Dis Mem Ber and Other Stories of Mystery and Suspense Read online

  Mr. Lesinger put the handgun away in the drawer of the table by his side of the bed, shut the door firmly and said, “There!”

  We were not sure what There! meant. But the scene was over.

  In Mr. Lesinger’s house on the first floor and in the basement TV room there were mounted deer heads. These were “bucks” as Mr. Lesinger explained. It seemed like more, but there were just three.

  The smallest “buck” looked very young, and his antlers were not nearly so large as the other bucks’. Caitlin murmured to me Oh gosh. I feel sorry for the deer.

  I felt sorry for the deer, too. It made me sick to think of anyone shooting such beautiful animals. Why didn’t the damn Lesingers shoot themselves?—except for Hunt, I mean.

  When we’d first moved into Mr. Lesinger’s house we felt spooked by the mounted heads. Peering up at the deer’s eyes you would swear were actual eyes, and not glass. And a deer’s soul inside, peering right back out at you.

  I am not so different from you. Why did you kill me?

  I didn’t kill you. It was a hunter.

  But why?

  I don’t know why. I guess—hunters hunt. They like to kill.

  5.

  That afternoon, Hunt came to our house with his .22 rifle for target practice. Also, stolen away from a family barbecue at his grandparents’ house, two six-packs of beer, a giant bag of tortilla chips, and some grilled (but still blood-leaking) hamburgers in soft doughy buns.

  “Oh Hunt! What’d you do!”—Caitlin was thrilled.

  They laughed together like young kids. Hunt looked at Caitlin the way I’d dream a boy might look at me—not just smiling and friendly but seriously looking. Like there was something in Caitlin’s face that seemed to trap him, he could not look away.

  Caitlin was wearing short shorts and a pink tank top, and her midriff was showing, and part of her flat little belly. It was disgusting to see her so damned smug about herself.

  I’d tried to wear a tank top last summer but Caitlin told me it was embarrassing, I was just too fat. Mom scolded her for using the word fat but to me she said, “Caitlin is rude, but she has a point. You don’t have the figure yet for that kind of clothing, Steffi.” Trying to placate me by saying Steffi, not Steff.

  Trying too to be hopeful suggesting that one day, not too far in the future, it might be suitable for me to wear the kind of tight skimpy clothes my sister wears. If I was lucky.

  We were alone at Mr. Lesinger’s house—Hunt, Caitlin, Steffi. The adults (including Mom) were across town at Hunt’s grandparents’ house where there was a family barbecue in the back yard. Caitlin and I been invited, sort of, but in such a way Mom had suggested we not come. Poor Mom had no choice but to accompany her husband and hope that someone in his family would take pity on her and talk to her about some other subject than how they missed Martin’s deceased wife Evvie.

  Hunt had only lingered at the barbecue for a while before driving to our house in his dad’s Jeep as (I guess) he’d planned with Caitlin. It wasn’t clear if his dad knew he was coming over to our house or if anyone knew.

  Later, the Lesingers would express total surprise and shock that Hunt hadn’t been at the family barbecue. They’d seen the boy, they would claim.

  No one had seen him slip away, and back the Jeep out of the drive.

  Caitlin put the hamburgers in the refrigerator for the time being. Hunt opened beers for all three of us but I couldn’t swallow more than a small mouthful, the taste was so strong, and so bitter. When I started choking, Caitlin and Hunt laughed at me.

  “Steff’s way too young for beer, Hunt. She’s ‘underage.’”

  “Yeh? What about you?”

  “Not me. I’m just the right ‘age.’”

  They laughed together, excluding me. I was starting to hate both of them so hard it hurt.

  Hating is hurtful. In the region of the chest.

  Dressed like she was, and in flip-flops, Caitlin looked like some sort of silly sex doll. You could see the tops of her small white breasts and something of her skinny white back and her wrists were so skinny they looked like you could snap them like a twig. And laughing in that way that sounded like shattering glass, to rivet Hunt’s attention. I’d never seen Caitlin perform so even on those nights Dad took us out to supper and we were thinking (maybe) if we could win Dad over, he’d come back home.

  We were out on the redwood deck just hanging out. I had the thought that Caitlin and Hunt wanted to be alone but Hunt, at least, was too polite to say so. In his backpack he’d also brought a video—some episodes of Game of Thrones which Mr. Lesinger forbade us to see on his TV. Caitlin was saying we could watch it later, after target practice. While it was still light, she wanted Hunt to give her a lesson.

  It was so, my sister was good-looking. Those wild streaks of color in her hair, and her shining eyes, you could see why a boy like Hunt would look at her like he did.

  The thought came to me—Maybe he will shoot her. Maybe the gun will go off wrong. That will shut her damn mouth.

  Oh but I didn’t mean this! I was shocked to think it.

  Just a crazy thought that came into my head like some kind of vapor and evaporated almost at once. It was hardly articulated in words. It was not a thought that belonged to me.

  Hunt opened another beer for himself. Caitlin was gamely trying to finish hers. We were eating tortilla chips and Caitlin changed her mind about the hamburgers—”Maybe we’re hungry now.” She looked at me like I should know how to react to this remark.

  I said that I would heat the hamburgers in the microwave. There was some ketchup in the refrigerator, I could bring outside. I was eager to volunteer to be useful—I liked to be helpful when I could be. As if I wanted people to like me, even if I did not like them; as if I wanted them to think that I liked them. Or maybe—maybe I did like them, and badly wanted them to like me.

  So I went into the kitchen and microwaved the hamburgers for one minute—found the ketchup in the refrigerator and some cans of Coke; some pickles, relish; leftover potato salad Mom had made the day before—and all this I brought outside on a tray, with paper plates and napkins, and salt and pepper in little crystal shakers that’d been filled (I seemed to know) by the woman who’d been Mrs. Lesinger before Mom. And when I pushed open the screen door—awkwardly, hoping I would not drop the tray—(Hunt and Caitlin would really laugh at me then)—and stepped onto the redwood deck—I was shocked to see that there was no one there.

  I was just so surprised, I guess my mouth hung open.

  “Hi? Hello …?”

  I had to suppose they’d gone down by the lake, or by the ravine—(where else could they get to, so fast?)—but there was no one in sight. It was weird, maybe it was comical—I set the tray down on the picnic table, walked from one end of the redwood deck to the other, looking for Caitlin and Hunt—calling, “Hi? Hey? Where are you?”—kind of pathetically saying, “Your hamburgers are ready….”

  It occurred to me that they’d hidden around the side of the house. In the garage? In the TV room in the basement?

  All that I knew was, they hadn’t come into the house through the kitchen. At least I knew that.

  Steff! You’re looking kind of lost.

  This was so exactly what my mother would have said, I almost seemed to hear it. Mom’s voice close in my ear.

  But Mom wasn’t there, no one was there. No one had spoken.

  Where Caitlin and Hunt had got to—I just couldn’t figure. If they’d gone back to the ravine, that was kind of a long walk for them to get there so quickly, unless they’d run. (But why would they run? Why would they run away from me?)

  Looking kind of lost. That was a sad thing for Mom to say, but it was true. Mom was always scolding me for being not “well groomed” like Caitlin—(she’d say other girls your age but I knew she meant Caitlin)—but I guess deep down she loved me, and felt sorry for me. But when people are nice to me that’s when I cry, and feel really bad. And so I said, “I hate them both. I wis
h Caitlin would fucking die.”

  This was shocking to Mom and me both. This was the first time I had ever said such a thing even to myself.

  Mom looked at me in amazement. Watch that mouth of yours, girl.

  I turned away so that Mom could not see. My mouth was working but no sounds came out.

  You know, we don’t allow the f-word in this house. That’s crude and vulgar and your sister knows better too and if your step-father heard he would be disgusted. And if anybody hears, they will think you are lowlife. You should be ashamed.

  Some minutes then I called—”Caitlin? Hunt?”—I trotted all the way to the edge of the lake, where the soil was marshy and kind of smelly, and over to the ravine, where tall weeds and saplings were so thick you could barely see the wreck below—I could see that they weren’t in these places but still I called, “Caitlin? Hunt?” like a fool. If this was TV people would be laughing at me. An invisible audience would be laughing at the fat girl looking lost.

  I returned to the redwood deck, and around the side of the house to the driveway—there was Hunt’s dad’s Jeep, that had not been moved.

  (I’d had the sudden fear that they’d driven away in the Jeep, and left me. Maybe they’d decided to go to the Lesinger barbecue but had somehow forgotten me.)

  But then, I went into the house. It had not occurred to me that they might have entered the house by the front door, and might be somewhere inside the house.

  But they were nowhere in the first-floor rooms. No one here except the mounted deer looking at me pityingly. Lost girl. Lost like us. Trophies on the wall. Pathetic.

  I was sweating now, and breathing quickly. I was feeling so ashamed!

  I stopped calling “Hunt?”—”Caitlin?”—reasoning that if they didn’t hear me call them, they couldn’t be blamed for not answering me; but if I continued to call them, and it was clear that they heard me, it would also be clear that they’d played a trick and hidden from me, and that would be mortifying.

  I went back out onto the redwood deck, and they still were not there. A fly was crawling over one of the hamburger buns but I was too distracted to chase it away.

  Caitlin’s beer bottle had been set down on the picnic table. I think the bottle had to be Caitlin’s, it was just half-full.

  There were at least two empties on the table. These had to be Hunt’s. (But had he had a third, in his hand? Had he walked away with this bottle?) The bottle from which I’d taken just a sip or two was where I’d left it on the flat railing top.

  I snatched this up and took another swallow. So bitter! But I managed to keep it down, out of spite.

  They’d gone somewhere, and Hunt had taken his beer bottle with him. Maybe. (I saw now, Hunt’s rifle was lying on the deck, where he’d placed it. And his backpack. These had not been moved.)

  I wondered if I should wait for them to come back? Obviously they had not gone far.

  Obviously, it was some sort of joke. On me.

  Not a mean joke, just a joke.

  “Yo, Steff! Hiya.”

  Suddenly there came Hunt’s laughing voice—and Caitlin’s high-pitched laughter.

  They’d been downstairs in the TV room, after all. There was an entrance to the basement around the side of the house which I guess I’d forgotten. I stood there on the deck blinking and confused but after a minute, I was relieved to hear myself laughing.

  Laughing so hard it hurt my belly. For I’d managed to finish the bottle of beer, and I was feeling—well, weird.

  What do they call it—buzzed.

  Hunt and Caitlin were telling me—(like they expected me to believe this!)—that they’d decided to experiment with the TV, or the DVD player, just to see if it was operating. “For later, when we watch the video.” Hunt was carrying a beer bottle, in fact. His smile was lopsided and boyish and his words were slurred.

  “Like, we might want to stream a movie. If the DVD doesn’t work out.”

  Why was Hunt telling me so much? Like it seemed important to him, that I would believe him.

  I opened another beer for myself with the bottle opener. The little cap went scuttling across the flood of the redwood deck and we laughed, seeing this.

  We sat at the picnic table and ate the food I’d set out. Caitlin wasn’t very hungry for the lukewarm hamburger—”Damn, Steff, this is hard as a rock! What’d you do to it?”—but she drank the Coke thirstily. Hunt devoured two hamburgers soaked with ketchup and more than half the potato salad. “Thanks, Steff! This is great.”

  Steff. He hadn’t even noticed what he had said, that he’d picked up from my sister.

  Caitlin said that meat was gross. Eating animal muscle and tissue was gross. She’d been thinking, maybe she would become a vegan.

  “Meat is protein,” Hunt said. “Vegans get skinny and sick.”

  “Caitlin is skinny already,” I pointed out.

  It was an inane remark but everyone laughed including Caitlin.

  Then, Caitlin said, “Steff, is there ice cream? In the freezer?”

  “No. I don’t think so.”

  “Maybe—go look?”

  There wasn’t any ice cream in the freezer. Mr. Lesinger had a weakness for ice cream so he forbade Mom to buy it. Sometimes we were allowed to have frozen yogurt, but there wasn’t any frozen yogurt in the freezer, either. Caitlin might not have known this or was pretending not to know.

  It was a signal for me, to go into the kitchen and check. To bring a container of ice cream out onto the deck, and three spoons.

  So I went inside, but had to use the bathroom. And when I came out of the bathroom I checked the freezer that was crammed with packages of meat and leftovers but no ice cream.

  I found some ginger snaps in the cupboard. On a high shelf, where Mr. Lesinger asked Mom to put them, so he couldn’t reach them easily, or he’d finish the entire box. These, I brought outside.

  This time, as soon as I stepped out onto the deck, I saw the two of them walking away—not hurrying, and not glancing back—toward the ravine.

  “Hey? Hunt? Caitlin …”

  Hunt was carrying his rifle slung over his shoulder. Caitlin had talked him into giving her shooting lessons. If Mom knew, she’d have been upset. Mr. Lesinger wouldn’t have liked it, either. The mean thought came to me—Caitlin will get in trouble now. They both will.

  On the deck I stood watching them, thinking my thoughts. The beer helped me think more clearly. I am not going to chase after you again.

  Instead, I cleared the picnic table. Like I didn’t give a damn about them, or had even noticed them. Damn buzzing flies! Ketchup-soaked napkins, Caitlin’s shredded hamburger and bun. Smeared mayonnaise from the potato salad on all the plates. And the empty beer bottles, and tortilla chips crushed underfoot.

  I hate you so. Hate hatehate you so, wish you were both dead.

  I thought that I would behave responsibly, as Mom might do in such a situation. When Dad had said awful things to her, and made her cry, she’d retreat to the kitchen to clear away dishes, to clean up. Sometimes she’d scour the stained linoleum, squatting on her haunches on the floor.

  We avoided Mom at such times. Caitlin, Kyle, Steffi.

  Poor Mom! She’s pathetic.

  Just stay out of her way.

  Inside the kitchen I could watch them from a window. They were at the ravine now, just standing there. I tried to imagine what they were saying to each other but I could not. Without me, they would talk of things I could not imagine. This was so painful to me, I was drinking a second, maybe a third bottle of beer. The buzzing at the back of my head was louder now, and exuded a yellow light. Almost, I could see that light if I shut my eyes.

  I heard a shot—had to be Hunt with his rifle.

  Desperately I thought—I am not chasing after you. Not ever again.

  Upstairs in the big bedroom where Mom and Mr. Lesinger slept, on Mr. Lesinger’s side of the bed was the table, and inside the drawer was the gun.

  Never touch. Except emergency.


  I saw myself opening the drawer, and I saw my hand lift the gun out—it was heavy.

  Really, I was just watching. The buzzing at the back of my head had spread to the front part by my eyes and I was watching what I did through this buzz, that was like fluorescent lighting.

  The gun in my hand, .45-caliber automatic. There was something scary about it but comforting as well. Like, something so heavy in your hand, and your hand was given a certain distinction.

  If this was TV, or a movie close-up. The girl’s hand, and the girl herself, at which you wouldn’t wish to glance for more than a second, given a certain distinction.

  I did not think—Is the gun loaded? For some reason that thought did not occur to me at all, as I had not (somehow) thought that my sister and my cousin might’ve hidden from me in the basement TV room, when the door was right there around the corner.

  Some things, you just don’t think. Though later you would realize these were the first things that you should have thought.

  It seemed to take a long time to hike to the end of the field, that prissy Mr. Lesinger liked to call a lawn. The sun was hotter than before and my eyes were beginning to get blurry.

  Hunt and Caitlin weren’t at the ravine now but over by the lake standing in the marsh where cattails grew to the height of a man’s shoulders. There was trash here too, that had spilled over from the ravine in a heavy rainstorm. Hunt was sighting along the barrel of his rifle, aiming at something in the lake—a glittering patch of water. He fired, and Caitlin gave a little squeal of fright. But it was insincere fright you could see.

  Caitlin wasn’t eager now to take the rifle, I guess. She’d liked flirting with Hunt but when it came to actually taking the rifle from him, she wasn’t so sure.

  I called out to them, “Hey! Hi! Look what I have!”

  Hunter turned, and when he saw the gun in my hand he didn’t seem so welcoming as I had imagined. And Caitlin was looking shocked.

  I’d thought my cousin who loved guns would be impressed by this gun. I’d thought for sure he would be impressed with me.