Nicole Young - Love Me If You Must

I opened the paper. The front photo showed a collegian in a cap and gown. It was graduation time again. I folded the paper back up and set it on the nightstand. “Nothing too newsy today, Gram.”

“Good. That’s the way it should be.” She sipped her coffee, spry as ever. “I have a hankering for some chicken paprikash tonight.”

“Chicken paprikash it is, Gram.” My life revolved around her appetite. I would give her a bath this morning, head to work at the Foodliner for the afternoon shift while a neighbor sat in, then come home with the fixings to make her special request.

And we’d do it all again tomorrow. I looked over at the paper. A corner of it showed a woman’s smiling face under the black cap and tassel. It seemed that would never be me. Grandma was still kicking up her heels at life, no matter how bad she grumped about the way she felt. If I hadn’t seen the x-rays of her lung cancer myself, I would have thought she was just throwing a hypochondriac tantrum so I wouldn’t go back to college and leave her alone. Still, she’d made herself completely helpless. I had no choice but to stay home and care for her. How could I have done otherwise? She’d raised me when my mother died. I owed her everything. And if she wanted to die at home, surrounded by the only family she had left, then who was I to deny her?

I stumbled in a pothole. The ground in front of me came back into focus. I couldn’t feel my body as I crawled up the farmhouse steps. I banged on the storm door. The rattle of glass hurt my ears.

A woman answered. Her gray hair was pulled back in a bun. She wore a starched shirtdress. Everything about her reminded me of Aunt Bea. I only hoped her heart ran along the same lines.

“Merciful heavens,” she said. From the expression on her face, I knew I must look like Frosty the Snowman standing on her doorstep. She pulled me inside. Next thing I knew, I was in an old-fashioned farmhouse bathroom. The woman twisted the porcelain knobs of a claw-foot tub, then helped me out of my wet clothes.

“You just get yourself thawed out,” she said, leaving me alone.

I soaked in hot water, filling the tub with more as the temperature cooled, until the tank was exhausted. Feeling like a boiled jellyfish, I eased up out of the tub. I toweled off and wrapped myself in the terry robe hanging on the back of the door.

I walked out of the bathroom to thank my rescuer. Next to dear Aunt Bea on the stuffy Victorian love seat sat Officer Brad, sipping a cup of tea.

“Mrs. Westerman called in with a report of a half-frozen woman on her porch,” Brad said. “I never thought it would be you.”

His teacup clinked on the saucer as he set it down. He came to me and put his hands on my shoulders. “Are you okay, Tish?”

My mouth wouldn’t cooperate with my brain. My lips flapped senselessly. Then I burst into tears. Brad held me as I cried. His chest was warm against my face. His hands rubbed my back. His cheek rested on the top of my head.

“It was awful,” I said when I could speak. I looked up at him. “I got stuck up on the hill, then David tried to run me over. I jumped off the road and into the swamp so he wouldn’t kill me.”

Brad gave me a long look. “Tish. Where do you come up with this stuff? Just when I think you’re someone who’s got her life together, you pull something outrageous.”

I stepped away from him, slack jawed. “You think I’m lying? You think I jumped in that swamp just for thrills?”

“When did you say this happened?” Brad asked.

I calculated backward. “A little over an hour ago.”

He gave a condescending shake of his head. “David Ramsey couldn’t have been chasing you. An officer radioed in his name for a traffic violation earlier today. David was most likely still pulled over during the time you’re talking about.”

“Maybe you’re confused about the time. I know it was David. He was driving that silver hot-rod.” I could still see the sports car hunched at the top of the hill, chrome and glass glinting, just before it barreled toward me. “Aren’t you going to arrest him? I could have died today.”

“I don’t know what to tell you. What you’re saying sounds a little crazy.”

I poked a finger to his chest. “You’re the one that’s bonkers, here. David murdered Rebecca and buried her in my basement. I can prove it. And now he’s trying to kill me.” I stared at Brad. His brown eyes were filled with skepticism. “Aren’t you going to do anything about it?”

He stood silent. I humphed and shook my head, betrayed. “I can see I’m on my own. Which is just the way I like it.” I twirled and retreated to the bathroom.

I stuck my head out. “Mrs. Westerman? Could I have my clothes back, please?”

I locked the door and waited for my garments. In the meantime, I found a blow-dryer and took care of my hair. Brad certainly knew how to make me second-guess myself. I had been so sure the silver sports car had been the one from David’s garage. But from what Brad said, it couldn’t have been David.

But who else would try to kill me?

I found nail clippers in a drawer and did my toenails while I waited. Mrs. Westerman had tweezers too, so I attacked my eyebrows to pass time.

Fifteen minutes passed. Mrs. Westerman knocked on the door.

“Here are your clothes, dear,” she said.

I took my things, still warm from the dryer, and put them on.

Presentable once more, I walked out into the living room.

“Mrs. Westerman, I don’t know how to thank you for helping me today.” I ignored Brad.

“Win that election, dear. That will be thanks enough,” she said.

Brad leaned into my line of vision.

“I was telling Mrs. Westerman about your campaign plan,” he said.

“I’ve always wanted to enclose my front porch,” she said, “but the Historical Committee would never approve it. Officer Brad says you don’t mind altering historic details in favor of modern living.”

I thought about the magnificent front porch that made this farmhouse a classic beauty. I shuddered. I could never allow it to be marred with tacky screens and cheap storms.

“There are some projects that are certainly allowable in historic homes,” I said. Removing my cistern was one of them. Enclosing her front porch was not.

“Wonderful. You can look forward to my vote come January.” She shook my hand.

“Thank you, again, Mrs. Westerman.”

“I’ll drive you home, Tish,” Brad said.

I clenched my jaw, holding back words that would strand me west of Rawlings.

I followed him outside. I got in the police cruiser and slammed the door. I tuned out the obnoxious chirp of the two-way radio. Brad started the vehicle and shifted into drive.

“Do you want to see where my car is stuck, at least?” I asked as we approached the gravel road that led into the woods.

“Is it up that road?” Brad asked.

I nodded.

“Let me get you home so you can rest. You’ve been through quite an ordeal. It’ll be easier to check out your car and arrange for a tow truck once I know you’re safe.”

Safe at home. That was an oxymoron. But at least I’d have some time to work in the cistern. If I unearthed Rebecca, Brad would have to arrest David. The police officer couldn’t ignore concrete evidence forever.

Ten minutes later, Brad drove around the back of my place. He walked me up the porch.

“Stay warm. We don’t need you getting sick.” He touched my arm. “Call me if you have any problems.”

I nodded, then went in the house.

I made sure the lights of Brad’s squad car were out of sight before I headed down the basement steps.

I beat the chisel into the cement with heavy blows of the hammer. A sledge would have made the job easier, but with no car and no time to lose, my mini-version would have to suffice.