Promise Not to Tell: A Novel (13 page)

“Del?” I called. My mind raced. Had Zack been there to meet Del? Could he be the mysterious boy who gave her the tattoo? It dawned on me abruptly that Zack’s last name was Messier—was that what the
M
stood for? My stomach churned at the thought.

“Just me,” Nicky’s voice drifted down. He peeked his head through the loft’s rail and smiled down at me. “Come on up, Desert Rose. Have a smoke with me.”

I climbed the ladder. Nicky was sitting on the mattress. Beside it sat a good-sized bag of pot. The air was sweet with its smoke. It was a smell I knew well from New Hope. It was Lazy Elk’s smell.

“What’s new?” he asked as he handed me a Camel. His eyes were red and glossy. He was playing with the plastic-handled hunting knife, sliding it in and out of its leather sheath.

I breathlessly told Nicky about what I’d just seen down by the pigs, about meeting his father with the gun and the shot I heard fired. Nicky only nodded.

“That sow’s not right. Hasn’t been the same since she had the piglets. Daddy’s turning her into bacon. One shot, right in the middle of the head.” Nicky turned his hand into a gun. “Bang,” he said, then blew on his fingertip.

I was quiet a minute. Nicky sat smiling stupidly at me, looking like some part of him was far away.

“You’ve been smoking dope,” I said.

“And?” he asked, eyebrows raised.

“And how do you know Zack?”

“I know lots of people.”

“Well what was he doing here?”

“Bringing me this,” Nicky answered, nodding at the pot.

“He gives it to you?”

“No dummy, I buy it from him. It’s some good stuff. Want to try a little?”

“Nope.”

“Wimp.”

“Am not. For your information, I could smoke that stuff any time I wanted at home.”

He shook his head, grinning now.

“You’re
such
a wimp.”

“Bullshit,” I said.

“Ouch, the little lady swears. You been hangin’ out with my trash-mouthed sister too long. She’s what you might call a bad influence.”

“Funny, she says the same about you.”

“Double ouch. And tell me, Desert Rose, just what has Del told you about me?”

“That you’re really just fourteen, not sixteen like you say, that you’re B-A-D spells bad, and that you’ve got some kind of secret or something.”

“My oh my, how the baby sister talks. And did she say what this big secret I’m supposed to have is?”

“Nope. Just that I might not want to know you if I found out.”

Nicky chewed on his thumbnail.

“You really think if I told you, you might not want to know me anymore?”

I shrugged my shoulders, looked at his moist eyes, and thought,
No way.

“What, did you kill someone or something?” I laughed.

“Nah, it ain’t nothin’ like that. It’s…well, it’s complicated. That’s all.”

“I know all about complicated,” I said, thinking of the mess at New Hope.

“It’s not that I think you wouldn’t get it, it’s just that I don’t know how to explain it right. But I will. I promise. I’ll figure it out and I’ll tell you the whole story.”

“When?”

“Soon, Desert Rose. I promise.” He reached out and took my hand, looked down at it, then smiled his sly fox smile. “I got another secret, though. Want to hear it?”

“I guess,” I said, disappointed that I would have to settle for some second-rate confession.

“Long as you promise not to run away and think I’m B-A-D spells bad and all that.”

I glanced at Nicky and he squeezed my hand. He was smiling at me, and his teeth were so white they seemed to glow.
Teeth are bones,
I remember thinking. This made me smile.

“I promise,” I said.

“Good. Now here it is. Lean closer so I can whisper it.”

I leaned in. Nicky’s breath was warm against my ear and cheek. He smelled like marijuana and cigarettes, but under that I detected a musky smell, like sweat only more pleasant.

“I’d like to kiss you. I’d like it an awful lot. And I think you’d like to kiss me, too.” The words were moist puffs that seemed to hit my skin and sink in, warming the flesh beneath.

“Would you?” he asked, his voice low and more gravelly than ever. “Would you like to kiss me, too?”

I nodded. Closed my eyes like the girls in movies did. His lips came against mine softly, like a butterfly landing, but once there, pressed harder. He took my lips between his and sucked them, pried them open with his tongue. His tongue worked its way around my mouth like some kind of grub seeking the darkest, dampest corner of my mouth. His teeth hit mine, clacking so hard I thought we would both walk away with chips like the one Del had. I wondered if that’s how she got hers: from kissing.

Kissing seemed like getting into a train wreck. There was that much force. That much danger. As we kissed, I remembered the sound of that single shot fired right into the brain of the pig. My own head buzzed. My teeth ached. I thought I tasted blood.

We kissed until our lips were swollen and our mouths dry. Until I forgot all about what bad secrets Nicky might have. I learned to use my tongue the same way Nicky used his. He gripped my shoulders so tight that I had bruises the next morning. His breath was coming so hard and fast that I thought he would turn blue and pass out.

“Hang on,” I mumbled, or tried to mumble as he kept pressing his mouth against mine. It could have gone on forever. And may have. But Del’s voice stopped everything.

“TRAITORS!” she screamed, her voice filling the cabin, a force all its own, more powerful than the train wreck that was our kissing, more startling than the crack of her daddy’s pistol. We jerked apart and looked down from the loft just in time to see Del bolt out through the open doorway. I turned to Nicky, but there was no question of whether we should go on kissing. What I saw in his eyes was not love or lust or even guilt, but pure, stark fear.

We scrambled down the ladder after Del, but she was long gone. Nicky told me to head home. He said he’d find Del back at their place and patch things up. She might need some time to cool down, but he promised she’d be fine by morning. I pulled the necklace I’d brought for her out of my pocket.

“Give this to her,” I told Nicky. “And tell her I’m still her deputy.” Nicky nodded, and went down the hill after his sister.

W
HEN
D
EL WOULDN’T LOOK AT ME
, refused to even look up from the ground the next morning at the bus stop, I realized that Nicky hadn’t been able to keep his promise to make things right. And although I wanted nothing more than to get down on my knees and beg her forgiveness, I was afraid. Afraid she would just humiliate me further, make me feel worse than I did.

I wanted to ask if Nicky had given her the necklace, make some joke about Droopy Moose, say it was true that I was her deputy always. Her best friend forever.

But the only thing I could think of to say was about that crazy sow.

“I heard your daddy killed a pig yesterday.” This at least got her attention. She raised her head and I saw that her left eye was black and blue, nearly swollen shut. She looked at me with such fierce hatred that I was relieved to hear the bus coming, to see the flashers go on as Ron slowed to a stop and swung open the doors.

A
LL MY LIFE
I have wished I could go back and live two moments differently. I do not long to travel back through time and change the fate that led me to drop out of med school and get married, or the choice I later made to abort the only child Jamie and I conceived. No, odd as it may seem, the two instants I wish I could do over both took place on June 16, 1971, when I was ten years old.

The first was that morning at the bus stop. I would get down on my knees and beg forgiveness. I would promise whatever Del asked, do whatever she wanted. I would demand to know who had given her the black eye, and swear vengeance upon him, upon anyone who would hurt her.

The second thing I would take back was what happened later that day. It was, I believe in my heart, even now, the worst thing I’ve ever done. Yes, I abandoned my mother; yes, I aborted a child that I truly wanted; yes, I have been unkind and uncharitable a thousand times. But this is the one thing that comes back to me in endless bad dreams, keeping me awake at night as I replay the scene again and again, imagining that it turned out differently, but knowing it was too late.

And still, I’m left with that last image of Del running from me, frightened. For years, this is how she’s haunted me. I should have known she wouldn’t let it go at that.

T
HE MORNING AFTER
N
ICKY RETURNED
my runaway mother and her dead cat, the phones were back up. I took out the list Raven had given me and made some appointments to visit nursing homes, and also phoned Meg Hammerstein—the memory specialist—who offered to see me that afternoon. I called over to the big barn and Gabriel agreed to come sit with my mother while I was out. Apprehensive as I was about putting my mother in a nursing home, it felt good to be making calls, crossing things off my list. Gabriel was overjoyed that I’d finally put things in motion.

I was jotting down some questions to ask Meg when the police knocked on the door. They were the same two men who’d been by to question me about the night of Tori’s murder, then returned to ask about Del—they wore plainclothes and carried their badges in their pockets, their guns strapped into shoulder holsters. They reintroduced themselves—detectives Stone and Weingarten. I stood out on the steps talking with them, leaving my mother inside, busy with her oatmeal at the kitchen table.

“We understand you’ve been out walking in the woods,” Stone began. He was always the one to do the talking; the other guy just seemed to take notes.

“Sure. And?”

“Were you out in the woods the night Tori Miller was killed?”

“No, I told you already. I was home all night with my mother.”

He nodded, then raised his eyebrows. “With your mother who has a questionable memory.”

“She has Alzheimer’s.” My voice shook a little. I strained to stay in control.

“Tell us about your mother’s cat.”

“Magpie?” The absurdity of the question caught me off guard.

“The young lady…Raven, showed us the cat. She said you were in the woods a few hours before the cat was found.”

That’s when I lost my temper.

“Just let me get this straight—Raven thinks I killed Magpie. That’s great. Did she mention a
motive
? Do I make out like a bandit in Magpie’s
will
?” They both stared at me, expressionless. “Listen, I
liked
that cat,” I finished lamely.

“The night before last, we understand your mother called nine-one-one and reported that you’d hurt her cat. She also said you knew the girl who was killed. Did you know Tori Miller?”

“No! I never even heard of her until a few days ago. My mother is sick and very confused. How many times do I have to explain that to you? Jesus, you met her. Didn’t you pick up on the fact that she’s suffering from dementia? She was talking about Del Griswold. She was saying I knew Del thirty years ago!”

“Why don’t you tell us again about your relationship with Delores Griswold.”

Here we go again. It always came back to Del.

I took a breath. Regained my composure. “There’s nothing to tell. She lived at the bottom of the hill. We rode the bus together. That’s all.”

“One more thing, Ms. Cypher,” Stone said. “Do you own a Swiss Army knife?”

I thought about lying, but it seemed silly. “Yes, I do. It’s in my pocketbook.”

“Would you mind getting it?” he said.

“Not at all.”

My pocketbook was on the table by the door and I opened it and began rummaging through it. Powder compact. Keys to the rental car. Key ring from home. Cell phone that was totally useless in the hills of Vermont. Pack of spearmint gum. Assorted pens.

“I’m sure it’s here somewhere,” I said. “Everything but the kitchen sink seems to be.”

I got no response. It was a pretty lousy joke anyway.

I unzipped the seldom-used side pocket, feeling something hard stuffed into it. Had to be the knife. But what I saw made me nearly cry out.

“Got it, Ms. Cypher?” Stone asked.

“No, it doesn’t seem to be here.”

My hands were trembling slightly now. My right hand was stuffed into the purse, touching what I prayed neither detective had caught sight of because if they did it was
Go to jail, go directly to jail
for me.

Tucked into the side pocket of my leather purse was Del’s old silver sheriff ’s star.

I’m sheriff of this whole rotten town.

My upper lip and forehead were damp with perspiration.

Just breathe,
I told myself.
Act natural.

“Could this be your knife?” Weingarten asked, holding out a small plastic bag with a red knife inside.

I squinted at the bag.

“I don’t know. It looks like that. Maybe. But I always keep my knife in my pocketbook.”

And now it’s gone. Replaced by Del’s star. Did whoever took the knife give me the star? Was this some kind of setup? And how long, exactly, had my knife been missing? How long had I been carrying that star?

Breathe. Do
not
panic now.

“Well, we’re running some tests on the knife.”

“Tests?”

“Blood tests. Just to make sure it’s only cat blood on the knife. Ms. Cypher, would you consent to being fingerprinted?”

“What? No! I mean, it’s a waste of time. The whole thing is absurd. I did not kill the cat, even if it turns out it was my knife that was used.”

But I am holding on to Del’s old sheriff ’s star, right this moment as we speak.

“If we find anything to connect this weapon to Tori Miller’s murder, I’m afraid we’ll have to bring you in and get those prints,” Stone said.

I slowly pulled my hand out of the bag, making sure the star was tucked into the deepest, darkest corner of the pocket, then zipped it up tight.

Was I being framed? And if so, how far did the killer go? Was my little yuppie wine-and-cheese knife used to cut off a piece of Tori Miller’s skin?

I gave an involuntary shiver.

“Is that all, gentlemen? I have to get back to my mother.”

“We’ll be in touch,” said Stone.

I
WAS IN A LOW
, brick, ivy-covered building of faculty offices looking for Meg Hammerstein and trying desperately not to think about my missing knife or the dead girl’s star in my purse when I saw the name on one of the doors—Zachary Messier.

Find Zack, Deputy.

Well, here he was, only it felt more like he’d found me.

The door stood slightly ajar and when I peeked in, I saw a man with a receding hairline and a goatee sitting behind a desk. His hair, once a vivid auburn, was now dull and giving way to gray but still long, worn back in a ponytail. He’d filled out over the years and looked the part of the college professor: white shirt, open at the collar, tan corduroy jacket with elbow patches. The only out-of-character-for-a-professor thing was a large round silver pendant dangling from a strand of leather around his neck.

“Zack?” I called from the doorway.

“Hi!” he called back, smiling as he studied my face, struggling to put a name to it. He squinted over the top of the small rectangular glasses perched on the end of his nose.

“It’s Kate, Jean Cypher’s daughter.”

“Oh Jesus, sure. Of course. Raven said you were in town. Come in, please.” He gave a warm smile and gestured me in.

I made my way into the tiny office. The back wall was covered by shelves sagging with books. The ones that didn’t fit on the shelves sat in piles all over the desk and floor—many of them seemed to be about the Revolutionary War. He had a couple of diplomas framed on the wall along with a picture of a group of people on a sailboat. It seemed he’d come a long way since his days at New Hope. Then I noticed the elaborate mandala painting and a guitar stashed in the corner, beside the desk. Maybe none of us really change, despite the diplomas, thinning hair, and spiffy wardrobe.

He stood up, the clunky silver pendant swinging out a little as he reached across the desk and took my hand, wrapping it securely in both of his.

“It’s really good to see you, Kate.” His hands were as warm as his smile.

“I only have a minute. I’m actually here to see Meg Hammerstein.” I stood awkwardly, waiting for him to let go. When he did, he gestured toward the empty chair across the desk from him and I sat down.

“How’s your mom, Kate?” I glanced down under the desk and was relieved to see he wore shoes. Black penny loafers polished to a shine.

“Um, not so good. I was hoping to get some advice from this woman Meg. Raven recommended her.”

“Meg’s great. She’ll be a wonderful resource.” He sighed, leaned across his desk, put one hand to his heart, and reached for mine with the other. He held my gaze, his blue eyes moist and sincere, the whites flecked with red. “I’m so sorry about Jean. I get up there from time to time but work’s been crazy the past few weeks so I haven’t had a chance.”

I nodded understandingly.

On his desk was a plastic bag of cookies. He saw me eyeing them and offered me one. I declined. He helped himself.

“You sure?” he asked. “Oatmeal carob chip. I’m addicted.”

I shook my head.

“I didn’t even know you were in town. Last I heard you were in Canada.”

“I was. When I left Vermont I drifted around for a while and eventually ended up in Halifax, where I apprenticed as a boat builder. After a few years of that, I decided it was time to go back to school and ended up in Toronto. Once I got my Ph.D., I took a job teaching there. I stayed until just about two years ago, when I saw an ad in a journal for this position. It was like the job found me and told me it was time to come home.”

“New Canaan must seem pretty dull after Toronto,” I said.

“On the contrary. It’s the best move I’ve ever made. My only regret is that I waited so long.”

I nodded, then my eyes went back to the sailboat photo on the wall.

“Is that my mother on the boat with you?”

He smiled and took the silver-framed picture off the wall and passed it to me for closer inspection. On the deck of the boat were Zack, Raven, Opal, and my mother, all with wind-tousled hair and sunburned cheeks.

“It was taken just last year. God, Jean loved the open water. She got such a kick out of the boat. She was a hell of a sailor, too. You should have seen her.”

“Is it your boat?”

He smiled proudly. “She’s moored up on Lake Champlain. Know what her name is?
Hope Floats
. An homage to New Hope. Gabriel was thrilled, but I haven’t been able to get him out on the water. Too bourgeois, I guess.”

My mother had never mentioned these sailing trips to me. I didn’t even know Zack was in town, never mind taking my mother out on Lake Champlain in his boat. How many little details of her life were there that I would never know now, gone forever?

“So you and Raven have gotten to know each other?”

“Raven’s wonderful. She’s working on a psychology degree, you know. She’s actually taking a class of mine now. She comes by to borrow books and bounce ideas off me. She’s the one who baked the cookies. Sure you don’t want one?”

I shook my head. Zack helped himself to a second cookie.

“And Opal,” he said. “She’s a hell of a kid. I’ve been so worried about her since her friend was killed. How’s she doing?”

“Not great. Raven’s made an appointment with a psychiatrist.”

“God, what a horrible thing to go through. I should call over there and see if there’s anything I can do.” He brushed the crumbs out of his goatee.

I looked at his necklace, which I thought might be a small clock or pocket watch. It was thick enough to have tiny gears inside and looked like it had a catch on the top to open it up.

He saw me looking and held it out for closer inspection.

“Beautiful, isn’t it? It represents the Wheel of Life. It’s Tibetan.”

Engraved on the face were three concentric rings divided into spokes. The outer ring had twelve, the next six, and the final ring, two. In the center were a snake, a pig, and a rooster. Inside each spoke were other engraved pictures: a potter, a monkey picking fruit, a woman giving birth, and various gods and humans engaged in acts I couldn’t identify from such a quick look.

“This outer ring represents the twelve links of causality,” Zack said.

I nodded as if I had the slightest clue what he was talking about.

“And here, in this ring, we have the six realms of existence: gods, titans, humans, animals, hungry ghosts, and hell.”

My eye was drawn to the image of the hungry ghosts: three ungainly creatures huddled together with long, thin necks and desperate eyes.

“Hungry ghosts?” I said.

“Those who, after death, are so attached by desire to this world that they remain ghosts, longing for food and drink but unable to partake.”

“That’s rough,” I said.

He chuckled.

Then I noticed that above the wheel itself was a horrible face with fangs and furious eyes.

“And who’s this fellow?” I asked, pointing.

“The God of Death. He turns the wheel.”

“So Death is turning the Wheel of Life? Isn’t that sort of cruelly ironic?”

“It’s really not as macabre as it seems,” he said.

You can give the hippie a Ph.D. and a membership at the local yacht club, but he was still a hippie deep down. I had to smile.

“Zack, can I ask you something that might seem kind of strange?”

“Sure. Not much is strange to me, though. Not for an old resident of New Hope.” He winked and settled back into his chair. Could this really be the nervous boy I remembered from my childhood, now so charming, so eager to please?

“I was wondering if you could tell me anything about Nicky Griswold. He did the oddest thing—left me this message that I should find you. Can you imagine why he might do that?”

Zack’s jaw tightened a little and he drew in a breath. I’d hit a nerve. He stood up and walked behind me to close the door. I felt a little like the bad kid in the principal’s office.

“What did this message say?” His head was cocked to one side, his eyebrows raised.

“Find Zack. That’s all.”

He took a moment to gather his thoughts before continuing. He seemed to use the time to study the books on his shelves as if they held whatever answers he was looking for.