Early summer, p.1
Early Summer, page 1
Table of Contents
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty–Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Thirty-One
Thirty-Two
Thirty-Three
Thirty-Four
Thirty-Five
Epilogue
© ٢٠٢٢ Carol Paur
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, in part, in any form, without the permission of the publisher.
Orange Blossom Publishing
Maitland, Florida
www.orangeblossombooks.com
info@orangeblossombooks.com
First Edition: September 2022
Library of Congress Control Number:
Edited by: Arielle Haughee
Formatted by: Autumn Skye
Cover design: Sanja Mosic
Print ISBN: 978-1-949935-42-4
eBook ISBN: 978-1-949935-43-1
Printed in the U.S.A.
Dedication
To Les, Elizabeth, Bridget, Genevieve, and Monica.
“And what does your anxiety do? It does not empty to-morrow, brother, of its sorrows; but, ah! it empties to-day of its strength.”
— Alexander Maclaren,
1859 sermon “Anxious Care.”
One
Looking back I see now that my hobby was a bit odd. It had consumed my free time with internet searches, trips to the library, and culling through newspaper articles. My parents despised it. It was no different, I had reasoned, than studying volcanic eruptions, earthquakes, or tornadoes, though my fixation with serial killers had nothing to do with the climate.
From my research, I discovered that serial killers often (but not always) share personality traits—they’re control freaks, sociopaths, arrogant, and manipulative—yet often appear to be upstanding citizens. Some type of psychosis is often present, and many come from dysfunctional or abusive families. They are typically above average in intelligence, yet often jump from one career to another.
Mom said I was living an odd sort of dichotomy.
She complained one day when she discovered me reading Mind Hunters, an FBI book on the investigation of serial killers. “Helene, how can a girl who is terrified of college gorge on all that crap?” She held out her hand, where I placed the book without letting her know what was hiding under my bed, an old DVD of The Silence of the Lambs, my favorite movie. I would be banished if she discovered it. “Helene, statistically, there are very few serial killers out there. Besides, there are lots of things that are worse than serial killers.”
Even if there was only one serial killer in the whole world, wouldn’t that be bad enough? Furthermore, how could can she say there is anything worse than a serial killer? They snatch away people and chop them apart.
My therapist once told me I had two different people living inside me. No, I did not suffer from a personality disorder. Instead, there was one side of me that dreaded leaving the security of my home for college, while the other side was held spellbound by the antics of serial killers. Strange, but somehow this covert fixation was an escape from the impending doom I felt about going away to college. It made no sense to anyone, not even me.
Mom’s nagging to fill out scholarship applications only intensified my anxiety. I’d stare at the form for hours trying to answer the same question every college posed in different ways: What are your goals in life? Does any seventeen-year-old know the answer to this question?
How do you write “study serial killers and become an actress,” so it doesn’t make you sound like a complete freak? After struggling with the question, daydreaming would push out all rational thoughts.
Scotland Yard calls. “There’s a string of girls missing. We need you.”
“I’m right in the middle of a film. Let me talk to the director to see if I can take off a few days.”
After getting permission from the director, I hop on my jet, fly to London, and solve the crime.
At a distance. No meeting up with the serial killer, like Clarice Starling.
I knew it didn’t make sense that I wanted to catch these murderers in comfort and safety, much like an armchair quarterback.
The other thing that probably didn’t make sense was why Scotland Yard and not the FBI? Flying to London seemed more romantic than Washington D.C. Geography, that was it.
The anxiety of having only one more semester before heading to college jarred me awake the January morning after Christmas break. Still in my pajamas, I tromped downstairs to flip the pages of the John Deere calendar on our kitchen wall. Ninety or so more days. Then break followed by college, which would cut into summer and destroy my life.
“Why are you looking at the tractor calendar?” Connie, my younger sister, asked. She slopped down the generic oat cereal, milk dripping on her chin.
“I’m trying to see how many days I have left until graduation.” Instead of breakfast, I went upstairs, showered, and popped a few Tums.
I returned to hear the sink running and Mom saying, “Hurry up, girls, or you’ll miss the bus.” She sat at the table to drink her coffee.
“Dad said I could drive.”
Mom sighed. “The car’s been making odd sounds. We’ll take it to the mechanics before you drive it.”
That meant we’d probably be taking the bus for the rest of the semester, since finding extra cash for car repairs was almost as likely as finding platinum in the cow manure dotting our farm.
We frowned and shrugged on our coats. Outside the blast of cold slapped, but I quickly melted inside the overheated bus transporting us to Rhode’s combined elementary, middle, and high school. Once we found our seats, the bus roared away to capture more students.
I studied the students’ frozen expressions, with their unkempt hair and unzipped jackets, as if they had just rolled out of bed. My auburn hair was washed, dried, brushed, and carefully tucked under a felt hat, which I removed as soon as I entered the bus. It would stay in my backpack until I returned home this afternoon. It was my concession with Mom, who worried about the cold while I worried about hat hair. My coat was freshly washed, pressed, and zipped. Beneath it was my new sweater and jeans, both also washed and pressed. Wrinkles anywhere on my body spiked my anxiety fever higher than the trip back to school.
If I had not hated it so much, I would have pitied the month of January. It followed the wildest, happiest month of the year—December—with its decorations, foods, and celebrations. The first month of the year offered only debt, diets, and darkness. Who would want to befriend that?
I popped another Tums while glancing out the window at the leafless trees and brown grass. The dormant vegetation shared my despondency. Occasionally, I would turn to watch my younger sister jabbering away with her group of girlfriends.
Connie had been my parents’ happy surprise. They were told they would never have any more children after me. I was eight when Connie arrived into the world. It was as if my parents went to the store and picked out the perfect Christmas gift for me—baby-doll Connie, with her strawberry-blonde hair, fat pink cheeks, blue eyes, and a little birthmark on her right knee.
“What’s that?” I had pointed to the spot one day while Mom changed her diaper.
“That’s a little fairy kiss,” Mom answered. “When God is creating you, the fairies are in such awe of your beauty, they kiss you. You have one on your bum.” Why couldn’t she just say the word—butt?
I said it instead. “Fairies kissed my butt?” The thought of tiny, winged creatures kissing my other cheek caused my face to redden. Then I grew curious. “I wanna see it,” I begged, pulling down my jeans.
“Helene! Keep your pants on. It’s too far down for you to see anyways.”
“Why did the fairies kiss Connie’s right knee but my butt?”
“Their wings flap so quickly like hummingbirds, their lips have no control on their landing.”
“Where’s your fairy kiss?” Was Mommy’s also on her butt?
She lifted up her shirt over the belly button, and there it was.
“Wow, that fairy must have had big lips!” I looked at the tan-colored splotch on the right side of her stomach. “Why is there a freckle in the middle?”
My mother must have foreseen this conversation, for she quickly responded, “That kiss was from a fairy who was in the middle of eating a chocolate bar.”
I giggled and then begged to hold the baby. On the couch, I would sit, and my mother would place baby Connie gently and carefully onto my lap.
Connie was my doll. She washed away my first eight years of loneliness. When my mother wasn’t watching, I’d pull Connie out of her baby seat and bounce her around the living room. Once, I tripped over the ottoman and dropped her on the floor. Connie smiled. I picked her up and tucked her back into the seat. She cried.
“What happened?” Mom rushed into the living room and scooped up the crying infant.
“Nothing,” I lied.
As she grew, however, Connie was another source of my Tums addiction. She applauded at all the wrong times, talked too loudly in church, told people their outfits were ugly. Worse. She burped and farted in public. No Filter Connie, I called her. I blamed myself for Connie’s behavior because I had dropped her. Years later I confessed the deed to my parents.
“Connie says and does the most inappropriate things, and it has to do with her falling out of my arms.”
“Or the fall created a genius,” Dad responded.
My parents laughed, but I scrunched my face in displeasure. He was right. Connie was brilliant. Ten years old but in the sixth grade. Every A that I earned required intensive studying. Not for Connie. Study? No way. Connie had photographic memory.
“She still has no filters,” was all I could muster.
“Sibling rivalry,” was Mom’s answer to my concerns.
This had nothing to do with sibling rivalry. “Then why does she blurt out stuff at the worst times? It’s embarrassing to be around her.”
My mother hugged me. “Helene, she makes up for your rectitude.”
“What does that mean?”
Dad replied, “You’re very uptight, Helene. Connie likes to shake things up.”
Maybe her naughtiness wasn’t my fault, but I did get blamed for Connie learning to walk so late. All she had to do was hold up her arms, and I’d carry her everywhere—to the barn, to the back forty, to the mailbox, upstairs, downstairs, to the swing set. I was Connie’s donkey. One day it all ended when she expected me to haul all her dolls, as well as herself, outside.
“No, I’m not carrying Joe-Joe and Clarabella and Toot-Toot!” I said.
“Fine,” she replied in her almost two-year-old voice. “Me take.” From there she tottered to the sandbox with her toys and walked ever since.
“She’s been using me,” I said to my father as we watched. He nodded.
Connie was the box of crayons that colored in my one-dimensional life. She strayed outside the lines, but it was those reckless crayon scratches that made my picture complete. Yet, having a sister with so much energy and joy sometimes worried me. Would she become that sparkler that fizzled out too soon?
The bus heaved to a stop, halting my meandering thoughts. The occupants reluctantly stood up, but I remained seated, pressed down by an unseen anxiety. My eyes steered toward Connie, who was chortling and chattering with her buddies. It was time to take another Tums.
Two
Mom tried to remove anything that might feed into my strange compulsion, and on this particular Saturday, it was no different. She was reading the Rhode’s weekly newspaper in the kitchen when I entered. Most people read their news online, but Rhodes News had just celebrated it’s 175 anniversary and vowed to keep printing as long as it had readers.
My eyes darted to the article. “Young Girl Missing in Minnesota.” Mom knew I would immediately assume serial killer.
She said nothing, folded the newspaper, and tiptoed to the living room to hide it. I poured my coffee and waited. Mom would be downstairs sorting laundry soon enough for me to confiscate the paper.
Dad and my Grandpa Denny came into the back door shooing away Bob, one of our stray cats. Mom said he looked like an American bobtail with his tan fur decorated with stripes and splotches. He reminded me of a mini tiger and jaguar. When he showed up on the farm Mom managed to catch him to have the vet neuter him. She also had Luna, the calico, spayed. Cats often appeared on our farm but left after a few days. Not Bob or Luna. They were Denny cats, though Mom refused to let them inside.
Connie tried, once. She hid them in her bedroom but the two cats fought, their shrieks alerting Mom, who promptly tossed them outside.
“Poor Bob. He just wants to come in and be with the family.” Grandpa Denny was my last surviving grandparent. The other three died before I was born.
He stood over six feet tall and had broad shoulders. His belly strained his black suspenders, which looked ready to pop. He wore his white hair slightly above his collar. When he talked, his bushy mustache waved up and down.
“Bob stays outside.” Mom entered. “I thought you were at the hardware store?”
Dad pulled out a kitchen chair and motioned for my grandfather to sit. “There was a sign saying they were closed for the weekend. Larry must be out hunting.”
“Hunting? In January?” Mom asked.
“Yeah, there’s coyote, fox…”
Grandpa arched his eyebrows. “For being a businessman, Larry’s sure gone a lot. I miss Herb Brown, who used to own the store before Larry.
“How about some coffee?” Mom asked.
“I’ll never turn that down.” Grandpa fell into the chair, while Mom poured some brown liquid. He took a sip. “Strong. I like it that way. Do you have any cream and sugar?”
I would have to wait a little longer for that article.
“Larry’s probably getting ready to retire soon.” Dad took off his boots. “Is there more coffee?”
“Retire?” Grandpa asked. “Didn’t he just buy it?”
“Yep.” Mom looked at me. “Are you coming with us to watch Connie’s basketball game this afternoon?”
“Maybe. I have homework. Can you believe it? It’s only the first week back and I have papers and assignments for all my classes.”
“Just wait. In college you get assignments before the classes begin.” Grandpa scooped ten teaspoons of sugar into his creamed coffee.
What did he know about college? He never went. My Tums were calling me.
Mom marched to the basement. Dad and Grandpa talked farm equipment. Connie watched television in the den.
It was time. I stood up and crept to the living room and looked under the usual place—the wood pile. I slid it under my shirt and tiptoed up the creaking steps.
I read about the missing twelve-year-old who had been with her family at a Lanesboro ice-skating rink. A trip to the concession stands and she was gone. No leads surfaced even after talking to the parents and people at the rink. Sex trafficking was suggested. Serial killer popped into my mind.
Why? There was nothing about this article which suggested serial killer. First, the age of the victim was outside the normal ages of between twenty to twenty-nine, and she was taken in broad daylight. There was no body or strange ritualistic clue left behind, as least as far as I could tell. Maybe I’d have to take Owen Radmoore’s idea and start searching the dark web. At the moment, I cut out the article, drew a question mark on it, and slid it into my Serial Killers on the Loose folder.
I looked at the remains of the paper. “Red Brick Mansion Sold.” Usually the newspaper ignored real estate sales, but the mansion captivated the interest of native Rhodes residents because of its close proximity to the old train depot. Over a hundred years ago, a locomotive crashed into the depot, knocking it down and killing everyone inside. The conductor apparently died of a heart attack. Onlookers said they heard the screams of the horrified passengers as the train sped off the track and roared into the brick building. Years later, people walking nearby reported ghost sightings and shrieks.
Rhodes never recovered from the horror of that night, so the depot was left in ruins, and people moved away from the area.
Across from the depot the mansion stood as the lone witness of the tragic event, with each year adding neglect to its façade. A television crew came out a few years ago and claimed there was paranormal activity near the depot and inside the house.
The article reported the historical society was protesting the sale, but it seemed the city wanted it off its payroll. No name or picture was given of the new owner, but I figured he or she had to be pretty brave or stupid to want to live so close to an active ghost site. Interesting, but certainly nothing to do with serial killers.
I heard the scrape of a hairpin inside the doorknob. Apparently the privacy lock did nothing to prevent unwanted visitors. Connie barged in waving a large navy envelope. “They want to pay you to go to school.”
