Why Isn't Becky Twitchell Dead? Read online

  Except for a couple scrapes on my hands, I wasn’t hurt. The incident shook me a little. It had to be an innocent accident, I thought, hoped. A couple kids surprised necking or drinking beer, getting a little revenge. I tried to shrug it off. But the driver had long blond hair, and for an instant, although I couldn’t testify to it, I thought it might have been Becky Twitchell. As I walked up the driveway, I decided I was paranoid.

  I live in a farmhouse in the middle of one of the last cornfields in southwestern Cook County. The subdivisions creep closer every year. Soon I’ll want to sell. I like the quiet. I own the house and two acres around it. The fields belong to a farmer I’ve seen only at a distance as he works the land.

  Faint tapping sounds led me to the top of the basement steps. A variety of large and small engine parts lay scattered on the carpeted stairs. The taps became bangs as I maneuvered my way to the bottom of the steps. I found Scott visible from the waist down, under the washing machine.

  I sat on the workout bench. My basement contains a furnace, a washer and dryer, two sets of weights, and a sump pump—all of which sit surrounded by four unadorned cinder-block walls. We need most of the room for our workouts. I heard a bang, a clatter, and a satisfied grunt. He can fix anything. I’ve known him to take machines declared terminally ill by a team of certified mechanics, place his hands over them, and the damn things heal. Until Eric Trask, Scott always worked on my cars.

  A hand with a rust-encrusted jumble of metal, followed by a grime-shrouded arm, emerged from beneath the machine. “Take this, please,” he said.

  “I didn’t know you heard me.” I grabbed the thing and placed it on a pile of newspapers. “Anything else I can do?”

  He gave me a muffled no. I retreated to the stairs.

  “Got your message on the machine,” he said.

  “Good. I had to accompany Mrs. Trask to the police station.”

  Several hammer bangs clanged out. “Eric stealing cars again?”

  “No, Jeff, the younger brother, this time. They think he murdered his girlfriend.”

  He stuck his head out from under the washer. Dirty smudges covered his blond hair and half his forehead. “Murdered?”

  “That’s what the cops think.” I told him the story while he worked. He grunted in appropriate places. On occasion, his left hand would reach out to the panful of tools, select one, and snake back under the machine. I could never figure out how he could get the exact right tool only by touch. While I talked, I admired the way his tight faded jeans clung to the contours of his body.

  The loudest bangs of all came as I finished my story. A half-minute pause, then: “Shit, this thing is so fucked up. Why don’t you let me buy you a new one?”

  “I like that one. I’m used to it.” At the start of our relationship nine years ago, he’d offered to buy me everything from cars to new homes. My pride then and now won’t let me accept such things. On electronic gadgets I’d always wanted, like state-of-the-art computers, printers, and copiers, my pride loosened its grip.

  “I’ve got another hour under here,” he said. “Let’s talk about the rest of this upstairs.”

  I thought about sitting and watching him work. One of our sexiest moments had been the time we made love on the floor of the garage underneath the jacked-up car. He’d been fixing the muffler, with me helping him. The grease, dirt, and slight danger added zest to the occasion.

  I had another idea.

  An hour later, he clumped up the basement stairs and walked into the kitchen. “Something smells good,” he said. He stood next to me at the sink, washing the grease off his hands and arms. He eyed the stacks of dishes and pans strewn across all the counter space.

  “How was your luncheon?” I asked.

  “Pretty good, I guess. The food was nearly edible. The kid who got the M.V.P. award was so drunk, he couldn’t stand up to accept the trophy. His coach had to rescue the situation. Embarrassed the kid’s parents. The people who ran the banquet were nice.”

  As one of the highest-paid pitchers in the Major Leagues, Scott is in great demand as a speaker. He hurled two no-hitters in the World Series a couple years ago. At six four, he’s an inch taller than I am. We work out together as often as possible, sometimes with the old weights downstairs, or in his Lake Shore Drive penthouse with its state-of-the-art equipment.

  He wiped his hands on a dish towel and gave me a hug. He smelled of sweat and grease. I inhaled deeply. He reached around me and lifted the cover from a plate of freshly baked cookies. “White chocolate chip with macadamia nuts, my favorite.” He nuzzled my ear. “What’s the occasion?”

  I rarely cook. Only my breakfasts are passable. It’s hard to ruin toast. My cookies and cakes are edible. Generally, I try not to inflict my cooking on anyone. I avoid forcing foods into shapes God never intended. Besides, I’m not very good at it. Neither is Scott, although he does make an occasional holiday feast that is fabulous.

  “This is a thank-you for fixing the washer, and a bribe to keep you from harassing me about not getting a new one, and for not finishing my Christmas shopping, and for not buying a new car.”

  “You didn’t even call any dealers, did you?”

  “I had to go with Mrs. Trask.”

  We sat at the kitchen table. I put a plate of cookies in front of him. I tried to avoid the shrewd look in his blue eyes.

  “Do you want beer, milk, pop?” I asked.

  “Milk.”

  I reached over to the refrigerator, grabbed the carton, poured him some, set it in front of him, and rested my elbows on the table.

  “Did you at least talk to Eric about when the car might be done?”

  They’d had to tow my car from the parking lot at school last week. My eight-year-old Chevette began to internally hemorrhage about a half mile from school. Even I, mechanical klutz that I am, knew that if this wasn’t the car’s death throes, it was a sign that a terminal illness had set in. Eric had said he wouldn’t be able to finish it until early this week.

  “No time to call,” I said around a mouthful of cookie.

  “Your mom called. You forgot to call her.”

  “Shit.” I’d promised to make final Christmas plans with her today.

  “She and I took care of next week’s schedule.”

  I thanked him and promised to phone her later.

  “And you didn’t call about new cars?” Scott reiterated.

  I ate a bite of cookie and tried to look innocent. He’s right. I put everything off, or at least unpleasant shit. Although truly important things I never put off, as he’d see when he got his Christmas present. Also, I have gotten better over the years. It’s not as if I can’t afford a car. Maybe a nice sporty little thing with high gas mileage. I don’t trust the Arabs and I want my new car to get more than fifty miles to the gallon, but I hate car shopping. He and I have argued about it before. The last time I bought a car, I walked on to the lot, found the cheapest one they had with the highest gas mileage, and told the salesman, “I want that one.”

  Scott wants me to dicker and deal and beat the salesman at his own game. I just want to get the hell out and be done with the bullshit. He nags me about it. Yes, I know my old Chevette is falling apart. I know I’ll need another new transmission soon. I know I need new tires. I know it probably won’t last the winter.

  “I won’t have time this week, but I promise I’ll go.”

  “Before the end of the century?” he asked.

  I gave him a dirty look.

  “You don’t need a car that could leave you stranded in weather like this. It’s ten below out there right now. Frozen lover is not my idea of a wintertime treat.”

  I leveled my best teacher stare at him, guaranteed to freeze kids in seconds. “I told you I’d do it,” I said.

  We munched cookies and drank milk for a few minutes. Finally, I said, “I’m sorry. I’ll take care of everything over vacation. I promise.”

  He grumbled around a bit of cookie, swallowed, and gave me one of h
is golden smiles. We returned to Jeff’s arrest and my agreeing to help him.

  For years, I’ve taught the slowest of the slow kids—usually seniors, sometimes sophomores. Their problems have been myriad and profound. I’ve testified at court hearings to remove kids from their abusive parents. I’ve gotten kids into drug and alcohol rehab programs. I’ve spent hours in the waiting rooms of abortion clinics. Sometimes it’s worked out and the kids have turned their lives around and gone on to become productive adults; and some are in prison—arrested again after the best efforts of every concerned adult they know. A few are addicts, lost to themselves and society. Sometimes the frustrations get to me. I used to take them out on Scott. He doesn’t put up with that kind of shit from me. He does worry because he knows what these things take out of me.

  He frowned concernedly as I talked, then said, “You sure this is something you want to be a part of?”

  “Definitely. I’ve known the family for years. I know most of the kids involved. Mrs. Trask has no one else to turn to. I think I can help.”

  “Okay. You know your limits, and I’ll be there with you.”

  He finished the plate of cookies while I cleaned the kitchen. When I took his empty glass from the table, he chose that moment to remind me about the car. I scowled at him. “If you mention that again, young man, there’ll be no sex for you for a week.”

  He grabbed me and pulled me onto his lap. “This is ridiculous,” I said. His eyes gleamed impishly.

  “Don’t,” I warned, but it was too late. He knows I’m ticklish in only one place—a spot not normally touched in casual contact. His hand roved down my chest.

  As I finished cleaning, he sat perched on the clean countertop. He snapped his fingers. “I forgot. You had a message on the machine. Neil Spirakos is in the hospital.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “He finally had liposuction?”

  “No. Serious, I guess. He said he’d been mugged and for you to call him. He’s at Northwestern Memorial.”

  Neil’s one of the reigning queens in the gay community in Chicago, and my best friend in the city. Too late to call tonight; I’d phone him tomorrow.

  In bed, Scott said, “I’ll be talking to your brother Glen tomorrow. We’re set for his place Christmas Eve?”

  “Yeah.” Scott reads “The Night Before Christmas” and a million other stories to the youngest ones every year on Christmas Eve.

  “Did your parents call?” I asked.

  He shook his head no.

  Scott had told his parents he was gay during his yearly visit after the baseball season. His parents are backcountry Alabama born-again Baptists. Their little boy sleeping with a man was too much for them. He’d had to cut short his visit because of their outrage and hurt.

  My family, on the other hand, is nuts about him. We spend most holidays with them. My father and brothers get puffed up with pride having a star baseball player in the house. My nieces and nephews love him. Last Christmas, he spent hours rolling around outside in the snow with them. At least once each visit, my mother and sister corner me in the kitchen to tell me how wonderful he is and then urge me to accept his offers of us living together. One day, I’ll accept their advice.

  This year, he decided it was time I met his parents. He’d gone to prepare the way. Instead, he’d met rejection. This wasn’t unusual, but it’s tough to cope with. He’d hoped for a good response from his sister. They’ve been real close since they were kids. No such luck. I told him to give them more time.

  I snuggled closer to his warmth and felt the first stirrings of drowsiness. He said, “I’ve been meaning to ask you something. Some of the guys on the team are throwing a New Year’s Eve party. They’re all my friends. It’s going to be a small gathering, a couple guys and their wives.”

  “I can spend the evening listening to the Midnight Special New Year’s Eve program on WFMT.” I yawned.

  “No. I’d like you to go with me.” Doug Courtland, Scott’s best friend on the team, had called to invite him. Numerous times, Scott has said that if he came out to anybody on the team, it would be Doug.

  I came awake a bit more. “You sure you want me along?” For years, he’d kept his sexual orientation a huge secret. Fear of total shit hitting the fan if team management found out kept him closeted in the locker room. This would be a big step for him.

  “I’m sure,” he said as he draped an arm over my chest. I listened to his breathing. “It’s not like I’m telling them anything. I’m not sure I’m ready for that. But I know I want you there. You can meet Jack Frampton and become his best friend.” Frampton was the team’s newest sensation. Still nineteen and voted rookie of the year, he bragged about how if he ever met a faggot, he’d beat the shit out of him. A couple times, Scott had barely contained himself from flattening the kid.

  I caressed the hair on the arm that rested over me. “I’d be glad to go,” I said. We lay in silence. I smelled faint whiffs of his after-shave, sweat, and toothpaste. As I drifted off to sleep, I thought about Jeff Trask and murder.

  3

  First thing next morning at school, I hunted for Kurt Campbell. He’s coach of the football team and would know all the boys who’d been at the party. I wanted to learn as much as I could about each person involved. Kurt is also president of our teachers’ union, and my best friend on the faculty.

  In his classroom, I found him unraveling a red woolen scarf and unbuttoning his heavy parka. The temperature had plunged to fifteen below zero the night before. The weather forecasters had cheerfully predicted it would be twenty to twenty-five below tonight. I closed his classroom door, tossed my winter outer clothes onto a chair, and perched myself on a corner of his desk. Kurt wore dark brown dress pants, a beige sweater, a white shirt, and a striped brown and beige tie. He has a large nose, acne scars, and enormously broad, muscled shoulders. He claims his ugliness kept him from being trampled by all the girls when he was in high school. His wife, Beth, laughs uproariously whenever he says this. They’d dated since eighth grade.

  “Damn, it’s cold,” he said. He rubbed his hands together for warmth. He eased himself into the chair behind his desk and propped his feet on the top.

  “This had better not be union business,” he said. “I am unioned out. If I get one more complaint from a teacher or administrator before Christmas, I will personally strangle them.”

  He’s been president of the union for over a decade. He led us through our first strike five years ago. He talked me into becoming union representative and grievance chairman for my building three years ago. Part of the duties included membership on the negotiations team. I got the job because no one else wanted it. He was grateful. I understood his frustration in not wanting to deal with another bitch or moan. Until I became building rep, I’d listened half-bemusedly to his complaints about teachers. Now that I’d heard their inanities directly for a few years, I knew exactly what he meant. And he has far more patience with them than I.

  Teachers complain about the stupidest stuff. People expect the union to act sort of like an Old Testament God, only tougher and meaner. Usually, they need the union to get them out of trouble that they’ve gotten themselves into. And they whine. One school of educational thought says that teachers get more like the kids the longer they’ve been teaching. It is true teachers take three vows when they get their certificates: poverty, dedication, and the right to bitch.

  “Complaints mounting up?” I asked.

  He grimaced. “Last night’s may have done it. A teacher at one of the elementary schools wanted me to force the principal to change the evaluation he gave her. The teacher said it wasn’t fair that she got a satisfactory instead of an excellent rating. She said he observed her the day she was having her period. A fistfight between two kids with bloody noses and with the principal observing your second-grade class is not good.”

  “Off day for her?”

  “From what I understood, it was one of her good days.”

  “Ouch.”

  “She
told me that she was tired of the union not doing enough for her. How we’re not tough enough. The usual shit from an idiot.”

  “Speaking of idiots, I’ve got to see Pete Montini and George Windham today.”

  “You have my sympathy.”

  Pete is head coach and George is his assistant on the basketball team. For a few years, they’ve shared minor duties on the football program. They know the boys more than most other teachers and at least as well as Kurt. They are also the biggest assholes in the school.

  Kurt asked, “What do you need to see them about?”

  I explained to him about Jeff, last night, and the kids at the party.

  I also explained about Mrs. Trask. He liked her, too. Most teachers who’d talked to her did.

  He gave me his opinion of the kids involved. Becky he knew only by reputation. “As for Susan, I find it hard to believe she had a boyfriend. I had her for algebra two years ago. I remember her as a loner. I never saw her exchange a word with a classmate.” Doris Bradford he didn’t know. Same for Eric Task. On Paul Conlan; “You couldn’t ask for a better kid. I coached him for four years of football. Did what you asked. Smart. Willing to give of himself for the team. And the kid could play. Excellent chance of a scholarship to a good school. He’s an even better basketball player.”

  Kurt found Jeff funny, liked him and his loony sense of humor. The boy worked hard on the football field.

  “Even with his muscles, I thought he was kind of tall and thin to be a middle linebacker,” I said.

  “He’s got that willingness to throw himself at an opponent with almost insane abandon. I’ve seen him go through an opponent with unbelievable mercilessness. He’s also got a temper. Angry enough, I’ve seen him flatten boys who outweigh him by a hundred pounds.”

  “Enough temper to kill somebody?”

  “I don’t know. Possible. I’d hope not.”

  Roger Daniels, the last one he had in class, Kurt said was a good football player—a hulking kid almost as wide as he was tall. I’d had Roger in class as a freshman. Then, he’d been the class clown—a red-haired dynamo who looked like he could take on the world. Kurt confirmed this as currently correct.