Authors: Nadja Bernitt
Final Grave (3 page)
I
daho cold seeped through the accordion passageway, up Meri Ann’s pant legs, and through her light-weight jacket. The black carry-on roller bag thumped behind her, as it had through Atlanta’s, Denver’s, and Salt Lake City’s airports on the marathon hopscotch to Idaho. Now she was here, hurrying down the passageway with a throng of deplaning passengers in the city she’d never wanted to see again.
Ahead, she heard Becky squeal from somewhere in the crowd behind security. Her sturdy body bowled forward, a shocking red-haired Becky. She was heavier than the last time she’d seen her and seemed happier too. She wrapped her arms around Meri Ann and squeezed.
Meri Ann hugged back. Then she pulled just far enough away to look closely at her good friend. “It’s been so long.”
“I know, kid. Sorry about your mom. How are you holding up?”
“I’m not thinking straight. I barely had time to rent a car and get up to Tampa. I left my cell phone in it when I dropped off. A brand new one, a Razr.”
“What, one of those skinny things? Who needs one anyway?”
Becky disliked the new phone technology as much as her boss. “The point is that it is so unlike me.”
“Okay, so you’re not holding up so well. Let’s get out of here.” Nonetheless, Becky took time to point out the mural-sized Steve Bly posters of familiar landmarks.
“Boise’s changed, kid. Get a load of the designer jeans and khakis. Everyone looks so upscale, sometimes I’d swear I’m in Seattle.” Becky nodded in the direction of a poster of a local ski resort. “Last time I skied Bogus Basin, the lift lines were as long as Sun Valley’s.”
As Becky went on about the lift lines, Meri Ann happened to glance over her shoulder. And there amid another group of arrivals, she spotted a familiar face. A tall, middle-aged man with thinning hair was approaching her. He carried a tan parka on one arm and a cardboard tube under the other, the type architects and engineers use for drawings. Her heart did a flip-flop.
She shielded her mouth with her hand. “Coming this way. Robin Wheatley, the engineer Mom worked for. I don’t want to talk to him.”
“Hell if it isn’t. Sumbitch.”
He strode forward, his face cast down so that the comb grooves in his slicked-back hair were highlighted by the overhead fluorescent lights. The gap closed between them: twenty feet, ten feet, suddenly five feet. He lifted his head and looked right at her.
Memories of a spiteful argument in his office rushed back. Her mother had worked late that particular evening. Meri Ann and her father had picked her up. Her dad lost his temper, insisted she quit. He yanked her by the arm to hurry her out the door. Wheatley jumped to her rescue, knocking Dad against a desk. He’d fallen to the floor humiliated. And there was Wheatley standing above him, slicking back his perfect hair.
He stopped right in front of her. “Meri Ann? Meri Ann Dunlap?”
“Yes.” She didn’t bother adding Fehr.
“I can’t believe it. I saw you on television last week. You… you’re the image of your mother. More so in person.” Wheatley’s ears reddened. “I knew you’d moved east with your father. Can’t say I blamed him wanting to make a fresh start. What a nightmare for him, for all of us.” He shifted the parka draped over his arm, as though it had suddenly grown heavy. “Back for a visit?”
“Seeing friends.” Meri Ann forced herself to look him in the eye.
He turned to Becky. “Have we met?”
“Yeah, Becky Schuster,” she said. “Meri Ann and I copied blueprints for you on your stinking ammonia machine a hundred years ago.”
“Oh, the old monster. Everything’s digital now. You wouldn’t recognize the place.” Wheatley paused. “Well, enjoy your stay. I’ve got to go; I’m meeting a client.”
He and Meri Ann nodded cordially, but not Becky.
“Come on, kid, my truck’s in short-term parking.” Out of earshot, she said, “I don’t like him. Never did, not even before he pushed your dad around that time. The old sanctimonious Mormon.”
“Actually, Mormon’s the best thing about him.”
They made their way outside to the parking lot. The dry frigid air stung her cheeks and Florida’s Gulf of Mexico seemed worlds away. “It’s so strange, like I’ve been away forever and yet like I never left. Before we moved away, I’d lie in bed at night and rewrite my life. Dad kept his job and Mom stayed home instead of working for Wheatley. Everyone was happy and… and alive.”
Becky glanced over but didn’t respond—there was no response needed. She halted beside a silver Cadillac Esplanade.
“Not exactly a truck, Becky.”
“I got it for the ‘On Star’ button. Hey, what’s life without someone to talk to?”
She stowed the one bag in the back, while Meri Ann got inside. A polartec fleece jacket was draped over the passenger seat. “What’s this?” she asked.
“I brought it for you, thought you might be cold.” Becky slammed the back hatch shut and climbed behind the wheel. Her short legs made it a hike. She started the engine, her expression suddenly coy. “It’s my friend’s.”
Meri Ann donned the jacket, which fit perfectly. “A friend?”
“Meg. She’s moved in.”
Becky had had girl friends before, but no one had ever lived with her. “Big step,”
“Meg is unbelievably cool. Got me into silk flowers, wholesale and retail. It was always my hobby. Now it’s a business. Know what’s best? She listens to me. She makes me feel important.
“I like her already. When do I meet her?”
“Next time. She’s in New York on a buying trip. Won’t be back for two weeks. I meant to tell you when you called but with all this about your mother.” Becky took a deep breath. “You’ll like Meg. And she’s says you can use her Mazda while you’re here.”
“That’s really nice of her.”
“See what I mean?”
Meri Ann squeezed Becky’s hand, happy for her. Yet, despite the good news and warm jacket, she felt cold. The uncomfortable meeting with Wheatley continued to bother her. Coincidence of any kind unsettled her, and this one within minutes of her arrival. Just what were the odds that out of Boise’s quarter of a million people that she’d run into him?
T
he ride to Becky’s brought on a rush of nostalgia. In minutes, Vista Avenue merged into Capitol Boulevard and the Union Pacific Depot with its mission-style arches came into view. Down the hill, the Idaho’s State Capitol building sat at the boulevard’s other end. The city’s skyline had changed but not those two landmarks. She had spent half of her life in their shadows.
She remembered her ninth-grade class visiting the Capitol’s marble halls and the awful moment a classmate pointed to Meri Ann’s mismatched sneakers. One was an old Nike and the other a new Adidas. Everyone but Becky had teased her mercilessly. She laughed it off, but a profound truth struck her that day. With her mom gone and her dad lost in grieving, only she could catch her mistakes.
“What’re you thinking about, kid?”
“Just remembering.”
In the north end of town, a block off tree-lined Morrison Boulevard, they turned onto Schuster Lane, part of the old Schuster farm. Becky’s family’s home sat at the end of the block on a cul-de-sac, the only original home on the lane of high-ranches and fake Tudors. She slowed to a stop. The headlights illuminated the three-story house.
“It’s mine now, I’m sorry to say. Not that I’m sorry it’s mine, just that I loved my grandpa. Well, you know.”
“Everyone loved Paw Paw. I felt bad when you told me.”
They lingered a moment, and Meri Ann took in the river-stone structure, the stately portico to the side, the thicket of poplars, elms, and cedar trees that bordered the driveway. Sometimes things from your childhood look smaller when you go back but not River House.
And there was the free-standing three-car garage in the back, built seventy years ago when most families didn’t have one car, let alone three. She glanced at the dark windows above, the place where she and Becky had studied or hid to gossip. “Oh, the apartment—”
“It’s for rent. What can I say? Takes money to keep this place up.”
Becky pulled into the driveway and parked under the portico. “So, kid, does it look the same?”
The house resembled a stone fortress, eerie, dark, and fascinating. The end of Meri Ann’s long day’s journey.
“It’s just like I remember it.”
# # #
Old ghosts haunted Meri Ann as Becky flicked lights on in the living room. One by one, each degree of brightness brought Meri Ann a notch back in time. Friendships aren’t built on laughter alone. She and Becky shared good times and bad.
The lingering scents of fireplace ashes, old wool rugs, and the faint aroma of Paw Paw’s pipe filled the room. A showy silk floral arrangement on the coffee table was new, as well as a fern and philodendron display on the plant stand. But the plaid upholstered sofa, leather club chairs and maple gun cabinet with its assortment of shotguns were unchanged.
“Paw Paw took care of me, and so did you,” Becky said.
Meri Ann reached out and squeezed her hand. “We took care of each other.”
She recalled the day Becky’s dad ran off with another woman. Becky’s mom lost her mind, literally. Every day she’d set his place at the table, taken his clothes to the dry cleaners, mumbled through imaginary conversations. It went on for over a year. Then her psychiatrist forced her to accept,
the
truth
. Becky’s mom went home, took a long bath in tepid water, and slit her wrists. Becky found her dead the next morning.
Becky, too, had lived through hell. When Meri Ann’s mother disappeared, and the detectives finally gave up, Becky understood. They’d both lost their mothers before they’d worn their first prom dresses.
Meri Ann shook off the memory. “I’m glad you didn’t change this room.”
“Couldn’t do it, kid. Meg and I sit in here on nights we don’t watch TV. Sit. Read. Kick back and vege. Paw Paw still lives here. You know exactly what I mean.”
“I do. From the day Mom disappeared until Dad moved us to Florida, we kept her dresser like a shrine.”
Meri Ann massaged her neck. “If you don’t mind, I need to unpack and get out of these clothes.”
“Sure, kid. You’ve got the top floor all to yourself. When you’re done come on down and we’ll have a drink. I got hard or soft, warm or cold. But nothing green if you’re still on your health kick.”
“Red wine’s fine with me, if you’ve got any.” Meri Ann picked up her backpack and bag and started upstairs.
A yellowed-lampshade cast a golden light throughout the attic room. That and the rising heat from downstairs gave a cozy feel to the room. Several wool sweaters, a flannel nightgown, and fuzzy slippers were laid out on the unbleached muslin quilt, and a stack of
National
Geographic
magazines sat on the dresser—Becky had taken pains to make her feel welcome.
After a quick shower, Meri Ann went downstairs.
A fire crackled in the living room where Becky waited. The
Courier
, Boise High’s yearbook, rested on her lap.
She dragged a chair next to Becky’s, pointing to the book. “I knew you’d get that out.”
Slowly they turned the pages, poking fun at the oversized clothes of the eighties, their puffy sleeved sweaters.
“Here we go.” Becky laughed and slapped her leg. “Ricky Jackson, your heartthrob.”
Meri Ann rolled her eyes at the six-foot-two pole of a boy, lost in his letterman’s jacket. She’d been so into sports and jocks, so young, so enamored. “I can’t imagine.”
“Well, try. He’s a vice president at Morrison-Knudson. You could do…”
“Worse. Go ahead, say it. Ronald Fehr was worse. Tall, blond and handsome and nothing but trouble.”
“Hey, any man’s worse to me.” Becky turned the page. “Oh, my God.” She pointed to a full color photo of the freshmen class cheerleaders. “That bitch, Karen Harper. Remember how she tried to steal Ricky from you?”
“Who cares?” She reached to turn the page.
Becky held it. “Happiest day of my life was when you smashed her face. The pansy girls puked at her bloody nose. Not me. I’d have finger-painted on the wall with her blood, if you’d let me at her.”
Meri Ann remembered Karen’s taunts, her threats, her black wavy hair and calculating eyes.
“What’s the matter?” Becky said. “You can’t feel bad. She deserved it.”
The heat from the fire didn’t feel one bit hotter than the heat inside Meri Ann’s head. She shifted uneasily in her chair. How she wished the topic hadn’t come up. “It was a long time ago.”
“Yeah, but you knew what it was like for me, being different. Kids are bastards, and… and when Karen wrote that note, called me a lying lesbian; hell, she told the whole school. I used to pray she’d die. You were my only real friend, Meri Ann.” Becky closed the book. “You did it for me, kid.”
Her breath caught in her throat and she couldn’t get any air past it. Karen hadn’t written the note. A confession worked its way to the tip of her tongue but no further. Her selfish need for Becky’s friendship kept her silent. It had then. It did now.
She took a long drink of wine. “Sometimes kids do things without really thinking. Things they don’t mean.” She searched Becky’s face for a glimmer of understanding.
“Yeah, well, I don’t think so.” Becky wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “Hey, didn’t mean to get into my problems. You got enough on your plate.”
Becky slid a CD into an impressive music system. “It’s
The
Police
, kid; remember them? And now you are one. The rock group sang:
Every
move
you
make,
every
step
you
take,
I’ll
be
watching
you
.
.
.
.
Meri Ann finished her wine. Fatigue from the day’s emotion, jet lag and unabashed guilt caught up with her. “I’d better get some sleep. Got that meeting with the detective tomorrow. Then Aunt Pauline.”
“Mean Pauline.” Becky grimaced. “Penny-pinching old bag, making you pay to store a dozen boxes in her moldy basement.”