pronouncing it Yosef the way all the Krugers did. He seemed more surprised than pleased. “Hullo there. What a surprise!”
I shook my head. Why would it be a surprise? I always came home from school.
I looked around him to see my mother laid up in the bed, the covers pulled tight to her throat. She withdrew one arm and extended her hand toward me.
“Come in, Joseph,” she said. “You are home early.”
“I’m not,” I said. “I always come home at this time.”
She frowned. “But your extra tutorial with Miss Webber—”
“Is on a Monday,” I interjected. “Today is Friday.”
She smiled. “Of course it is. How silly of me. Mr. Kruger here was just bringing me some soup.” She glanced toward the dresser, and there—in the clay pot that Mrs. Kruger sent over almost daily—was the soup. It looked untouched, the lid still firmly set.
“Oh,” I said.
“Well,” Mr. Kruger said, “I think it’s time I should be going. It was nice to see you, Joseph, as always. You should come over later and see Hans and Walter, yes?”
“Yes,” I said, still a little mystified.
Mr. Kruger snatched his jacket from the chair behind the door, and without putting it on he hurried past me and went down the stairs. I heard his footsteps as he crossed the tiled kitchen floor, and then the back door slammed abruptly. He had forgotten to say goodbye to my mother.
“Come to me,” she said. “Come and sit by me on the bed.”
I crossed the room. Everything smelled of lavender and boiled chicken.
“Sit here,” she said, and patted the mattress with her hand. “How was your day, Joseph?”
“I got a letter.”
“A letter?”
I nodded.
“A letter from whom?”
“From the people that judge the story competition in Atlanta.”
She sat up, her eyes wide, her expression one of intense interest.
“And?”
I withdrew the letter from my pocket and showed her.
She read it without speaking, and then she looked at me with tears in her eyes and reached out her hand. She laid her palm flat against the side of my face.
“My son,” she said, her voice a broken whisper. “You have found your vocation it seems.”
I shrugged.
“Don’t stop,” she said. “Don’t ever stop writing. This is the way the world will find out who you are.”
For some reason I felt like crying, but I did not.
I was thirteen, almost a man, and though both Miss Webber and my mother thought the letter a great deal more important than I did, it was nevertheless no reason to be sad.
I gritted my teeth. I lay down beside my mother, right there on the patchwork quilt, and closed my eyes.
She stroked the hair from my forehead, and then leaned down and kissed me.
“Your father would have been so proud,” she said. “His son, the writer.”
FIVE
T HE THIRD GIRL WAS ALL OF SEVEN YEARS OLD. SHE WAS FOUND ON Saturday, June seventh, 1941. Just as with Alice Ruth Van Horne and Laverna Stowell, she was left naked and beaten. Her name was Ellen May Levine. A wide and deep incision centered her body, as if someone had attempted to cut her in two. Perhaps they had started such a thing and could not bear to finish it.
I had known her less than three months. She had come all the way from Fargo, near the Suwannee River in Clinch County, to attend Miss Webber’s classes in March that year. She was found in a shallow grave no more than half a mile from our house, there in the trees at the edge of Gunther Kruger’s boundary.
Sheriff Haynes Dearing met with Sheriff Ford Ruby, and they drove over to meet with Clinch County Sheriff Burnett Fermor. Rumor had it that the three of them spent more than two hours together; they called for detailed maps of the three counties and at least two orders of sandwiches and coffee. When the meeting was done it seemed they were none the wiser than when they’d started, but at least they hadn’t argued about John Wesley and the scriptures.
More than a dozen men were deputized. They came with pickup trucks and
I shook my head. Why would it be a surprise? I always came home from school.
I looked around him to see my mother laid up in the bed, the covers pulled tight to her throat. She withdrew one arm and extended her hand toward me.
“Come in, Joseph,” she said. “You are home early.”
“I’m not,” I said. “I always come home at this time.”
She frowned. “But your extra tutorial with Miss Webber—”
“Is on a Monday,” I interjected. “Today is Friday.”
She smiled. “Of course it is. How silly of me. Mr. Kruger here was just bringing me some soup.” She glanced toward the dresser, and there—in the clay pot that Mrs. Kruger sent over almost daily—was the soup. It looked untouched, the lid still firmly set.
“Oh,” I said.
“Well,” Mr. Kruger said, “I think it’s time I should be going. It was nice to see you, Joseph, as always. You should come over later and see Hans and Walter, yes?”
“Yes,” I said, still a little mystified.
Mr. Kruger snatched his jacket from the chair behind the door, and without putting it on he hurried past me and went down the stairs. I heard his footsteps as he crossed the tiled kitchen floor, and then the back door slammed abruptly. He had forgotten to say goodbye to my mother.
“Come to me,” she said. “Come and sit by me on the bed.”
I crossed the room. Everything smelled of lavender and boiled chicken.
“Sit here,” she said, and patted the mattress with her hand. “How was your day, Joseph?”
“I got a letter.”
“A letter?”
I nodded.
“A letter from whom?”
“From the people that judge the story competition in Atlanta.”
She sat up, her eyes wide, her expression one of intense interest.
“And?”
I withdrew the letter from my pocket and showed her.
She read it without speaking, and then she looked at me with tears in her eyes and reached out her hand. She laid her palm flat against the side of my face.
“My son,” she said, her voice a broken whisper. “You have found your vocation it seems.”
I shrugged.
“Don’t stop,” she said. “Don’t ever stop writing. This is the way the world will find out who you are.”
For some reason I felt like crying, but I did not.
I was thirteen, almost a man, and though both Miss Webber and my mother thought the letter a great deal more important than I did, it was nevertheless no reason to be sad.
I gritted my teeth. I lay down beside my mother, right there on the patchwork quilt, and closed my eyes.
She stroked the hair from my forehead, and then leaned down and kissed me.
“Your father would have been so proud,” she said. “His son, the writer.”
FIVE
T HE THIRD GIRL WAS ALL OF SEVEN YEARS OLD. SHE WAS FOUND ON Saturday, June seventh, 1941. Just as with Alice Ruth Van Horne and Laverna Stowell, she was left naked and beaten. Her name was Ellen May Levine. A wide and deep incision centered her body, as if someone had attempted to cut her in two. Perhaps they had started such a thing and could not bear to finish it.
I had known her less than three months. She had come all the way from Fargo, near the Suwannee River in Clinch County, to attend Miss Webber’s classes in March that year. She was found in a shallow grave no more than half a mile from our house, there in the trees at the edge of Gunther Kruger’s boundary.
Sheriff Haynes Dearing met with Sheriff Ford Ruby, and they drove over to meet with Clinch County Sheriff Burnett Fermor. Rumor had it that the three of them spent more than two hours together; they called for detailed maps of the three counties and at least two orders of sandwiches and coffee. When the meeting was done it seemed they were none the wiser than when they’d started, but at least they hadn’t argued about John Wesley and the scriptures.
More than a dozen men were deputized. They came with pickup trucks and
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