Sign of the Beast

1.

It was a time of sin. It was not a time of innocence.

It was a time of physical disgust. For I remember well.

The birthmark on my (left) cheek like a pustule was shameful to me.

It was not large, I suppose—the size of a copper penny. And it was of the hue of a penny that has become damp having been gripped in a childish hand.

The sign of the beast it was called in laughter, by one who should have known better, and who caused me much hurt and chagrin in my twelfth year.

This cruel individual was our Sunday school teacher at my parents’ church. We were to call her “Mrs. S____” but I did not call this individual any name at all. I did not and do not ever utter this name. When I’d first started Sunday school our teacher had been an older white-haired woman my grandmother’s age, who had known my grandmother and so was kindly disposed to me and not uneasy with me for my size, as adults sometimes were. (“And what do you think, Howie?”—very courteously white-haired Mrs. Pearson would inquire of me in our Bible story discussions; but still I was shy in answering, and mumbled my reply.)

But then, one Sunday Mrs. Pearson was not in the classroom and we were told to go away and return the next week and when we did, Mrs. S____ had taken her place. (The rumor was, our teacher had gotten very sick with something terrible like cancer. We were not supposed to know this.) Mrs. S____ was excited and nervous and friendly-seeming, with a quick sharp laugh like the sound a fox might make and damp bared gums.

“Hello, children! I’m here now.”

And, when we sat silent and staring: “You could say hello to me, too. Hello and welcome.”

And so we murmured Hello and welcome.

“How about, Hello and welcome Mrs. S____.”

And so we murmured Hello and welcome Mrs. S____.

In her behavior Mrs. S____ was youthful and loud-talking which made us uneasy, for children are not comfortable when adults behave as if they are not adults. Often it seemed that Mrs. S____ was winking at us as if there was some joke between her and us, unexplained.

“How-ard!”—so Mrs. S____ soon acquired the habit of calling upon me in class, for she could see how I slouched in my seat, staring at the floor and hoping not to be called upon.

Knowing that I was clumsy in my speech, and could be made to stutter while reciting Bible verses though I was one of the older children. And that my face flushed in a way to provoke laughter in the others.

(Why is the misery of a child so hilarious to other children? Even more unnaturally, it seemed to be hilarious to Mrs. S____.)

Though Mrs. S____ was scornful of my efforts, or amused by them, I did try to memorize Bible verses as we were instructed. But even when I knew the verses my tongue felt strange in my mouth like something dried-out like an old sponge and I could not speak clearly so that Mrs. S____ would interrupt, “How-ard! Is that chewing tobacco in your mouth?”—and so the others would giggle.

At other times I would sit in my desk with my head bowed and eyes lowered, and my left hand pressed against my cheek to hide the birthmark as if innocently. My silent prayer was Jesus, do not let Mrs. S____ call on me!—but much of the time Jesus paid no heed, or may have been in league with Mrs. S____ to make me squirm in misery.

Hunched and downcast grinding my back teeth in rage against those who laughed at me.

It was strange—though Mrs. S____ was scornful of me as one of the poorer students in the class yet she seemed well aware of my identity. Or rather, she seemed well aware of me. As we entered the classroom at the rear of the old red-brick church our teacher would stand at the door to greet us in her friendly-seeming manner, to most of the students calling out gaily, “Hello!” or “Good morning!” as if she had not troubled to learn their names; but invariably she said to me, with a little wink, “Why, How-ard! How handsome we look this morning!”

Handsome. My face flushed with heat—such mockery was hurtful to me. For there was nothing handsome about my face and particularly the birthmark on my cheek that throbbed with resentment.

Once when I had to pass close to her, to take my assigned seat in the first row, Mrs. S____’s hand leapt out to stroke my cheek. “Why, How-ard! Are you shaving?”—(which of course I was not). Again, all of the class laughed.

(I had it in my mind that Mrs. S____ had really wanted to touch the discoloration on my cheek as if to determine if it was a birthmark or just a pimple, and this made me very angry.)

Especially it was embarrassing to me that Mrs. S pronounced my name in a singsong mocking voice—How-ard. How-ARD Heike. I did not understand what was so funny about my name except perhaps it was an older person’s name, yet she did not call me Howie as Mrs. Pearson had done.

Mrs. S____ was confusing to us for resembling our mothers while behaving very differently from our mothers. She wore clothes of a kind our mothers might have worn for church or “dress-up” but her clothes were tight-fitting, showing her shapely body, especially her bosom and hips; around her waist she often wore a shiny black patent leather belt cinched tight. Her face too was shiny as if it had been polished. Her eyebrows were plucked and penciled into thin pale-brown arches and her “permed” hair was shiny-black as if dyed. Restless as glittering water in a stream her eyes moved over us and there seemed always something mirthful about us to make her smile.

“Boys and girls, always remember: Jesus loves you, when no one else does!”—this was a typical remark of Mrs. S____’s, called out to us gaily, as if it was happy news and not hurtful.

Sunday school lasted one hour, in an overheated room at the rear of the old red-brick church on Price Street, followed by church services at ten A.M. Even before Mrs. S____ made my life miserable it did not seem fair to me that I had to endure two hours of sitting very still while my parents and other adults had to endure only one hour. Already as a young child I was big for my age, and restless if I had to stay still for just a few minutes let alone an hour. Though I had been told many times that God loved me, and Jesus loved me, I did not know what that might mean. I did not doubt that there was a God in the sky above us watching us at all times but I could not imagine God (or His son Jesus) caring for me or even being aware of me any more than walking along a path you might step on scurrying ants without noticing or giving a damn if you did happen to notice.

If I did something to draw God’s attention to me, that would be a mistake. There was a vague uneasiness among the Sunday school class that you could make God very angry and He could smite you dead as He did with Old Testament people.

In her singsong voice Mrs. S____ read verses to us from the Bible creasing her forehead if the subject was very grave like the afflictions of Job or the crucifixion of Jesus and the flames of Hell but making another sort of face if the subject was somewhat comical like Jonah in the belly of the whale, or Moses surprised by the burning bush, or Jesus driving the “moneylenders” out of the temple which Mrs. S____ demonstrated by pretending to be wielding an invisible whip and crying, “Out, devils! Out!” like a crazy woman on TV.

We were surprised by such vehemence in our teacher, and did not know what to think. Most of us had never seen our mothers behave in such a way.

“D’you not think that ‘moneylenders’ are devils? Well! You will learn.”

And Mrs. S____ would wink at us, most pointedly at me.

(I could not understand why except maybe Mrs. S____ believed that my father owned Heike Lumber which was a family business mostly owned by an older uncle. My father did work for Heike Lumber but it was a bad joke to think that he made much money, as my father would himself have said. And so maybe Mrs. S____ thought, or was pretending to think, that my parents had more money than they did, and so it made sense for money to be associated with me. It was not right, I thought, to be teased and tormented for that.)

There were times when Mrs. S____ broke off reading a Bible verse as if she’d lost her place or hadn’t been paying attention to her own words. Seeing us gazing at her blankly she would say, “What are you all gaping at? Haven’t your mommas at least taught you that it’s rude to stare?”

Something mocking in the word mommas. Like you might say the word monkeys. It was known that Mrs. S____ did not have children herself for she’d allowed us to know that on her first day teaching Sunday school.

“How-ard! What do you say?”

When Mrs. S____ asked Bible questions we were expected to raise our hands to answer. But then Mrs. S____ would look past the bright eager children waving their hands to single out those others, like me, hunched in our seats trying not to be noticed.

It was like being slapped. Like being kicked.

I would mumble a reply, stammering and feeling my face burn.

“Speak up, How-ard! You are one of the older students in this Sunday school class and should be a model for the others.”

So mocked, I could not speak at all. My heart beat hard and furious against my ribs like a fist wanting to hurt.

Mrs. S____ was always warning us she would speak to Reverend Boxall about us. The minister of our church was a stern-faced man older than my father who looked in upon the Sunday school class from time to time, but did not stay more than a minute.

Nights before Sunday school, I could not easily sleep. Already I would begin to worry, Mrs. S____ would single me out for the laughter of the others which had grown more scornful over the months so that even the younger children who should have been afraid of me were not.

Not that I would have hurt a younger child. A smaller child. But I was big, and might (almost) hurt someone by accident, shoving or grabbing with my strong hands if one of them got in my way, or looked at me the wrong way, when no adult was around to see.

One night trying not to sleep because I was fearful of closing my eyes yet I must have fallen asleep for when a daddy longlegs walked over my face brushing against my lips causing me to wake with a start my eyes flew open and I saw that it was Mrs. S____ who’d trailed her fingertips over my face … How-ard. How-ard Heike! How handsome we are.

To my astonishment I saw Mrs. S____’s jeering face above me. For a moment I did not know where I was—in my bed at home, or in my desk at the Sunday school. I wondered at the unnaturalness of an adult woman who teased and ridiculed a child of eleven.

Horrible to me how Mrs. S____ would come to my desk and lean over me to see where my Bible was opened, as if (maybe) I was surreptitiously reading in the Old Testament and not the New (which we were supposed to be reading). In a mockery of motherly solicitude the woman would lean close so that I had no choice but to inhale her smell, a cloyingly-sweet talcum powder or perfume; daringly, Mrs. S____ would touch my shoulder, the nape of my neck, stroke my side even as she kept up a barrage of nervous chatter no one could follow. It was shocking to me that, in the classroom, where those children seated closest to me could surely see, our teacher would slip her hand into my stiff-starched shirt, to “tickle” me to attention, in a pretense of punishing me for not volunteering to speak or answer her questions.

Or maybe this had not yet happened? Yet, I understood that it would happen, soon.

And in the night, my hands would move of their own volition to touch myself in ways that were forbidden. And Mrs. S____ laughed at me and pushed at my hands when I tried to keep them away, saying Oh How-ard aren’t you a bad boy, a very bad boy, we know what a bad boy you are How-ard don’t pretend.

And next morning in our Sunday school classroom, as if it was still my dream: “How-ard is very quiet today! ‘Still waters run deep.’”

And, “How-ard has his secrets, eh? For shame!”

Shaking her finger at me, laughing. As others in the class stared at me not knowing if they should laugh with her, or recoil in disgust.

I did feel shamed. Stricken with shame like a paralysis.

As if the woman could know what it was to be me.

Meekly I would lower my head. Eyes cast down but (in fact) fixed upon Mrs. S____’s legs which were tight-encased in nylon stockings; yet, in warm weather, seemingly bare—or so they appeared to me, for I could look nowhere else. And her small, fattish feet in “stylish” shoes.

If I dared to lift my eyes I would likely see tiny beads of sweat on Mrs. S____’s face. And the smile faded as in a face you have caught unprepared to be looked at.

“How-ard? What are you looking at so hard? Has your mother never told you that staring is rude?”

Adding, “Especially one who bears the ‘sign of the beast’ on his face for all to see.”

But laughing then, to show that she did not really mean this, but was only teasing.

In warm weather in the airless interior of the Sunday school classroom you might see half-moons of dampness beneath Mrs. S____’s arms. And sometimes when Mrs. S____ turned her back you could see (without wishing to see) dampness in the back of her dress, and a faint crease in her buttocks where the dress was caught. (I had learned the coarse word buttocks and liked to say it to myself. It would be years before I would realize that men could have buttocks too.) Her bosom was heavy and soft-seeming like foam-rubber. Around her neck Mrs. S____ wore a gold cross on a thin gold chain that moved and shone with her breathing.

When at last the Bible lesson was over it would be nearing ten o’clock. The bells of the church would be ringing so loudly, I would want to clamp my hands over my ears. Mrs. S____ would dismiss us, that we might hurry to join our families for the service. But Mrs. S____ would sometimes keep me behind, claiming that she needed a “big, husky boy” to help her push desks back against the walls. When she smiled at me the pink wet tip of her tongue appeared between her bright-crimson lips.

I stammered that I had to leave, deeply ashamed. For in the pit of my stomach there was a sharp sensation, and in the area between my legs that stirred and was painfully tight inside my underwear. Through the remainder of the day the strong, sharp smell of Mrs. S____ would remain with me, like a thick sweet smoke that had soaked into my clothes and my hair, and the sensation between my legs was even slower to fade.

Until that night in my bed, the sensation swept back upon me, and Mrs. S____ pushed my hands where I did not want them to go, but could not prevent.

Yet: I did not tell my parents any of this—the Sunday school teacher’s teasing. I did not tell my parents that Mrs. S____ treated me differently from the way she treated the others, for it seemed to me that Mrs. S____ was disgusted with me because of the birthmark on my face, that she could not help seeing, and blamed me for.

I did not actually think that I did not deserve being teased. When a bad thing happened to me, to hurt or injure me, or when I was sick, even if others were sick, with a stomach flu for instance, or a bad hacking cough, it would seem to me that this was a punishment (from God?) that I deserved. When I was not punished, I was waiting to be punished. For I did not feel good about myself. I could not think that Jesus had really died for me.

My parents did not like to be touched, I think. And so, I did not like to be touched because it was not right to be touched. If you deserve to be touched, then your parents would touch you. But if not, not.

In school, children sometimes stared at me. Even older children, who should not have been fearful of me. Yet they stood apart from me, as if wondering at the mark on my face, whether they were safe to make fun of it, or better not.

I did not ever back away from any confrontation. I was not “aggressive”—but I did not back away. I had been known to shove boys back against a wall, or a fence—if they fell, I did not take mercy on them but might stand over them hitting with my fists, kicking. Because I was likely to be “slow” in class (sometimes) did not mean that I was “slow” in other ways. A fist can move fast of its own volition, the way a dog snarls and bites, or a cat scratches, without needing to think. Soon then, by middle school the other children knew to keep their distance from me, and to respect me, for there was a look in my face they learned not to challenge.

Older girls, in the high school, did not seem to be afraid of me so much. They would sometimes smile at me, and talk with me in the 7-Eleven where we went after school, laughing when I blushed for I was shy in their presence, and did not know how to speak without stammering. It was surprising to them (they claimed) that I was only in middle school with such little boys.

But I could not laugh with them, I did not understand their jokes. And so they were disappointed with me, I think.

Not only other children, and strangers, but my parents too would sometimes stare at me without seeming to know who I was. Especially when I began to grow taller, at the age of twelve.

If I came into a room not watching where I was headed, and collided with a chair, for instance in the kitchen, my mother would give a little cry and flinch from me, as if she had not been prepared for such a big boy, or rather for me. Oh—Howie! It’s you …

In her face an expression of relief as if she had expected someone else and not me. A nervous smile.

Beside my father who was a tall heavyset man, I did not look so unusual. But beside my mother, who was a small woman, and would one day barely come to my shoulder, I did seem unusual, out of place in the family. The kind of boy who, if a chair was going to break, would be the one to break the chair by just sitting in it.

Though my mother tried to “discipline” me. Especially when we were together at church. For that was what a good mother should try to do, she believed.

Howard, don’t wriggle! You are in the presence of the Lord.

Howard, don’t slouch! You are in the presence of the Lord.

Howard, you must not look around at girls! They can see you, and they can read your thoughts.

And never forget—you are in the presence of the Lord.

That last summer of Sunday school flies buzzed overhead striking themselves against the ceiling with little pings that captured my attention. From the church came the sound of the choir practicing a hymn—“A Mighty Fortress Is Our Lord.”

“How-ard! Tell us the story of …”

A shiver would run through me, of dread and excitement. For the Bible stories which we had to memorize were familiar to me as if they had happened in my own life—Moses in the bulrushes, Moses and the burning bush, Samson in the temple, Daniel in the lions’ den, Jesus as a boy, Jesus and John the Baptist, Jesus tempted by Satan, Jesus dividing the fishes and the loaves, Jesus betrayed by Judas, Jesus crucified and Jesus resurrected—yet I could not retell them easily, or could not retell them with Mrs. S____ staring at my mouth with her strange twist of a smile.

I tried to recount the story of Jesus betrayed by Judas, which was the story Mrs. S____ had requested, except that my voice was cracked and faltering, and after a while it ceased altogether, and Mrs. S____ shrugged and laughed and called upon another student to continue, as if it had meant nothing to her anyway, and that nor was she surprised at my poor performance. Leaving me sweating and shamed and grinding my back teeth.

This last time, Mrs. S____ dismissed the class early but asked me to remain behind so that I could help her return our desks to their original positions, she said. Why the desks were moved about, and moved back, scraping against the floor, was never clear to me. But I did as I was instructed for it seemed easier and when I was pushing desks, I did not have to face Mrs. S____ and might even have my back to her.

There was a special report between us Mrs. S____ said. I did not know what Mrs. S____ meant by a special report but I did not inquire.

That day, Mrs. S____ was wearing a yellow-stripe dress like a sundress with a sash that tied behind her back, like a young girl might wear. And a neckline that dipped down, farther than any neckline my mother might wear. I tried not to look at Mrs. S____’s chest—bosom—but my eyes kept moving in that direction like marbles rolling along an uneven table.

Mrs. S____ saw me looking, I think. She was fanning her heated face with a Bible pamphlet. Asking me if I had a girlfriend?—and if I “knew” about girls?—and to this, I could think of no reply. Questions Mrs. S____ asked me about my family I could not answer either. If my father and mother were “happily married”—I had no idea, the very thought of considering such a thing made me feel agitated, as I would have felt if someone had asked me how much money my father made, or if my parents loved me.

And then as if by accident Mrs. S____ touched me—drew her fingers along the nape of my neck, to make me shiver; and brushed my stiff, thick hair back from my forehead, where it grew low. With a little laugh she discovered a button on my shirt that had become unbuttoned. And leaning into me, breathing onto my face, as if by chance she seemed to lean too far, and lost her balance, and lightly brushed the back of her hand against my groin where my trousers had become tight like a vise.

And when I pulled away she laughed sharply and said, “Howard. There is the ‘sign of the beast’ right there on your cheek. You can’t hide that.”

A deep shame passed into my soul. Like mold in a wall, that will rot and fester and never be made right unless torn open and exposed to the air.

All this while church bells were ringing in the belfry overhead. Crazy-loud ringing, like jeering laughter. With my head lowered I pushed the woman away, blind and furious. Butting against her belly, all but cracking her ribs with the force of my need to get away from her before something happened between us, this special report Mrs. S____ had prophesized.

The woman cried out in sudden fear—“What are you doing! No”—falling backward, clutching at a table, only just able to prevent herself from being thrown to the floor, hard. Her breath came ragged and panting and I did not glance back at her hurtling myself at the door like a wild creature that has gotten trapped in an enclosure, and will kill to get free.

It would be the last time I attended Sunday school. If my soul was damned to Hell, I did not care.

And I did not go to church services that morning, either.

Ran away, out behind the churchyard. Down a steep hill, into a ravine. Made my way wading and splashing in a shallow creek, three miles to home and when I got there sweating, disheveled and dirty, exhausted like an animal, sank into sleep in a storage shed where no one would find me until I wanted to be found.

And later when my parents did discover me, like an animal eating ravenously out of the refrigerator, they looked at me in disgust and disdain. Out of such disgust with their son, they did not even ask me what had happened or where I had been instead of meeting them for church. They did not scold or accuse but allowed me to slink off, in shame.

Maybe seeing something in my face like a fist, they knew not to provoke.

Those days of waiting for Mrs. S____ to tell on me.

To tell my parents of my behavior, or Reverend Boxall who was our minister.

My father would be obliged to punish me. Discipline. No matter his disgust he would call me to him, and strike my face once, twice. His hand might be open, or closed. The blow might be hard, or glancing. An opened hand, a slap, more insulting somehow than a fist, as if I did not even merit such a blow but rather a slap such as you would give to a young child, or a girl. And he would say—“The woman told us what you did to her.”

But that did not happen. Though I waited for my father to call me to him, it did not happen. Mrs. S____ did not report me!

And now there came over me a sense of helplessness and rage, that the woman’s power was greater over me in not speaking of what had passed between us than if she had. For now the incident, Mrs. S____ touching me as she had, and my shoving her, touching her, would remain secret between us.

When I was alone I could not keep Mrs. S____ out of my thoughts. How-ard! Hel-lo. Are you—shaving? The mocking singsong voice, the touch of her fingertips like a daddy longlegs brushing against my face. It was hellish to me, to lie in my bed unable to sleep, sweating and twitching and failing to keep my rough hands from myself despite the shame of it, that I believed it to be hurtful to me. And so my eyelids drooped during the day, I was not able to focus my thoughts, or walk steadily …

“Howard, what is wrong with you.”

In exasperation and wariness my mother addressed me. She had ceased calling me Howie—now, no one called me Howie. In the kitchen coming up beside me where I was staring out the window when I believed I was alone, my mother had seemed, almost, to be touching me, or about to touch me, and though she did not touch me it seemed that I felt her touch—almost …

Wrenching myself away from her, feeling a stab of fury, repugnance like a dog that has been surprised, baring its teeth to snarl, bite.

Staring at each other, then. The one poised to attack with his fists, the other poised to flee screaming.

Of course, that did not happen. I would not ever have raised a fist to my mother.

But shamed then, and stammering in embarrassment Sorry sorry Ma.

Overhearing, later—There is something wrong with him. Howard.

Her voice dropping, near-inaudible—Scares me, he is so angry …

Or did Ma say—Scares me, he is so ugly.

Vaguely it was said among the relatives that I had become too big for Sunday school, that was the reason that I no longer attended. Yet, my parents insisted that I continue to attend church services with them each Sunday morning out of a fear that I would go to Hell or (maybe) out of pride, that their neighbors and relatives would see that I no longer attended church, like a heathen or a pagan, and this would reflect badly upon them.

In a pew near the rear of the church we sat, with a scattering of Heike relatives and my mother’s older sisters and an elderly uncle. Always I was made to sit between Ma and Pa like a small child who might have to be disciplined if he squirms or yawns in church or cranes his head to look around.

Of course, I would see Mrs. S____ in church for she always attended the ten o’clock service in the company of an older stout bald-headed man who (I supposed) was her husband or (maybe) her father.

I did not want to see the hateful woman and yet, I could not stop myself from searching for her, just to determine where she was, and look away from her, and not look back. Until at the end of the service when the congregation rose, and all sang hymns together, except for me, for with my cracked voice like gravel I could not sing, and did not want to sing, but this was a time when it was natural to glance around, and so I might see Mrs. S____ on the other side of the aisle, a row or two closer to the front of the church than our row, five or six seats in, holding a hymnal in her hand at which she never glanced, and singing with the others, or pretending to sing.

Holding my breath, that Mrs. S____ might glance back at me. Biting her lower lip in a smile as her eyes greedily sought me out.

How-ard has his secrets, eh? For shame.

The sign of the beast on his face for all to see.

My hatred for Mrs. S____ was such, I had never asked any questions about her, for I did not want to know anything about her, I did not want to think of her at all. Yet there was a kind of satisfaction in establishing that the woman was in church, as I was, twenty feet away.

After the hymn, there was another time for glancing about the church, a time to see who was behind you, or on the far side of your pew, and then too I could look openly at Mrs. S____, and it would not have seemed strange, and my mother would not have nudged me—Howard! Don’t stare.

Sometimes yes, Mrs. S____ did see me. Or seemed to see me. Though so quickly I looked away, or shut my eyes, it was not possible to be certain.

The small bright eyes like a snake’s eyes moving upon me, in secret. Unmistakably the woman’s thoughts rushed through me like an electrical current—I know what you do when you are alone, How-ard! What thoughts you have of me. What a bad boy, what a disgusting boy, and the sign of the beast in your face to identify you—everyone knows.

Irritably my mother gripped my arm and gave me a nudge asking what on earth was wrong. For I’d seemed to be paralyzed, unable to move.

My knees were weak, and my back teeth were heated from grinding my jaws. Sullenly I mumbled to my mother that I was OK but that it was too hot for me in the church, I could not breathe.

Later, outside the church, I overheard my parents speaking worriedly with Reverend Boxall and a vague reply of the minister’s—A phase he is going through. Boys do. He will get over it. God sets us these tests, as parents.

It happened that I would follow Mrs. S____ when I saw her.

By accident when I saw her. I did not seek the woman out.

In town, on the street. In a parking lot. In a store.

She did not see me, I think. Most of the time.

Yet: moving her hips as if she knew that someone was watching, but did not want to let on.

Happened that Mrs. S____ shopped at the drugstore, at the grocery store, at the Target store. By accident sighting her, standing at the edge of the lot behind a Dumpster. And soon then, I knew to identify her car which was a dull-silver compact Nissan.

Exciting to me, to see Mrs. S____ park her car, climb out with a flash of her legs, walk across a parking lot in her bright clothes. Her hair was shiny-black, her mouth very red. In warm weather her arms were bare to the shoulders. Like a scene in a movie it was, when you know that something is going to happen to the person in the scene but you do not know exactly what it will be, and when.

I know you are watching me, How-ard!

We know what it means—the sign of the beast.

Rode my bike to the church, Sunday morning before nine o’clock. Dragged the bike behind a storage shed in the churchyard and slid down into the ravine, to hide.

For an hour then, squatting on the creek bank and throwing stones into the shallow, slow-moving water.

In the classroom at the rear of the church, Mrs. S____ was teaching Sunday school. I had not dared to peer in a window but I knew. It was exciting to me, to think of how I could come into the classroom slamming the door open—the looks in the faces! If it was a movie, there would be a gun, and the gun would fire.

How-ard! How-ard, no!

After a while I climbed up out of the ravine, and returned to the rear of the church. By this time churchgoers were starting to arrive, parking their cars. They would enter the church, and take their places in the pews. Like ants they seemed to me, taking their place in a hive. I would not be one of them that morning.

I had not given any thought to it, that my parents would wonder where I was, and if I was hiding from them in order to stay away from church.

Crouched behind a gravestone. Watched the rear door.

Children were leaving, Sunday school was over. Through the scope of a rifle they could be viewed, and picked off one by one without any more knowledge of what was happening to them than the knowledge of a grazing deer that is shot with its head lowered to the grass.

Last of all was Mrs. S____ who was lighting a cigarette as a man might do, shaking out the match. (Smoking was not allowed on the church property! I knew this.) It was surprising to me, and exciting, that Mrs. S____ was smoking in secret, and that I had not known this before.

Very quickly the woman smoked holding the cigarette to her mouth as she inhaled, exhaled smoke in little puffs. She was wearing a bright-green dress and around her waist a black patent leather belt cinched tight. On her feet straw-colored high-heeled shoes with no backs. As she smoked the cigarette staring at the ground at her feet it did not seem to me that Mrs. S____ looked so confident as usual but rather subdued, frowning.

Then for some reason Mrs. S____ glanced over to where I was crouched behind the gravestone. Somehow it happened, she saw me, and a flash seemed to come into her eyes such as you see in an animal’s eyes, reflecting headlights.

“Why, How-ard Heike! Is that you?”

The voice was not so mocking, but rather surprised-sounding, almost happy.

“How-ard? Hel-lo.”

Mrs. S____ was staring in my direction, where I was cringing down behind the gravestone. I could not understand how she had seen me clearly enough to identify me.

Shamed by being so recognized, I crawled on hands and knees to the edge of the graveyard. Then scrambled to my feet to run, run.

“How-ard? Where are you going? I see you.”

Laughing after me, until I could not hear her any longer.

Following this, I was determined to stop thinking of Mrs. S____. For she had seen me, and would be prepared for me now. And still she might complain to my parents or to Reverend Boxall or even to the police and I would not be able to explain myself, why I was following Mrs. S____ when it was a great relief to me that I no longer had to attend Sunday school. Just to think of that was to feel a rush of happiness.

Now, I did not attend church services either. My parents had not tried to argue with me though (I knew) they had been talking about me in their room, my father’s voice raised and my mother’s voice quieter, pleading.

Clamped my hands over my ears. Laughed, what the hell did I care about them.

Somehow it happened, I learned where Mrs. S____ lived: in a weatherworn clapboard house on Cottage Street across from a vacant lot littered with trash. Also scrub trees grew on the lot, I could easily hide behind.

The plan came to me: I would ride my bike into town, hide it behind bushes. I would see if Mrs. S____’s Nissan was parked in the driveway of the clapboard house and if it was not, I would dare to walk to the house to ring the doorbell believing that no one would be home but that I could peer into the house through the ground-floor windows and maybe, if no one was watching I could go to the rear of the house, and look in the windows there.

I would try the door to the house, at the rear. If it was not locked, I could open it …

A wave of dizziness came over me, at the thought of what came next.

And so at the S____ house where the Nissan was not in the driveway I did not think that anyone would be home. It was rare that my father was home in our house during the day, but rather at work at the lumberyard and this was true for my relatives’ houses where all the men worked. And even on a Saturday, a man would probably not be in his house for much of the day.

It did not occur to me that Mr. S____ (if that was who the bald-headed man was) might be home and that he would not only open the door but see me through the window as I approached the front door.

So, I rang the doorbell—which was the first time in my life that I had ever rung a doorbell!—and almost at once, the door was flung open, and a bald-headed man stood in the doorway, not smiling. “Yes? What do you want?”

I was a husky boy, five foot six or seven. My hair had been shaved close to my skull for the summer. I was wearing soiled bib overalls with no shirt or T-shirt beneath. (Some days, I worked at Heike Lumber. But not every day, and not full days.) The bald-headed man who’d opened the door was only an inch or two taller than me and might have felt some worry of me, why a stranger like me was on his doorstep.

I could not think of any answer to his question. I was not a good liar. I began to stammer, and felt blood rush into my head.

Again the bald-headed man asked me what I wanted, who I was, and I managed to tell him that I was Mrs. S____’s student at Sunday school, and she had told me that she would leave a “special Bible” for me, to pick up that day.

Special Bible! Where this notion came from, I had no idea. My face was hot with blood and my eyes were moist with tears for my words were a terrible effort for me, like dragging a heavy plank with my bare fingers.

Yet, the bald-headed man had seemed to believe this. At the mention of a special Bible his features softened and were not so harsh and so he even smiled, or stretched his lips in a kind of smile, such as you might make at someone who was annoying to you but harmless, and perhaps pitiful, like a retarded child or a crippled person.

Telling me he hadn’t heard of any special Bible. His wife was not home. She had not left anything and had not said anything to him about it.

OK, I told him. Already I was turning away, eager to be gone.

In the doorway the bald-headed man looked after me. I did not look back but felt his eyes on my back.

Then calling after me, “Excuse me? What’s your name?”

But I was far away enough not to hear, or anyway I did not seem to hear, waving my hand without turning back to him, and walking fast away.

He will tell her. She will know who I was. Who I am.

Waited a while before doubling back, to get my bicycle in the vacant lot. By that time the sky was darkening and a wind had come up. It was late August, there had not been any rain in weeks. Crouching in the underbrush waiting to know what to do next for I was not (yet) ready to go home and the thought came to me how easy it would be to drop a match behind the S____ house. At night when she was asleep, when no one would see. Grasses were dry as straw and the leaves on all the trees were dry and brittle.

Except I did not have a match. I had come away from home with no matches. And now the wind was coming up, and the sky was massed with dark thunderclouds, it would be the end of the drought—I had waited too long, and now it was too late.

For some time then, after school began I did not see Mrs. S_____. I did not linger by the drugstore, the grocery store, the Target store where I might see the woman. I did not return to Cottage Street for fear that the S____s had reported me to the police and would be waiting for me to return and would call the police again and have me arrested.

Then, after school one afternoon when the days were starting to get dark by five P.M. I was cutting through the parking lot at the 7-Eleven, and there was Mrs. S____ coming out of the store carrying plastic bags, and I stopped and stared at her with (I guess) a funny look, and Mrs. S____ laughed and said, “Hello, How-ard.” There was a trace of mockery in her voice but I was bigger now, not cowering at my desk like a baby, and I felt the fear in the woman, the way she was gripping the plastic bags against her chest as if to protect herself, saying with a nervous laugh, “I hope you aren’t following me, Howard. Are you following me?”—like it could be a joke too, if it was taken that way.

Shrugged my shoulders and laughed like yes, it was a joke. And Mrs. S____ said, “It’s just that I seem to see you often …” and her voice trailed off and I said, “I c’n take those for you, ma’am,” like a grown man might say though I had never done anything like this in my life and could not have imagined doing it until that moment. And so I went to where Mrs. S___ was standing very still like a rabbit will freeze when you approach it, if there is no way out for the rabbit.

From Mrs. S____’s arms I took the packages (which did not weigh much but were clumsy to carry) and walked with her to her car (knowing which car it was, the dull-silver Nissan, but pretending that Mrs. S___ had to lead me to it) and put the packages in the trunk of the car and all this while Mrs. S___ was moving kind of stiff and her face was not the mocking face of Sunday school but the face of a woman of some age younger than my mother, but not much younger, that was looking strained, tense. Still her mouth was a bright crimson and around her neck she wore a white and red polka dot scarf.

“Thank you, Howard. That’s very kind of you”—her voice was not steady.

Saw her eye move to the birthmark on my cheek, that had been itching and so I’d scratched it, and probably it was reddened, or even bleeding, but if Mrs. S___ was about to make some comment on the sign of the beast she thought better of it, just murmured Bye! and got into her car and drove away.

At the rear of the house. At that time of dark when lights are not yet on. Trying the door, discovering that the door is open, and this is a sign—it is meant to be, you can enter.

And in the house, like a dream that is not clear at the edges but sharp and clear where you are looking, a room that was the kitchen, a room with a Formica-topped table looking like the very table in my mother’s kitchen; and through a doorway, a shadowy space that was the living room, and a TV on a table and headlights from outside the window reflecting in the TV screen. And there is a stairway—there is a railing to be gripped.

It is an old house, needs repainting and roofing, and the stairs are creaking, needing new stairs, planks. Because I am heavy, the steps give beneath my weight, and I am afraid to breathe, the woman in the bedroom upstairs will hear me and begin to scream before even she sees me before even she sees the sign of the beast knowing it is meant for her.

2.

Final year of school for me, when I’d drop out without graduating.

In vocational arts my grades were B+. In other subjects, mostly D’s.

But I did not need a high school diploma for already I was working at Heike Lumber and would soon work full-time.

In the locker room after gym class the guys were talking about a woman in our town who’d been found dead in her house, that was only a few blocks from our school. One of the guys had an older brother who was a cop so he’d heard before anybody else, before the newspaper or TV, about how a woman who lived on Cottage Street had been found dead in some kind of storage space where her body had been crammed, and the body was badly decomposed, and nobody had missed the woman though she hadn’t been seen in weeks. And none of her relatives even had missed her. She’d had a husband but he had died and there were no children.

How her body was found, somebody had smelled it. Next-door neighbor had actually smelled it.

Looked pretty much like she’d been murdered …

The guys did not know the woman’s name but at once I thought, this had to be Mrs. S_____.

In recent years all I knew of Mrs. S___ was that she no longer taught Sunday school at the church. She’d had some disagreement with Reverend Boxall or with some parents of her students, my mother had said, and had been dismissed.

She’d been acting strange, people said. Saying things to children they repeated to their parents that did not sound like a Christian speaking.

Then later that day I would learn from TV news that yes it was Mrs. S___ who had been found dead. The county coroner did not yet know how she had died. Her body had appeared “battered” and “wasted”—her face had been “unrecognizable.” A relative called to make the identification had fainted from shock. The coroner had not yet determined if the woman’s body had been carried after death into the storage space which was crammed with junk, or if the woman had crawled there of her own volition, to die.

Woman’s body. It was shocking to me, to hear Mrs. S___ spoken of in this way.

As you might speak of some object, or thing—laundry, gravel, garbage. Woman’s body.

The wild thought came to me—Did I do that? Did I kill her? My fists, my feet? (For I wore heavy work boots when I worked at the lumberyard. Once the woman had fallen it would take only minutes to kick, kick, kick her until she ceased struggling.)

My mouth went dry, with thinking of this. A wave of dizziness passed over my brain.

But then, I chided myself—No. I did not do such a thing! I did not.

I had wanted to enter the clapboard house on Cottage Street but I had not done it. I had wanted to surprise the woman in that house, in a (shadowy) room in that house, in a way in which she could not have known who I was while at the same time guessing who I was which was a dream of mine that came to me when I was half-awake in my bed in sweaty rumpled sheets. How-ard! Is it you?

But it had never happened. I was sure.

In my face my mother saw something for I was standing very still staring at the TV though on the screen now was a noisy advertisement. Asked me if Mrs. S___ had ever said strange things when I had gone to Sunday school and I told her sharply that I did not remember.

That evening I did not have any appetite for supper. I went upstairs to my room and fell onto my bed without undressing or even removing my work boots for it was important to be vigilant, if the police came for me. What I would hear (I imagined) was a pounding at the door and my father going to open the door, then raised voices, and a sound of excitement, and footsteps on the stairs leading to my room …

This room in darkness, this bed with its lumpy and stained mattress was a special place for me, and for Mrs. S___ who dwelt in the shadows here, though not in the daylight—you could not have detected Mrs. S___ in the daylight. (And so my mother could have no idea. For always I removed my soiled bedclothes from my bed and stuffed them into the washing machine before my mother could change the bedclothes once a week on Monday mornings and so accustomed had Ma become to this routine, she rarely entered my room, at least so far as I knew, and our secret was unspoken between us.)

Woman’s body. Woman’s body. Hours passed and I did not move for I was feeling a strange dizzy sickness and then when I tried to stand, this sensation deepened, the way you sometimes feel after being in a boat, a rocking boat, in turbulent water, and when you step out of the boat and onto land you feel suddenly nauseated—seasick on the land because it is so still.

Though at the lumberyard I was one of the strongest workers a terrible weakness suffused me as I reached for a light switch, my legs gave way and I fell, hard … Then, my parents were in the room crying out to me frightened as I had not ever seen my father asking what was wrong, what had happened to me, and when I could sit up, and when I could speak (for my mouth was so dry, it was as if I had swallowed sand) I told them that I was the person who had killed Mrs. S____—“I was there, that was me. Hid her in the wall where nobody was supposed to find her.”

This would be a part of my life like a sickness that begins with fever, chills, nausea so strong that, even when the worst of the sickness has passed, the memory of that time will always be the worst of the sickness, and not what comes after.

For days then they would question me—“interview” they called it.

At police headquarters where some of the officers knew the name “Heike” and were respectful of my father who’d brought me in and remained with me for most of the time.

Did Pa believe that I was the murderer of Mrs. S_____, I did not know. Did Ma believe?—yes, I think so.

(Past 11 P.M. of the night of my confession Pa drove me to the police headquarters leaving my stunned mother at home. For things were so upset, it was believed better for him to get me out of the house as soon as possible.)

In a stammer I tried to answer questions put to me. Why had I killed the woman, how many days ago had I killed the woman, how did I know the woman, had the woman invited me into her house, what had I done with the knife? And the ransacked house—what had I stolen? It was like Sunday school, being asked questions and everyone staring at my mouth and out of my mouth came—what? Words like phlegm to be coughed up, spat out. Words that were not my choice for I could not think clearly, my head was stopped with greenish phlegm that was disgusting to me and also to the men who stared at me as they might stare at a rabid animal.

It was a bright-lit room. Fluorescent lighting that hummed and crackled. The eldest of the police officers (who had known my father since they’d been boys, and was a “detective”) spoke kindly to me, patiently, but over and over the same questions were asked, that I could not answer definitely for I could not seem to calculate what answers were “right”—what answers were expected.

How many days ago had I killed Mrs. S____—I had no idea.

Why had I killed Mrs. S____—I had no idea.

(Because she was mocking to me?—because I hated her?—this was too weak an answer to seem believable to adult men, from a husky boy like me. Too shameful.)

(It had turned out that Mrs. S___ had also taught elementary school for years. But that she had taken “early retirement” just the previous year. Her husband had worked at the New York Central railroad yard but he’d retired also with a disability.)

Had I had a “relationship” with Mrs. S_____?—shook my head no.

Had I had a “sex-relationship” with Mrs. S_____?—shook my head no! (This was very disgusting to me and shameful, with Pa right there listening. Could not even meet Pa’s eyes.)

What had I done with the knife?

I said, in the creek …

The words came to me. Clumsily my tongue moved. I had thrown the knife into the creek, I told them. For suddenly that was obvious.

Where in the creek? Near where?

This, I could not recall clearly. My brain hummed and crackled and I could not hear what I meant to say.

In a police car they drove me along the creek roads. Both sides of the creek. Mostly there was underbrush and no paths leading to the creek except where people lived, where it was not likely that I had gone to throw the knife into the creek. For an hour and more, we drove along the creek, crossing at the Mercyville Bridge to return, until finally it occurred to me—I must have thrown the knife into the creek from a bridge …

Of three or four bridges in the vicinity all were well known to me. It was believable that I would have thrown the knife into the creek from the Firth Street Bridge which was not so far from Cottage Street, and so I told the detective this, and in the police car we drove to Firth Street but when we parked and walked out onto the bridge (a plank bridge, slick with wet, and the dirt-colored water below like sludge, tree limbs and trash rushing past so it made me dizzy) I told them that I was not sure which side of the bridge it was, I could not remember. The depth of the creek was twelve, fifteen feet below the bridge. At this time of year the current was swift. A terrible roaring rose in my ears from the creek which I could glimpse through the planks. I could not hear a word put to me even by Pa who stood close beside me touching my arm as if to comfort me, or restrain me from climbing over the bridge railing though at that moment I had not made the slightest motion to do such a thing though later it would occur to me, when I was back in the interview room like a body trapped in a vise.

Was I sure there was a knife? Was I sure that it was a knife I had thrown into the water?

This was a trick question, I thought. For the men were doubtful of me.

But then, it seemed to me that the East Street Bridge was more likely for that bridge was on my way home if I had my bike, that was where I must have tossed the knife.

But when they took me to the East Street Bridge, again I was not sure. Began to stammer and they saw the confusion in my face and were not so patient with me.

Almost I could hear them—Jesus Christ, How-ard! What the hell is wrong with you!

From the start Pa had been telling them he did not believe that I had murdered that woman Mrs. S_____. He did not believe it. When had it happened?—how many days ago? I had been home every night, he said. And after school, I worked at Heike Lumber.

The corpse had begun to decompose inside the wall, it was said. The coroner had not yet determined how long for the weather had been cool, it was November and rainy, and that would preserve the corpse longer than in warmer weather… . I did not want to think of this. My Sunday school teacher rotting.

Yet it was fascinating to me, that Mrs. S___ who had so teased and tormented me and dared to touch me with her fingers light and quick as a daddy longlegs was now just a corpse. Men would examine this corpse with instruments, I supposed. An autopsy would mean sawing through the chest and rib cage and that place between the legs that was rimmed with wiry hairs.

I had not ever seen that part of Mrs. S_____. But I had felt it, the stiff-wiry hairs on my fingers and against my tongue.

My son would never harm another person, Pa was saying. His voice strange and hollow like the voice of one standing in a deep well.

Insisting that I had not behaved strangely or any different than usual. Not ever!

Insisting that I had never hurt anyone, that he knew about. If I had been in trouble at school it had been caused by other boys picking on me, of course I’d had to fight back.

A few times, I’d been sent home from school for fighting. But I had not been expelled as other boys had been expelled including boys who were my friends.

How many fights? What kind of fights? Had anyone been seriously injured?

No! No.

(I’d wanted to protest to the police officers that son of a bitches had thrown stones at me after school plenty of times. Actual rocks. Bricks. I’d been hit by a piece of brick on my forehead, scar in my right eyebrow never went away. But no, this had not been reported. There was no record with police or at the school. Nobody gave a damn about me, if I was hurt.)

The most embarrassing thing was, Ma was interviewed also. Not in my hearing, but Pa related to me what she’d said to the police. Somehow I had not thought that my parents would be questioned if I confessed, I had not thought about the consequences at all. My mother was emotional insisting that I had not murdered Mrs. S_____. All she did now was cry and pray, and pray and cry. God had assured her that she would have noticed bloodstained clothes in the laundry if her son had murdered anybody. She would have noticed “strange behavior.”

Ma could not ever speak of Mrs. S___ without breaking down and crying in a helpless way like a baby, and her face crumpling like a cake left out in the rain. The police officers were sorry for her at first but then embarrassed and annoyed by her for they considered her testimony “next to worthless.” (As Pa told me.)

During the days of questions it was not always clear to me what was happening. It was not like TV crime programs—very different from these as there was no ending to anything, questions were repeated and nothing seemed to be concluded. Many times I explained to the police officers that I was the one, I had killed Mrs. S___ yet still they did not seem to understand.

Why did you kill the woman?—tell us.

Because I wanted to rob her house.

Rob her house. But what had I taken from her house? What was missing? Money from her purse? Pieces of jewelry wrapped in velvet cloth in a bureau drawer? The little gold cross on a chain I’d have liked to tear off the woman’s neck leaving a raw red laceration in the white skin?

And why had I dragged her body into the storage space? How had I even known that the space was there?

This was a strange question to me. It was perplexing what answer they wanted. (Though later it would be divulged that the storage space was behind a cupboard door behind furniture shoved against a wall with just enough space left to open the door a few inches.)

Later it occurred to me, maybe I had not thrown the knife into the creek. So far as I knew the police might have been looking in the creek by the bridges (though no one had told me that they had) but they had not found the knife, or any knife (so far as I knew). Maybe I had tossed the knife into a ravine instead. Into a landfill—there was a landfill on Horse Farm Road where we rode our bikes. Maybe I had buried it under trash where we searched for treasure in the landfill. If I shut my eyes (so tired, my eyes would shut by themselves) I would see suddenly sharp as a picture on TV news where I had buried the knife—a clean sharp blade glittering in the dirt.

But where did you get the knife, Howard?—so they asked me.

I guess—it was there. In her kitchen.

It was there? In the woman’s kitchen? How did you know it would be there?

This was a nonsensical question. I wondered if it was a trick question. For of course there would be a knife in a kitchen, there could not be a kitchen without a knife. Why were they asking me such questions.

I told them all that I knew: the knife had belonged to Mrs. S_____.

And what kind of knife was it? A long knife, a shorter knife, a bread knife—?

A long knife, I said. A steak knife.

Ah, a steak knife. You know what a steak knife is?

I thought that I did, yes. Or was I thinking of a carving knife, that Pa used to carve turkeys and hams.

When I stammered answers to their questions they glanced at one another. The room was so bright with fluorescent lighting I could not decipher what messages or signals they were sending to one another.

So many times asking me did you murder the woman because you knew her or because you just wanted to rob her. But why did you choose that house to enter, of houses in the neighborhood where no one was home?

You stole from the woman’s purse, you took things from her—what did you take?

I said, I took money. I took dollar bills.

Not change?

Not change. I took dollar bills.

And where did you put these dollar bills?

In my pocket. Pockets.

Which pockets?

My jacket.

Which jacket?

Corduroy …

How many, Howard?

How many—what?

Bills. Dollar bills.

I—don’t know. I didn’t count them just put them in my pocket …

And what did you do with these dollar bills, Howard? Do you still have them?

N-No …

Did you spend them?

Yah I guess so …

Where? What did you buy?

All I could think of was the 7-Eleven store where we hung out after school. From younger kids I knew who were kind of afraid of me, I could get money, a few dimes and quarters just enough for a Coke. And that afternoon Mrs. S___ came out of the store carrying the plastic bags.

Ma’am c’n I help you.

And her looking at me.

And her red mouth, opened in surprise.

In the night sometimes she’d said to me opening the door of her car OK, How-ard. Get in.

Get in, we’re going for a ride.

Fucking ride, How-ard. D’you know what fucking is?

Between my legs it was hard as a Coke bottle. Tears started from my eyes, the sensation came so fast and could not be stopped.

All the dollar bills are gone, Howard? Is that what you are saying?

Yah. I guess.

What did you buy, Howard? Can you itemize?

But I could not answer. To tell them a Coke, a bag of corn chips, to play Death Raider with some other guys was a pitiful reply.

In the lavatory emptying my guts into the toilet. Hot-scalding guts. Then washing my hands until the skin was raw. Filthy boy we know what is in your heart.

Picking at the ugly blemish on my cheek, trying to loosen it. For it seemed to me that the sign of the beast had gotten larger, like a pimple or a boil that might come to a head.

In the lavatory mirror there was a kind of film, like grime or mist. It was not possible to see my face clearly even the birthmark, that I was scratching with my nails.

Howard?—just wondering where you were, son.

Yah. I’m here. Where else’d I be?

Yet they did not arrest me. A day and a night and another day. Asked the same questions over and over to wear me down I supposed but since I had already confessed I did not understand this.

Pa was exhausted for (he said) he could not sleep at all, at night. Could not even lie in bed unless he drank one beer after another and even then, his nerves were not steadied. My mother had gone to stay with one of her sisters, she could not bear to remain in the house alone when Pa was at police headquarters. Pa had not gone to work at Heike Lumber since the night he’d driven me to the police.

On our front lawn garbage was dumped. Who did this would never be known.

By now everybody in Bordentown knew. News had been released, that the fifteen-year-old son of local parents, a ninth-grade student at the high school, had been taken into custody by Borderntown police.

Taken into custody was not the same as arrested.

Interview was not the same as interrogation.

When would I be arrested, I was eager to know. I hoped that it would be soon so that I did not have to return to school.

Some of the relatives were saying, Pa should hire a lawyer for me. Pa said that was easy for them to say, the sons of bitches wouldn’t be the ones paying.

Pa said he could not afford a lawyer. Ma said if we hired a lawyer it would look as if my parents thought I was guilty.

Another police detective came to interview me, from the State Police in Albany. This detective’s questions were like the others but there were further questions I had never heard before, and could not think how to answer.

Was I confessing to this crime, the detective asked, fixing me with cold blue eyes like I was an insect, under coercion?

Under coercion. I was not sure what this meant but supposed it meant that someone was making me do it.

No, I said. I was not.

You are not covering up for someone else, are you? Someone in your family?

N-No …

Did you know that your father had often been in the S___ house? Did you know that your father and the woman S___ knew each other well?

Was this so? Or was the detective lying, to trap me? Staring at me like he was so much smarter than me but the son of a bitch was not.

I was very tired now. I wanted only to sleep and could have slept on the floor of the interview room that was dirty and stained with muddy footprints.

Then later, when the State Police detective asked again about coercion, I began crying. It was a surprise to me (as to him) but I could not stop.

Heaving sobs that made my chest ache. It was not that I believed what the State Police detective had said about my father for I did not believe him, but rather that such words might be said, and heard by others, and not ever erased from their hearing.

Not the son but the father. The real murderer!

It was allowed then, I could lay my head down on my arms in the interview room. At once there came Mrs. S___ toward me with a red moist smile. Her waist was cinched tight by the black patent leather belt. Her bosom jutted out like actual fists. The little gold cross glittered against her white skin. Her fingernails were polished to match her lips and her hands opened to me, to touch, and to tickle. But the floorboards broke beneath her feet, the rotted planks collapsed. Her red mouth opened like a wound—Oh How-ard!—but she did not scream loud enough to be heard by anyone else.

Fell into the collapsed plank floor and was lost to me.

A door was opened at my back. They had brought Pa with them. Loud voices woke me.

“Time for you to take your son home, Mr. Heike. You people have wasted enough of our time”—the State Police officer spoke disgustedly.

We could not believe this! I could not believe it.

“That woman wasn’t killed with any knife, son. You made that bullshit all up. She was killed in a different way, that is not yet released to the public. But nobody stabbed her. There was no knife. And nobody stole anything from her. You can all go home now”—with contempt the State Police officer spoke.

These words were so shocking to me, I could scarcely get to my feet. Since being brought to the police station that night I had not eaten regular meals but things from the vending machines. Ma had not been well enough to prepare any food for me, for Pa to bring. So my legs were weak, I could not walk without swaying.

Looks of such disgust in the officers’ faces, even in the face of Pa’s detective friend. And pity.

Trying to explain to those faces: “It wasn’t a knife. I didn’t mean to say a knife. It was my fists and my feet—my boots. I beat her to death. Beat and kicked her. That was all I needed—my fists, my boots. Couldn’t stop beating her until …”

“Get him the hell out of here. Get him out.”

“Then I hid her in the wall—inside the wall. Where nobody was supposed to find her …”

Laid their hands on me and walked me out of the room half-dragging me and my father fuming and cursing in disgust of me and behind me their voices rising in incredulity and fury.

Get that crazy cocksucker out of here just get him OUT.

3.

Ma would say, He could not help himself. Something came over him, to confess to something he had not done. God will forgive him. We pray and pray to understand. But Ma did not ever want to see me again in any way in which the two of us were alone together and even then, Ma could not bring herself to look at me.

Pa would not speak of it at all. Pa was shamed and knew himself derided by his closest relatives and friends. He would not work at Heike Lumber ever again on a full-time basis. He would walk out of the yard if something pissed him. He would drink himself to death a can of Molson’s at a time he’d say laughing, Fuck, he was in no hurry.

Forever it would be known in Bordentown that I had confessed to killing Mrs. S___ who’d lived on Cottage Street, a former elementary school and Sunday school teacher. A widow who’d lived alone in a house filling up with trash with no children and no relatives to look in on her, to see how she was.

As a younger woman she’d been some kind of glamor-girl. People spoke pityingly of her, recalling. Putting on airs. Pathetic.

She’d been Howard Heike’s Sunday school teacher years before. Children had complained of her, she’d scared them with her stories and made fun of them though afterward claiming it was because she’d liked them so much, and wanted them to like her.

Maybe that was why Howard Heike had killed her?—people speculated.

Or, no. Howard Heike had not killed her. He had only confessed that he had.

Years would pass. The house on Cottage Street would be sold, and then razed. Dump trucks of debris hauled away. Howard Heike would drop out of school, leave Bordentown in disgrace and return and still how exactly Mrs. S___ had died was not known. The coroner had not established an absolute cause of death. It was possible (though not absolutely provable) that there had been foul play. The bruised, battered and emaciated body weighing only seventy-three pounds when discovered crammed into the storage space had been partially decomposed, the face had seemed to cave in upon itself as if beaten with something blunt and hard though not (evidently) a fist. (A brick, wrapped in a towel?) (Pounded against a wall by the woman herself, a towel over the face?) The chest and rib cage showed signs of breakage and trauma (as if kicked by a booted foot) though possibly the injuries were self-inflicted as the malnutrition would seem to have been self-inflicted and the hair on the head stiff and matted with grease, unwashed for weeks, a haven for lice.

Enlisted in the U.S. military. For I had no police record, I had not been arrested but only taken into custody and then released when my confession was rejected.

If I am not the murderer of Mrs. S_____, then the murderer of Mrs. S___ was never discovered. Now that I am discharged (honorable!) from the army and returned to Bordentown I am sure that I will see him, or he will see me, in a bar, on the street, at the 7-Eleven. Laying awake nights excited to wonder what the look will be that will pass between us. Which of us will make the first move—“Hey. You. Do I know you?”