A Disturbing Nature, page 22
Langford takes Mo to Olney Pond in Lincoln Woods State Park to catch a break from the self-righteous and possibly some largemouth bass, rainbow trout, or chain pickerel. Sitting under the shade of a large chestnut oak, they fish and discuss baseball. Mo’s anxious, knowing the home team’s lead has dwindled. Langford’s relaxed being away from his guests. Mo does most of the talking. Langford asks superficial questions, and Mo provides detailed answers.
Eventually, Langford steers the conversation to Mo’s past. “Mo, you mentioned Emily last time we went fishing. Can you tell me why she bothers you so much?”
Mo tosses a rock into the water. “I don’t like talking about Emily.”
“I know, but sometimes it’s good to get troubling things out.” Langford leans toward Mo. “Helps release the anger.”
Mo’s contented smile fades. He shrugs.
Langford scratches his chin. “What made you so mad?”
“It was a bunch of stuff, and it made her parents not want me.”
“Can you tell me what some of those things were?”
“She said mean things to me in the upstairs hallway.” Mo rests his chin on his chest. “Then she said I did something bad to one of Paul’s friends, so then a bunch of her friends hurt me.”
“Did she lie about what happened?”
“Yes, I was outside the chain-link fence, but she said I was inside. Paul tried to tell his parents, but they wouldn’t listen.” Mo clenches his hands. “Then I couldn’t go to the schoolyard anymore or walk home with them.”
“That must’ve been torture.”
Mo pushes his knuckles into the ground. “Then I had to go away, but Jake’s getting adopted.” He pulls out his gloves. “Jake doesn’t write much, either. I’ve written five letters in the past two weeks but gotten only one in return.” He slaps his gloves on his leg.
“I’m sure he’s just busy. School must’ve started, and he’s probably got a lot going on.”
“That’s what he said in the letter. He also told me Mrs. Harrington died.” Mo rubs his eyes.
Langford massages Mo’s shoulder. “And she was very important to you, I know. Well, I’m here, and I hope you can see I care very much about you.” He picks up Mo’s hand, holding it in his own.
Mo pulls his hand away. “Thanks, Mike. I’d like to go for a walk if that’s okay.”
Noticing Mo shaking, his body rigid, Langford backs off. “Sure, I’ll stay here and watch the poles. It’s about eleven thirty now, so let’s plan on leaving by one.”
Mo follows a path by the water on the eastern edge, along a peninsula jutting into the pond from the northeast. He enjoys the breadth and beauty of the park, the canopy just beginning its annual transition. He stops to inhale the scent of aster, stonecrop, and black-eyed Susans dotting the landscape. In all, he walks a little over three miles before rejoining Langford a little late, mud stains on the knees and ankles of his uniform, his shirtsleeves damp. Seeing Mo peevish, Langford asks no questions.
On the ride home, Mo rolls his window down, letting his hand cut through the wind. Having cleared his negative thoughts, he avoids discussion, focusing instead on the upcoming afternoon game. Watching his friend, he thinks Langford looks more relaxed driving his fresh-smelling car and listening to classical music than sitting among his friends the previous evening.
With the Bryant entrance in sight, Langford lowers the radio. “Did you sleep well last night?”
Mo nods.
“Did you find the room comfortable?”
Another nod, this one more enthusiastic.
“Did you like my friends?”
Mo nods again, this time turning to look out the passenger window.
“They can be tiresome. I won’t invite them the next time you sleep over.” Langford says. “You do want to sleep over again, don’t you?”
Looking back at Langford, Mo smiles. “If it’s okay with you.”
Langford releases a relieved sigh. “Excellent! So, would you like to get together for lunch Wednesday at the dining hall?”
“Sure! Can I ask Mr. Griffin if he wants to come?”
“Uh, sure.” Langford stares straight ahead, brows raised, lips pressed together. “You can ask him if you want.” He looks at Mo sideways, leveling his brows. “But it might not look good to the other workers if he’s having lunch with you all the time. You wouldn’t want the guys thinking you’re his favorite.” He shakes his head. “Could hold it against you.”
“Yeah, I think you’re right,” Mo says, nodding, “I already spend a lot of time with Mr. Griffin driving around in the truck.”
“Alright, then, that’s settled.” Langford raises the volume.
Mo doesn’t like Mike’s music but is happy his friend doesn’t ask any questions about Emily or the Branch family when the radio’s on.
Langford pulls his car in front of Mo’s townhouse. “Are you going anywhere tomorrow?”
Mo unbuckles his seatbelt. “No, I don’t think so. I hope Kay asks me to go to church again.” He steps out of the car. “I’ll see you Wednesday. Thanks for letting me sleep over.” He can hear Langford’s music playing louder as he approaches the townhouse door. It drowns out any lingering anxiety as he arrives home.
-39-
MURPHY’S GAS CHAMBER
Saturday, 13 September 1975
Palmer has two enduring memories of Mass General from his youth. Neither pleasant. Stepping out of the elevator to the oncology ward corridor, he’s immediately reintroduced to the bitter smell of mortality accompanied by vivid images of his mother’s final battle. Each step, a painful flashback to childhood loss, Palmer reminds himself he’s here for a very dear friend—one that would be here for him.
Palmer stops at the nurses’ station. The perm with a temporary smile points him in the right direction before resting her lips. Further down, Murphy’s wife is sitting outside her husband’s hospital room. Palmer places a hand on her shoulder. She looks up, her eyes puffy and nose chafed, offering Palmer a slight nod.
In his bed, Murphy’s sitting up and smiling but looks weary and gaunt. It’s hard for Palmer to believe this is the same man who poured shots in his office just two weeks earlier. But his smile’s still the same—infectious.
Palmer puts his hand on Murphy’s arm. “Hey, Dick,” he says. “Giving your wife a scare?”
Though it doesn’t seem possible given the circumstances, Murphy’s smile broadens. He motions behind Palmer. “Close the door, Francis.”
Palmer obliges before pulling up a chair. “Getting ready to tell me where the money’s buried?”
Murphy laughs—an abbreviated laugh raising the gunk in his chest up through his throat, deposited into several tissues clutched in his emaciated hand. “She puts on a good show, doesn’t she?” His words wheeze out like they’re dodging a piece of lung caught in his trachea. “Those are tears of joy.” He motions Palmer to lean in. “I paid the life insurance policy back in May.” He laughs louder, coughs harder.
Murphy’s sense of humor always bordered morbid, but this afternoon it’s laudable in its intimacy, humorous in its audacity, and gut-wrenching in its candor. Palmer laughs along, squeezing Murphy’s arm a little tighter. He imagines what it would have been like to hold his father’s arm as he lay on the thirteenth green, maybe listening to some final words he could use right now.
Murphy grazes Palmer’s ribs with the back of his hand. “Osmond was here this morning. Told me you set them up in Salt Lake. Hairs they found inside the passenger door matched the girl who got away last year. Bundy’s—” Murphy stops, unable to catch his breath.
Palmer reaches for a nearby water glass. “Not gonna be enough to hold him for long; maybe an aggravated assault with a few years to piece together a stronger murder conviction if she identifies him.”
After taking a few sips, Murphy’s coughing subsides. “Better than the burglary charge they had.”
“That’s true, but you know it’s not enough for this bastard.”
“So, when you headed back?”
“Week after next. But let’s not talk about that right now. I’m here to see you. Why did you have me close the door? What did you want to tell me?”
Murphy’s eyes stare at Palmer like a rabid fan seeking playoff tickets from a scalper. “Got a cigarette, Francis?”
“C’mon, Dick, you know I can’t do that.”
“Francis,” Murphy says, “have one more cigarette with me for old times’ sake.”
In Murphy’s request, Palmer hears himself asking his father for one more beer, wishing he’d had the opportunity to share a thousand more. Reaching into his pocket, he digs out two cigarettes, lighting them with a single flame and pulling on both. He hands one to Murphy and watches his old friend take a hesitant drag followed by a satisfied exhale. They sit together in Murphy’s gas chamber, enjoying the toxins. Neither say a word. Neither cough. Not until Dick’s final puff.
Murphy’s wife walks in and yanks the cigarette from her husband’s mouth. Tossing it on the floor, she turns to Palmer. “Are you crazy? Take your cigarettes and go.”
Standing, Palmer takes a final look at Murphy, his partner, boss, and friend. He knows it may be the last time. Murphy’s still smiling that infectious smile—the smile Palmer will remember. Murphy’s wife shoos Palmer away, dismissing him for a second time.
Standing in the elevator, Palmer considers Murphy’s wife protecting her husband, her dismissals preserving him, even if just for a few extra moments. Marilyn’s second dismissal, the final one, was also an act of preservation—self-preservation for her and the girls.
Palmer spent the final two months of summer conducting a post-investigative analysis in the Juan Corona case. The discovery of twenty-five tortured bodies dumped in a peach orchard outside Yuba City, California, had caught the authorities by surprise. All but one of the victims were slaughtered with a machete. The outlier was shot in the head with a 9mm pistol. Unable to generate the same public interest as those where the killer focuses on middle-class White girls, the story was late to break and scarcely merited a byline. The victims, all middle-aged or older, were undocumented male immigrants or illegal workers.
When Palmer returned home, he surprised the family with tickets to Disney World. Marilyn chose not to go. She was planning her own getaway with the girls. She had tried to make it work for a year, smiling in front of the girls, gritting her teeth when she and her husband were at parties, but the veneer was worn.
Two weeks after Palmer and his daughters returned from Orlando, Marilyn was gone. She took the girls and fled to Ohio. Palmer walked into their cold, empty house and found an envelope on the kitchen table. The chardonnay stain on the rug bore silent witness as his trembling fingers pulled out a folded paper. The letter was brief—too brief after nineteen years together. And it was blunt. He read it out loud. He read it a second time. And he read it with an ache similar to the one he’d had in the first-floor dormitory restroom at Harvard twenty-one years earlier.
Francis,
I’ve taken the girls to my parents’. We won’t be back. I can’t watch them suffer the way I’ve suffered. I will always love the man I married. I wish I knew where he went. I’ve already forgiven you, but I must escape you. I can’t live with your demons, and I won’t allow the girls to continue watching you descend. We’ll pray for you.
Marilyn
Palmer sold the house in the spring. The divorce was finalized later that fall. The phone calls ended the summer after that. Pauline would still talk to him if she answered, whispering across the miles that she missed him and asking if she could visit. Palmer reassured her that he loved her while explaining it would be better if she stayed with her mother. But it tore him apart.
Palmer stops at the gift shop before leaving. Purchasing a bereavement bouquet, he writes ‘Helen’ on the envelope and leaves them for delivery to Murphy’s room. He drives out of the parking garage, picturing Murphy’s infectious smile as his wife smells the flowers.
Later, Palmer drives by his family’s old house. He sees Peggy at ten and Pauline at five running out the front door to jump on him in the driveway. He feels Marilyn’s hug as he places his briefcase inside the front door. And he smells dinner waiting in the dining room. He’s certain the chardonnay stain is still there—some damage can’t be undone.
-40-
NANCY
Saturday, 13 September 1975
Mo ignores the mess around him, his housemates now picking up after themselves. He opens packs of baseball cards at the table, separating the Red Sox players and placing the rest aside for Trevor to look through. Taking a midafternoon break, he hears a mass of trudging footfalls make its way downstairs. Through the bathroom door, he can smell the stench of stale beer on their collective breath as they pass through the hallway.
“Where’s the idiot?” Jim growls. “This place stinks. Someone slide the doors open.”
Mo cracks the bathroom door a sliver and peeks into the living room.
“Do it yourself! And for the love of Christmas, stop shouting,” Trevor says, staggering to the kitchen. “Anybody else need aspirin?”
“Yeah, just bring the whole bottle,” Brian says.
Jim brushes trash from the chair before falling into it. “Where’s the dumbass? This place is a fucking shithole!”
Carlton’s head rests back on the sofa, eyes closed. “Don’t talk that way about Mo.”
“I don’t care! It’s his job to pick up after us, remember? Where the hell’s that stupid bastard? And where was he last night?”
Carlton rubs his temples. “It’s none of your business, Nancy. What are you, his mom? He can go wherever he wants.”
Mo tiptoes into his bedroom.
Jim pulls himself up with some difficulty. “Fine, I’ll open the goddamn doors.” He kicks several red Solo cups, their color matching the rage creeping onto his face. “He needs to get his ass out here and clean up this mess.”
Trevor glares at Jim. “Clean it yourself. You made most of it anyway.”
Jim’s foot lands on the edge of a can. “Goddamnit! I’m gonna teach that fucking moron a lesson!” He rushes to the hallway, tripping on beverage containers.
Carlton hurries after him, followed by Brian and Trevor. “Jim, stop! Jim!”
Mo’s bedroom door is thrust open, Jim lunging toward the bed.
Grabbing the front of Mo’s uniform, Jim’s unable to lift him. “Get out there and clean up that mess!” His face is inches from Mo’s. “Get out there, you piece of shit!”
Mo can see the unleashed rage in Jim’s eyes as he pushes him away.
Grabbing Jim around the waist, Carlton pulls him back, but not before Jim lands several glancing blows to Mo’s face.
“Let go of me! I’ll kill him!” Jim kicks and screams like a giant toddler. “Let go of me, you son of a bitch!”
Brian yanks Jim back, causing him to stumble.
Trevor helps Brian hold down Jim’s arms.
Carlton sits on his stomach.
“Get off me!” Jim thrusts his hips, trying to buck Carlton off. “I’m gonna fucking kill you all when I get up.”
Unable to free himself, Jim eventually settles down.
Carlton stands, allowing Trevor and Brian to grab Jim under the arms and haul him out of the room.
Stunned, Mo rubs his face, curling up in the spot furthest from the door. Moments later, hearing the front door slam, the shouting subsides.
Carlton returns. “Hey M, you alright?” He speaks as if approaching a wounded animal.
Mo rubs the side of his face. “Yeah, I’m okay, I think.”
“Sorry about Jim. We got him out of the house.” Carlton mutters as he stares out the window, “Crazy drunk bastard.”
Mo looks up, eyes peeking through his hands. “Is Kay coming over?”
“I’ll give her a call in a few minutes. Let her know what happened.” Crouching near him, Carlton pulls Mo’s hands down. “You want any ice for your face?”
“No, thank you. I just want to see Kay.”
“Okay, buddy, I’ll see if she’s able to come over.”
Early evening, Mo emerges from his bedroom, face still stinging from Jim’s wrath. Kay and Carlton are on the sofa watching a movie.
Mo holds his hand over the left side of his face. “Hi, Kay. When did you get here?”
“Just a little while ago,” she says. “I heard you listening to the game in your room. Thought it best not to disturb you. How are you feeling?”
Mo sits down on the chair closest to her. “I’m alright, I guess.”
“Carl told me what happened today. Jim won’t be coming back.”
“Will Trevor have a new roommate?”
“Brian has agreed to move in with Trevor and allow Carl more privacy. Carl will talk to his mother about whether he needs a roommate next semester. Brian feels bad about what happened. He realizes he needs to focus more on his studies and less on all the distractions. I think you’ll find the house a lot better now.”
“Yeah, M,” Carlton says. “I talked with the guys this afternoon. There won’t be any more parties here.”
Mo smiles, noting Carlton’s unexpected use of a single letter to address him.
“Also, no girls are allowed unless they’re like Kay—someone significant—and we’ll limit our drinking to ensure we behave better.” Looking down, Carlton twiddles his thumbs. “It’s gonna get better, I promise. We all like you a lot, and we’re sorry we’ve treated you poorly.”
