renamed, it was much the same place as back then, bigger now, with a friendly-looking mini-mart connected to it (also open). Across the street, however, there was no evidence whatsoever of a grubby little gas station called the Red Ball. In its place stood a shining Merchant’s Tire and Auto Center, closed for the night.
I pulled to the side of the road, studied the spot for a moment. The building was big, clean, and attractive. It was hard to believe that Lucy and I had ever sat there on Mr. Farrington’s chairs, watching the cars go by, eating free candy with him. Harder still to think that Mike McCoy had worked there, right there, had talked to us, called us lovely ladies.
I drove on. Somewhere up ahead, on one of the little dirt side roads, would be the spot where Mike McCoy had lived. The house I thought of as a shack.
More of the roads were paved than had been thirty years before, and the businesses came farther out into the country, but they still trickled off eventually and left only open fields. I turned onto a side road, thinking this might be it, but after a few minutes I saw nothing that looked like his house. I backtracked, tried a different road; again nothing. It seemed very dark out here. After a time I felt my heart beginning to race. One of these roads was the right one, I knew. One of them led directly to the place where McCoy had lived, even if the house no longer existed, which it probably didn’t. I was very close to where he had kept his basement, close to where he had killed the three girls, close to where Lucy had been drilled into and hacked apart. I might be driving past it even at this moment, the place, the very place.
But I couldn’t find it, and after a while I became fearful that I would get lost on these obscure back roads. Yet perhaps, I reasoned, that wouldn’t be so bad. I kept driving, circling around, trying this road and that, crawling through the darkness, imagining that eventually I might come across Lucy, her ghost, standing there at the side of the road, beckoning to me, waving, calling, C’mon, Franny-Fran. Come on out. We’ll go someplace. Together!
If she appeared, I thought, I’d go with her. This time I would.
—Eight—
DESPITE MY STELLAR grades, and Lucy’s ever-improving ones (she was managing C’s within weeks), the friction between my guardians and me regarding the time I was spending across the street didn’t abate. Uncle Frank was neutral on the subject, as he was neutral on everything—he was willing to float me some cash occasionally, if I had my eyes on a new pair of jeans or a book or something, always leaning down to me and whispering sotto voce, “Don’t tell your aunt, all right?” But other than that he paid little attention to me. Dealing with Frances was left to my aunt, a tired and, I think, rather bitter woman who was preoccupied with appearances. I couldn’t imagine—I still can’t—who on earth could possibly care if I hung out at the Sparrows’ house, but Louise was convinced that the neighbors would all brand us as all “trash.”
“Aunt Louise, who cares what they think?” I asked one night. I was late in coming home: Lucy and I had lost track of time, it was 11:00, and there she was in her chair with her Marlboro, demanding to know what I was doing out at all hours of the night, demanding to know what I believed the neighbors would think of my behavior. “Why would anybody pay any attention?”
“But people do, Frances. That’s what you don’t understand.”
“It’s not people,” I said. “It’s you . You just don’t like them.”
“You’re right. I don’t. But it’s more than that.”
The TV was on as we argued, and we both heard the word “Quiet” at the same time. We stopped speaking and looked toward the screen. The Monterey-area news anchor, Bill Bollin, was saying that a body believed to be that of Maria Sanchez, a girl who had been missing for the past several weeks
I pulled to the side of the road, studied the spot for a moment. The building was big, clean, and attractive. It was hard to believe that Lucy and I had ever sat there on Mr. Farrington’s chairs, watching the cars go by, eating free candy with him. Harder still to think that Mike McCoy had worked there, right there, had talked to us, called us lovely ladies.
I drove on. Somewhere up ahead, on one of the little dirt side roads, would be the spot where Mike McCoy had lived. The house I thought of as a shack.
More of the roads were paved than had been thirty years before, and the businesses came farther out into the country, but they still trickled off eventually and left only open fields. I turned onto a side road, thinking this might be it, but after a few minutes I saw nothing that looked like his house. I backtracked, tried a different road; again nothing. It seemed very dark out here. After a time I felt my heart beginning to race. One of these roads was the right one, I knew. One of them led directly to the place where McCoy had lived, even if the house no longer existed, which it probably didn’t. I was very close to where he had kept his basement, close to where he had killed the three girls, close to where Lucy had been drilled into and hacked apart. I might be driving past it even at this moment, the place, the very place.
But I couldn’t find it, and after a while I became fearful that I would get lost on these obscure back roads. Yet perhaps, I reasoned, that wouldn’t be so bad. I kept driving, circling around, trying this road and that, crawling through the darkness, imagining that eventually I might come across Lucy, her ghost, standing there at the side of the road, beckoning to me, waving, calling, C’mon, Franny-Fran. Come on out. We’ll go someplace. Together!
If she appeared, I thought, I’d go with her. This time I would.
—Eight—
DESPITE MY STELLAR grades, and Lucy’s ever-improving ones (she was managing C’s within weeks), the friction between my guardians and me regarding the time I was spending across the street didn’t abate. Uncle Frank was neutral on the subject, as he was neutral on everything—he was willing to float me some cash occasionally, if I had my eyes on a new pair of jeans or a book or something, always leaning down to me and whispering sotto voce, “Don’t tell your aunt, all right?” But other than that he paid little attention to me. Dealing with Frances was left to my aunt, a tired and, I think, rather bitter woman who was preoccupied with appearances. I couldn’t imagine—I still can’t—who on earth could possibly care if I hung out at the Sparrows’ house, but Louise was convinced that the neighbors would all brand us as all “trash.”
“Aunt Louise, who cares what they think?” I asked one night. I was late in coming home: Lucy and I had lost track of time, it was 11:00, and there she was in her chair with her Marlboro, demanding to know what I was doing out at all hours of the night, demanding to know what I believed the neighbors would think of my behavior. “Why would anybody pay any attention?”
“But people do, Frances. That’s what you don’t understand.”
“It’s not people,” I said. “It’s you . You just don’t like them.”
“You’re right. I don’t. But it’s more than that.”
The TV was on as we argued, and we both heard the word “Quiet” at the same time. We stopped speaking and looked toward the screen. The Monterey-area news anchor, Bill Bollin, was saying that a body believed to be that of Maria Sanchez, a girl who had been missing for the past several weeks
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