I hang the dream catcher over the bed.
"What's that for?"
"To catch nightmares. The holes won't let them go through. In
the morning the sunlight turns them into dust."
"Oh." A four year old believes in magic. Maybe a forty
year-old does too.
I tuck her into bed, sweet dream kisses. I make a cup of tea and
survey the room filled with half-unpacked boxes.
"It's temporary," I tell the cat.
A sleek, green-eyed Calico sprawls on the cracked linoleum floor of
the kitchen, in the way of my feet. A new cat for a new house. We
barely tolerate each other. She eyes me warily from the floor and I
ignore her stare. I sit at the table, clearing a space for my cup. I
wait for the tea to cool. Safe. This was so far out in the desert of
Arizona, amidst the hogans of the Navajo, no one will ever find us. No
one who matters. I teach Navajo children during the day, at night I
roam the small two bedroom house, checking locks, and doors, and
corners. No one knows where we are. A new beginning. My life, and my
daughter's life. Chloe, my blonde-haired angel of mischief. Hard on
her, she misses her friends.
Running.
We are running from her father, my husband. No, my ex-husband. He
is someone to run from, a serial killer who preys on young girls of
ten. Statement for the cops. I don't have a clue. Sorry. He is just an
ordinary guy, quiet, shy, a computer geek during the day. A killer at
night. I shake my head at the incredible awfulness of it all.
How could my husband of ten years, my Charlie, be a murderer,
worse, a child molester who shaves the heads of his victims? After his
"walks," he'd come home to our bed, cuddle beside me, and
tell me he loves me. He didn't have an unusual childhood, his mother
wasn't domineering, his father was a tax accountant, for God's sake.
His brother Tom has a Ph.D. in Chemistry from MIT. Charlie has his
Ph.D. in Computer Engineering. We spent our first three years of
marriage in Silicon Valley. He was going places, he made good money,
he loved me first, and then, Chloe. The perfect father, doting on his
daughter. Trips to the zoo, picnics in the park, family vacations to
the Grand Canyon, Mt. Rushmore, Williamsburg. A slice of history, our
American past. An all-American family. See? We were the ones in the
mini-van. The ones with the geeky-looking husband and the ordinary
housewife. The adorable daughter. See? We took pictures with a Pentax
camera, albums filled with memories.
Lost. Gone. Faded. I can't remember when it all started to fall
apart. Last year, the year before? Something didn't feel right,
something was off-kilter. A picture frame tilted on the wall.
Everything seemed the same on the surface. We laughed, we cried, we
fought, we made love. As usual. As always.
But. Something. Was. Wrong.
Charlie came to bed around two in the morning that night. I stir
next to him.
"Charlie? Can't sleep?" I mumble.
"Mel, you awake?"
"Yes, sort of, what's wrong?"
I sense a mood. I sit up. Charlie has his glasses off, rubbing the
bridge of his nose. His myopic blue eyes beg me.
"The police will be here soon, I'm going to go away for a
while honey. I'll come and get you and Chloe as soon as I can."
"The police? Why?" I try to rub wakefulness into my eyes.
Charlie puts his glasses back on, the black plastic ones.
Poindexter with a plastic pen protector in his breast pocket. Sweet,
gentle Charlie, my lovable Charlie, who wouldn't hurt a fly.
"Don't listen to anything they tell you Mel. I promise I'll
come for you as soon as I can." He bends down to kiss me. I kiss
him back, putting my arms around him, trying to pull him back down to
the bed.
He pries my fingers off his arms. I feel the steel in them. I cower
on the sheets, suddenly afraid.
"What's happened? Tell me." He shakes his head.
"I can't. Tell Chloe I love her." He leaves in a hurry,
one shoe half-untied.
I hear the sirens coming. I dress, dazed for battle. What has
Charlie gotten into? Is he a spy? A whistle blower? A traitor to his
country? In none of my fantasies could I ever imagine Charlie as a
killer. But that's what the police said.
"Your husband, Charles Middleton, is our main suspect in a
series of killings involving ten year old girls."
"Charlie? My Charlie? He has a four year old daughter," I
insist. "We've been married for ten years. He's a scientist, he's
into computers."
"He has a web site for child pornographers, pictures of young
blonde girls. We found a collection of video kiddy porn at his office.
One of the girls he tried to kidnap ID'd him from a picture."
They seemed so sure. So positive.
It wasn't Charlie, no. They made a mistake. Some other man named
Charlie. Not my Charlie. Not the father of my child. My husband, my
soulmate, my best friend. No. I was told Chloe and I were being taken
into protective custody until the trial was over, if Charlie could be
found. And, he was. The next day, heading out of town. A minor traffic
ticket. Speeding in a school zone. Long blonde braids fashioned from
the dead girls in the trunk. Charlie is in jail.
Many lawyers, and courtrooms later, and here we are. Charlie
doesn't confess. He says he is innocent. Girls from the scout troop we
helped chaperone tell tales of molestation under the sleeping bags at
night. Camping trip of Horror. Neighborhood girls tell tales of
Peeping Charlie staring at them while they undressed for bed. A
ghostly figure in spectacles and an overcoat at their windows. Girls
almost caught, girls that got away, girls that got molested, girls
that got killed. The first one is from church, where we taught Sunday
School. Pretty blond-haired Melissa, ten years old. Missing for days,
she turns up dead, her head shaved. Behind the church dumpster. She'd
been strangled, brutally molested. The next victim is found with her
hair shaved too. She was a young prostitute, working the streets,
barely eleven. Next, a girl who put an ad in a grocery store for a
baby-sitting job. She was twelve. Her head was shaved, she was found
beside a fence in her neighborhood. How many more? I sat unfeeling for
days. Chloe with her grandparents in Colorado, far away from the ogre
that was her dad. I am numb.
"I don't know anything, he's the perfect father and
husband," I said. Over and over and over. Until I almost believe
it.
I file for divorce the day the trial ends. Mistrial. Not enough
evidence. Circumstantial. Cops forgot to get a search warrant for his
office. OOPS.
 |
|
I take Chloe and run to the Navajo reservation, home to my
great-grandmother. Welcomed with open arms. I teach Navajo children
with my Navajo name, Anna Whitefeather, and Chloe is now Zoe
Whitefeather. Our hair is dyed jet black, long black braids tied with
leather. I dress in costume, Halloween for grown-ups. I am a Native
American lady with a long dress, turquoise rings, and dream catchers
in my ears. Blue eyes ringed by purple shadows. After three months
here, I am ready to go and so is Chloe.
She asks and asks. "Is our vacation over yet?"
"Not yet," I say, knowing it never will be. I tell Chloe
it's a game of pretend, only the game never ends, not even at night.
"Good night, mommy."
"Good night, Zoe," I answer.
"My name is Chloe, really," she whispers. I shake my head
at her.
"No, not any more," I said. She is puzzled, not
understanding. Maybe tomorrow she'll understand better.
She goes with me to my class of preschoolers, she's the classroom
helper. The other teacher keeps her distance. I am still an outsider.
I have refused all social offers. I don't let Zoe go anywhere to play,
and after a while the invitations stop. Her day at preschool with me
is the only interaction she has with other children. I worry about
that. She asks about going to kindergarten next year. I give her vague
answers. I don't know where we'll be next year, or do I?
I sip tea wondering if the dream catcher will work for me tonight.
Do they work for waking nightmares too? The cat is suddenly alert. I
have no phone. Not even a cell phone. Chloe or rather, Zoe, is finally
asleep in her tiny pink bedroom. A soft noise. Zoe dreaming. A sigh.
The cat relaxes.
I miss my mom and dad. I know they miss us. I used to call my mom
every Sunday. Now Sundays tick away, silent, lonely. I fill our time
with stories, and crafts. We fashion together intricate dream catchers
to sell to the tourists who visit on weekends. No TV, or radio, or
computer. Nothing to trace us. All my supplies are bought with cash.
No checking or savings accounts. The house sold, our things given
away. All we have is this small house furnished by others. We are
official members of the Navajo tribe.
As soon as Charlie slips up and kills again, and they catch him, we
will be safe. As soon as. God. Chloe asks about her dad. I tell her
he's coming soon. Is he? I have to dye our hair again. Blonde roots
show against the black braids. I drive to Flagstaff in my used Jeep
bought with cash, to pick up hair dye. The vistas are wide expanses of
land, scorched by the desert sun by day, frozen wasteland at night.
Not a soul in sight. Not for miles. I can breathe out here. Isolation
is its own prison. Finally, the mountains of Northern Arizona come
into view. I keep to myself, not speaking to anyone. I send mom and
dad a postcard telling them we are fine. I miss them. I use a mail
drop in Flagstaff that reroutes and stamps my postcard in Tulsa. In
case Charlie is watching the mail. In case Charlie is watching me. And
Chloe. We will move if he finds us. New names, new identities, new
hair color. Next time I want to have short, curly hair, maybe red, or
dark auburn. I'll wear glasses, and speak with a Southern accent. I'll
be Ruth, and Chloe will be Sarah. Maybe we'll go to Hawaii and live on
the beach, swimming every day with the dolphins. I close my eyes
imagining the water caressing my hair.
I take another sip of my tea. It's too cold. Iced tea, better
suited for the desert heat of the day. I step over the cat on my way
to bed, shutting off the lights as I go. In the distance, I hear an
eerie howl. Coyotes stalking their prey. I glance out the window. The
stars are visible here, not like the city, lost in the smog. Here they
shine with brilliance and clarity. Clear. Cleansed.
I had a dream about a lioness guarding her young. My totem, or
spirit guide, was shown to me. I must follow her guidance. I am no
longer Melinda Middleton, I am Anna Whitefeather. Anna, who is safe
amidst the black-haired children of the tribal nation. Anna, of the
black braids. Not blonde. No. Anna who is ordinary, shy, and quiet.
Anna, who makes dream catchers and spins lies. What is the biggest lie
of all? Only Charlie knows, and he isn't saying.
Not yet.
Kathleen Allen is a Master's prepared nurse, educator and writer. She
has been writing since she self-published her first book of poems at
the age of eight. She published her first poem at the age of fifteen.
