Minding Murder
Barefoot in my nightgown, I stand at the window, staring at the deserted pre-dawn street. The red glow of ambulance lights pulses across silent lawns and sleeping houses. I squeeze my eyes shut and open them again. No, I’m not dreaming. And as the cobwebs of sleep lift, my jaw drops. “Bob,” I croak and clear my throat. “Bob! Get out here. You need to see this.”
The toilet flushes, pipes gurgle; bare feet stomp on the wood floor.
“I was having a pee, for chrissakes. What’s going on? Which house?”
Then he is beside me in his faded AC/DC t-shirt and boxer shorts. As he spots the attendants loading the gurney with its covered occupant into the ambulance, I know what he is thinking. He turns to me, mouth agape and eyes stretched wide open between his shaggy grey hair and beard. We don’t need to say anything. We share our minds.
The telepathy took months to master. At first, it felt like a curse, laying our worst thoughts bare. After an initial burst of sexual intimacy, surprising at our age, knowing everything in the other’s mind showed its ugly side. We couldn’t hide even our most fleeting, most secret thoughts and feelings from each other. All those thoughts that flash through your mind but that you would never say out loud. (Just shut up and leave me alone, you needy prick! Holy shit. She looks like a lumpy sack of potatoes in that outfit.)
Along with the disillusionment (who is this person I once loved?), we were frightened by the raw emotions and shocking thoughts that simmered within us. We’d been wary of each other, sticking to our own spaces in the house, I in my studio and he in his workshop, sleeping in separate bedrooms, side-stepping past each other like cats with their hackles up, eyes locked and narrowed. Closer than six feet and our thoughts were no longer ours alone. I expected we would split up as soon as the pandemic ended, sell the house, and get away from each other. But over time, we found a way to manage it, rebuilding some semblance of privacy.
One day, while circling Bob in the kitchen, both of us aiming for the fridge, I stopped. I inhaled and exhaled slowly three times, focussing on my breath, like we used to do in yoga when there were classes. I remembered the instructor’s voice: “Keep coming back to the breath. Let your thoughts go. There is only the breath.” Calm and controlled, I took two steps toward Bob, breaking the six-foot barrier.
He turned around, startled, and then his brows pinched. “I don’t hear anything from you.”
“Neither do I.” My lips twitched toward a smile.
Relief flooded through us, and we came together in a hug, touching each other for the first time in months. Oh, the warmth of human contact! But then my brain exploded with Bob’s thought. My eyes widened and I drew back.
“Is that all you can think of?” I gaped. “And what do you mean, ‘real’ sex? What have you been doing all these months?”
His face bloomed and I knew. With a sigh, I pulled him back into the embrace. “Oh, come here, you big lunk.” Surely, we could handle being together for a few minutes, long enough for—we sped to his bedroom and peeled off our clothes. In five minutes, we were dressed again and went our separate ways in the house.
But it had started—we were learning to control our telepathy. I put a meditation app on my iPad and practiced twice a day. I texted Bob and told him to do the same with his phone. As the weeks passed, we could gradually spend more time together, in closer physical proximity, without releasing thoughts into the other’s mind unless we wanted to. It looked like we had come out of the pandemic as new, more evolved versions of ourselves—telepaths.
“Just like in The Chrysalids,” I said. “Remember that book?” When Bob shook his head, his wiry pandemic beard brushing his sweatshirt, I launched into a synopsis in my teacher voice, until I was stopped by an escaped thought from Bob. “Okay,” I huffed. “I won’t bore you, but it wouldn’t hurt if you read some real literature once in a while. This could be the beginning of a bright new world. There may be others out there like us.”
But as the lock downs and mask mandates dropped, and we mingled more closely with other humans again, we began to hear more than just each other’s thoughts, and it wasn’t bright at all.
The first time it happened, I was at the grocery store. No more ordering ahead and having a worker load the bags into the back of the Subaru while I sat in front. As I wheeled a cart up and down the frigid aisles, examining different brands of quinoa, and reading the ingredients of cereal boxes for their sugar content (Bob’s triglycerides were high), I became aware of a sort of background whispering. I thought at first it was embedded in the music emanating from speakers hidden somewhere above me. Subliminal messages urging me to buy, buy, buy? But it increased and decreased in volume when I passed other shoppers. Then, as I was going through the check-out, a voice in my head said, “Oh, my aching feet. I’m so sick of these stupid, coloured mesh bags. I can’t see the code on the apples through them.” As the cashier pulled open the stringed bag and found the sticker on an apple, I heard, “Old cow, making my job harder. I’ll bet she doesn’t work, retired on a nice pension. I’ll have to work ‘til I drop. Never be able to save up on these shitty wages. Christ, I need a pee. And a smoke. Isn’t it almost break?”
I stared at the woman behind the plexiglass—weathered skin, leathery from too much sun, hair tied back in a ponytail dyed an unnatural shade of black with a white stripe on the top of her head at the part. She looked a bit like a skunk, with tiny eyes and a pointy nose. A rectangular pin on her chest named her: Rhonda. Probably not much younger than I was. That name went out of vogue by the mid-sixties. “Sorry about the coloured bags. I’ll look for some clear ones.”
Rhonda’s head snapped up. As she handed me the long spool of the receipt, she eyed me warily, wishing me a nice day in a smoky voice.
When I parked the Subaru on the driveway, Bob came out to help unload the groceries, his face drawn with worry. “I was out cutting the lawn when that woman with the border collie went past. I heard what she was thinking.” He swallowed. “It’s not good. I really didn’t want to know all about her gushing menstrual blood.”
“Oh, my god, I know. You should have heard what the cashier at the check-out was thinking.” Grabbing the last two bags of groceries, I followed Bob into the garage. “I don’t think she could read my thoughts, though. What about you?”
“No. I’m sure she didn’t. She would’ve looked.”
Then it was the neighbours. Or at least that’s what we assumed, as they were the nearest people. The houses on either side of ours were separated by only fifteen feet or so. A few days later, I was sitting on the back deck playing Scrabble on my phone when I received a faint thought: “I wish he would just disappear.” I perked my head up, looking around, but didn’t see anyone. I knew the person couldn’t be too far away, so it had to be one of the neighbours.
On one side of us, there was an older couple, she a retired nurse, a round-faced woman with white curls haloing her soft, wrinkly face. Anna was always pleasant, waving as we went past on the sidewalk. She was often outside, mowing the lawn or working on her garden beds of peonies and snapdragons with her black and white cat lying beside her in the grass. I had stopped to pet the cat and talk about deer-resistant flowers with her. We didn’t often see Hans, her husband, but Bob had been invited into his workshop once, where Hans showed him the intricately patterned little boxes he made with exotic woods like Paduk, Purpleheart, and Mahogany. He was a stocky, balding man with a sour face, the lines in his cheeks pulling down the corners of his lips so he looked like he was sneering. They were good neighbours, not overly friendly but not nosy either, quiet with a well-kept house and yard.
Garth and Tammy were younger, loud, and unpredictable—a stark contrast to the quiet couple on our other side. Their grown children arrived occasionally, the son in a beat-up mud-spattered truck equipped with loaded gun racks and sometimes a bloody elk carcass in the back. When the daughter zoomed her abused car into their driveway with the bass from her music vibrating our floors, you never knew how long the rusted maroon Nissan would be there. Occasionally, I caught a glimpse of her flouncing into the house—tank top, cut-offs that let half her bum hang out, long hair dyed blonde and often streaked with lime green or cotton candy pink. The car might be there for days and then gone for weeks. Loud country and western music, yelling, and thumping often came from the house and surrounding property. Also, the incessant yapping and barking of their two dogs. Whenever we were in the back yard, the beasts—one a yellow hound of some sort, the other a terrier mix—growled and lunged at the fence, ignoring the bellowing coming from either Garth or Tammy: “Shuddup, you two. Get back here. You know better ‘n that.”
We hadn’t spoken to them in years, not after Bob had an altercation with Garth. One day, when Bob was mowing our lawn next to their unfenced front yard, he ran over yet another pile of dog shit that spewed out all over the grass. He cut the mower’s engine and stormed over to their yard, where Garth, a wiry little guy in camo pants, was practicing shooting his crossbow at a fake deer with a target painted on its side. I didn’t hear the words, just the raised voices. Bob returned with a stony face, muttering profanities, some of which were new to me, surprising as I hadn’t known Bob to be so creative with words. After that, we avoided them, maybe exchanging a quick wave or a brief complaint about the weather when we were both heaving snow into growing banks on either side of our driveways.
So, the candidates for the thought I heard were narrowed down to the occupants of the two houses, and I sensed it was a female voice, so that meant Anna, Tammy, or Tammy’s daughter, Jolene. But what “he” was she wishing to disappear? A husband, a boyfriend, Anna’s cat that roamed the neighbourhood crapping in garden beds? Or maybe a criminal offender, or even a politician or trouble-making leader of a country? Even I had to admit that I had at times wished for some of them to vanish from the face of the earth.
At lunch, I mentioned the thought I picked up from one of the neighbours. Bob didn’t even blink—he’d heard one too. “I got someone’s thought about a ‘stupid bitch’ and something about a dose, I think. It faded out.” He paused and frowned. “You know what this means. Our range of reception must be expanding.”
The next afternoon, I was picking raspberries from the canes growing along the back fence when I heard the voice again, louder, more angry than last time. “Asshole! He needs to die!”
A bee buzzed past my still head. A criminal? Some politician? I didn’t think so. This sounded personal. The woman was enraged, even vengeful, but that didn’t mean she’d act on her thoughts, did it?
When I discussed it with Bob, he agreed. “People can have thoughts and feelings without ever acting on them.” He raised his eyebrows, giving me a knowing look. “We know that.”
I frowned, recalling his lustful thoughts about the jogging young woman. Then I remembered when we both had thoughts about the other’s demise. “But we never actually wished each other dead. We just thought what if? You know, how it would be if the other died.”
“Hmm.” He gave his head a little nod.
What did that mean? I probed but couldn’t read his blocked mind.
Quickly, he went on. “It’s weird, though, hearing someone else’s thoughts, someone you don’t know. Kind of illicit, almost immoral. Like going into someone’s house and riffling through their dirty underwear.” He grimaced.
“Or reading their diary. But it’s not like we asked for it.” I paused for a breath, then added, “I can’t help it. I need to know more.”
Bob stroked his beard. “Me too. How can we do that?”
“We need to get closer to them.”
I went into the kitchen and began boiling up a batch of raspberry jam. When it was ready, I ladled the hot, ruby mixture into pretty pint jars. I wrote ‘Jan’s raspberry Jam’ on oval labels framed with fruit clusters and stuck them on the sides of the glass jars. Perfect gifts for the neighbours. Bob banged around in his garage workshop, trying to think of a project that would require him to borrow a tool.
The next morning, I went to Anna and Hans’ house, trying to work up the nerve to approach Tammy and Garth’s door after. A second after she opened the door, Anna’s mouth drew into a tight smile, but not before I got a huge whiff of simmering resentment. I knew instantly that I had interrupted her from something—yes, scrubbing floors. The piney scent of cleaner wafted around her and out the door.
“I won’t keep you,” I said. Along with the resentment, Anna was tired and distracted, her mind jumbled. “I just wanted to give you this.” I held out the crimson jar of jam. “I made a batch of raspberry jam yesterday and thought you and Hans might like some.”
Anna’s face relaxed into a real smile. “Oh, thank you. I love raspberry jam.”
I knew she wasn’t saying this to just be polite.
“But,” Anna flicked her eyes upward and tightened her jaw, “Hans can’t eat it. He’s diabetic.”
Her resentment swelled like a tidal wave. She was thinking about hiding the jam.
“Oh, sorry. I didn’t know.” With a shrug and a grin, I said, “I guess he’s lucky that you’re a nurse.”
Anna’s eyes pinched a bit, but then she gave a little nod and said she needed to get back to her cleaning. But what she was thinking was different. “Fed up with looking after sick people and doing all the work around here, especially when it’s Hans who’s so picky about everything, complaining all the time, pointing out dust bunnies under the bed or cutlery with spots. I couldn’t even eat this jam in front of him! I never should have married the old bastard.”
I went down the walk slowly, puzzling over Anna’s thoughts. But I supposed every couple had their unspoken resentments. I paused, took a deep breath, squared my shoulders, and marched past our house and the thorny barberry hedge Bob had planted between the two front yards, to Tammy and Garth’s driveway.
Relief washed through me when Tammy, rather than Garth, answered the doorbell. She and I had never fought, and I’d never seen her practicing with shooting a hunting bow in the back yard, so at least I didn’t have to worry about getting shot. There she stood, in her skin-tight Wrangler jeans and low-cut top (push-up bra for sure), poufy blonde hair with bangs standing out in a roll on her forehead, false eyelashes like fat, hairy spiders. But her eyes were red-rimmed, mascara running underneath them, spidery black lines leaking out into the wrinkles. And even though Tammy’s distrust and wariness of me came through loud and clear, I could not only see but feel that she was distraught. “Hi,” I said tentatively. “I made raspberry jam. I thought you might like some.” I proffered the jar.
Tammy didn’t reply immediately. I knew she was trying to override her distress and the surprise over her estranged neighbour visiting. In those two quiet seconds, I learned she had been fighting with Garth about someone named Bucky. Who the hell was Bucky? Then the realization hit me. The son.
Tammy sniffed and ran her hand under her nose. “Oh, okay.” She stuck out the hand with which she had just wiped her nose and took the jar, still radiating suspicion along with her misery.
“I hope you guys like it.” I paused, trying to come up with a way to extend the conversation so I could gather more of Tammy’s thoughts. “We had a bumper crop of raspberries.”
Tammy and Garth didn’t garden. Their yard was used mainly for target practice and as a depository for dog crap. “Uh-huh.”
I had to hurry. I quickly tried to press my powers further. Her tangled thoughts began to come through. The fight about Bucky—Garth wanted to disown him, but Tammy just couldn’t. I needed a little more time. “Weather’s been good, hasn’t it?”
Tammy managed a “Yeah,” and then squeezed her eyes and stifled a sob. “I gotta go.” She started to close the door, but as she did, a flood of thoughts crashed in—rage, betrayal, shame—and one detail stood out. I knew the reason for the disowning.
I put the kettle on and made sandwiches while I waited for Bob to return from his visits to Hans and Garth—hopefully without injury. I was bursting to tell him what I discovered. When he came through the back door, we both shared the same thought at the same time: Bucky had been caught in bed with a lover—his best friend, Brent.
“And wait until you hear the rest!” he said.
Bob had pretended to be having trouble with his lawn mower in the back yard when Garth was practicing with his crossbow in his yard. He’d managed to swear and kick the machine enough to get both the dogs’ and Garth’s attention. Garth stalked over, bow in hand, glaring. The dogs growled low, matching his mood.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“Stupid thing keeps stalling.”
“You probably ran it out of gas.”
“No. Lots of gas. Do you know what it could be?”
“No, I fuckin’ don’t. Why don’t you fuckin’ buy a fuckin’ electric one? Keep your fuckin’ prissy lawn all fuckin’ pretty, you faggot.” He went back to killing his fake deer.
He wasn’t as creative as Bob with his swearing.
And his bluster couldn’t hide his thoughts. Bob had caught what he was thinking deep down: My only son a faggot. No son of mine anymore, no matter what Tammy says. I’ll kick her out if she doesn’t stop wailing about her ‘baby boy’. It’s probably her fault! Bitch turned Bucky into a faggot, too soft on him. Or the schools. Don’t get me started on them. Training grounds for perverts. And Jolene! Laughing, saying, “You didn’t know?” Well, she won’t be coming back into my house. I’m done with all of them!
“And my encounter with Hans wasn’t much more pleasant,” Bob said as he dunked his cookie in his tea.
He had found the garage door open, Hans working a piece of wood on a band saw. He waited while Hans finished the cut and turned off the machine before he approached him. As the older man took off his goggles and ear protection, Bob greeted him and asked how he was.
“Hmph. I’m alive.” The old man’s mouth turned down even further at the corners, making him look like a bulldog.
Bob’s neck stiffened at the anger and bitterness flowing out of Hans’ mind. I’m not the strong, healthy man who once prided himself on the immaculate work I did as a house builder. I pushed my crew to perform as I did—long hours, back-breaking labour, no breaks. And don’t ever get sick or take a day off to spend with the family. That meant you were weak, useless. And now look at me, dependent upon my wife, who can’t do anything right. A nurse and she gets my dose of insulin wrong! Well, she won’t be getting her hands on my money, the small fortune hidden in a secret account. I’ll make sure of that.
All this Bob learned even before he asked to borrow a hand planer to fix a sticky door.
Planting my elbow on the table, I rested my forehead in my hand. “Jesus. Who could have guessed all this was going on?” I looked at Bob. “It could be Tammy or Anna, or even Jolene—any of them could be the one. God knows they all have enough reason.” I thought for a moment. “But how would they do it? Smothering wouldn’t work. They wouldn’t be able to overpower them.”
“Tammy might know how to fire that crossbow.” Bob shuddered as he imagined an arrow thudding into his back.
“You couldn’t hide that, though. What about poison? Or a knife?” Then I shook my head. “No, they wouldn’t get away with it. Too much evidence.”
“Wow. You’re putting a lot of thought into this.”
“Am I?” I raised my chin. “Well, I wouldn’t blame any of them.”
Bob’s forehead wrinkled as his chin drew back. “They could just leave.”
“And lose their home and probably most of the money? End up living in a stinky little basement apartment? Have you checked out rents lately?”
“Whoa,” he said and swallowed. “Are you saying that you’d condone a murder?”
Was I? I wasn’t sure.
“I’m just saying there are reasons they might do it.” But are there ever good reasons to kill another person? Other than self-defense? What would I do if I knew someone had committed murder? I shook the thought from my mind.
“Well, whoever it is hasn’t done anything but think about it, which isn’t a crime. What are we going to do, anyway? Tell them we know what they’re thinking? Or tell the police? Imagine how that would go.”
So, we ate our supper and went to bed.
And now we’re peering out our living room window in the gray dawn as Anna comes down her walk to the paramedics standing beside the ambulance. The flashing red strobe has been turned off. No rush to reach the emergency room at the hospital.
Bob sends me his thought, “Maybe it wasn’t murder. Maybe he just died, all on his own.”
Suddenly, I need to know. In my flimsy nightgown and bare feet, I thud down the stairs to our front door, fling it open, and lurch painfully down the exposed aggregate of our steps. Anna and the paramedics turn their heads toward me.
“Anna, what happened?” I call as I trot toward her over the dewy grass. The paramedics, both young guys, stare at me, then look down and turn away. I realize they can see through the thin summer nightgown and have noticed my flopping breasts and the outline of my jiggly abdomen and thighs. Well, too bad. Surely, they’ve seen everything in their job.
“Jan,” Anna says softly. “I don’t know. I heard some thumping from Hans’ bedroom and went to check on him. He was having a seizure. I called the ambulance, but it was too late.” She bows her head. “He was dead before they arrived.”
The resentment is gone. She is serene and calm as her thoughts come to me and deliver the truth: No one will ever be able to say why for certain, I know. The insulin overdose, injected between the toes, will never be detected in the autopsy.
Speechless, I search her face and mind. I can find no malice there. But her suspicion arises as I continue to stare. Her heart quickens as she wonders if I know something.
But I soften my gaze and say, “I’m so sorry. Let me know if we can help in any way.”
Her eyebrows pinch just a little as she says, “Thank you. I will.”
As I turn to leave, she is wondering if I know the truth, and if so, what I will do about it.
Numbly, I plod back over the cool grass and limp up the painful, pebbly steps to our front door, where Bob is waiting, still in his boxer shorts and t-shirt. I let him read my mind.
He closes the door, his face pale. “What are we going to do?”
I sough out a heavy breath. “I think it’s time we went on a trip.” He studies me for a moment, then shuts his eyes and nods. “Good idea. Somewhere they don’t speak English.”