Ajar (12 page)

Chapter
Twenty-One

Melinda Mavis Stevenson died Tuesday,
February 17, 1975, after a long illness. She is survived by her
parents, Linda and Frank Stevenson. There will be no visitation.
Mass of the Resurrection at St. Mary’s of the Snow will be
celebrated Thursday, February 19th at noon. Burial will be at the
convenience of the family.

I promised myself I wouldn’t read the paper
but the headline was too obvious: “Sawyer Shooter to Stand Trial.”
Another read, “Sawyer Shooter to Plead Insanity.” I wasn’t happy
about the idea of a trial. All our personal business would be
plastered in the papers each day. I didn’t want our names in
everyone’s mouths. But, finally, we were moving forward. Things
were finally happening again. I got the feeling that somehow, after
the trial, problems would resolve and we would be able to live
again. Once the trial was over,
it
would be over. Whether
Dan was guilty or incompetent didn’t much matter; what mattered was
the whole thing would be done.

It was late afternoon before I got to the
hospital. That day, my mom had a lot of errands she wanted me to
run. It was a good sign. It meant she was starting to live again,
too, so I didn’t complain. I also wanted to get flowers for Lindy.
I arrived as the early winter sun was beginning to dip below the
horizon. I tried to find the nice nurse who let me in to see her
the day before. I couldn’t find her so I stopped at the nurses’
station.

“I’m here to see Melinda Stevenson,” I said.
A nurse looked up. She didn’t look convinced so I added, “I was
here yesterday.”

“I’m so sorry,” she said. “Miss Stevenson is
not here.”

“Where is she?”

I should have known right in that moment.
The nurse stood straight and silent. There were other nurses at the
desk. They all stopped their work and looked at me.

“I’m so sorry,” the nurse said, “but Melinda
passed away this morning.”

I just stood there frozen to the spot. I
knew the nurse had said something but I couldn’t make sense of
it.

“Melinda...” the nurse started to speak. She
stepped out from behind the desk and put her hand on my shoulder,
“Her heart was just too weak. I’m so sorry.”

I threw the flowers on the floor; hot tears
were forming in my eyes. Not knowing what to do, I turned and raced
for the stairs.

“Young man!” someone was calling. “Young
man, please come back.”

I sat in my car for hours in the cold unable
to move. When I finally got home, it was very late and dark.

I read her obituary in the next day’s paper.
It was brief:

I read the obituary many times. I kept it on
the dresser in my new room, the one that still smelled of paint.
When I thought I had imagined her death, I would go to my room and
re-read it. I had not imagined it. I did not know how this could be
happening to me.

The day after Lindy died, I read that Frank
Stevenson had been arrested for molesting his fifteen-year-old
daughter. They showed a picture of him in the paper in handcuffs.
They explained that an autopsy had been done and signs of abuse had
been discovered. Now I knew why Lindy had been so desperate to
leave town. The day following that, I went to the Mass of the
Resurrection at St. Mary’s of the Snow but it felt like no
celebration. I sat way in the back. Only Lindy’s mother was there
and a few people who must have been relatives. The next day, I
found her new grave in the Heavenly Rest Cemetery. The new grave in
the white snow had not been difficult to find at all.

Then there was just one big next day that
never ended. It didn’t matter if it was Monday or Saturday or
Tuesday. It was just one big same day after same day. I stopped
going to the library, and just like Lindy had said, my report card
came back with all Bs. I didn’t ever tell my mother about Lindy or
her death. She never noticed any change in me because all her days
were the same, too. If the news was good from Mr. Richards, she’d
get up and leave her bedroom, if it was bad, she would sleep all
day. Daniel got put in solitary confinement so we couldn’t go and
visit him. The editorials in the paper called for his death. The
phone got turned off. When the electricity got turned off, I
finally went to the bank. My mother still had some money from the
insurance company, so I paid for the electricity but never did get
the phone turned back on. I didn’t want to deal with the calls.

Thanksgiving came, as did Christmas. My
mother and I celebrated neither. I don’t know if she even knew they
had come and gone. When my mother couldn’t go and see Daniel, she
tried to send a package to the jail but for reasons never explained
to us it was returned. When it came back, it was mostly empty.
Someone had stolen the contents. Daniel was sent back to the
hospital in Hutton for a few weeks but Mr. Richards said not to
worry; things were progressing. But they weren’t. Nothing was
progressing. Nothing would ever be progressing ever again.

There was snow on the ground now, so Mom
must have noticed the change of season. But then again, maybe not.
My aunt and uncle invited us to Holyoke for Easter. But I know my
mom didn’t respond. They had a buyer for their house in the early
spring. I drove by and saw the moving truck outside. It looked like
a nice family: a young couple and a baby.

I started to sneak swallows out of my
mother’s vodka bottles. At first, it was just to sleep at night.
Then it was all the time. She never knew. It helped me sleep and
sleep was all I wanted to do anymore. I remembered Lindy saying, “I
just want to fall asleep someday. Forever.” Now I knew what she
meant. I wanted to fall asleep and not wake up. I craved that
forever sleep and yet something made me keep waking up.

Chapter
Twenty-Two

On April 6, 1976, a month before my
seventeenth birthday, the bicentennial year, two uniformed officers
came to our door. My brother Daniel had been killed during a fight
upon his return to the county jail. He had been stabbed in the
stomach and bled out before they could get him to the emergency
room. I didn’t even bother to ask how much time had passed between
my brother getting stabbed and his ambulance ride to the emergency
room. My mother stared at the officers, her hair matted against her
head, her bare shins sticking out from beneath her robe. The next
day the papers read, “Sawyer Shooter Killed in Jail Fight.” Letters
to the editor said he got what he deserved. There were pictures of
the smiling Tillsons and Morettis in the paper.

We had only graveside services for my
brother. He was buried next to my father. Uncle Elliot and Aunt May
came down for the service. It was such a beautiful day: clear blue
sky, the flowers were blooming and the buds on the trees were
greening into leaves. My mother had grown thin over the winter. She
wore a dark blue suit and it hung limp on her frame. Her hair had
turned white. My hair had gotten long and I combed it back like a
young Elvis Presley, not because I wanted to look stylish but
because it was easy.

After the service, my uncle tried to give
the priest forty dollars but he refused it. I walked over to
Lindy’s grave. Her mother had not yet gotten her a stone, and the
small silver placard with her name, year of birth and death was all
that marked the spot. The dirt was still bare and rough. My uncle
approached me and put his arm around my shoulder. We were quiet for
a while.

“Well, you know it’s probably for the
best.”

I heard his words but they did not
register.

“What?” I said, pulling away from him.

“There was no good ending to this, Bud, no
good ending at all. This is probably the best ending there could
have been.”

I stood there for a moment looking at my
uncle.

“So, you’re saying that the best thing for
Danny was to be stabbed in the stomach in a fucking nut house where
they were probably over medicating him and abusing him? Yeah, Uncle
Elliot, that’s a great ending. I’m so happy for Danny. I’m so happy
for me and Mom. This is a great ending. Why don’t we have a party
and invite the whole town? How would that be, dear old Uncle
Elliot?”

“I don’t know what’s got into you,” he said.
“You used to be such a good kid. Now you’re nothing but a
backtalking little bastard.”

“And you’re such a swell guy, is that
it?”

“I did a lot for you and your brother. For
your mother.”

“Really, Uncle Elliot? You did so much for
us? The only reason you did anything for us is because you were
embarrassed. You were embarrassed about what people would say about
us, about you. You didn’t care about us. You cared about what
people were saying. And when we needed you the most, you abandoned
us.”

“I did a lot for you two. You can’t deny
that.”

“The only reason you did anything for us is
because my father committed suicide. You wanted people to say what
a great guy you were by taking care of his kids. You were shamed
into taking care of us. But look at where that got you, right?”

“You really are an ungrateful little brat.
This is all your mother’s fault. She drove my brother off that
bridge; I have no doubt of that. Then look at what she did to
Danny. And now you.”

“You blame
Mom
for all of this?”

I could not believe what I was hearing.

“He never should have married her. He was
going to join the Navy, get out of this town, make something of
himself, then your mother...” Uncle Elliot stopped speaking“My
mother what?”

“She got pregnant. It’s the oldest trick in
the book. Trapping a man.”

I hit him and hit him hard. I landed my
punch directly to his jaw. But my uncle was a much bigger man than
I am. He caught me hard in the side of the head and I fell on
Lindy’s grave.

“Elliot!” I heard both my aunt and mother
scream. “What are you doing?”

I tasted the dirt on the top of Lindy’s
grave in my mouth.

“You son of a bitch,” I growled wiping the
dirt from my mouth. “You selfish, self-serving son of a bitch.”

My mother was kneeling beside me and my aunt
was pulling on my uncle.

“Go with them, Mom,” I said. “I’ll walk
home.”

“What happened?” She was smoothing my chin
with her hand, wiping off the dirt.

“It’s ok, Mom. Really. Just go with them.
I’ll walk home.”

“It’s almost four miles, honey.”

“It’s ok. I will walk home. It’ll be good
for me.”

She helped me to my feet. My aunt and uncle
were in the car. The windows were closed but I could still hear my
uncle yelling. My mother left hesitantly. I encouraged her. I
watched the car drive away. I sat for a long time next to Lindy’s
grave. It was dark when I finally decided to walk home.

Chapter
Twenty-Three

At the end of June I got my high school
diploma in the mail. I did not show my mother. I brought it to
Lindy’s grave and left it there. I started going out at night,
bringing a bottle of vodka and drinking on Lindy’s grave until I
passed out or morning came, whichever happened first. I would wake
up, my head near her grave marker. Or I’d wake up in the car.
Sometimes, it took me awhile to remember where I was. I didn’t
care.

One morning, after a full night of drinking
in the graveyard, I failed to negotiate a curve and the car went
over the embankment. I left it there and walked home. I fell asleep
on my bed fully clothed. My mother woke me the next day, shaking me
lightly.

“Gus, Gus, wake up please,”

“I’m tired, Mom,” I pulled the pillow around
my head. It ached.

“Gus, there’s a police officer at the door.
He said he found your car.”

I pulled myself to a sitting position. My
mother was in her robe. There was bright light in the window. I
assumed it was early afternoon. My mouth was dry and tasted
bitter.

“Give me a minute.”

My mother left me. I pulled off my clothes.
They were dirty from the night before. I washed my face in the
bathroom; there was a bruise on my forehead. I tried to comb my
hair over to cover it. I brushed my teeth and put on a clean
T-shirt and a pair of jeans.

“Good morning, Mr. Woodard,” the officer
greeted me with a false cheerfulness. There were two of them
standing in the middle of the living room, both in Sawyer blue with
a large gold patch on the left arm.

“Good morning,” I said.

“Do you know where your car is, Mr.
Woodard?” his tone was sarcastic.

“In the driveway.” I tried to sound
confident, clearheaded but my head was pounding.

“It wouldn’t be down an embankment on
Dempsey Road now, would it?”

“No.” I shook my head. I went to the window,
looked out where my car should have been, pretended to look for it
there.

“What happened to it? Who took it?” I looked
at them.

“You wouldn’t have been out last night,
would you have, Mr. Woodard?”

“No.” I tried to sound incredulous.

“I told you he was here with me all night,”
my mother said firmly.

Was my mother lying or did she really think
I was here all night? Had she really become so detached from
reality she had no idea I spent most of my nights away from
her?

The officer nodded his head.

“You wouldn’t have been drinking last night,
would you have, Mr. Woodard.”

“Absolutely not!” my mother gasped. “Gus is
seventeen.”

We had not celebrated my seventeenth
birthday. Actually, I thought my mother had forgotten all about
it.

“Well, we’re going to have to take you in. I
think you were out last night and tied one on. I think you were too
drunk to negotiate that turn and I think you crashed your car. Then
you walked home and your mom is covering for you. We’re going to
charge you with at least leaving the scene of a motor vehicle
accident.”