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Authors: Mark Richard Zubro

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BOOK: Why Isn't Becky Twitchell Dead?
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“What'd she say?”
“I think she must have figured that was the excuse for that night's fight. I tried to stay calm. I told her I was serious. That the fights were over. I even pulled to the side of the road and tried to explain. She laughed at me, hit me, slapped me. I tried to stop her.”
He walked over to me, head down, his hands out, pleading for understanding. “I hit her. Harder than ever before. She was unconscious. I got real scared.” He sat down and told the rest. He drove to a gas station to get some water. She came around but wouldn't talk to him. Susan then spent fifteen minutes in the women's room. When she came out, she ignored him and began walking away. He followed her and offered to drive her home or to a friend's. She pushed him away, then swore at him and started swinging. He claimed he didn't touch her or even lift a hand against her. He knew he couldn't hit her. He said that by then he was crying, begging her to stop, to listen. Finally,
she told him he was an asshole jock, and aimed a last kick. He tried to dodge, but she got him in the nuts. While he bent over, she laughed at him, slapped him with her purse, and took off running. He didn't see her again.
After he finished, he slumped down in the chair. I asked a few questions on details.
He drove around until one in the morning. He had no witnesses for this. He sneaked into the house, avoiding his mom, who'd fallen asleep on the couch. At home, Paul Conlan had left a message for him to call no matter when he got in. He'd called Conlan, who had a private phone in his bedroom. Paul told him they'd found Susan dead. One of the kids at the party had seen the police cars at Susan's house and called Conlan. Paul told Jeff the police were hunting for him. Jeff guessed he'd be suspected, figured he'd better not hang around the house. He thought he'd try to hide at a friend's.
I told him about seeing the kids in the police station earlier. He snorted contemptuously. “They wouldn't help last night when I needed them.” He continued the story. He couldn't stay at home, he was sure the police would be there. He didn't want the hassle he knew he'd get from his mom. He drove around most of the night. He tried a couple friends. No one, including Conlan, would let him in. He watched for his mom to leave for work, then he entered the house. He didn't answer the phone or the door, but his mom went home at noon and found him. She got mad when he wouldn't talk to her, then later the police arrived.
I asked him about Susan's blood in his car.
“In the fight, she got a bloody nose. They found my blood, too.” He rolled his sleeve up and showed me the gouges on his wrist and arm. “The police don't believe I didn't do it.”
He claimed to know nothing about Susan's activities after she'd left him. I tried various questions from different angles, but he stuck to his story. Finally, I asked whether there was anything else he could tell me.
He hesitated. “One odd thing last night. After I called Paul, before I left the house, Becky Twitchell phoned. She almost woke up my mom. Becky told me to keep my mouth shut about the kids at the party. She warned me not to tell. You can't be too careful with Becky. Bad things happen to people who cross her.”
If they ever held auditions again for the Wicked Witch of the West, Becky would win. If a teacher strangled Becky in front of the entire student body at high noon, as long as there was one teacher on the jury, they'd never vote to convict. If there was a school rule she hadn't broken, I didn't know about it. Her mom is president of the school board. This explains a great deal.
The teachers hate Mrs. Twitchell almost as much as they hate Becky. As a freshman, Becky had complained to her mom about one first-year math teacher. Becky had made the class a total hell, and her mom had made so much trouble with the administration that the teacher had simply quit—and she had the makings of a good teacher. Rumor had it that if you got hold of Mr. Twitchell, you might see some chagrin in his daughter for a day or two. I'd never seen evidence of this.
The kid mouths off, talks back, hums, whistles, mumbles under her breath, or a combination of the above, in all classes. A large portion of the faculty believes Becky's behind every evil perpetrated in the school, from break-ins to broken windows. If kids were rebellious, it was Becky's fault for encouraging them. If there was cigarette smoke in the girls' john, they were sure it was Becky. If anti-teacher hate graffiti appeared painted on the school walls, Becky got blamed. The rare times Becky'd been caught, Mom had stepped in. Becky would return to school the next day with a shit-eating grin. Whatever political pressure occurred, Becky never served a minute of suspension or detention. She always won. She frightened many of the teachers. The only one of us who'd defied her this year found his tires slashed in the parking lot that afternoon.
I'd hated her last year as a junior. I'd felt her watching me in class, her mind whirling and calculating. I know, I know. As a teacher, you're supposed to care and be impartial. Every teacher I remember as a kid had favorites. Every teacher I knew on the faculty at Grover Cleveland High School had favorites. Face it, some kids are assholes. Some are great to know. Most teachers try to be fair. I've never changed a grade no matter how intensely I liked or disliked a kid.
“How do you get along with Becky?” I asked.
“She's Paul's girlfriend. What's to get along with? I try to stay out of her way. All the guys do. She's vicious.”
Almost casually, I asked, “Did you know Susan was pregnant?”
His openmouthed surprise clicked in my mind as genuine. “She couldn't be,” he said. “We always, I mean, I used, you know, protection.” He told me the story of how after they'd dated awhile, Mrs. Warren had made Susan go to a family-planning clinic. She wouldn't talk to Susan about sex or being pregnant, but she made her go. Somehow, her mom had figured out about them. The clinic made Susan take Jeff along for a visit. After this explanation, tears rimmed his eyes, but he didn't cry. He said, “I thought she loved me.”
I told him about condoms not being 100 percent sure, but he remained adamant. It wasn't him.
I switched to asking him how he got along with his mom and dad. Mom was a shrug and an “Okay, I guess.” Much as I liked Mrs. Trask, I imagine she could be a bitch to live with. Mr. Trask was a sneer and an “I hate the bastard.” He saw his dad very rarely. Last summer had been an experiment because he'd had a fight with his mom. Annoying as life with his mom had been, the months with his dad were worse.
I got the names of the other kids at the party. I'd want to talk to them the next day. We talked for a while longer, but he could give no indication of who might have wanted to hurt Susan, where she might have gone, or who she might have been with.
His last plea was for me to please help him, and a powerful reiteration of his innocence.
I told him it looked bleak but that I would do everything I could for him.
When I returned to the front desk, Mr. Trask and the group of kids had left.
I talked with Frank briefly. The last thing he said was, “If you believe Jeff is innocent, then obviously somebody else did it. A good place to start is with the other kids at the party. My cop instincts tell me something is up with them. I've never met such a closed-mouth group. I wanted to find out some basic information about the party. I couldn't get more than one or two words out of them. You're good at getting teenagers to open up to you. I'd appreciate it if you'd talk to them. See if you can find anything out.
I told him I'd give it a try.
Mrs. Trask drove me home. I assured her that I'd help Jeff. When she stopped to let me out, she reached over and gave me an awkward hug. I told her I would talk to her the next day.
 
I strolled between icy patches to the mailbox at the edge of the road. I could see Scott's car up the driveway fifty feet, next to the house.
Moonlight reflected off the windows of a car parked a hundred yards past my place. Cold night for kids to be out necking, I thought. The car's lights flicked on. I pulled open the mailbox: bills and junk mail. The car moved forward. Our arrival probably scared them off. Kids like to use the unlighted roads around my place for trysting. As long as they don't leave beer cans, used condoms, and other signs of teenage activity, I don't care. Usually, they drive past my place to the dimmer shadows of the cul de sac formed by the intersection with Interstate 80, a mile farther down my road.
The car shot forward. I eased a little farther off the pavement
toward the mailbox. The car lights came straight at me and didn't slow down. I turned to dive for the ditch at the side of the road. My feet caught on an icy patch; I slipped, fell, scrambled to move. The oncoming lights blinded me for an instant. On hands and knees, I lurched toward the ditch. I couldn't get a grip because of the ice.
Horn blaring, engine roaring, the car flew by me. I'm still not sure how it missed. I got up, brushed myself off, and swore at the goddamn teenagers. The red taillights bobbed in the distance. I saw the car turn onto 183rd Street and race toward LaGrange Road. By the time I got in the house, found Scott's keys, and gave chase, it would have been too late.
Except for a couple scrapes on my hands, I wasn't hurt. The incident shook me a little. It had to be an innocent accident, I thought, hoped. A couple kids surprised necking or drinking beer, getting a little revenge. I tried to shrug it off. But the driver had long blond hair, and for an instant, although I couldn't testify to it, I thought it might have been Becky Twitchell. As I walked up the driveway, I decided I was paranoid.
 
I live in a farmhouse in the middle of one of the last cornfields in southwestern Cook County. The subdivisions creep closer every year. Soon I'll want to sell. I like the quiet. I own the house and two acres around it. The fields belong to a farmer I've seen only at a distance as he works the land.
Faint tapping sounds led me to the top of the basement steps. A variety of large and small engine parts lay scattered on the carpeted stairs. The taps became bangs as I maneuvered my
way to the bottom of the steps. I found Scott visible from the waist down, under the washing machine.
I sat on the workout bench. My basement contains a furnace, a washer and dryer, two sets of weights, and a sump pump—all of which sit surrounded by four unadorned cinder-block walls. We need most of the room for our workouts. I heard a bang, a clatter, and a satisfied grunt. He can fix anything. I've known him to take machines declared terminally ill by a team of certified mechanics, place his hands over them, and the damn things heal. Until Eric Trask, Scott always worked on my cars.
A hand with a rust-encrusted jumble of metal, followed by a grime-shrouded arm, emerged from beneath the machine. “Take this, please,” he said.
“I didn't know you heard me.” I grabbed the thing and placed it on a pile of newspapers. “Anything else I can do?”
He gave me a muffled no. I retreated to the stairs.
“Got your message on the machine,” he said.
“Good. I had to accompany Mrs. Trask to the police station.”
Several hammer bangs clanged out. “Eric stealing cars again?”
“No, Jeff, the younger brother, this time. They think he murdered his girlfriend.”
He stuck his head out from under the washer. Dirty smudges covered his blond hair and half his forehead. “Murdered?”
“That's what the cops think.” I told him the story while he worked. He grunted in appropriate places. On occasion, his left hand would reach out to the panful of tools, select one, and snake back under the machine. I could never figure out how he could get the exact right tool only by touch. While I talked, I admired the way his tight faded jeans clung to the contours of his body.
The loudest bangs of all came as I finished my story. A half-minute pause, then: “Shit, this thing is so fucked up. Why don't you let me buy you a new one?”
“I like that one. I'm used to it.” At the start of our relationship
nine years ago, he'd offered to buy me everything from cars to new homes. My pride then and now won't let me accept such things. On electronic gadgets I'd always wanted, like state-of-the-art computers, printers, and copiers, my pride loosened its grip.
“I've got another hour under here,” he said. “Let's talk about the rest of this upstairs.”
I thought about sitting and watching him work. One of our sexiest moments had been the time we made love on the floor of the garage underneath the jacked-up car. He'd been fixing the muffler, with me helping him. The grease, dirt, and slight danger added zest to the occasion.
I had another idea.
An hour later, he clumped up the basement stairs and walked into the kitchen. “Something smells good,” he said. He stood next to me at the sink, washing the grease off his hands and arms. He eyed the stacks of dishes and pans strewn across all the counter space.
“How was your luncheon?” I asked.
“Pretty good, I guess. The food was nearly edible. The kid who got the M.V.P. award was so drunk, he couldn't stand up to accept the trophy. His coach had to rescue the situation. Embarrassed the kid's parents. The people who ran the banquet were nice.”
As one of the highest-paid pitchers in the Major Leagues, Scott is in great demand as a speaker. He hurled two no-hitters in the World Series a couple years ago. At six four, he's an inch taller than I am. We work out together as often as possible, sometimes with the old weights downstairs, or in his Lake Shore Drive penthouse with its state-of-the-art equipment.
He wiped his hands on a dish towel and gave me a hug. He smelled of sweat and grease. I inhaled deeply. He reached around me and lifted the cover from a plate of freshly baked cookies. “White chocolate chip with macadamia nuts, my favorite.” He nuzzled my ear. “What's the occasion?”
I rarely cook. Only my breakfasts are passable. It's hard to ruin toast. My cookies and cakes are edible. Generally, I try not to inflict my cooking on anyone. I avoid forcing foods into shapes God never intended. Besides, I'm not very good at it. Neither is Scott, although he does make an occasional holiday feast that is fabulous.
“This is a thank-you for fixing the washer, and a bribe to keep you from harassing me about not getting a new one, and for not finishing my Christmas shopping, and for not buying a new car.”
“You didn't even call any dealers, did you?”
“I had to go with Mrs. Trask.”
We sat at the kitchen table. I put a plate of cookies in front of him. I tried to avoid the shrewd look in his blue eyes.
“Do you want beer, milk, pop?” I asked.
“Milk.”
I reached over to the refrigerator, grabbed the carton, poured him some, set it in front of him, and rested my elbows on the table.
“Did you at least talk to Eric about when the car might be done?”
They'd had to tow my car from the parking lot at school last week. My eight-year-old Chevette began to internally hemorrhage about a half mile from school. Even I, mechanical klutz that I am, knew that if this wasn't the car's death throes, it was a sign that a terminal illness had set in. Eric had said he wouldn't be able to finish it until early this week.
“No time to call,” I said around a mouthful of cookie.
“Your mom called. You forgot to call her.”
“Shit.” I'd promised to make final Christmas plans with her today.
“She and I took care of next week's schedule.”
I thanked him and promised to phone her later.
“And you didn't call about new cars?” Scott reiterated.
I ate a bite of cookie and tried to look innocent. He's right. I
put everything off, or at least unpleasant shit. Although truly important things I never put off, as he'd see when he got his Christmas present. Also, I have gotten better over the years. It's not as if I can't afford a car. Maybe a nice sporty little thing with high gas mileage. I don't trust the Arabs and I want my new car to get more than fifty miles to the gallon, but I hate car shopping. He and I have argued about it before. The last time I bought a car, I walked on to the lot, found the cheapest one they had with the highest gas mileage, and told the salesman, “I want that one.”
Scott wants me to dicker and deal and beat the salesman at his own game. I just want to get the hell out and be done with the bullshit. He nags me about it. Yes, I know my old Chevette is falling apart. I know I'll need another new transmission soon. I know I need new tires. I know it probably won't last the winter.
“I won't have time this week, but I promise I'll go.”
“Before the end of the century?” he asked.
I gave him a dirty look.
“You don't need a car that could leave you stranded in weather like this. It's ten below out there right now. Frozen lover is not my idea of a wintertime treat.”
I leveled my best teacher stare at him, guaranteed to freeze kids in seconds. “I told you I'd do it,” I said.
We munched cookies and drank milk for a few minutes. Finally, I said, “I'm sorry. I'll take care of everything over vacation. I promise.”
He grumbled around a bit of cookie, swallowed, and gave me one of his golden smiles. We returned to Jeff's arrest and my agreeing to help him.
For years, I've taught the slowest of the slow kids—usually seniors, sometimes sophomores. Their problems have been myriad and profound. I've testified at court hearings to remove kids from their abusive parents. I've gotten kids into drug and alcohol rehab programs. I've spent hours in the waiting rooms of abortion clinics. Sometimes it's worked out and the kids have
turned their lives around and gone on to become productive adults; and some are in prison—arrested again after the best efforts of every concerned adult they know. A few are addicts, lost to themselves and society. Sometimes the frustrations get to me. I used to take them out on Scott. He doesn't put up with that kind of shit from me. He does worry because he knows what these things take out of me.
He frowned concernedly as I talked, then said, “You sure this is something you want to be a part of?”
“Definitely. I've known the family for years. I know most of the kids involved. Mrs. Trask has no one else to turn to. I think I can help.”
“Okay. You know your limits, and I'll be there with you.”
He finished the plate of cookies while I cleaned the kitchen. When I took his empty glass from the table, he chose that moment to remind me about the car. I scowled at him. “If you mention that again, young man, there'll be no sex for you for a week.”
He grabbed me and pulled me onto his lap. “This is ridiculous,” I said. His eyes gleamed impishly.
“Don't,” I warned, but it was too late. He knows I'm ticklish in only one place—a spot not normally touched in casual contact. His hand roved down my chest.
As I finished cleaning, he sat perched on the clean countertop. He snapped his fingers. “I forgot. You had a message on the machine. Neil Spirakos is in the hospital.”
I raised an eyebrow. “He finally had liposuction?”
“No. Serious, I guess. He said he'd been mugged and for you to call him. He's at Northwestern Memorial.”
Neil's one of the reigning queens in the gay community in Chicago, and my best friend in the city. Too late to call tonight; I'd phone him tomorrow.
In bed, Scott said, “I'll be talking to your brother Glen tomorrow. We're set for his place Christmas Eve?”
“Yeah.” Scott reads “The Night Before Christmas” and a million
other stories to the youngest ones every year on Christmas Eve.
“Did your parents call?” I asked.
He shook his head no.
Scott had told his parents he was gay during his yearly visit after the baseball season. His parents are backcountry Alabama born-again Baptists. Their little boy sleeping with a man was too much for them. He'd had to cut short his visit because of their outrage and hurt.
My family, on the other hand, is nuts about him. We spend most holidays with them. My father and brothers get puffed up with pride having a star baseball player in the house. My nieces and nephews love him. Last Christmas, he spent hours rolling around outside in the snow with them. At least once each visit, my mother and sister corner me in the kitchen to tell me how wonderful he is and then urge me to accept his offers of us living together. One day, I'll accept their advice.
This year, he decided it was time I met his parents. He'd gone to prepare the way. Instead, he'd met rejection. This wasn't unusual, but it's tough to cope with. He'd hoped for a good response from his sister. They've been real close since they were kids. No such luck. I told him to give them more time.
I snuggled closer to his warmth and felt the first stirrings of drowsiness. He said, “I've been meaning to ask you something. Some of the guys on the team are throwing a New Year's Eve party. They're all my friends. It's going to be a small gathering, a couple guys and their wives.”
“I can spend the evening listening to the Midnight Special New Year's Eve program on WFMT.” I yawned.
“No. I'd like you to go with me.” Doug Courtland, Scott's best friend on the team, had called to invite him. Numerous times, Scott has said that if he came out to anybody on the team, it would be Doug.
I came awake a bit more. “You sure you want me along?” For years, he'd kept his sexual orientation a huge secret. Fear of
total shit hitting the fan if team management found out kept him closeted in the locker room. This would be a big step for him.
BOOK: Why Isn't Becky Twitchell Dead?
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