two men and Paula occasionally drank together at Bud's Tavern or went cross-country skiing in the forest preserve that bordered Lincoln Park. Ryan was dating as well, but he never settled on one woman. People said he was still stuck on Janice. Occasionally he went out with Patty McClosky, who was Chief Schmidt's secretary, and sometimes Ronnie Glivens, an O.R. nurse at the hospital.

The person who didn't like Paula was Sadie, though perhaps that isn't accurate. She would have liked Paula if Paula hadn't been involved with her father. Thirteen-year-olds have complicated but, in some ways, rudimentary minds. After the death of her mother, Sadie was very close with Franklin. They went everywhere together. When Franklin became involved with Paula, it meant he couldn't spend as much time with his daughter. Often Franklin and Paula would take Sadie along to the movies or for walks in the state park, but while Sadie wasn't rude, she was silent and unhappy.

Sometimes Franklin would talk about this when he came over. “She thinks I'm letting down her mother's memory,” he said.

“She's jealous of your time,” I would tell him.

It was she herself, rather than the memory of her mother, that Sadie felt was being betrayed. She felt she'd been replaced, which was silly, but, again, she was only thirteen. And Sadie had heard the stories, terribly exaggerated, about Janice and her murder, and she imagined that the same wickedness—meaning promiscuity—must exist in Paula, even though the two women weren't related. The irony was that when Paula's father, Patrick, had begun dating Janice twenty-five years before, Paula had felt the same jealousy toward Janice, though in that case perhaps Patrick should have heeded the warning.

Sadie began to punish her father, though she didn't see it as that. She began doing poorly in school and leaving the house without telling Franklin where she was going. This upset him considerably. Sadie had always been responsible, and as a single parent Franklin relied on her responsibility, in that she was sometimes left by herself. Franklin had a cleaning woman, Megan Kelly, the same woman who had found Janice McNeal's body, and Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday nights Mrs. Kelly would cook for Franklin, or rather for Sadie, because Franklin's duties at the
Independent
usually kept him away on those nights.

Often when Sadie left the house without saying where she was going, she visited me, and of course Franklin knew this, because I told him, though I never told Sadie that I was tattling on her. Ever since she was eleven I have amused Sadie by showing her the specimens I keep in jars of formaldehyde. Pickled punks, I call them. There are several frogs, a rat, a rattlesnake, a human fetus with its eyes closed that I inherited from an earlier biology teacher, ten eyeballs originally belonging to cows, and a fetal pig. I've collected these over the years to use in science classes. The formaldehyde has turned them all the same dark color and the rat's hair has mostly fallen out. The cows' eyes display a gloomy intelligence and the fetal pig looks sad. Sadie was always fascinated with the human fetus, wondering who its parents were, what it might have been like had it had the chance to grow up. It made her quite philosophical.

But other times Sadie would go off by herself on long walks or bike rides and it could be worrisome, especially if Franklin wanted to take her someplace else or just wanted to know where she was. Sadie had several good friends her own age, including poor Sharon Malloy, and she was often at Sharon's house. But Sharon's parents weren't all that attentive and didn't always let Franklin know when his daughter was visiting them.

At times Paula tried to take Sadie out by herself but either Sadie would refuse or, if she went, she would be silent. This went on for about six months and I was impressed by Paula's persistence. But Sadie disliked Paula's company, or perhaps it was just stubbornness. As a result Franklin began to spend more time with Paula apart from Sadie, which made the situation worse.

Franklin hoped the problem would go away. After all, Paula was kind, told funny stories, and bought Sadie nice things—Franklin couldn't imagine that Sadie wouldn't come to like her. But Paula's qualities made Sadie suspicious.

“Why does she bring me presents?” Sadie asked. “She brought me a sweater on Sunday, a blue crewneck.”

“She wants you to like her,” I said.

“I don't want to like her.”

“What did you do with the sweater?”

“I gave it to Sharon. Don't you think Paula smiles too much?”

In an adult such behavior is neurotic, but an adolescent can combine neurosis with normalcy in the same package. I helped Sadie with her schoolwork and her grades improved, but her sudden disappearances continued and by late spring Franklin spoke of taking her to a counselor in Hamilton. Paula must have suggested that, since counseling was her field. Of course Ryan Tavich alerted the other members of the police department that Sadie was wandering off, and several times one of the officers brought her home, an event that set the neighbors to buzzing.

I would have been more worried about Sadie's behavior if I hadn't benefited from it. Though I don't miss having a family, there was a sweetness to Sadie's presence. I myself would feel foolish and adolescent and scold myself after she'd gone, although these occasions were perfectly innocent. Still, I would have hated it known at school that I had spent an evening making chocolate chip cookies with Sadie Moore. It wasn't that we made cookies every day, perhaps only once a month, but I looked forward to it. Though I knew I should try to convince Sadie of Paula's good intentions, I didn't want to pester Sadie or make her distrust me. And this was my fault, that her visits were more important to me than how she got along with Paula.

Ryan Tavich also took an interest in Sadie and, I imagine, tried to get her to accept Paula. He and Sadie went skiing together in winter and trout fishing in the spring. Ryan was not much of a conversationalist but he would talk about the various trees and wildflowers, how trout live and what they do at various times of the day. He was a practical man without much imagination, and he gave Sadie information about the world.

So Sadie and I made chocolate chip cookies and looked at dead things in jars, and Ryan Tavich took her fishing—nothing had happened yet to make the sight of an older man with a young girl seem remarkable in any way. But there was another man in Sadie's life who caused more concern: Aaron McNeal. Even Franklin worried about Sadie's friendship with him, given his history. Sadie, I suspect, knew of her father's ambivalence and was to some degree—quite innocently, of course—manipulating it. Franklin spent time with Paula and so Sadie spent time with Paula's half brother. It must have struck Sadie as fair.

Paula's own relationship with her brother was complicated. She had helped raise him and was often responsible for him when he was little. But Paula had not liked her stepmother and Aaron resembled her. They had the same slightly up-turned eyes. He even had some of her mannerisms—the way Janice shrugged one shoulder or covered her mouth when she laughed.

And what were Aaron's feelings toward his sister? After Patrick and Janice were divorced, Paula not only took the place of Aaron's mother but stood in Janice's way. Paula nurtured him and isolated him. It was Paula who gave Aaron books and took him to the town library. She had even tried to protect him from Hark Powers when Hark came to the house to taunt Aaron. And perhaps she encouraged Aaron to fight back, though of course she wouldn't have urged him to bite off Hark's ear. Family relationships are almost impossible to sort out: like lies on top of dislike, love on top of selfishness. And envy, resentment, anger—the whole porridge can be a problem. I feel myself lucky to have had no siblings and only one parent, but there is no way I can clearly unravel my relationship with my mother, especially in those last years before her death.

When Franklin began to date Paula, Aaron hadn't yet returned to town. Then around three months later, in December, he arrived and they had Christmas together, which must have been a nightmare. Sadie found fault with Paula's presents: this sweater was the wrong color, that blouse too small. And Aaron was cool with Franklin, though Franklin was perfectly polite to him, even kind. One would have thought that Aaron might sympathize with Franklin because of the death of Michelle, but he was so caught up with his own story that other people's grief wasn't credible to him. And perhaps he resented Franklin's ease with the world. Franklin had a stable life. He wasn't casting about for a direction. And, of course, Paula loved him, which was a thing that Aaron might resent, if only because he wanted Paula's attention himself.

In that way Aaron and Sadie were alike, and during that Christmas they played Monopoly and threw snowballs, mostly at Franklin. But it was after Franklin's interview with Houari Chihani and after Aaron had joined the IIR that he and Sadie began to spend time together, which made Franklin fear that something else might be involved. Aaron would give Sadie small gifts—inexpensive jewelry and sometimes a book. Franklin didn't trust Aaron, though he wanted to. But Paula, Aaron's own half sister, didn't trust him either.

“You don't know what Aaron's going to do next,” Franklin told me. “Mostly he's like anybody else, then he'll do something almost perverse, like giving Paula's dog rum punch or hiding my keys for the fun of it. You know how with most people you're really having two conversations? There's the hidden one under the one you're having? You see someone's fear or pride or vanity, which is like a second subject matter. With Aaron I never see that hidden conversation.” Franklin laughed. “It's too hidden. And without it I never have the sense of what he's going to do next or why he does what he does. I can't see how his sense of cause and effect operates. It's like the surface of a pond. Something's stirring underneath, but I don't know what.”