After the Woods (20 page)

“Not the best spot, but that darn paneling is impossible to stick a tack through. They kept falling down. I'd come in, and they'd all be on the floor. It was like they were sad their maker was gone.”

Another breeze blows through. The sketches sway on their tacks.

I feel Yvonne's warm breath on the back of my arm. “I wasn't bragging when I said he was talented, was I?”

I wrap my arms around myself and move away, fighting nausea. “So talented,” I nearly choke. “Are there any other pictures? Perhaps something more recent?”

Yvonne thinks for a minute, chewing something imaginary. “Well, I suppose there's what he was working on before this mess got started,” she says.

“And where is that?” I am terrified she's going to say his bedroom. Because there are limits to what Alice will do—limits to what I can do. And we are right up against them. I focus on a sketch at eye level and try to breathe. An ancient hunter holds a rabbit by its feet, its belly lax and long.

“In the dining room. Donny had a whole set-up in there. It's the only room that gets good light in the whole house, he said. Got mad at me about that, like I could control the sun. Like I'm God.”

Alice laughs, a sound like dolphin chatter.

“It might bother other mothers, fussy-tidy types. But it was fine with me. It's not like we had fancy dinners or anything, it's been just us these last twelve years. He'd shut himself in there for hours, even jam rolled-up towels under the French doors. Said he needed ‘ultimate quiet' so he could concentrate. By that I think he meant my TV—I like it loud, at least twenty-five on the volume.”

“Can you show us?”

“The French doors back down the hall. You go on ahead.”

I walk fast, Alice at my heels.

“We need to go,” she whispers. “Father Carl will be back from dinner at eight.”

I press on the brass door handle. Double doors squeal open to a tiny dining room wallpapered in velvet. Olive drapes still on their rods have been removed from the windows and propped vertically against the wall. Three chairs have been pulled from the table and stacked roughly; the fourth is angled like someone got up and left minutes before. A built-in cabinet with flowery china behind glass is the only piece of furniture besides a table with a sheaf of thick blank paper. To the left of the paper, charcoal sticks lay in perfect size order; to the right is a chamois cloth, a sanding block, a foam brush, a knife. The sweet smell of stale weed lingers. In the far corner is an ashtray filled with seeds and a pack of E-Z Wider rolling papers. The walker creaks up behind us.

“It's like a memorial,” Alice says quietly.

In front of the chair is a half-completed sketch. A bit of charcoal sits on top of a few tendrils of hair, drawn with heavy, saturated strokes.

Yvonne creaks into the doorway. “Who is the girl in that sketch?” I murmur without turning.

“Why, that's Donny's girl,” Yvonne says, out of breath. “He was in love. Said she was the best thing that ever happened to him.”

I stare down at the girl from Liv's eaves. Thick-lidded eyes stare back, one bigger than the other.

“Is this the last picture Donny ever drew?” I say, facing her now.

Yvonne sniffs and pulls a wad of Kleenex from the pocket of her housecoat, lifting her eyeglasses and dabbing underneath.

“We don't mean to be insensitive,” Alice says.

“No. I needed to come into this room sometime. Probably better not to do it alone,” Yvonne says.

Alice makes a sympathetic noise. I gaze down, realizing I'm looking at the final version of the sketches in Liv's eaves, with all the details he had decided were right. The masculine brows and the flat plane of the nose, the shy smile above the undefined chin. This was Donald Jessup's girlfriend.

“He really was talented,” Alice murmurs.

I pull my eyes away and turn to Yvonne. “Do you know how they met?”

“How they all meet these days. On the computer. Donny was a nice boy, handsome. He took care of himself, a very neat dresser. Just shy. Not great at talking one-on-one. They had a number of things in common, he said.”

“Did you ever meet her?” My voice is strained.

“Naw, Donny was a big boy. He didn't need my approval. Besides, he said she was shy too.”

Alice lifts her sleeve and taps her watch with one finger.

“My therapist will be real pleased that I know this about Donny. He was a gifted artist,” I say. “But we've taken up an awful lot of your time, Mrs. Jessup. We ought to go.”

“It's kind of you to say that. Not everyone's so kind no more.” She turns and hoists her walker forward, leaning heavier than before. Her shoulders are round and small and I walk extra slowly, so as not to step on her heels. As I detour into the living room and scoop up my coat, I glance at the photos on the mantel, and find myself wondering if there really is anyone in the world who would notice if Yvonne Jessup disappeared.

As Alice and I let ourselves out, Yvonne stands to the side, looking down and away, head bobbing.

“Is there something else you want to tell us, Mrs. Jessup?” I say.

Yvonne stabs her pocket with her hand looking for another Kleenex. Alice pulls a tissue from her jacket and hands it to her. She blows her nose, a dry squeal, and stuffs the Kleenex away.

She grabs my wrist. “I'm sorry for the way he chased you. In the woods. Donny was never a bad boy. He just got his signals mixed up.”

Signals?
Again, the
Candid Camera
moment. I am supposed to agree with this woman, this still-grieving, delusional woman, that her Donny was confused by my begging and my cries.

“I'm sorry for your loss,” I manage, wriggling from her gnarled hand.

“At least he's with our Lord,” Alice says.

Yvonne looks at Alice sideways. “You know Donny killed himself, right?”

Alice's jaw falls open, then she snaps it shut. “I mean to say, it's a good thing, I don't mean it's a good thing. I mean, as far as society in general is concerned, it's a good thing…”

But Yvonne has stopped listening. “The truth is, I don't know what I believe anymore. Or where Donny is right now. I just know I'd rather he was upstairs.”

“Of course,” Alice says, nodding. “In heaven.”

“I meant in his bedroom!”

I say goodbye and drag Alice down the front steps, feeling our way, because the porch lightbulb is out and the streetlights on Washington Street are dead.

“Girl! Wait,” Yvonne yells, ducking inside. The door swings wide and a yellow glow pulses in her place. We trudge back up the stairs and linger unspeaking for what feels like forever. Finally, the
creak-drag
of the walker grows loud.

Yvonne hands me a piece of paper. The front of her coat dress is smudged with black charcoal. “Keep this. To remember he was human.”

She slams the door and a lock scrapes on the other side. I stare at the sketch of Donny's work in progress for a moment before slipping it carefully into my bag. The opening credits of a cop show blast and a blue light glows in the front window. We turn to leave. Across the street opposite and a house down from Alice's sedan is the black SUV, lights off. A shadowy figure sits in the driver's seat, head down over the wheel, waiting to exact her agreed-upon request, my half of the bargain. The exclusive post-Mama Jessup interview-interview.

Alice stops. “Hey.” She points. “Is that…?”

I turn to Alice. “I need you to go home now, Alice.”

“What does Paula want?”

To frame the conflict. To do her job.

“To help me.”

 

ELEVEN

Later

The cabin of Paula's pristine SUV is hermetically sealed to highway noise. If I start to speak, Paula gently hushes me, telling me I ought to let my conversation with Yvonne marinate, an expression that strikes me as vaguely gross. I sink into my seat, smelling like Yvonne's Tiger Balm and counting exits, Donny's unfinished sketch screaming to me from my messenger bag. I've already decided I will not be sharing Yvonne's gift with Paula, not before I confirm what I think I know. At the eighth exit the WFYT News studio rises like a spaceship made of steel and tinted glass. A parking attendant in a booth bundled against the cold waves us in, and then we're on the move, me rushing to keep up with Paula in her heels that click fast over the cold, contracted pavement. In the lobby, a guard in an office walled with grainy security monitors watches
Jeopardy!
on the flat-screen in the waiting area. He greets “Miss Paula” with a gold-toothed smile. While Paula asks him about his hospitalized mother, I slip my phone from my pocket to check for texts from Alice telling me our gig is up; from Mom, checking in on me; and, in truth, from Liv. There are none.

I walk over to the elevator and jab the button.

“We're taking the stairs,” Paula says, blowing past me and leaning backward against a heavy door.

“How long will it take?” I say, following her through the door.

“An hour tops,” she says.

“Then the interview will be on the ten o'clock news, or the eleven?” I ask as we mount the stairs, calculating the time I have to prep Mom for the inconceivable act of allowing Paula to interview me.

She yells back, “Eight Eastern Standard!” There's something peculiar about calling it Eastern Standard, but I can barely keep up, never mind ask another question. She's attacking the stairs now, elbows tight at her sides, up three flights, her pace unforgiving. It feels a bit like punishment for the day in the woods when I outran her. Tonight, she's in the lead. As she hits the third landing ahead of me, I call out, “Paula!”

She turns. “Yes?”

“What do you mean, Eastern Standard?” I pant.

“This isn't going to be on tonight's news, Julia. We're recording tonight, but it's going to be on Friday night. The eve of the anniversary.”

“Naturally,” I mumble, bleeding sarcasm.

She steps back down to my landing, speaking as she walks. “We all had to spin into action after you called me. But your interview fits the
Dateline
NBC format perfectly: telling true-crime stories via interviews with the people involved. New York was willing to wait to wrap production until the last possible minute.”

“
Dateline?
But”—I falter—“you work for WFYT.”

“I do. I'm being billed as a
Dateline
guest correspondent. Your interview is part of a larger segment on the Shiverton Abduction being produced in New York as we speak. I'm sure I mentioned it.”

I grip the railing. “I'm sure you did not!” My voice echoes in the stairwell.

“The news is the news, Julia. You agreed to an interview. If I didn't mention which news show it would be aired on, I don't see how it makes a difference,” Paula says.

“
Dateline
is a national show. That's shown everywhere,” I say, feeling like someone stepped on my chest.

“Indeed. You seem nervous about that. If your mother truly gave consent, I don't see what the problem is,” she says. “Or is that untrue?”

“Of course not,” I lie.

“Not that I'm worried about lawsuits. Your name and face have been in the public domain for so long. And the police angle makes the Shiverton Abduction a matter of public concern. The whole thing's been vetted by Legal here and in New York. When I pitched this to
Dateline
, and they bit, well, this is something of a game changer as far as my career is concerned.” She studies my face. “You're getting cold feet. It's not uncommon. But consider this: How fitting is it that, on the eve of the anniversary of the abduction, the police will be revealed for their culpability in the crime?
Dateline
has gravitas, Julia.”

She pauses to judge her effect. I look at the floor.

“You can set things straight,” she says, an edge to her voice. “Get justice.”

“You said the interview would be quick,” I say, wary.

“It will be. I've been working on this story for the better part of a year. I have plenty of material, believe me. Your talk with Yvonne is frosting.” She leans forward and touches my hair, softening her tone. “Let's see how it all turns out.”

I turn to look over my shoulder. I could leave now, run right down those stairs and call Alice to get me. Mom would never know. No explaining my visit to Yvonne, no explaining why I agreed to an interview with Paula for national television. Suddenly an image pops into my head of Yvonne on Friday night, the blue light of the television flickering across her lined face, watching
Dateline
in her threadbare chair near the toilet. Of course they aren't worried about a lawsuit from Yvonne Jessup.

I take one step down.

Paula stiffens. “I meant to tell you,” she says. “My research turned up an interesting discovery about Liv's connection to Donald Jessup.”

“What kind of discovery?” I say slowly.

“We can talk about that after your interview,” Paula says.

A second scenario hits me. If Paula has been researching my story for the last year, surely she plans to include the peculiarities she's discovered—with my help—about Liv.

I blurt, “You cannot talk about Liv's problems on national TV. You cannot.”

“Don't worry, Julia. My story has nothing to do with our recent discoveries about Liv. My story is about Shiverton law enforcement and the sex offender they let loose. That's the story I sold, and that's the story I'm running with.”

I swallow. “You have to tell me this new thing you learned about Liv. First. Before I give you the interview.”

Paula sighs, as though I'm making a big deal over nothing. “As you like. We can talk in my office. But we must be quick. They're setting up to tape us as we speak.”