Hush Little Baby (14 page)

Jeffrey’s beaten briefcase, a brown satchel with brass snaps, sits on the contractor’s desk inside the site trailer, and I allow myself another sigh of relief. He’s here waiting for me.

The tattered skyline of Compton looms behind the site, graffiti on every surface beyond the school, but not usurping the razor-wired battle lines.

Across the playfield and fifty feet west, the new gymnasium rises half-finished, its concrete block walls climbing the steel skeleton against the bruised sky. Doors have been installed to protect the equipment and tools—bright rectangles of blue, red, and yellow set into the banded beige block. The red door is propped open by a brick, and as I move toward it, my heart shifts from fear to anticipation, the spot below my belly button flittering with expectation.

I smooth my hair before stepping over the threshold, then freeze in the shadows.

As though staged, Jeffrey’s body slumps in a ray of light that filters over the wall from the east. His lifeless eyes stare vacantly between the girders to the glowing sky, his insides spilling out of the gaping hole in his chest, his left hand resting on the spot where it tried to hold them in.

I don’t scream.

Movies have it wrong. Dead wrong. Letting out a bloodcurdling wail is the furthest reaction from the reality that is paralysis caused by disbelief—a denial of what I’m seeing blaring simultaneously with an acidic nausea that turns my stomach at the horror of it.

This isn’t happening. That’s not Jeffrey. It’s a morbid joke. Not funny. Jeffrey, stop it, not funny, get up. Get up! Jeffrey, please get up. Oh, God, please don’t let this be happening.

His eyes are open, still chocolate brown, but in a death throe that will blot out every other memory I have of those beautiful, kind eyes for eternity. His intestines are white and pink and burgundy, and the white shirt he wears and tan slacks are soaked with blood. Beneath him are the plans for the school. His shirt is ravaged where fragments of the shotgun buck splattered his chest.

Details. Each one imprinted permanently on my brain.

Every hair stands on end and my breath and pulse quicken until they throb and fill my head. My eyes forget how to blink. Then my lip begins to quiver, a small tremor spreading until my whole body shakes.

I step toward him; I want to help. I freeze only a foot closer than I was.

It’s too late to help.

The horror roots me to my spot as time ticks, maybe a second, maybe a minute, until finally my thoughts break through the heinousness and the truth blazes like an explosion.

Shotgun deaths are brutal.

Gordon did this.

Gordon. Did. This.

Gordon.

My eyes whip around, then a bird squawks and I flee, my eyes scanning wildly.

I stumble as I run, tripping and skidding on the ground. My right knee and palms scraped and bloodied, I push back to my feet and continue racing to my car.

My tires shoot gravel as they skid from the parking lot and onto the streets of Compton. I drive away from where I came, away from where I think Gordon might be waiting. I grab my cell phone to call 911, then throw it to the seat beside me. I can’t call the police. I can’t tell them Gordon did this. They’ll think I’m crazy. Gordon will not have made any mistakes. I’m certain Jeffrey’s wallet has been taken to make it look like a robbery. Shotgun buck can’t be traced. There’s no evidence for anyone but me. I know too well how few of these crimes get solved. Gordon knew I’d know he did it, but no one else would.

I scan side to side in my mirrors expecting Gordon to appear, expecting a gun to be aimed at my windshield, waiting for the glass to explode.

I zig and zag through the labyrinth of filth that is downtown Compton until I’m sure I’m alone and surrounded only by the urban wasteland, then pull to the curb, my breaths coming in jerks and spurts.

Jeffrey’s dead.

I can’t get my head around it.

He’s dead.

Gordon killed him, killed him because of me.

I did this.

Why did I involve him?

Things are not “okay.”

Things did not “work out.”

He’s dead. Jeffrey. Gone.

My love, my friend, my future.

“Jillian, let’s get married.” A year ago he asked. What if I’d said yes, not gone back to Gordon?

I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.

Addie and Drew.

Focus.

Addie and Drew.

I can’t seem to absorb it, remember it, then the horror flashes in my mind and I relive the shock of what happened and that it’s real, and I can’t breathe.

Think
, I command, but it only makes my brain more muddled and my heart pound faster. My scraped hands quiver on the steering wheel, all panic and nothing else. The polish on my right index finger is chipped. I stare at the imperfection. A week ago, I was upset because I needed to cancel my manicure because Drew had a baseball game. I fixate on the marred polish, the fissure a lifeline to my sanity. I stare and stare until my thoughts begin to align.

Gordon doesn’t know I’m here.

He followed Jeffrey, but unless Jeffrey told him I was meeting him, which is highly unlikely, Gordon doesn’t know I’m here. I’m certain of this because I know Gordon so well. Gordon’s meticulous—fastidious to a fault—and deliberate. He used a shotgun so I would know it was him, but me discovering the body wasn’t part of the plan. It’s too risky. It leads the investigation directly to him. Gordon’s too smart for that.

I start the engine and drive back toward Laguna.

Jeffrey’s dead. Gone. Permanently.

I know it, but the idea refuses to stay put. The horror in the gymnasium blinds me, but the implication beyond the savagery refuses to fix in my conscience.

Addie and Drew.

The thought keeps me from collapse and keeps me moving forward.

Gordon doesn’t know I already know he killed Jeffrey. It’s the smallest edge of knowledge, but it also might be the only advantage I’ll get.

Today is Saturday. I look at my watch: 6:33. Gordon’s shift ended at six. History tells me he’ll return home and sleep until noon.

34

C
laudia’s Mercedes is parked in our driveway. I drive to the park half a block away and wait. From where I sit, I can see the house. The windows are dark, the neighborhood and my family asleep.

Jeffrey is dead.

I close my eyes, pinch my nose, and swallow back the grief.

Addie and Drew.
I force myself into the moment, my brain buzzing with the focus it takes not to think of yesterday or tomorrow, to not mourn everything we shared and our future together that I dreamed of.

Addie and Drew.

Every other second, the carnage of this morning blazes in my brain—horror, ache, and fear accompanying the anathema…

…and guilt.

I did this.

Regret squeezes my heart, making it difficult to breathe, and tears fill my eyes.

Addie and Drew.

I force the emotions to the edge and stare at my house. I can’t undo what I’ve done. I can only hope it’s not too late to save what’s left.

At eight thirty, Claudia’s car leaves, and at nine, my mom’s Buick replaces it. I feel the wind go out of me like I’ve been sucker punched. My mom is helping Gordon.

The light turns on in the living room, and for a long time I stare with hatred and hurt at my mom behind the glowing glass, unable to believe a mother can be that cruel.

A few more minutes and more lights turn on downstairs, and the neighborhood comes to life. Joggers and dog walkers pass, not noticing me behind the glare of my windshield as I continue to stare at my home.

My mom and my kids come out through the garage. Addie’s on her bike, the training wheels intermittently making contact with the sidewalk; Drew rides his Razor. My mom walks behind them.

When they reach the park, my mom settles on a bench and opens a magazine. I’m parked along the curb beside the soccer field, where inevitably Drew and Addie will end up when they tire of the playground.

I get out of my car and climb the hill to the field to wait near the restrooms. It takes less than fifteen minutes before the kids bound onto the field close enough for me to call to them. I breathe deep to steel my emotions, paste a smile on my face, and holler out.

“Mommy.” Addie runs into my arms, and I breathe in her sweetness. “Whewre have you been? Miss Claudia’s been watching us when Daddy goes to work.” She wrinkles her nose. “I leawrned how to do a cawrtwheel, want to see?”

“Maybe in a bit,” I say as I stand.

Drew’s still a yard away. He looks at the ground in front of his feet.

I take two steps toward him, kneel to his height, and pull him into a hug. His arms stay at his side. I left him and didn’t come back like I said I would. I’m not forgiven.

I accept his grudge and stand. “How about we spend the day together?” I say, hoping my fake smile masks the panic racing through my veins.

“Wright now?” Addie asks excited.

Drew looks over his shoulder toward the hill that conceals my mom. I look with him and wonder how long I have until she comes to check on them.

“Right now. Let’s go. It’ll be an adventure.” I take Addie’s hand.

“What about Nana? Shouldn’t we tell her?” Drew asks.

“I’ll call her from the car.”

He hesitates, some instinct telling him something isn’t quite right, but when I call his bluff and march toward my car, his footsteps follow.

“Whewre awre we going?”

I have no idea.

I drive toward the freeway. When we get there, I’ll need to decide north or south. I stay off the main roads, sticking to the side streets that wind through the suburbs—through endless tracts of pretty houses standing in homogenous harmony, each unique only in their details—and I wonder how many secrets those houses hide.

I choose north; it seems more optimistic.

*  *  *

The minutes stretch into miles and my panic settles into resolve.
I’m fine. The kids are fine. We’re going to be fine.
It’s a deluded mantra, but I repeat it over and over in my head in an attempt to convince myself.

The image of Jeffrey staring vacantly at the sky, his insides spilling from his chest, propels me forward.

There’s no choice. We need to get away from Gordon. Addie and Drew don’t know it, and there’s a chance they’ll never understand, but the man they love the most is also the greatest danger in their lives.

“Whewre awre we going?” Addie asks again. We’ve been driving two hours, and the promised adventure has turned out to be a bait and switch. “I need to go potty.”

We’re on a stretch of highway going through Los Angeles surrounded by industrial buildings and abandoned factories and warehouses.

“Can you hold it for a few minutes?” I ask.

Addie’s red hair shakes in the rearview mirror. I exit at the next off-ramp and drive in circles trying to find any promising prospect for a public restroom.

Ten minutes later and miles from the freeway, we find a liquor store.

“Gotta go,” Addie says.

I put the car in park and grab Addie as she fidgets and squirms to keep her bladder full.

“Stay here,” I say to Drew as I sprint into the store.

We’re a minute too late. Before I can ask for the restroom, Addie loses the battle, and pee leaks all over my jeans and onto the liquor store’s floor.

The not-so-friendly-looking attendant glares. I ask for the restroom.

“Don’t have one for the public,” he says.

I turn to carry Addie out.

“You going to clean that?” he asks.

I set my crying daughter down and spend some of my valuable cash on a roll of paper towels and wipe up the mess. Then Addie and I return to the car.

When I open the door, Drew is crying, his bawling so intense, I can’t understand his blubbering words.

When they become clear, I almost cry myself.

“I couldn’t get out.”

I realize then that the car was locked and the child safety locks in the back engaged. We were in the store for what must have seemed like forever to an eight-year-old, and he was locked in the car.

His face is red, and his hair soaked with sweat and tears.

“I’m sorry, baby, I’m so sorry.” I pull him to me, holding him tight and rubbing his back. “Shhh. It’s okay, you’re okay.”

Both kids are still sniffling and the car smells of pee when we pull back onto the road.

I’m a terrible mother. How am I going to do this? I can’t do this. I’m not equipped.

Jeffrey’s dead eyes stare at me in my brain. There’s no choice. I have to do it. There’s no turning back.

As we drive, the kids whimper, and my rage festers and grows. And I’m surprised when I realize the anger isn’t for Gordon, but for Jeffrey, and the realization makes me hate myself even more. I hate him for being dead, for believing stupidly he could save me.

Last night, I believed we had a chance, that somehow, with him by my side, we’d figure it out, but now he’s gone and I’m alone and the future I dreamed of with him is a terrifying black hole.

Why couldn’t he leave it alone?

He lied, promised everything would be okay. Nothing’s okay.

Why’d he have to love me so much so soon?

It makes me want to scream and put my fist through the windshield, to take the shotgun that killed Jeffrey and blow a hole through Gordon, but when my rage turns again from Gordon to Jeffrey, I’m so ashamed that I want to die from the hatred I have for myself. And yet I can’t stop the anger.

35

O
ur adventure has turned into a torturous journey that borders on child abuse. The kids stare blankly at the DVD player as it replays
Hercules
for the third time. They’ve given up on asking where we’re going, how long until we get there, and complaining.