The Best American Mystery Stories, Volume 17 Read online

  This sarcastic remark lingered in my memory like a taste of something rotten in my mouth.

  I thought, He hates me now. I have lost him now.

  I thought, Thank God! He will find someone else.

  It happened then; Desmond Parrish drifted to the edge of my life.

  He ceased coming to the house. He ceased waiting for me after school. His telephone calls, which had been infrequent, now ceased.

  I felt his fury, at a distance.

  He’d been insulted by my resistance to him. So subtle, another boy would scarcely have noticed. But of course Desmond Parrish wasn’t another boy.

  I regretted turning him away. I thought it might be the worst mistake of my life. When I received my amphibian paper back, in earth science, seeing a red A+ prominent on the first page, my first wish was to tell Desmond, who’d helped me with the paper.

  So long ago, that seemed now! But it had been less than a month.

  Desmond had read a draft of the paper for me and made just a few suggestions. He’d encouraged me to explore the theme of amphibian in a way not exclusively literal. “‘Ontology recapitulates philology.’ If you don’t know what that means, I can explain.”

  Now all that was changed.

  Now I couldn’t predict when I might see Desmond. He had removed himself from my life, decisively—but he was still there, observing.

  In the corner of my eye I would see him. And in my uneasy dreams I would see him.

  Walking with friends. Driving with my mother in her car.

  One afternoon at the mall, with Kristine.

  And another time with Kristine, driving to a drugstore a half-mile from our house, in a shopping center, and there I saw, about thirty feet away, Desmond Parrish observing us: in his shiny yellow cyclist’s helmet and a nylon parka and arms folded tight across his chest, and when I stopped to stare, the figure turned quickly away and vanished from my sight.

  Seeing the look on my face, Kristine said, “Are you all right, Lizzie? You look kind of sick.”

  I was so stricken by the sight of Desmond, I had to sit down for a few minutes.

  Kristine asked, concerned, if I wanted to go home; but I said no, I did not want to go home. I did not!

  “You’ve seemed kind of quiet lately.”

  I told her I was all right. But I had things to think about that couldn’t be shared.

  “About Des? Something about Des?”

  Kristine knew that Desmond wasn’t dropping by the house any longer. Nor did I speak of Desmond to her now, or to my mother.

  “What’s happened to him? Did you two break up?”

  In Kristine’s voice there was the equivalent of a smirk.

  Break up. Your weird boyfriend.

  My sister’s condescending attitude made me want to slap her. For what did Kristine know?

  It was so, Desmond frightened me now. Since he’d squeezed my hand so hard, gripping the violin bow, and since I’d sensed in him a willfulness that had no tenderness for me but only a wish to subjugate, I did not want to be in his presence: I began to tremble thinking of him.

  Yet, perversely, I cherished the memory of my boyfriend. The memory of Desmond Parrish was more thrilling to me than Desmond himself had been in recent weeks.

  “You didn’t... make any mistakes with him, did you? Lizbeth?”

  Kristine spoke hesitantly, embarrassed. We were not sisters who confided in each other about intimate things, and we were not about to start now.

  Gritting my teeth, I told her no.

  “He didn’t coerce you into—or force you into—anything you didn’t want to do, did he?”

  Muttering no, I walked away from Kristine.

  I wasn’t sure if I wanted to shove her from me or, ridiculously, push into her arms so she could comfort me as she’d done when I’d been a little girl.

  “Maybe you thought you loved—love—him. But you didn’t—you don’t...”

  When we left the drugstore to cross the parking lot to my mother’s station wagon, which Kristine was driving, in the corner of my eye I saw a tall lean figure wearing a yellow helmet, in the rear exit of another store. It was the very figure I dreaded seeing, and dreaded not seeing.

  I collapsed into the station wagon, my knees weak. I didn’t turn to stare at the figure on the pavement; I didn’t say a word to Kristine, who reached out wordlessly to squeeze my hand.

  Wistfully my mother said, “Lizbeth, what has happened to Desmond? Has he disappeared? He seemed so—devoted...”

  I knew that Mom was thinking, So devoted to both of us.

  YOU CAN’T JUST SHUT ME OUT OF YOUR LIFE LIZBETH

  YOU KNOW THAT WE ARE SOUL MATES FROM THAT OTHER LIFETIME

  This message was left for me, in felt-tip black ink on a scroll of gilt paper, inside a plain white envelope thrust into my high school locker.

  I opened the gilt paper and read these words, stunned. I could not believe that Desmond had actually come into the school building, where he didn’t belong; that he’d risked being detected in order to observe me, at least once, who knows how many times, at my locker.

  Then, to slip the envelope into my locker, he must have come after school, when the corridor was deserted.

  My hand trembled, holding the gilt scroll that looked like some kind of festive announcement.

  Many times I would reread it. Many times in the secrecy of my room.

  The message held a threat, I thought—or hinted at a threat.

  I must tell my parents, I thought.

  But they might try to contact Desmond’s parents or, worse yet, the Strykersville police... I did not want this.

  Yet it wasn’t clear how Desmond expected me to contact him. He had never given me his telephone number or his address. It was as if we were gazing at each other across a deep ravine and had no way now of communicating except in broad, crude gestures, like individuals who did not share a language.

  “Please! Just leave me alone.”

  He did call. I think it had to be him.

  Late at night, and just a single ring, or two—if someone picked up the phone, silence.

  A taunting sort of silence into which words flutter and fall: “Hello? Hello? Who is this...”

  He bicycled past our house, I think.

  I think it was Desmond Parrish. I couldn’t be sure.

  A car pulled into our driveway, headlights blinding against our windows. There was a rude blast of music. Then the car pulled away again.

  Then Rollo disappeared.

  One night he failed to appear at the back door when we called him, where usually Rollo was pawing the door to be allowed back inside.

  (Our acre-sized back lawn was fenced in, so that Rollo could spend as much time outdoors as he wanted. Usually he just slept on the deck.)

  We scoured the neighborhood, calling “Rollo! Rollo!”

  We rang doorbells. We photocopied fliers to staple to trees, fences. We checked local animal shelters. Kristine came home from Wells to help us search. We were distraught, heartbroken.

  I thought, Desmond would not do this. He would not be so cruel, he liked Rollo.

  I thought, Maybe he is keeping Rollo. Until I see him again.

  Now Desmond was the stalker—this was Kristine’s term.

  Suddenly it happened, he was always there. And others saw him, too.

  Where previously, before Desmond, I’d often been alone, and comforted myself with self-pity, that I was alone, now I could not ever be alone; I could not ever assume that I was alone. For I knew that Desmond Parrish was thinking about me obsessively, even when he wasn’t actually watching me.

  ...Can’t just shut me out. Soul mates from that other . . .

  Hockey season was ending. This was a relief. For Desmond had begun showing up at practice, which was Thursdays after school. A lone lanky figure now behind the chain-link fence at the very rear of the playing field, arms uplifted and fingers caught in the links so that a quick glance made you think that whoever this was, he’d
been crucified against the fence.

  My teammates nudged me in the ribs, whispered to me.

  “Hey, Lizbeth, is that your boyfriend?”

  Or, “Looks like Lizbeth’s boyfriend is stalking her.”

  Our coach called me into her office and spoke with me frankly. She said that my boyfriend was causing distraction and disruption. “You aren’t playing very well, which is why I haven’t sent you in much lately. And your distraction is bringing your teammates down.”

  Weakly I said, “He isn’t my boyfriend. We broke up, I guess... I don’t know why he’s doing this.”

  “How close were you two? Were you... intimate?”

  The question was like a slap in the face. To answer no seemed pathetic. To answer yes would have been more pathetic.

  I told Ms. DeLuca no. Not intimate.

  “You’re sure?” Ms. DeLuca regarded me suspiciously.

  Yes, I was sure. But I spoke slowly, uncertainly. For just to speak of Desmond with a stranger was a betrayal of our true intimacy, which was like nothing else in my life until that time.

  “Lizbeth? Are you listening?”

  “Y-yes...”

  “There has certainly been a change in you. Your eyes look haunted. Did this boy abuse you in any way? Did he take advantage of you?”

  I shook my head wordlessly. How I hated this woman who wanted only to protect me!

  “Well, do your parents know about him? They’ve met him—have they?”

  I murmured yes ambiguously. For after all, Mom knew Desmond well—or would have claimed that she did.

  I’d never told my father. I was terrified of what my father might say and do, for I believed that in his alarm at what was happening, my father would blame me.

  Finally I left Ms. DeLuca’s office. I wasn’t sure if our awkward conversation had ended; I just left.

  In a plain manila envelope addressed to “LIZBETH” at my street address, he sent me photographs of myself taken with a zoom lens. These were not Polaroids but small matte photos: there I was, oblivious of the camera eye, climbing out of my mother’s car, walking with friends on the sidewalk near school, playing field hockey. The most disturbing photo was of me inside our house, after dark in our lighted kitchen, talking with a blurred figure who must have been my mother.

  On the back of this photo was written in block letters:

  SO NEAR ANY TIME ALWAYS

  I did not show anyone. I was terrified how my family would react.

  You did this! You invited this person into our lives.

  How could you have been so careless? So blind, ignorant?

  Terrible to see myself, a figure in another’s imagination, of no more substance than a paper doll.

  A figure at the mercy of the invisible/invincible photographer.

  I stood at the window, staring out into the darkness of our backyard. At the farther end of our property were trees, a thick stand of trees, impenetrable in darkness as a wall.

  I thought that Desmond must hide inside these trees, with his remarkable zoom lens.

  He was a hunter. I was in his crosshairs.

  I wanted to scream out the back door I hate you! I wish you were dead! Give Rollo back to us! Leave us alone.

  Desperately I wanted to wake up and it would be six—seven?—weeks ago.

  Before the library. Before I’d bicycled into town on a Saturday afternoon to take notes on the evolution of amphibians in a way to make of myself a good dutiful student.

  And I would wake up to the relief that no one was following me—no one loved me.

  Then one day when I was leaving school late, after a meeting, at dusk, there stood Desmond Parrish waiting for me.

  “Hey, Lizbeth! Remember me?”

  Desmond was smiling at me, in reproach. The muscles of his face were clenched, he was so angry with me.

  “Haven’t forgotten me, have you? Your friend Des.”

  I stammered that I didn’t want to see him. I would have turned to run back into the school building, but I didn’t want to insult him.

  I didn’t want to anger him further.

  I could not move: my legs were weak, paralyzed.

  “Know what I think, Lizbeth? I think you’ve been avoiding me. We’ve had a misunderstanding. I want to honor that—I mean, your wish to avoid me. I am all for the rights of women—a female is not chattel. But since your behavior is based upon a misunderstanding, the logical solution would be to clear it up. We need to talk. And I have a car, I can drive you home.”

  “You have a car? You have a license to drive?”

  “I have a car. My father’s car. I’d only need a license to drive if I intended to have an accident or to violate a traffic law, which I don’t intend.”

  “I—I can’t, Desmond. I’m sorry.”

  Still, I couldn’t move. My knees had lost all strength.

  Desmond loomed above me, smiling so hard that the lower part of his face appeared about to crack.

  His jaws were unshaven. His smart gold-rimmed glasses were askew on his nose. His hair hadn’t been cut in some time and had begun to straggle over his collar.

  “Just come with me, Lizbeth. We’ll take a little drive—to the lake—the lake right here—remember, the canoes? You wanted to go out in a canoe, but then you were afraid? You were silly—you were afraid. But there’s nothing to be afraid of. We can go there—we can try again. Then I’ll drive you home. I promise. We need to talk.”

  Desperately I said that it was too late in the season, the boat rental wouldn’t be open in November. And it was too late in the day, it was dark...

  Foolishly, I was protesting. As if renting a canoe was the point when clearly Desmond wanted to take me with him—wherever he had in mind.

  There was in fact a vehicle parked nearby; headlights on, motor running, and driver’s door flung open as if the driver had just leaped out.

  Desmond dared to come forward and take hold of my arm.

  Desmond dared to taunt me, in a mock tender voice.

  “I’ve heard your dog is lost. That’s a tragedy—you love that dog. All of you love that dog. Might be I could help you look for him. Was it Rollo? Named for Rollo May? Cool!”

  I had no idea what Desmond was saying, just that he had Rollo. He knew where Rollo was.

  Yet he was pulling me toward the car. Instinctively I resisted.

  “No. I don’t want to go with you!”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Lizbeth. Of course you want to come with me if I can lead you to Rollo. And we can go to the lake—Little Huron Lake. In less than an hour this will all be cleared up and we will be friends again.”

  I tried to disengage my arm from Desmond. His fingers gripped me tight.

  My voice was pleading. “What do you want with me? Why are you doing this?”

  “What do I want with you! What do you want with me! We are destined for each other, as I knew at first sight, Lizbeth—and so did you.”

  Panicked, I thought, This is not real. This is not happening.

  I thought, The boyfriend!

  Even with the lure of finding Rollo, I knew that I must not get into that car with Desmond Parrish.

  Desmond cursed me, as I’d never heard him curse before. I was reminded of my mother remarking that the voice she’d heard on our deck hadn’t been Desmond’s voice but the voice of another.

  Desmond was grappling with me, pinning my arms against my sides, half carrying me to his car. I could feel his hot breath in my face. I could smell his body—the hot sweaty urgency of a male body. I was too frightened to scream. I could not draw breath to scream.

  Then someone saw us, shouted at us, and Desmond quickly released me, ran to his car, and drove away.

  “Who was that? What was he trying to do to you?” one of the vocational arts teachers was asking me.

  I told him it was all right: I told him it was a misunderstanding.

  “Should I call 911?”

  “No! No, please. It’s just my boyfriend—but things will be
all right now.”

  I was upstairs in my room when my mother called up to me, sounding hysterical.

  On the local ten o’clock news it was announced that a Strykersville resident, Desmond Parrish, had died in a single-vehicle accident on the thruway. His car, driven at an estimated eighty miles an hour, had crashed into a concrete overpass six miles south of Strykersville.

  We stared at film footage of the wreck, partly obscured by the flashing lights of medical vehicles and flares set in the left lane of the interstate highway. A young woman newscaster was saying solemnly that death was believed to have been instantaneous.

  We stared at a photograph of Desmond Parrish looking very young, with schoolboy eyeglasses and a knife-sharp part in his hair.

  “That can’t be Desmond! I don’t believe this...”

  My mother was more upset than I was. My mother was gripping my hands to console me, but my hands were limp and cold and unresponsive.

  I was too shocked to comprehend most of the news. The breaking-news bulletin passed so swiftly; within a few seconds it had ended and was supplanted by an advertisement.

  My mother embraced me, weeping. I held myself stiff and unyielding.

  I was waiting for the phone to ring: for Desmond to call, a final taunting time.

  That night I dreamed of Little Huron Lake rippling in darkness.

  In the morning we read in the Strykersville paper a more detailed account of how Desmond Parrish had died.

  The front-page article contained another photograph of Desmond taken years before, looking very young. Again, Desmond wasn’t smiling.

  The photograph ran above the terrible headline:

  STRYKERSVILLE RESIDENT, 22, DIES IN THRUWAY CRASH

  Witnesses of the “accident” reported to state troopers that the speeding vehicle seemed to have been accelerating when the driver “lost control,” slammed through a guard rail, and struck the concrete abutment head-on. No signs of skidding had been detected on the pavement.