Don't Forget to Breathe (20 page)

My oversensitive pulse skyrocketed. “Why are you here, Mister? There’s nothing that I can tell you about either case. Leave me alone.” I managed a couple of strides on rickety legs.

His feet scuttled in front of me, blocking my path.

“Leocadia, how have you been coping now that the anniversary of your mother’s murder is right around the corner and no suspects?” He blathered like a sharp shooter. “In retrospect, in your opinion, do you think Detective Dyl should be pulled from the case? What will you do if the murderer isn’t apprehended? It came to our attention that you were recently questioned by the police. Are you a suspect in these investigations?”

“It’s none of your business.” I glared filling with contempt. “We’re done.”

“One last thing,” he said. “May I take your picture for the Gazette?” Prior to a rejection, he clicked using his phone.

“Get the fuck out of here, buddy.” Nona’s cantankerous reproach moved the air. “Leave my friend alone.” Her arm rounded my back and saved me from the reporter. “I should’ve come sooner. You don’t have to talk to those jerks.”

“Let’s get out of here.” I glanced over my shoulder; he was stooped over his notebook writing.

Once in the car Nona rummaged in her duffle bag, producing a pack of cigarettes. “Here, I think you need this.”

I was thinking of something stronger. “Is this the same pack from a week ago?” I knocked out a smoke.

“I’m trying to quit. Reggie doesn’t smoke. He said he hates kissing an ashtray.”

I proffered the pack to Grace in the back seat. “You want one?”

“I don’t smoke, but thanks.”

“Good, girl. Don’t start,” Nona said. “Causes lung cancer.”

“Thanks for the tidbit as I light up.” Striking the match to the cigarette, I blew out the match head with a gray stream. “That’s why weed should be legalized.”

“I doubt that’s a solution,” Grace rebutted. “You’re still inhaling smoke, and it’ll cause cancer too.”

“Alright—enough. You convinced me.” I closed my eyes, drawing deep on the cigarette like it was a high. Tipping my head, a cloud crawled from my mouth. “My last drag.” I rolled down the window and flicked the cigarette into the street. “Nona, if you’re quitting then so am I.”

Nona’s head bobbed while upping the radio’s volume. Deviating from our assigned route for some unhealthy fast food, we sang tunelessly with our fave songs, then onto Kensington High School for the big game.

I felt like an interloper on the opposing teams sidelines. The bleachers were jam-packed and the mob riotous. Kensington’s marching band orchestrated a rousing performance while the cheerleaders practiced on the sidelines. The weather held at a brisk forty-five degrees, and fortuitously dry. For the most part, I stayed clear of Marcy and Blair, though, the recipient of several venomous glances.

“Let’s have fun,” Nona insisted I brush them off.

Due to the officious reporter putting a thorn in my butt, I was revved and my routines were right-on. Executing a functional round-off and back flip, even Mrs. Zwielger nodded with a smug grin.

After halftime, Star Hallow seemed to get their act together tying the game. Nona saddled next to me on the bench for a brief respite. “Did you tell anyone about Becket asking you out?” she whispered.

“No—no one, why?”

“Becket might’ve said something to Marcy. She’s spitting bullets.”

Nona’s statement lifted my spirits, somewhat. Tilting frontward on the bench, I saw Marcy’s olive complexion morphing to beet-red. She looked totally pissed, talking, or more like scowling at Blair.

“I see that teeny-weeny smile,” she teased. “Shout it out. Becket’s hot for you, girl. Your dreams are coming true.” Excited, she squeezed and wiggled my arm.

“I certainly hope not.” And thought of my funky dream. Nona’a eyebrows knit in confusion, I explained, “I had a doosy of a dream before I woke up this morning. I caught Becket in bed with Marcy.”

“That’s
not
the dream I’m talking about, hun.”

“I know. But now you understand why I’m so messed up?”

“You got to cleanse those thingamajigs from your brain.”

“Did I tell you Dad’s making me see Dr. Mathias? She’ll put me back on those meds.”

“It’s your body, Leo,” she said. “Nobody can make you take them. We can’t go through that again.”

“Hey, we’re supposed to be having fun.” I hadn’t meant to bum out the evening. Hopping from the bench and cuffing my pom-poms in the air, I tried to sound cheery. “Let’s get into the game.”

With sixty seconds left, we were losing by four points. It was Kensington’s ball, and it looked hopeless. Their offense coughed-up the ball and Star Hallow’s Rob Janko intercepted before being tackled. Our offense took the field and initiated one running play. Becket threw a completion to Reggie for the touchdown.

Nona and I hugged, screaming, jumping up and down. We watched as Marcy galloped onto the field, leaping into Becket’s arms. She ripped off his helmet and kissed him feverishly.

What added to my dismay, he was a passionate recipient.

“Just take me home, Nona…please.”

“But we’re all going out to celebrate. This is our night, Star Hallow’s on top. We haven’t beaten Kensington since we were in eighth grade.”

“It’s not my night.” I was glad Grace had decided to return to school with the other cheerleaders in the van. She didn’t have to witness my theatrical demise. “I’d be a dud anyway.”

“I have to pick Reggie up at school.”

“No, I’m not going.” I clawed fingernails over my arms. “Drop me at home, and then go back for him. With all the hype and publicity they’ll be late coming back from Kensington.”

She condescended with a grumble.

We drove along Westgate and my house was completely black. Dad must not be home. Nona shot up the driveway, letting it idle.

“I’m glad we won,” I said getting out of the car. “It was a good game.”

“It was. Call me. I’m here for you. And I’ll see you at the dance tomorrow night, right?”

“Yep, I’ll be there with Henry.”

After unbolting the door, I called to make sure no one was home. “Dad, are you here?” I turned on the kitchen lights. The house phone was blinking with a message. “Leo, I’m going out after work. I’ll be late.” My teeth gnashed, wondering if he was with Regina or if he found a new lady friend. I was sinking lower by the minute.

I tramped into my bedroom turning on lights as I went. A triangular edge of a composition notebook was sticking out from beneath my bed. Getting to my hands and knees, I looked at the disorganized mounds. “What should I do with these, Mom?”

Scritch…scritch
. Bending my ear, I listened for the noise to repeat itself. My footfalls deadened on the shabby carpet as I paced toward the living room.
Scritch…scritch
. I pivoted to the right. Dad’s bedroom. The door had always been shut. I’d never set foot in his room since moving to Westgate.

There was the noise again, coming from in his room. Cracking the door, it was pure blackness inside. I swept fingers over the side wall, and clicked on the center dome light. My nose wrinkled breathing stale air.

Dad’s bed was a bundle of coiled blankets and sheets. Shoes, ties, and clothes littered the room like we’d recently moved in and he’d thrown his belongings wherever. Making a passage through his garbage, I headed to the chest of drawers which used to be Mom’s.

Drawer upon drawer I opened, only to see it overflowing with Dad’s junk. I’d been desperate to seek a piece of her, a remembrance that he might’ve cherished. Not even a photograph.

Scritch…scritch
. Glimpsing the baseboard I noticed a composition notebook tenting the furnace duct. Dad must’ve switched on the furnace to warm the house, and air sailing through the ducts rustled the pages.

In my bones, I knew what it was. Mom’s journal. He’d had it the whole time. I looked at the notebook like it might be toxic, almost terrified to handle it. Squatting, I hugged it to my chest. I stood and spied corrugated boxes stationed on the ledge in his closet. If he was hiding her personal journal, what else had he kept secret? Like a delicate flower, I placed Mom’s journal on the dresser and headed for the boxes.

The box resisted my attempts to heave it from its perch, caught on a nail or something. Mustering strength, I managed to lift the box. Its contents were chock-full of memories. Mom was the picture taker, the movie mongrel, the scrap-booker. In complete disarray were framed family photographs of happier times, DVD’s, and a treasure trove of her favorite books, and more personal journals.

I savored the notion of unearthing every single item with loving care. But now was not the time, Dad would have a hissy fit if he knew I infringed on his privacy. There was a second box on the ledge. In red magic marker I recognized Mom’s artistry. A skull and crossbones.

The box wasn’t as heavy, and carted it atop of the first. Dad’s army uniform. I removed the uniform and stared: a worn pair of black combat boots and a knife.

The incriminating knife and boots looked peaceful. A shaky wreck, I readjusted the uniform over them and replaced the box on the shelf.

Revisiting the contents of Mom’s boxed memories I regrettably returned it to the ledge. Afterwards, my fingers claimed the journal. Would Dad notice it was missing?
Hardly, considering his smashed nights
. I’d leaf through it and replace it somewhere in his room.

By reshuffling debris into its trashy state, I disguised my break-in. First things first, I didn’t let my mind wander off the deep end: instead scoured my desk for the detective’s business card. “Where’d I put it?” I said, and found it tucked under my desk lamp. My body was one nerve bundle as my fingers keyed in his number.

“Leo, what’s wrong?” His voice came through loud and clear.

“I-I found something.”

“Where are you?”

“At home.”

“Where’s your father?”

“He’s out.”

“What’s going on?”

My warbling voice soared an octave. “I found a pair of boots and…and a knife in his bedroom.”

“We know your father was in the military.”

“Did you check his stuff?” Breathe. “Like for prints or whatever you do?”

“Yes.”

“He…he was there.” I tried keeping my voice steady. “I know he’s lying.”

“It was normal to find prints of you, your mom, and your father in the house. I’m coming over, we’ll discuss this.”

“He might be home any minute. He’ll know I called you.”

“I’m in my car. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

While waiting, I perfunctory fingered the pages in Mom’s journal. Then walked into the lighted kitchen for a closer look and read the date:
October first. No one loves the man whom he fears
. (Aristotle) Mom crossed out
he
and added
she
. The very next passage was dated October fifth, she wrote:
What tangled webs we weave.
(Sir Walter Scott) On October sixth she concluded the popular quote:
When we practice to deceive
. Her journal was a litany of literary quotes and one-liners.

I jumped when the doorbell chimed, and let the detective in.

“I gather your father’s not home yet?”

“Not yet.”

He trailed me into the kitchen. “You look frazzled. Are you alright?”

“Not really…”—sounding weepy—“When I’m thinking my own father slaughtered my mother in their bed.”

“Sit.” He indicated a chair at the table. “I wanted to tell you this in person instead of over the phone.” He paused, unbuttoning his trench-coat before taking a seat. “Forensics went over the house with a fine tooth comb. Your father’s military stash was discovered and tested. The items were returned to him shortly thereafter.”

I sunk in my chair feeling like a neurotic child as he tempered my panic.

“There’s no proof that your father was at the house on the day of her murder. As you know, he supplied us with an airtight alibi. And the other person involved has authenticated his whereabouts.”

“It was his secretary, Regina, right?”

His eyebrows heightened.

“I know he was having a thing with her.”

“That’s why I came over. I didn’t want to drop the bomb over the phone. When’d you find out?”

“Recently.” I didn’t elaborate.

“Has your father given you any reason to doubt his alibi?”

I shook my head, saddened. “I feel so…so miserable. Like we weren’t living in the same house. How could I be so blind to what was happening around me?”

Detective Dyl actually smiled, he didn’t look nearly as hardnosed. “Leo, you’re a teenager. Teenagers tend to thrive in their own world.”

“I’d hardly say I’m thriving.”

He pointed to the composition notebook under my arm. “What’s that?”

“My homework journal.” There was no way I was handing it over, yet. I slid the book onto my lap away from prying eyes.

“You’re going to the Homecoming dance with Henry James tomorrow, right?”

Now it was my turn to look baffled. “How’d you know?”

“It’s my job to know.” In an uncharacteristic show of unease, he ran a hand over his prominent brow. “You should stay away from the boy. He’s got problems.” He rose from the chair, turning to leave.

“Wait—” I blurted, he stalled in his tracks. “Henry and I went back into the mansion. Mom’s picture is still there. It’s now in one of the third floor bedrooms. The one with that gigantic four-poster bed. I checked it out this morning before telling you.”

His fingers crunched the front of his coat.

“Henry told you about everything he saw in the attic, didn’t he?”

“Yes, and for the record, I believed your story from the beginning.”

“Henry thought you did.” I huffed out a breath. “Do you have any clues or suspicions?”

“We believe your mom’s murder wasn’t premeditated.” His mouth gathered. “Maybe…a lover’s dispute that got deadly.”

My bottom lip hit the floor. “No—I can’t…I can’t—”

“Leo, you’re old enough to face facts. You must’ve known they were having marital problems.”

“They fought, a lot,” I said, dazed and empty. “But…I never would’ve thought…Mom—”

Detective Dyl stepped behind my chair and deposited his hands on my shoulders. “Buck up, kid. You’ll get through this.” He applied kind pressure. “Stay out of the Baskerville place. It’s not safe.”

“Henry wants to spend the night there tomorrow after the dance.” Why’d that vomit from my mouth?

“
Really
?” He released my shoulders. “My professional recommendation is to stay as far from that place as possible. Why would you take chances like that when you know somebody’s lurking around in there? Leave the investigation to me.”

“Then why can’t you find my mother’s killer? And what about Dave and Skipper, and someone said there might be two accomplices? Is that true?”

“Who the hell told you that?”

“A reporter practically tackled me at school today. His name is Carm Castellano.”

“Is that the guy from the Gazette, that rinky-dink paper?”

“That’s what he said.”

“He’s stirring up trouble. If he comes around again, kick him in the nuts for me.”

I smirked.

“I wish you’d taken my advice and not hooked-up with Henry James. But go to your dance. Have fun. Forget about murder for one night.” Buttoning his coat while walking to the door, he said, “And don’t go to the mansion. Just in case, a squad car will be patrolling Lucien Court.”

***

I lay in bed feeling lousy. The detective sliced into my heart, unseating Mom from her chaste throne. The buzz of incoming texts vibrated on the end table. I rolled over the mattress and snatched my cell. Nona wrote, ‘
call me
.’ As well as a message from Becket, ‘
we need to talk
.’ And one text from Henry, ‘
I guarantee a good time at the dance
.’ Whatever that meant?

I heard Dad hustle into the house. Two-twenty. The mourning phase was over. It didn’t take long for him to convert into a whoremonger, or, was he always like this?