SMILE - Chapter 1

First chapter of my murder-mystery novel-in-progress, this is my gift from me to you. Thank you for sticking with me through everything.

Cal

When I was ten my stepfather split my head open with a frying pan. It was after dinner, I was on dish duty. One of the dishes wasn’t clean. In retrospect, I should’ve known to double check them, since the trash can I had emptied not even two hours earlier was full of empty beer bottles. I also remember the blue stain on his wife beater, and that his breath confirmed the Mad Dog 20/20 he might’ve chugged in the car on his way back home from the police station.

I didn’t feel any pain. In fact, I might not have even known that he split my head open had I not seen the blood spill onto the plate I was scrubbing under the faucet. It was like my scalp went numb: a wave of heat washed over the rest of my head and for some reason I felt like I could actually breathe properly. Until I saw the blood, at least. Then I started to cry.

My mom applied pressure on my head while we drove to the hospital. The rest is a blur. Except for when we got there. I do remember the way they looked at Jeff, the hospital staff, nurses, doctors, even the security guards in the parking lot. It was a look of disgust. And I remember how they l oooked at me, with a sort of pity and longing. I didn’t understand it then. Not even the way the doctor looked at me while patching me up with some iodine, an anesthetic, and then ten medical staples; I didn’t understand her teary-eyed expression as her warm brown eyes surveyed me from behind her glasses when she asked me what happened.

I lied and told her that something fell on my head. A big something. What that something was I couldn’t remember. But she knew better. She pushed up her glasses and shot my stepfather a narrow look mired with disgust and hate.

Of course she knew better. Of course she couldn’t do anything about it though. To her, he was an abusive, alcoholic, horrible excuse for a life. To everyone else, however, Officer Jeffrey Aprile was one of LA’s Finest, a well respected cop on the beat, a newlywed who was courageous enough to adopt two little kids and raise them as his own. An honorable man.

And everyone knows that honorable men do no harm.

---

I woke up to a phone call today. Well, a phone call I didn’t answer, followed by a chicken’s cluck, the sound of my text message notification. I yawned and rolled over onto my stomach as I reached for my phone on the bed side table before unlocking it.

LEX: Missed you last night. I’m at Palomita’s, bartending ‘til close if you wanna hang. I had that dream again. It’d be good to see you.

I yawn again and sit up. I love Lex dearly; he’s been my best friend since I moved to New York all those years back, but sometimes I guess I don’t need to be attached to his hip all the time. I guess … ? I don’t know. I mean, we share an apartment togther at Wesleyan. I’ve tried telling him that sometimes I just wanna do nothing, sit on the couch like a vegetable, smoke too much weed, scratch my balls, watch something stupid like Ancient Aliens or Selling Sunset. Which is exactly what I did last night, even though I did tell him I would visit him. But he wouldn’t get it,, Somehow it would be taken as me not wanting to hang with him instead of me just wanting a night to myself.

Still … he did have that dream again. Maybe I should visit him.

ME: Were you able to sleep much? I’ll hit you up when I’m on my way over tonight.

I sigh and toss my phone onto my bed. I’ve been back for about a month now, and still haven’t unpacked. Not much, at least. My duffle bag has shirts and underwear pouring out of it, I don’t even know which is dirty or clean at this point, while my suitcase remains untouched in the closet. Other than that, my room is mostly empty. A dresser in the corner, unused, a poster of Freddy vs. Jason aboe my desk where I’ve parked my laptop, next to a growing philodendron Mom got me as a “welcome home” present. I named him Humphrey, hoping that if I invest in a name for him that maybe I’d actually care about him instead of letting him wither like the last few plants.

Maybe I won’t have to throw him away too.

From my room I can still hear Mom snoring. She will wake up probably around four, and pour the last of the bottle of Widow Jane into her coffee mug, and then try to “catch up on work” in her office before deciding to take the rest of the day off at seven. If I know her well I imagine she’ll slip off to a bar like Sam’s or McShane’s in Port Chester around nine or so, right before my younger sister Catalina gets home from volleyball practice, and I will get another call from the bartender far later than I should to ask me if I’m oging to pick her up or not, and if not, then he’ll just put her in a cab again.

I can’t judge her. She’s in grief.

I think she’s deciding to stay away from bars here in Maple out of a mixture of shame and exhaustion. I know she feels embarassed after Lex’s mom, Aura Lila, called me from their bar, Palomita’s, and asked if I was around to take her home. I also know how absolutely fed up she is with answering questions from neighbors and housewives and locals and the like. I can’t count how many times I’ve heard the interactions between Mom and our neighbors, with the “oh, Casssandra, don’t worry about my taxes too much, they’re aleady two years late, I’m sure a few more days wouldn’t hurt”, or something like I heard about Jeff and I just wanted to say, I am so sorry, and me and my family are thinking about yours”. My personal favorite is when they do things, like pay for our dinner when we’re at Maple Grille, or when they show up with gift baskets. As though bath bombs and scented lotion would make a woman feel better a month after her husband has gone missing.

Catalina, or as we all call her, Cat, has told me that Mom sometimes lately mentions the idea of just packing up and leaving somewhere else, starting new. A fresh chapter. Leave this tiny, sleepy little New York suburb in the dust.

“Back to California?” I asked.

Cat shrugged. “She won’t do it, you know that.” We were waiting on the porch for Jem, Lex and I’s other best friend, to pick me up to see a movie. We were passing around some of mom’s whiskey, drinking straight from the bottle.

I turned to look at her. Why do you say that?”

“Because,” said Cat, shrugging her shoulders, her brown-red hair bouncing, “it doesn’t look good if the wife of a missing cop flees.”

I keep thinking about that, more than I probably should. For my mental health at least.

---

Breakfast is a homemade bacon-egg-n-cheese sandwich, stuffed with lettuce and tomato and ketchup and mayo, with a crispy dill pickle on the side. After my second cup of coffee I notice that Mom has mistakenly changed the coffee we buy, so instead of making a full French Press of regular coffee, I’ve had two full cops of espresso instead. Here I was thinking about all this death was what was giving me the beginnings of an anxiety attack.

I hear something fall into our mail slot outside, and with nothing but time to kill I head over to our porch to get it. The weather in Maple is always super nice this time of year. Not too hot or sticky, a light breeze, faint laughter in the wind, birds chirping up a storm. The mail slot is overflowing. A few envelopes, possibly bills, a postcard from Lex’s aunt, Serena, who sent one from her trip to Spain, some handwritten cards for Mom that I can only guess are more “Thoughts and Prayers” from the Hallmark section at Papyrus. And the last is a large manila envelope, sealed and blank.

Blank. Not even a delivery address.

I close the door, sit on the porch steps and fumble with the edge of the envelope, sliding a finger to tear it open neatly, and I slide out the contents. It’s a large photo … of … of …

“Wha - ?” I manage, trembling. I hear my heart thud violently against my ribs before it skips a beat. ice in my veins. Fingers damp with sweat, vision blurry, I can still make out what I’m looking at.

It’s the three of us. In the woods. With a shovel.