Arcola Girls
On Saturday night, Arcola girls would
come north on the two-lane for the dance.
The road, Route 45, was flat, and the grass grew right up to the edge,
crowding in on them, narrowing the alley of their headlight beam. With their windows open they could smell the
warm, damp night air and the cornfields as they came. They could hear everywhere the swarms of
crickets. Sometimes grasshoppers would
land right on the windshield or thump onto the hood. Crows would sweep from the wires, stay on the
road until the last moment, picking at run-over barn cats and field mice. The car tires would thump on the seams of the
concrete road. It was a seven-mile
drive.
By
eight in the evening their white Chevys and green Mustangs and burgundy
Corvairs would be cruising through the drive-in and making the Webster Park
loop. They would glide through the
downtown, past the community building where the dance was just getting
started. Sometimes you’d hear their
tires screech as they stopped, or they’d peel out at the intersection, showing
off. You could hear them laughing.
One
of them, named Kelly, had beautiful blond hair, long like that of Mary
Travers. There was one named Karen who was
famous for singing like Connie Francis, and sometimes at the dance she’d join
the band and sing “Where the Boys Are,” just for fun. Another, Sandra, was very tall, and her hair
was ratted in a bubble after the fashion.
She had odd eye-habits, always seeming to observe. Sometimes, playing in the park, she’d be
running—her strides were long and confident like a boy’s.
They
all wore shorts and colorful sweatshirts, white tennis shoes. At the dance they would d huddle together in
a corner, doing committee work on the latest rumor, the latest dirty joke. Sandra, alert in the corner of her eyes,
would look over her shoulder in case anyone was coming.
“I
think you love those girls,” my girlfriend said to me on the phone one night,
“the way you watch them.”
There
were two bad S curves in the road from Arcola.
They were where the highway was rerouted fifty yards west of itself for
a certain short stretch because it would always flood in a heavy rain and
people would get killed. So, instead,
people got killed in the curves. Late
one night in that particular summer, early June, Karen with another Arcola girl
named Marie, ran off the road at high speed on their way home. They went over the ditch and deep into the
woods, through a fence, flipped into a field.
They weren’t found until morning.
The crumpled ghost of their Chevy
rusted most of the summer and part of the fall where the wrecker let it down,
half a block from the Dairy Queen in the wreck lot of Ford Motor Sales. I don’t know what the fascination was, but
sometimes I’d go by there. Through the
crunched, blue-tinted windows, in the folds of the damp, bent seats, I could
see a Beatles album and a soggy package of Kools. There were stains of blood in the driver’s
seat. One of their shoes was decomposing
in the gravel next to the car. I’d find
myself staring. This was before Vietnam
really got going. Back then, the whole
idea of people dying who were about my age was a rare and somehow fascinating
thing. The Arcola girls, Karen and Marie,
they were the first I remember.
There was one Arcola girl named Rhonda
Hart, a wild girl with dark brown hair and strange blue catlike eyes. Each Saturday night, late, when the dance was
almost over and the room was humid and warm like hot breath, a group would
gather around Rhonda, who was by then dancing alone, doing, if the chaperones
weren’t looking, a pantomime of taking her clothes off to a grinding on-and-on
rendition of “Louie, Louie” that the local bands had turned into the theme of the
summer.
I remember that her legs were skinny,
but she was round and ample under a pure-white sweatshirt, and her menacing cat
eyes stared into the group around her, mostly boys, her lips pouting like a bad
girl. She’d make-believe unzip her
candy-colored red shorts at the back, make-believe slip her panties off her
hips and slide them down the skinny legs to the cold cork-looking floor of the
West Ridge community building. A little
kick at the last and, imaginary pale pink, they sailed through the imaginary
air. And on she danced, her arms out to
you. She was pretty good.
At Webster Park, there was an old
bandstand the Arcola girls used to gather at on summer nights. They would park their cars in the deep
shadows. The local high school boys would
go there, too, and in the black shade of the park maples they would all play,
smoke, make out, the Lord knew what else (there were always whisperings,
strange rumors going around). These were
country girls. Maybe some of them
wouldn’t have gotten a second look from the boys in Arcola, but in West Ridge,
they were exotic and different, from a place that, to us, then, seemed far
away. They made the air palpable with
sex and play.
The first time I ever heard a girl say
“fuck,” it was an Arcola girl, and she didn’t say it mean or loud, but it
seemed to echo all through Webster Park, down the length of it into the cluster
of pine trees, beyond that to the ball diamonds, the deserted playground and
city pool, the walking gardens.
“You’d love to go out with one of
those girls,” my girlfriend would sometimes say.
We’d be at the drive-in and one of
their cars might spin through. The
curb-hops would jump back to avoid it. I
might crane my neck to see who it was.
“Cathy says they’re all as dumb as
posts,” she’d say. Cathy was my
girlfriend’s friend.
“Cathy should talk,” I told her. I’d turn up the radio, the manic
rabble-rousing prattle of Dick Biondi, WLS.
That summer a couple of classmates of
mine, Bob Reid and Buzz Talbott, slipped into a slumber party in Arcola. They climbed in a bedroom window, bringing
with them their sleeping bags and beer.
Rumors were it had been some great party. The rumor was that somebody’s farmer-dad
caught them, though, and there had been a shotgun fired and a quick getaway. Bob Reid, and a kid he paid who was taking
shop, had spent an afternoon rubbing out and painting a couple of pockmarks on
the white tailgate of his dad’s pickup.
Sarah, a buxom little Arcola
cheerleader, maybe the prettiest in the whole group, got pregnant that summer
and disappeared. They said she went to
Texas. It seemed like everything you
heard about the Arcola girls was an exotic, strange, wild tale—full of skin and
possibilities.
So one Friday afternoon I called up
Rhonda Hart to ask her out.
“Tonight?” She seemed real indignant. “Out where?” she said. “For chrissake,” she added. She was chewing gum. “Give a girl some notice sometime, will
ya?” It was her Mae West act. She was laughing.
“Mattoon. A movie.
Champaign—I don’t know.”
“Mattoon a movie Champaign you don’t
KNOW?”
Shouldn’t have called, I thought to
myself. Her voice was hard and
confident. The Righteous Brothers were
playing in the background. I’m different
from her, I was thinking. She knows more
about the world.
“We could just go talk or
something. I don’t know,” I said. It was all wrong.
“I’m not sure I know who you are
even,” she said.
“My name’s Tom Nichols,” I told
her. I tried to explain myself to
her. Told her I was a friend of Bob Reid
and ran cross country with Talbott.
Tried to recall for her times when I was the guy with somebody she did
know when we were doing something she might remember, such as getting a pizza
or buying a Coke at the Sinclair station like a bunch of us did one night and
all stood around making wisecracks.
“Well, let’s drive around West
Ridge—we don’t have to go any place special,” she said.
“That’d be okay,” I said. “I thought a movie maybe.”
She was quiet a moment. “So you don’t wanna be seen with me or what?”
“Nah.
I just want—I don’t know—quiet or something. That’s all.”
“Right.” She laughed.
She really liked that one.
“Wanna go dancing?” she said. “Up at the Chances R? I heard the Artistics are up there. I love their lead singer—he looks exactly
like Elvis. Let’s go dancing.”
Sometimes I’d see her cruising with
Bob Reid in his pickup. I knew she
occasionally went out with him, and he was never known to dance. So what did they do when they went out? Couldn’t we
just do that, whatever it was?
“Okay,” I said. “We’ll find a dance or something.”
“You don’t sound real enthused.”
“I’m enthused.”
“You don’t sound like it.”
“Look,” I said, “I must be a little
enthused, I’m calling you up.”
“Down, boy,” she said, laughing,
chewing her gum. She thought about it
for a while.
“Don’t make it a gift from the gods or
something,” I said finally.
“Right,” she said. “Hang on.”
She put the phone against something soft to muffle the sound, and was
shouting. Then I heard the phone clank
down and she was gone, to ask her mom.
You’d always forget that Arcola girls had to ask their moms.
“Yeah, I can go,” she said when she
came back all breathless. “What time?”
“Eight. Suit yourself,” I said.
“Dancing, right?” She seemed to be setting it out as a
condition.
“Eight o’clock,” I said.
“Seven or eight?” she said.
“Whatever.”
After I hung up I went out in the
backyard and sat in a lawn chair. I was
nervous about this. Rhonda seemed
different from my girlfriend, rougher and faster. Then my sister yelled from the house that I
had a call.
“Hi.
This is Rhonda,” she said. I
didn’t say anything. I expected a
cancellation. “Remember me?” she said,
and laughed. “One more thing. Let’s make it around ten-thirty, and you meet
me at the bandstand at the park. What do
you say?”
“Ten-thirty.”
“Right.” She was talking quieter than in the first
call.
“No way,” I said.
“I got something going I forgot
about. I can get loose by ten-thirty.”
“No.”
“What’s wrong?”
“It’s too late.”
“Look,” she said, I want to introduce
you to my friends. I’ll ride up with
Kelly, and you can bring me home. You
know Kelly?” Kelly had the silky,
white-blond hair, freckles.
“Yeah, I know her.”
“Well, I just talked to her, and she
doesn’t know you.”
“I think I’m losing control of this.”
“Ha.” She seemed to fade away. Then she was back. “You can handle it. See you at the bandstand. Ten-thirty.
Wait if I’m late.” She hung up.
At eight I was on the highway to
Arcola. I’d decided to try to get to
Rhonda before Kelly did. The sun was
going down and the Illinois sky was red in the west. The locusts were loud, wheeting in a
pulsating rhythm. Much later the moon
would rise full and red, blood moon.
Jupiter would linger near it all across the sky, stalking. The whole thing was a mistake.
I’d never been to Arcola on my own
mission, but I found her house, using the phone book in the booth just outside
a place downtown called the Youth Center.
I parked down the street on the opposite side and watched the house in
my mirror. It was dusk. I got out of the car and walked back toward
the place, trying to think of what to say.
I hadn’t thought of anything by the time I knocked and Rhonda’s mother
came to the door. She was all fixed up,
maybe thirty-nine or forty years old.
Her perfume wafted through the screen door.
“Hi,” I said. “Is Rhonda home?” I told her my name.
“You’re Tom? I thought she was with you,” she said.
I turned around to see if she was, a
little joke. “Nope.”
Rhonda’s mom didn’t laugh.
“I’m kind of late,” I said. “Are you sure she isn’t here?”
“God, I’m almost sure she’s
gone,” she said, “but I’ll check.” Her
voice was raspy, had that same worldliness as Rhonda’s.
She asked me in and had me sit on the
couch. There was what appeared to be a
half-gone seven-and-seven on the coffee table.
I heard her go up the stairs.
There was a cat on the couch with me, staring at me, and there was the
tank of fish in the room that I’d been able to see from the car. The whole room had the fragrance of Rhonda’s
mom’s perfume.
“Look,” she said when she came back in, “I
can’t find her. I think she went out
already. I thought I heard you come to
pick her up half an hour ago. I’m really
sorry, but she’s gone.”
I sat there on the couch, looking at
her.
“There are a couple of places you
might find her, is all I can tell you,” she said, sitting down next to the cat
and facing me. I looked out the window
into the Arcola night. I noticed that
sometimes she herself was looking out, over my shoulder.
I didn’t say anything. I didn’t move.
“She might have gone to West Ridge, is
all I know. Although if she did she’s in
trouble.”
Rhonda’s mother was wearing a cotton
blouse, a tight dark skirt. Her deeply
tanned hand was on the back of the couch near me. Her fingernails were ruby red. The house was quiet, immaculately clean. My quietness was giving her some
trouble. On the wall was a picture of
Rhonda when she was little. Next to her
her father, a truck driver.. They were
posing in front of his fancy new semi.
“I’m very sorry about this,” she said
to me. Her teeth were kind of crooked.
“Maybe she took off because I was late
or something.”
“I don’t think so. There must have been some
misunderstanding. She was looking
forward to this, she really was. She
probably told you, I’ve had her grounded for a couple of weeks because of that
drunken slumber party business. She’s
supposed to be with you right now.
The condition for this whole thing was that she was going to the movies
with you. She’s in trouble.”
“Well, I said. “It was a misunderstanding maybe.”
She was pretty in a grown-up way, as
she shrugged her shoulders and half smiled at me. “Well, she’s in trouble.” Rhonda’s mom was standing up by then, my
invitation to go. “Good night, Tom,” she
said. “I’m sorry about this.”
On the way back to the car I looked up at the sky. Moonless, clear as a bell. But a moon was coming—I remembered that from
the night before. As I was pulling away,
I noticed that a car behind me was passing slowly. I thought it might be Rhonda and Kelly. I drove around the block, and in those few
moments, Rhonda’s mom had turned off the lights and locked up and was darting
across the dark yard to the car. It was
a white Oldsmobile Starfire with the wide band of stainless steel on the
side. I couldn’t see the driver before
the arching trees and distance intervened.
I imagined
that Rhonda had gone north with Kelly and that West Ridge was now aware of my
foiled, clandestine date. I decided to
drive around the streets of Arcola for a while.
West Ridge and Arcola, they were little towns. You could stand in the center of either of
them, facing north, and see the bean fields at the city limits to the left and
the right; standing there at dawn you could hear the roosters welcome the day
out on the farms. In both towns there
were the same white clapboard houses with an occasional red brick estate, the
same livery stalls down along the Illinois Central railroad where the Amish
parked when they came in from the country to shop. There was a grain elevator on the railroad,
too, and a lumberyard, and an old hotel downtown. All the themes of West Ridge played out in a
variation in Arcola.
I passed
the Arcola policeman parked in the shadows up an alley, waiting. I could see the glow from his cigar as I passed. I would turn left at this corner, right at
this one, for no reason, but it was a small town and soon I was in front of
Rhonda’s house again. The lights were
all off, except for a lamp near the fish tank in the living room. I decided to park and sit a while.
Before long
Kelly’s car pulled up next to mine.
Rhonda looked over at me. I felt
like I’d been caught doing something.
Then Kelly pulled ahead of me and parked. I saw the car door open, and Rhonda was
coming back my way, walking like a curb-hop in her tennis shoes.
“Is it
you?” she said. No recognition whatever.
“I thought
we could go south from here and catch a movie in Mattoon,” I said.
Now Kelly
was coming back, too.
“That’s
great,” Rhonda said, “bit it’s not the plan.
What about my friend?” She
introduced me to Kelly, who did not quite look at me. She’d been kind of pretty at a distance,
cruising by, but close up she had a hard mouth and a spacey stare. Both girls were chewing gum. I turned up WLS real loud. “What about my friend?” she said, talking
over it.
“Does Kelly
have a date tonight?” I asked Rhonda.
“No.”
“You do, I
thought.”
Rhonda
looked at Kelly impatiently, like I was missing the point.
“She can
come with us if you want,” I said.
“Look,” she
said. “I’ve got a problem with
this. What are you doing at my house?”
I looked up
beyond the trees, at the ARCOLA in big block letters on the water tower,
lighted from somewhere below. I had once
climbed the West Ridge water tower.
“I mean
this is real creepy,” she said.
She looked back up the street, chewing her gum mouth-open style. “Did you blow this thing with my mom?”
“Blow
what?” I said. “She seemed real
nice.” Before she could say anything, I
said, “Your mom says you’re supposed to be with me. Let’s just have an ordinary date, wha’d’ya
say . . .”
“I’ve got
something I’ve got to do, that’s what I say.
Don’t you understand that?” She
looked at Kelly. “I think he blew it
with my mom.” Then back at me. “I’ve got something I’ve got to do,” she
said.
“Yeah,
yeah. Do that tomorrow night. Go with me now.”
“I’m busy
tomorrow night.”
We both laughed at that one.
“Look,” she said. “Kelly and me talked about this. I was thinking maybe you’d come with us.”
I stared ahead. No answer.
Finally she said, “Look. Park the car over at the Youth Center and get
in with us—we’ll swing by and get it later.
You know the center?”
I was thinking about it.
“C’mon! I’m in a big hurry.” She walked back to the car. Almost there, she turned around and gestured
big. “I’m in a hurry.”
I parked my car at the Youth
Center and climbed in with them. I sat
in the back seat. They paid very little
attention to me as we drove around. It
was clear they were up to something.
Maybe they even went a little out of their way to be mysterious.
“She’s supposed to be a good
one,” I heard Kelly say to Rhonda.
“Right. I can imagine.” She hummed the tune they play on Twilight
Zone.
“Seriously, she’s got a
certificate from some institute or something.
What time is it?”
Kelly reached into a grocery bag
in the front seat. She pulled out a jar
of kosher dills and handed it back to me.
“Open this and you get the first one,” she said, keeping her eyes on the
street. I opened it, took a pickle, and
handed the jar up front. They both
chomped pickles for a while.
“What time is it?” Kelly asked
again. The radio answered the question.
“Slow down, Nutso,” Rhonda said
as we approached the alley where the cop was.
“Hey Fat Jack!” she shouted and waved as we went by. He remained where he was.
When the evening train whistle
sounded from out north of town, Kelly turned around in an alley and headed back
toward the downtown. By the time we got
there, the train was through and the Oak Street crossing gates were going back
up to let people pass, except nobody was waiting. We drove down a lane along the railroad, a
sort of alley. We went alongside the
steel Quonset-frame warehouses of the local broomcorn factory, passed the
railroad depot completely closed down and boarded up, and pulled up in front of
an old trailer. Dogs were barking off in
the dark.
“Where are
we?” I asked them.
“We’re at,”
Kelly said, “a . . . dark . . . house trailer.”
“Wonderful.”
She laughed
nervously, stared at the place, snapped her gum. Nobody came out. “Looks pretty dark,” she said in a loud
whisper. The nervous laugh again. “Shall I honk?”
Kelly
lightly tapped the horn a couple of times and blinked the lights. The neighborhood dogs intensified their
barking. The trailer had burned at some
time and had scorch marks above the windows.
Several were completely out.
Kelly
turned completely around in her seat and asked me if I would go check in the
trailer to see if the woman was in there.
She reached down under the dash.
“It’s worth another pickle to us.”
She handed me a flashlight.
“What
woman?” I asked.
“Jesus! Just go see if anybody’s in that
trailer. Okay?”
So I went
to have a look. The only thing not
burned inside the trailer was an overstuffed couch. On it, sure enough, was a woman dressed in
black. She was staring straight ahead
and the flashlight did not seem to startle her.
“Ah. You’re here,” she said. “Are you Kelly?” she asked.
“No
Ma’am. Kelly would be a girl.”
“What’s
that?” she said, coming to the door.
“Kelly
would be a girl, ma’am,” I said.
“She
would, would she? If what?” With my help she stepped down from the
trailer to the ground.
“She’s
in the car, ma’am,” I said. She was
dressed in a black flowing robe. She
smelled like a scorched mattress.
“So
Kelly’s a girl, is she? Where is she,
then?”
“Right,
ma’am. She’s in the car.” I pointed toward the car, and we walked that
way. She breathed hard as we went. We had to step over junk.
“Who’re
you?” she asked.
“I’m
a friend of Rhonda’s.”
“A
friend of who?”
“Rhonda.” I shined the light ahead so she could see the
clear path to the car.
As
we were getting there, she asked me, “So how far’s this barn?”
“What
barn would that be?” I asked.
Kelly
heard the question. “Hi,” she said. “It’s about six miles out.”
“Are
you Rhonda?”
“Kelly,”
Kelly and I answered simultaneously.
The
woman bent down and looked into the car on Rhonda’s side. “Never mind names.” Her eyebrows seemed unusually heavy. “I need to be back here in time for the
Panama Limited—10:52. Is that going to
be a problem, you think?”
“No,”
said Kelly.
“What’s
that?”
“No,
ma’am,” I said, for some reason acting as Kelly’s interpreter.
The
woman sat in the back seat with me. She
was maybe sixty and wore a dark paisley bandana in her graying hair. She was very serious. Kelly started the car and we headed out.
“Did
the train thing work okay?” Kelly asked her/
“It
worked very well. I thought it
would. It’s a whistle-stop, real chancy.
And sometimes they don’t stop and you end up in Carbondale. But I knew they’d stop for an old woman. I come from the age of trains. We speak the same language.” She was smiling as she said this, attempting
to be a typical passenger on the Illinois Central.
Now that we
were heading out of town, the woman said, “Girls, I usually am paid in
advance.”
Kelly looked
over at Rhonda, who rummaged in her purse.
She came up with a leather bag of change which Kelly reached over and
took and started to hand back. No
telling how much. Rhonda stopped her.
“You know
Kelly’s mother, right?” Rhonda asked.
“Yes,” the
woman said.
“And we
don’t’ want her or anyone else to know about this. You know that?” Kelly said.
“Yes.”
Rhonda
handed over the bag.
It
disappeared into the black flowing clothes.
“Onward, ladies,” she said, satisfied.
After we
left the lights of town, there was very little talk in the car for a
while. Occasionally Kelly and Rhonda
might confer on the right direction. Out
on the country road there was a roar of crickets and frogs. The air was almost hot coming in the back
window. I slumped down. We were starting to get far enough north that
we were in familiar king territory for West Ridge. We turned, sure enough, onto the Black River
Road, crossed the old iron bridge, and went down into the bottoms. We turned onto the predictable tractor path,
went along the river and then across the field to the barn, the barn,
the great monument in West Ridge parking lore.
We were
about two hundred yards from the barn, on a tractor path serving as border between
head-high corn and hip-high soybeans, when Kelly and I spotted something at
exactly the same moment.
“Oh God,
Rhonda, don’t’ look,” she said, “don’t look,” and she actually groped to cover
Rhonda’s eyes. We were quietly passing
the tail end of the white Starfire, partly hidden in the corn. Rhonda stared straight into it as we passed.
“It can’t
be.”
“Don’t
look,” Kelly said.
“What’s the
deal, ladies?” the old woman said.
“you’re giving me the heebie-jeebies.
What’s happening?”
“Nothing,”
Rhonda said. “We thought we saw
somebody, but we didn’t.
“Out here?”
the woman asked.
“We thought
so,” Kelly said. “Wrong again,
though.” She tired to almost sing it.
“Wrong
again,” Rhonda muttered. Is that dumb or
what?” she said to Kelly. “Coming
here? Is that goddamned stupid, or
what?” She was saying this real quietly,
her head down almost on her knees. “How
could this be happening?”
I sat
frozen. I realized something
amazing. Just as surely as the summer
sky was blue, Rhonda’s mom was an Arcola girl, too.
We went on
down the tractor path toward the barn, Rhonda staying low in her seat and
saying nothing. Once she squirmed up and
looked out the back window, but there was nothing to see.
“You wanna
forget this?” Kelly said to her, referring to the woman in the back seat. “No big deal.”
“Oh come
now, ladies . . .” the woman said.
We parked
the car at the side, and all of us went into the barn. The woman selected a spot on the dirt floor
in the middle of the dark, musty space, and Kelly produced six candles from the
same bag she’d gotten the pickles from.
The woman lit them. Kelly and
Rhonda sat and the woman sat next to them, a triangle.
Suddenly the
woman looked at me. “He will have to
join us or get out,” she said.
“Sit down here,”
Rhonda said to me. She was stricken,
very tense. I sat down.
“My boy,
this is a seance, what we call a ‘circle.’
We’re here to call forth the spirits, and I’m not kidding, the good
spirits of departed friends, Karen Ann Kreitzer and Marie Beth McClain. Can you handle it?” She read the names off a small card in her
hand, slipped it back into her robe.
I looked at
Rhonda.
“They were
our friends,” she said to me, her voice actually trembling.
I pictured
their car in the wreck lot, the blood in the seat, and the shoe in the white
gravel. The woman was bowing forward,
toward the ground, staring down, changing postures from moment to moment. The candles made the whole barn jump. Gray webs dangled from the crossbeams.
“What
happens if somebody drives up in the middle of this?” I whispered to Rhonda.
“We won’t be
here real long or anything,” Kelly said.
The woman’s
arms were out, embracing us as a group.
“Is there someone who can tell us of Karen and Marie?” she asked the
night air. The night air was very
quiet. “We wish for only good souls to
speak to us, friendly souls and no bad souls.
Satan lives and we want none of that.
Does anyone know of Karen and Marie?
And if you do, can you, will you, join our circle?”
The
river-bottom sycamores rustled. I
realized I could hear the river.
“We join our
hands here to form a circle. We invite
you to be with us here. We are all
concentrating, thinking toward you, remembering you—your eyes, your smile.”
Her arms
reached out on both sides, and she took the hands of the girls. Then they took mine.
In the
candlelight the woman was alternately very soft and friendly-looking, then hard
and witchlike. It depended on the
candlelight, her movements. I realized
there was an old red Farmall not far off behind Kelly, and an old red hay baler
attached to the back.
“Now,
ladies, I want to tell you,” the woman said, “that these young girls might well
not be ready to talk. It may not be easy
for them right now.”
Rhonda and
Kelly said nothing. I was wondering if
they had a money-back guarantee.
Rhonda’s hand was cool and damp, Kelly’s hot as fire.
“I suspect
that could be the case,” the woman said.
“That they aren’t ready.” Again
she bowed forward, her arms out, her hands joined to ours. Again she moved side to side, staring
off. “We require the help of a friendly
soul, a good soul,” she said, “in order to speak with Karen Kreitzer.”
“Or with
Marie,” Kelly said very quietly.
“Marie?” the
woman said, suddenly tensing up. She
held herself very straight, upright, rigid.
Kelly looked
at me and rolled her eyes.
“Marie
honey, are you sad?” the woman asked.
She held herself rigid for several long moments. Amazingly, the woman’s eyes teared up.
In a second,
Rhonda began to cry also.
“I almost
had Marie there,” the woman said to Kelly.
“She was near. Did you feel
it? She was with us in this barn. She passed through here. She passed through us.” She looked around. “Marie, please talk to your friends, to Kelly
and . . .” She was stumped.
“Rhonda,”
the girls said in unison.
“Kelly and
Rhonda are here to talk to you, Marie.”
Silence. A long way off a private plane was swooping
in to Land at the West Ridge airfield. I
listened to the river, the trees’ rustle.
I could hear a bird steadily cooing in a tree out there somewhere,
peaceful sound, made me feel better. I
think I had expected something violent to happen any moment—a barn door to fly
open wildly, a ghoul to appear, the old woman’s head to do a three-sixty, her
eyes to light up like the devil.
“Ladies,”
the woman said, “this room is full of ghosts—restless souls from this land all
around, souls from all ages. There are
Indians here and old settlers, pioneers—children and farmers whose bones are
buried in this ground. We have made a
hole in the firmament and they are crowding to it. Can you sense that they are with us?”
The girls
didn’t answer.
“Karen? Karen, have you come to speak with us? Will you join our circle? No,” she said in just a moment, quietly,
“it’s Marie who comes near. Marie! Will you speak to your friends? Karen?
Are you there, my dear?” The
woman’s eyes were closed in fierce concentration.
“Karen?” Kelly said quietly into the black.
“What’s
that?” the woman whispered. “Did you
hear that?” She thought Kelly was a
spirit talking.
Kelly looked
at her. “It was me,” she said. Kelly clearly conveyed impatience. This seemed to deflate the woman completely.
“Ladies,”
she said after a moment, “these are girls who have died very young. Maybe to you your age doesn’t seem real young. I believe that they are not yet ready to talk. They are still very sad, I think. There is the sign that they are not happy on
the other side. They will be, but they
have died young and they aren’t happy yet.
I’m sorry.” She broke hands with
Rhonda and Kelly and leaned forward and blew out the candles.
“Or else,”
she said, “something’s distracting you ladies and keeping us from fully
communicating.”
Abruptly
Rhonda went out the door. I suddenly
realized where she might be going. Kelly
followed me out but ran by me very fast, disappeared on the lane ahead. She wanted to stop Rhonda. I was having a hard time believing Rhonda was
really going where it looked like she was.
At one point I came around a bend in the path, and could see that Kelly
had caught up to her. The two of them
were talking, Rhonda waving her arms—she was pretty upset. Kelly had her hands on Rhonda’s
shoulders—trying to talk sense, it looked like.
Then in a moment Rhonda was coming back toward me, and Kelly was
heading on back toward the car parked in the corn.
“What’s
going on?” I asked when Rhonda was close enough.
“Kelly’s
gone bushwhacking,” she said. “She’s
going to get a ride home for her and Ghost-woman.” Not knowing I knew what I knew, she lied for
my benefit: “I guess Kelly knows those
people or something.” She looked at me
to see if it was going to fly. I let it. “Anyway, I’ve got Kelly’s keys, in case
there’s a problem,” she said. Now she
was running back toward the barn with me right behind her. “Give me your keys,” she said to me, “so
Kelly can get back out here in your car.
Then we can go dancing and she can go to West Ridge.
“I don’t get
this,” I said.
“Hang in
there,” she said.
The windows
on Kelly’s car had misted up in the night air.
The woman standing next to it.
The moon was just up, red and looming low in the east. “The car broke,” Rhonda said.
“It what?”
the woman said.
“Kelly says
it won’t start. But you wait
here—Kelly’s going to get you to the train on time. Him and me . . .” Rhonda indicated me. “We’re going to hide from the people in the
other car, then stay and guard Kelly’s car until Kelly gets back. How’s that?”
“You mean
she’s gone to—er—interrupt those kids parked back yonder?” the woman said.
“Yeah. So you can get to the train. Give these to Kelly.” Rhonda said, handing my car keys to the
woman.
“Well what
are those kids going to think of Kelly and me out here alone?” she said, as the
Starfire headlights glanced high off the side of the barn and changed the shadows.
We were
retreating into the standing corn. “What
are you worried about?” Rhonda shouted. “You’ve got a whole bag of money.”
Later we
were near the swimming hole, in a stand of oaks, sycamores, and river
willows. Rhonda was munching on a
pickle. There were hedge apples on the
ground, and I lobbed a few into the river.
Maybe she seemed a little shorter than I imagined she was. I’d never stood near her before.
“Pretty
strange evening,” I said.
She didn’t
answer. After a while, though, she turned
and stood there looking at me. “We paid
her seventy bucks.” She kept looking at
me. I did my best not to react.
The moon was
up brighter now, and it gave enough light for me to see the rope I thought I
remembered being there, attached high in a sycamore, for swinging out over the
water. The night was muggy and hot. Rhonda said nothing.
“Try to tell
me what was going on back there.”
“You mean
Ghost-woman? Just something completely
insane,” she said. “Kelly gets these
great ideas. Kelly’s mom knows this
nurse up in Champaign who does this stuff—reads palms, all that. I forgot this was the night. That’s why I messed you over. Forgot.”
“Oh. I thought I was the front man. So you could get out of the house.”
She said
nothing to that. She was sitting on the
riverbank. I sat down next to her.
“My mom’s
having an affair with the local veterinarian.”
She looked
downriver into the dark. “Jesus, I’m
coming apart,” she said. She was quiet
for a minute. “I feel so sorry for Dad. I can’t think about it,” she said. Then she was crying, her head down on her
arms, which were resting on her knees.
I sat next
to her. I couldn’t think of a thing to
tell her.
“I thought
we might reach Karen,” she said after a while.
“I really loved her. She was my
best friend. My best friend. I’m definitely coming apart.”
There was
nothing to say. I ate a pickle and
regretted it. I rolled a couple of hedge
apples down the bank into the water.
Finally I stood up and kicked my shoes off, dropped my wallet on the
ground next to them. I tested the rope
to see if the limb would hold me.
“What if
Karen had talked tonight?” I said. “What
would she say?”
“Don’t tease
me. It was a nutty idea. Karen would talk to me if she could. You’re going to bust your ass swinging on
that thing. I’ll tell you what, that
woman was a complete fake.” After a
while she said, “Didn’t you think so?”
She didn’t move. “Kelly says a
medium like this one helped her contact her father.”
“Kelly
wishes,” I said. I swung out over the
river, a warm wind in my ears. “One
thing I know is that Karen and Marie aren’t sad. You are, but they aren’t.” I grabbed a hedge apple, and I swung out over
the river dropping it straight down. It
was hard to tell how far above the water I was.
I told Rhonda,
There’s not anything to say, is why they didn’t talk. They died and that’s all.”
There’s not anything to say, is why they didn’t talk. They died and that’s all.”
Her head was
down. “I just don’t believe your friends
can die like that,” she said. “Not your
friends.” By now it seemed to me like
she’d been crying off and on for hours.
“It’s a real
pretty night, you know it? You ought to
try to relax.”
“Ha. Relax,” she said.
I swung out
again and again on the rope. I realized
it would have been better if she could have been left to herself. “Lucky I’m here to keep you company,” I
said. At the far point of the arch, I
could see all the way to the iron bridge.
Out there, the moon broke through the trees, and I could see the
movement of the water downstream.
Sometimes I could hear a carp break the surface.
“I didn’t want
to go dancing anyway,” I said. When I
swung, I could hear the rope grating on the big limb high above. At one point while I was far out on the rope,
I heard Rhonda slip into the water. I
swung back to the bank, took a run and swung far out again, trying to spot her
in the inky black below. I could hear
her swimming.
“It’s nice
and cool,” she said.
At the far
point this time I let go of the rope and dropped. En route to the water, in a moment when I was
anticipating splashing hard into the Black River, in a turning and falling
motion in the dark, I happened to notice Rhonda’s clothes in a little moonlit
pile on the riverbank.