Melding Spirits

Katie-Blue

See that girl with sparklin’ eyes

The color of the sea

That’s Katie, sweet Katie

She cast a spell on me

I can’t stroll and I can’t swing

So, what’s a boy to do

If I can steal just one sweet kiss

I’ll write a song for you

Oh, Katie, sweet Katie

Sweet, sweet, Katie-Blue

I can play, you can dance

And we will have one cool romance

Oh, Katie, sweet Katie

Sweet, sweet, Katie-Blue

                    — Evan Mason (1958)

1

Late Spring – 1958

"I’m planning to stay with a friend, the girl said. It’ll be a bit of a surprise to her. She’s not expecting me for about a week, but I don’t think she’ll mind. She’s between boyfriends at the moment, so I won’t be interrupting anything."

And what’s your name, young lady? the man behind the wheel of the pickup truck said.

Rena.

That’s a pretty name, one you don’t hear every day.

Actually, it’s Irene. My little sister had trouble saying my name, so she started calling me Rena, and it stuck.

Where does this friend of yours live, Rena? he said, his eyes fixed on the open stretch of two-lane highway, the midday heat rendering illusionary sheets of water across the baking asphalt.

Louisville, she replied.

He glanced at her and said, You’ll be on the road for a good while, and that sun is hot today. You’d better put a shirt on over that halter-top. Nothing can spoil a good time like a nasty sunburn.

"That’s what my mother would probably tell me, but whatever she says, I usually do just the opposite, Rena said. She drives me crazy sometimes."

We’ve got something in common, he said, tapping the pack of Luckys against the steering wheel. My ex-wife had a way of getting under my skin like nobody else could. She had to have the last word on everything. He gingerly pulled a cigarette from the pack with his teeth, took a wooden kitchen match from the cluster stuffed in the ashtray and scratched it with his thumbnail. As he lit the cigarette the sulfur on the matchhead flared with such intensity it seemed the bushy mustache he was sporting might combust like tinder in a parched forest. He took a long drag and started to put the pack back into his pocket, but instead tapped another cigarette halfway out and offered it. Picked up the habit?

No. Most of my friends from high school smoke. I tried a couple here and there, but just don’t seem to have the urge, not yet, anyway.

He stuffed the pack back into his shirt pocket. So, like I was saying, he continued, "Selma, that was my wife’s name, was driving me completely nuts with her nagging. Finally had to give her the heave-ho." He looked at Rena and laughed. To make things even worse, she wasn’t the most loyal female on the planet, if you get my drift. There’s only so much a man can take. Smoke was streaming from his nose and billowing from his mouth as he spoke.

Rena had been listening intently, but was now tuned-in to the man barking on the radio, . . . pick, shell, and clean . . . the announcer said, a full twenty acres of corn in a day, and all in one smooth, single operation. So, stop by the showroom today and see the new model Forty-five combine. The new implement that’ll get you home in time for supper . . . now, back to our regular program.

Do you mind if I change the station? Rena said. She glanced at the man, but before he could answer, she twisted the tuning knob.

Paul Anka serenaded them with You Are My Destiny as the Chevy pickup sped along Route 1. There was the smell of freshly mown hay in the air and the steady, rhythmic sound of several oil pumps laboring in the distance.

They breezed through the town of Goliath, Illinois, a name somewhat incongruous, considering the business district consisted of a bowling alley, grocery store, three saloons, and the town hall. Moments later, they were traveling through dense woodland that stretched several miles in every direction.

I can take you another seventy-five miles, then we’ll have to part company, the man said and flashed a big grin.

That would be great, Rena said.

I need to put a little food in me, though. I get a little light-headed if I don’t eat. Got some sandwiches back there in the cooler. There’s a little nook just around the bend, here. You hungry? he said as they rounded the curve.

I could eat. Thank you, sir.

He made a hard-right turn between two tall pine trees, drove about thirty yards, and backed the truck into a shady spot under a large oak. He stepped from the truck, grabbed the cooler from the truck bed and placed it on the ground beside the driver’s door. He flipped the lid back and said, What’ll it be, ham and cheese or corned beef on rye?

The man stood beside the pickup. The driver-side door was wide open. He popped the cap off a bottle of beer and sat on the edge of the seat, one foot in the truck, the other on the ground. Here you go, he said, reaching across the seat with the beer.

Oh, I don’t know if I should, Rena said, I haven’t—

I’m bettin’ this wouldn’t be the first alcohol to touch those lips. He pushed the bottle toward her. You don’t have to drink it all, just a little to wet your whistle. You’ve got my authorization. It’ll be our little secret. She hesitated for a moment, then took the beer and began to sip it. Atta girl, he said. He opened one for himself and took a big swig. What do your folks think about you leaving the nest?

I didn’t tell them, she said and cringed.

That’s not good. It’ll be like you fell off the face of the earth, he said.

You’re probably right. Maybe I’ll send them a postcard after I find a job and get settled in. She took another swallow of beer. Hey, this is my favorite, she said and reached for the volume control on the radio.

For the next few minutes, they drank their beer and the man watched as Rena did a sit-down version of the jitterbug.

Rena was swatting at a couple of bees circling the nearly empty bottle she had clamped between her thighs.

A gentle breeze was blowing, and Dean Martin was crooning a love song, something about Napoli and the moon looking like a big pizza.

The man was slumped back, his head resting on the edge of the seatback. He guzzled the last few ounces of his beer and dropped the empty bottle into the cooler beside the truck. He continued to stare at the roof and said, I know why you’re wearing that halter-top, young lady.

Rena stopped swatting at the bees and looked at the man. What did you say? she said. She was feeling a bit dizzy from the alcohol and thought she had misheard his remark.

You’re like all the rest, out to get the boys all revved up, show them who’s in charge. He sprang up in the seat, turning, yelling directly at her. You think I’m stupid? You think I didn’t know what you were doing, gyrating around on that seat like a bitch in heat?

Please! She was trembling, her voice loud, yet hollow. You’re scaring me, mister.

Shut up! He backhanded her across the mouth.

Her head collided with the window column, and blood spurted from her lower lip.

Dean continued to sing.

She was momentarily frozen, her eyes fixed on the man lurking over her. His face was flushed, his eyes full of rage. She hadn’t realized what a large man he was until that exact moment.

Instinctively, she drew her leg back and kicked at him, the heel of her bare foot slamming into his chest, driving him backward toward the open driver’s door. She clutched the door handle and gave a tug. The door didn’t budge. She grabbed the handle with both hands, shooting sharp glances over her shoulder as she tugged frantically.

Door doesn’t open from the inside, he said in a monotone. Little adjustment I made. He was standing just outside the driver’s door, now. He bent down and pulled a towel from under the seat, reached between the folds and retrieved a hypodermic syringe. A little surprise for you, young lady.

She screamed when she saw the needle, then grabbed the sill and threw her head and shoulders through the partially open passenger-side window. The man lunged across the seat, planting his knee against the back of her legs, pinning her there with the weight of his body. He jammed the needle through the cotton material of her shorts, into her right buttock.

Within seconds her head was swirling. She lay there on the seat paralyzed, her senses blunted. Before she lost consciousness, she heard the truck’s engine start, and from somewhere high above, the shrill alarming cry of a raptor.

The man drove along the overgrown road that wound through the dense woods and stopped at a spot about a half-mile from where they had eaten lunch. He knew these woods well. He had trudged through this forest numerous times; there were a lot of good hiding places.

He carried the girl a short distance to a narrow clearing bordered by a tall, thick patch of ivy. He placed her on the ground and unfurled the blanket. Her hands and feet were bound and there was a strip of tape across her mouth.

For nearly a full minute he stood motionless, simply gazing at her. Finally, she began to stir. When she opened her eyes, he could see the look of fear in them. A feeling of power and control surged through his veins, a feeling he had experienced before—a feeling he relished.

Amid her muffled screams, he pulled the bone-handled hunting knife from the leather sheath on his belt, slid the gleaming steel blade between her skin and the fabric of the halter, and cut it away.

The killer dropped the spade and a bag of lime beside Rena’s naked, lifeless body and took a long drink of warm beer. He tilted his head back and stood there stoically looking up at the sky, a cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth and trickles of sweat tracing the deep crevices in his brow. What a beautiful day, he thought.

He heard a shrill cry. Cupping his hand beside his eyes, he searched the sky, spotting the red-tailed hawk circling high overhead. He watched for a while as the bird hovered, its shrill, irritating call piercing the midday calm.

He took one last drag on his cigarette, picked up the shovel and began to dig—the shadow of the raptor crisscrossing the site as he worked.

2

Evan Mason sat in the back seat as Gladys Hatfield dropped the Ford Crestline into first gear, revved the engine, and lurched along the circular drive that serviced the all-in-one train depot and bus station in Chicago Pointe.

Today was Saturday, and Evan would soon be on a southbound bus headed for Laurenville, Illinois to stay with his grandmother for the summer. The thirty-three-year-old woman riding shotgun was Lila Mason, Evan’s mother. On Monday, she would be in New York City for a week of training. She had worked as a clerk in the Chicago Pointe office for two years and now had a shot at becoming an agent for one of the biggest insurance companies in the world.

Okay, Lila, Gladys said, as she double-parked near the main entrance to the station. I’m going to drop you here. I’ll park somewhere around the corner and wait for you. Gladys jumped from the car, opened the trunk, and with little effort hoisted the overstuffed suitcase and plopped it onto the ground.

Gladys was a large, sturdy woman. She wasn’t what one might call homely, but she had a crooked smile and her features were plain and asymmetrical. Her lips and fingernails were painted a ruby red and her dark auburn hair was piled up on her head in a massive layer of sweeping curls. A stiff northerly breeze was blowing, but her hair remained steadfast as she went about her business.

Not long ago, Gladys had discovered the magic of those aerosol cans that had made their way from the battlefields of WW II, where they were used to dispense insecticides, to the dressing tables of women around the world. Only instead of DDT, they now were filled with a flowery smelling lacquer, a few layers of which could transform the flattest of hairdos into a high rise bouffant of staggering proportions. Gladys Hatfield had certainly done her part to keep the hairspray companies in business.

You got a big kiss for your Aunt Gladys, Evan? She beckoned him around to the rear of the car. He knew what was coming and tried to brace himself for the trauma that would ensue. She pulled him to her bosom, enveloping him in a fog of lavender perfume and talcum powder.

He was light-headed from lack of oxygen and the sheer devastation of the moment, and when he saw the two huge, over-puckered lips coming in for a landing, he was certain things were going to end badly. Fortunately, the sharp, instinctive reflexes of youth took over. He gave a quick twist of his neck and the two ruby red marauders landed three inches off target, splashing down high on his cheek, just below his right eye.

Gladys stepped back to arm’s length. You have a good time down south, and don’t you worry about your mother. I’ll be watching over her. She’s going to do just fine in that new job. I just know it. She reached into her purse, pulled out several folded bills, and tucked them into his shirt pocket. Take Grandma Bea out for a soda. Go see a movie. Buy something for yourself, whatever tickles your fancy. It’s our little secret.

Thank you, Aunt Gladys. I—

Hold still, honey. She yanked a flowered hanky from her pocket, wrapped it around her index finger, wet it with her tongue, and executed the dreaded lipstick erasure. Later in life, Evan would have Freudian nightmares related to that moment.

Incidentally, Gladys wasn’t really Evan’s aunt. He called her that because Lila had always considered her one of the family. It made his mother happy.

Gladys lit a cigarette and slid behind the wheel. See you in a bit, dearie, she said to Lila, the cigarette dangling from the corner of her mouth as she spoke.

Shouldn’t be long, Gladys, Lila said, looking at her watch. If the bus leaves on time, it’ll be pulling out in the next fifteen minutes.

Don’t rush. I’ll be across the street at the drugstore. Alvin is there today. She gave a little wink as she popped the clutch and humped her way down the street and around the corner. Gladys wasn’t the best of drivers.

I hope you remembered everything, Evan. Did you pack your books and the card for Grandma Bea? Lila said.

Yes, Mother.

She reached for the suitcase, but Evan rushed over and picked it up.

I can carry it, he said. Do you want to hurt your back again, right before your trip?

Well, if you’re sure you can manage it, she said. I don’t want you to rupture something.

He rolled his eyes and said, "Please! I’m not going to get a rupture."

They walked toward the waiting bus, Lila checking the list she had taken from her purse.

Okay, do you have your good jacket, your extra belt, and—

Yes, Mother.

Your new sneakers?

He looked down at his brand-new Keds. I’m wearing them, he said, shaking his head in mild disgust. We went through that list an hour ago. It might be a little late now, don’t you think?

Don’t be a smart aleck, dear. I could certainly mail those things to you, now, couldn’t I? She snapped the clasp on the large purse she was carrying and pulled out two comic books. She handed them to Evan, then snatched a brand new brown leather wallet from the side pouch. Your money is behind the little window compartment. Now, make sure you tuck this deep into your pocket so it doesn’t fall out, she said as she demonstrated the prescribed tucking technique. Evan took it and jammed it into the hip pocket of his jeans. And I hope you brought your harmonica. The people on the bus might enjoy hearing you play. Music helps pass the time on a long trip, you know.

At Lila’s suggestion, Gladys had given Evan a top of the line harmonica for his last birthday. Evan had plenty of musical talent. His father had begun teaching him to play the piano when he was just four years old. Evan’s cognitive skills and tonal awareness had been uncanny, especially for a child his age. After his father’s death, Evan’s interest in music had waned. Lila hoped the harmonica might rekindle it.

"Got it right here, Mother." He pulled the instrument from his pocket and waved it to allay any doubt.

They sat on a bench in front of the station and watched as the driver tossed the bags into the cavern under the bus.

Lila lit a cigarette and took a couple of puffs. Evan, you know, I don’t like the idea of leaving you with Grandma Bea all summer, but I hope you understand, it’s important for both of us that I get this job and get off to a good start. It can mean everything to our future. Aunt Gladys offered to help out, but you wouldn’t have been happy staying with her, would you? She took another puff on her cigarette.

Evan looked at her and gave another roll of the eyes.

I didn’t think so. You’ll have a good time at Grandma’s. She loves you a lot. She’ll be grateful for the company, Lila said.

Mother, it’s okay. You know I have a lot of friends in Laurenville, probably more than I have here. You don’t have to worry about me.

Everyone headed south may begin boarding. Please be sure you have your ticket and all your belongings. Once we leave the barn, we don’t look back! the driver said as he began to assist people onto the bus.

Now remember what I said. You give that driver a good up and down inspection as you board, and when you get off at those rest stops, you make sure you keep him in sight all the time you’re there. When he gets up, you follow him. The bus can’t leave without him, Lila said.

What about when he goes to the restroom? Evan said.

Very funny, she said and mashed the half-smoked, lipstick-smeared cigarette into the ashtray beside her. Lila didn’t have a robust sense of humor. Now, get over here and give me a big hug.

I’m going to miss you, Mom. He patted her on the back as they embraced.

And I’ll miss you. You’re the best son a mother could ask for.

3

When the Greyhound turned onto Halsted Street, Evan caught a glimpse of his mother still standing in front of the station. The bus was too far away for her to actually see him, but she was waving her handkerchief like a castaway trying to flag down a passing ship.

As he looked at her, he was reminded of other times he’d been shipped off to Grandma Bea’s. When he was five he spent six months with her. His father was having a difficult time finding work, and his mother was dealing with some health issues, female problems, as she referred to them. Then, during the rough patch after his father died, he completed a full year of school in Laurenville.

One would think the interruptions and frequent changes of venue would have been disturbing to a young boy, but Evan had taken it all in stride. After all, he was an old soul, or so his grandmother had told him many times.

Since his father died, things had become increasingly more unsettled. His mother wasn’t home much, the insurance office during the day, waiting tables at night. Evan was spending a great deal of time alone. He knew she was doing her best to provide for him, and he admired her for what she had accomplished, but there were also times when he didn’t understand her, times when she was angry, angry at his father for dying. That entire notion seemed strange to Evan. After all, William Mason hadn’t set out to become a valve jockey at Vance Chemical, and he certainly hadn’t expected to die