Fear Has a Name: A Novel (9 page)

13

“I know who it is,” Pamela heard herself say, softly, evenly, as if in a trance.

“What?” The letter crumpled at Jack’s side. “Who?”

“Granger Meade.” She spoke weakly, as if all her energy had been zapped. “He lived in my neighborhood. We grew up together.”

“Pam, are you serious? You know this person?”

“No one liked him. I felt sorry for him. I know it’s him.”

“Are you sure?” Jack’s eyes were huge.

She nodded and stared off, remembering the snowy winter wonderland bus stop at the end of her street in Cleveland Heights. Granger would stand there day after day in the predawn chill, so big and awkward with his large, black trombone case, never knowing exactly what to say or do. They’d been in the same elementary school before that.

“He had oily red hair,” she mumbled. “He was tall, broad, fair … It’s him.” She nodded slowly, looking at nothing, recalling everything from the previous days with chilling clarity.

Jack scanned the basement level of the church, looked over at the girls and back at her. “Okay, we gotta tell the police, now.” He rested his hands atop her shoulders. “This is
good
, Pam.” He took her face in his hands and fixed his eyes on hers, like a coach attempting to revive a pulverized boxer in the corner of the ring between rounds. “This is really good. They’ll get him now. It’ll be over soon.”

With quick movements and quiet but gentle commands, Jack led Pamela and the girls down the hall and into a vacant children’s classroom. He pulled up a small blue chair for her in a corner and a basket of toys for the girls, then got busy on his phone. The odor of dirty diapers enveloped them, but it didn’t faze Pamela—and the girls certainly didn’t seem to notice.

From the opposite corner of the room, Pamela heard Jack leaving a message for Officer DeVry, explaining the returned Bible, the defaced photograph, the letter. She also heard him mention the name Granger Meade.

Funny, but somehow knowing it was him who’d been behind everything was a relief. That was lunacy, she knew. There was plenty to fear, based on all that had happened already, the letter and the sordidness of it all. As she stared at Rebecca and Faye, each dinging a xylophone as they sat on the red rubber mat in that sour-smelling room, she realized she was somewhat paralyzed by what she could only assume was a combination of disbelief, curiosity, and fear. She would work her way back to sickening reality soon enough.

But for a moment, just a fleeting moment, while she sat comatose in that chair, Pamela allowed herself to drift back to her youth in Cleveland Heights, where indeed Granger Meade had seemed an odd but harmless boy. He had been extraordinarily quiet and was, frankly, somewhat of an oaf. And, although he was uncomfortably awkward and came across as a self-proclaimed nuisance, she had liked him.

Certainly none of her friends understood her kindness to Granger. The crux of it was, he had no friends. That’s what had bothered her so. He was a loner. And she had decided to do her small part, whatever she could, to make his life a little happier. So she made a habit of asking him questions—about band, classes, his job as an usher at the theater in the local mall. But never about family. No, no—she’d gone there once or twice, only to be told on both occasions that “My mother and father
hate
me. I’m an anathema to them.”

Vividly Pamela remembered going home, heading straight to the living room, and looking up
anathema
in the big red family dictionary. Just as clearly, she recalled several of the words from its definition that had stood out so potently:
detested, denounced … cursed
.

Although Pamela’s own family had been dysfunctional, at least they loved each other, even if it was buried beneath layers of distrust and paranoia. For that reason, because she had thought her family was about as weird as they came, she always assumed Granger exaggerated and said such things simply to gain attention.

There were rumors, however, about Granger’s parents being some kind of fanatical fundamentalist Christians. His father was supposedly a church deacon and his mother, who never wanted children and always wanted to be a missionary, was said to despise Granger and told him repeatedly that he was neither planned nor wanted.

Pamela could not conceive carrying a child in the womb all those months, then giving birth and loathing that precious life.

That’s your baby.

For a split second, she wondered whether it was pity chewing at her stomach.

One kid from the neighborhood, Tony Givens, said Granger was actually forced to
live
in the woods, anywhere from a few hours to several days at a time, to serve as punishment for his trespasses. Pamela always dismissed such nonsense without giving it a second thought, because Tony was a bully and a jerk.

For the first time since her youth, Pamela recalled a cold, sopping wet morning when she was riding the bus to school. She could practically smell the damp Ohio air. Boys were teasing Granger. Crowding around him. Pointing. Jabbing at his ear. Laughing and yelling that he had ticks or lice or some such nonsense. Poor Granger. There he sat, scrunched against the dew-covered bus window, cowering behind his black trombone case.

Back then she was certain none of those things were true. Certain. Because, when she was a kid—when anyone was a kid—nothing could be
that
awful, could it? That backward? That
sick
?

He was just a shy kid, she figured, like all the other shy kids.

Now she wondered, what
had
Granger Meade been through?

Interestingly, when he did finally speak up, Granger said things that either made uncanny sense or that came across so dryly humorous that Pamela laughed and laughed. When that happened, his head would tilt up and he would smirk, flare his nostrils and kind of look around at everyone else on the bus, proud that he had made Pamela Wagner laugh so hard.

When she saw Granger in the hallways at school, Pamela said hello and occasionally chatted with him. As he’d said in his note, she may have even walked with him to class. She didn’t remember that, specifically, but what she did recall was that whenever they were together, Granger was on his toes, quick to notice her needs, alert to open a door, always watching out for her. He’d liked her. Pamela knew that. And now that she reflected on it, she may have even sensed that he had a crush on her. But, as did most such things, it simply went unspoken.

“Hello, hello.” A tall brunette woman swept into the church classroom like a whirlwind, dragging a garbage can on wheels, waving a rubber-glove-covered hand to her long nose. “Whew-whee!” she cackled. “Smells like we had some real party poopers in here today. Don’t mind me.” She stepped on the pedal of a white plastic trash can to pop up the lid, snatched the bag, and replaced it with a new one in a blur. “There, all clean for service tonight. Have a good day, everyone.”

She was gone.

“I’ll just be another second.” Jack held up an index finger. “Gonna try Potanski.”

Pamela didn’t want to leave that hard plastic chair. Cars maneuvered in the parking lot beyond the window, people talked and laughed in the hallway. She was safe where she was and didn’t want to move.

The time Granger mentioned in the letter—when Pamela had spoken up for him—came creeping back. It had been one of their high school’s last home football games of the season. Pamela was bundled up and on her way to meet several friends somewhere between the bleachers and the concession stand. It was a frigid Ohio night. People were layered in sweatshirts, heavy winter parkas, wool scarves, and winter hats and nestled close together in the packed slant of stands. Their warm breaths hit the cold night air and rose like chimney smoke in the white glow of the stadium lights.

Pamela walked fast to stay warm along the black-cinder running track that encircled the football field, past the shivering, smiling, pom-poming cheerleaders, past the school’s large-headed patriot mascot (who was really classmate Ricky Bogan). With the smell of winter and cigarettes and hot dogs swirling in the wind off Lake Erie, the announcer’s voice echoed as he reported the plays.

In the darkest stretch of the walk, beyond the glare of the stadium lights and well before the lines for hot cocoa at the concession stand, where hooligans huddled to sneak swigs of booze and cupped their hands around flickering lighters and joints—she saw Granger Meade. He was down a slope, away from everyone, swaying oddly against the tall chain-link fence, wearing his navy band uniform, boxed in by three dark figures.

Pamela slowed. Her heart quickened.

With a playful, sweeping uppercut, the one on the left sent Granger’s white band hat flipping into the air. He did not pick it up. The one in the middle shoved him, and again he wobbled against the sagging fence.

“Granger!” she shouted, realizing as she headed toward him that it did no good to yell from that distance.

She set her resolve and hurried her pace.

They wouldn’t hurt a girl.

She just hoped they had no weapons and weren’t too drunk.

The three young men harassing Granger didn’t look familiar until she drew within ten feet of their little party. The one that had knocked his hat off was the infamous Blake Devonshire, who had either dropped out or been expelled soon after the school year began. Pamela did not know the whole story, only that Blake had been accused of flushing another student’s head in one of the school toilets.

Great.

She didn’t want to tangle with him or his sidekicks.

The other two boys wore baggy low-rider jeans. White shoes. Silver chains. Dark hoods and baseball caps. Blake wore a denim jacket, a black conductor’s cap, and steel-toed boots. The collar of his black shirt was unbuttoned, revealing a bony white chest, a silver skull necklace, and a portion of a tattoo.

Almost simultaneously, the four of them turned to her.

“Stay away, Pamela,” Granger huffed, hunched over, a trickle of blood glistening from beneath his nose. “Get outta here, now!”

“Pamela … baby.” Blake stepped toward her, invincibly, as if he knew her. Reeking of booze, he reached for her. “Come ’ere, sweetie …”

She swatted his filthy hand. “Where’ve you been, Granger? Come on.” She reached out a hand to him, praying her act would work. “Let’s go. Everybody’s waiting.”

“Wait a minute, baby.” Blake seized her arm. “You ain’t goin’ nowhere—”

The second Blake’s fingers sank into her arm, Granger detonated.

With his big head lowered and his blocky shoulder down like a battering ram, he catapulted toward Blake. His massive, chugging, steam-rolling frame struck Blake Devonshire square in the back, smack between the shoulder blades.

Oooomph.

The twerp left the ground for an instant and
bash
, hit the rocks and dirt and grass face first, with Granger crashing down on top of him. The wind left Blake like the last bit of air leaving a wilting balloon.

The other two squared into the ready-for-battle position with knees bent, arms and hands out stiff, ready to rumble.

“Come on, Granger.” Pamela scrambled to him and reached a hand out. “Let’s go.”

Blake looked like a rag doll beneath him.

Granger rose and examined the other two.

They were frozen in place, eyeing each other, checking up the hill for onlookers.

“Take my hand!” Pamela ordered.

He took it.

His hand was large and rough.

She helped him to his feet.

Blake’s face must have been a mess. It was straight down against the gritty earth. He wasn’t moving.

Shifting her meanest eyes to the other two, Pamela eased in front of them slowly, over to the fence. She bent down, snatched Granger’s hat, and dashed back to his side. Without a word, without stopping, she lifted his heavy hand in hers and led him up the slope.

By the time she glanced back, the other two jerks had fled.

Blake’s crumpled body lay small and still, like an old pile of clothes one might see along the side of a road.

“You okay?” Pamela looked up at Granger as they walked.

He looked down at her and nodded. “Thanks.”

“You got blood right here.” She pointed above his upper lip.

He wiped it with the sleeve of his band uniform.

They reached level ground, the cinder track, throngs of people.

“Why were they hassling you?” She let his hand go, stopped walking, and faced him.

He put his hat on, tugged at the lapels of his band jacket, and tilted his head back.

She waited for an answer, but he only dropped his head, as if it was all too much to explain. She dusted his coat off with her hand.

“You can talk to me, you know,” she said over the announcer’s echoing voice. “I’m your friend. I won’t say anything to anyone. It helps to talk, Granger.”

“Why are you doing this?” He squinted at her and tilted his head.

“Doing what? Being your friend?”

He shook his head, frustrated. Towering at least a foot and a half above her, he turned slowly from the glowing field to the burning lights to the black sky to the crowd. “You don’t understand,” he said. “There’s no way you could.”

“But I
want
to understand, Granger. What happened back there?”

He threw his hands into the air. “What? You think that’s unusual? It happens all the time. That’s my life, right there.”

“I don’t understand,” Pamela said. “What did you do to get picked on by them?”

“Trouble finds me,” he said. “I went under the bleachers to try and find a ten-dollar bill Michael Riggler dropped.”

“You went down there to help Michael?”

“He didn’t know it. I overheard him tell some other guys he dropped it through the stands. I was gonna find it and give it back to him.”

“And what? You ran into those creeps?”

His small mouth sealed shut, his eyes closed, he nodded.

The outside corner of his left eye glistened, and she knew it wasn’t from the cold.

Suddenly, Pamela thought
she
might cry.

He looked down at her as if pleading for understanding with those tiny eyes. A tainted concoction of cruel emotion seemed to spill over from his troubled soul. She saw hurt and humiliation; she sensed inadequacy and embarrassment.