pale yellow blouse.
Her face evoked a distant memory, just out of reach. Had he seen her before?
He waited for a commercial to interrupt the movie that Aunt Phoebe was watching. Then, hoping the girl would not go away, he asked his aunt if she owned a pair of binoculars.
“I have opera glasses,” she said. “I don’t know why they call them opera glasses. I’ve never been to the opera.”
She produced the small black binoculars from the dining room cupboard, and did not ask any questions.
Eric went upstairs to the spare bedroom at the front of the house. Keeping to the outer edge of the window, he trained the opera glasses on the girl, who still stood in front of the weeping willow. Her blond hair caught the sunlight. Her legs were tanned, the beige shorts barely reached her thighs. She was pretty, full lips, a girl’s face but a woman’s body.
As he studied her through the binoculars, she raised her face in his direction, as if offering herself to him. Once again, she evoked a vague memory. He was certain he had seen her before. But where, when?
He lowered the binoculars. Palms wet. The longing for tenderness startled him with its intensity.
What have I been missing all these years?
Hehad always been proud of his control over his mind and body, stifling his desires and needs. Now, he was unsure of himself. The girl across the street did not attract him like the others—he was drawn to dark-eyed, black-haired girls—but her presence evoked his desires, making his nighttime visions of the Señorita and the other girls pale by comparison. He could no longer be satisfied with visions and daydreams.
That night in bed, he tossed and turned again, but this time as if a fever raged in his blood. The old lieutenant’s words echoed in his mind.
You are incapable of feeling, Eric
.
If that was true, then what was this agony that denied him sleep and rest?
Suddenly there was less activity on the street, fewer people showed up and those who did became familiar to him, kids on vacation with nothing better to do or senior citizens who also had time on their hands. Once in a while, a television van drove up and spent a few minutes scanning the street or interviewing spectators. A young guy in his twenties, obviously a reporter with a camera dangling on his chest and pencils in his lapel pocket, spoke to the onlookers. Eric saw him talking to the girl now and then—obviously attractedto her. The girl did not respond to him and walked away. “Good,” Eric murmured, for no reason at all.
The telephone did not ring anymore. The ringing had jarred him at first, the sound like assaults on his hearing, disruptive after years at the facility in a room without a phone.
The high point of his day continued to be the delivery of mail. The number of letters had dropped off, and the mail consisted mostly of routine bills for his aunt and an occasional letter from a longtime pen pal in Kansas dating back to her high school days. Eric learned to recognize the purple ink and delicate handwriting. He tossed the mail aside with a grimace when the registry letter did not show up.
He was stunned when he picked up the
Wickburg Telegram
one morning and saw a picture of the girl on the front page. A three-column close-up, in color, showing her face peering out of the limp branches of the weeping willow. The paragraph that accompanied the photograph read:
“Miss Anonymous” in the above photo has kept a daily vigil on Webster Avenue, where released murderer Eric Poole, 18, lives with his aunt, Phoebe Barns. The girl will notgive her name or address, and only smiles enigmatically in answer to most questions. Asked if she had ever met Eric Poole, she replied with a one-word answer: “Once.” She refused to provide details of that meeting.
Poole was released recently from the New England Youth Services Facility, where he was incarcerated for three years for the murder of his mother and stepfather. His release has touched off controversy
Her face evoked a distant memory, just out of reach. Had he seen her before?
He waited for a commercial to interrupt the movie that Aunt Phoebe was watching. Then, hoping the girl would not go away, he asked his aunt if she owned a pair of binoculars.
“I have opera glasses,” she said. “I don’t know why they call them opera glasses. I’ve never been to the opera.”
She produced the small black binoculars from the dining room cupboard, and did not ask any questions.
Eric went upstairs to the spare bedroom at the front of the house. Keeping to the outer edge of the window, he trained the opera glasses on the girl, who still stood in front of the weeping willow. Her blond hair caught the sunlight. Her legs were tanned, the beige shorts barely reached her thighs. She was pretty, full lips, a girl’s face but a woman’s body.
As he studied her through the binoculars, she raised her face in his direction, as if offering herself to him. Once again, she evoked a vague memory. He was certain he had seen her before. But where, when?
He lowered the binoculars. Palms wet. The longing for tenderness startled him with its intensity.
What have I been missing all these years?
Hehad always been proud of his control over his mind and body, stifling his desires and needs. Now, he was unsure of himself. The girl across the street did not attract him like the others—he was drawn to dark-eyed, black-haired girls—but her presence evoked his desires, making his nighttime visions of the Señorita and the other girls pale by comparison. He could no longer be satisfied with visions and daydreams.
That night in bed, he tossed and turned again, but this time as if a fever raged in his blood. The old lieutenant’s words echoed in his mind.
You are incapable of feeling, Eric
.
If that was true, then what was this agony that denied him sleep and rest?
Suddenly there was less activity on the street, fewer people showed up and those who did became familiar to him, kids on vacation with nothing better to do or senior citizens who also had time on their hands. Once in a while, a television van drove up and spent a few minutes scanning the street or interviewing spectators. A young guy in his twenties, obviously a reporter with a camera dangling on his chest and pencils in his lapel pocket, spoke to the onlookers. Eric saw him talking to the girl now and then—obviously attractedto her. The girl did not respond to him and walked away. “Good,” Eric murmured, for no reason at all.
The telephone did not ring anymore. The ringing had jarred him at first, the sound like assaults on his hearing, disruptive after years at the facility in a room without a phone.
The high point of his day continued to be the delivery of mail. The number of letters had dropped off, and the mail consisted mostly of routine bills for his aunt and an occasional letter from a longtime pen pal in Kansas dating back to her high school days. Eric learned to recognize the purple ink and delicate handwriting. He tossed the mail aside with a grimace when the registry letter did not show up.
He was stunned when he picked up the
Wickburg Telegram
one morning and saw a picture of the girl on the front page. A three-column close-up, in color, showing her face peering out of the limp branches of the weeping willow. The paragraph that accompanied the photograph read:
“Miss Anonymous” in the above photo has kept a daily vigil on Webster Avenue, where released murderer Eric Poole, 18, lives with his aunt, Phoebe Barns. The girl will notgive her name or address, and only smiles enigmatically in answer to most questions. Asked if she had ever met Eric Poole, she replied with a one-word answer: “Once.” She refused to provide details of that meeting.
Poole was released recently from the New England Youth Services Facility, where he was incarcerated for three years for the murder of his mother and stepfather. His release has touched off controversy
Similar Books
