My Sister, My Love (55 page)

Skyler laughed, swooping in to kiss.
*

But no readers took note of this sweetly silly little incident since Skyler neglected to report it. In fact, most of what Skyler experienced, and continues to experience, since December 1991, beginning with the chapter “In the Beginning”—(“In the beginning—long ago!—there wasn’t Bliss”) has been left out of this document. Most of Skyler’s life has not been recorded, and has become lost; as all our lives become lost. And how much worse the situation if, like poor Skyler, the narrator seems to be locked in a consciousness ceaselessly under siege by what S. Freud so aptly called the
un
consciousness.

For Skyler does not know all that Skyler’s brain cells know; and you, who are Skyler’s readers, can know only what Skyler chooses to tell you. Though presumably I am the “author”—I, too, know only what Skyler can tell me.

For instance, Skyler has failed repeatedly to acknowledge the myriad consequences—legal, personal—following his sister’s death. For the most part, the legal complications did not directly involve him, for Skyler was, of course, a minor at the time. Skyler has skittishly alluded to the crude reportage of Tabloid Hell, that has kept Bliss Rampike’s glamorous-waif likeness in the public eye, as it has kept Bix and Betsey Rampike in its sights; but mainstream/legitimate publications and media outlets have also turned their sporadic attentions upon the Bliss Rampike case, as it has come to be known, as well. Not one but two grand juries had been convened in Morris County to investigate every aspect of the controversial case, that had come to a premature impasse of sorts when the leading suspect Gunther Ruscha suddenly died, and had languished under the jurisdiction of longtime district attorney Howard O’Stryker, in legal circles known for his reluctance to bring criminal cases to trial unless he was absolutely certain of winning. Succumbing to pressure from the public and from the New Jersey attorney general, Mr. O’Stryker finally convened a second grand jury in the fall of 2002 which met at regular intervals for three months, in utter secrecy; a succession of witnessses was called, Fair Hills police officers, the original investigating detectives Sledge and Slugg (now retired), local/state/FBI forensics experts, sex offenders and pedophilia experts, sepulchral Dr. Elyse (“Of all child homicide victims in my career as a medical examiner, it is Bliss Rampike who continues to haunt me. My fear is that I will die before that poor child’s murderer is found”); numerous individuals (therapists, prison guards, fellow Rahway inmates, parole officer, relatives, neighbors, etc.) associated with Gunther Ruscha; Fair Hills neighbors, acquaintances, friends, former employees, Trinity Church associates of the Rampikes, and many others; yet not, ironically, Bix and Betsey Rampike, for their ever-vigilant attorney M. Kruk succeeded in blocking all requests for interviews with his clients, who had, by this time, both moved out of New Jersey. As no physical evidence or witnesses had ever placed either of the elder Rampikes at the scene of the actual crime, no subpoenas could be issued to force the Rampikes to cooperate with the grand jury; nor was Skyler Rampike, represented by a lawyer named Crampf, a partner in Kruk’s law firm, served a subpoena. A majority of jurors may have believed that Gunther Ruscha who had con
fessed to the crime had told the truth in his confession, yet, as forensics experts claimed, there was no physical evidence linking Ruscha to the crime scene, nor even to the interior of the Rampike house, and there were no witnesses to testify that they’d seen him that night. And so, in December 2002, the second grand jury in the now-notorious Bliss Rampike case was dismissed by the district attorney of Morris County without handing down a single indictment, and without establishing that Gunther Ruscha was the murderer.
*

In the media, particularly in tabloid papers and on TV, this second failure of a grand jury to reach any conclusions in the Bliss Rampike case was greeted with scarcely concealed derision, or, as in the
New York Post
, outright derision, as in this front-page banner headline:

N.J. GRAND JURY TO BLISS: “WE CAN’T HELP YOU”

In his defense, it should be said that Skyler was but dimly aware of the grand jury, as, in one or another treatment center at this time, Skyler was but dimly aware of the world of “news.”

More mysteriously, Skyler failed to include in “First Love, Farewell!” this enigmatic episode:

One November afternoon in 2003, a summons came for Skyler in the midst of his fifth-period math class, to go immediately to Headmaster Shovell’s office where, to Skyler’s surprise, a middle-aged man who looked vaguely familiar to Skyler, one of Bix Rampike’s golf-, tennis-, or squash-playing friends perhaps, greeted him with a smile and a brisk handshake: “Skyler! You’ve grown, I see. It has been a while—six years, four months to be exact—but I hope that you remember me: your attorney, Craig Crampf.”

Skyler’s attorney! Skyler had not given a thought to Crampf in the
intervening years. It was a shock to him that Crampf seemed still to be retained by Bix Rampike in the role of “Skyler’s attorney.”

Before Skyler could ask why Crampf was at Basking Ridge, another man stepped forward to introduce himself to Skyler: “Hal Ransom, Fair Hills PD senior detective.” Mr. Ransom explained that he had recently been assigned to the Bliss Rampike case which was being re-opened another time, and he had a few questions to ask of Skyler that would not keep him very long. Skyler, beginning to be frightened, muttered what sounded like
Okay I guess
with a glance at Crampf who smiled at him consolingly. Shovell discreetly departed, and Skyler and the two men sat at a polished mahogany table. This was a time in Skyler’s fevered-adolescent life when he was dazzled by Heidi Harkness, his first girl; yet all thoughts of Heidi Harkness vanished from his mind, like water down a drain. Skyler recalled Mummy warning him
Do not speak of it ever not ever not to anyone not even Jesus. Do not.
The interview would last perhaps forty minutes during which time Ransom asked Skyler a succession of questions (“What do you remember of the night of your sister’s death?”—“When was the last time you saw your sister alive?”—“What was the last thing your sister said to you?”) and as Skyler opened his mouth to speak, perhaps to stutter
I d-d-don’t r-really r-r-remember much,
canny Mr. Crampf said, “Detective, my client declines to answer.” Several times Skyler felt a sharp urge to speak, like an urge to sneeze, but canny Crampf quickly interceded, with the virtuoso ease of a Ping-Pong player who always outplays his opponent no matter how swift his opponent is, saying: “Detective, my client declines to answer.” A faint flush of indignation came into the detective’s face though he did not appear to be greatly surprised. At the end of forty minutes he handed Skyler his card which, in a gesture that might have seemed rude in a less poised individual, Crampf took from Skyler’s fingers with the comment: “Thank you, Detective. Good-bye.” Though Skyler had barely spoken during the interview yet Skyler could barely push himself up from his seat, he was so exhausted. Like pushing yourself up from the snaky-skinned gym mat where you have fallen, hard. Very hard.

“Son.” Now in a kindly mode Crampf laid his hand on Skyler’s shoulder. This was a gesture that should have reminded Skyler of his father but the memory went askew and was lost. “…remember: no one can touch
you. ‘You have a right to remain silent’—the cornerstone of justice in America.”

And what does the reader make of this interlude? Is Skyler, at age sixteen, being investigated as a suspect in his sister’s murder? Or is Skyler meant to be an informing witness, one who might name the murderer?

Whatever. Best remedy is to excise it from memory. By the time he met up with Heidi Harkness that evening at Toll House, he’d forgotten the episode entirely.

THAT NIGHT THRASHING AND GROANING IN SWEATY/SMELLY/SEMEN-STAINED
sheets unchanged for a week Skyler felt his mother’s consoling caress and heard her gentle yet urgent warning like the lyrics of a secret hymn
Do not speak of it ever Skyler not ever not to anyone not even Jesus. Do not.

AND WHERE IS SKYLER? NO LONGER IN FORT LEE, NEW JERSEY BUT—
approaching Spring Hollow, New York? Reader, I had not expected this!

While I was busily preoccupied in providing you with (crucial) background information, my intrepid teen hero seems to have driven out of the foreground of this narrative without my noticing.

“My n-name is Sk-Skyler Rampike. I’ve come to see my…”

Somehow, frankly I can’t imagine how, Skyler managed to find his way off N. Syke Street in Fort Lee within a few minutes, capture his way back onto thunderous I-95 and so, on the “upper level,” manage to cross the George Washington Bridge for the first time, as a driver, in his life. (Of which, being an insecure kid, Skyler would be enormously proud except in his state of wound-up nerves, mouth dry as ashes and heart clenched like a fist, pride is beyond him.) (Also, while crossing, in the right-hand lane, he dared not glance to the left or the right and had no more awareness of crossing the great Hudson River than he would have had of crossing a valley of rubble.) Equally unexpectedly, Skyler managed, on the New York side of the river, not to screw up another time and take a wrong exit, as you’d expect, but to negotiate an insidiously tricky lane-change onto the Henry Hudson Parkway North; from there, feeling a small charge of
confidence, Skyler had no trouble exiting onto Route 9 North; scarcely needing to consult his hand-drawn map, Skyler drove at a steady speed through the suburban communities of Irvington, Tarrytown, and (quaintly named, redolent of Headless Horseman and demonic pumpkin) Sleepy Hollow; at last turning into Spring Hollow, pop. 2,800 where in a state of mounting excitement, or dry-mouthed panic, he stopped at a gas station to buy twelve dollars’ worth of gas and stumble into the men’s lavatory dazed and his head ringing, trying not to breathe in the foul odors of myriad predecessors telling the sickly-pale face in the splotched mirror above the urinal
Hey look: you can still turn back, okay? She doesn’t know you are here
. Yet then returning to the borrowed Dodge at the gas pump looking like a junked vehicle newly charged with life, bronze-gleaming letters
NEW CANAAN EVANGELICAL CHURCH OF CHRIST RISEN
and so Skyler heard himself ask the gas station attendant for directions to Magnolia Terrace and was told in heavily accented English what sounded like
Two lights left, turn by the river.

MAGNOLIA ESTATES IS A VERY NEW, CLEARLY VERY EXPENSIVE RESIDENTIAL
community ostentatiously set off from a neighborhood of older, smaller homes:
MAGNOLIA ESTATES 3 & 4 BEDROOM CUSTOM-DESIGNED LUXURY HOMES SOME RIVER LOTS STILL AVAILABLE.
Here are narrow curvy lanes—Magnolia Drive, Magnolia Heights, Magnolia Terrace—like those Skyler recalls from Fair Hills, New Jersey; at 9 Magnolia Terrace, an antebellum plantation house with elaborate white wrought iron trim and a columned front portico, peach-colored like a confectioner’s cake. At 11 Magnolia Terrace is a custard-and-cherry Colonial, at 7 Magnolia Terrace is a pistachio-raspberry Greek Revival. The houses of Magnolia Estates are smaller than they appear from the street for their showy two-storey facades disguise one-storey structures; while their lots appear long from the street, most of the property is at the front while at the rear the property is shallow, hardly more than a few yards; as in a cinematic dream-sequence, Skyler has a sense of shrinking dimensions. Trying not to panic. Scratching at his face. Light-headed with hunger but had not had any appetite to eat the lunch Miriam so kindly provided him
and fumbling now in his jacket pockets for—what?—stray Zilich pills, one of Heidi’s lint-covered OxyContins. Thinking
But I can still turn back! She hasn’t seen me.

All this while, Skyler has not wanted to acknowledge that something is very wrong in Magnolia Estates. Not just the showy, synthetic houses, a number of which appear to be empty, with
LUXURY HOME FOR SALE
signs in the front yards, but the fact that he has been seeing too many people, and the wrong kinds of people, for such a setting, in which ordinarily there would be no pedestrians at all, since there are no sidewalks. And there is too much traffic, not the sleek high-quality cars favored by well-to-do suburban matrons but an ominous preponderance of minivans. In the street across from the peach-colored plantation house is a motley, restless crowd of about thirty people: TV camera crews, photographers and reporters, “gawkers.” What has happened? Why are these people staring at him? Calling to him? Panicked Skyler ducks to shield his face. So luridly bandaged, his steely hair in a rat-tail, he can’t be identifiable as Skyler Rampike—can he? Yet photographers are eagerly aiming their cameras at him, a TV camera crew for WSRY-TV is eagerly taping, reporters call excitedly after the Dodge station wagon: “Wait! Are you ‘Skyler’? Are you—the son?” Skyler sees that police barricades have been set up in the street to keep these aggressive individuals from trepassing on the lawn at 9 Magnolia Terrace and rushing up to the peach-colored house. Two uniformed Spring Hollow patrolmen are directing traffic. At the foot of the asphalt driveway two private security guards—both black, with dour expressions—stand beside a barricade with a sign attached
PRIVATE INVITATION ONLY.
Several vehicles including a van marked WCBS-TV have been allowed past the guards to park in the driveway; in his most earnest voice Skyler explains to the guards that he is Betsey Rampike’s son, and she is expecting him.

“You? Miz Ranpick’s son? You are?”

“Y-Yes. I am. Mz. Ranpick’s son.”

“You some kind of—what? ‘New C’nan Church’—minister?”

“No. I mean y-yes. I belong to a—”

“You comin’ for some service, son?”

“Yes.” Skyler shows the frowning guards his New Jersey driver’s
license. The first time in his life, Skyler is anxious to be identified as Skyler Rampike.