Beyond Rue Morgue Anthology (24 page)

I sit in my chair, pick up my knitting, put it down again. I can’t think of anything but Peter’s murder. I dump rice onto the table and try to guess how many grains there are, and then I count them. I’m off by twenty-four. Usually I’m a lot closer than that.

I curl up on my cot and fall asleep.

He comes to me in a dream, or perhaps it is a vision. I can’t know. But it is my great-grandfather, Auguste Dupin. He is so young, and trim, with night-pale cheeks, and dark eyes that have a strangely vacant yet intense, haunting look. He does not even glance at me, but instead stares out the window, one fist tapping inside the open palm of the other. His brows furrow, twitch. He says, “Take all things into consideration, that you might comprehend most clearly that which has taken place. Consider the facts, great-granddaughter. Motive. Opportunity. Location. Think on these things without emotion, for emotion destroys concentration. You will find your answer.”

I stare at him and I want to ask him for help. My jaws do not work, however, and the only sound that issues from my lips is a pathetic and soft grunt.

I awaken to the sound of that grunting. I am sweating, and my great-grandfather, of course, is not there.

The puddle of sunlight has traveled across the well-worn rug, heading for the wall. It’s late afternoon. I go into Mother’s room and pull her steamer trunk from under her bed. She keeps two blankets in there as well as her winter clothing—woolen stockings, sweaters, several of the scarves I’ve knitted for her (the others she’s given away to people on the street, so that at least no one in our neighborhood has a cold neck come January), a few heavy skirts, and a ratty blouse or two. The trunk is locked to keep mice away. They love to find soft material on which to sleep and piss. Mother hides the key in various places around the flat; I pretend not to see as she moves it from one hiding spot to another. I let her have her fantasy that her simple deviousness will prevent rodents from finding the key, unlocking the trunk, and having themselves a party in her old skirts, or prevents me from finding it and then giving it to the rodents so we can all have a nap and a piss together on Mother’s clothes.

Today I find the key in the potato basket on the shelf over the stove and I unlatch the lock. I find the scarves, sweaters, winter cap, stockings with massive runs in them (I take them out; I’ll find time to mend them), Mother’s winter cloak, and gloves. Two skirts—which are too long for me as I don’t have my mother’s height—and a lacy scarf from her days in Paris. I take out one of the skirts and hold it up. I could snip and re-sew this into a shawl with a wide hood that would hide my face if I tipped my head down as I walked. I will still look like a woman, but a mysterious woman no one knows.

Back in my chair, the skirt in my lap, I rub my hands over the rough material. It smells old, yet there is also a faint sweetness to it. I wonder if that’s what Paris smelled like. I think I hear my great-grandfather whisper, “Think it through. Consider only the facts. Make your plan.” I whisper back, “I will.”

In my hooded shawl, I shall start with Mr. McCary. I will tell him that my sister sent me to ask him for her handkerchief back. He’ll not know what I’m talking about, of course, for it’s a lie, but a lie for a better purpose. I’ll then say he had best remember, for they had a romantic rendezvous last night here in his very shop after Mrs. McCary had gone upstairs to bed. Mr. McCary might then say, “No! I was not in my shop last evening. I had business elsewhere.” Ah-ha, I will think, but will not say. I will then demand to know why he is treating my sister so, pretending their night together never happened. I will scan the floor as I speak, looking for a trace of blood that was not cleaned up well enough before Peter’s dear body was dragged away to the alley.

My daydream is broken when I hear Mr. Bruce outside, shouting. I put the skirt down and hurry to the window. He is yelling at another man for bumping into him. The other man says, “Were you not so much of a hog, sir, I should not have knocked you with my shoulder.” Mr. Bruce is sensitive about his weight, and I’ve seen his face go from flour white to tomato red in a heartbeat. His anger and nosiness know no bounds.

Perhaps he killed Peter? Perhaps Peter offended him in some way, and Mr. Bruce knocked him down and stabbed him with the sharp tip of the walking cane he carries with him. Stabbed him clean through to the street.

I sit back down and pick up the skirt. My heart squeezes. Dear Peter. Is he in Heaven? I would think any just god would put him there, for any sin such a beautiful man might have committed on this Earth would surely be minor and forgivable.

I put the skirt down and pace the floor, back and forth in my bare feet. Mother will be home at seven and then we shall dine. After supper, she will read her Bible to me then retire to her room. When she is sound asleep, I shall tear apart the skirt then snip and stitch it into a shawl. Done soon after midnight, I shall venture out. I shall be my great-grandfather’s rightful descendant. Bright and sharp and determined.

And outside alone.

Alone for the first time in my life.

I dump rice out on the table and guess the number. I’m off by thirty-seven this time. Where is my focus? My nerves have me careless. I can’t be careless. My great-grandfather warned me against emotion.

Back in my chair, I pick up my knitting, rub the soft cream-colored yarn then put it down again. I draw up Mother’s skirt to my chin and close my eyes. Behind my lids I see Peter and me, standing in a church overlooking the sea. The preacher declares us husband and wife. I run my hands up and down the fabric.

Then stop.

There is a key deep in the skirt pocket. I take it out and frown. What, now, has Mother locked up? Something I don’t know about, clearly. She won’t be home for another hour or more, so I return to her room.

Nothing is hidden under her mattress or pillow. There are no loose panels in the walls. I search the drawers of her small bedside dresser, and in the bottom I find her wooden jewelry box. I’ve seen this box many times, have seen Mother take out the cheap earrings and necklace and hold them to herself in memory of the old days in France. But that is all there is in the box. I know she locks it, but have thought it only habit. She knows I would never take those things from her.

I put the box on Mother’s bed and sit beside it. The key does indeed open the box, and inside are the necklace and earrings. Nothing else, save the old newspapers that line the sides and bottom to hold down the splinters. I put the necklace to my own throat and wonder if I will ever have a chance to dress up in something such as this.

Something printed on the newspaper catches my eye, and I carefully pull it up out of the box, unfolding the yellowed, brittle page.

It is a Parisian newspaper, dated June 14th, 1890. I am fluent in French, and so read the story with initial curiosity then a growing, gnawing ill-ease. It is a report of a brutal murder. A man who left a brothel in the late night-hours was bludgeoned and stabbed to death. His shoulders were smashed and his skull crushed, then his heart stabbed clear through. The weapon, which was found in a thatch of weeds, was the leg of a chair, sharpened into a spike at the end and tempered by fire to brutal strength. It was the fourth such murder, and the authorities believed they were close to capturing the killer.

The killer, they were quite certain, was a woman.

I unfold the other papers. The three other, earlier murders are described, all with similar results, with beatings and fatal stabbings. They suspect the weapon is a sharpened, tempered stake. They suspect a small man or a woman in a fit of uncontrollable rage.

All took place in the neighborhood of Route de Pierre Froide. My mother’s neighborhood.

My hands shake as I fold the paper back and tuck it down in the box. I replace the jewelry, lock the box, and put it in my mother’s bedside table. I hurry out to my chair, fold my hands, and try to think.

But I don’t like the dark thoughts that well up.

What I think is impossible.

I hear my great-grandfather whisper, “Consider the facts.”

She is on the stairs, coming up a full twenty minutes early, huffing and thumping and muttering to herself as she often does. Quickly I ball up the skirt and shove it beneath my chair behind my sewing box. Mrs. Anderson’s door scrapes open and Mother says, “Good evening.” Mrs. Anderson returns the greeting, then I hear our neighbor take the stairs down. A key rattles our lock. Our door swings open.

“Molly,” says Mother with her slightly lopsided smile. “Have you had a fine day?” She is tall and thin, and limps a bit. Her hands are chewed from laboring in the factory.

I open my mouth. Then snap it shut. Then open it again to say, “Peter Garrett is dead.”

“Oh, yes. I know. Poor Peter. I heard the talk. Sad. So sad.” She takes off her summer cap and puts it on the ear of her chair. She unfastens the top button of her dress, fans her chest, and pours a cup of water from the pitcher on the kitchen table. She drinks it noisily. “Have you not made us a supper, Molly? I’m so tired.”

“It’s too hot to cook, Mother,” I say. “It’s summer, remember. Let’s have some cheese and bread.”

Mother nods.

“Much too hot to heat the stove,” I continue. “I wonder why anyone would do that when the air is so stifling?”

Mother shrugs vaguely, sits down in her chair, which has all four legs, and rubs her arms. “So much work today,” she says. Her voice is so light, so childish. So innocent. “Delia got mad at me for looking at her for too long. She said I stared. I didn’t think I stared, but maybe so. Sometimes I just forget that I’m looking. My mind wanders. I don’t want to cause trouble. I don’t like trouble, Molly.”

“I know that.” I think I know that.

We sit at the table and have our meal of cheese and bread. As much as I try to remain composed, Mother senses something. “Molly, are you ill?”

I don’t know how to answer. I just eat and clear the dishes and wash them in the bin and put them away. Mother sits in her chair and opens her Bible then waits for me to sit to hear her read. She doesn’t read well, or fast, but this is our nightly ritual.

“What should I read, Molly?” Mother looks at me with her simple eyes, her simple smile.

I hesitate then whisper, “What does the Bible say of murder?”

Mother looks startled. “Why it is a sin, Molly. Whoever kills sins against God Himself.”

“I thought so.”

Mother struggles with my question and the cool attitude I’ve pulled on. I look for something in her eyes that I’ve not looked for before. A keenness? A dangerous spark? If it is there, she hides it well. I have never feared my mother... until now.

I get up, look out of the window. Peter will never again drive Sue up and down the road, never again deliver milk.

Then I speak before I can stop myself. “I found a key in your skirt pocket.” Turning, I see her still in her chair, holding her Bible, head tilted in confusion.

“Skirt?”

“The key that opens your jewelry box.”

“My necklace and earrings,” she says. “Did you want to wear them?”

“Now where would I wear them?”

“Consider the facts,” whispers Auguste in the depths of my ear.

“I don’t know, Molly, but I wouldn’t mind if you did.”

Mother, did you find some piece of wood yesterday, bring it home in your skirt, and then
... I press my hand to my forehead against a pain that is building up like a foul blister. “Mother, why did we come to America?”

“I don’t know. Let me think.” She squints at the wall then says, “Oh, yes. It was better to come here. Better than Paris.”

“Why? What was wrong with Paris?”

Mother looks at the floor, her face scrunched up as if she is really trying to remember. It looks so sincere. “It’s a bad place. Bad things happened.”

Oh, God.
“What bad things?”

“I...” She rubs her eyes with her fists then stares at me. I see little more than a child there, yet there must be more.

“Tell me what you remember.”

“I was in trouble.” Mother begins to cry. Silently, though, as if watching one of Edison’s films. “I didn’t want any more bad, Molly.”

“What bad?”

“You’ll hate me.”

“What bad?”

“You’ll hate me!” Mother screams. I’d never heard her scream before.

I take a breath and wipe my forehead, which is clammy and wet. I try to speak kindly, as knotted as my stomach and throat are in this very moment. “Mother, what bad?”

Mother gets up, wringing her hands, goes into her bedroom, comes back out, paces to the window then sits in her chair. Her brow is furrowed and her mouth screwed up. “I don’t want you to hate me, Molly!”

“I don’t hate you. Did you... did you kill anyone?”

Mother’s head drops and she nods.
Merciful Christ!

“Did you kill four people?”

She nods. “I believe I did, Molly.”

For several full minutes I can’t speak. My cool and calculating brain is suddenly sluggish and fogged. Mother cries. I sit and stare at her.

Then:
“Why
did you kill them?”

“I got mad. They made me mad!”

“Did you kill Peter?”

“What?” She looks up.

“Did you kill Peter Garrett?”

Mother blinks as if someone has shone a bright light in her face. She frowns and bites her lip, before looking toward the window. “Dr. Burckholdt was a nice man. He made me better, Molly. He fixed my brain.”

“What? No, no. You said he tried to make you smarter, but it wasn’t successful.”

“I didn’t tell you the truth, Molly. It was the only time I lied to you. I wanted him to make me... to make me simple. And he did.”

I stomp my foot. “You make no sense! Now answer me, Mother. Did you kill Peter Garrett?”

Mother links her fingers. It’s as if she hasn’t heard my question. “I was like my mother. She was like my grandmother. We were oh, so fancy, don’t you see? Fancy women. Perfume. Necklaces. Wine and music. The men liked us.”

“What do you mean?”

“I... we let men have us. Have their way with us. For money. Please don’t hate me, Molly!”

My teeth are on edge now, but I push ahead. “You were a prostitute?”