A Killing in Zion (16 page)

“I do so know what it means!”

“You two cut it out,” said Clara.

“And now for that man of mirth, humor, jokes,”
said the radio announcer,
“Rochester, Buffalo, Cleveland, and all points west, Mr. Jack Benny on track five!”

“Hey, let's listen to the
A and P Gypsies
,” suggested Hyrum as Benny launched into his monologue.

“It's not on tonight,” said Sarah Jane. “It's on Monday nights.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“Yes, I'm sure. I've got the schedule memorized.”

“Betcha don't know when
Amos 'n' Andy
comes on.”

“Mondays. Before
A and P Gypsies
. Give me a hard one.”

“
Little Orphan Annie
?”

“Thursdays at seven.”

I studied the girl visitor. I could plainly see that she was relaxed around Sarah Jane and Hyrum. She seemed to find them safe, knowing they would not harm her in any way. My attention shifted to the soiled beige pillowcase near her feet, where I assumed she kept her possessions. The girl noticed me looking at her. She reached down and pulled her lumpy pillowcase closer, so it rested against her leg. She watched me uneasily, her eyes warning me not to touch her pillowcase. I nodded. I hoped she would interpret it as a sign of respect.

Sarah Jane and Hyrum erupted in laughter.

“Did you hear that, Dad?” asked Hyrum.

I looked over at my children. “Sorry. I must've missed it.”

“Nobody's funnier than Jack Benny,” Hyrum told me. “Not even you.”

Sarah Jane laughed with the radio audience. Hyrum went wide-eyed. “What? What? What did I miss?”

“I'm not going to repeat it,” said Sarah Jane. “Just shut your trap and listen.”

*   *   *

Late at night, a blizzard moves in over Salt Lake City. Snow falls sideways, creating a whiteout. Churning clouds above swirl into a foreboding dark gray.

The twelve-year-old boy runs through the streets on that freezing night in 1914. Even with his coat on, his skin is numbed by harsh winds. He sprints through snowdrifts, past storefronts where electric lights burn. He knows his dad is out here, and knows his father's life is in danger. That's why his legs move as fast as they do, spraying snow, driven by a faint hope that he can turn this tale's ending into a happy one.

The boy is out of breath, overcome with fatigue, thighs burning, heart thumping so hard it feels as if it's going to leap out of his chest. He knows if he does not find his dad soon, the worst will come to pass. A streetcar rattles past, bell clanging, disappearing into a swarm of snowflakes.

He hurries across the street. A horseless carriage slams on its brakes and skids across powder, with lantern spotlights trembling and horn blaring. The boy ignores the driver, pressing on, reaching the sidewalk in one piece. He makes his way to the next street, West Temple. Shops are scattered in this part of town, separated by vacant lots, wooden fences, and utility poles. Snow is everywhere: in the air, on the ground, coating the boy, who breathes in frozen crystals through his mouth as he tries to catch his breath. He comes to the corner of West Temple and 800 South, now in front of Morrison Grocery. The owner of this place—an ex–police officer—was gunned down a few weeks ago in cold blood, along with one of his sons. Tonight the boy has a feeling that he might find his father here. Morrison and Dad were friends, and Dad insisted on investigating his murder.

But on this night of squalls, the lad cannot find his beloved father. He trudges through whiteness to a lit display window with
MORRISON GROCERY
painted on the glass and a
CLOSED
sign hanging in the door. Footsteps approach from behind. The boy spins for a look. A shadow-figure in a bowler hat and long coat steps out of the snow like a ghost.

The figure grips his bleeding abdomen and topples to a bed of snow. His eyelids flutter like butterfly wings. His mouth opens and he struggles for air. Blood gurgles between his lips and forms droplets on his mustache. Blood seeps between his fingers. The shirt he is wearing—pristine when he left home this morning—is crimson-soaked.

“Dad!”

The boy falls to his knees by his father's side. The wetness of damp snow seeps into the boy's clothes, yet he hardly notices. He reaches out to touch his father and finds the man's bloodstain is warm to the touch.

*   *   *

My eyes opened. Darkness enshrouded me. I ran my palm over my wet face and gave my eyes a chance to adjust to the darkness. With the dream over, I needed to adjust to the here and now. Clara slept on her side, back to me, partially covered with a sheet and blanket, humming with each exhale. My arm snaked under the covers around her waist, and only the slightest pressure from my fingertips against her pregnant belly triggered a kick from the baby. A warm wave shot through my body, slowing my heart, and my breathing grew more measured.

Lying on my back, I watched leafy shadows bounce in the moonlight, and the night sounds—crickets, wind blowing branches, a train—blended in my ears. I tossed and turned, in pursuit of a comfortable position. Minutes passed. No point in denying it: Mr. Insomnia had come to pay a visit. I threw my legs over the edge of the bed, sat upright, stood, and slipped on my cloth robe. I closed the door on my way out.

I switched on the hallway light and crept to Sarah Jane's room to peek in on our young guest. The door was ajar.
That's funny, I thought it was closed before I went to bed last night.
I nudged it farther. Imagine my surprise when I looked in and saw that the girl was nowhere to be seen. Sarah Jane, meantime, slept soundly on the cot.
Where did she go?
I wondered. I heard a floorboard creak right outside the bedroom. I rushed out to find the girl stepping out of the door to the basement stairs, located midway down the hallway. My heart performed a crazed horse gallop right then.

“What were you doing in there?” I whispered.

Why am I asking her? She can't talk
, I thought. She swallowed hard and the color drained out of her face. She developed a case of the shakes.

“C'mon,” I whispered. “Go back to bed, okay?”

She nodded. I watched her get into bed, and this time I left all of the doors open—Sarah Jane's and the one to Clara's and my room. I lay awake for hours, wishing I could go back to sleep, and wondering what the girl had been doing in the basement.

 

Twelve

The Olds rattled southward, past farms and fields and mountains, soon crossing the divide at Point of the Mountain between Salt Lake Valley and its neighbor to the south, Utah Valley. On the radio, Dick “Hotcha” Gardner's smooth voice sang “Say, Young Lady” to a bouncy orchestral accompaniment by George Olsen & His Music. The windows were down and the warm air blew in, but it felt nice and cool against our perspiration-covered skin. We crested a hill and looked down into Utah Valley, a vast bowl that—like its sibling to the north—is bordered by the Wasatch Mountains to the east and a freshwater lake—Utah Lake—on the west side. From this high up, we could see the patchwork landscape below, and the remainder of our drive was steadily downhill.

I felt the weight of Clara's stare. I looked over at her, and she adjusted her flowery velvet hat as she watched me. “Are you sure this is a good idea? We could cancel, you know.”

“That's not such a good idea,” I said. “We spent last Fourth of July with your family. My mom's expecting us this year.”

“I don't know how comfortable our daughter feels about lying,” Clara said, wincing as she said the word “lying.”

Sarah Jane leaned forward so her head rested on the upholstered seat between her mother and me. “I don't mind, not when it's for the greater good. Dad's right. They're never going to understand why we took her in. It's easier for everyone involved if we stretch the truth a little.”

“Stretch the truth?” asked Clara, her painted red lips spreading into a smile. “Is that the new euphemism for lying?”

“It's not new at all,” said S.J. “Mark Twain said it all the time.”

“You don't have to do this, sweetheart,” Clara told Sarah Jane. “Nobody's asking you to.”

“I know. I volunteered. Remember? I even invented a name for her.
Priscilla.
I call her by her nickname, Prissy. I've known her since second grade, and she's mute, so don't count on her to be much of a conversationalist at the dinner table.” Sarah Jane slumped back into her seat, between her little brother and the girl. Sarah Jane had loaned the girl a sky-blue dress with white lace and short sleeves, and it fit perfectly. Sarah Jane looked at the girl and smiled. “Isn't that right, Prissy?”

I saw in my interior rearview mirror that the girl smiled back and lowered her head, fixing her gaze on her lap, but she flashed S.J. a quick, coy look.

“Priscilla,” I said with a nod and another glance to the rearview mirror. “I like it.”

“So do I,” said Clara. “That's a grand name.”

I steered off the highway at American Fork, turning right on a road that took me to my childhood home, sending a high column of dust in our wake.

*   *   *

The Fourth of July barbecue at the Oveson homestead in American Fork was only slightly less epic than a Cecil B. DeMille movie, and I mean
slightly
. The line of autos in front of the porch could easily be mistaken for a used-car lot. In the vast backyard behind the farmhouse, a pair of long picnic tables accommodated feasting adults at one, children at the other, all of us dining under hazy skies, with a breathtaking view of the mountains to the east. My mother—called Mom Oveson by everyone—sat at the head of the table, a spot once reserved for our now deceased father. Soft-skinned, she had a gentle face with some age spots and a head of curly salt-and-pepper hair, more salt than pepper these days. The children—a baker's dozen when you counted my daughter's friend, “Priscilla”—ate at the table nearest the barn. At first, nobody paid much attention to Priscilla, which I took to calling her because it seemed as good a name as any. In keeping with her behavior the previous day, she didn't say a word. She sat still among the boisterous and excited cousins, occasionally smiling, rocking back and forth gently as she got used to a crowd of unfamiliar people. I kept an eye on her at all times, occasionally missing what other people were saying in the process.

“Art, dear.”

I turned around and faced the picnic table. My heart raced, as if I'd just gotten caught doing something terrible. “Yeah?”

“Bess here asked you a question,” said Clara.

“Oh, sorry,” I said. “What was the question?”

I looked at Bess, a roly-poly brunette with a permanent wave like the rest of the women at the table, but a little more makeup than the others. She smiled. She had lipstick on her teeth. “What did you think of the crib?”

I needed a moment to absorb the question. “Oh yes, the crib. It was lovely. It was in perfect condition.”

Bess's husband, Grant, smirked. Two years my senior, my elder brother Grant didn't much care for me. The feeling was mutual. He never missed an opportunity to say something negative and try to put me in my place. Sometime in our shared past, an adversarial relationship had taken hold. I did my best to ignore his comments, but it wasn't always easy. Even our jobs seemed competitive. Over the years, Grant had climbed through the ranks of the Provo Police Department and now served as its chief of police.

“Do you have the baby's room all decorated, Clara?” asked Eliza, John's wife.

John, second oldest of the Oveson brothers, was sheriff of Carbon County, a part of the state renowned for its rich coal deposits and its militant miners' unions. He somehow always stayed jovial, slapping backs and laughing at dumb jokes, and was by far the most strapping of all of us. He had married Eliza, big-hearted and sincere, and someone who never hesitated to say what was on her mind.

“We still have to pick out wallpaper,” Clara told Eliza. “Otherwise, I think we're all set. Don't you, honey?”

I looked up from my chicken leg and potatoes. “We're ready for the new Oveson to arrive.”

“You want my advice?” asked Margaret, Frank's wife, as she dabbed her lips with her linen napkin. “Give the baby cod-liver oil.”

My eldest brother, Frank, worked as an agent with the Federal Bureau of Investigation, in the federal building in downtown Salt Lake City. The job required traveling, and Frank often took his family to Washington, D.C., where they once dined with J. Edgar Hoover. His wife, Margaret, a confident redhead, could be something of a cold fish and a know-it-all, but essentially harmless.

Clara reared her head back in curiosity. “Cod-liver oil?”

Margaret nodded, working food out of her molars. “It promotes healthy evacuations.”

“Oh, for heaven's sake,” said Bess. “Surely there must be a better dinner-table topic than passing stools. Pass me the rolls, will you, dear?”

Grant handed her a basket of hot rolls wrapped in linen.

Margaret ignored Bess and went on: “Regularity is so important in the lives of babies. One bowel movement a day is critical to the good health—”

Frank cut her off: “I'm afraid I'm going to have to side with Bess on this one, honey. It just doesn't go with the cornbread.”

“I heard a doctor on the radio the other day saying a baby oughtn't to be swaddled,” said Eliza. “Babies prefer to move around, you know. They love to throw their arms and kick and whatnot. We learned that by the time we had Wayne. Why, we had him in loose-fitting clothes all the time and he was just as content as could be. Wasn't he, dear?”