Big Woods Page 3
Sheriff Greene stood up to leave. “If you think of anything, Leah, give me a call.” He handed me his card and when his hand brushed mine, it was calloused and warm.
10
Sylvia
When the garden was filled, it was time to move on to something else. The constant activity had lifted me up. I could greet John after work, with dinner in the pan, and look forward to hearing about his day.
We slowly began to enjoy our life together again as a couple without children. We flew to Ft. Lauderdale once, when John had time off, to visit my sister, Evelyn. John treated the three of us to meals of grilled seafood at a different restaurant each night, and we spent lazy afternoons at the beach, letting the sun broil our skin while sipping on fruity cocktails.
Once we returned home, John painted the nursery in a creamy white and lined the walls with shelves made of chestnut to hold my growing collection of books. When he went off to work for the day, I would spend hours reading. I gravitated toward thick Victorian novels, books of poetry, and even some potboilers. But I found that if I had too much time on my hands, I could swiftly slip back into the quicksand of sadness. I needed some other way to fill my time.
I have always loved children—that’s why I had originally wanted to be a teacher—but the thought of summers off scared me a little now. All that time alone. So when I saw a bulletin up at the library, Become a Registered Nurse! I knew it was something I wanted to try. I was still young, just in my mid-thirties, and the thought of going back to school excited me. I figured I could specialize in pediatrics and work with babies or children. Be useful somehow.
John kept saying that we didn’t need the money, but he also knew that I needed to stay busy, so he agreed it would be best for me to enroll. And thank God for that. I would’ve never been able to stretch John’s pension this long.
And, I would’ve never met Delia.
11
Leah
Friday, September 29th, 1989
Lucy missing 12 hours
We stayed up all night that first night. Sheriff Greene kept the search party going but urged us to stick close to home in case Lucy showed up or the phone rang. Dad prowled the front entryway like a panther, as if there was going to be a knock at the door at any second.
His nervous energy set Mom on edge, so she sat in the back den smoking Virginia Slims as I nuzzled into her on the sofa. She draped a homemade afghan over us, and we stared out the huge bank of windows, catching the occasional flashlight from the search party bounce through the woods behind our home.
Dad couldn’t stand it inside any longer so he cranked up his vintage yellow pickup and circled the neighborhood, hollering out Lucy’s name as if looking for a stray animal.
Mom went to the kitchen and pulled a bottle of sherry off the shelf and brought me a can of Coke and a package of Fritos. “You really need to eat something,” she said, pushing the bag of Fritos toward me. I just shook my head; my stomach was in knots. But my mouth was dry, so I pulled back the tab on the Coke and took a swig.
I kept winding the afghan around in my hands, hooking my fingers through the holes. I couldn’t stop fidgeting. Though no one had mentioned it—at least not in front of me—I couldn’t help but think about Big Woods and the devil worshippers. The adults tried to keep us kids sheltered from the grim details, but everybody in town knew the stories. A few years ago in Starrville, a tiny town next to ours, a bunch of kids had gone missing. Nobody ever found out who kidnapped them, but their bodies were all later found in Big Woods. People believed it was the work of a satanic cult.
Growing up, I’d always heard stories about Big Woods. At slumber parties kids would tell ghost stories about it, and even before the kidnappings there had always been spooky tales about cults and devil worshipping out there.
There’s an old village out there called Shiloh, with a decrepit schoolhouse that everyone says is haunted. It blew up at the turn of the century, but some of the red brick walls are still standing. High school students used to party out there after football games, and they’d say that there’s still textbooks scattered all over the floor from the day of the explosion. But now, nobody goes out there anymore.
I’ve driven past Big Woods a few times with Mom and Dad; it’s on the way to Grandpa’s deer lease. There’s no sign announcing it, but you know once you’re out there: the trees are thick and tall and next to the old schoolhouse, there’s a cemetery with black gates that are always chained up.
A kid in my school, Nathan Blackhill, lives on a farm that touches Big Woods and he’s always telling these wild stories about it. He says that during a full moon, he can hear screams all the way from his house. He’s explored it on foot during the day and he swears that he’s found old shacks that have been spray painted with devil worshipper symbols and upside-down crosses. He says he always finds piles of new clothes and cans of fresh Coke, as if somebody’s just stepped out. Nathan has lots of pimples and his face is always blushing (and he’s never had a girlfriend) but when he starts telling these stories, everyone gathers around. I’ve always thought he did it for the attention, but now I’m not so sure.
I turned to Mom and asked her if she thinks Lucy was taken by devil worshippers. Her eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot, making them bluer than they normally were, almost supernaturally blue. “Oh, honey. The sheriff hasn’t said anything like that. You know that nothing like that’s happened here in Longview.” She was working her cigarette between her fingers and wouldn’t meet my eyes.
“I’m not thinking that, and neither should you.” She took a long drag off her cigarette and pulled me into her.
12
Sylvia
After the first children went missing, we started hearing about the devil worshippers, and everyone in town became really afraid. My neighbor started to bring his cat inside during the week of Halloween, and people stopped letting their children out to trick-or-treat.
My tiny Episcopalian church, St. Paul’s, wasn’t as fervent as some of the other churches in town, but my minister did hold a call to prayer one Wednesday evening to offer folks some solace. The bigger churches in town banded together with the smaller, rural churches, including the Starrville Church of Christ, and held weekly prayer vigils for the missing, and later, for the dead.
I passed a vigil on my way home from the store one Friday evening. I had started to push myself, to work up the courage to go out again at night. It was being held at East Texas Methodist. Children and adults were clutched tightly together in a prayer circle, swaying side to side on the slender sidewalk between the church and the highway. Some were waving signs that read HONK FOR JESUS! and GOD=HEAVEN, SATAN=HELL, YOU CHOOSE! My windows were rolled up, but I could hear them chanting back and forth as the youth minister stood in their midst shouting into a bullhorn, riling up the crowd. A young boy was sitting on the curb, setting a Ouija board on fire.
Sticks of candlelight cast an eerie glow across their faces, so that all I could see were bare teeth and flickering eyes. Something about this sight made me shiver as I drove past and my heart didn’t stop racing until I was back at home safely with my garage door shut.
13
Leah
Saturday, September 30th, 1989
Lucy missing 1 day
I wake to the sound of dishes clattering in the kitchen. My face is damp with drool and Mom has slipped off my Keds and tucked a pillow beneath my head. I’m downstairs, on the couch. I must have just dozed off, because Mom and I had watched the sun come up together.
There’s a knock at the door. It’s someone from a church group; they’ve stopped by to bring us a box of donuts. Mom slides a powdered sugar one onto a plate and pushes it toward me.
I’m starving and I devour it so quickly it makes me cough. Dad brings me a glass of chocolate milk and we all sit around the breakfast table as the morning sun—orange as a peach—bleeds honey-colored light through t
he windows.
The doorbell rings. Dad hops up; it’s Sheriff Greene. He steps into the breakfast room. I’m steeling myself for bad news.
“We may have something,” he says, looking at each of us. His hair is still wet and he smells like aftershave and fresh soap. “A neighbor lady, Katie Whitaker, down the street, says she saw a strange car circling the block yesterday morning. She didn’t get home until late last night, so we are only just now hearing about this.”
My heart begins to flutter. Mrs. Whitaker is a retired accountant who lives six houses down in a small house with yellow shutters. Just around the corner from the bus stop.
“Said she was in her breakfast room watching for the mailman when she noticed an olive green car driving past, slowly. Possibly a Karmann Ghia. Wasn’t sure.” His eyes are tired. He’s been up all night, too.
“She only noticed it because it’s such an unusual-looking car, but also because it circled the block a few times. She didn’t get a license plate, though, so it could be tough to find a match. This could mean nothing, of course, but we’re going to follow up on it.”
My hands grow sweaty, I feel like I’m going to be sick. Mom takes a drag off her cigarette and Dad stares out the window, doe-eyed. The sheriff pauses in place for a moment before nodding at us and turning to leave.
The milk curdles in my stomach. I don’t know what to think, but I can’t stop seeing Lucy in my mind, being driven off in that car.
14
Sylvia
Sunday, October 1st, 1989
Today is my birthday. Seventy-five: a milestone. Since John died, I haven’t seen much point in celebrating birthdays. After he passed, I would get invitations to lunch or to tea. And at first, they were genuine, but then they began to feel stiff, obligatory, and after I was shunned, the invitations thinned out and then stopped altogether.
I now mark it the same way every year: I pad to the mailbox in my house slippers—there will be a card from Evelyn and another one from the March of Dimes. I might have something sweet to eat, if I have the energy to make it.
Today I pull an apple pie from the oven. I found a bushel of pink ladies from a nearby farm stand this weekend, and so this morning I sliced them up into thin discs and tossed them in my cream-colored mixing bowl with cinnamon, lemon, and a little brown sugar—I like mine tart, the way they make them in the north, not so sugary—and filled them into a store-made pie crust, no longer having the pep to make my own.
Today I do this because it is a milestone, but also, I do it for Delia. We have the same birthday week. Hers will be October 8th. Exactly one week apart.
Delia. That’s not even her real name—I never knew it, that’s just the name I gave her—but I was able to draw out some facts, like her birthday, for instance, and when I told her late one night at the hospital that we shared this week, she smiled.
The warm yeasty smell fills the kitchen. I take the pie from the oven and let it rest on top of a hand towel, and decide to brew a pot of fresh coffee, which I only drink on special occasions. I shake the bitter grounds into the filter and then sit at the table and watch as red hummingbirds light on my feeder. The kitchen window is open and a quick rush of wind sweeps through, giving me a chill and making the pile of dried curled leaves clatter along my sidewalk.
The summer Delia vanished she was nineteen, going on twenty. I bought her a card that year when I hoped she might still be alive. But it’s here, in this house somewhere, never sent. This year she would’ve been thirty. She might’ve been a wife, perhaps, or even a mother by now.
When the coffee is done, I pour myself a cup, top it with cream, and set out a plate for the pie. I also set one out for Delia, and say the words aloud to her that I’ve been saying every year since she vanished: “I’m sorry I couldn’t save you.”
15
Leah
Friday, October 6th, 1989
Lucy missing 1 week
Lucy has been missing for a week. Other than the car—which we’ve heard nothing else about—there haven’t been any new leads. Mom and Dad and I have stayed at home, huddled inside our quiet house, waiting for the phone to ring, waiting for something to break the silence. I’ve started to hate the mustard yellow wall phone itself, the phone I stare at, willing it to ring, willing for Lucy to be on the other end, but it just hangs there. My parents won’t let me take calls, and no one is allowed to make calls unless it’s to the police, for fear that we might miss something.
Dad’s big blue eyes leak with tears all the time, and every morning around the time that Lucy went missing, he marches back and forth to the bus stop, as if trying to retrace what happened. Mom and I watch him from the kitchen window. One morning Mom ran out after him in her rust-colored robe and caught his arm. I cracked open the window to listen.
“This isn’t your fault, Carl. None of this is anybody’s fault.” But Dad tore away from her and kept walking. She’s been in that robe every day, only changing once into normal clothes when she had to take more photos of Lucy to the police station.
They stay up most of the night talking in angry tones, and Dad has started drinking again, something he swore off years ago. Once, when Lucy and I were little, we went to a backyard barbecue with Dad while Mom was away on business. He drank too many margaritas and passed out in a hammock while he was supposed to be watching us. Lucy and I made our own way home that night, with Dad staggering in hours later. This had terrified him, so he quit completely after that. Yesterday morning, though, I could smell the sharp fumes of gin in his orange juice at breakfast and he goes through the days glass-eyed in front of the television, or shut off alone in his study, compulsively sketching pictures of Lucy that he hopes will bring her home.
Mom’s co-workers have been bringing by gooey casseroles and leaving them on the porch with notes pinned to the top, but this morning she insisted on making a proper breakfast, so she pulled out her cast iron skillet and fried a neat row of bacon and a batch of fried eggs. We sat around the breakfast table and ate in silence.
Mom and Dad have drifted back upstairs to take a nap, but I’m wired, I can’t sleep. I climb the stairs and for the first time since last Friday, I allow myself to go into Lucy’s room.
I pause at the door before walking in. I stick a bare foot onto the carpet and run my toes along the seafoam green shag as if testing the temperature of pool water. I suck in a deep breath and step into the room.
It’s raining out, and big drops of rain thud against the tall, thick windows, making the room feel like it’s rocking, like how you feel inside a car as it’s being pulled through a car wash.
I cross the room and throw myself on the bed and snuggle underneath Lucy’s Strawberry Shortcake comforter. I breathe in and I can still smell her—that little Lucy smell that is perfectly her own—a mix of Juicy Fruit gum and baby shampoo, which Lucy swore made her hair softer. My Lucy Belle. I can’t stop crying but I don’t want Mom and Dad to hear me so I sob into Lucy’s pink chenille pillow and find myself talking out loud to her. “Where are you, Lucy? What happened to you?”
Lucy and I like to joke that we are twins; we have the same birthday, December 8th. We were born four years apart, so we’re not really twins of course, but Lucy and I believe we can read each other’s minds and we’re closer than any other sisters I know.
It might be hard to believe that we are born on the same day, but Mom planned it that way. She had me by C-section and though Lucy wasn’t due until Christmas Eve, the doctor gave her the choice of when to schedule Lucy’s birth and she thought it would be neat if we shared the same birthday. And it is neat. We get to have a joint party every year with our friends—usually at the roller rink if it’s chilly out, or if it’s nice we have a party at our house. Mom bakes us each our own birthday cake: a yellow butter cake with chocolate frosting for me and a vanilla cake with pink frosting for Lucy. We each get a small pile of presents—usually new clothes—b
ut we also always get our favorite gift: a matching brand-new Swatch watch.
I notice I’m twisting my own Swatch around on my wrist (a simple one with a teal-colored band and a Pepto-Bismol pink face) and a panic shoots through me when I realize I don’t even know if Lucy is wearing hers. I jump out of bed and go over to her creamy white vanity to look for it.
It’s gone, and for some reason this makes me feel relieved. It makes me feel connected to her somehow. I run my finger along the stack of other Swatch bands. Some are spiky, from when she was little and had to punch holes in them to make them fit.
We are both tomboys and it shows in the things we have in our rooms. Lucy is forever making stuff with her hands, and her vanity bursts with her creations: friendship bracelets—both the kind made from colorful thread and also the kind with safety pins and little glass beads—and leather wallets and belts. A tangle of her leather-making tools are scattered over the surface—little mallets and letter stamps and strips of leather that she dyes in deep tans in Mom’s art shed.
Above her vanity is a poster of Ralph Macchio. I reach up and touch a torn corner. She had it pinned up, I knew, both because she thought he was cute, but also because she wanted to be him. There’s a brick wall in the backyard and we used to balance on it, facing each other with one leg raised, trying to pull off moves from The Karate Kid. Just beyond the wall is our tetherball court. In the summer we’d spend hours out there trying to one up each other, but I can’t think about that now, the fact that I might never get to let Lucy win another game.
I flop back onto her bed and scan the room as if searching for clues. My eyes rest on a stack of letters on Lucy’s bedside table.
I rearrange the pillows behind my back and unfold the letters like an accordion over the bedspread. The edges of the envelopes are rubbed soft; I can tell that Lucy has read them over and over. I open a few and read them, but then toss them aside. Reading them makes me shudder as I remember our last fight, which hadn’t been as much of a fight as it had been me just being flat-out mean to Lucy.