Claire Andrews is alone in the house. Her husband is out; no doubt, he’s bowling at Walton Lanes, and probably getting drunk as usual. Don’t wait up for me, he had said, when he had left the house, already smelling of liquor, nearly fifteen minutes ago. Claire knows she has time. She waits patiently by the stove for the water in the kettle to come to a boil. At last, the whistle affixed to the spout shrieks that its contents are ready, and Claire turns the knob to extinguish the blue flame beneath the kettle. She pours the scalding water over the Red Rose teabag in the bottom of the porcelain teacup, drops in a level teaspoon of honey, stirs it briskly, then lifts the cup to her nose, and inhales. Immediately, she is rewarded with the distinctive aroma of the finely cut tealeaves encased within the porous paper teabag. Red Rose. Nothing quite like it, she thinks, and then smiles. Although the house is comfortably warm, she shivers involuntarily at the thought of the task that lies before her.
She moves to the small oak table in the far corner of the kitchen, where a writing tablet and a ballpoint pen lie on its polished surface. They appear innocent enough, but in her mind, they are like venomous creatures waiting to strike. What amazing power these two objects possess. She’s already used them once, but with less than satisfactory results. The first note must have been discarded, she thinks. They probably thought it was from a neighborhood crank, or a mildly deluded person, at best. Well, they won’t ignore this one, she thinks. She picks up the pen, and begins to write in the precise, slightly slanted style that she was taught in elementary school, so very long ago. She writes:
“Dear Chief Davis,
I know you probably thought my first note was some kind of joke, so I can’t blame you for not paying me no mind. But, please believe me. I’m not fooling around and I’m not no crazy person either. I know I was wrong to let him do what he done to those girls, but I was scared. I know that I will have to answer to My Maker someday for what I done, but I hope I can make things right by writing this note.
Do you remember that girl you found out there on Bear Spring Mountain Road? Well I know the man what done it. He killed her. He didn’t do it on purpose but he done it just the same. He always let the others go after he done what he wanted and I didn’t pay it much mind. I can’t give him what he wants. I never could. I know it ain’t right but I figured they was just poor runoff girls that didn’t have nobody and they was just bound to forget anyway. He made them promise not to tell and me too and I know they won’t. But my soul won’t let me forget what…”
Just then, Claire hears a noise, and, for a moment, fears that her man may have returned early. But, it’s just the family cat that has wandered into the room that is scratching at the back door, wanting her to let it out. She places the pen down on the table, rises from her chair, and crosses over to open the door. The air outside is cool and clean, and she wishes she had time to sit on the porch and enjoy its crispness, but she knows she doesn’t dare delay. With a determination borne from years of subjugation and mistreatment, she picks up the pen once more, and resumes writing.
“Please don’t think bad about me. I should of told someone a long time ago but he threatened he would kill me if I ever said a word and I believed him. If he finds out that I wrote this note he probably will…”
Claire stops writing. She hears a different sound. This time, there is no mistaking it. It’s not the cat scratching at the back door; it’s her man’s car, and its coming hard and with purpose, up the long gravel drive to the house. Claire hears the sound of the tires crunching on the loose stones. Moving quickly, she picks up the paper and pen, rushes to the stove, opens the door to the oven, and places the objects inside. Then, she scurries back to the kitchen table, sits down, and waits…