A Small Town Dream (14 page)

Annie didn’t even think he looked old enough to be out of college, let alone have a graduate degree. He s
ported an unruly mop of hair that brushed his collar, stubble on his chin and round tortoise-shell glasses. He wore black jeans, a plain black T-shirt and a jacket but no tie.
He is
, she thought suddenly,
very attractive on several levels
. But no way would she let that thought stick. She’d learned her lesson about good-looking long-haired guys who dressed in black.

“So, what exactly
am
I supposed to call you?” she said, crossing her arms.

“Please call me Dean.”

Annie blanched.
Dean
. That not-quite déjà vu she’d felt when she read the opening paragraph of
On the Road
hit her, and then the words came rushing back.
I first met Dean…serious…miserably weary breakup…feeling that everything was…

“Dead,”
s
he said aloud.

Dean’s eyebrows shot up. “What did you say?” Annie frowned and shook her head.

“Nothing.” Dean didn’t believe her, but he knew not to press. Not just then, anyway. In spite of his relative youth, he
had a good deal of experience. He had been a grief counselor at several schools where there had been either mass shootings or suicides. He was well-respected in his field, and the school was lucky to have him.
So when Annie waved him off, he didn’t ask her to explain. She tried to regain her composure by resuming a defensive attitude.

“So,
Dean
, how does this work?” Her tone was caustic. Dean searched the file to find her name.

“Well,
Anne
, first off, it doesn’t work if you’re going to be a snotty bitch about the whole thing.” She chuckled then sat up in her chair. She unfolded her arms, then primly folded her hands in her lap, smiled and batted her lashes. He laughed at her physical sarcasm and glanced through her file. He took his time, turning pages, examining her history, then looked up.

“I see you get top grades, are involved in extra-curricular activities, come from a good home, you have pretty healthy relationships—”

“Healthy relationships apart from the
murderer
, you mean.”

“Healthy apart from the murderer,” he echoed. “Other than that, no trouble, no detention.” He looked up. She shrugged.

“I’m just a squeaky clean, all-American girl. Just like those collectable dolls.”

“A squeaky clean all-American girl who was questioned by the police as a possible material witness.” He watched carefully for her reaction.

Annie Stewart had been through the wringer. Technically, she was the last one to see Connie. The girls had gone to the bank to draw a check for part of Annie’s savings so Connie could begin to make plans to leave town. Then there was the business of all the things Parker said to Annie at her house, in particular his insinuation that, if Connie were out of the way, Annie would agree to be with him. That made her, other than his parents, the last one to see Parker. If not for Parker’s father, who intervened on Annie’s behalf, even though he wasn’t a criminal attorney, Annie would have been held at police headquarters indefinitely. But Annie had been freed of all culpability because Parker Levitt made some
very
serious mistakes.

First, the rape kit done on Connie’s body not only confirmed rape, but the condition of her body fit the legal definition of aggravated assault. Second, Connie happened to have Annie’s check in her wallet, which Parker took, then idiotically tried to cash. Because of the amount, that action alone was enough for a felony charge. Then Parker Levitt had made—repeatedly—the most classic mistake of all: He talked.

He’d headed west, intending to emulate his hero, Kerouac, by traveling and writing. But he’d also, just like Kerouac, started drinking, and Parker couldn’t hold his liquor. Once the police found his trail, it didn’t take long to learn he’d stopped at no less than four different bars. He hadn’t been reported though, because no one believed a cocky nineteen-year-old’s “confession” was anything more than drunken bravado.

Dean knew all this, but Annie didn’t. All she knew was that her best friend had been killed by a boy that she’d been in love with, and because of her relationship with him, she’d been considered accountable somehow. She knew life in her little town would never be the same. And she knew Connie’s murder—by Parker—would be a defining point for the rest of her life.

She also knew the best thing for her to do for herself was to continue to attend class, do homework, stay active, and above all, to not retreat into a shell. Because she’d done all that, in spite of being grilled by the police, she didn’t see why the school had decided she needed grief counseling. Annie had never been one to make waves though, so here she was. But her time with the police accusations had jaded her, so she wasn’t about to make this counselor’s job easy.

“Well, I didn’t help plan Connie Baker’s murder, but I did smoke a joint at
the New Year’s dance,” she baited him. “Do you want to name of my
dealer
? So you know I’m serious about getting
better
?” She narrowed her eyes.

“Are you sick?” That took her aback. Not just Dean’s question, but the complete lack of condescension in his tone.

“No, I’m not...” she struggled, “
sick
. A guy who I... he... just murdered my best friend, and I was almost charged with being an accomplice. I’m supposed to be devastated, I suppose, and on a suicide watch or something, right?”

“Do you want to die?” His bluntness shocked her. She could only shake her head. “Okay then, no need for suicide watch. What else?” She frowned.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, what else?” He closed the file and took off his glasses. “What are you feeling? Come on, you’ve seen enough TV, your share of after-school specials, you know the drill.”

“Are
you
being serious? You seem awfully glib about this.”

“Do you want to be here, Anne? Sitting in this room talking with me because you
want
to, or are you just being forced? From what I see in your file, and the way you’re presenting yourself, especially from what I’ve heard of how you handled yourself with the police, you look fine. You appear to be better than most, actually. They just want to cry and tell me how their lives are out of control even though they barely knew Connie. Tragedy brings out the weird, self-involved side of people, doesn’t it?” She just blinked. He continued.

“Look, in my professional opinion, you’re doing well. You’ll grieve, and then you’ll move on. You don’t
want
to be here, and you don’t feel you
need
to be here, right? Just fulfilling a duty.” He raised his eyebrows but got no response. “Good for you. I’ll tell the school board we talked, you cried, and you’re handling this in a perfectly normal, acceptable fashion. You’re not hiding any deep fears or rage, and you don’t have to come back. Okay?” She hesitated then stood. She waited for him to say something else, but he didn’t. He just put her file back in the box, smiled and nodded. She turned and headed toward the door.

“Oh, one thing, before you go.” She stopped, her hand on the doorknob. “A guy who
what
?” Annie turned and looked at him. “You said ‘my best friend was murdered by a guy who’ and then you changed direction. So, a guy who...
what
?” Her breathing quickened, so to hide it, she dropped her eyes but kept her hand on the knob. He waited. She stayed silent. “Okay, then,” he waved a hand in dismissal, “it’s not important I guess. Never mind. Have a nice life, Anne.” He settled his glasses on his nose and pulled another file from the box. She stood there another moment, then felt compelled to speak.

“A guy who I was, at one time…” When he didn’t look up, she continued, “I thought I was in love with.” He continued reading.

“Well, that might be something,” he said without looking at her, “so you come back and chat about that. If you
want
to.” She waited another moment and then opened the door.

“You know, maybe there
is
something else, Anne.” She turned. He was still looking down. “You said you got involved with this boy because of a book.” She nodded. “Which version?”

“
Version
?”

“That book was originally written on individual pages, then taped together to form a scroll. It’s sort of a free-association journal.” He turned a page in the file.

“Free association? What, like analysis?”

“More like self-analysis. I’ve found that to be helpful from time to time.” He turned another page, then looked at his watch. He tapped it then looked up at her apologetically. “Sorry, Anne. I’ve got someone else coming in a few minutes. Nice meeting you, though.” He gave a little wave. She began to wave in return, but he put his head down and went back to reading. She stood looking at him a moment, then went out into the hall, intending to go to her next class.

Halfway down the hallway, though, she leaned against the wall. She thought about the session. What she’d said. How she’d said it. What
he’d
said. What he
hadn’t
said. And then she thought about journaling. How that was a pretty interesting suggestion. And suddenly, the first line popped into her head.

When I first met Dean Moore
, she decided to write,
I was recovering from my best friend’s murder.

Annie found herself on a west-bound train in the draining light of day. Black streaks gored the blood-red sunset as she reclined in a comfortable seat, pen in hand, journal in her lap, watching it all go by. But today, the familiar landscape seemed like scenery in a puppet show. Trees and farms, houses with above-ground pools presided over by raised porches, all against a stereotypical Hollywood sunset, looked like black paper cut-outs. It all looked…

Fake
, she wrote in her journal. It wasn’t easy to write on a moving train. But Dean Moore’s suggestion of journaling as a way to look inside—to self-analyze—had turned out to be a real help, even though sometimes it was seriously disconcerting.

It all looks fake. But I know I’m on a train, and I know where I’m going. I’m going to see
him
. The people I told, most of them anyhow, advised me against it. Strongly. It was then that I realized the internal hell I live in is not like the interior castle that Saint Teresa of Avila wrote about. No, my interior hell has apparently been splashed out across the world.

Then they said, OK go see him, but why not take the bus? It’s cheaper. But riding on a bus, with all the other people going to the prison, sitting there, looking at them, them looking at me, was just too much. I don’t want to be with them, before, and especially after. The train takes longer, and it winds around, but, for me, it’s worth it. I like the train. I like the gentle rocking, Maybe it will help me deal with this meeting.

I still don’t know why I’m going. What I think I’ll gain from seeing him again…I don’t know. I had sworn I’d never speak to him again, not after how he lied to the police, tried to tell them I told him to get rid of Connie. I honestly believed I would hold to that, but it feels like I have something more to say to him. What? I have no idea.

I can’t let go of his last words, screaming at me through the courthouse, blaming me. It sits in my gut all the time, like a bowling ball. I want, I guess… I
need
for him to take it back.

***

The process was long, slow and frightening. The sounds. The doors clanging shut, the men shouting, the imposing faces of the guards, all heavily armed. And the smells. Sweat, and thick, heavy air, and the feeling of confinement that seemed to have an odor. Even though she was a just a visitor—a tourist in a sense—she felt confined, too. She had questioned herself every minute of the train ride. But then she’d had to take a bus from the station to the jail.

Annie sat, crowded, gazing at the faces, some grim and sad, some hopeful and bright. All of them going to see a friend, a lover, a husband, a brother, someone precious to them who had done something horribly wrong, something horrible enough to land them in a state prison.