The Sitter Page 13
“It should be raining,” I say finally, wiping my eyes with a tissue. “Sunshine at my son's grave is too much to bear.”
“Would you like to be alone for a few moments?”
I start to shake my head, then pause and nod. “Just for a minute.” Bertie squeezes my shoulder and walks a few yards away, stopping in front of another marker. I stand silent, awash with pain. I remember him as a newborn--so much hair he looked Neanderthal. The nurses had a ball parting and combing it up into a pompadour for his birth photo. The guilt that had been fading slightly now rises again, strong as ever. How can I stand here before the boy I have failed so miserably? How could I have given him over to the care of one such as Larry Cutler? Outrageous. Unforgivable.
“Oh Stevie...sorry. I'm...so sorry.” The inadequacy of my words is profound. I know that solace and peace are strangers to me now, and will very likely remain so.
I kneel and place the bouquet of wild daisies I had brought at the base of the marker. I put my fingers to my lips and then to the cold stone.
After a simple lunch with Bertie, I go home to find an envelope in the mail from the coroner's office. I take it to my desk in the alcove of the living room that faces out into the sunny back yard. Slitting open the envelope, I remove five typewritten sheets of paper that are stapled together. My hands are trembling as I begin to read.
County of Pine Glen, California
Office of the Medical Examiner,
5585 Shadowlawn Avenue, office #8, Pine Glen, CA.
94116-7123. Telephone: 583-384-6868
AUTOPSY REPORT
Name of deceased: STEVEN JAMES CONNOR, JR. ME# 042
Place of residence 4231 Canyon BLVD., PINE GLEN CA.
92336
Age: 9 YEARS, Male Caucasian.
Place of Death: THE PINE GLEN RIVER on SOUTH RIVER RD.
Date and time of death: JUNE 12, 2000. APPROX. 1:00 P.M.
Date and time of autopsy: JUNE 13, 2000. 9:15 a.m.- 10:15
a.m.
CAUSE OF DEATH: DROWNING: Body found and removed from
Pine Glen River by one Larry Cutler.
MANNER OF DEATH: ACCIDENTAL DROWNING
AUTOPSY SUMMARY:
Drowning confirmed
Superficial abrasion and bruise, right forehead.
Pulmonary edema and congestion, marked.
Watery gastric contents of stomach.
OPINION: It is my opinion that 9-year-old Steven Connor Jr. drowned in the Pine Glen River while fishing. There is a superficial abrasion on the forehead, apparently from striking a rocky ledge while falling into the river. This blow apparently resulted in the victim becoming unconscious and subsequently drowning. There is faint bruising on the shoulders, cause unknown. There are no traumatic internal injuries. There is pulmonary edema and watery gastric stomach contents which indicate drowning. From the scene investigation and circumstances surrounding the death, the manner of death is classified as an accidental drowning.
Luella C. Kendrick, M.D.
Deputy Medical Examiner
June 13, 2000
IDENTIFICATION: The body is identified by a Medical Examiner's identification bracelet stating the decedent's name and autopsy number.
CLOTHING: see Examining Room Log Book.
EXTERNAL EXAMINATION: The body is that of a well-developed, well-nourished male Caucasian child who is the recorded age of 9 years. He measures 49 inches in height and weighs 75 pounds.
There is moderate to severe degree of rigor mortis in the neck, jaw and extremities. There is unfixed pinkish-red lividity on the back.
FACE AND HEAD: The head is unremarkable. It is free of--
I can no longer see the page. Unremarkable. Stevie's head is unremarkable. I flip through the remaining pages. They describe in monstrous, obsessive detail every minute facet of every organ in my son's defenseless body.
I sense tears massing behind my eyes, pulsing there, waiting to spill and bring release. But I deny them and the effort brings anger. No, rage--mostly at myself.
How could I have let them perform such obscenities on my boy?
I find Joel Gant's card and dial his number. On hold, I look out the window at the picturesque tableau of fall beauty. I can't imagine ever finding pleasure in such a sight again.
At last I hear Joel's voice. “How... ” I begin, now so angry my vision is blurring, “how can knowing how much Stevie's right lung weighs possibly help to bring closure to his death?”
“Ah...Jeannie?”
“What were you thinking, having me read this?”
“Hold on, Jeannie. The first page is the only part that's really important to you. That's the page that tells-- ”
“It says his head is unremarkable. Un-re-mark-able!”
Anger at this man is not reasonable I know, but it feels so very good. As do my tears that now come dribbling down my cheeks.
“...you what actually happened. For instance, did he hit his head when he fell? The report should tell you that.”
“Yes, I see that.”
“Please read it to me.”
I recite the medical examiner's opinion that Stevie probably hit his head on the rocky ledge as he fell.
“Now you can read further and find out if that left a bruise or an abrasion, and if so, where.”
“Yes,” I say, noticing that the head and face section I had been starting to read discussed the abrasion in more detail. “It says that on his right temple is an ill-defined semicircle, and measures about 1-1/4 inches in length.”
I hear Steven's presence in the room then, his sandals slapping their way toward me.
“Does it mention any other bruises or abrasions?”
“No.”
“What about the stomach? Does it--”
“Wait. It says there is faint bruising on each shoulder.”
“Mmmm. Kind of odd. Does it say what was in his stomach?”
“Watery gastric contents.” I feel Steven behind me, at my shoulder.
“So he hadn't eaten yet. No possibility of cramps. See, that tells you something. Tells you he hit his head while falling, became unconscious, etc. etc--gives you the details. You don't have to read all that other garbage. That organ weight stuff means nothing; it's just required by law. I'm really sorry this has upset you, Jeannie.”
“No...” I am breathing so deeply, so fast, I am light-headed. “I'm all right now,” I say, wishing that were true. I would have said more but Steven's proximity bothers me; I know he's probably not too happy hearing my end of this conversation. I feel his hand on my shoulder. “Thanks for your help, Joel.”
“Anytime, Jeannie. If you want to get together...you know, to talk, I'd be happy--”
I hang up, cutting him off. I am vaguely uncomfortable with his offer. Why? Because Steven would hear and what...misunderstand? Steven roughly turns me to face him.
“What is that all about?” He reaches for the papers in my hand--the autopsy report. He does not look pleased. “I didn't know you had this.” He begins to read.
“Just read the first page, Steven. It's the important stuff and it's...easier than the rest.”
“I'll read what I fucking well want to read.” He turns his back to me.
“Fine.” I should know better than to tell him what to do. I should have told him about my conversation with Joel and about the autopsy report he suggested.
Finishing the first page, he flips quickly through the remaining ones--those that deal with Stevie's organs, their condition and weight. “That was Joel Gant on the phone?”
“Yes.”
He turns back to me and throws the report onto my desk. There are ruddy stains of color on his cheeks.
“Why?” He assumes a combative stance, hands on hips and feet planted firmly apart.
“Why what?” It's absurd but I want to laugh. I feel as if I've been 'bad' and am about to be chastised by the school principal.
“Why do you find it necessary to talk with the husband of a client of mine about
our son's autopsy report?”
“Oh for God's sake, Steven, he's in the business!” Too emotional, too loud. “What I mean is,” I say slowly, trying to calm myself, “he knows these things. I wanted help in interpreting--”
“What's to interpret?” His hands are fists now and he has them clenched at his sides. “He slipped and fell. He hit his head as he fell into the water. He was unconscious and he drowned. That's what Stevie did, Jeannie, that's exactly what he did. Is that so complex you need an autopsy report to spell it out for you?”
The righteous fire of my cause leaves me. I am bereft, empty. He's right, of course. I am picking at our son's death, keeping the wound open. Why do I do that? I reach for him. “Steven, I'm so--”
He waves me away. “You've got to have a policeman--or whatever the fuck he is--interpret your son's death for you?” He leaves the room.
I can't imagine a worse night for it, considering the trip to Stevie's grave and my abortive attempt at 'closure', and now our heavily armed 'truce', but we are having dinner with the McQueen's. The date had been made earlier in the week and I didn't want to cancel at the last minute. So here we are, another BBQ dinner, this one at Billy Jo's Honest to Goodness BBQ! In down town Pine Glen. I feel terrible, and from Steven's dark and brooding countenance, I know he feels much the same.
The four of us are sitting at a wooden picnic table with captain's chairs all around. More tables are lined up in the center of the large room with a full bar on one side and a polished plank dance floor on the other. It's mid-week and the place is practically deserted.
The waitress, a pert young brunette in a red cotton tank top, denim cutoffs and cowboy boots brings us menus. I am far from hungry but I study my menu as if what I will order is somehow important. The scent of barbecue sauce laced with smoke floats through the room.
“What looks good to you folks?” Leo inquires, frowning at his menu. Someone, perhaps his mother, must have told Leo he looked wonderful in blue because he never wears any other color, except white once in a while. Tonight he is in pale blue jeans and a blue denim shirt. Bertie tells me he owns three identical blue-gray suits, which he alternates wearing to work, with either white or navy shirts. “I'm gonna have the sampler I guess,” he says.
“Sampler sounds good,” I say though nothing sounds good to me tonight.
The waitress arrives and takes everyone's order. Steven selects the chicken and a pitcher of beer, while Bertie orders a slab of beef ribs. Bertie McQueen loves ribs; I've seen her consume two complete orders with absolutely no problem.
“The little woman here,” Leo says with a smile, referring to Bertie who outweighs him by at least 25 pounds, “wants me to sack Larry Cutler. He cuts our grass from time to time. Bertie doesn't want him around our place anymore--not since she heard about the run in he had at school with the Kennedy girl. In a way, I kind of hate--”
“I wish we'd do the same,” I say quickly. “Sack his ass. I hate that prick.”
Steven stares at me. “Nice language.”
I shrug, realizing my hatred for Larry is growing stronger each day.
“Who's watching Kevin tonight?” Bertie asks.
“Karla Smith, a girl from the Youth Center.” I glance at a stoic Steven who has made it clear he prefers a male sitter. “Leo, what do you think of Larry,” I ask. “I'd really like your opinion of him.”
Leo folds his hands, gazes pensively down at them and purses his mouth in thought. As a very successful financial planner who specializes in older, retirement age clientele, I know he must inspire a great deal of confidence. As he carefully considers my question, he is the epitome of professional intelligence, earnest and caring... a truly professional and trustworthy combination.
“If you had asked me that before the accident,” he says, looking at me with his kind, chocolate colored eyes, “and before this accusation at school, I would have said I thought he was a nice enough kid, an okay young man, and let it go at that. But now, there seems to be a... an aura of suspicion around him. A whole lot of conjecture complicated by very few facts.”
“We need more facts,” Steven states.
“Exactly,” Leo says, nodding. “Did he or didn't he try to rape the Kennedy girl?”
“And, what really happened at the river?” I say. “Too much has happened around that boy!” I want to go on but I know I'm close to losing it. Again.
“We know what happened at the river,” Steven says. “And, though he may have scared the crap out of the Kennedy girl, the rape thing has been dropped.”
Our dinners arrive and with no trace of an appetite I stare at the laden, steaming plate before me. I pick up my fork and then put it down.
“Sorry.” I look at Bertie and Leo. “I'm not at my best tonight.”
“My wife found it necessary to read Stevie's autopsy report,” Steven says with a rueful smile.
“Pretty tough reading, I'll bet,” Leo says as he chews
on a half-cob of corn, butter glazing his chin.
“But it is a way to learn more about what actually happened.” That from the ever-loyal Bertie.
“We know what happened,” Steven says again, waving a chicken leg at Bertie and Leo. “What the hell is it going to take to leave all this debilitating grief behind and start to get on with our lives?” Then he launches into a monologue explaining his feelings in detail. Both Bertie and Leo listen intently and sympathetically. I envy his ability to articulate his opinions with such gusto.
“Hey, maybe I'm a cold sonofabitch but I am so goddamned tired of massaging this shit. Excuse my language, ladies.” He nods at Bertie and me. “I'm burned out on this crap. Jeannie here, and sometimes me too; we're turning our anger and grief into an art!” Pausing, he bites into the chicken leg and tears off a mouthful of juicy meat. I look away. “Fact is,” he goes on, his speech slightly garbled by chewing, “Stevie was unlucky. We, his family, are unlucky. Stevie had a senseless accident and he's gone. And we, his family, are forever saddened by our loss. Forever... altered by his absence. But, do we have to be forever destroyed? Do we?”
I feel his eyes. I know he's speaking directly to me. It's at that moment I notice the family at the next table--notice the boy.
“I don't think so,” Steven goes on. “I think we have to pick up the pieces and get on with our lives. We've just got to! I know all about those 'phases'. Shock, denial, whatever...then acceptance. How we've got to go through all... ”
His voice is fading and I accept the fact that I need to eat something.
The boy at the next table doesn't look all that much like Stevie--not really. He's smaller, almost delicate in stature. But he has those dark eyes...sensitive mouth, lots of wavy hair. I know so well what that feels like, that thick, healthy hair springing up into the palm of my hand.
“Sure, a little blame is probably a healthy thing at first, and to... ah, vent--I guess is the word--but to hang on to Larry Cutler as our ever present, ever-so-handy scapegoat is too damn... ”
I bite into the wing. It tastes like soft, cool cardboard with BBQ sauce on it.
“...sick about it too. Sure, Larry was remiss. I mean that's obvious.”
Remiss? I put the chicken down and wipe my mouth with a paper napkin. A cleaning lady can be remiss. Sometimes a waiter. Larry? Sure. Like Lizzie Borden was remiss in the care of her parents.
The boy at the nearby table is trying to talk to his parents. I assume that's who the man and woman at his table are. They aren't interested. The boy becomes more animated now, is waving his hands. I can't hear what he's saying. Frowning, the woman puts her hand on the boy's arm, leans close to him and speaks rapidly into his ear. The air goes out of the kid. I watch him simply deflate. His face contorts into the grimace of tears.
Why don't you listen to him?
When we arrive home Steven pours a brandy with a generous hand, insisting that I join him. Which I do, thinking it might help me get to sleep. The brandy knocks Steven out cold while it keeps me awake.
A picture of the two boys at the river's edge that day slides easily into my mind. A sunny, idyllic day. A Norman Rockwell scene with Larry teaching Stevie how to cast. I try to remember everything Larry told me at the river. Everything before he decided to rip his face to shreds.
If I hadn't been so hard on him, he might have held himself together and told me more!
Larry goes to the backpack to get a Twinkie for Stevie, I remember. I close my eyes and get a surprisingly clear picture. There he is, my Stevie, standing at the edge of the rocky out cropping. He slips and falls, hits his head. His right forehead to be accurate. I can't see the next part clearly. Do his feet just go out from under him? If that happens doesn't he land on his bottom? I guess not--not if he stands at the very edge. But, wouldn't he cry out? And, wouldn't Larry hear him?
Surely, he doesn't fall so fast that he doesn't have time to make a sound!
The part that's also unclear to me is the mark on his forehead. If he plunges straight down and strikes his head on the rocky ledge, wouldn't that mark be on the back of his head? Perhaps he twists his body as he falls...? That seems unlikely. I simply cannot picture the fall itself. I know that's what happened, but...My next step is obvious.
I will go back to the river. I will stand on that ledge just as Stevie did, and I will fall into the river.
Once in the water, I will have a close look at the part of the rocky ledge at the water's edge and the part below. Crazy, sure, but why not? What have I got to lose? I will go thru Stevie's motions myself and then I will understand. Maybe...just maybe, I will then know some sort of 'closure.'
Friday, October 13th
“Larry,” Catherine said, “Do you know a Jordan Kennedy?”
Larry was at the sink rinsing his plate. “Not really,” he said. ”Why?”
“Emma has a neighbor--teaches at the Flats High school. “This neighbor told Emma about some trouble there a while back between you and this Jordan girl.”