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Thud

Deborah Reed

    Guess you think you’re smart cause you caught me. But you didn’t catch me, did you? Not really. You just found me after Frankie ratted on me. But I can tell you one thing, Mr. High and Mighty Detective, Frankie didn’t tell you the truth about what happened that day. If he had, you wouldn’t be talking to me now, wouldn’t be considering me a suspect at all. So to answer your question, Mr. Detective, no, I don’t mind talking to you, but you’re going to get the whole story, not just pieces of it that don’t really explain why I did what I did...not Frankie’s altered version of it—the one, I’m sure that makes me look like the bad guy. So you go ahead and get your little pad and pencil out. Get ready to hear the reaal story. Then we’ll see who’s telling the truth and who isn’t.

     I was spending part of my summer vacation at my grandma’s house when it happened. Her name is Pearl Marie Johnson and she lives on County Road 86, right down the street from the old high school. But you already know that, don’t you? That part of that county falls under your jurisdiction and you pretty much know everyone that lives there. Well, you might know some things, Mr. Detective, like the persons involved, and the bare bones of the story, but you don’t know why I was visiting my granny, do you, and it never occurred to you to ask. All you had to do was look at how bad my home life was and you’d understand. The two weeks I spent every summer at Granny’s was the only thing that kept me going the rest of the year. When your daddy’s dead and your mama’s a falling down drunk your life is one crisis after another and if you’re the oldest child, well, you’re only one around to cope. So while you’re listening to my story, keep in mind I was only a child at the time—a very troubled, unhappy child.
    What woke me up that morning, the day it happened, was the thud thud of the wringer washing machine outside my bedroom window. The room was chilly—Granny’s house had only one small heater and that was in the living room. But I wasn’t worried about the early-morning frost on the ground or the fact that it would be a good two hours before the day warmed up enough to play outside. I was toasty warm, safe and secure under the heavy homemade quilt on my granny’s bed. I turned over and looked outside to see Granny only yards away, right outside the window, feeding wet clothes into the wringer.
    “Granny,” I yelled, then grinned when she gave a startled jump. She leaned over to peer through the tattered window screen.
    “Go back to sleep, child, it’s barely seven o’clock.”
    “I have to go to the bathroom.”
    She returned to the washer, the thudding noise resumed. “Then go.”
    “It’s too cold.”
    Granny disappeared from sight for a moment as she bent to pick up the laundry basket, then reappeared with the heavy basket resting on her hip.
    “I’ll hang these and then light the oven for biscuits. Kitchen’ll be warm soon enough. Go pee real quick and then get back in bed.”
    But the floors, I knew, would be icy cold under my bare feet and my need wasn’t yet quite critical enough to brave the cold walk from the bedroom to the bathroom, so I snuggled once again under my cozy quilt and dozed on a sweet cloud of contentment. I’m at Granny’s house, my sleeping self told me, and I have the entire two weeks ahead of me. I must have slept for about fifteen minutes because the next thing I knew Granny was standing by the bed.
    “You want bacon or sausage with your biscuits, child?”
    “Bacon,” I said, and then, before I could talk myself out of it, flung the quilt aside and put my feet on the floor. The bathroom was even colder than the bedroom, but by the time I peed and then got dressed, the oven had taken the chill out of the kitchen. I had just finished my breakfast when Frankie knocked on the back door. And of course he Jane with him.
    Now, Frankie is the same age as me, not even a month older, and his life wasn’t much better than mine, only his mama wasn’t a drunk. She didn’t even have that excuse for being a lousy mother, she just was. She didn’t give a flip about Frankie or his little sister, and if any parenting was to be done, it had to be done by Frankie. I’m not excusing Frankie for what he did that day, but the truth is that if he had had a decent mother, none of this would’ve happened. Frankie was ten at the time, like me, and Jane was six, and from the time she learned to walk she was attached to Frankie at the hip—he couldn’t go anywhere without her. She was about as spoiled as anyone could be, everything always had to go her way. She thought she was a little princess and the rest of us her subjects.
    The moment she walked in the door, Jane started demanding things. She wanted breakfast, Granny should fry up another pan of bacon just for her...she wanted all three of us to play paper dolls with her...she wanted an empty coffee can, one with a lid, so she gather acorns.... Little brat, to this day, even after what happened to her, I still remember how much I hated her. Every summer, it was the same thing—she would practically ruin my entire visit because if I wanted to play with Frankie I had to put up with her.
    Frankie was looking all sheepish and apologetic during all this, like he always did when Jane was pitching one of her hissy fits, and I was thinking I was glad to see him, but why, why, did he always have to have Jane with him? But Frankie had a piece of good news that day—Jane might be going with Aunt Maude to visit her grandma.
    “Might?” I asked him. “Is she going or isn’t she?”
    Well, it turns out that Jane had planned on going, even brought her suitcase, which was right outside the door. But when they passed Granny’s house on the way to Aunt Maude’s, Frankie had made the mistake of mentioning my visit, and Jane had decided that maybe seeing me would be more fun than going to her grandma’s with her aunt. Bottom line: maybe she’d go or maybe she’d stay, she was still deciding.
    I glanced at Jane as Frankie was explaining this and barely resisted the urge to slap the smug look off her face. Although she was only six, she was very well aware of the fact that I detested her, that I fervently wished she would go to her grandma’s and let me enjoy my time with Frankie. It turned out that Aunt Maude was leaving at the stroke of nine, Jane or no Jane, and my guess was that Aunt Maude didn’t enjoy Jane’s company any more than the rest of us and was looking for any excuse to leave her behind.
     I sent a pleading look to Granny, the only adult the room, the only one who could perhaps salvage this situation.
    Granny spanned the short distance between the sink and the kitchen table. Frankie and I looked at her hopefully as she perched on the edge of the remaining chair.
    “Jane, you know your grandma’s looking forward to your visit. Why, I expect she’s got all sorts of treats already bought for you. Pretty dresses, toys...”
    “Dolls,” I interjected.
    Granny nodded. “I seen that pretty doll she bought you last summer. I bet she’s got one even prettier lined up for you this year.”
    Frankie shifted restlessly. “We gotta hurry, Jane, it’s getting close to nine.”
    I shot a quick glance at the kitchen clock. Eight twenty five, time was running out.
    “Okay, Jane,” I rose from the table and walked to the kitchen door as if the decision had already been made. “Let’s leave now and we can gather acorns while we walk.”
    Frankie, too, hopped up from the table. “You got an old coffee can or something, Miss Pearl? Has to be pretty big, lot’s of acorns between here and Aunt Maude’s.”
    Granny leapt to her feet. “Got one that’s just the right size, still has the lid and everything. Jane, you can carry the can. Frankie or Pammy’ll carry your bag for you.”
    Jane, still at the table, glanced at us suspiciously, then shrugged.
    “Fine,” she said imperiously. “we’ll gather the acorns, but I still haven’t decided whether I’m going or not.”
    There was still a little nip in the summer morning air as the three of us set out walking, but by the time we had gone about a half a mile, I could feel the promise of the heat that would arrive about mid-afternoon. The walk seemed to take forever and I was aware of the minutes ticking away as Jane stopped every minute or so to pick up acorns. Frankie and I took turns carrying the heavy bag, talking incessantly about Jane’s upcoming trip as if there were no doubt that she was actually going. Jane, however, seemed to see through this little ploy. “Still haven’t decided,” she would say, then grin at the expression on our faces.
    Okay, Mr. Detective, we’re at the part you want to hear about. My guess is that you will discover that my version, the true one, will differ from the one Frankie told you. Now you’re going see just whose fault it really was.
    We were getting close to Aunt Maude’s house, only a few minutes before the ten o’clock deadline, when Jane spotted an old well a few feet from the side of the road. She stopped abruptly, sat the half-full can on the ground, and pointed at it.
    “Wanna walk on the well.”
    Frankie and I, too, stopped in mid-step.
    “You want to do what?” Frankie asked.
    “You can’t walk on a well, Jane,” I said, my heart sinking. In the time it took to argue, Aunt Maude would be long gone.
    “I can walk around the top of it, seen kids do that in the movies. Just lift me up and let me walk around it a couple of times.”
    Frankie set the bag on the ground as he and I shared a resigned look. As usual, the easiest thing to do was to simply let Jane have her way.
    “A coupla times around, Jane, then you go to Aunt Maude’s without arguing.” Frankie said. “You gotta promise.”
    “Sure,” the little liar answered—promises, she knew, were easy to break.
    Jane was easy to lift and Frankie held her hand as they circled the lip of the abandoned well. I stood nearby, tapping my foot, peering at the rising sun. The summer morning was warming rapidly, it was getting close to nine, and if Jane didn’t get off that well, my entire visit with Granny would be ruined.
    “Frankie!” I yelled. And that’s when it happened.
    When Frankie turned at the sound of my voice, he swung Jane off balance. For a split second she teetered on the edge, swiveling her arms wildly, on the verge of falling, not the few feet to safe ground, but in the other direction—into the deep, abandoned well.
    “Don’t let go!” I screamed to Frankie. But he did.

    I remember thinking how deep that old well was because it took forever to hear the splash. But it wasn’t really a splashing sound we heard, Mr. Detective, it was more like a thud. That well must have been virtually dry and the thud I heard was the sound of Jane’s bones breaking.
    I ran to the well and peered into it, but Frankie just stood there, his eyes staring blankly at the horizon.
    “Jane!” I screamed. “Jane, answer me! Dear God, if you can hear me, say something!”
    “She ain’t gonna answer,” Frankie said, his voice flat and emotionless. “She can’t, she’s dead.”
    I grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him viciously. He didn’t even flinch. Although his head was bobbing violently, he continued to stare ahead vacantly.
    “Frankie, listen, we’ve got to get help!”
    “Won’t do no good,” he answered tonelessly. “She’s dead.”
    I released my hands from Frankie’s shoulders and began to wring them helplessly. I had no idea what to do now that this ordinary summer morning had turned into such a disaster. I knew Frankie was right—Jane was dead; she was alive only a minute ago and now she was dead.
    I took Frankie’s head in my hands and stared at him until he made eye contact. “Frankie, listen, we’ve got to get help.”
    “We call for help,” he answered in his flat voice, “cops’ll come, people’ll ask questions. They’ll blame us for what happened.”
    “But I didn’t do anything!”
    “Won’t matter, your mama’ll still make you come home.”
    Oh my God she will, I remember thinking. She’ll be happy for the excuse to make me come home, to cope with the things she can’t cope with, to handle the problems that she can’t. I’ll wake up tomorrow morning, not in Granny’s bed, looking forward to a day of blissful peace, but at home, the last place I wanted to be. I let go of Frankie’s head and stared at the sky as I tried to think. There was only one way to go here, I finally concluded.
    “How long was Jane going to stay at her grandma’s?” My question was almost a whisper.
    Frankie’s eyes lost their vacant look. He pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Week, maybe little longer.”
    There was a moment of silence. Frankie looked downward, scuffling his feet on the dusty ground.
    “And how often does your Mama phone to check on her?”
    Frankie didn’t even look up as he gave a little snort. The answer, of course, was that she wouldn’t put herself out any to check on her at all.
    Frankie continued to stare downward as I did some more thinking. I knew that reporting the accident was the right thing to do, but I was a kid, Mr. Detective, and at the time the only thing that mattered was that I had my little vacation with my grandma. That’s why I did what I did.
    “Frankie,” I said, my voice still a whisper. “Pick up the bag.”
    Wordlessly, he bent to retrieve Jane’s heavy bag from the ground. I watched as he lifted it over the lip of the well. I closed my eyes as I waited for the thud.
    Okay, yes, you’re right. We lied to everyone when we told them that we left Jane at the edge of Aunt Maude’s yard and then turned around to go home before we saw her go in the door. Lying was wrong, but that was the only thing I did wrong. I wasn’t the one that let go of her hand. You can’t arrest someone for little lie like that, can you? No, I don’t know what conspiracy means, but I’m sure it has nothing to do with me. Listen, there’s no need for punishment here. I’ve been through enough, Mr. Detective—I’ve been hearing that thud in my mind every day for the last nine years.

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