Little Bird of Heaven (37 page)

A
ND THE GIRL.
Ben Diehl’s younger sister.

Krull had to think it was a coincidence. At first.

Essentially she was too young to register on Krull’s sexual radar. A slight-bodied blond girl with somber eyes and a way of shrinking back when Krull happened to glance at her—in the 7-Eleven store near the high school for instance.

And too quickly the girl turned away, retreating into the back of the store. Krull stared after her thinking
Jesus! She isn’t following me is she?
He was bemused, appalled. He was fifteen years old, this girl looked to be several years younger.

Recalling then that he’d seen her somewhere else. And would see her, as if by chance, on subsequent days—on the street as he bicycled past, in the alley that ran behind Post Street which was a biking shortcut for Krull, behind the high school where students left their bikes and Krull left his, a stripped-down old Schwinn with a hard-rubber seat and handle bars adjusted low, the chassis stippled with rust like acne. Belatedly Krull would wonder why a girl not at Sparta High would be in such a place, gazing at him. At a little distance.

Realizing then
It must be her. Diehl’s daughter. What’s she want with me!

Krull felt a touch of alarm, fear. A touch of panic.

What he hadn’t done to the brother. What he’d stopped himself from doing. And now the sister—following
him.

There was danger here. Krull knew the danger. Better to ignore the girl. Not make eye contact with her. As she watched him with those wist
ful inscrutable eyes as he turned away, began pedaling his stripped-down old Schwinn without a backward glance.

Since the footbridge, Krull stayed away from Ben Diehl.

As if there were an understanding between them. A kind of truce. For it was enough for Krull to know, and for Ben Diehl to know, that he’d spared Ben Diehl his life. Might’ve shoved him off the bridge to drown in the river, might’ve stabbed him to death with his own knife. (Pulling a knife on Krull, of all people! You had to hand it to Ben Diehl, he’d had guts.) Krull’s restraint had been an act of mercy that had not needed to happen. And it was enough, Krull had cut his fingers and the palms of his hands on Ben Diehl’s knife and the cuts were God-damned slow to heal.

M
RS.
H
ARE
his remedial English teacher encouraged him. Returning Aaron Kruller’s painstakingly handwritten compositions with comments in purple ink like lacework. No matter the assignment Aaron could not seem to write more than two or three paragraphs terse as a stream of muttered words and there was often a riddle-like nature to these words, its meaning not immediately evident to Mrs. Hare. Even in the remedial class half the students handed in typed work of varying degrees of neatness and clarity but Aaron wrote in a large childlike hand like one who wielded a pen with difficulty; his notebook pages were creased from the strain of his effort, bearing faint smudges of grease.

Grades in remedial English at Sparta High were not numerical as in other classes but only just
P
or
F:
“pass” or “fail.” (In remedial English, most grades were
P.
) If Aaron didn’t receive
P
for one of his assignments he was likely to receive an ambiguous??? with a note from Mrs. Hare to come see her during his study period.

Purple ink was Marsha Hare’s signature—unlike red ink, which the other teachers used. For Mrs. Hare believed that purple ink was “not cruel” like red ink. Red was the color of stop signs, danger signs, exits and fires—red ink, on a student’s paper, suggested blood eking from miniature wounds. By contrast, purple was a “kind” color—a “soothing” color. Mrs. Hare had been a longtime substitute teacher in the Sparta public school system hastily hired in the fall of Aaron Kruller’s junior year to replace a teacher who’d had to resign for reasons of health. Mrs. Hare was known for wishing not to offend or hurt or discourage her students for these were adolescents afflicted as with severe acne by “reading disabilities”—“limited aptitude”—“personality problems” and a number of these adolescents, like Aaron Kruller, exuded an air of sullen unease verging upon threat.

“‘Aaron Kruller’! Hel-
lo
.”

Brightly greeting the boy when she saw him in the school corridor, or slinking into her classroom just as the final bell rang. He was taller than Marsha Hare by several inches and an oily odor wafted from his close-cropped Indian-black hair, his eyes were heavy-lidded, evasive and narrowed and yet—Aaron seemed to Mrs. Hare the
most promising
of the thirty-seven students entrusted to her.

Given his family background, the
most dangerous.

Mrs. Hare was in her late forties, an attractive woman in whom small whirlwinds of maternal warmth seemed continually to be stirring, leaving her breathless, eager and yearning. Her eyes were thinly-lashed, a watery hazel that glistened with emotion; her face was a girl’s face faded and smudged, like a watercolor. Almost alone among the Sparta High faculty Mrs. Hare made an effort to dress “stylishly”—she wore designer blouses with lavish bows, tailored pants suits in hues of cranberry, fuchsia, flamey-orange-red. Her dun-colored hair was elaborately arranged, held in place by tortoiseshell combs; her makeup was putty-colored, and her lipstick red-orange. As Mrs. Hare spoke to her students her voice ascended in arias of enthusiasm and encouragement—her speech was riddled with such words as
promise, keep trying! yes you can! Never say never.
It was said that Mrs. Hare had had female surgery of a sinister sort: a breast
mutilated, a uterus removed. It was said that Mrs. Hare had an elderly husband in a wheelchair—unless the elderly husband was Mrs. Hare’s father or, more sinister still, Mrs. Hare’s terribly afflicted son. Boys joked about “Mrs. Hair-y” behind her back—if Mrs. Hare wore short sleeves, you could glimpse wiry patches of hair in her armpits; the more sensitive girls shuddered and exchanged pained glances. Once, cruel boys placed what appeared to be a used sanitary napkin in the wastebasket beside Mrs. Hare’s desk, only part-covering it with crumpled paper; but before class began, red-faced Aaron Kruller carried the basket out, to dump into an incinerator. Mrs. Hare never caught on what the joke could be, that aroused such hilarity and embarrassment in the classroom, and so the joke came to nothing.

Mrs. Hare reminded Krull uncomfortably of the DeLucca woman. The moist eyes fixed upon his face, the girl-body grown fleshy, middle-aged. Some indefinable air of hunger, female yearning. “Aaron? If ever you want to speak about anything with me—just let me know. Anytime.”

And: “If ever there is anything to share, Aaron.”

Not meeting the woman’s eager gaze Aaron muttered what sounded like
Yes ma’am.

Between the two—the middle-aged remedial English teacher, the near-sixteen-year-old boy—there was a curious, clumsy connection. As between relatives—an aunt, a sulky nephew.

One afternoon, Aaron reluctantly came in for an appointment with Mrs. Hare, at her request. The teacher was sitting at her desk with one of Krull’s compositions before her, covered in a filigree of purple ink.

Krull sat in a vinyl chair that felt flimsy beneath his weight as Mrs. Hare clasped her long narrow hands against her chest. She drew a deep breath and began, like one running to dive from a high board before she has lost her courage: “Aaron. I’ve debated telling you this. There was a crime in my family, also. My mother’s family in Troy. A terrible thing that happened—a girl who was my cousin—my older cousin—abducted, stabbed to death—her body thrown into the canal—missing for weeks before she was discovered. This terrible murder—of a beautiful nineteen-
year-old girl engaged to be married—was never ‘solved’—through the years, it has been decades now, this crime cast its shadow upon our lives. I was a girl of twelve then—I am a middle-aged woman now. So I understand, Aaron.” Mrs. Hare’s voice quavered with daring, and with hope. “I hope I understand.”

These words were like a jolt of electricity, Krull hadn’t been prepared. He’d needed to steel himself and he had not.

“…if you should, you know, wish to speak of it. Or write of it. More directly, Aaron. I sense that you are always writing about this certain subject—I won’t say what it is—but you are never
confronting
this subject. It has swallowed you up, nearly. You must
break free.”

Squeezed into one of the classroom chairs—cheap vinyl, aluminum legs—Krull held himself stiff, unyielding. He appeared confused, his mouth worked silently. Nervously Mrs. Hare continued:

“Well! My point is, Aaron, you have a choice nonetheless. I mean—beyond the classroom. Beyond this school. You can be a citizen, or you can be a ‘rogue.’ Like—a ‘rogue’ elephant. You can live outside society for the reason that you have been wounded and are angry—clearly, very angry—I know how the other students fear you, and that you’ve been involved in fights and ‘disruptions’—I am grateful that you’ve done good work for me—very good work—promising work—but let me say, so long as you’re young this is a way you can live, and for a while into your thirties, perhaps. But then—it’s over. If you’ve made yourself into a citizen, the crime will heal over and you can have a life—a useful, adult life. But if you are a rogue and an outcast, in thrall to your hurt, you will not have a life.” Mrs. Hare paused. Her voice was tremulous, uncertain. As if she’d climbed to a dangerous height and was now peering down at Aaron from this height. “You will not live long—that’s what I fear for you.”

The pretext for their conference that afternoon was an assignment Krull had handed in the previous day, on the theme “The Individual in Society.” Krull had managed to write only a single paragraph of two sentences. Twenty-one words choked and clotted on which he’d toiled at the auto repair shop, seated at Delray’s desk. He’d had to break the
composition off when a sudden call came in—he and another mechanic were wanted out at the Interstate, there’d been a car wreck and a tow truck was needed. Afterward reading what he’d written
All things that hapen to any one, they are things to hapen to
…he felt a wave of shame, fury. God damn he knew what he wanted to say yet could not say it, the words were stopped up inside him.

Peering now at the paper Mrs. Hare had handed back. Seeing he’d spelled
society
wrong. He’d spelled
happen
wrong. Wanting to crumple the fucking paper in his hand.

“Aaron? You are listening, aren’t you?”

How close Mrs. Hare had come to
You are listening, dear, aren’t you?

Krull muttered something vague. Krull felt blood rushing into his face. Krull shifted in his seat preparatory to leaving.

“You seem so—sad, Aaron. Your expression is—”

Krull stood, clutching the paper. God-damned paper he’d crumple in his fist as soon as he left the classroom.

“Well. In any case I hope—I hope you will revise the composition. I mean, I hope that you will develop it. You always seem to have so much more to say, that you haven’t quite said. The minimum word count was five hundred words, Aaron. No need to count, but—”

Krull was miserable to leave. Krull was hoping this would not have a bad ending. A flash came to him of Zoe’s battered face, the bruised and broken eye sockets. Krull muttered
Yes ma’am!

Mrs. Hare walked with Krull to the classroom doorway. Like a TV lady of the house showing someone to the door. The room was Marsha Hare’s homeroom—she’d decorated with glossy photos of animals, landscapes, river views. She’d decorated it with what Zoe would recognize as
nice female touches
—artificial sunflowers in vases, ferns and African violets in clay pots, curiously little wood carvings. Seated, Mrs. Hare had seemed nearly Krull’s height but once they were standing, you could see how short Mrs. Hare was, beside Krull; how her authority rapidly diminished.
Sure O.K. thanks Mrs. Hare
he’d rewrite the assignment
Yes ma’am
except next day in gym Krull got into a scuffle with two boys—“white” boys—pissing
him off looking at him like he had a bad smell and other boys joined in, some on Krull’s side, mostly not on Krull’s side, there was a free-for-all that lasted for several clamorous minutes, and this time there were witnesses to Krull’s behavior including the gym instructor Mr. Casey whose nose was bloodied and so within the space of a few flurried hours Krull was arrested by Sparta police officers and taken to police headquarters and booked on charges of
assault, disorderly conduct, resisting arrest.
Never would Aaron Kruller return to Sparta High, he’d been permanently expelled. He would not graduate with his class. He would not see Marsha Hare again.

T
HE GIRL.
Eddy Diehl’s daughter.

Now he knew her name—Krista. Knew exactly who she was. But not why she was trailing him. A girl with pale blond ghost-hair, too young to merit a second glance from Krull.

Still she was watching him, from a distance. Drawing back when he saw her. But not drawing back too quick.

There was something pleading in the girl’s face. In her somber eyes.
Hurt me! You can try.

Krull had hurt her brother Ben, maybe she knew that. Maybe Ben had told her. (Though Krull had to doubt that Ben had told anyone about being so humiliated.) But Krull would never hurt a girl. Not even Eddy Diehl’s daughter.

Nor would he come near the girl. Not ever.

N
OW THAT
K
RULL WAS AWARE
of the girl—Krista Diehl—who was Eddy’s daughter—he realized he’d been hearing about her, from Mira Roche. How young she was, and how trusting. Kind of sweet, naive. Poor kid you felt sorry for her almost, what with her father…

Krull didn’t ask about the father.

…her father who’d been in trouble with the police, people said he’d moved away from Sparta.

And there was Duncan Metz and his friends, Krista hadn’t a clue what plans they had for her.

Mira laughed, uneasily. Seeing that Krull had lapsed into one of his moods.

(For sure, Krull wasn’t going to get involved. Trying to put distance between himself and that crowd. You couldn’t call them friends—Krull wouldn’t have known what to call them. The girls were crazy for him—for Krull—but it wasn’t flattering, these were garbage-heads who’d do anything a guy asked, for drugs; once they were stoned, they’d do even more, until they passed out. And such good-looking girls, like Mira Roche…There was Duncan Metz who claimed to be Krull’s good friend, Krull never fully trusted. It was said of Metz admiringly that he’d been busted numerous times since he’d been sixteen but had never spent a day in any facility not even juvie. And now Metz would never be busted, he was too smart. He made too much money. He had some mysterious connection with the Herkimer County sheriff’s department, one of his cousins was a deputy, or Metz was a trusted snitch, trading information to law enforcement for special favors. Last time they’d been together Metz took his Firebird convertible to ninety miles an hour on the Interstate—ninety-five—one hundred—and beyond one hundred—and Krull in the passenger’s seat saying
Slow down! Jesus
but Metz high on crystal meth just laughed.
Chill it Krull, I don’t make mistakes.
)

Since he’d been expelled from school Krull worked longer hours at the garage. Now it was winter, Kruller’s Auto Repair hired out for snow-removal services, and the lagging business improved substantially. Still, Delray had only two full-time mechanics now and two or three younger men who worked part-time. As Delray’s son Krull was paid haphazardly and some weeks not at all. When Delray wasn’t on the premises it was Krull who took over answering the phone, talking to customers. He was learning the skill of estimating repairs. No one hearing him on the phone
Yes sir, yes ma’am
would have guessed he was only seventeen. Ever more Delray entrusted him with the tow truck, late-night snow removal. The kind of work you end up doing through the night after a heavy snowfall, having put in a full day’s work beforehand in the garage.
Shit-work
Delray called it
but it pays
.

In fact Krull liked snow-removal, especially at night. Something crazy and thrilling about it like lacrosse: you worked with other guys, you were a team, it could be dangerous work but as long as you kept going and never shut your eyes for a moment’s respite you were O.K.

The trick was to take as much work as you could get. Just say yes, and do it. And do it well. And charge a few dollars less than your competition. That made a difference.

There was the feeling, too, of being
of use
. People grateful for you turning up. Especially women, or elderly people. Damn grateful for you since without snow removed from their driveways they were trapped.

Of use
—it was a way of feeling Krull grew to like. He was thinking of Mrs. Hare, who’d been so hopeful for him. Weird how this teacher had seemed to like “Aaron Kruller” and how after he’d been expelled—months after—Krull would think of her suddenly, and miss her; Krull, who’d hated school, and had dreams about returning, knocking down walls and dealing devastation. What she’d told him—you can be a “rogue”—or you can be a “citizen.” It was a sensible distinction. Not that Krull believed in a “useful” life—useful for who?—still less did he want to be a “citizen” but he needed to help out Delray. And he didn’t want to die young.

E
ACH
T
UESDAY MORNING AT
9
A.M.
Aaron Kruller reported to the county courthouse on Union Street, Sparta. Waiting his turn at the Probation and Parole Office of the New York State Department of Corrections. After the arrest at school he’d been sentenced to three years’ probation. Delray had been so disgusted with him and beyond disgusted he’d looked sober, scared. Krull was resolved not to fuck up anymore if just for the sake of his father.

So, the girl. Eddy Diehl’s daughter.

An under-age girl. You could see at a glance. Real sweet, Mira Roche said. Real trusting.

Kind of pathetic, so trusting.

Krull had no intention of going anywhere near Krista Diehl. What
ever Mira said of her, Krull wasn’t going to give a damn. She wasn’t his problem. There was no connection between them. Still, that night after the garage closed Krull drove into the city, to the depot where the guys hung out. Where the girls were, and the little blond ghost-haired Krista. There he encountered Metz, with the girl. No choice but to intervene. Metz must’ve been high, a serious crystal high, weird flamey look to his eyes and scarcely registering who Krull was, his friend. And Krull told Metz to let the girl go—Krull said he’d drive her home. There was an exchange of words, there was a struggle. Krull would not recall clearly what happened, afterward. Except he’d been surprised, Duncan Metz had backed off from him.
Fuck you take her. Fuck you both. Who gives a fuck.

These were Metz’s exact words. Krull would’ve laughed except this was actual life, and not funny.

So, the girl: Krista Diehl. Here was Krull with the responsibility of driving her home.

Eddy Diehl’s daughter. The girl who’d been trailing him, at a little distance. Regarding him with somber eyes. And Krull thinking
This is a test. Like from God, a test to see where I will take her. What I will do.

Krull wasn’t a believer in God. Krull wasn’t a believer in much of anything. Still, there was something to this. Something like in the Bible.

Put to the test to see what you will do. Being judged.

Zoe hadn’t believed in God, most of the time. But Zoe was shrewd to perceive that, if you didn’t believe in God at the right time, when it really mattered, you were fucked.

Other times, when it didn’t matter, you were O.K. But you had to be cautious not to grow careless and confuse one time with the other.

“Stay awake. Keep your eyes open. Fall asleep now you won’t wake up.”

Jesus! Krull saw with disgust the girl’s shimmering blond hair in clumps caked with puke.

Her
puke, it had to be. Dribbled down the front of her clothes, even on her shoes. A thrill of disgust coursed through him.

The way Krista Diehl was breathing, quick and shallow, and her face deathly white, Krull thought she might be O.D.’ing. Krull had seen a
girl start to O.D. on speedballs the previous summer, back of the depot in somebody’s van, eyeballs rolling up inside her head and her young face slack and mouth opened like a sick baby. The guy who’d been with this girl had shaken her to keep her awake, slapped her face, and so Krull shook Krista Diehl as you’d shake a rag doll, her head flopping on her shoulders. Weakly she whimpered for him to stop.

At least, she was conscious. With Krull’s help she could stand. Suddenly gagging again, and vomiting the shit she’d been given, puking up her guts. Krull cursed not getting out of the way in time, his boots were splattered.

“Jesus! Look at you.”

He was disgusted, indignant. Yet had to laugh at her, this wanly pretty little blond girl, looking like a wetted bird, feathers stuck to its skull.

It was thrilling to Krull to think, here was Ben Diehl’s sister. Here was Eddy Diehl’s daughter. Looking to
him,
for help.

Krull bundled her into his car, vomit-splattered clothes and all. Krull in thrilled disgust drove along Ferry Street to Union and to Post not knowing where the hell he was going thinking
Dump her at the ER! Let them empty out her guts.

Sometimes it happened, a user O.D.’ing on drugs was dumped behind the Sparta hospital. At the curb, and the driver pulled away, fast.

Instead, Krull took the girl to his aunt Viola’s. Shocked the hell out of his aunt seeing the limp part-conscious blond girl, so young, before even she knew the girl’s identity Viola was shocked, and disapproving, thinking this under-age girl—fifteen? fourteen?—was a girlfriend of her nephew Aaron who’d had sex with her, given her drugs and had sex with her which was equivalent to rape, a girl so young, and now it looked as if she was O.D.’ing, in a few minutes she’d be dead. Why the hell did you bring her here? Krull’s aunt asked him, and Krull said he hadn’t known what else to do. Couldn’t take her home in this condition and didn’t want to risk dumping her at the ER, if someone saw his license plate, or his face. Nor had he wanted to dump her on a street corner or in a field or in a freight car at the railroad yard which was where it looked that bastard
Duncan Metz had intended to dump her. Viola asked if the girl was his girl and vehemently Krull said No she was not. He didn’t have sex with girls that young and he’d never have sex with this girl, for Christ’s sake. And Viola said, flush-faced:

“It’s rape, Aaron. They call it ‘statue-tary’ rape. When the girl is under age and you’re not.”

“I said,
I did not have sex with her.”

“Is there somebody else, who did?”

Krull didn’t know. Didn’t want to think what Metz had been doing with Krista Diehl, in the depot.

He was staring at the girl as she swayed on her feet. His aunt was holding her now, wiping at her face with a tissue. The Diehl girl who appeared to be only minimally conscious of her surroundings. Krista Diehl, here! Krull was made to think of what linked them, him and her; what the connection was between them, powerful as a blood-bond, of which neither could have spoken.

Hurt me! You can try.

What happened between them, then.

No way of speaking of this either.

After he’d told his aunt who the girl was. After she’d stared at him in disbelief. After she’d gone to make a phone call and Krull was alone with the girl, in his aunt’s bathroom. Krull turned on both faucets and the girl was trying to wash her face, swaying against the sink, light-headed, clumsy.

He had not wanted to touch her further. He’d given her a washcloth, she fumbled in her fingers. And suddenly his hands were closing around her neck. He was standing close behind her, at the sink. Couldn’t seem to control his hands, closing around the girl’s slender neck. And feeling her immediate fear, her panic, in that instant, he was hard. Blood in his penis, hard as a hammer. His brain was close to extinction, annihilation.

Taunting her: “This how he did it? Your father…”

How Eddy Diehl had strangled Zoe, in her bed. Except Krull seemed to recall there’d been a towel twisted around his mother’s neck. But maybe
Eddy Diehl had strangled her before using the towel. Maybe there had been the marks of a man’s fingers, shadow-fingers on the discolored skin.

Krull hadn’t seen his mother’s throat but he’d seen her face. Always at all times shutting his eyes Krull sees his dead mother’s face. A swollen face like a bruised and broken melon, sallow skin, bloodied skin, broken cheekbones and broken eye sockets and the opened eyes, like grapes. And in the eyes the burst capillaries, the pressure of strangulation.

Krull had seen his mother dead, and he’d smelled her. Krull’s beautiful mother except not beautiful now. This was Zoe’s reward. This was Zoe’s punishment.
Got what she deserved for Christ’s sake. That poor woman
it was said. Krull had heard such utterances, or had almost heard them. A terrible choking rage rose in Krull, to punish.

“…this? Like this?
This…
”

He was pressing against her, his weight against her back. He was squeezing her throat. Weakly the girl picked at his fingers but lacked the strength to free herself. Not daring to claw frantically at him as another girl might out of a fear of provoking him to greater anger. For maybe—the terrified girl might be reasoning—Krull was just teasing, wasn’t really serious as—maybe—Duncan Metz had not been serious and had not intended to rape her and let her die of a drug overdose in a freight car; maybe in another moment Krull would loosen his grip on her throat, and laugh at her. Laugh at her terror. Reveal this as a joke.

Guys did such things. Took you to the edge. Showed you what was beyond the edge. And if you believed, a guy would laugh at you, scorn you. He’d tell his friends and they would laugh at you, too.

But you couldn’t know. Sometimes you couldn’t know until it was too late.

Mira Roche had told Krista this. And Bernadette. Krista’s friends!

The fact was, Krull had not been alone with Krista. Close by in the apartment his aunt Viola had been on the telephone. If he’d been alone with Krista, if he’d brought her out to the farmhouse on Quarry Road, something different might have happened. But Krull’s aunt was in the
apartment, and Krull only just rubbed hard against the girl, through her clothes. And through his clothes, he had not unzipped his trousers. He had not taken out his cock, to force against her. Hadn’t pulled down her jeans, to force his cock into her. The crack of her tender little ass. He’d have torn her badly, he’d have caused her to bleed but this had not happened, for Krull’s aunt was close by. Within several swift seconds he came, and came hard. He came nearly fainting. He would think
She doesn’t know. Neither of them will know.