When a woman is feeling vengeful, help comes in all sorts of forms...
I walked through the quiet cemetery toward his grave, the summer sun warming my bare arms. I sat cross-legged next to his headstone, as if he would be better able to hear me from up there. The grass made my legs itch as I leaned forward, and I felt a trickle of sweat trail from my temple.
“Cal,” I called, keeping my voice as low as possible, for fear that some voluble current would carry my whispered words to someone else’s ears. “You’re doing this, aren’t you? You did all of it, didn’t you?”
I didn’t exactly expect a response, maybe just a sudden light breeze or the impulsive appearance of a bird or grasshopper, to let me know he was listening. But there was nothing.
“Cal,” I tried again, “Clarence is dead now, too. But I guess you know that. He was the last one, Cal. You can stop now. You know to stop now, don’t you?”
I hoped Cal didn’t know I was lying about Clarence being the last one. But the more I thought about it, I figured Cal must know about Jake Snow, too. Still, I felt it was my duty to try and prevent more killings.
First there were John and Ricky, then Malcolm. And just last night, Clarence. Truthfully, I’m not even sad about it, because I had wished them dead for years. But I never thought their deaths had anything to do with me. Until now.
The first killings came in 1989. Funny, that was exactly 20 years after Cal died and it was the age Cal was when he died. I remember mourning Cal a lot that day.
A hunting accident, they said. Both John and Ricky were shot, but the coroner said neither one of them died right away. Took about a day or so, the coroner said. Guess nobody was missing them much back home. But it never made sense to me. How is it that two men out hunting deep in the woods both get shot? If Ricky had accidentally shot John, I hardly think Ricky would imagine the deed worthy of suicide. Not him. Yet, both of the bullets that killed them had come from Ricky’s rifle. If you knew John and Ricky the way I did, you’d know there’s no way it happened that way. Someone else had to have been there and shot them both with Ricky’s rifle. But the authorities hadn’t given much credence to that idea, just listed both deaths as ‘accidental shootings.’
I guess they didn’t investigate hunting deaths too much back then. People around these parts figured if you went tromping around in the woods with loaded weapons, you had to accept the consequences.
But even so, I never imagined that Cal had anything to do with their deaths. Not then, anyway. It wasn’t until Malcolm died that I began to see the pattern. Nearly three years had passed when Malcolm was killed in an auto accident. Funny, too, that he died on my birthday. I guess Cal thought he was sending me a present. I remember my birthday was an especially hard one that year without Cal to share it, it being my fortieth.
Anyway, Malcolm’s accident happened on that little bridge just after the sharp curve on Sandhill Road. They say he had passed out at the wheel, the car bursting through the bridge abutment and hurtling into dead space before it sputtered and fell into the creek like a defective bottle rocket. He had landed upside down in only seven inches of water, but he was so full of alcohol and pot that he drowned in his stupor. All he’d had to do was lift his head up. Jesus.
Weird thing, though, there was not one ounce of brake fluid left in that car. The authorities reported the brake line had been punctured, sure enough, but that it was probably due to Malcolm’s car impacting with the cement bridge. I had my doubts, though.
And just last night Clarence got his, stabbed and sliced 37 times. No doubt about that one being pure-tee murder.
I knew then that Cal was behind it all.
Because it was those four that had died, and most of them gruesome deaths.
I wondered if Cal knew there was a fifth one still alive. The back of my neck prickled at the thought. I had to make him think Clarence was the last of them.
“You hear me, Cal?” I leaned even closer to the headstone, my whisper coming out in a near hiss. “You stop it now. Clarence was the end of it, okay?”
But I knew this wouldn’t be the end of it. Jake Snow would get his, too, just like the others had. And how ironic that Cal had saved Jake for last, since Jake was the instigator in the whole thing.
I had only been 17 then, the night of the rape. Over 30 years ago and the horror of it is still so vivid in my mind. Five teenage boys having their fun, only it left me in ruin. I was missing Cal so much back then, and after the rape, I missed him even more, but there would be no comfort from Cal. Cal wouldn’t be giving comfort to anyone anymore, but I could see now, all these years later, that he sure was doling out the punishment. I remember so clearly what he’d said before he left for Vietnam. “Anybody hurts you while I’m gone, they’ll pay hard when I get back.” And even though he never came back, I guess he’s keeping to his word, no matter how long it was taking.
But he was going too far. Killing four men because of something they did to me, no matter how horrible it was, didn’t seem right, somehow. And I knew in my heart there would be a fifth death. If I knew Cal at all, he wouldn’t stop until he’d finished.
I looked again at the weathered headstone, the etchings dirty but clear.
Calvin Lee Matthews
May 10, 1949 – June 12, 1969
LCpl, US Marines, Vietnam War
Beloved son and brother
Well, he was a beloved boyfriend, too, but nobody in his family felt it was necessary to mention that. None of them even spoke a word to me after the funeral. I guess they figured it wasn’t that big a deal to a seventeen-year-old girl to lose her boyfriend, that I’d go on and meet somebody else and have this wonderfully happy life. Well, they were wrong. Nothing I had done in the last three decades seemed worthwhile without Cal. There was no one like Cal, never had been, never would be. His death and the horrible gang rape had altered the course of my life forever. I hated that war and I hated those boys for what they’d done to me. And I was sure they’d only done it because they knew they could get away with it. They knew Cal wasn’t ever coming back.
Cal.
He had always been my one and only protector, my avenger, my love.
Still, he needed to stop killing people.
And it wasn’t that Jake Snow deserved to live anymore than the others. It’s just that it took me so long to figure out it was Cal doing all this revenge killing. If I’d realized it sooner, I’d have tried to talk some sense into Cal before he’d gotten to Clarence, or even Malcolm.
I ran my hand across the top of Cal’s headstone, gently, the way I used to smooth back his hair sometimes. “I’ve never stopped loving you, Cal. And I know you love me, too, and I really appreciate that you’re still trying to protect me. No one else has ever cared about me the way you did, the way I know you still do. But I’m all right now, Cal. You can stop killing for me, Cal. It’s over now.”
The sky was beginning to color to a grayish blue, a sudden wind tossing about bits of litter as I walked back to my car. I looked toward the clouds that were darkening now, and I knew an angry rainstorm was coming.
“Sh-h-h, Cal. Quiet now, Cal,” I muttered toward the heavens. I wasn’t at all sure my talk with him had done any good.
*****
I parked the car near the old detached garage and hurried across the lawn. I felt a light rain spattering against my head, my bare arms chilled from the wet breeze as I ran up the rickety steps to the back porch. After I unlocked the kitchen door, I stood in the threshold for a moment and looked about the room.
The old china hutch left to me by Nana stood like a hulking guardian over the dining table and chairs. A last vestige of daylight crept through the blinds, peppering the checkerboard cloth with pallid flecks. The windows were closed and locked, as they always were. It was the only way I could know for sure if Cal was here.
I grabbed the wind chimes from the kitchen junk drawer and hurried to the little hallway that led to my bedroom. There was no possibility of wind there, not even the smallest draft. I hung the wind chimes over the doorway, and waited.
I shifted my weight from foot to foot, ran my hand through my hair, leaned against the door jamb, until it happened. The wind chimes moved, not much, mind you, but there was the slightest tinkling sound as I watched the strings rotate softly.
“Cal,” I whispered, “Were you here the whole time or did you just follow me home from the cemetery?”
Of course, I’m not so daft that I expected a response, but talking to Cal out loud helps sometimes.
“Cal, remember what I said. Clarence was the last of them, okay?”
Satisfied that Cal was still with me, I retrieved the wind chimes and returned them to the kitchen drawer. I decided to make a sandwich and go to bed, even though it was only 7:30. I was feeling tired, really tired, as I sometimes did. Some mornings when the alarm clock would go off, it seemed as though I hadn’t even slept.
I took the mayonnaise and bologna out of the refrigerator and placed them on the counter. I really didn’t like bologna all that much, but it had been one of Cal’s favorites. He especially liked it fried. His momma used to fry bologna slices for breakfast. The edges of the bologna would curl up in the frying pan and she’d take a slice out, put it on Cal’s plate and dump the scrambled eggs in the center of it, as if it were a gourmet breakfast bowl.
I reached into the overhead cabinet for a plate for my sandwich.
That’s when I noticed the knife in the kitchen sink. It was my largest chef’s knife. The blade and handle were covered in blood. The slow drip from the faucet had left a kaleidoscope of watery blood spatters on the porcelain.
I picked up the knife and examined it, as if it had sprouted legs or something. I had no idea why it was there.
“Oh, yeah,” I said out loud, remembering. “I must have left it here last night after I cut up the chuck roast for Sunday’s beef stew.”
Funny, though, I could have sworn I’d washed it and put it away with the other utensils and dishes. I looked around the room again. There wasn’t one single thing out of place except this knife. I really must have been tired, I thought. Why in the world would I have left this bloody knife in the sink?
I shrugged it off, forgot about the bologna sandwich and shucked my clothes as I made my way back to the bedroom. I eased under the sheets, every muscle and bone in my body feeling as though I’d been beaten with a stick. I’d gone to bed at eight o’clock last night, yet when I’d gotten up for work this morning, I’d felt just as I did right now. Exhausted. Unusual for me. Most nights I slept like a baby.
I closed my eyes and thought about Jake Snow again. I hated him for what he had done to me, but killing just wasn’t right.
Well, I’d tried my best to talk Cal out of it, hadn’t I? Surely, Cal would listen this time.
Still, I wondered if Jake would be alive by the time my alarm clock went off in the morning.
In any case, my main concern was to get a better night’s sleep than I did last night. Funny, last night Clarence was killed. Seems like the mornings I wake up feeling as though I’d never slept is a morning following one of those killings.
It’s probably due to my profound link to Cal’s soul. That must be it. Cal’s ghost is lurking around killing those assholes and my deep connection to Cal is causing me to sleep fitfully. There’s no other explanation.
For the sake of a good night’s sleep, I prayed that Jake would live through the night.
Well, I guess I hoped he would. Sort of.
Whatever.
One more restless night isn’t going to kill me.
I’ve got the rest of my life to sleep.
THE END
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Reviewed by Elizabeth Taylor
2/28/2006
YOu are a VERY good writer.
Enjoyed.
Elizabeth
Reviewed by Missy Cross
2/27/2006
A truly enthralling read. The details were quite engaging. I really enjoyed this!
A powerful story told skillfuly with an absorbing voice, and vibrant characters. I love the way the whole thing is left up to interpretation by the reader. It can be a real ghost story, or the woman could be delusional and dangerous, sort of killing in her sleep. Excellent work!
Book three in series. Excitement and tension begin on the first day of filming a Restoration drama on location at the historic Jacobean mansion, Ham House in Surrey.
