Raven's Plan

PREFACE

My name is Marie Weston, a semi-retired psychologist from a large city in the Midwest.

Four years ago I moved to the Rockefeller-forsaken-and-left-in-toxic-ruins town of Prism in North Country. Having raised two sons, which used up most of my available income, I was pleased to discover an affordable house – an old house with good bones - here in Prism.

I call myself a Creative Psychologist, helping people to change their lives (rather than prescribing pills so they can slog along in the same old repetitive mind-set). I use nature walks, art, music, gardening, cooking, dance, yoga, fasting, vegetarianism, and, indeed, most anything to lead an individual into a new perspective on his or her life. A long list of authentic, high-functioning former patients is what keeps me going. At least until recently… Living in Prism, a perfect breeding ground for depression, child abuse, substance abuse and suicide, I am either in professional heaven or a personal hell.

I feel I live on a plateau above a lake of unnecessary misery, filled with self-accused sinners. Thanks to their ministers and priests, they miss the point: they are not sinners but rather damaged by their life experiences. They feel they must be punished (or they must punish others, even and especially innocent children). I have a clear view of the alarming rate of suicide deaths in towns such as this. I try to help them before they make that final, fatal leap to escape their guilt and confusion.

The following account illustrates the hazards that await people who live in such communities. It is about people I have come to know as friends, and facts I have pieced together from police reports, journals, and first-person accounts. However macabre, this story paints a transcendent tale worth consideration.

Let the record begin with two feet of snow on the North Country ground, cats with blue, slanted eyes and claws like fishhooks, and a stripper named Jill Raven.

Chapter 1

Cat in the Hat, Friday Morning, Nov. 30th, 2012

It was snowing for the third straight day. Marie was staring out of her kitchen window as she washed her morning tea cup, more as a way to warm her hands than to actually wash the lipstick marks from the cup. Framed by the window, her snow-covered, bare, apple tree stood out starkly against the pine fence and gray sky. This would be a good day for a visit from the Cat in the Hat, she thought as she heard a knock on her door. A slight smile came across her young-for-60-something face as she imagined a tall cat with a bow tie and an Abe Lincoln hat entering her living room and performing for her.

Knock, knock! said a woman’s voice directly behind her.

Marie gasped as she whirled around, nearly breaking her extremely clean cup on the side of the sink.

Oh my God, you scared me to death! she said to her friend Jill, who had entered upon finding the front door unlocked.

Sorry, Sweetie. Your front door was open. Didn’t mean to frighten you but I need to talk to someone and I knew you would be home.

Tea?

Sure. Make it strong and with a little dusting of Stevia. Please.

Jill walked to the living room, humbly furnished with several old chairs, once formal but whose cream-colored brocade was now ripped to shreds by Marie’s three Siamese cats. Well, thought Jill, no self-respecting cat would hop through two feet of snow to sharpen its claws on the nearest tree. Three such chairs, each with their own foot stool, substituted for a living room couch in the small shotgun-style home. She sat and took a deep breath in, slowly letting it out as she unzipped her jacket. In Marie’s home it did not matter that there was snow all over her clothing and shoes.

Finding Marie’s pot pipe on the scarred wood coffee table, some partially-smoked weed still in the bowl, she helped herself to a hit. Ting, the cross-eyed Siamese, correctly equating the smell of pot smoke with relaxed humans, meowed loudly and helped himself to Jill’s warm lap. Purr, purr, purr.

Marie, working on the tea, cast a look in Jill’s direction. In her mid-40’s, her natural beauty made otherwise-dreary surroundings fairly glow thanks to her ‘flaming auburn’ hair and her glow-worm-green eyes.

You wanted to talk? Marie asked as she handed a steaming cup of English Breakfast tea to Jill as she noted the mix of gratitude and concern on her face.

Marie, this is so weird. My neighbor, Grace Eliot, the crazy one who stands outside yelling ‘Go away’ to no one at all…

Marie corrected Jill, mid-question, You mean ‘mentally ill’ don’t you? The word ‘crazy’ is not PC, My Friend. Then she added with a slight smile, We’re all a little bit crazy these days anyway.

Yes, Ma’am, Jill replied hastily. Anyway, now she is patrolling on foot, in the deep snow, pacing back and forth around my home. At least three times yesterday she walked around my property, across the back yard, over to the alley, and down the alley, staring into my windows the entire time. Is she hoping to see me naked? You can see her tracks in the snow, worn to a trail! It’s freaking me out! And I worry about her kid too. It seems she has him on a psychic leash. I have never seen him with a friend or anyone else besides her. He looks so unhappy!

This was not the first time Marie had heard about Jill’s crazy lady next door. In fact, she was tempted to be bored with these stories, even though she realized there were a substantial number of undiagnosed mentally ill people in Prism. She did not rule out the possibility that Jill had somehow irritated or insulted her neighbor, and for that reason she had thus-far avoided siding-with, mediating or advising Jill. But seeing her friend was clearly agitated now, notwithstanding the weed and the purring cat, Marie relied on the stock psychologist’s question.

What do you think you could do to remedy the situation?

Jill stared into her tea cup as if looking for a reply, then said, I don’t know, but it’s really upsetting. I suppose I could report it to the police. A complaint to start a paper trail that might turn into a restraining order or Order of Protection, I believe it’s called these days.

Okay, responded Marie. Let’s visit the P.D. I’ll get my coat. The walk over to the police department will allow time for any lingering marijuana fragrance to depart from our hair and clothing."

Jill smiled. Sounds like a plan.

Let’s take Madeline with us, Marie suggested with a grin, referring to her enormous, somewhat unruly, female Malamute, who just now was pawing loudly at the back door.

Chapter 2

Charles Cuts Loose, Friday Morning Nov. 30th 2012

Charles Eliot stands at his locker, staring at the combination padlock but the numbers appear to be twirling around like a roulette wheel. This does not disturb him. It is comforting, almost hypnotic. A school buzzer is ringing but it seems distant and unimportant.

Hey, Chuck! Get to class! the Assistant Principal, Mr. Jackster, calls on his way into his office. But he doesn’t wait to see if Charles complies. Charles senses this, that he is alone and, his eyes narrowed to razor-thin slits, continues watching the 0 5 10 15 and 20 spin around and around for a full minute. He is not even sure where to go next, so he wanders toward the cafeteria and exits from the school’s side door. Outside! Freedom! Why had it never occurred to him that he could simply walk out of school during the day? No one was out on the sidewalk on a day as cold as this. It must be somewhere near zero. He can tell this by how quickly the clouds of breath from his nose turn to frost on the scraggly dark hairs on his upper lip. He is tempted to look back at Prism High School but reminds himself…Freedom!

Feeling slightly dizzy, he lurches across the street and up a nearby alley toward the cemetery at the top of the hill. Nearly out of breath, clouds forming in front of his white, potentially handsome face, Chuck arrives at the town cemetery. From this summit, he looks at the sleepy, gray town with houses huddled closely together, all snow-covered and clean-looking. The frigid air helps his head to clear. The locker’s whirling numbers leave his mind. That thing with the padlock, that has never happened before but it reminds him of something way back in the dark. He reaches out and touches one of the gravestones, old, rough, gray, only a few words not worn away. He reads them out loud, Bones The Peace of the Dead. All around him a forest of gravestones…so many funerals. He nods to himself. So many. Then the nearby trail snaking up into the pine forest seems to call to him. In a flash that almost hurts inside his head, he realizes he can follow the path. He can choose his way. He shouts out among the grave stones, I have the power. I am the decider! He laughs out loud. There is no one to hear him but a pair of silky black ravens who take flight, calling out, Aw, Aw, Aw! He watches them fly over his head and calls back through cupped hands covered by black, fingerless gloves, Aw! Aw! Aw!

A deep joy wells up inside of Charles at the sight of the birds against a silver-blue sky, the lightbulb-white sun slightly to the south, now drooping behind the beckoning pine trees. And the silence. He does not consciously realize it but vaguely senses this is a rare moment in his nearly-16 years when he has felt some semblance of happiness! What he does realize is that it has been nearly half an hour since he has thought about his mother. Wow! he says out loud, laughing again. He raises his arms, hands in fists and shouts, Yes!

But suddenly, the clean sharp air is cut in half. The ravens’ call falls out of the sky, replaced by the blip of a police siren. Chuck freezes in half-step. Just one blip, not a full siren. No flashing lights. Chuck smiles and turns in the direction of the sound. He sees it is the nice cop, his friend, Officer Lamar, already out of his cruiser and walking toward him.

Officer Lamar, shorter than Chuck remembered, wearing a gun on his hip, smiles and waves. Hey, that you Chuck? Hey, Buddy, you’ve gotten a lot taller since I saw you last year when you were a little, bitty sophomore!

Chuck waves back and smiles sheepishly. Whoa, Man. Sorry. Am I in trouble? Officer Lamar notices the dark sparkle in his direct eye contact, something he’s seen too often in Prism, a sign of a good kid with problems. Officer Lamar is thinking…No one seems to know how to reach into the kids’ hearts and help them. Maybe I can. This one has hope.

Chuck shuffles his feet, the laces of his worn tennis shoes frayed, wet and dragging. I was just exploring. Looking at the stones. It’s quiet here. I can hear myself thinking. That’s all I was doing.

Officer Lamar scans the cemetery. He does not like the place. But he smiles at Chuck, Hey, what say we get you back to school. Someone saw you leave. No biggee this time but we better get you back inside. That okay with you?

Chuck nods, Sure.

Officer Lamar and Chuck step through the gravestones toward the black police cruiser.

How are things going, anyway? Officer Lamar opts for the word things instead of directly referring to Charles’ mother and what awaits him at home. He hopes Charles will share any important info that could lead to something being done before the already troublesome situation escalated. What Charles does not know is that back at the station, there was a 10-inch thick file on his mother, Grace Eliot. Mostly complaints from neighbors, all indicating she is a ticking time bomb. Unfortunately, the law says that she has to actually hurt herself or someone else before the police or social services can step in and require her to get the help she seems to need. Lamar has heard the ticking growing louder and it grieves him that he can legally do nothing while there is still time. He opens the door for Chuck. Buckle up.

Chapter 3

Grace, Friday Morning, Nov. 30th

Grace stumbles clumsily across the room, grabs her binoculars and runs to the living room window, shoving aside her franticly barking Black Lab, Shut up Devil Dog! snarls Grace. The dog tries in vain to dive under the couch. Grace raises the binoculars to her eyes, pressing them against the glass with a clunk, then turns her gaze side to side. A hiss of breath, like a tire leaking air, is followed by, Oh, that’s it, that’s it… the bitch with the Malamute and no leash. I’m ready this time, she growls, then pulls a throw-away camera from under the sofa’s cushion above the wincing dog’s head. I’ll get goddamn living proof. No leash and the bitch will pay a fine. Ha!

Grace has run outside onto her front yard, a headless, ceramic Jesus and the tops of a few faded plastic flowers just visible. She stands knee-deep in the snow and flowers without a jacket or hat, wearing only an XXX size Harvey’s Taxidermy t-shirt and pink plush flip-flops. You’re breaking the law, Lady! Grace shouts as she clicks her camera several times. Marie and Jill have noticed her but avoid eye contact. Don’t pretend you don’t see me, don’t pretend! cries Grace, waving her camera. She appears unaware that when lifting her arms, the bottom of the t-shirt rises up as well, revealing her lack of panties. But no one is looking.

Marie and Jill and the big Malamute keep walking. Only the dog gives Grace a glance, then goes back to sniffing the yellow spots dotting the snow along the sidewalk. They have heard that Grace moved here from the Southwest, where she insists she had been beaten by her husband, a bail bondsman, and threatened and shot at by Mexican drug dealers. Some have speculated that it was probably Grace who did the shooting and somewhere (Nevada, some say) there is a rocky field full of bodies she buried. Perhaps that is where she got the money to buy her home, a two-story, restored Victorian with a widow’s walk roof-top porch. Perhaps she had piles of cash in her cellar, and skulls! Or so the rumors went when the town folk gathered at the only Laundromat in town. Marie and Jill Raven pick up their pace, looking straight ahead, maintaining what they hope are benign, non-judgmental smiles so as not to further antagonize the woman. Grace takes one more snapshot, then runs back inside her house, her legs beginning to turn blue. Her dog returns to the window only this time he merely watches, settling himself for the long wait until Charles comes home from school.

After that close encounter of the Grace kind, as the locals call it, Marie feels justified in accompanying Jill to the police station. God, it must be awful to have to live next door to this woman. If Marie had to come up with an on-the-spot diagnosis, say, for a reality TV show, she would guess that Grace had Borderline Personality Disorder, most likely due to being abused herself at some point in her life. No telling what is going on with the woman’s son, Chuck or Charles. Apparently he is not allowed any visitors, and Grace insists he come directly home from school every day. I’d call that house arrest, thinks Marie, noticing the police station looming before them. One placard in the window warns of Elder Abuse. Another reminds citizens to leash their dogs.

Chapter 4

Charles, Saturday 4PM, December 1st 2012

Weekends were the most difficult for Charles. Rainy, his Black Lab, was literally his only friend but Charles was not even allowed to take Rainy for walks, so they sat side by side in the dim, cold house as they did now. The weight of his loneliness was most crushing when he saw other kids hanging out together on Saturdays. And it was Saturday. Three boys dragged their sleds through the snow, heading for the Larch Street hill. He could hear their laughter until it faded away.

He tried to occupy himself with books and video games and had long given up complaining to his mother. More and more he thought of simply taking off but his mother literally watched the door. Sometimes he could feel her eyes boring through the walls. Was she there now in the kitchen, sitting on the yellow, wooden chair? Why couldn’t she be like other mothers, have parties, take walks, go out once in a while? The thought came to him and Charles confided to Rainy… Maybe she needs a friend. Maybe the nice lady next door… Rainy licked Charles’ hand.

Charles asked if he could go around the neighborhood to sell his allotment of raffle tickets for the school band. Charles played the French Horn, and the trumpet when they marched. He was expecting the usual No!

Grace had looked out the window, then back at her son, and simply, miraculously to Charles, said Okay. Her thoughts went something like this: it’s below zero outside and close to dark. He has to be home soon… so the plan will work. Go now, she said.

She was there at the window watching with her binoculars when Charles ended his walk through the neighborhood, stopping lastly next door…at the woman Jill’s house. She watched them now as they stood in her doorway. What are they doing? What is that? They were laughing and talking. It went on just too long. Stepping outside, she yelled gruffly, Charles! Home! Now!

Charles shuffled inside. Grace sat him down in the yellow chair. Walked around it twice, then stopped behind him. How much money do you have? Where is it? What did you talk to that neighbor lady about? What were you laughing with her about?

She bought a raffle ticket, alright? Charles had learned to keep his face like stone, a poker face they called it. He heard the questions, over and over again. But inside, his heart was beating happily. It was the girl.

At one of the houses he had visited, a house out of his mother’s sight, beyond the range of her binoculars, there was the most beautiful girl he had ever seen. Long brown hair… but it was her eyes! Big sad, understanding, brown eyes, almond eyes, a little slanted with dark lashes and inquisitive, dark eyebrows.

This girl had offered him an oatmeal cookie she had just baked after inviting him inside. He found out the reason he had not seen her at school. She was home-schooled by her parents. The parents were out on the back deck, shoveling the heaps of snow. Charles had never been alone with a girl his age before. Maybe it was new for her, too, he thought. Mostly they just stood there alternately looking at each other and looking down. He tried to eat the cookie without making a mess or looking funny. Her almond eyes had flicked toward the back deck and her parents’ voices, then she whispered to him, Come back later and my parents might buy a raffle ticket. And then, she smiled! It was like the sun coming out of the snow clouds, thought Charles. He felt warm outside and inside. He twinkled back at her, then mumbled, Well, Bye, he said. Later!

Later! she answered.

Even now, with his mother asking question after question, he didn’t hear her. He was on fire to see the girl again. Then he remembered… he had forgotten to ask her name.

Chapter 5

Hot Cocoa, Saturday 5 PM, December 1st

Another miracle soon followed. His mother had gone to the store without him! A miracle he thought, but it felt…strange, almost scary. He paced in a small circle by the window, watching the street. His mother was nowhere in sight. It had almost been an hour and he had never been left alone for so long. Also today, for some strange reason, she had handed him a cup of hot chocolate, said she would be back later and just left the house. He stopped pacing. He realized that for once he did not feel like he was walking in wet cement. Her eyes were not on him. He was really alone. He could do…anything. He began pacing again. No…no…something’s up. This is not normal. At all. He took the last sip of cocoa, then stopped, looking into the cup. The cocoa had grown cold, along with the December afternoon around him.

From nowhere, a man’s voice said, Hello Chuck, and Charles nearly pissed his pants. He turned, dropping the cup. The man came out of Grace’s room. Your mother thought it might be best this way, said the man who wore a black-and-gray camo jacket and jeans, a gold cross glinting at his collarbone. There was a gun in his hand.

Charles froze, his cup hand still outstretched, but his mind raced. He recognized his Uncle Craig from a picture on the mantle. Mom said you were d-dead! stammered Charles, his eyes moving to the baseball bat leaning against the wall.

Following Chuck’s gaze, the man said, That won’t be necessary, Chuck. Leave the bat alone and come with me.

His voice seemed to do something to Charles. He forgot about the bat. He felt dizzy, his knees rubbery. What’s going on?... Mom would never…

Just get in the truck, Chuck. Hey, that rhymes… and, oddly, Charles heard himself laughing at the stupid joke.

What’s going on? he repeated. Then everything went dark, darker than the winter evening.

When Charles opened his eyes, he was lying across the back seat of a truck, his head throbbing. His hands were tied together behind his back, his mouth was stuffed with something like a handkerchief and covered with duct tape, and there was a jacket lying over him. His body shook, his breath steaming out of his nose. So cold, he thought. He noticed he wore no shoes, his feet numb stumps at the ends of his legs. A terrible, sinking feeling gnawed at his stomach. Then he understood. His mother had done this to him. Something in the hot chocolate. He should have known. She never made him hot chocolate before yesterday. It hadn’t been a miracle after all.

He ever-so-briefly began to feel sorry for himself but his nose quickly clogged up and he choked. The struggle to breathe wiped all other thoughts, all tears aside. Now anger welled up. Fucking Bitch! The attempt at speaking almost made him vomit but he caught himself, knowing he would drown in it. A new survival voice rang in his head. No crying. No talking. Got it!

The truck abruptly lurched to a stop, its brakes thudding in the snow. Charles lifted his head when Uncle Craig jumped out of the truck, its engine still running. He was unlocking a small storage shed. There were shovels. Something told Charles to go limp, play possum, and make himself as heavy as possible. God, he’s going to kill me! Hot, empowering fear was shooting through his body but he knew he couldn’t stand or walk or run on his bare, frozen, tied-together feet.

The passenger door opened and Uncle Craig grabbed him by the feet, dragging him out of the truck. Charles kept his eyes closed, made himself feel heavy, heavy. He felt himself being dragged across the unforgiving, icy ground and into the windowless shed.

If only your grandfather didn’t love you more than me, were the words Craig said as the door shut tightly, the lock snapped into place.

What the hell? thought Charles. In the black darkness, he began to feel the cold coming up through the particle-board flooring. Fumes from Craig’s diesel truck filled the shed. The fumes did something to his head. He heard himself thinking, That smell is a hellish memento left by a zombie wearing a gold cross. The truck rumbled away. Something turned to steel inside Charles. A little light went on inside his head. He could not feel his feet, but he could feel his hands, his long-fingered hands wrapped in knotted rope.

Chapter 6

Saturday 6PM, Left for Dead

While working on the knots between his hands, Charles had time to think. He wondered if the police were looking for him. Probably not. Who would have told them he was missing? And there are rules they have to follow, even about missing children. Most cops, male and female, are very sure to follow the rules. They, after all, are the enforcers of the rules. Charles wondered where his thinking was taking him. He let the thoughts go where they wanted. It was about cops for some reason. Charles knew that wannabe cops were given psychological tests to see if something might cause them to bend or break a rule as a policeperson. Money is the big one. For example, a drug dealer is accosted by a cop. There are a few drug dealers at school. So the cop says hand over the guns and the drugs but the dealer hands the cop a wad of money instead. The cop tips his hat and says, Hey, stay out of trouble. He remembered his mother saying if drugs were legalized, there are lots of Keepers of the Peace who would have to live on $30,000 or less per year and they wouldn’t like it. Their wives would surely leave them. Their kids would not understand why they couldn’t wear the latest fashions. Then Charles grimaced. He didn’t want to hear his Mother’s voice even in his thoughts. He thought of Officer Lamar instead.

Officer Lamar is the exact opposite of a dishonest cop, thought Charles. Instead of taking money from criminals, he gives away money and favors to good guys. That is also illegal, maybe as illegal as taking bribes. But Lamar is one of the good guys. Charles let Officer Lamar’s mellow voice into his thoughts, his bright, friendly eyes into the darkness of the shed. He could even see Officer Lamar’s white teeth shining from his light brown face. He was smiling.

The thoughts danced and played, all the while Charles was working on the knots between his