Futile Efforts (7 page)

"Where was it? The tape player."

"On the dining room table. But the voices sound like they're further back in the house, in one of the bedrooms."

Jenks nodded. "They always sound like that no matter where the recorder is placed. It would be the same even if you'd put it in your room or out in the garage."

"That's fucked up."

"What do they want?" Mrs. Mallory asked. Now that the excitement had worn off, he could see a splinter of fear working through her. "Why do they speak that gibberish?"

"I don't know."

"Who are the other women?"

"Nobody's certain."

She tried to frame her next words carefully, the way they usually did. "Were there other, ah, violent episodes in the house, before your parents moved in?"

"No. The house was newly built when my father bought it. We were the original occupants. It was one of the first homes put up in the development."

"The neighborhood must've looked so nice back then. Now it's going to seed."

No point in responding, they'd pretty much played their string out and he wanted to be alone in the house.

H
e entered his old bedroom and found it only vaguely familiar.
 
There was water damage in two corners of the ceiling, dark mottled stains reaching along through cracked plaster. No furniture, just an ugly chipped lamp set on the worn carpet. Tracy was a poster freak but didn't care enough to bring many along to the new place. The walls remained a patchwork of vacuous celebrity faces, most of them torn or hanging at the edges, covered by loose, yellowed pieces of tape.

"I appreciate you letting me stay in your home tonight," Jenks said, surprised by his own sincerity. He'd mentioned the buzz about the possible documentary to her and implied having a role in producing the film. The insinuation being that he'd mention the Mallory family and his night spent in the house for the first time in two decades, maybe do some interviews with them. They'd bit, and his lies bothered him now.

"It won't be ours much longer. We've received several bids and expect to close by the end of the month." Mrs. Mallory gave a heavy sigh of relief. She patted her chest as if to calm her heart. "The new people can worry about all of this stuff. We're already moved into the other house."

"It's on the Hudson," Tracy said from the doorway. "We're getting away from the Satanists."

"Don't start."

"All those kids into the occult, you know, they roam the streets in mobs."

"That's enough…"

"It's a social statement, the Hudson Valley. We're forty-nine minutes from the Museum of Natural History. My Dad clocked it for me. I feel so much more civilized already."

Mrs. Mallory drew herself up and planted her fists on her hips. It was a pose Jenks recognized-his mother used to do it a lot when she was furious, battling with Deb about damn near everything. Mrs. Mallory faced him and said, "She keeps threatening to run away, can you imagine?"

"I'm going to, Ma, just watch me."

"She actually likes it here. In this area."

"There's nothing wrong with our neighborhood!" Tracy glanced at Jenks and licked her lips, a gesture calculated to illicit his help. It only proved how young and careless she was.

"Property values are dropping. The Puerto Ricans and blacks are moving in, you can't even cross Potters Avenue without fearing for your life." Mrs. Mallory gave Jenks a cohort's frown, inviting him to join in.

He didn't mention the fact that she hadn't cared about living in the house where his sister had been dragged away bleeding to death long before the Puerto Ricans had started to step up to Potters Avenue. Jenks also decided that Mr. Mallory must've been one fucked-over dude, forever caught between these two women, always getting the rolling eyes, the sneers, and the cutting scowls during every quarrel.

"Which one is she?" Tracy asked. "Your sister, I mean."

"Voice C," Jenks said.

"Which is that?"

"The one that says 'give it to me,' and 'give it back.'"

"The one that talks about needing her brother."

"Yes."

"And that's you."

Jenks was getting a little worried about it too, but tried to keep himself steady and focused.

"What's she want?"

"Maybe I'll find out tonight."

"That's too weird." Tracy held the micro-recorder by two fingers as though it were a dead mouse and handed it to him. "Here," she said, backing off down the hallway. "I'm leaving this fucking thing behind."

Mrs. Mallory made a false start to go after her, then gave another theatrical sigh and threw her hands down. She turned to Jenks again, and he saw the very real sorrow in her eyes and suddenly felt pity, even if she was going to live in Westchester.

"Dress warmly," she said. "We've contacted the gas company and they're due to disconnect at 5:30 this evening."

"I've got a sleeping bag in my car."

"We'll have electric until the morning though. I don't know if you remember, but the bedrooms don't have overhead lights. As you can see there's a cruddy lamp we're leaving behind that you can use."

"Thanks again."

A slowly growing tension became even more palpable and Jenks sensed she wanted to say more. It either would come out or it wouldn't. The beautiful unyielding faces around him looked insane with wealth and happiness.

"I don't think you should stay," she said.

That stopped him. "Really? Why not?"

"Those last words on the tape. That was your sister Debra talking, wasn't it?"

So she wasn't quite as self-absorbed as he'd thought. "Yes, I believe so."

"And they were new. They'd never been heard before, all those other times." She held his gaze for a moment, expectant and watchful, but he didn't say anything. "It sounded like she expected you to come."

"I think so too."

"Perhaps it's not such a good thing."

"She may need me. Wherever she is. To find peace."

He was sweating again, his breath hissing. He couldn't get over how different Debra sounded on the tapes, enraged and ruthless.

Mrs. Mallory brought it all home, like a blade between the ribs, telling him, "Maybe that's not what she's looking for."

D
arkness settled, and moonlight ignited the paper smiles. He listened to oak branches scratching at the roof in the heavy winds, but the asphalt shingles had been replaced with wooden ones and the sharp clattering noise began to grate on him.

Lying on his sleeping bag in the empty frigid house, Jenks slowly let his own incessant questions drift over him once more. Who were the other women with his sister? What were they all doing together? What did those disjointed fragments of speech mean?

Over the years he'd managed to segregate his emotions so the frustration wouldn't drive him out of his head, but now they all became a boiling stew. His grief and longing, the disappointment and lack of fulfillment, the nearly lifelong quandary of unfinished business. If she wanted him back here so badly, why didn't she talk to him?

Meeker, it had to have been Meeker.

If so, it shouldn't matter anymore, but of course it did. Jenks tried to force himself to sleep, pondering if she'd be able to reach to him in his nightmares, if the other women might show and introduce themselves, and he could help get to the bottom of all their pursuits and heartaches. And they could guide him past his own.

His cell phone rang and Jenks answered. "Hello?"

"Hello? Hello?"

"Yes?"

"What?"

It was Voice B, still holding to the script. "Hello? Hello?"

At least this was something new, having them moving into the phone. Did they need to make contact that much more now? Or was he just growing more sensitive back in the house, in tune with their needs?

"Hello, B," Jenks said. "This is a new trick. What can I do to help?"

"Tell me your name."

"I'm Matt Jenks," he said. "Now tell me yours."

"Tell me your name."

"Put my sister on."

"Hello? Hello?"

He hung up. Let B or one of the others call back, if they had something to say to the living world.

 
Christ, just show yourselves, with or without the sheets, the bobbing balls of light. How much harder could it be for them to appear? If they could jump into AT&T and give him a ring, why couldn't they just flutter past? A veiled shape floating down the hall. A shadow that turns corners.

Jenks stood, put his shoes on, stepped to the window and stared at the leaves gushing by like the surf rolling in. He spun to the doorway and walked into his sister's bedroom, where the blood trail had started. "Debra, who did this to you? Was it Meeker?"

His phone rang once more.

It was Voice A saying, "Who is that?"

"Are you asking about Meeker? I think he's the man who killed my sister."

"Who is that?"

"Debra is another voice you jabber with."

"The kid's over there."

"Tell her to give me a call."

"The girl's…"

He hung up again.

In the dimness of 1529 Baldwin Boulevard, he carefully walked the pattern of his sister's killing. Cops said it had started in her bedroom, beside the nightstand, and then she was dragged struggling into the kitchen. Drawers were open but no knives were taken or used. Then out the back door into the yard, where she was left beneath the willows.

At his chorus recital his class had sung "Riding in the Buggy," "Frere Jacques," "There's a Hole in the Bucket," and "Sweep, Sweep Away." His parents were there in the second row, Ma snapping pictures every three minutes. Always out of focus or cutting everyone's head off. Afterwards they'd stopped off for ice cream, not even eating in the parlor five minutes down the road. Bringing back sundaes, the mint chocolate chip for Deb. They'd only been out of the house about an hour and a half, but it was more than long enough.

The voices again, loud but far away, sounding like they might be in the back yard. Jenks' swallowed a moan as he heard his sister shouting, "Give it back! It's mine! Give it to me!"

And then A asking, "Who is that?"

So here it was, finally, what he'd been waiting for most of his life. The chance to find out exactly what had happened while he'd been Frere Jacques-
ing
his little ass off.

Jenks tore open the door and stumbled against the wrought-iron railing somebody had put in to replace his father's trellis. The moonlight lashed across his eyes like a whip. He flung an arm out and went down to one knee, barreling through the evergreen shrubs. Pain shot up his thigh but the icy breeze felt good against his throat.

A spot of milky whiteness glowed near the base of the back fence. Jenks stepped over wondering,
Is this it? Is this how she appears to me now?

He didn't call Debra's name as he moved closer to the patch of ivory glimmer that burned in the dark. Jenks stooped and reached out.

It was a pair of girl's panties.

From the other side of the fence, Voice A whispered to him, "The kid's over there."

Jenks spun and nearly flopped over Tracy's body, half-hidden in the leaves.

She was laid out in the same position that his sister had been. Legs spread wide and left knee bent and propped, the shattered nose still leaking blood. Blouse open and her full breasts covered with scratches and bruises. Her forehead had split open and steaming fluids slithered along the furrows of her brow. She looked, perhaps, a tad less forlorn than she had earlier.

Jenks brought the back of his hand up to cover his mouth and swallowed repeatedly while the moans crept in his chest. A surge of nausea swept through him and a small noise of defeat escaped him.

He reached for his cell phone, but his pocket was empty. He must've lost it hitting that goddamn railing, floundering around in the blackness. He was still holding Tracy's panties in his other hand and tossed them away in disgust.