Hot Flash (17 page)

C
HAPTER
16

A
right off West Tisbury Road put me on State Road headed to Chilmark. Twenty minutes later, a hundred feet past a row of seventeen mailboxes, I turned left on Quenames Road. Forty-five years ago, during the planning stages of the housing development, it was decided there would be no street signs, house numbers, or family names posted so that residents could be assured of privacy. So Quenames Road was known only to the inner circle. It was a one-lane dirt road you would never find or know the name of if you were not privy to the secret directions.

Granted, the secret directions did often leave visitors who could not identify the third telephone stump, second “big rock,” or third pullout, lost in the maze. And, after dark, the prospect of finding a destination was nothing short of a miracle, should one succeed.

A few hundred trees in, I swerved into a pullout to allow an oncoming car to pass. The unspoken rule, the person on the way out has the right of way. Another unspoken rule, you must wave to passersby. I pulled back out to the road and continued to the next landmark—the first telephone stump.

I bit my tongue hard enough to draw tears, having miscalculated the circumference of a rut in the road that scraped the undercarriage of the car. Depending on the season, the road was hard and dusty or wet and muddy and rutted enough to force a ten-mile-per-hour speed limit. I bumped along to the second telephone stump, veered right, drove past four houses, turned left, and drove five hundred feet down a pebbled driveway. The trees gave way to a large clearing, where our family summer house, a two-level, three-bedroom cape, was set, center field.

I pulled in short of the front yard and parked beside an unfamiliar blue Toyota Camry parked off to the side of the graveled driveway.

With all the windows and curtains closed, the house looked abandoned. Tree branches and other debris were strewn across the dead grass that made up the front yard, along with several empty soda and beer cans and other trash.

The grass crunched underfoot as I made my way to the front porch, which ran the length of the house. The wooden steps groaned under my weight. Sneaking around the house was not happening. I knocked, called Nareece's name, and tried the doorknob. Another shout out also settled on a deafening silence. I backtracked down the stairs and walked around to the side of the house. In the flowerless flower bed a lockbox was attached to the foundation with a spare key. The combination, 8926, Dad's old registration number, popped the lock and the key dropped out. When I stood up, I noticed the curtain moved in the window above my head. Nareece was watching me. At least I hoped it was Nareece.

The door creaked when I pushed it open. When I stepped inside, a cool, stuffy air, dense with particles of mold, attacked my nostrils and threw me into a sneezing fit. The door slammed shut behind me. I spun around to Nareece hunched in attack stance, wielding a two-by-four. She dropped the piece of wood and plowed into me.

“You came. You found me.”

Sneezes jerked me forward and broke her hold. She ran down the hall and came back with a wad of toilet paper, ran out again and brought a glass of water and a wet facecloth. All the while, sneezes hammered me. Through teary eyes, I saw Nareece's freaked-out expression. Her arms captured her body like a straitjacket as she swayed back and forth from one foot to the other. I thought,
God, don't fail me now and leave this child to her own.

I finally had the sense of mind to go outside. The fresh air eased my sneezing, but lack of oxygen from the attack made me woozy and weak. I sat on the bench built along the circumference of the porch. Nareece followed me out and joined me on the bench. Neither of us said a word for what seemed a long time. I noticed Nareece looked pale and puffy-faced, puffy-bodied, too, way more than I had ever seen her. I decided not to comment.

With my breathing normalized and my senses regained, I opened the conversation. “What's wrong with you? Coming at me with a two-by-four? Don't you know your own sister?”

“I guess I was too scared. I tried to peek out the window, but I didn't want you or whoever was out there to see me. I wasn't really scared. I mean, nobody knows about this place but us.” She sounded more like she was trying to convince herself rather than making a firm statement. “How'd you know to come here?”

I got up and walked the length of the porch. “Where else? Like you said, nobody else knows about this place, although I'm not so sure about that anymore. I really think we need to get off the Island and go back to Philly as soon as possible.
The Island Queen
is the only boat operating right now, so I couldn't get a reservation until tomorrow morning, first boat, so we're stuck here for the night.”

“He's dead, M. He's dead and I killed him,” she said just above a whisper. Nareece hung her head and wept. I slid in beside her and draped my arm across her shoulders. She snotted, then said, “They'll try to kill the girls, too.”

“The girls are safe.” I held her shoulders, one side in each hand, and twisted her around so we were face-to-face. I hesitated, because Reecey can act the fool one minute and seem like she's brain-dead the next and shut down. “Reecey, what's your connection to Jesse Boone?”

She closed her eyes and shook her head. “I don't want to talk about all that right now. I'm hungry. Let's go get something to eat.” She pulled away.

I grabbed her shoulders again. “Reece, this is not a game. John is dead. I need to know why someone would want to kill him. Why Jesse Boone would want to kill him, because that's who I think did it. I saw a picture of you with him and a guy named Frank Mann at your house, for chrissakes! We're talking Mafia shit, Reecey. Drugs, money, the whole nine.”

“Muriel, I can't talk about this right now!” She pulled away again and went and got into the car.

It was going to be a long night. During the drive to Linda Jean's in Oak Bluffs, one of the few eateries on the Island open year-round, Nareece jabbered about store closings, new store openings, Mad Martha's ice cream, Harbor Festival, and how we should vacation together this summer with the twins and Travis. I listened for something in her voice that even leaned toward fear or sadness about John. We parked in front of Mad Martha's ice cream place and walked the few hundred feet to Linda Jean's. Nareece babbled the whole time about how wonderful the Vineyard was. In the restaurant, she stopped talking only to order waffles, a cheese and broccoli omelet, and sausages. I ordered a cheeseburger and fries.

“I forgot how much I love this place,” Nareece said. “It's so peaceful and different from anywhere else on earth. I'm really happy Mom and Dad never sold the house. The twins love the beach and everything else here, too. They love running around Ocean Park, chasing the birds, playing on the beach, and the carousel. Oh God, do they love the carousel. John . . .”

She stopped and looked at me, her eyes filled with tears. She sniffed and went on, diverting her gaze. “John loves coming here, too. He says it's like nowhere he's ever been. He did a lot of work on the house, painted the bedrooms, put new cabinets in the kitchen, and refinished the wood floors. He's planning to paint the living room this summer.”

“Nareece, stop.”

The waitress saved me, or rather, saved Nareece. For the next half hour we sat in silence wolfing down the food and slurping hot chocolate and Coke. The silence continued through the ride back. When we arrived back at the house, I stayed out on the deck while Nareece went in to open windows, cover the furniture with sheets, and start a fire.

An hour later we were nestled on the sofa watching the fire dwindle.

“I'm sorry for all this, M,” Nareece said in her whiny voice. I had her cradled in my arms like she was a little girl. The room darkened except for the firelight that made the graying living room wall paint look new again.

“I really did hate coming here with Ma and Dad. I should've been grateful they wanted to give us a good life, get me away from all the stuff I was into.”

“I know that's right. You made everyone miserable.”

“I did my own thing.”

“And exactly what was your own thing?”

She twisted around to face me. “What do you care? You never paid any attention to me. You didn't care.” She turned back around and pouted. “Not until . . . Ma and Dad . . . died.” She picked at her fingers. I noticed her nail beds were scabbed over from biting them, even worse than mine.

“I'm sorry, Nareece. You dropped into the world, and all of a sudden everything revolved around you. Before your dad and you, it was just me and her.”

“Dad loved you.”

“I know that, and I loved him. But before they got married, me and Mom talked a lot and did things together. All that just about stopped when they got married and it completely stopped when you came along. Hell, I was an impressionable and very needy thirteen-year-old, and my whole life changed because of you, this cute little baby. I guess they couldn't help themselves.” I chuckled lightly. I shifted my position so she faced me.

“Nareece, we need to stop dancing around this whole thing. You need to tell me what's going on and why you're here. You haven't even asked about the twins.” She tried to turn away, but I held her shoulders.

“M, I've been trying to tell you . . . I thought everything was done, ya know?” She started sniveling, which grated on my already-frazzled nerves.

I silently prayed for patience before speaking. “What was done?”

She snapped around. “Will you listen, M? For once, listen to me. Don't say anything until I'm done talking.” She got up and went to the fireplace. She stood to the side, staring into the flames. “Remember the night . . . when . . . after Mom and Dad . . . I was the reason they died. They didn't die in an accident. They were murdered. Killed because of something I did.”

I started to speak, but cleared my throat instead, minding her request.

Nareece walked back to the couch and sat beside me. “Dad was trying to save me. He . . . he . . .” She whimpered and snorted. “Men came to the house and threatened Mom and Dad because of something I did. Dad told them to go to hell, said he'd go to the police.” She hesitated, more whimpering and snorting. “He asked me about it and I lied. I lied, Muriel. Told him I didn't do anything, but I did. They killed Mom and Dad to shut Dad up. They wanted to punish me. They wanted me dead, too, but you came home.” She took my hand and held it against her cheek. “You saved me.”

I snatched my hand away and got up. “Who is ‘they,' and what did you do that was so bad someone would kill Mom and Dad and come after you? Did it have something to do with drugs or money? Because those are the only two things I can think of that would make someone want to kill someone else. And I can't see you involved with either. I say that, but then I see a picture of you with Jesse Boone . . .” I immediately chastised myself for sounding judgmental.

She bent forward and covered her face with both hands. She talked through her fingers, which distorted her voice, giving it a mannish quality. “I wanted Jesse Boone to feel pain, like the pain he put on me and the other girls. I thought he really loved me. All he wanted me to do was be a whore, a prostitute for him. After he made me sleep with some old guy and beat me because the guy said I wasn't good enough, I took his stupid heroin and money.”

“You were dating Jesse Boone?” It came out screechy. I was dumbfounded. Shocked. Wrecked. My mouth dried into desert quality.

Nareece stayed silent.

“You and Jesse Boone.”

“Yes, Muriel, me and Jesse. I was sixteen, and to me he was God.”

I relived snippets of Nareece at sixteen, going out and coming in, dressed like a hoochie mama, glamour makeup, arguing with me when I was home, cussing at me.

“How much, Nareece? How much heroin and money did you take from him?”

“A pound of heroin and two million dollars. I flushed the heroin and hid the money at the old house—behind the bins Daddy built for us.”

“How did he find you?”

“I don't know, Muriel. He just said there was no place in the world I could've gone where he wouldn'ta found me.”

“Why didn't you tell me? Why didn't you just give him the money back?”

“I wanted to, but when I told John about it, because I was worried that Jesse would hurt the girls if I didn't do what he said, John said not to. He said he would take care of Jesse so I would never have to be afraid of him again.”

“So what did Jesse tell you he wanted you to do?”

She uncovered her face and stared at the wall. My frustration went haywire. I grabbed her chin and squeezed. “Nareece, John is dead, for crying out loud. Talk to me!”

She popped up like a jack-in-the-box and stumbled backward, her body zombied out, face drained. Her lips quivered, and a line of drool slipped from her open mouth. She made a gasping sound and collapsed. She would have whacked her head on the stone floor in front of the fireplace, or worse, fallen into the fire, but for my quick reflex. I dragged her to the couch, laid her out, and rubbed her cheeks and hands.

“Quit playing around, Nareece.” She remained unresponsive.

I began to panic. “I'm sorry, Nareece. Don't do this. Wake up. Think about Rose and Helen. They need you.”

Her eyes opened wide. She stared as though in a trance, no brain sparks, her pupils dilated.

“Nareece, you have to talk to me,” I pleaded. I reached my arm under her shoulders and tried to make her sit up. She flopped like a dead person. I laid her back and checked her breathing and pulse, which was slightly elevated. I covered her with a throw and went on the hunt for medications. I checked the bathroom medicine cabinet, her purse and suitcase. An inside pocket of the suitcase held a small folded piece of paper containing colorful pills and an amber prescription bottle. I surmised she had been using whatever they were for days, or weeks even, to keep her going. The bottle was mostly full, so it didn't seem likely she had overdosed.