The Sitter Read online

  I walk to the grassy place where Larry said they had set down their pack and where he'd shown Stevie how to cast. I toss my small duffle down and stand there, trying to put myself into Stevie's shoes. I can picture him clearly and I lift my hand to cast out the imaginary line onto the grassy dirt. I know I will dissolve into tears if I keep this up, so I quickly strip down to my bathing suit, laying my T-shirt and jeans on the duffle. I kick off my sandals and walk to the rocky out-cropping where Larry said he and Stevie had stood that day.

  I climb up onto the rocky area and walk to the edge. I raise my nonexistent fishing rod and cast out into the river. Stevie had on tennis shoes, I remember, and look down at my bare feet. The rocky place where I'm standing is not smooth; it's rough and tactile. How could he slip? Was he thrown off balance by his own cast? I cast out again, this time with an intentionally awkward motion. No slip, but it's a silly test since I have no idea what particular movement Stevie made.

  But he did slip. Larry said he must have. It was while Larry was getting him a Twinkie. A Twinkie! I look over at my duffle and realize I have a clear line of sight to it.

  But Larry--God-damn-him-to-hell--must have had his back to Stevie. Why? What kind of a sitter doesn't watch...?

  I don't believe him. I know it didn't happen the way Larry said it did. Poor-Larry-Cutler didn't tell me the truth. Why not?

  Ok, so what is the truth? What do I know for sure? I massage my forehead, trying to think. I know from the autopsy report that Stevie drowned--that's how he died. And, I know he had an abrasion on his...what--left forehead? Which side? I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to picture the report. Then, typed out neatly into my mind's eye, I see the words 'right temple' and 'ill-defined abrasion'. According to Larry, Stevie received that when he slipped and fell into the water.

  I take a breath and inch my way to the very edge of the rocks. I try to slip and fall. Not easy to do, I find as I tumble awkwardly into the water. I come up fast to tread water and figure out how I could hit my right temple, and I make a startling discovery. I can stand. And, easily at that. The water hits me at mid-chest.

  Stevie could stand here as well, couldn't he? Might be on tip-toe, but I'm sure Stevie's head would be above water. Right here where Larry said he went into the water after him. It seems pretty level, and there is very little current. But there was an abrasion, as well as the fact that he was unconscious.

  I climb out and try it again. I turn my body as I go in, thinking that would be the only way Stevie could have hit his head. Even thrashing around and working at it, I make no contact with any rocks. Why is that? I stand on the river bottom at the edge of the jutting shelf of rock where he would have gone in. I take a breath and drop down, lowering my head below the water's surface. I see no rock. I get another breath and feel around and look around some more and there is no rock.

  I see that the ledge extends out over the water for at least two feet or so. It cantilevers out from its substantial base. It is only six or eight inches thick at its edge. No way. I can see no possible way Stevie could have hit his head slipping and falling in as Larry said.

  I shudder with a chill that has nothing to do with the temperature of the water. Larry lied to me. And to Steven, and to the authorities. Why?

  What really happened here, Larry?

  Back at the duffel, I put my jeans and shirt back on over my damp bathing suit and run a comb through my hair. I am full of alarm and confusion.

  It is then I remember the country store where Larry had gone to get help.

  The screen door bangs shut behind me, startling me as well as the portly gentleman behind the counter. “Sorry,” I say, smiling at him. “It slipped out of my hand.”

  “No problem,” he says. He puts the PEOPLE he's been reading face down near the cash register. He has a lot of white hair and a kind, wrinkled face. It is tanned as if he spends a lot of time outdoors.

  He has no trouble remembering Stevie and Larry, and explains to me that they had stopped in to buy worms and soda on their way to the river.

  “Sure am sorry for your loss, Ma'am,” he says on learning who I am. “Seemed like a sweet little guy.” His face twists into an expression of intense sorrow, and for a moment I think he's going to weep. “Didn't he, Colin?” His gaze is just over my right shoulder and I turn around to find a man standing behind me. He is a shorter, heavier version of the other and his round, ruddy face is fringed by wispy white hair. They have to be brothers. Colin thrusts a pudgy hand at me. “Real sorry,” he mumbles. We shake hands.

  “Frank Jarvis,” I hear the first man say and I turn to find him with his hand out also. “That there's my brother, Colin.”

  I'm pleased by their obvious concern and smile as I shake Frank's hand.

  “Sad thing, losin' a little one,” Frank says.

  “Sad,” Colin agrees. He stares down.

  I follow his gaze and am amazed to see that Colin is wearing bright red tennis shoes. The leather's been buffed to a glossy shine and glows up at me.

  “Yes,” I say, struggling to get a hold on this conversation. “I...I've just been to the river, where it happened,” I say this as a prologue to my questions, but they both begin making odd little sounds of distress, little murmurings of sadness.

  “Oh my,” mumbles Colin, actually wringing his hands.

  “Not good—not good at all,” Frank says, taking my arm and urging me to a stool near the counter. He sits me down. “Let me get you something to drink,” he says, gazing into my eyes. “Heineken?”

  “Yes,” agrees Colin and magically produces a cold can of beer.

  “Never pick at a scab,” Frank says, and pushes a large water glass toward me. With a flourish he pops the cap on the can, tilts the tumbler and fills it. “Won't heal, you do that,” he says, expertly sliding the glass into my hand.

  I lift it and drink deeply, surprised at my thirst. “You mean--”

  “I mean don't go to the river anymore.”

  “No, don't,” Colin puts in.

  “Got to let the healing happen,” Frank goes on. “Won't happen, you keep pickin'.”

  I notice that both men are wearing wide leather suspenders every bit as red as Colin's shoes.

  “There was three of us once,” Frank says, and I see tears come into his pale blue eyes. “Yes...surely was. His name was Aaron. We're not Jewish; Mama just liked the name. Had a kind of holy sound she thought.” He smiles apologetically, as if asking me to forgive his mother her errant sense of propriety.

  “A nice name,” I comment, somewhat warmed by this revelation.

  “First born,” Frank says. “Ran away. Twelve years old.”

  The brothers, in unison, shake their heads sadly.

  Another lost child. “A shame,” I say. Like Colin and Frank, I now speak in sentences without pronouns or even subjects. “Why?” I ask.

  They both look at me questioningly.

  “Why did he run away?”

  “Ah...,” says Colin. He shrugs. “Don't know really. Mama never wanted to talk about it.”

  “Didn't want to pick at the scab,” Colin explains, smiling, his eyes all but disappearing into the folds of his cheeks.

  I think a boy running away is a strange occurrence to leave unexamined. I know I would have picked at that particular scab a whole lot.

  Finally, I get around to asking about Stevie and Larry, and then about Larry running to the store for help. Frank does almost all the talking, but there is nothing new or revealing in what he tells me.

  Thanking the brothers profusely for their warm hospitality, I leave the store and walk to my car. As I unlock and open the car door, I hear the crunch of footsteps, and turn to see Colin Jarvis coming up to me.

  “Excited,” Colin states. “When he come here for help.”

  “After the accident, you mean?”

  He nods, frowning and scratching his head. “Different. Wasn't wild...grief stricken. Wasn't none of that.”

  “Excited,” I say, not sure what he i
s driving at, but getting a little excited myself.

  “Talked with a guy 'bout a fire once,” Colin says thoughtfully, and I think he's lost his focus. “Tellin' me 'bout it--all excited and worked up like some folks get when there's real big trouble, you know? Well. Turned out later...he was the guy started it. The fire.”

  In bed that night my head aches with all the thinking I'm doing. Colin's message... about Larry's excitement. Am I misreading it? And what if I'm not? Of course Larry was excited. That doesn't mean... What? But what about Larry's telling of the accident? It couldn't have happened the way he said it did. Certain my restless husband is still awake, I put a hand lightly on his chest. “You asleep?”

  He turns onto his side, facing me. “Want to watch some TV?”

  “Later maybe. I need to run something by you--something important. I...I went to the river today.” Steven says nothing. I take a shaky breath and plunge on. “I don't think Larry told the truth about what happened that day. In fact I know he didn't tell us the truth.” I wait a moment, hoping he'll make a comment.

  “How is it you know such a thing, Jeannie?” His tone is patient--with only a slight undercurrent of sarcasm.

  “I went there to...well, to re-enact what Larry said happened as best I could.” I continue, telling him all the holes I now see in Larry's story--the rough rock under Stevie's tennis shoes, the clear line of sight from the pack to where Stevie was, the absence of abrasion-causing rock under the ledge. I finish with the fact that I'm positive Stevie could have stood where Larry said he dove in to rescue him.

  Silence from Steven. Lengthy. “So, what do you think all that proves?” he asks finally.

  “That Larry's story doesn't work. It couldn't have happened the way he said it did.”

  “And, Jeannie, have you reported this data to the authorities?” His tone now clearly derisive, he sits up and faces me. “The authorities who seem to disagree with your...investigative findings?”

  “Steven, I'm just considering all this--”

  Steven swings his legs out of bed and stands up. I can see his pale body in the charcoal darkness as he begins to stride around the room.

  “I have to ask you, Jeannie--why do you persist in making Larry the villain here? God knows he was negligent, but you're suggesting Larry actually killed Stevie--do you realize that?”

  He strides over to me and leans down, his face close to mine. “Do you really think Larry Cutler murdered Stevie? You think Larry Cutler took our boy to the river to do him in? Why would he do that, Jeannie? Why would he kill a kid who loved him like a brother...why?”

  I move to sit on the edge of the bed.

  “Every point you've made, every question you've raised can be logically explained. Every one.” He stops in front of me, leans down into my face. “I just don't know why I'm the guy who has to do that.”

  “Steven--”

  “Take the wound on his head, the abrasion, ok? There's rock everywhere, right?” He stands and resumes his pacing. “I was there too, Jeannie, I saw it. Stevie tripped and hit his head on the ledge itself and rolled, unconscious, into the water. He could have stumbled and banged his head trying to climb out. A million different ways that mark on his forehead could have occurred.”

  I stand and reach out to him but he ignores my hand.

  “Now, take the fact that you realized it was shallow enough that he could stand where you were standing today. That wouldn't do him much good if he was unconscious, now would it? Plus the fact that it happened in June. This is October.”

  He stands in front of me now, too close; I feel his hot breath in my face.

  “Isn't this October? Is this October, Jeannie?”

  I hate him. I hate him all the more because I see that he's right. About everything.

  “There's been no rain to speak of--right, Jeannie?” He's so close now that hot little flecks of his spit are hitting my face. “So the river is LOWER NOW! IT'S SHALLOW NOW! You do see that, don--”

  A sound. A loud smack. I feel the palm of my hand connect with Steven's left cheek. My hand stings with the force of the slap. I am dumbfounded, astonished. Both with my action, and how very good it feels.

  Steven drops to his knees. “Our life was so perfect,” he says, and thrusts his face against my abdomen. “I'm so pissed at Stevie, you know? Jeannie, I'm angry at Larry, you bet I am. Hell, I'm mad at everyone--Stevie, Larry, clients who call and you too, I guess. I'm so sorry I got mad at you.”

  He speaks in a whisper. “It's just...I think Larry's important to Kevin, you know? Let Kevin be with him a little, Jeannie. Not forever. Just for a little while longer. Let's please wait until Kevin gets over the loss of his brother, at least somewhat, before we take Larry away from him ok?”

  I am suddenly exhausted. Utterly. “I suppose you're right,” I murmur and slide once again into the velvet asylum of my husband's common sense.

  “Maybe we should think about having another child,” Steven says.

  “Funny,” I say after a moment.

  “Funny?”

  “Bertie said the same thing, just the other day.” I realize then that the idea no longer seems ridiculous.

  “I visited Stevie's grave with Bertie,” I say softly, my mouth against his hair. “Will you take me with you the next time you go?”

  “Of course I will.”

  Feet cold--tennis shoes leaking water. Colin smiles.

  'Still lookin' into stuff?' he asks.

  I nod.

  'You're pickin' at it,” says Frank. He frowns.

  'What did they buy?'

  They stare. 'Oh my,' says Colin. He wrings his hands. I look around. Kandy Korn, jelly beans, no Twinkies. Pumpkins on the floor---glowing candles. No Twinkies. Store's so dark. Trick or Treat shouts a poster--painted laughter. Carved pumpkin laughter--not real. All fake. A sham. A sound behind me--Bertie. She's hysterical, tears on her cheeks.

  'Bertie, what's wrong?'

  'Don'cha get it?'

  I shake my head.

  She shrugs. “He's outside, waiting. He wants to tell you how it happened.” She wipes her eyes.

  'Who?'

  'He's excited,' says Colin.

  'No bad boys,' says Frank.

  'Think Jeannie. Think!' says Bertie.

  Screen door bangs. A man in black leather. Shiny helmet. Silver face plate over his eyes. His mouth grins--white teeth. There are flames behind him--neon red.

  It's hot. Sweat runs down his face. He takes his helmet off.

  It's Poor-Larry-Cutler.

  I wake. I'm sweating.

  Tuesday, October 31st – Halloween Night

  Earlier, Larry had a really bad moment. Jeannie had tried to talk Kevin out of the Halloween slumber party idea and show Larry to the door. She was upset and yelling at Steven and Kevin but Kevin and his dad had hung in with Larry and here they were in the little guy's room! Larry was so proud of himself, so excited; he knew sleep was a long time away. But that was okay. He was in! He was on a run of beautiful good luck and he was just a heartbeat away from being in this golden family. If he just kept doing whatever Jeannie wanted--kept being a trustworthy friend of Kevin's and he was IN!

  Listening to Kevin's shallow little boy breath going in and out, he smiled and gently placed a hand on the fragile little chest. What a powerful organ the heart was, Larry was thinking as his fingers and palm picked up the beat. And, if he slid his hand up to Kevin's skinny throat...how easily stopped. No problem. Clench his hand, a little pressure; he probably wouldn't even break a sweat.

  They were in the Lion King tent, a sheet over them with Larry's feet sticking out into the room. Kevin lay spread-eagle on his back while Larry was on his side, facing him.

  What a night. Larry smiled, remembering. Batman and Robin--the dynamic duo. They hit all the posh places and hauled home the loot. Homemade chocolate cupcakes, cookies, candy bars, Kandy Korn, on and on. One health nut mom had given them tangerines and little boxes of raisins. Larry had never seen so much really goo
d stuff.

  He needed to pee. As quietly as possible he slid out of the tent and went to the adjoining bathroom. After urinating, he tried the other door, the one leading to Stevie's room. It was locked. Shit! He wanted to have a look, a look at the room that would soon be his. He decided to try the other door, the one in the hall. Silent as a cat burglar, he went back through Kevin's room and out the open door into the hall, stopping at Stevie's closed door. It swung open easily. Larry's good luck was continuing.

  He slipped inside and carefully closed the door behind him. He flipped the track light switch and turned to face the room. It hit him hard. Larry knew the room of course but seeing it now...the emotion was almost too much to bear. Dizzy with joy, he went to the bed and knelt beside it, putting his face next to Stevie's fluffy quilt.

  This is where I belong.

  He lay on top of the quilt, hands behind his head and stretched out to his full length. Larry had never before felt such pure contentment. His feet hung over the bottom edge of the small bed, and he smiled up at the wood-beamed ceiling. He'd turned on one of the track lights above the bed and it gave the room a cozy glow. They would buy him a new bed, Larry knew--maybe even a double. Double?

  There's room here for a king size!

  He would keep this quilt though.

  Hey! What about those baseball cards Stevie had been so proud of? A metal box. Kept 'em somewhere in a locked metal box. Larry didn't give a damn about baseball or those stupid cards, but Stevie never shared them with him, wouldn't even let him look at them. For that reason alone, Larry decided he had to have them.

  “So, Stevie, where would a sport like you keep that box?” Larry asked himself softly. On impulse, he thrust his head over the edge of the bed and looked under it. “Hah!” There it was. Just sitting there waiting for him. Larry rolled off the bed and retrieved the box from its hiding place. He lay on the floor then, examining it. It was locked but nothing he couldn't force. Anything like a screwdriver would--

  The door swung open and in walked Kevin. “Larry?” he mumbled, yawning and rubbing his eyes.