“Anyway, just before this, the first in the series of articles to be published, Hap Duchamp set up the Kippy Daniels Trust Fund at the bank, Hap’s bank then. You see, Kippy needed surgery. He had a congenital heart disease that goes hand in hand with Down syndrome children.
“Without the surgery, Kippy wasn’t going to make it, but the operation was expensive. Of course, Carrie didn’t have any money. And O Boy was a deputy, making just enough to get by; Carrie was taking in ironing, cleaning houses, baking and delivering pies and cakes. She worked here for Clara once a week. She’d do any kind of work she could get as long as it was after school or on weekends because she spent Monday through Friday in class with Kippy.
“So Hap and Clara and I came up with the idea of the fund, and Hap kicked it off by contributing ten thousand dollars.”
“Wow.”
“Oh, Hap’s the best kind of man. Decent, generous, kind. He’s gay, you know, but if we had more men like Hap Duchamp, this would be a better world.”
“So how much money was raised?”
“None. The day the article came out, I got a visit from O Boy. He was enraged. Out of control. Said I’d better not print another word about his ‘geek kid.’ That’s what he called Kippy, his ‘geek kid.’
“Threatened to sue me, the newspaper, the bank and the city. Implied physical threats as well. Said he didn’t need charity and Kippy didn’t need surgery. Blamed the whole ‘mess’ on Carrie, then went home and beat hell out of her.”
“So what about Kippy’s surgery?”
“Here’s the strange thing about that. A few weeks after O Boy’s blowup, Carrie called Clara, told her she wouldn’t be able to clean for her the next week or do her ironing. Said she and Kippy were going to Arkansas to see her daddy. Carrie’s parents were divorced, had been for a number of years, but Carrie had hinted that her father was well-off.
“Well, she left, came back a few days later and took Kippy to Tulsa for his heart surgery. I heard she paid the doctor and the hospital in cash.
“Any idea where she got the money?”
“I had assumed she got it from her father in Arkansas. But later I learned something weird. Very weird.”
“Weird? In what way?”
“Clara and I went to a little town, Beebe, Arkansas, to visit an old friend who taught at a college there. Found out while we were there that Carrie’s dad had died in 1969.”
“So she lied about going to see her father. And the money for the surgery?”
“I don’t know where it came from. But she paid for Kippy’s surgery five days after Gaylene was murdered.”
April 2, 1970
Dear Diary,
I’m about to finish my painting of the two faces of the Indian woman. I don’t know yet what I’m going to call it, but I think I’ll give it to Mr. Duchamp.
I went to lunch today with Kyle Leander. We had fried chicken at the Hen House. I know Kyle is doing drugs again. I can tell. And he’s only been out of rehab for about a month this time.
I’ve been thinking that after I finish college, I should live in New York City. It’s a place where artists have a good chance to show their work. When I asked Row if she’d go with me, she said she and Junior Warner might get married when school’s out. Well, if that happens, I’ll go to New York by myself. I’m not afraid. Not at all. But when Oscar gets out of the Marines, maybe he’ll come to New York, too.
Spider Woman
M
ark arrived at the bait shop in the middle of the afternoon, which turned out to be a good time since there was only one couple, a middle-aged man and woman, buying a few dozen minnows, some hooks and soft drinks. When Carrie saw Mark come in, she turned to her work, obviously not thrilled to see him.
As soon as the couple left, she started mopping up the floor where water had sloshed over the side of the minnow bucket.
“How’re you doing, Carrie?” Mark asked.
“Thought I asked you not to come back. Told you your coming here caused me problems. Either you didn’t hear me or you don’t care if I get in trouble.”
“I’ll try not to take up too much of your time.”
“It’s not my time I’m worried about, but I’d appreciate it if you’d clear out of here before O Boy comes driving up.”
“At this hour of the day? I figured he’d be in his office or—”
“You can never tell with him when he’ll show up. Sometimes it’s four in the morning; other times, like now. So I wish you’d just leave before—”
“Kippy had some serious surgery when he was a kid, didn’t he?”
“Yeah,” Carrie said, her suspicion already set in motion. “Why? Why do you want to know about that?”
“I heard it was pretty damn expensive.”
“So?”
“Carrie, would you mind if I asked you where you got the money?”
“Yes, I’d mind. That’s none of your business.”
“You told Lige and Clara Haney you went to Arkansas to visit your dad. They thought you got the money from him, but as it turned out, your father had been dead since 1969. So I’m wondering why you told that story.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I think you do. And I think I know what happened.”
“Do you? Then you must be pretty darned smart. Or maybe you just think you’re smart.”
“I believe O Boy killed Gaylene, then sent you to California with me for a prearranged adoption that would pay you twenty thousand dollars.”
“Right,” Carrie said with a wry smile. “I can just see O Boy handing over that kind of money to a hospital. You don’t know him very well, do you.”
“No. But if Kippy were my son—”
“Well, he’s not, so don’t try to second-guess what you’d do if he was yours because there’s no way for you to know what it’s like to raise a son like Kippy who has a father like O Boy.”
“Then why don’t you tell me.”
“I’m not telling you nothing. Now, I’ve got work to do.” Carrie lifted a case of cigarettes from the floor to the counter and began stocking the rack behind the register.
Mark said, “If I could just ask one more question—”
“You can’t. So you might as well take off. I don’t have nothing more to say to you.”
“Afternoon, Kippy,” Mark called out as he skirted the edge of the pond to where Kippy was fishing.
“Hey, know what I caught? Come see.”
Kippy dropped his pole and pulled his fish basket from the water to show off three good-size perch.
“Good catch!” Mark said.
“I lost one. A catfish, I think. ’Bout this long.” Kippy held his arms as far apart as they would reach. “He put up a damn good fight.”
“I’ll bet he did.”
“You gonna fish?”
“No, not today.”
“Then . . . I can’t remember your name.”
“Joe,” Mark said.
“Then why did you come to the pond, Joe?”
“I wanted to talk to you.”
“Okay, but if that catfish comes back, I can’t listen to you ’cause he’ll be putting up a damn good fight.”
“Kippy, do you remember a baby boy who lived close to you when you were little? His name was Nicky Jack. Nicky Jack Harjo.”
Kippy’s face lit up. “He was my best friend. Him and his mama lived across the creek, back of us. I used to go over and see him. Sometimes his mama would let me watch her give him a bath or let me hold him while he took his bottle. And sometimes, when it was raining, she’d read us
The Cat in the Hat
. Do you know
The Cat in the Hat
?”
Mark smiled and said, “I sure do.”
“I loved
The Cat in the Hat
. So did Nicky Jack. He was too little to talk, but he always laughed when his mama read that story.”
“Do you know where Nicky Jack is now?”
“Me and my mama took him to the land of milk and honey. Or honey and milk. I can’t remember.”
“Where is the land of milk and honey?” Mark asked.
“I don’t know, but my mama said it’s a place like heaven.”
“It is, Kippy,” Carrie said. “Just like heaven.” She’d come over the fence and through the weeds without making a sound.
“Mama. Joe knows
The Cat in the Hat
.”
“That’s nice.”
“And look what I caught.” Kippy showed her the perch in his basket. “I lost a catfish ’bout this long,” he said, giving his arms another good stretch. “He put up a damn good fight.”
“He must’ve been awfully strong.”
“What’re you doing here, Mama? You gonna fish?”
“No, I came to get you. It’s almost time for supper.”
“We having something I like?”
“Sure are. Weenies with ketchup, macaroni and cheese and green beans.”
“Yay,” Kippy said.
“You go on to the house and wash up while I talk to Joe for a few minutes.”
“Okay. Bye, Joe. Next time it rains will you come over and read
The Cat in the Hat
to me?”
“I’ll try, Kippy. I’ll sure try.”
Carrie and Mark watched until Kippy topped the hill, carrying his fishing pole and basket of perch. After he disappeared, she said, “I’ve had so many good years with him.” She sat in the soft mud at the edge of the pond. “Wouldn’t have had many more, though. Actually, he outlived his time. Most Down syndrome adults don’t live much past thirty.”
Mark sat down beside her as she looked across the pond, staring at nothing—something only she could see.
“Kippy went over to the trailer one day,” she said. “Gaylene was asleep back in the bedroom, but you weren’t. You were in your playpen in the living room. Kippy decided to take you to the creek and give you a bath, the way he’d watched Gaylene bathe you at the kitchen sink.
“So he took off all your clothes and all his, then waded in with you in his arms. But the water was cold and you started to cry. That’s when Gaylene, crazy with fear after discovering you were gone, found the two of you naked in the creek.
“You were screaming and Gaylene was screaming and Kippy was so scared, he started screaming, too.
“When I heard the commotion, I run to the creek, found the three of you there, sent Kippy home and tried to talk to Gaylene. She seemed sure that Kippy had done something bad to you, something besides dunking you in cold water, but I talked to her, tried to explain that Kippy only wanted to give you a bath. Did my best to settle her down.
“Finally, she said she believed me, promised not to tell anyone, but I wasn’t sure, so I followed her back to the trailer, still hoping to convince her not to talk about what had happened. I knew if she ever told anybody, the word would get out that Kippy was dangerous and they’d take him away from me. Put him in a home for the rest of his life.”
Carrie began to shiver though the temperature was close to a hundred.
“She promised she wouldn’t say anything, but I couldn’t take the chance. Couldn’t let them take away my boy.
“I don’t remember picking up the knife. Honestly, I don’t. Don’t remember stabbing her. But when I got home, I had blood in my hair, on my clothes, on my hands. And on you.”
“On me?”
“I’d brought you home with me.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t have a plan. I just knew I couldn’t leave you there. Not with her like that. Besides, I didn’t know how long before someone would find you. There could have been a fire, or . . .”
When Carrie stopped talking, Mark said, “You don’t have to go on with this if you don’t want to.”
“So there I was,” she said, “holding a terrified baby, both of us covered in your mother’s blood. I got in the shower with you in my arms. I couldn’t let Kippy see us like that.
“Then I remembered a story I’d read in the
Enquirer
about people in California, rich people who were willing to pay a lot of money to adopt children.
“I still had that magazine, so I called and got the number of the attorney in the story and I phoned his office, pretending to be Gaylene Harjo. Three days later I was on a plane with you, a plane to L.A.
“When I got back to DeClare, I found out Oliver had blamed the murder on Joe Dawson.” Carrie brushed away a tear with the back of her hand. “So I used the adoption money for Kippy’s heart surgery.”
“Did O Boy know you’d killed Gaylene?”
“Yeah. He knew. I kept you at our house until I took you to California. I didn’t tell him about the money until after Kippy’s operation, though, ’cause I knew Oliver would take it away from me.”
“Carrie, did O Boy kill Joe Dawson?”
“We never talked about it, but I think he did. He’s a mean bastard.”
“He beats you, doesn’t he.”
Carrie glanced at Mark, then looked away. “But not Kippy. Not once.”
“Why did you stay with him? Why did you take that kind of abuse?”
“Each time he’d say he was sorry, say he was gonna change. And I believed him, at least for the first few years. By then, I knew if I left, he’d kill me and put Kippy in a home. So I stayed.”
“But didn’t you ever think about—”
“Oliver had so much hurt in him. He had to deal with it somehow, I guess, and taking it out on me was the most easiest way.”
“What kind of hurt?”
“His mother. She was pure evil. You wouldn’t believe the things she did to Oliver and Arthur.”
When Carrie started to cry, Mark took her hand.
“I know this won’t mean anything to you,” she said, “but I’m sorry about Gaylene. Not a day goes by that I don’t feel bad about what I did to her. And to you. But I couldn’t never let them take Kippy away from me. I’d never let that happen.”
April 11, 1970
Diary,
Oscar Horsechief was killed yesterday in Vietnam.
W
hen Carrie left Mark on the bank of the pond, he was sitting with his knees raised, his arms wrapped around them, his hands locked in a death grip as if he were trying to hold his body together.
For a while he sought comfort in watching fat, dark clouds drifting overhead. But when he began to see disturbing shapes in them—a knife held by a delicate hand, blood splattered onto a windowpane, a girl’s face, her features twisted with fear—he closed his eyes, hoping for total blackness behind his lids as he fought the scenes beginning to play in his head.
For the past week, ever since he’d been to the newspaper office where he read accounts of the murder, read about the wounds on his mother’s body, he’d hidden the details. Zipped them up in a mental body bag he’d resolved never to open, never to look at what was held inside.
But now, with Carrie’s confession darting around in his mind, sharp images had pierced the body bag, its contents beginning to spill out.
He saw Gaylene running from the creek, cradling a wet, naked baby shivering in her arms.
When she reached the trailer, she dried, diapered and dressed him in soft blue pajamas with yellow ducks as she calmed him with a sweet, reassuring voice, telling him he was all right, safe now with her, because she would die before she let anything bad happen to him.
Then she carried him to the kitchen, where she put his bottle on to warm. While she waited, she kissed his head, his chubby hands, his face, as she rocked him gently from side to side.
She turned toward the door as Carrie, wild-eyed and panting, opened it and came inside, her voice quivering as she explained once again that Kippy had not meant to harm Nicky Jack, that he only wanted to bathe him in the creek.
In response, Gaylene had offered reassurance, promised again never to speak of what had happened.
Then Carrie, obviously relieved, had reached for the baby, but Gaylene stepped back, tightened her hold on her child, a protective move that Carrie interpreted as an ominous act.
As Gaylene turned and took the baby’s bottle from the pan warming on the stove, she didn’t see Carrie pick up the paring knife from the kitchen counter, didn’t see the first thrust, but felt the pain as the sharp blade pierced her shoulder.
She let the bottle slip from her hand, heard it smash on the floor, saw her blood splatter against the kitchen window and spray the door of the refrigerator.
At first, she couldn’t comprehend what was happening. She’d seen enough movies to know that people got stabbed at night as a storm raged. She knew what was about to take place when a gust of wind blew the flame from candles or when a room was illuminated by a flash of lightning. And she was well aware that when a frightened woman crept down dark basement stairs, the music would swell as the camera moved in for a close-up of a man in the shadows waiting at the bottom.
But such a thing could not happen on a clear, sunny day, not with Momma Dog barking outside at a treed squirrel or with the faint whistle of a freight train passing through town. And certainly nothing dire could take place in the kitchen of her trailer with her baby boy in her arms.
When she saw Carrie lift the knife again, she put out her hand to shield the baby, causing the steel blade to cut away the tip of her little finger. But Carrie’s next lunge came too hard and too fast for Gaylene to deflect it, the wound too deep in the side of her neck for her to fight off another blow.
Knowing then that she was going to the floor, she sank to her knees, then slipped forward, making sure to keep the baby beneath her as the final strike of the knife buried the blade in her back, just beneath her ribs.
Mark opened his eyes then but made no effort to hold back his tears. He simply allowed himself to cry, knowing it was finally time to weep for his mother, the girl who had wanted to be an artist.
He had come to this place in Oklahoma to find the mother who had let him go, the mother who had not loved him enough to keep him.
Instead, he’d found the girl who had given up her dreams, but not her baby.