Full Circle (12 page)

I sat up in bed, my stomach now upset for an entirely different reason. ‘How bad is it?’

‘A year each without them working. Maybe two if they pitch in.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me? We didn’t have to use my book check last year to go to Disney World! We could have stuck it in the kids’ college funds!’

‘Things looked OK last year. Besides, I wouldn’t give up that trip for anything,’ he said, pulling me down to lay my head on his shoulder.

‘Yeah, that was a good trip,’ I said, smiling to myself, remembering all three kids laughing so hard they almost fell down, running, teasing each other. Even Graham having his picture taken with Mickey Mouse.

We fell asleep that night in each other’s arms, both, I hope, thinking of better times, better places.

That Friday night we had a cookout in the backyard. Skater-boy turned up ten minutes early, wearing regular blue jeans and a button-down collar shirt. All but the fringes of his scraggly hair were still covered by the dirty watch cap, and he still wore the shades, but I’d give him an ‘E’ for effort. We did discover that his name was Cyril and he was a sophomore at the high school. In actual years that was only two, but the maturity level between an eighth grader and a high school sophomore is counted in dog years, which made them sixteen years apart. This is only a theory, but I’m sticking by it.

My son Graham, bless him, stared daggers at Cyril all night, barely taking his eyes off him to drool over Lotta, who appeared to be taking it in stride. Megan, however, was not, and was staring her own daggers at her brother. Willis and I just sat back and enjoyed the scene. We knew enough to be cordial if not downright friendly to Cyril, maybe even insisting Megan go out with him. Because the minute we forbade her seeing him, Romeo and Juliet would begin. Seeming not to care might, hopefully, make Cyril seem less exciting.

It didn’t work. After Graham and Elizabeth left to take Alicia and Lotta home, Megan went out to the front porch to wish Cyril a good night. And stayed out there for almost an hour, with me having to hold Willis back from going out there with his imaginary shotgun. We don’t own any guns, but he has every intention of telling any boy coming after one of his girls that he does: a shotgun, a backhoe, and a big enough backyard to bury a body.

The weeks went by with nothing much happening. Cyril and Alicia both became fixtures at our house, and Graham wanted to quit working the day camp and get a real job, but I repeatedly said no. This was what the stalker wanted: for us to let down our guard. Gus Mayhew had already resigned his due diligence, saying he had better things to do than sit in the bus all day waiting for nothing. He was much nicer about it than that, but that’s what it boiled down to.

Elizabeth became very close with Christine, Myra’s replacement, and had her over for dinner one night. I can’t say I liked her much. She definitely wasn’t Myra – not a perky in sight – but a little too butch for my taste. She did not, however, bring the infamous whistle to dinner.

I suppose she was a nice enough young woman. When she came in she was wearing khaki shorts and a pink polo shirt with Birkenstock sandals showing off pink polished toenails. She had a lot of auburn hair in a shoulder-length pageboy with bangs, dark framed glasses, and entirely too much make-up. Even so, she wasn’t a very attractive young woman, but she tried, I’ll give her that.

We’d met briefly at church that first Sunday after Myra’s accident, when she was announced as Myra’s replacement at the day camp, so when she came in, I shook her hand and said, ‘Nice to see you again.’

She smiled, showing off very white straight teeth. ‘You too, Mrs Pugh.’

‘Please, call me E.J.,’ I said, then turned to my husband, ‘and this is Willis, the kids’ dad.’

She shook Willis’s hand, said hello to various and sundry kids (which included the new add-ons: Lotta, Cyril, and Alicia) and we all sat down for dinner.

Willis had grilled fajitas and veggies outside and I served them with guacamole, tortillas, Spanish rice and black beans. Everyone dug in.

‘So how do you and Myra know each other?’ I asked Christine.

She swallowed and said, ‘We met on line. On a Christian chat room.’

‘Oh,’ I said. I didn’t know there were Christian chat rooms. ‘So how did you find out about her accident?’

‘Well, she wasn’t online for a couple of days, and I got worried and called her. We’d exchanged cell phone numbers a while back, so I had hers. And she told me about what happened. I couldn’t believe it! I’m in seminary myself but hadn’t secured a summer job yet, so I immediately volunteered to take her place. And then she volunteered her apartment for me to stay in. So it all worked out nicely.’

‘Where do you live?’ Willis asked. ‘When you’re not down here, of course.’

‘Dallas,’ she said.

‘Oh! Do you go to seminary with Myra at SMU?’ Megan asked.

Christine took a bite and held up a finger while she chewed and swallowed, then said, ‘Yes, actually. But it’s so big we hadn’t met. We had to both come here to meet!’

‘I’m so glad Myra has a friend like you. Not just to take over the day-camp job, but to be there for her when she comes home,’ I said. ‘She’s going to need a lot of help.’

Christine smiled. ‘She certainly is. And I’m glad to do it.’

‘When is she coming home?’ Lotta asked.

‘It could be tomorrow. She’ll find out in the morning. If so,’ she said, looking at Graham, ‘I might need you to cover for me while I get her out of the hospital and back to her apartment.’

‘Sure,’ Graham said. And under his breath I heard him mutter, ‘Bet I’ll get paid double for that.’ As he wasn’t getting paid at all, I suspected he was being sarcastic. I’m quick that way.

Cyril looked up for the first time since sitting down, a frown barely visible on his face. ‘You’re gonna be a preacher?’ he asked.

‘Yes, I am,’ Christine answered, a smile on her face. ‘It runs in my family.’

‘Huh?’ Cyril said, now totally confused.

Christine smiled at him. ‘I’m sorry, I meant my father was also a minister.’

‘Oh,’ Cyril said. Then added, ‘Why?’

It was Christine’s turn to frown. ‘Why was my father a minister?’

‘No, why do you want to be one? You’re a girl.’

Uh oh. The kid was now bordering on pissing me off.

‘I mean,’ he said, ‘aren’t y’all – girls, I mean – usually nuns?’

Christine coughed, almost choking on whatever bite of food had been in her mouth. I quickly took a drink, Willis found something he needed to look at on the floor, and Graham laughed out loud.

Megan turned to her – excuse the expression – boyfriend. ‘We’re Methodist. As in Protestant. Catholics have nuns and priests, and as of yet, women aren’t allowed to be priests. But Methodists have had women ministers, like, almost forever.’

‘Oh,’ Cyril said. He shook his head. ‘I dunno. Seems like a lot of work for a girl.’

Megan looked at her Lothario for a long moment, shook her head and said, ‘Whatever,’ as she bent her head to her food. I kicked Willis under the table, thinking this boy is toast.

ELIZABETH, APRIL, 2009

‘So who is this guy?’ Megan demanded.

‘I don’t know! I thought he was just a nice guy I met, but then he started this whole Aldon business—’

‘Aldon?’ Megan said, taken aback. ‘Like your brother Aldon?’ Elizabeth simply nodded her head. Megan asked. ‘What did he say about Aldon?’

Elizabeth took a deep breath and finally said, ‘That he’s him. That he’s Aldon.’

‘That who’s Aldon? Tommy?’

‘Yes,’ Elizabeth answered.

‘Aldon’s dead, Liz,’ Megan said quietly.

‘Yes, I know,’ Elizabeth said.

Megan tilted her head, looking at her sister. ‘You’re not sure?’

‘What if—?’ Elizabeth started, then stopped.

‘What if Aldon is still alive? Is that what you mean?’ Megan asked.

Elizabeth nodded.

‘Then whose grave is it we go visit every year?’ Megan demanded.

‘He said it was somebody they killed and put in his place,’ Elizabeth said.

‘Somebody
who
killed?’ Megan asked.

Elizabeth shrugged her shoulders.

‘Who did he say, Liz?’ Megan demanded.

‘Mom and Mrs Luna,’ Elizabeth said quietly. ‘And Dad, I think.’

Megan let out a heavy breath, her cheeks puffing up with the effort. ‘Wow, that’s pretty heavy stuff,’ she said.

Elizabeth nodded, her head bent, staring at the moon and stars on the comforter that covered her bed. Megan reached out and lifted her sister’s head to stare into her eyes.

‘And you believed him?’ she asked.

Elizabeth looked back at Megan, and shook her head. ‘No, not really. I know that Mom and Dad, I mean . . .’

‘Let me ask you something, Liz,’ Megan said, her hand still on her sister’s face. ‘Which makes more sense? That Mom and Dad, along with Mrs Luna, conspired to kill your entire family and, failing to get Aldon, killed some poor runaway and put him in Aldon’s place, or that this asshole you met
online
is bullshitting you?’

Tears streamed down Elizabeth’s face. ‘Bullshit,’ she said.

‘Damn straight,’ said Megan. ‘Tell me exactly what he told you.’

So Elizabeth did, detailing the stuff about J. Patrick Reynolds and the Utility Commission and the Railroad Commission, and everything else Tommy/Aldon had said.

Megan moved to the computer and turned it on.

‘What are you doing?’ Elizabeth demanded.

‘Don’t worry. If he IMs you, I’ll ignore him. I just want to check out his story,’ Megan said, finding a link to Texas government. Sure enough, J. Patrick Reynolds was the Texas Railroad Commissioner, former Codder County Utility Commissioner. He had been instrumental in trying to get the county utility hooked up to the only nuclear power plant in the area. He was a Republican (surprise, surprise, thought Megan), and was married with two children, one a son in high school, the other a daughter in college. His wife was a homemaker and he had formerly belonged to the Knights of Columbus, the Kiwanas, the Galveston Chamber of Commerce, and was past president of the Galveston JC’s. Before moving to Codder County and becoming utility commissioner, he had owned an insurance agency in Galveston and had won the prestigious Canary Award from the American Independent Insurance Agency Association. According to Wytopia, J. Patrick was lily white and squeaky clean.

Megan checked all the other listings for Reynolds on Google and found only listings for newspaper articles mentioning him, speeches given by him, and speeches given about him by his buddies. As far as Google could tell her, J. Patrick Reynolds was fiscally, socially, morally, and personally conservative.

She read all this to Elizabeth.

‘OK,’ Elizabeth said, ‘so what does any of that mean?’

‘Absolutely nothing,’ Megan answered. ‘There wouldn’t be any dirt here, and if the guy was involved in this big conspiracy ten years ago, I doubt it would be mentioned on Google.’

‘So what do I do?’ Elizabeth asked.

‘You mean what do
we
do, right?’ Megan said.

‘I don’t want you involved in this, Meg,’ Elizabeth said.

‘Forget that noise. I’m involved. Where you go, I go. Got that?’

Elizabeth started crying again. Megan left the desk chair and sat on the bed next to her sister. Putting her arm around the smaller girl’s shoulders, she said, ‘If you don’t stop the blubbering, I’m going to smack you.’

BLACK CAT RIDGE, TEXAS, 1999

The next day I spent five minutes at the Codderville
News-Messenger
trying to get the editor to retract the story stating that the Lesters’ death had been a murder-suicide. I explained that it wasn’t murder-suicide – just murder, that Roy Lester did not kill his family. I told him flat out there was someone else out there who might kill again. His only response was, ‘Do you have any proof?’

Royally pissed, I threw my arms up in the air in frustration and said, ‘No I don’t! But I’m going to get some if I have to hire a private detective!’ And with that Bessie and I were out the door.

Imagine my chagrin the next morning when I picked up the Codderville
News-Messenger
and saw the following article on the front page:

I was incensed and scared shitless at the same time. It’s an interesting feat to accomplish, but then I’m a talented woman. Willis, however, was not amused. I, single-handedly, had just blown the contract he was working on that meant we might be able to eat the rest of the year. He turned his back on me and didn’t speak to me for the rest of the day.

That’s why I decided to take the kids to the movies mid-afternoon.

Willis and I met in the early eighties at the University of Texas in Austin. It was our junior year and we fell madly in love fairly fast. One night toward the end of our first month together, we went to see a revival of
Bullitt
at the theater on the drag. Afterward we took Willis’s 1968 VW to the parking lot of the football stadium and practiced 180-degree turns at high speed. Willis never did get it right, but I was great. I had that VW spinning like a dreidel every time I tried it.

There is a reason for this journey into the past of the Pugh parents. The kids and I had been to the movies in Codderville and were coming back in heavy rain. We were on Highway 12 heading towards Black Cat Ridge. The rain was coming down in sheets, my windshield wipers were on phase two, and the kids were arguing as usual. Well, Graham and Megan were. From what I could see in my quick glances in the rearview mirror, Bessie was sitting quietly between the two, walking her Ernie doll across her knees.