Diane Davidson - The Grilling Season

I revved the engine, turned up Jacobean, and immediately knew something was wrong. I rolled down the window and tried to figure out what didn’t fit. The rhythmic, slushy beat of automated sprinklers buzzed across manicured green lawns. On both sides of the road bunches of trim aspens, conical blue spruces, and buttercup-flowered potentilla bushes were all picture-perfect. Picture-perfect except for one thing. In the ditch running beside Suz’s driveway, one of the landscape people had inconsiderately dumped one of the quartz boulders.

One of the quartz boulders? No.

I slowed the sedan, carefully set the parking brake, and got out of the car. Then, feeling faintly dizzy, I walked toward the ditch. Suz’s cheerily painted mailbox had been knocked or driven over and lay in the middle of the street. The block letters of the name Craig gleamed in white paint on the shiny black metal. I looked back at the ditch.

It was not a quartz boulder that lay in the dirt. It was Suz.

Oh God, I prayed, no.

I moved haltingly toward the ditch. Loosely clad in a terry-cloth bathrobe, the exposed parts of Suz’s slender body were blue and white. Her shapely legs were improbably skewed, as if she were running a race. Her blond hair, normally tied back in a pert ponytail, was soaked with mud. It clung to her face like seaweed. Her bruised arms hugged her torso, while her blue lips were set in a silent scream. She did not appear to be breathing.

What to do? Call somebody? Tom? No, no, no, there might be hope, if an ambulance could get here quickly. Plus, some logical voice whispered, I needed to call for help as if I didn’t have any idea as to what had happened. Which I didn’t. Which I did. Get into the car. Dial 911. A whirring noise in my ears made thinking difficult as I ran to the sedan. Too late, too late. Emergency Medical Services wouldn’t be able to do anything. I knew it even as my shaking fingers punched 911 and Send on the cell phone. The connection was not immediate, as frequently happens in the mountains. One second, two endless, endless seconds. There was no movement from the ditch. Very faintly, from a distant part of my brain, I could hear Tom’s voice.

He will go too for. Get caught. Be nailed.

3

I told the 911 operator who I was, where I was, and why I was calling. “She doesn’t seem to be alive,” I added. Did I know CPR? the operator wanted to know. No, no, I replied, sorry.

“Just stay were you are, the operator commanded.

For some reason I looked at my watch. Five to seven. I had to call Tom. Although I knew it would irritate the 911 operator, I disconnected and punched the digits for the personal line into our house.

“Schulz,” Tom barked into the phone.

“Listen, something’s happened…” This was a mistake. Even with the worst-case scenario, which I did not want to contemplate, I surely knew they would never assign this-what would he call it? – this matter, this incident, this case, to my husband.

“It seems… I didn’t … “

“Goldy,” Tom commanded, “tell me what’s going on. Slowly.”

“I … I was driving up Jacobean in the country-club area,” I began, and then told him bluntly exactly what I was looking at through the windshield – a young woman. Looked like Suz Craig, John Richard’s girlfriend. Lying half-dressed in a ditch. Not moving. Not breathing.

“Sit tight, ” he ordered. “If you see John Richard, or anyone, say nothing. If someone comes, get out of the car. Don’t let anybody near that ditch. I’ll be there before the ambulance. Fifteen minutes, maybe twenty. Goldy? I’ll be there.”

I closed the phone and felt relief. I scanned the quiet landscape and had a sudden memory of the time a live power line had snapped during a blizzard and landed on our street. Touching the wire meant sure electrocution. The most important job, the fire department had warned, was to keep people, especially children, away from the dark wire that had curved onto the street like a monstrous snake. And how similar was this situation? I couldn’t think. I only knew I had to keep prying eyes and intrusive, questioning people away from what lay in that ditch.

And speaking of children, I had to call Arch. Of course I couldn’t remember the number of the house where he was. People named Rodine. I called Information, got the number, and phoned. Gail Rodine didn’t sound too happy, but I told her tersely that there would be a delay before I arrived.

“I’m leaving to start setting up the doll show at ten,” Gail petulantly announced.”

“I’ll be there long before that,” I said, and disconnected before she could whine any more.

I peered out through the windshield of Tom’s car and wondered how long it would be before someone came along. Tom was right: Sit tight, he’d said. If someone saw me, a stranger, standing in the road looking out of place, that would excite curiosity. My heart quickened as the front door to one of the houses swung open. A chunky man in a dark bathrobe came out, bent to retrieve his newspaper without looking up the street, then waddled back through his columned entryway. I let out a breath of relief that I quickly gasped right back in as John Richard’s white Jeep roared into view from the opposite side of Jacobean.

What should I do? – Don’t let anybody near that ditch.

John Richard catapulted the Jeep up into Suz’s driveway. Apparently he’d taken no notice of Tom’s car or of me sitting in it. Springing from his own vehicle, John Richard turned and scanned the road. Did he hesitate and narrow his eyes when he saw the toppled mailbox, then my sedan? I couldn’t be sure. The soil between the house and the ditch had been churned up and heaped into a small hillock by the landscapers. The body in the ditch could not be seen from the house. At least I hoped it couldn’t. John Richard turned back to his Jeep, reached into the passenger-side seat, and pulled out a bunch of roses.

I’m going to be sick.

I knew without knowing what had happened. They’d fought.

You left, angry, thinking she was going to be just fine. You wanted her to recover, take aspirin, cry a little. You’d call later. But she stumbled out the door, looking for help. She fell into the ditch and died. And yet here you are with roses. You bought them at the grocery store this morning. The store is open all night and always helps you with your morning-after remorse. So here you ore, figuring you can just patch everything up.

Not this time.

I forced my leaden hand to open the sedan door. Fear pulsed through every nerve. But I’d told Tom I would keep people away from the ditch, and I had to do that. Even if that meant undergoing this most dreaded of confrontations.

John Richard had already bounded up to Suz’s door and was impatiently ringing the bell. He didn’t take any notice of me until I was almost by his side. Then he turned and faced me, and I prayed for strength: mental, spiritual, and physical. Especially physical.

By any panel of judges, John Richard would be declared one of the handsomest men to walk the earth. His wide, dark blue eyes regarded me as his angular face instantly assumed its familiar what-the-hell-do-you-want expression. The bunch of roses wobbled in his large, strong hand.

“Why are you here?” he demanded. “What’s your problem?” Of course, I couldn’t find my voice. When I didn’t respond immediately, he smirked. “Suz said you seemed real interested in her place. Smells a little bit like obsession to me.”

Don’t get into on argument.

“Well… I … uh,” I faltered. I looked at him warily. Was he going to lose his temper? Turn all that rage on me? In front of this upscale neighborhood with its watching windows? “I … was actually driving by … looking for you. I … didn’t want Arch to arrive at your place and have it be empty.” My voice sounded absurdly high.