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A Small Town, Waiting

In the last two days, you couldn’t walk by any group of people in town without hearing it: “Quadruple murder.”

They were all saying it, and with that very tone. It was a buzz in the air, a shared mentality, an acknowledged sameness that stretched even across strangers. Usually, you just heard ‘triple’ or ‘mass.’ Quadruple was a novelty. A sick one, but one that would keep the town talking for months, thought Cassie.

“It’s a shame,” said Lori from behind her post at the cash register. “A damn shame.” She shook her head slowly as she said this, pulling cans of beans and cereal and soft drinks over the scanner with a swiftness and accuracy that seemed to comfort her. Yes, it was a shame, but there was good work to be done. Bar codes to find, food to bag, distractions to keep the mind far away from those murders and all that they entailed. “That whole family, just gone. And they’d only lived here what, a month? Can’t believe something like that could happen to such a nice family.”

Cassie caught Lori’s eye and Lori paused, suddenly at a loss for words. They both waited for the receipt to print. It took longer than it should have. Lori sighed, shifting her weight to her other leg and pursing her lips. “New registers,” she said curtly, both a simple statement of fact and an explanation for the unasked. What was the problem? Lori could always tell you, whether you knew there was a problem or not.

With a beep, the machine finally began to churn out the receipt. “I’ll tell ya,” said Lori, with renewed vigor, “they never should have let those guys out. Prison’s no fix, not for everyone, anyway.”

Cassie nodded. Lori kept talking as Cassie bagged up the rest of the groceries. She tried not to listen, acting as though arranging the cans in the right way required her full attention. “Receipt in the bag?”

“Sure. Thanks,” answered Cassie, feeling the strain of the amount of food she’d bought as she lifted the bag. All of it Tex-Mex, or something that would eventually make up Tex-Mex, and none of it was even for her party, not exactly. It was hard to say no when it came to helping out Rose.

****

“Rose. Got your food for Saturday.” Cassie set the bag down heavily on her cousin’s countertop, car keys jangling. She couldn’t tell if it had actually gotten hotter or if she was just sweating from carrying dozens of cans of beans and tomatoes.

“You are such a doll,” gushed Rose, bouncing into the kitchen. Cassie could help but notice her bare feet, with what looked to be freshly-painted pink toenails. She could be wrong about that, though – Rose always managed to look like she was just made-up, freshly put-together, ready to meet anyone or do anything at a moment’s notice. They had grown up together and done everything together, but even Cassie knew that Rose was considered the ‘fun’ one. Which left Cassie to be the dependable one, by default. She wasn’t sure that it could have turned out any other way.

“Now, I was kinda thinking even after you left that this might not be enough tomatoes after all. How much chili do you think people eat?” Rose asked, getting on her tip-toes to peer into the paper grocery bags, her black hair falling forward and blocking her face.

“Well. It is pretty hot out, actually,” said Cassie, as a way of ending that train of thought. No way was she going back downtown for more damn canned tomatoes. She tied her long brown hair away from her face, wiping some sweat from the nape of her neck. Taking a few steps into the living room, she saw that the midday local news was on. More about the murders. On the floor in front of the TV was a pile of different colors of tissue paper, some neon pipe cleaners, and a pair of scissors. Rose had made it as far as one complete tissue flower. The tissue paper scraps dusted all over the carpet, however, would suggest that there were many more. Next to the scissors was an open bottle of pink nail polish.

“Nothing on the news but more about this murder,” called Rose from the kitchen. Cassie was thankful to hear her putting cans away, having given up on the idea of more tomatoes. “They’re sayin’ now that they have a few leads on where this guy might be. Can’t be too much longer until they catch him. You would not believe the number of guns that they found in the other guy’s basement, the one who died.”

On screen, a pair of mug shots: two young white guys, both surly and with vacant stares. The photo on the left showed a short man, face riddled with acne and some beard stubble, thick eyebrows, unfamiliar to Cassie. This was the one who was now dead, exterminated. No longer a threat. And the one on the right -

Rose joined Cassie. “You would have been at Baker during the same years as that one guy, right?”

“Just one year the same,” corrected Cassie. Rose was not the first to point this out to her –multiple friends and family members had asked the same thing over the past two days. Did you know him? Didn’t you go to school with him? There was invariably a sigh of relief when she said no, not really. She felt like she was exonerating herself from something she hadn’t done. The two of them did not coexist. Evil was still separate from, well, whatever she was in this equation.

Most seemed relieved that she didn’t know this guy, not really, because it meant that it wasn’t yet another mark of bad luck, another disfiguring scar on her history that she didn’t deserve. Cassie was quiet, but well-liked, and she knew it was partially due to the pity she inspired when people learned about her parents. Well, you could use the word ‘learned,’ but everyone in town already knew the story: her father shooting himself, his secrets uncovered and laid bare. Her mother leaving Cassie asleep in the middle of the night, going who knows where. She’d been old enough to remember bits and pieces, though not necessarily to fully comprehend the hows and the whys – – and she certainly still didn’t.

But it had occurred to her, over the past few days, that though there was pity towards her, there must also be worry about her in this situation. Was there something genetic, something hidden? Something in her that would break open and unleash itself at an unknown future point in time? If she went to school with this kid, this murderer, wouldn’t that make her just as capable of causing pain, just as vulnerable to the powers that had swept her family away? She was interrupted from her thoughts by Rose.

“Can you believe that they think we need to cancel the block party? I mean, it’s a horrible thing that happened. An honest-to-goodness tragedy,” Rose conceded, joining Cassie from the kitchen. “Honest-to-goodness” – another one of Rose’s adopted small town phrases, a throwback to another time or another person who Rose thought she could be. Cassie noted, as she did more and more, how unalike they looked. How they couldn’t fool anyone with some appearance of normalcy while growing up, even though life itself was truly good, and truly happy in all of those ways it was supposed to be. In every photo it was always Rose and her mother plus Cassie. With Cassie. Next to Cassie. But never really one unit, no matter how kind and loving they all were together.

“I can’t even remember the last time something this sad happened to this place,” said Rose, shaking her head to demonstrate her disbelief. Cassie could picture the comment hanging in the air, growing in the silence. If it had been more than just the two of them there, it would have been worse – – people were always running to shield her from her family’s past, to cover it up with loud, friendly conversations and looks of pity and food and offers to help. In this moment, Cassie couldn’t tell if Rose noticed what she had said, but Rose never seemed to give thought to things she said. She had never questioned Cassie’s presence in their lives, for better or worse. She included her in everything she did and welcomed her with open arms as a new best friend and playmate, but she never considered what it was that had brought her to live with them.

Rose, braiding pieces of her own hair idly, continued with a sigh, “But what good is canceling the only good thing this town has left this summer?”

Cassie shrugged and didn’t answer. Like a lot of what Rose said, it didn’t seem to require an answer. Both girls turned back to the television to watch the reporter in silence. She was in her twenties, young and earnest. Cassie could only focus on her spiked black mascara and her insistent bobbed haircut. Behind the mascara, her eyes were strikingly blue. Explanatory pictures flashed on the screen, but neither of the girls was really listening to the words that the woman was saying.

****

“Chili’s fantastic. Really, really good.”

Cassie looked up from the bowl she was ladling and smiled. “Thanks. Can’t take credit, it’s my aunt’s recipe.”

“Same every year. Doesn’t make it any less good.”

Cassie smiled vaguely at the non-compliment as the chili fan wandered away. She wanted desperately to stand up on the table, command the attention of the neighborhood and explain that no one actually ate this kind of thing in the culture they were pretending to celebrate at the moment. No one would have cared. And the chili was almost gone, anyway.

Normally, Cassie would try a little harder to socialize, but there was little conversation that she wanted to participate in. The party felt muffled, hushed, and it wasn’t just due to the heavy heat. She could hear snippets of conversation, almost all of which had to do with the murders: “…make sure we’re back home by curfew…” “…no one had any idea…” “…impossible that it could happen again, but you never know…” “…arrested someone matching his description in Canada…” One older woman, who Cassie recognized from church social events, had been repeating her woes about the killer, the one who was still alive and had gone to Baker. She remembered him from her Sunday school youth group years ago, even though he only came sporadically. Small and composed, she was one of those town members who always seemed to know what was best, and she could simply not believe that a church-goer could end up on the evening news in such a way. She was drifting from group to group, inserting the same information, desperate to be validated and heard. “He was a good Christian. He must have been,” she kept insisting. “That must count for something in this life!”

The song currently playing cut off and was replaced a few seconds later by Shakira, something upbeat that could be danced to. This was Rose’s signal to get the real partying started, so Cassie decided to abandon the chili station and start picking up empties scattered around the yard. She saw her aunt, Rose’s mother, talking with a group of people over by the remnants of the piñata. She was fully-decked out in ‘Mexican’ garb, though thankfully, Cassie thought, without her signature sombrero. Watching her captivate her audience from afar, it was easy to see where Rose inherited her personality. Cassie tossed the cans into the recycling bin, and a shriek of laughter pierced the air.

She met the eyes of Mr. Larson, who was approaching to throw away a handful of used plastic plates, and gave her a knowing smile. She smiled back. “So it begins,” he intoned in his melodic professor’s voice, indicating her aunt’s growing energy in the fading light.

Cassie sighed. “She’s really in her element. She loves this stuff,” she stated, watching her swirl around in her brightly-colored taffeta skirt. Rose, similarly-dressed, was approaching from the house, having turned the music up a few notches and grabbed a beer.

Mr. Larson took a last swig of his soda and placed in the recycling bin. “Now, I’ve got Rose babysitting the kids tomorrow night. You know you’re always welcome to come over, keep her company.”

Cassie smiled at the offer, the same one he always made. He suspected that they would actually be more comfortable with Cassie taking care of their son and daughter, but the kids were used to Rose and her boundless energy. It was she they always begged for. “Thank you. I think Rose can handle them on her own, though. You know how she is,” answered Cassie.

Mr. Larson nodded, and they both took a moment to observe their surroundings. “They’re very self-sufficient, those two. Always know how to hold down the fort. Always did, even before you came to town.” He squeezed her upper arm, a gesture of understanding. He was one of the few people that could pull this off, this moment of letting her know that he knew what he did and he was there to help, but they didn’t need to state anything out loud, at least not at this moment, not unless she needed to.

Cassie had always liked Mr. Larson, an instructor at a nearby college. He was genuinely thoughtful, and he always brought a certain grace to these community gatherings that made them more bearable. She had moved in with Rose and her aunt as a very small child, but there was no time that she could remember when the Larsons had not been a part of life around town. She watched him retreat toward the house, taking a wide arc to avoid the tight clusters of neighbors scattered in little colonies across the yard. It was becoming darker by the minute. Through the tissue paper flowers tied to the white fence surrounding the yard, she saw the top of a police cruiser. It drove slowly, without stopping, the bar of lights on the top still off.

****

After reading two different Dr. Seuss books, Cassie had finally gotten both of the Larson kids to bed. She went downstairs to her books and cell phone, sitting on the glass-topped living room table. There was a text from Rose: “Thank u!!!!” She sighed, put the phone back on the table and sank into the plush wraparound couch. Rose had begged and pleaded, as usual, for Cassie to help her out so that she could meet her social engagements. It might have been bowling or it might have been drinks, or both. This time, Cassie didn’t mind. The kids were fun, and she couldn’t honestly say that she had anything else planned on this particular Friday night. Besides, getting paid to spend time in their air-conditioned mansion, located in the more affluent part of town, wasn’t all that bad. She surveyed the tall, glossy bookshelves in the living room, some enclosed with glass, and wondered if they had even read all of the volumes they kept there.

She was just about to turn to her own book when she thought she heard a noise towards the front of the house. She became quiet still and listened. It was definitely a quiet tapping. Slowly, not even realizing that she was holding her breath, she tiptoed toward the front door. It was filled with decorated glass, making it good for the occupants’ privacy but also difficult to tell who was standing outside. She couldn’t see anyone, but then there was a distinct tapping, once more. Cassie let out her breath in a rush, heart pounding. It must be a neighbor, she thought, just checking in. The Larsons were meticulous about leaving phone numbers for her, and they told her that one of the older neighbors knew that she was here with the kids, and often liked to stop by and see if they needed anything.

She opened the door, seeming to startle the man on the other side. He was younger than she would have imagined – much younger. It had started to rain, and a warm wind was gusting. She noticed all of these things about the weather, taking them in in great detail, and she realized as she was doing it that it was a way of avoiding his face, of avoiding him realizing that she knew who he was from seeing him on television. Because once he knew that she knew, what was next?

He looked at her, his eyes wide, his jacket soaked. Now that he was right in front of her, she realized that she remembered him much better than she had thought. He was so much smaller, meeker than on T.V. She was receiving snippets of memories, like some foggy transmission through the growing storm outside – passing him in the hallway, sharing classes, sitting next to him, perhaps. Did they have a group project together? Chemistry, or maybe biology. Had they actually ever had a conversation?

“Hi,” Cassie offered calmly, as though she had been expecting to see him.

He looked at her, but didn’t seem to see her. Maybe he recognized her, but it didn’t matter now. They were heading towards something else, something that needed to happen. “Can I use your phone?” he asked, his voice gruff, muffled. He talked as though he had something in his mouth, but he didn’t. He was, however, clutching at something underneath his coat.

Rather than answer, Cassie thought about the gun collection they’d all read about on the news. Her father’s other family hidden two states away. She thought about all of the things it was possible to learn about someone once they were gone, dead, unable to hide things any longer. She briefly considered the collection of amateurish poems she had been scrawling all summer, not-so-hidden on the desk in her attic room.

She waited a moment, taking in this boy that she knew from so many years ago. She wasn’t alarmed, but she had the vague sense that she should be. As though watching someone else complete these actions, she opened the door wider and stepped aside, letting him into the dark foyer. It had occurred to her that this was not the right thing to do, that there was a right and smart and sane thing to do, but since she wasn’t able to come up with what that course of action was at the moment, reality would have to suffice. Anyway, she knew him. They had gone to school together. If she was good, if she was responsible, and she knew him, then that had to mean that he was okay, too. He couldn’t be bad. At least, he couldn’t be all bad. She closed the door and waited. She was a good girl. She had had a tough life in some ways, yes, but she helped out other people when they needed to be helped. That had to count for something in this life.