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Authors: Jennifer McMahon
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as that Griswold girl all those years ago. You remember that whole mess, I’m sure. You went to school with her, didn’t you?”
I nodded, felt the old sting of accusation. “We were in the same grade, but we weren’t really friends. I hardly knew her.” The old lie came easily, despite how many years it had been since I’d had to tell it.
“Yeah,” Jim continued, nodding, “what a mess that was. I remember how quick they were to point the finger at poor Nicky Griswold. But then they arrested one of the guys from up at New Hope, didn’t they? What was his name…I can’t think of it now. Oh well, it doesn’t matter. They had the wrong guy. Never did get the right one. Never did. Well, let’s see, that’ll be three eighty-nine,” Jim said, looking down at the cash register, turning back to business.
I found my mother studying the rack of magazines. She had a copy of Deer Hunter in her hands and was staring at the dead doe on the cover. A man in blaze orange was propping the gutted animal up like a tired dance partner about to do the last waltz.
“Come on, Ma. Let’s go home and make pancakes.”
“What’s happened to that girl?” my mother asked, and I realized she must have been listening.
“Nothing,” I lied. It’s just that we’ve been dropped into my own funny little idea of hell, but hey, what of it? We’ve got strawberry pancakes to make. My favorite. You remember.
My mother dropped the magazine back into the rack upside down and walked up to the group of men talking at the counter.
“What’s happened to that girl?” she demanded.
“Murdered,” the fat one said before Jim could get a chance to stop him.
“Poor thing,” my mother said and all three men nodded.
I took her arm and led her from the store.
I kept thinking about Opal, wondering how much of it she might have seen. I knew all too well how it felt to have your best friend brutally murdered. It was something you never got over.
“You knew her, didn’t you?” she asked as we were going out the door.
“Who?”
“The dead girl. You used to wait for the bus with her. All those mornings. Wasn’t she your friend?”
“No, Ma. Just a girl I knew. And that was a long time ago.”
“Poor thing.”
5
Early May, 1971
D EL AND I HAD BEEN ARGUING for days about whether or not I really lived in a tepee. In the end, I gave in and agreed to take her up the hill so she could see for herself.
“Now you’re not just a hippie but an Indian, is that it?” Del had asked during our argument.
“I’m not an Indian.”
“Your Ma an Indian?”
“Nope.”
“Your daddy?”
“I don’t have a daddy. We live with Mark in the tepee. Mark’s not an Indian, but he has an Indian name. Lazy Elk.”
“That’s about the dumbest thing I ever heard. Hippies don’t make no sense at all.”
It had crossed my mind over the previous weeks that I should invite Del home in some legitimate way—my mom would have been thrilled for me to bring someone home, even creepy, scrawny Del Griswold. My mother often asked how things were going at school, if I was making friends.
“Sure,” I lied. “Lots of friends.”
“What are their names?”
“Well,” I said, chewing my lip for inspiration, “my two best friends are these girls Ellie and Sam.”
“What about that girl down the hill? The little Griswold girl?”
“Oh, we’re not friends.”
“Why not?”
“She’s kinda creepy. The kids all call her the Potato Girl.”
My mother made a tsk-tsk sound and shook her head.
“I hope you don’t call her that.”
“No. Never.”
My mother smiled and ruffled my hair. I was her good girl, friends with the popular, bright-faced kids, knowing better than to make fun of outsiders.
Still, I wondered what it might be like to bring Del to New Hope. I tried to imagine her sitting down to communal dinner in the big barn, tried to picture how she might look as Gabriel served her a wooden bowl full of lentil soup. She would make
I nodded, felt the old sting of accusation. “We were in the same grade, but we weren’t really friends. I hardly knew her.” The old lie came easily, despite how many years it had been since I’d had to tell it.
“Yeah,” Jim continued, nodding, “what a mess that was. I remember how quick they were to point the finger at poor Nicky Griswold. But then they arrested one of the guys from up at New Hope, didn’t they? What was his name…I can’t think of it now. Oh well, it doesn’t matter. They had the wrong guy. Never did get the right one. Never did. Well, let’s see, that’ll be three eighty-nine,” Jim said, looking down at the cash register, turning back to business.
I found my mother studying the rack of magazines. She had a copy of Deer Hunter in her hands and was staring at the dead doe on the cover. A man in blaze orange was propping the gutted animal up like a tired dance partner about to do the last waltz.
“Come on, Ma. Let’s go home and make pancakes.”
“What’s happened to that girl?” my mother asked, and I realized she must have been listening.
“Nothing,” I lied. It’s just that we’ve been dropped into my own funny little idea of hell, but hey, what of it? We’ve got strawberry pancakes to make. My favorite. You remember.
My mother dropped the magazine back into the rack upside down and walked up to the group of men talking at the counter.
“What’s happened to that girl?” she demanded.
“Murdered,” the fat one said before Jim could get a chance to stop him.
“Poor thing,” my mother said and all three men nodded.
I took her arm and led her from the store.
I kept thinking about Opal, wondering how much of it she might have seen. I knew all too well how it felt to have your best friend brutally murdered. It was something you never got over.
“You knew her, didn’t you?” she asked as we were going out the door.
“Who?”
“The dead girl. You used to wait for the bus with her. All those mornings. Wasn’t she your friend?”
“No, Ma. Just a girl I knew. And that was a long time ago.”
“Poor thing.”
5
Early May, 1971
D EL AND I HAD BEEN ARGUING for days about whether or not I really lived in a tepee. In the end, I gave in and agreed to take her up the hill so she could see for herself.
“Now you’re not just a hippie but an Indian, is that it?” Del had asked during our argument.
“I’m not an Indian.”
“Your Ma an Indian?”
“Nope.”
“Your daddy?”
“I don’t have a daddy. We live with Mark in the tepee. Mark’s not an Indian, but he has an Indian name. Lazy Elk.”
“That’s about the dumbest thing I ever heard. Hippies don’t make no sense at all.”
It had crossed my mind over the previous weeks that I should invite Del home in some legitimate way—my mom would have been thrilled for me to bring someone home, even creepy, scrawny Del Griswold. My mother often asked how things were going at school, if I was making friends.
“Sure,” I lied. “Lots of friends.”
“What are their names?”
“Well,” I said, chewing my lip for inspiration, “my two best friends are these girls Ellie and Sam.”
“What about that girl down the hill? The little Griswold girl?”
“Oh, we’re not friends.”
“Why not?”
“She’s kinda creepy. The kids all call her the Potato Girl.”
My mother made a tsk-tsk sound and shook her head.
“I hope you don’t call her that.”
“No. Never.”
My mother smiled and ruffled my hair. I was her good girl, friends with the popular, bright-faced kids, knowing better than to make fun of outsiders.
Still, I wondered what it might be like to bring Del to New Hope. I tried to imagine her sitting down to communal dinner in the big barn, tried to picture how she might look as Gabriel served her a wooden bowl full of lentil soup. She would make
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