Black-Eyed Susans Read Free Page B

cost a destitute old
     farmer his entire wheat crop and set the stage for the thousands and thousands of yellow
     flowers that covered the field like a giant, rumpled quilt.
    The fire also carved out our grave, an
     uneven, loping ditch. Black-eyed Susans sprung up and decorated it brazenly long before
     we arrived. The Susans are a greedy plant, often the first to thrive in scorched,
     devastated earth. Pretty, but competitive, like cheerleaders. They live to crowd out the
     others.
    One lit match, one careless toss, and our
     nicknames were embedded in serial killer lore forever.
    Bill, still in my bedroom, has shot Joanna a
     lengthy text, maybe because he doesn’t want to answer her questions on the phone
     in front of me. We meet her outside my window in time to watch her dip a vial into the
     black speckled dirt. The squiggly charm on her necklace, glinting in the sun, brushes a
     petal as she bends over. I still can’t recall the symbol’s meaning.
     Religious, maybe. Ancient.
    “He or she used something besides the
     dirt in the ground,” Joanna said. “Probably a common brand of potting soil,
     and seeds that can be picked up at Lowe’s. But you never know. You should call the
     cops.”
    “And tell them someone is planting
     pretty flowers?” I don’t want to sound sarcastic, but there it is.
    “It’s trespassing,” Bill
     says. “Harassment. You know, this doesn’t have to be the work of the killer.
     It could be any crazy who reads the papers.” It is unspoken, but I know. He is
     uncertain of my mental state. He hopes I have more than this patch of flowers under my
     window to bolster a judge’s belief in Terrell. A little part of him wonders
     whether I planted the flowers myself.
    How much do I tell him?
    I suck in a breath.
     “Every time I call the cops, it ends up on the Internet. We get calls and letters
     and Facebook crazies. Presents on the doorstep. Cookies. Bags of dog poop. Cookies
made
of dog poop. At least I hope it’s just dog poop. Any attention
     makes my daughter’s life at school a living hell. After a few years of beautiful
     peace, the execution is stirring everything up again.” Exactly why, for years, I
     told Angie no and no and
no.
Whatever doubts crept in, I had to push away. In
     the end, I understood Angie, and Angie understood me.
I will find another way,
she had assured me.
    But things were different now. Angie was
     dead.
    He’d stood under my window.
    I brush away something whispery threading
     its way through my hair. I vaguely wonder whether it is a traveler from
     Granddaddy’s basement. I remember sticking my hand blindly into that musty hole a
     few hours ago, and turn my anger up a notch. “The look on your faces right now?
     That mixture of pity and uneasiness and misplaced understanding that I still need to be
     treated like the traumatized sixteen-year-old girl I used to be? I’ve been getting
     that look since I can remember. That’s how long I’ve been protecting myself,
     and so far, so good. I’m
happy
now. I am not that girl anymore.” I
     wrap my long brown sweater around me a little more tightly even though the late winter
     sun is a warm stroke across my face. “My daughter will be home any minute, and
     I’d rather she doesn’t meet the two of you until I’ve explained a few
     things. She doesn’t know yet that I called you. I want to keep her life as normal
     as possible.”
    “Tessa.” Joanna ventures a step
     toward me and stops. “I get it.”
    There is such a terrible weight in her
     voice.
I get it.
Bombs dropping
one two three
to the bottom of the
     ocean.
    I scan her face. Tiny lines etched by other
     people’s sorrow. Blue-green eyes that have flashed on more horror than I could
     ever fathom. Smelled it. Touched it,
breathed
it, as it rained down in ashes
     from the sky.
    “Do you?” My voice is soft.
     “I hope so. Because I am going to be there when you excavate those two
     graves.”
    My daddy paid for their