Sigh

            by Arielle Usher

 

            I first saw her one Tuesday morning when I staggered into the office late and exhausted. My bleary, bloodshot eyes scanned the front lobby. Somehow I had forgotten who I was or where I was supposed to be going – did I turn right or left? I stared and squinted, and slowly she came into focus. She was sitting to the left, sitting behind a large oak desk – curly blond hair, big blue eyes, thin white t-shirt, beautiful. Just sitting there, typing up a business letter, her long turquoise nails clacking away at the keyboard like there was no tomorrow, like she had always been right there. I turned right.

            Later I stopped by Bill’s office. Through the slightly open door I could see him sitting, his head resting on the newspaper-littered surface of his desk. I knocked softly on the doorframe. He looked up at me, let out a long sigh and started rubbing his temples.

            “You too?” I asked. “Try a vicodin.”

            “What I need is morphine.” I smiled indulgently as he laughed and then groaned, dropping his head back onto his desk.

I had known Bill Kelley ever since I first started working at the Peoria Gazette. Young and fresh and just out of college, I had jumped on the job when it was offered – editor-in-chief for small start-up newspaper, even though the staff at the beginning was only Bill and myself. Peoria had not had a local paper since 1912, but Bill thought the time was ripe for the small town to take an interest in itself. My eyes had been clouded with opportunity, my skin fresh with dew and optimism; I was sure it was only the beginning. Ten years later, I was still editor-in-chief, and it was still only Bill and myself. We shared an office suite with Andy Gillis, Attorney at law, because that is all we could afford. There was simply no news to sell.

            “Any news?” I asked. This was my habitual morning greeting, and was in turn habitually met by a lackluster shake-of-the-head from Bill, suffering from his habitual migraine. But today Bill raised his head from his desk with noticeable effort, shaking off the inertia of reality. He smiled vaguely and grabbed at the papers on his desk, papers I had always suspected had been there since the start of time, would be there to witness Armageddon.

            “News, my friend,” he said as he waved one sheet out for me to grab. It was a police report from the Homicide Unit, and read:

Local Girl Hannah Bailey, 25, found murdered in her apartment at 3:30 pm yesterday afternoon. The victim appeared to have been killed by asphyxiation at 2 am that morning. No fingerprints found. No leads.

I looked up at Bill and raised my eyebrows.

            “Good new?” I asked.

            He nodded furiously, his smile clearer all the time. “You know what this means?”

            “What?”

            He was ecstatic. “We can go to print today. Let them know, will you?” I nodded and turned to leave. ‘Them’ was the old man who ran the copy shop on Sanders Avenue, our printer. I never enjoyed taking our measly offerings of news to him in his small, grungy store. The man was plagued by senility and bad breath.

As I walked down the hall I clutched the paper detailing Hannah Bailey’s death in one hand and my stomach in another. Hannah Bailey – She was the waitress at The Chestnut over on Gunner Street. My dirty sneakers squeaked on the cheap linoleum of the hallway. My greasy hair shone in the cheap florescent lights. I corrected myself; she had been.

            That morning was uncommonly busy and I almost forgot about her. But when I walked through the lobby once more to get lunch, I peered through the glass wall and remembered. The new girl, who looked like strawberry shortcake. She pursed her lips as I watched her, soft, pink, amazing. I gazed at her, still typing away, as I walked slowly towards the door and then slammed straight into it. There was a resounding clunk as my skull cracked against the leaded glass, and pain blossomed directly above my right eye. The clacking from the desk abruptly halted – she had seen my crash. She came running, all the way around the glass partition and to my side as I tenderly rubbed my head; I felt like Bill and his headaches. I looked at her and found myself speechless. She was chewing cinnamon gum.

            “Are you okay?” she asked. She was frowning, concerned, and she reached her hand up to stroke my forehead. It brushed my own and she quickly pulled it back.

            “Uhh, ermm,” I muttered, and then cleared my throat and tried to flash her a charming smile. “Yes. Did it really look that bad?” She giggled, showing her white teeth.

            “I’m Charlene,” she said. It sounded like a sigh, Charlene.

            I invited her to lunch. It was November, and a chilly wind disturbed the few red and gold leaves that still clung to the oak and maple trees lining the street. Charlene shivered as we walked, and I offered her my jacket. She took it and smiled shyly up at me as she draped it across her shoulders, peeking through her eyelashes. I held her gaze, one two three, and she blushed and looked down. Then I smiled too. I hadn’t thought she would be so much shorter than me, but the top of her head only reached my shoulders, her curls brushing against my tee shirt. She looked at me again and bit her lip, her face full of optimism and energy and fresh life. I wondered if I had ever looked like that.

Over greasy chow mien and flat diet Pepsi she told me that she had moved into town barely two months ago.

            “Why?” I asked, incredulous.

            “Well why do you live here?” she shot back.

            “That’s different, I was born here. I have spent my whole entire life within thirty miles of this crappy Chinese restaurant.”

            “Yes, exactly!” Charlene leaned forward excitedly, expectantly. “See, that’s how it was for me, too. All my life I lived in Sommerton, that’s in Arizona, with my parents no less, and one day I just woke up and needed a change. I needed to live my life, you know?”

            “And so you chose Peoria.”

            “Well yeah,” she said softly. She looked into my eyes, sincere and intense. “I had to start somewhere. And besides,” she smiled, “It’s turning out alright, I think.”

            She was innocence embodied. She was a new start, bright blue eyes, pink lips. She was cinnamon gum; I wanted more.

            Sometimes things go exactly as you wish they would. Something in the way she smiled at me over lunch, in the way she stroked my arm as we walked back to the office, in the way she looked at me through the glass partition each time I passed through the lobby the rest of the day told me we both had the same thing in mind. She was waiting for me in the employee parking lot at 7 when I got off work, leaning up against a beautiful black BMW.

            “That’s not my car,” I said.

            “Oh…” It was a quick, exhaling sound. She pushed herself up quickly, looking embarrassed. “Well, I took a guess.”

            “Mine is just over here,” I gestured. She followed me as I walked to the far corner of the lot, walking just behind my left shoulder. I felt her breath on the back of my neck, moist in the dry evening. We got to my car; a more subdued 1990 Honda Civic, in cherry red. I jangled my keys in my hand looking for the right one and then held the passenger door open for her. She stepped in gracefully.

            Mine was the only car on River Road that evening, which was not a surprise. Mine was usually the only car on River Road. I drove just below the speed limit, trying to concentrate on the flat expanse ahead of me but distracted by Charlene. I kept catching glimpses of her out of the corner of my eye; she sighed, then she leaned forward, then she licked her pink lips and said, “This is better than any BMW.” I was touched by her sweetness, her naiveté.

            “So what are you up for tonight?” I asked then, once more confident in the role I was to play.

            “Oh, well, there’s this place I was at the other night, over on Gunner Street?”

            I looked at her sharply. “The Chestnut?”

            “Yeah,” Charlene answered. “I was trying to get a job there, but…” she looked down, “they said there wasn’t an opening.”

            “No. People here tend to keep their jobs for life. Nothing ever changes.” Again I focused on the road, frowning.

            “Yeah right,” Charlene said brightly. “I noticed that. I was lucky Mr. Gillis took pity on me. I don’t think he needs a receptionist.”

            I knew Andy Gillis, Attorney at law, didn’t need a receptionist, for the same reason Bill and I didn’t need a receptionist. But it was easy to see why he wanted one like Charlene. It had something to do with the smell of cinnamon, and the pair of legs crossing and uncrossing in the seat next to me.

            I turned onto Gunner Street and pulled up in front of The Chestnut and sat for a few seconds in the dark, side by side. I was stuck by the familiarity of this all, a vague memory of sitting next to a girl in front of this coffee shop. But it hadn’t been Charlene, and her brand-newness struck me as well.

            When we did get out of the car and walked inside I again held the door for her. Following her in I was surprised to see rows of empty booths in the dim light. There was nobody there, and Charlene looked at me quizzically. The floors were freshly mopped, the bar clean, and the place seemed, except for the door opened wide to the night behind me, to have closed early. It was cold inside, and eerie. I had never seen The Chestnut empty. I walked over to the bar, Charlene clutching at my arm, and called out, “Hello?” There was no answer. I glanced at Charlene. “Helloo,” I said again, louder this time. Behind me Charlene gasped, and I whirled around to see a man walking through a door marked ‘Gentlemen’.

            “Sorry,” he said, wiping his bald head with a dirty cloth and gripping a mop in his other hand. “Didn’t hear you two come in.” He began to swipe at the already gleaming floor, his back to us. Like the empty bar, I had never seen this man either. But he must have worked here for a while; he must have lived here his whole life. We all had.

            “Ummm,” Charlene murmured. The man turned to us again, large stomach flopping lazily two seconds after the rest of him.

            “Closed early tonight,” he grumbled. “Not enough help, you see.”

            “What?” Charlene said, confused. “What happened to…” she looked quickly at me. “I mean, I thought you had a full-time waitress?”

            “Did, yeah,” the man said. “But she died.” He looked at Charlene with narrowed eyes and leaned forward on his mop until he was inches away from her. Shadows caught in the creases of his forehead, around his eyes. “Murdered.”

            In the silence that ensued the two of then stood there, face to face in the dim light, Charlene with her mouth open in horror and the man scowling fiercely at her. I noticed that they were the same height and almost laughed, catching myself at the last second. The man looked away first.

            “We could use another waitress,” he mumbled, going back to his mopping. “If you ever need a job. Pretty thing like you, do well in a place like this, if you know how to keep your head.”

            Charlene’s hand, still laying on my bicep, clutched tightly at these words. I winced in pain as her nails dug into my flesh.

            “Sorry to have disturbed you,” I told him, gently prying Charlene’s hand from my arm and leading her out the door. “We’ll just show ourselves out.” The man grunted in reply, but we were already outside. Charlene looked up at the sky and blinked rapidly, her blue eyes bright indigo in the falling light.

            I remembered as I watched her the Police Report from that morning, because of course it was Hannah Bailey the man had been talking about. I remembered Hannah Bailey; pretty dark eyes, short brown hair. She had served me coffee on countless occasions. I imagined her two nights ago, coming home to her familiar apartment after work. I imagined that an unwelcome guest waiting in the shadows next to her door. I imagined her body lying in the morgue. Asphyxiation, the report had said. Did she have dark purple bruises circling her neck?

            “Did you know her?” Charlene asked me softly.

            “No,” I said. I hadn’t, really.

            “I didn’t either,” she said quickly. I looked at her again, and then up into the sky. The first star blinked on.

We ended up at my apartment. Much later, after all that followed naturally, my eyelids were just beginning to droop, a snow-screen of static was falling over my mind, and the roaring buzz of almost-sleep whispered in my ears. We were lying close together in bed and I remember that the sheets were dirty, sweaty and rumpled under me.  She shifted and sat up suddenly, the moonlight peering in through the open window illuminating her profile, the curve of her spine. She turned to me then, slowly, and smiled softly. She leaned in over my torso, suddenly so close. My eyelids snapped open. In the light her smile was unreadable and her eyelashes left spidery shadows on her cheeks. She smelled like cinnamon and sweat.  She said, “Have you ever killed anyone?” Her voice was raspy. I opened my mouth to answer but nothing came out; instead I took a breath and it caught in my throat. Her eyes looked black under her lashes and her smile was gone now. I told her quickly that no, I had never killed anyone. Of course not. She leaned in even closer, one hand on my chest and the other stroking up my left arm.

            “Have you ever thought about killing someone?” Had I? Had she? Her voice was low and throaty, almost a growl. I stared up at her; she terrified me. Then she laughed, soft and delicious, and a shiver ran up my spine and down my arm where she stroked it.

            The next morning I felt different. I felt…unsettled, like a chicken startled suddenly awake in the night by the skittering footsteps of a wily fox. I felt ruffled. After 32 years one comes to expect all the same faces, the same conversation, the same news. And now: a murder, a seductively unknown newcomer, and a question in the night that rattled around in my skull.  As I drove Charlene to her place, a small pink house on Sylvia Street, I couldn’t help but see murder in her baby blue eyes and blood underneath her long, clenching nails. She was silent in the passenger seat, odd after our intimacy but not surprising, as we had only met the day before.

            From Sylvia I went straight to the office, thoughts tumbling over each other all the way. It was 6 am and the parking lot was empty, the double office dark. I let myself in through the back door with my key, walked lightly through the lobby and past the glass partition to the door marked Andy Gillis, Attorney at Law. I gripped the knob, clod brass in my hand, and turned. The door swung open – Andy wasn’t afraid of thieves.

            His office was cool and ordered, the rising sun throwing soft light up through the half-closed Venetian blinds that lined his two windows. I only had to take one cursory glance around the room before spotting it: Personnel file, Charlene Culling. It was right in the center of his desk, and open, no less. I grabbed it up excitedly, my hot sweating hands almost irreparably crunching the papers inside. The sounds they made rubbing together set my teeth on edge. I scanned her resume – home schooled, no college, 15 years working as a secretary for her father. Then I pulled out her health records – 25 years old, no life-threatening diseases, no allergies. Then there, down at the bottom of the page and written in second hand ink, was what I had been looking for – history of mental illness, violence, 3 suicide attempts. Thought I had expected this, hoped for it even, it all seemed too easy, too perfect, like an old detective show. The headline unfurled in my mind like a royal carpet: Newcomer with History of Mental Illness Murders Hannah Bailey in Jealous Rage. And then I thought I heard a step behind me, and the curving shadow of Charlene, and suddenly I couldn’t believe my own audacity. I snapped the papers back into order, placed the folder on the desk and left in a flurry of tingling suspicion and fear, locking the back door behind me as I walked out into the early morning. At 9:30 I called Bill from my apartment and told him I was taking a sick day.

            The mind is a powerful instrument, a weapon of mass persuasion. I had all but convinced myself, as I walked into the office the following morning, that I had uncovered the truth in Andy’s office. And as I walked down the hallway under fluorescent lights to Bill’s office, I knew what was to unfold like the back of my palm, the way I knew yellow caution tape lined the small pink house on Sylvia Street. Through his slightly open office door I could see him sitting, his head resting on the newspaper-littered surface of his desk. I knocked softly on the doorframe. He looked up at me, let out a long sigh and started rubbing his temples.

            “Any news?” I asked.

            “News, yes,” he answered. “Again.” He handed me a paper. I knew what it was before it even touched my fingertips – a police report from the homicide unit, and it read:

Charlene Culling found dead in her home at 3:30 pm yesterday afternoon. The 25 year old native of Sommerton Arizona was found with a gun in her right hand, apparently having committed suicide. Also found, a note signed by the deceased, admitting to having murdered one Hannah Bailey on Monday, three days ago. Time of death appeared to be 8 am yesterday morning.

I looked at Bill and licked my dry lips, once.

            “I’ll let them know, then?”

Normal returned for me very quickly, and I reveled in exchanging words with Bill, in drinking coffee in The Chestnut where a new waitress, a girl who had recently graduated high school, filled Hannah Bailey’s shoes very nicely. As for the town of Peoria, it felt the same, even if it was at a loss for a few faces. But we forgot easily. This is what I forgot: Charlene opening the door of her house, painted pink like her lips, painted pink like her freshly scrubbed cheeks, the morning after I read her file. Her smile as she invited me inside, plump and soft, the cold weight of the gun behind my back, secret power, the sound of her skull being shattered, the drips of blood on her floor, and the pre-written note placed gently on her table. These memories faded even faster than the one of Hannah Bailey, the feel of my hands around her neck, her bulging brown eyes. These memories, they receded and drifted away, like their names. Hannah, Charlene, soft sighs on my lips, gone before my next breath.