Joy by me

He who binds to himself a joy

Doth the winged life destroy

But he who kisses the joy as it flies

Lives in Eternity’s sunrise

--William Blake

                Some people seem to have it all.  Good looks, intelligence, sense of humor, and more.  E.J. did, but tried to hide beneath it all.  Still, he was sad.  He had only one real friend, Laurabeth, and the terms of their friendship had been evolving in recent days.  He looked through his bedroom window, a double-paned, insulated view onto the front yard of the house. 

Trees of glass cast long shadows onto the firm, frigid ground under a finite sky, its color the opposite of gray.  E.J. imagined standing outside, breathless from the cold, the air gone from his lungs.  He looked to the spot where the moon had risen yesterday, meeting the night near the horizon.  The sun hovered there now, shining fiercely as spiral ribbons of light spun the silhouettes into an impossible labyrinth underfoot.  Overnight winter storms had left in their wake an icy menagerie that dazzled one’s eyes, and tree limbs and power lines grunted and groaned under the burden of the ice.   A breath of wind would collapse them onto a brand new glacier.  But the sun was already melting the ice, its life would be short.  It brought to mind a short story E.J. had read in which a man trapped in a blizzard had but one match to light a fire.  Unfortunately, the fire he conjured melted the snow on the tree in which he sat under, dousing the fire and his life.

   E.J. crossed his bedroom and heaved another log into the fireplace, listened to it crackle like a cadaver flung into a crematorium, and then turned and stared out the window again, his breath flying up the pane.  He could almost smell the charred flesh.  With one hand he wiped away a touch of the frosty condensation, hoping there would be no school today.  With his other, dominant hand, he absent-mindedly spun a pen round and round, balancing it with a delicate grasp.  E.J. dropped the pen accidentally and it bounced off of the hardwood floor. He shuffled from one side of his room to the other, and clicked on the television to listen to the news as he heard Mother preparing breakfast in the kitchen.  The aroma of bacon and eggs overpowered the odor of smoldering skin and edged its way underneath the closed door to his bedroom, causing his stomach to rattle and rumble.  Whatever criticisms of Mother he had, cooking was not one of them.  She could have been a chef, if she had so desired.  E. J. stood back up after retrieving the pen, his pajama pants sagging around his midline, like the pants of a thug, distracting and distasteful for most, but sexy on E.J.

                The rattling and rumbling of his stomach escalated as the news headline crushed him like an  aluminum can pinned beneath a heavy foot.  Police had discovered a corpse near the river, where arctic  chunks of ice tumbled along the tortuous course.  The identity of the victim, however, was being withheld until next of kin could be notified.  It was known, though, that a murder had happened, and very few could recall the last time anything evil had occurred in New Hope though.  Further details were not yet available.

 E.J. sat, solemn and stern, for nearly five minutes, and then he noticed a marked car with chains on the tires approaching outside.  He again wiped the window and looked out to the brown-on-lighter-brown sheriff’s car in the driveway where two men with badges advanced, slipping on the ice, toward the house.  Before he could stop it, his eyes met Sheriff Bailey’s.  E.J. stared right back until the sheriff looked away.   E.J.’s heart fell, and his right leg was suddenly twitching and trembling like it always did when he was nervous or concentrating.  He didn’t know if he could stand without wavering, his knees were suddenly weak, something must be horribly wrong.  The sheriff was so close to E.J.’s window that he could see the six pointed badge insignia on his left arm.  E.J. noticed the sheriff’s handcuffs, and remembered something that he had once read about how history and memory are handcuffed to one another, and they share a common a tendency toward exaggeration, minimization, and distortion, as in the Bible, for one glaring instance.  History, according to E.J. was not measured in b.c. or a.d., but rather by pre-DaVinci Code and post-DaVinci Code.  He believed that DaVinci Code illustrated beyond any doubt that religion rests on fragile, crumbling pillars.  Camera’s don’t lie, books do, even the Bible.

                E.J. had a past.  Sheriff Bailey had been in town for a long time now.  When E.J. and mother moved, he was immediately labeled an outcast.  He was made fun of regularly and he always ate alone.  At least he had, until he met Laurabeth.  The sheriff though E.J. was unhinged mentally and made it a point to intimidate him every chance that presented itself. 

There was knocking at the front door, then ringing of the doorbell, followed by Mother’s unhurried, tedious footsteps across the hardwood floor of the front room.  Her footfalls were light like you would expect a librarian’s to be although the noises she made with pots and pans along with the closing of the cabinets in the kitchen could awaken the dead.  The house, located on the outskirts of town, was brick with a feeble foundation which, over time, had caused the floors to slant and slope.  Through the window, the glass trees shimmered in the sunlight like a thousand falling stars.

 E.J. heard the front door squeak open and slam shut, and then melancholy, muted voices echoed through the house.  At first, the words were imperceptible, but the volume of the conversation was swelling.  Rising, at last, until he could understand what was being said.  He felt a little guilty for eavesdropping, but not much because Mother eavesdropped on him regularly.  She was a strict, almost mean woman, with a volatile yet surpassable temper. 

                First, Mother’s  words, “E.J. was here all evening, studying and doing homework in his room.”

                Then, one of the men with badges saying, “Ma’am, we need to speak with your son.  It seems that, apart from her father, your son was the closest to the deceased.”  Deceased was a cold, clinical, detached word, E.J. thought.  Then he heard Laurabeth’s name, and suddenly it became very personal.  Unease tore up his stomach like a vice grip.  Laurabeth Miller was his best friend, in fact, the only friend he had made since Mother moved him to New Hope six years before.  He was an outcast, a loner, a misfit.  Laurabeth was the only one to see beyond the rumors and the lies.   He didn’t care much for most people.  He treasured his privacy above all else and people never understood his solitary nature.   

                He always disguised himself in black, as though ever ready for a funeral, wore tattoos and touted several piercings, and maintained a ghostly pallor in an effort to hold people remote.  Goth, people called it.  Even the wrinkled pajamas he wore now were black, solid and sinister.  E.J. hated wrinkles, and ironed his pajamas, then dressed in a pair of well worn black jeans and a surprisingly heavy black sweatshirt.

                Right now, at eighteen, E.J. was practically a man, having lived his entire remembered life without a father, which was no great loss according to Mother.  He did not know whether or not to believe her.  E.J. was in great shape, slightly on the skinny side, trim and toned.  He had dark blonde hair dyed black, savage emerald eyes, nice full lips, and a long narrow philtrum which had the effect curling the upper lip toward the nose forming a heart shape.   E.J. scanned his room.  He had shelves of chess trophies flickering in the morning light.  His bedroom carpet was sapphire and gray, and he had a twin bed which he made up first thing every morning, after ironing the sheets.  There wasn’t much room for tossing and turning, but he made do.

With those ferocious green eyes, he looked around his room again.   He had an impressive collection of vintage Alfred Hitchcock movie posters framed on his walls.  The bookshelves were full of mystery novels and short stories by the finest authors; Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Dame Agatha Christie, and Edgar Allan Poe being the principal three, nestled in among others by more current authors like Ruth Rendell and P.D. James.  On his desk sat his open laptop where he was working on a paper for his composition class and toggling back and forth with role playing games.  There was also an assortment of pamphlets offering curricula at various colleges, both near and far.  E.J. and Mother were discordant where college was concerned.  Mother demanded that he remain near home while he desperately wanted to go somewhere far away. It was as though the umbilical cord had never been cut. They also disagreed on what should be his major; he wanted to study criminal justice, while she thought he should do something more practical like accounting.

 E.J. was proud of his organized room, which fell somewhere between meticulous and perfect.  One wall displayed all of his books which were arranged methodically in neat rows, well dusted, sorted alphabetically and sectioned by author, and his closet was full of crates, containers, and racks. He counted his books every night to make sure that none were missing, and each morning before he left for school he had to check three times to make sure he had turned off his computer, lest Mother read something he was writing.  Mother had the rest of the house brimming with what he considered, politely, to be junk.  She belonged on Hoarders, as she held on to literally everything.  Each weekend she was at every yard sale, garage sale, estate sale, and flea market that she could find, haggling for each special purchase.

 As an example, the kitchen counters were crowded with so much trash that there was no space to set down a single cup of coffee.  This distressed E.J., who preferred things where they belonged and stuck steadfastly to his daily routine.  Every morning, he awoke at six and went for a run, regardless of the weather, and did his one hundred sit ups and one hundred pushups.  Then he showered under scalding hot water and brushed his teeth for exactly three minutes.  He usually took his medications for right after he brushed his teeth; however he had been skipping them for a couple of weeks because he was in a pleasantly hypomanic phase.  He then had two waffles spread with peanut butter.  He went to school by eight-thirty and was never even one minute late.  For lunch he always had a can of tuna (always the same brand and always packed in water not oil), a small salad (always lettuce, tomatoes, and cucumbers with ranch dressing), and a cup of Greek yogurt (always black cherry).    After school he did his homework until it was completed then would watch the science channel or natgeo.   

Finally, there was a knock on his door.  He suppressed his breath and opened it.  Mother stood there, feet planted squarely at the threshold.  She was short and stocky with snow white hair pulled up in a bun.  She was wearing her nightgown and housecoat along with fluffy slippers.  She started to say something, thought second of it, and stepped aside, deferring to Deputy Taylor and Sheriff Bailey.  Bailey spoke first.

                “Thank you, Ms. Simpson, sorry for imposing,” he said to Mother, then, turning to E.J. “son, we need to ask you some questions about Laurabeth Miller.  She’s been discovered dead down by the river.”  E.J. matched the sheriff’s suspicious gaze with one of defiance.

“What’s happened?” he asked.

“Well it was no accident.  We understand you two were close friends so we would appreciate your cooperation.  When was the last time you saw her?”  The sheriff had a hawk-like face with pointed features and chocolate brown eyes that matched his uniform and standard-issued car.  He was nicknamed “Lucky” Bailey because he’d been shot into a bullet proof vest not once but twice.  After the shootings, his wife insisted they move out of the city and far away from such danger.  But at this moment, the sheriff felt a fragment of the thrill that he acutely missed from detective work.

                E.J. felt his heart thudding up in his throat and the blood pulsing in his veins and his mouth went dry.  “We were together yesterday afternoon,” he confessed, “walking down by the river.”

                “What time was that?” murmured the sheriff, jotting notes in his spiral-bound notebook as he spoke.

                “We went a little while after school so around 3:30,” E.J. said rather rapidly, “and I left her there probably an hour later.  She wanted to be by herself for awhile she told me.  I told her it was too cold to stay out too long.”  His voice quivered and again he asked, “What happened to her?”

                “I’m afraid we can’t go into details yet.  Doc Marshall is performing the autopsy as we speak.  We’ll know more once he’s finished.  I need to know where you were for the rest of the evening and if you have anyone that can confirm where you were.”

                “Mother knew I was here after she returned home from the library, I guess she’s my only alibi.”

                “I see.  Now did you part on good terms with Laurabeth,” asked the sheriff, “or did you have any kind of disagreement or argument?”  E.J. shivered a little at how close the sheriff was to the truth.  He and Laurabeth had planned on leaving town together, permanently.  That was what they were talking about down by the river.

                Here E.J. hesitated slightly.  “No, of course not, we were on the best of terms as a matter of fact.”  His leg was twitching again.

                Deputy Taylor, who wore an expressionless face and was about half as young as the sheriff and with less than half of his experience, asked E.J. a question,  “Did you see or hear anyone else in the area where you were?”  Of the deputies, Taylor was the most competent one.  Taylor tried to put the world around him into a frame, but E.J. did not fit there. 

                “No,” replied E.J., indignant.

                “I need to know what it is you talked about.  You were very likely the last person, except for the murderer, to see her alive.  I’d like to know more of what she was thinking.

                Mother, who had been uncharacteristically quiet to this point, interjected, “Are you implying my son played some role in this?”  Her pitch rose with each word.  She was a stout and strong woman with a pattern of wrinkles on her face that suggested she frowned most of the time.   “Because that is a ridiculous accusation and” E.J. cut her off.

                “Mother,” he insisted, “stop.”

The sheriff sensed his cell phone was going to ring just as it did.  “Yes,” Bailey said into the phone, “is that so?  Well that certainly does change things doesn’t it?”  The sheriff clicked off his phone, turned to E.J., and in a matter of fact tone, queried, “I don’t suppose you knew Laurabeth was approximately four weeks pregnant?”

                E.J. sat, and Mother paled in the face, at this announcement.  E.J. stammered and said, “No I did not know that and that’s something she would have told me.  Maybe she didn’t know yet.”

                The sheriff asked, “Are you the father?”

                “No,” E.J. angrily responded, “we were just friends, we never had sex, she didn’t want to have sex.  She said she’d had a bad experience.”  He hugged his hands tightly to his chest.

                Sheriff Bailey dispatched Deputy Taylor to the car to retrieve a DNA kit.  “I will need to swab your cheek to get a DNA sample to determine paternity.  If you are not the father, do you have any idea who the father might be?”

                E.J. was now enraged, barely keeping his temper in check, “No, she never mentioned she was seeing anyone and I’m certain she would have said so if she were.  We shared everything, or at least I thought we did, is there anything else?”

                Having taken the cheek swab, Sheriff Bailey declared, “I will put the lab technicians on this matter right away.  I should have the results in a day or two.  In the meantime,” he glanced at E.J. with a mildly threatening stare, “I don’t want you vanishing.”  E.J. nodded firmly his understanding.

                Mother, who had recovered most of the fleshy pink color in her round face, chimed in, “Sheriff, you sound as though E.J. is a suspect.  I can assure you he can’t even kill a spider or a fly, much less a human being.  He is a sweet and caring boy.  And I would sacrifice my life for his if necessary.”  And then she sat down on the bed aside E.J. asserting that the conversation was over and they were dismissed.

                The sheriff said, “I understand ma’am, but we must be thorough.  Unlike the judicial system, in law enforcement everyone is guilty until proven innocent.”

                After she shut the door behind them, she turned to E.J. and asked, “you haven’t been taking  your medications have you?  I can tell by the way you were getting mad.  You know the doctor said never to miss a dose.”

                He simply shook his head.

________________________________________#____________________________________________            

                “Isn’t that what the parents and neighbors always have to say about a killer,” thought the sheriff to himself, “they never say ‘I suspected him all along.’”   

                As they left, the sheriff commented to the deputy, “That boy is peculiar.  Something is wrong with him to live such an isolated life with no friends to speak of.  And he’s withholding something, mark my words, and so is the mother I suspect.  Let’s go see Doc Marshall and see what we’ve got our hands into.”  Sheriff Bailey had a keen sixth sense about these affairs, which is what made him such a good detective, and now sheriff.  He had seen a television program where researchers have identified nine different pathways from the eyes to the brain, and yet consciously we only use one of those.  It is the eight other pathways that experts believe to comprise the “sixth sense.”  At any rate, Bailey felt his pathways must be connected better than most persons; additionally he had a particularly inquisitive nature about him which suited his work.

                New Hope was a typical small town consisting almost entirely of a town square, on which sat the sheriff’s office and jail.  Four towering oak trees stood there and amidst the trees was a large and deep fountain which was barren for the winter.  The entire police force consisted of the sheriff and three deputies.  Adjacent to the sheriff’s office was the morgue.  It was an old fashioned brick and mortar building that was the sheriff’s destination.  Before they parted, Sheriff Bailey assigned the task of investigating the Millers’ and the Simpsons’ backgrounds to Deputy Taylor.

                Sheriff Bailey waited impatiently in the hallway for the doctor to emerge from the autopsy suite.  It was only the very exceptional case where Bailey would actually enter there.  He hated the putrid smell.  Finally, Doc Marshall emerged as if from nowhere, discarding his bloody hospital gown into a biohazards container.  Underneath he wore standard green scrubs, the top with a V-neck that showed exercised pec muscles.  You could nearly call it cleavage.

                “Doc, what have you been able to learn?” asked the sheriff.

                “Well sir, the simple answer is that she was strangled, no question there.  I’d put time of death between four and six pm.   She’s got petechial hemorrhages across her face, scleral hemorrhages in both her eyes, and a fractured hyoid bone in her neck.  Then there’s the matter of her fingertips being cut off.  Normally, decapitation accompanies a case involving severed fingertips to delay the identification process; no dental records plus no fingerprints makes identification damn near impossible.  However, in the absence of decapitation I can only theorize that there was a struggle, and the killer cut off the fingertips so that we wouldn’t be able to retrieve DNA evidence from under the nails.  Finally there’s the issue of the fetus.  It’s approximately four weeks gestation as I told you on the phone, and has multiple malformations.  She would almost certainly have miscarried.  There was no evidence of recent rape or sodomy.”                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                             

                “What about trace evidence, fingerprints, fibers?  Any luck there?”

                Sheriff Bailey started thinking aloud, “It’s probably the boy that’s done it, he’s just not right, and  he’s either lying about or withholding something.  More than likely he’s the father of the baby and went violent when she told him about it.  On the other hand he didn’t have any visible scratches.   He had motive and opportunity, although I’m surprised he would have had the presence of mind to cut off her fingertips.  Then again his room is full of detective stories that could have provided him with the ideas  to perform such an act.  I guess there’s nothing to do but wait for the paternity test and go from there.”

_____________________________________#_______________________________________________

                Two days passed without any further developments in the case.  The town was abuzz with morbid excitement and speculation and the sheriff had questioned and cross examined everyone involved to no avail.  Unexpectedly,  a scandal erupted.  The paternity test results came back and  E.J. was exonerated.  The father of the baby was not E.J. but was Laurabeth’s own father.  The sheriff was shocked sick to his stomach—he hadn’t even considered incest or sexual molestation.  Just when you think you’ve seen it all.  Besides, his sixth sense had failed him this one time.   Now all fingers seemed to point to Mr. Miller as the guilty party.  He was by appearance the most unlikely of villains.  He was clean-shaven, had short brown hair, pleasant blue eyes, a nice smile, a neat manicure, and an agreeable disposition.  He denied repeatedly any involvement in any crime.

The sheriff asked, “Did you know that she was one month into a pregnancy?”

Mr. Miller shook his head, shifted in his seat, and looked down at his feet.

 “Well the fetal DNA proves that you are the father of her baby.  Would you care to explain how that happened?”

 Mr. Miller kept his composure and confessed to abusing Laurabeth, “I don’t know why I did what I did.  She was just so beautiful and it felt so good,” and here he painted a profane and grotesque portrait with his words.  “And you know after awhile she even stopped complaining,” he added proudly, leaning toward the sheriff.  The sheriff, having searched the Miller home, withdrew from a plastic baggie a handful of photographs, all of Laurabeth, when she was six, when she was eight, when she was ten.   In all of the photos, she was naked or nearly naked with some lingerie on.  The sheriff looked at the pictures and then at Mr. Miller.

Sheriff Bailey was appalled and disgusted and thought Mr. Miller contemptible.  “Mr. Miller, you are a bastard and a coward, did you kill your daughter?  Was she threatening to expose you?”

“Absolutely not,” Mr. Miller alleged.

“Where were you in the afternoon and evening that she was murdered?” asked the sheriff.

Mr. Miller explained that he had had to work late that night, a story that would have to be verified.

  The sheriff read him his Miranda rights and took him into custody for child endangerment and possession of child pornography.  To the deputy, the sheriff said, “Did Miller have any priors?”

The deputy replied, “Yes , two calls from an ex-girlfriend for domestic violence.”

“What ever happened to Mrs. Miller?” the sheriff asked.

“It was very sad,” said Deputy Taylor, “she died during childbirth with Laurabeth.  Poor girl never had her mother’s protection or the chance to live with joy.  Life for Laurabeth must have been agonizing to endure.”

“Okay, well I want you to find this ex-girlfriend and get the details on the domestic violence complaints.”

Sheriff Bailey returned to the Simpson house to ask E.J. a few more questions. 

                The sheriff said gravely, “you must have known that she was being molested by her father, didn’t you?  You can’t be that close to someone and not know something like that.” 

E.J. adamantly refused,  “but we talked on the phone before we met down at the river.  She persuaded me to leave town with her but she wouldn’t tell me what was wrong.”

                After the interrogation, Sheriff Bailey asked Deputy Taylor about the Simpsons.  “At first,” he told the sheriff, “there was nothing to be found.  They seemed to have arrived here in New Hope from nowhere.  I interviewed all their neighbors and none could recall where they came from.  I finally tracked down their change of address card from the post office.  They came from a small town a few hours north called Elderwood.  And here is where the story gets interesting.  Mr. Simpson died a mysterious death.  He and Mrs. Simpson had been having marital difficulties according to a neighbor.  She said she had overheard Mr. Simpson threaten on multiple occasions to leave and take E.J. with him.  Then he died suddenly, and this was apparently never satisfactorily explained.  She always suspected Mrs. Simpson of foul play.  And she actually used the term foul play,” he laughed, “I got hold of Mr. Simpson’s medical records and he had a myriad of symptoms prior to death including a general odor of garlic, vomiting, bloody diarrhea, headache, confusion, and seizures.  The official cause of death though was never determined.  The case was abandoned and Mrs. Simpson and E.J. just disappeared.  There is a one year discrepancy between the time they left Elderwood and the time they arrived in New Hope.”

                The sheriff had a strong inclination as to what had happened, but he would have to get a court order to have Mr. Simpson’s body exhumed in order to obtain proof.  Exhumation turned out to be an uncomplicated mission once he explained his suspicions to the judge.  Sheriff Bailey had an uneasy feeling that, like in a good mystery novel, the coffin would turn out to be empty, but fortunately that was not the case.

                Later, Deputy Taylor sat down with the sheriff.  He said, “Mr. Miller’s ex-girlfriend states that he got violent with her and tried to strangle her on two separate occasions.  Charges were subsequently withdrawn.  I talked to her and she said she thinks he is angry with the world for the loss of his wife.   And that it seemed he took out this anger especially on Laurabeth.  She says she did not know about sexual abuse, only physical abuse.”

                The sheriff remarked, “well that’s very disturbing.  We have a strangulation homicide and a man angry with the world who tried to strangle his girlfriend twice.  I look forward to investigating his alibi.”

________________________________________#____________________________________________

After a few days, Sheriff Bailey received the results from Mr. Simpson’s hair and nails.  They were positive for arsenic.  The moving finger had come to point at Ms. Simpson rather than Mr. Miller, especially after his alibi was corroborated.  It was time to confront Ms. Simpson with the news.  The sheriff and his deputy once again headed to the Simpson house.  The weather was much better this time, about forty degrees with sunshine.  All the ice adorning the trees had melted, and the shadows of the trees looked like a scattered skeleton.  Both were occupied in their own thoughts, so neither the sheriff nor the deputy spoke during the short ride.   Ms. Simpson, as if prescient, opened the door before they had a chance to knock or ring the bell.  “Come on in and sit down.”  She paid intense attention to the sheriff as though she had been waiting for this conversation for her entire life.  The sheriff did not beat around the bush.

                “Ms. Simpson, you poisoned your husband when he threatened to take your child from you and you strangled Laurabeth Miller when you found out your son was going to leave town with her, didn’t you?”

                “Yes, that is right,” she cut him off as with a knife, without batting an eyelash.  Ms. Simpson was wearing polyester pants and a sweatshirt, which was unusual for the weekend.  She normally wore her nightgown and bathrobe all day during the winter months, unless she was off to a sale.  It was as if she had been waiting for them.  The sheriff read Mother her rights and put her in handcuffs before leading her out to the patrol car.  They then rode to the sheriff’s office in silence.  Once there she was taken to the interrogation room.

                “Ms . Simpson would you like a lawyer present for these questions? “

                “No,” she said coldly.

                “Tell me first about your husband.”

                “Well he was a horrible person.  Used to beat me all the time and threatened to beat E.J. too.  It got to the point where I believed he would disappear with E.J. and I would never see him again.  So I read up on poisons and selected arsenic because it is particularly nasty.  And there’s really nothing more to tell.”

                The sheriff asked, “Where were you for the year between the time you left Elderwood and the time you arrived here in New Hope?

                “We moved around, nothing special to tell there.”

                “Now tell me about Laurabeth.  What happened?”

                “Well, sheriff, I was in the kitchen but I could hear E.J. on the phone.  Toward the end of the conversation he mentioned that he would go away with her if that’s what she wanted.  I was upset to say the least.  I mean he is still my baby.   So I went down to the river and waited for E.J. to leave, then I confronted her.  She was belligerent  and we fought and I ended up strangling her as you said at the house.”

                “And then you cut off her fingertips?” the sheriff asked.

                She hesitated for a couple of seconds, giving it some thought. “Yes, she had scratched me and I knew you would find my DNA there.”

                After she had gone the sheriff turned to the deputy and said, “I would have bet money that the kid was the guilty one.  Maybe I’m getting too old for this.”  They laughed. 

 E.J. sat there in disbelief, dumbfounded and dazed as Sheriff Bailey recounted to him Mother’s confession.  “Can I see her now?”

“Sure,” said the sheriff, “but keep it brief.”   The sheriff led E.J. to the interrogation room, a dismal, gray tomb with peeling paint, one wooden table, and two folding chairs.  The sheriff waited just  inside the door.

                Ms. Simpson turned to E.J. “I am your mother and you are the only joy in my life.  I will hold onto that and protect you from anything and anyone.”  Her eyes were cold as ice and sharp as daggers.

_______________________________________#_____________________________________________            

                After a short trial, Mother was convicted on two counts of murder and imprisoned to life without the possibility of parole.  E.J. went to visit her shortly after her incarceration.

                “I have one question for you Mother,” E.J. sighed, then paused, and finally said, “why did you lie for me?”

                “Because I love you.  Consider this your free pass.   Live the rest of your life well.”

                “How did you know it was me?” he asked grimly.

                “I overheard you on the phone, talking about leaving. If it had been anyone other than you, then you and she would have just disappeared never to be heard from again.  So as soon as I heard she was dead, I knew it had to be you.  I know you better than you know yourself.  You inherited your father’s temperament.”

                “I couldn’t help it Mother.  Laurabeth told me she was pregnant and I got so angry that she betrayed ME,  I went absolutely nuts,” his face was bright red at the memory, contorted into a menacing grimace that actually frightened Mother.  “ I just grabbed her neck and kept telling her to shut up,” he said, distraught.  “ It’s like it wasn’t even me.  I didn’t mean to kill her.  She never said anything about her father having sex with her.  How will I get over this?  I remember every scent, sight, and sound.”  He was breathing hard like he had just finished a vigorous run.

                “By sheer force of will.  And because you have to.  It doesn’t matter now.  Are you taking your medications again?

                He said simply, “Yes.”

                E.J. left Oakville, never to be seen again.  He did, however, write faithfully to Mother each week.  The letters were usually lengthy and detailed.  He had started college by day, studying criminal justice and not accounting, and he worked a nighttime job as a security guard at a warehouse.  He didn’t ever leave an address for Mother to write back to although the postmark was always from New Haven, Connecticut.  Mother thought the choice of city was justified and ironic.  Each week she  patiently waited and looked forward to a few moments of joy.