A Disturbing Nature, page 43
“Hey, dummy, remember me?” Veronica’s flanked by two female friends. Her brown hair is pulled up in a messy bun, every word she says is drenched in disdain. “Veronica?! Brian’s friend?! Remember?!”
Mo nods and walks away.
She calls out behind him. “I think they have the wrong guy! I think it’s you! I think you’re the killer, you big retard!”
Mo spins back on his heel, taking a single step toward Veronica. He stares into her suddenly terrified eyes, his hands clenched. “Shut up! Why do you do this to me? Shut up!”
He feels for his gloves, heart racing, fighting back tears, but it’s raining hard outside, and there’s nowhere he can go to relieve the pain. He sets a course for the library, considering how the accusations and isolation have returned—just like it was in Virginia, exactly as it happened with Emily—his banishment set in motion by one final confrontation four months earlier.
After the fight in the schoolyard, Mo spent a great deal of time alone. On schooldays, Mrs. Branch kept him busy with menial chores. Once finished, he’d read or nap before lunch, spending the afternoon passing time until Paul came home. On rainy days, he watched reruns of his favorite old shows with Dion. But when it was nice outside, he enjoyed convening with nature along the Rappahannock. Listening to the water navigate rocks, he and Dion waited patiently by the river’s edge for the school year to end.
Four weeks after the schoolyard incident, two weeks into summer break, a rejuvenating summer rain skated down windowpanes, leaving the Branch children housebound. The boys played Yahtzee with Mo and Jake in the living room while Emily and Mary watched television. The Branch parents found space cleaning out the garage.
“Come on, Emily, play with us,” Peter said.
Emily waved her brother off. “I don’t want to play. Be quiet!”
Mary, snuggled between her big sister and a Raggedy Ann doll, put her finger over her mouth and uttered, “Shh…”
The boys did nothing to dampen the sound of dice shaking in the plastic cup.
Emily’s face cringed. Her body quivered with each roll.
Mo watched her closest on his own turns, shaking vigorously.
Though his face remained expressionless, even Dion seemed to relish annoying the older Branch daughter.
Emily stomped over to the television and raised the volume. “Shut up, all of you! Go play upstairs. I can’t hear my show.”
Mo got up from the floor. “Let’s go, guys.”
Instead of retreating to the sofa, Emily confronted the boys, her body arched forward, arms folded, and eyes glaring. “Yes, listen to the freak, go upstairs!”
Paul poked at Emily’s leg with his foot. “Don’t call him a freak!”
Spit flew from Emily’s mouth. “He is a freak! A big dummy!”
Paul jumped up, running across the room. “Stop it! I’m gonna tell Mom and Dad!”
Emily gave Paul a dismissive wave. “Go ahead! They know it’s true!”
Mo turned his back to Emily, motioning Peter and Jake to follow.
Emily pushed Jake from behind, bumping Mo into the bottom post of the staircase railing. “Get going!”
Peter grabbed the bell-bottom leg of his sister’s jeans. “Stop it, Emily!”
“You’re gonna be sorry you did that!” Emily reached back and pulled her brother’s hair.
Peter howled in pain, yanking his sister’s arm down by the wrist before letting go.
From behind, Jake grabbed Emily’s other arm and spun her around.
“Stop it!” Mary cried from the sofa, tears rolling down her face. “Stop it!”
Emily slapped Jake across the face. “Let go of me!”
Jake released Emily’s arm and stepped back.
Emily followed with a kick to his leg.
“Ouch! Stop it, that hurts!” Jake tried to get away.
Mo pushed between them, holding Emily away. “Stop hitting my brother!”
Emily lunged at Jake. “Let go of me, you retard!”
Hand clenched around the back of Emily’s shirt, Mo held her away.
“Try this, Slow Mo!” Emily’s knee found Mo’s crotch.
By the time Mo looked up from his crouched position, the living room was silent except for Mary’s crying. Mr. and Mrs. Branch, mouths open, stood with Paul at the far end of the room with Emily lying motionless next to the fireplace hearth, blood seeping from her head.
Mr. Branch rushed over to Emily’s side. “Margie, call for an ambulance!” Placing Emily on the sofa, he used a throw blanket to control the bleeding.
The children stood in grave silence.
Mo saw a stream of blood creep in a crooked strip of recessed cement on the fieldstone hearth. He wondered if it would leave a stain.
Mr. Branch whispered into Emily’s ear. “You’re okay, honey. Daddy’s here. Daddy will take care of you.”
The ambulance arrived, and Emily, still motionless, was lifted into the back on a stretcher. Mr. Branch jumped in with her. Mo, recalling his father’s lifeless body seven months earlier, hoped Emily’s fate would be different, if only for his own well-being.
The evening meal was a somber event, the boys and Mary eating pizza when Mrs. Branch broke an uncomfortable silence. “Who started it?” Her voice was calm.
“Emily said our game was bothering her,” Peter said, “so we were heading upstairs, but she came over and pushed Jake. She was kicking him, so Mo got in between them. She tripped over my leg and hit her head on the fireplace.”
Mrs. Branch shifted her glare to the other side of the table. “Is this true, Mo?”
Mo shivered at the convicting tone of her voice. “Yes, we were playing.”
Mrs. Branch’s voice rose. “Did you push Emily?”
“I don’t remember.”
“It just happened a little while ago.” Mrs. Branch shook, her face red. “How can you not remember?”
Mo looked down at his half-eaten slice of pizza, voice trembling. “I don’t know. I don’t remember.” Then, the phone rang, offering Mo a reprieve.
Mrs. Branch hurried over, listening for a few moments before exclaiming, “Thank God!” and weeping into the receiver. She hung up and leaned her head against the wall, wiping away tears of relief before announcing, “Emily’s going to be okay. She’ll spend tonight in the hospital and come home tomorrow.” With that, she went upstairs.
Mary and the boys finished their pizza in complete silence.
Mo wasn’t hungry. He knew Mr. Branch would be home soon.
And the storm had not yet passed.
In the library, Mo sits at a desk in a quiet corner and cries. Forehead resting on the back of his hands, his sobbing is heard far enough away to attract the attention of a concerned student. She approaches him, placing her hand on his shoulder.
Distracted from his grief, Mo looks up. The dim ceiling light shines through her golden hair. “I’m sorry,” Mo says, brushing his sorrows from the side of his nose.
“You have nothing to be sorry for.” Her voice is delicate and familiar, but Mo doesn’t know from where.
“I’m sorry if I’ve disturbed anyone.”
“Sometimes, it’s okay to disturb others if it helps you let go of the pain.” She rubs his back before withdrawing.
Her shadow remains over Mo as he rests his head back on his hands and falls asleep. He heads back to the townhouse just before midnight, the sting of Veronica’s insults and accusations softened by the kindness of an angel in the library.
-80-
HANGING PROMISES
Monday, 20 October 1975
Mo endures another evening alone in the townhouse, suffering another restless night on the sofa. Unable to sleep, he leaves early—too early to encounter campus security, too early to walk the woodland paths, too early to eat at the cafeteria. He sits on the front doorstep, waiting for daylight, checking his Timex, and expecting the sun. But the sun does not come. He’s not sure the sun will ever come again. Taking a different path to work, he walks through the center of campus under walkway lighting. There’s no movement this early, and he’s alone. Again.
Mo’s thoughts match the pre-dawn landscape—gloomy and desolate. Mo sidesteps puddles, navigates mud buildup, folds his arms around his chest to keep warm, and thinks about yesterday: Mr. Thompson, Investigator Palmer, and Veronica—all with questions and accusations.
Approaching the wrought-iron archway, Mo does not avoid it. He does not think anything from his past could be worse than the pain and loneliness he feels right now. He runs his hands along the metal, cold and wet, as he passes through, arriving safely on the opposite side without apparent change—mood still somber, outlook still bleak. He wonders if the past is present in each stride. If every stream, river, lake, and pond feeds into the Rappahannock. If the Rappahannock drains into the ocean. And if, like the floating carcasses, he is destined to offer a temporary scent before slipping under the water and becoming part of the landscape, in the trees and groundcover, the flowers and shrubbery.
Sitting on a stump outside Griffin’s office, in the cool, damp darkness, Mo knows creatures are stirring in the woods, just as there are students in their dorms and security on campus. Still, he sits alone, feeling increasingly isolated.
Griffin arrives early enough for the remaining darkness to shroud Mo sitting fifteen feet away. Unaware of Mo’s presence, he passes by, tugs at the office doorknob, and repeatedly kicks the metal plate. “C’mon,” Griffin says through gnashed teeth, “open up, you prick.” He pulls and kicks harder.
Mo walks behind Griffin, his arms still wrapped around his shivering body. “Good morning, Mr. Griffin. Can I help?”
Griffin jumps. “Geez, Mo, I didn’t see you there.”
Mo notes Griffin’s wrinkled brows. “I’m sorry. Are you okay?”
“I’m fine, but all the rain’s really swollen this door tight.” Griffin kicks the door one last time. “Let’s go through the garage.” He grumbles as he stomps the mud off his boots.
Mo’s glad he can’t understand what his boss is saying. Inside Griffin’s office, he watches the head groundskeeper sit and fling the morning paper on his desk. Unlike other mornings, Griffin doesn’t reach up for the work schedule. Instead, he stares at the newspaper, his shoulders slumped, eyes downcast. Mo wonders if all the rain has dampened Griffin’s spirits.
Mo sits opposite Griffin. “Game six tomorrow night.”
Griffin nods, his eyes fixed on the paper.
Mo sees the word ‘Predator’. He places his hand over the partial headline. “Looks like Tiant’s pitching again.”
Griffin continues nodding, looks up at Mo with weary eyes.
Mo rubs his neck. “They have to win tonight.”
“Mo…” Griffin’s voice breaks, “I don’t feel like talking baseball right now.”
Mo pulls his hand back, looking down at the paper. The headline typesetting has grown larger, a stain expanding across Griffin’s desk. He mutters, “Okay.”
Griffin taps his fingers on the desk. “Look, son, I’m shorthanded today, and a lot of work needs to get done on campus. The boys have all been called in for questioning, so I’ll be working with whoever’s available throughout the day until I go in this afternoon.”
“I’ll be here all day. I’ll work extra hard.”
“No, Mo,” Griffin says, shaking his head, “I need you to go home.”
Mo slumps in his chair. “But I can help.”
“Son, I need you to go home so the others can get some work done. You’ll be a distraction, and we’ve already had enough distractions lately. You’ve got enough on your own plate.”
Mo stares at the jagged red lines in Griffin’s eyes, the head groundskeeper’s voice and words sounding more like Mr. Branch’s the evening Mo was banished to his office. He places his palms on Mr. Griffin’s desk. “But I want to help. I can work away from the others. Please, sir.”
Griffin walks to the other side of the desk, placing his hand on Mo’s shoulder. “You are helping. I know the police questioned you again yesterday, and they may bring you in again.” He pats Mo’s shoulder several times. “You need to be available to help them catch this killer. We can handle the work here. Go home. I’ll see you next Monday. I’ll make sure you get paid. Just try to relax and enjoy the rest of the World Series.” He steps back. “Go ahead, get going before the boys get here.”
“Yes, sir.” Mo rises from the chair, arms hanging listlessly by his sides. He drags his feet as he exits.
Griffin calls out, “Mo?”
Mo looks back through the doorway, hope lifting his shoulders, and notices several new uniform shirts hanging in plastic on the back of the exterior door, ‘Mo’ embroidered on the name patch. A brand-new Red Sox cap hangs just above. “Yes, sir?”
Office light shining off Griffin’s now-glazed eyes, he says, “This is family, son. We’re all behind you.”
Finding little solace in Griffin’s words, Mo sulks away. Plodding along the access road, his coworkers drive by and wave. He can’t even lift his arm to reciprocate.
When Mo crosses the threshold, the townhouse is like an island—remote and surrounded by water. Daylight finally coming through the windows, he lies on his bed to nap, feeling isolated and knowing he can’t walk off this anguish.
-81-
DION
Monday, 20 October 1975
Palmer has not slept in days, so with Ross gently snoring in the seat beside him, he takes advantage of a short flight, a courtesy pillow, and the cabin wall. And Palmer sleeps. Time in the air from T.F. Green to Washington Dulles is ninety minutes—long enough to dream. So Palmer dreams. He dreams of Santa’s Village and Leonardo’s Pizza and Franklin Park Zoo. He dreams of Marilyn and Peggy and Pauline. And he dreams of their house in the suburbs and the branches in the backyard and the dining room table. In his dreams, he and Marilyn are together, and the girls are young and happy. But he never sleeps long. And when his dreaming is done, Palmer’s alone. Always alone.
Palmer’s shaken awake by the force of rubber meeting runway. He and Ross rent a car and arrive at the Branch home midmorning, where Mr. and Mrs. Branch come outside to welcome them. Palmer bends down to greet the family pet, compliments their two-story colonial home, and takes note of their freshly washed station wagon and carefully tended gardens as they enter the house.
The interior of the Branch home is also well maintained. Passing through the kitchen, Palmer glances at a coffeepot on the stove, noting how the sun radiates off its immaculate stainless-steel shell and onto the spotless linoleum floor. The crystal of a chandelier above the dining room table refracts unencumbered light onto the ceiling, and the glass windows of the china cabinet have no fingerprints. Although he knows there are children, there is little to suggest they live here. He’s certain there are no rodents in this home—at least not of the garden variety.
Seated at the table, and after several minutes of pleasantries, Ross begins. “We’re here to gather information about Maurice Leroy Lumen. Are you comfortable answering questions about Mr. Lumen?”
“Agent Ross,” Mrs. Branch says, “we have no secrets here. Of course, we’ll answer all your questions.”
Palmer’s response is measured. “Mrs. Branch, what I’ve determined in twenty years on this job is that everyone has secrets.”
Mrs. Branch sits back and folds her arms. “Hmph.”
Ross opens his notepad, beginning the interview with a series of straightforward questions verifying Lumen’s having lived with the Branches and establishing the timeframe of his arrival and departure. After some dialogue around the younger brother, the interview begins in earnest.
Ross flips through several pages. “Based on the information you’ve provided, Mr. Lumen and his brother were left homeless after their father passed. You also stated that Mr. Lumen’s mother died many years ago. Since they’re half-brothers, why is it that Jake did not go to live with his mother?”
Mrs. Branch brushes her nose with her finger. “Mo’s father raised Jake when his mother ran out on him. It was quite a source of gossip locally, and the business their father started with Earl Johnson failed as a result.”
Ross turns to Mr. Branch. “Was Earl Johnson a family friend in addition to being a business partner?”
Mr. Branch nods. “He and Ken were friends a very long time. I believe they fought together in Europe.”
“So, Mr. Johnson would know Maurice Lumen fairly well?”
“I think so, but I haven’t spoken to Earl in several years.”
“Does Mr. Johnson still live in Sumerduck?”
“Yes, he has a house on the other end of Sumerduck Road, near Rock Run.” Mr. Branch picks up a pitcher in the center of the table. “Would either of you like some more water?”
Palmer shakes his head.
Ross holds a hand over his glass. “We understand that Jake was taken in as a foster child, but how is it that his adult brother was permitted to stay with you?”
“We agreed to take Mo along with Jake at the behest of my wife’s friend, Janice. She feared he would fall through the cracks in the system.”
“Who is Janice?”
“Janice Harrington was the sixth-grade teacher at Sumerduck Elementary for many years.”
“Why would she be concerned about Mo’s welfare?”
“She taught Mo years ago. She died last month, just a couple of months after being diagnosed with cancer.”
