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MAGGIE KENNEDY-O’KEEFE
Wednesday, June 17, 2020
I don’t know where to go. I can’t go back to work and I can’t go home. There’s no way I can explain why I’m so upset. I just start driving, winding through the streets of Grotto on autopilot. Maybe I can just run away. Take off and start a new life somewhere. Raise my baby away from Grotto and Nola Knox. That’s what I should have done in the first place, left Grotto for good. But no, I wanted to be near my dad and if I’m being honest, wanted to keep an eye on Eve’s case, to be close if there were any new developments. Be careful what you wish for. Something new has definitely developed.
I nearly miss a stop sign and slam on the brakes, the seat belt snapping tight against my chest as I come to a screeching stop, narrowly missing an elderly man walking his dog. My heart hammers in my chest as he walks in front of my car, shooting daggers at me. I have to get myself under control.
Shakily, I move through the intersection, keeping my speed well below the limit and find myself heading toward Ransom Road. Only two houses sit on the quiet street and I pull in front of the house where Nola and I ran to call 911 the night Eve died. As far as I know, Vivian Benson still lives there. She would be about seventy-five years old by now. Over the years, we’ve only greeted each other with brief, hurried hellos, never acknowledging the night that Nola and I showed up on her doorstep. I park beneath a locust tree in front of Vivian’s house, its feathery leaves blocking the sun from beating down on my car.
I remember how after she called 911, Vivian wrapped me in a blanket and settled me on her sofa until the police came. I remember how comforting it was to feel her weight there next to me as the full understanding of what I had done settled over me. Until the moment I saw Eve’s dead body I didn’t believe that I had hurt her that badly.
Confident I’m alone I allow myself something that I haven’t done in twenty-five years. I weep for Eve. Shame and grief spew from me in great racking sobs. I meant to hurt Eve, but I hadn’t meant to kill her. But she discovered the truth about Cam Harper and she was going to tell. I was pregnant and though I hadn’t told Cam yet I was sure we’d have our happy-ever-after. I thought I was in love and Eve told me a truth that my fifteen-year-old self wasn’t prepared to hear.
I lashed out. Eve fought back. I walked away from the caves and Eve didn’t.
I search through the glove box for some tissues and blow my nose. There has to be a way out of this. No one would believe Nola Knox, would they? She has always been the town weirdo, angry, sometimes violent. Maybe her accusations would be written off as another one of her crazy rants. For years Nola and her mother bad-mouthed Nick Brady, saying he was responsible, so if she pointed the finger at me, would people take her seriously? A horrific thought flashes into my mind. I could get rid of the problem. Nola. Maybe I could frame Nola instead of Nick.
No. I don’t think I can get away with it. I probably won’t get away with Eve’s murder either. With the reexamination of the evidence and twenty-five years of advancement in forensics, there is a good chance that my DNA will be found. My DNA wasn’t in the system but I know that my brother had sent a swab into one of those genetic testing companies to find out what percentage of Irish and Eastern European he was. There is a good chance that his DNA could eventually lead to me.
I know there is a way out of this; I just need more time to think. Nola isn’t giving me this luxury. She wants to act now, wants to implicate Nick Brady. I reach for my gun belt. Maybe there is a way out. I grasp the butt of my gun and release the thumb snap. I imagine lifting the gun to my temple and pulling the trigger. Instant relief.
The thought sends a surge of vomit up my gullet and I manage to get out of the car before I throw up all over Vivian Benson’s lawn. I’m gasping for breath, hands on my knees, when I hear the squeak of a screen door. I look up and see a tiny woman with close-cropped, pearl-colored hair, coming down the Bensons’ concrete front steps. “Maggie O’Keefe?” she asks, squinting at me.
I nod, wiping my mouth with my sleeve. Though I haven’t seen Vivian Benson this close up in years, I recognize her immediately. “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Benson,” I say. “I can’t believe I did that.”
“Don’t you worry about it,” she says, laying a hand on my shoulder. I wince from the pressure on my blistered back. I try to will my stomach to settle. “I remember when I was pregnant,” Mrs. Benson continues. “I had morning sickness morning, noon and night. Come in and rest for a minute.” She places a hand on my elbow and leads me up the front steps and into a room with faded floral curtains and a wall filled with black-and-white family photos.
I know I’ve been here before but when Nola and I came knocking on her door I wasn’t paying any attention to the décor. “Take a seat,” Mrs. Benson invites and then suddenly she is gone.
I sit down and sink into the lumpy cushions and close my eyes. Suddenly, I’m fifteen years old again and I’ve just discovered the dead body of my best friend. The best friend that I murdered. Another wave of nausea rushes over me.
“Here, honey,” Mrs. Benson says, offering me a washcloth and a glass of water. I press the damp cloth to my face. I take a small sip of water. Mrs. Benson sits across from me in a straight-back chair, her feet barely reaching the worn carpet. “I heard on the news that there was new evidence. That was an awful night,” she says. “When I opened the door to find you girls on my front step...” She shakes her head at the memory. “Seems like yesterday.” Mrs. Benson looks down at her hands. She tries to smooth the wrinkles from her knuckles with a fingertip. “It was close to ten o’clock. I remember because I was watching Picket Fences. I loved that show.”
She looks up at me as if expecting a response. I murmur something about how my dad watched it too.
“Anyway, I’m sitting right where you are when the doorbell rings, and I think to myself, Who in the world would be here at this time of night? At first I thought it might be that awful Iverson girl, Dawna, coming over to tell me that she saw a strange car coming down the street. Such a paranoid thing, always finding the bogeyman where there were only shadows.”
Mrs. Benson sighs. “I wish it would have been Dawna, but instead I found Nola standing there looking up at me with those big glasses and green eyes like some kind of click beetle.”
She leans forward in her chair, “It was ten o’clock and I just couldn’t imagine who would be ringing my doorbell at that time of night. Right away I was concerned, but by the casual look on Nola Knox’s face, you would have thought she was selling Girl Scout cookies or popcorn for her basketball team or something. But instead of asking me if I want a box of Thin Mints or Do-Si-Dos, she says, My sister is dead. She was so matter-of-fact I thought I heard her wrong. Then I saw you standing behind her, pale as a ghost.
“But she said it again, My sister is dead. She was murdered. I didn’t know if her sister was on the street outside or what so I pulled you both into the house,” Vivian says, making a motion as if tugging on a rope, “and then I shut and locked the door thinking that some crazy person must be out there. That’s when I called 911.”
“I remember,” I tell her and take another drink of water.
Mrs. Benson nods knowingly. “Then you remember how strange Nola sounded.”
I didn’t remember, I was too busy thinking about how I ended up killing the girl who was like a sister to me. How we would never speak again. I was thinking about how I was going to go to prison for murder, how this would kill my dad.
What I wasn’t thinking about was Nola. It hits me now. When Nola and I went searching for Eve, Nola knew I was the one who killed her sister, but she never spoke up. Never said a word.
“She wasn’t right,” Vivian says, getting to her feet and then joining me on the sofa. She smells like talcum powder. “And Nola was not in shock like the 911 operator thought. She said My sister is dead just like someone would say, It’s Tuesday or I had a bologna sandwich for lunch. Do you have a sister?” she asks.
“A brother,” I say dumbly.
“Then you know,” she says with finality. “You would be devastated if something happened to your brother, right?”
“I should go,” I mumble. “Thank you, for the water. I’m sorry about your lawn.”
