Kathleen Hale - No One Else Can Have You

“The Kinko’s in Friendship?”

“Yup,” I say, and immediately regret it. If I’d said Nekoosa, it would have given me almost two hours—forty minutes each way—lots of time to snoop. Now I’ve probably got less than twenty.

Ralph is breathing heavily. I can hear the squeak of cardboard boxes and things crashing in the background. He must be going through his collectibles. Maybe he’s looking for something to bring me, maybe like a present or something—a peace offering—like old times?

“Call me when you get here and wait outside. I’ll come find you,” I say.

“Sounds just fine.” The front door bangs shut, and the porch creaks above me underneath his weight. Rain is pounding on the driveway. He’s dragging something heavy. He stomps down the steps with whatever he’s got clunking after him—and then there’s metal scraping on the front walk. I crawl to the edge of the porch and lie on my belly in the mud, watching his feet through the slats—trying to see what’s going on. There’s still a chance, I am thinking again, there’s still a chance that Ralph is good—that he is getting into his parents’ minivan to come and reassure me. It’s dark and I can barely see what he’s carrying. But then the moonlight catches the blade of the two-handed machete right before he chucks it in the car.

It’s better to just say, “Don’t come,” than to wait around in your heart for someone to bail, I think. Davey hasn’t called me back. He hates me, probably. So as I push open Ralph’s front door, I text him: “Never mind, I got it.”

Ralph just left to kill me with a giant machete and I’ve only got fifteen minutes so don’t bother would be too hard to explain in less than forty characters.

What happened with Ralph, anyway? Was it the way his parents died or the way he was raised? Violent deaths can make you violent, right? Or was it the video games? And the Johnstons weren’t ever very demonstrative people. I mean, they gave us food and cared for our lawn—and they never pressured Ralph to have a job—but they weren’t big huggers, or anything. Still, they were good people. Kind people. So was he always bad and I just never noticed?

“Anytime you need anything, we’re here,” Mrs. Johnston told me.

“Us and Ralph will always take care of you,” Mr. Johnston said.

I set the alarm on my watch to give myself a sense of time—but right away it’s clear that there’s too much to go through in fifteen minutes. All those boxes I passed on my way to and from the bathroom are stacked in towers all the way to the ceiling. I see one at the top that’s labeled Artifacts and try to grab at it, but I’m too short, and end up knocking over the whole stack. Ceramic, pink-cheeked figurines of children wearing lederhosen break at my feet.

Just then, headlights hit the front windows and Ralph’s minivan lurches up the driveway. I look at my watch: eleven minutes left. He couldn’t have gone to Kinko’s. Did he even drive off? I stumble over the mess I’ve made and claw my way up the stairs to his bedroom, then sprint past his bed and straight into his closet, slamming the door. It’s pitch-black in here and smells like a gym bag. Above me, rain pounds on the roof.

He could have just driven down the road, I realize, suspected something, sat and waited, then rolled back with his lights off and watched through the window for movement in the house. I wasn’t careful enough. All the lights were on in the front room; he could have seen me walking around from a block away.

I hear the front door opening.

“Kippy?” Ralph calls. His voice is cold again—loud and empty. I imagine him below me, turning off lights, tightening his grip on the machete. “Kippy, I know you’re in here, so perhaps you should please stop being such a little bitch, okay? I’m not going to hurt you as long as you’re a nice girl.”

My knees feel weak and I crouch lower in the closet, leaning back against what feels like a bookcase. There’s something tickling my cheek and I use my phone as a flashlight to look around. At first I think it’s some kind of costume—a Halloween beard, or something, with tinsel stuck between the hairs. But then I realize it’s human hair. More than a foot of brown curls tied with a bow and nailed to the bookshelf. Ruth’s hair, I know just by looking at it. I’m pretty sure I can even smell her shampoo, that peppermint-scented stuff she loved. What looks like tinsel is actually her necklace, the one I gave her for her birthday, the other half of our friendship heart. The one I thought she’d thrown away because they didn’t find it on her corpse.

I touch the hair and choke a little bit, scanning the rest of the closet with the light from my phone. I definitely don’t have enough sandwich bags for all this evidence. Ruth’s yearbook picture, photos from her Facebook page printed out in color, her face taped over all the heroines in comic books. I’m pressing End again and again to keep the phone screen lit, choking back sobs. There’s shriveled bits of bloody skin still clinging to her hair. Why didn’t I know he was creepy? Why didn’t I believe her when she said he was a freak?

Downstairs, I hear boxes rustling, the clinking of ceramic pieces being kicked across carpet.

“Kippy!” he roars. I feel a warm wetness streaming down my thighs and realize I’m wetting my pants.

“Shit,” I whisper, skimming tears off my cheeks. I start clicking through the contacts on my phone. Even if I called Dom now, he wouldn’t answer—he never picks up the freaking house line—I remember when hospice called us about Mom at night it was always me who rustled awake for the call. Nine-one-one would probably just put me through to whatever doofus is working at the police station. I stumble upon Sheriff Staake’s private number and press talk, drumming my fingers on my teeth. Pick up, pick up, pick up. The only thing I’ve got left is a man whose main goal in life is to catch me—well, catch me then.

“Who is this?” Staake demands. I can hear TV in the background.

“You’re awake,” I whisper. “Sheriff Staake, please, it’s me, Kippy.”

“Gosh darn it all, Bushman! I thought they’d fixed you up over there, how the hell’d you get a phone?”

“Sheriff, please.” I’m hiccupping softly, trying to stop crying so I can be understood. “I’m trapped in Ralph Johnston’s closet, he’s got all this stuff of Ruth’s. Tons of her hair, even. . . . He’s going to kill me, he’s looking for me.”

“My foot,” Staake says. “What they got you on, some kind of quaaludes? I’m hanging up.”

“Listen to me,” I hiss, and I can feel the tears drying on my face. “I know about Colt and Lisa, I know that’s what you’re mad about. Now you can keep on being mad about that, or you can come and frigging save me. Because if you’re wrong, I’m going to die, and then the whole town is going to hate you for letting two pretty girls with bright futures die.”

He doesn’t answer. The storm outside is getting louder.

“Come and arrest me then! I escaped Cloudy Meadows. I’m at Ralph Johnston’s.”

There’s creaking on the stairs. “He’s coming,” I whisper, and hang up, stuffing the phone in my back pocket. For the first time since Mom died and our pastor said that it was the thing we should do, I pray. Please God let this not happen, and if it does happen let it not be with the machete—

Beep!

Beep!

Beep!

It’s the alarm on my watch. Before I can silence it, footsteps are turning in the hallway, coming closer.

I am brave, I remind myself, remembering Ruth’s entry. One of the last things my best friend in the world ever thought about me was how brave I am.