CAROL CARPENTER's stories and poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Yankee, The Pedestal Magazine, Agrippina Press, Barnwood, Fiction Quarterly (Tampa Tribune), Indiana Review, Quarterly West, Carolina Quarterly, Byline, Confrontation, and Papier-Mache Press's anthology, Generation to Generation. She received the Richard Eberhart Prize for Poetry and was a finalist in the Nelson Algren Awards. Formerly a college writing instructor and journalist, Carol now works for a communications and training firm.

                                                          case closed


Turn out the light, mother hollers. Windows slam, doors lock on the first floor, shut tight against hitchhikers, rabid bats who fly by radar. At 12, the midnight age, I open shades she pulls, call forth witches and the Seven Sisters from winter skies.

Heads bent low, we read mysteries. Under sheets bleached white with dreams, we spot clues sprinkled like cherries over mother's buttercream frosting. We dig for chocolate cake buried, layer upon layer. It crumbles in our mouths. We guess it is the short bearded stranger or even the vicar, never the girl in red polka dots.  Motive is all, we say. Where is her intent? We, like her, recognize innocence. On the last page, her sentence is life.

Mysteries crop up everywhere at school. Like what dress to wear or not wear for luck. I solve algebraic equations, where x equals y squared and unknowns become known. Answers are right, teachers say, or wrong, depending on the answer key. I hope for multiple choice, a chance. When I check Patrick's papers, I give him a couple of points for trying. Trying to kiss me with mother flicking the porchlight off and on like some lightning bug. Still, his fingers touch bare breast and rest, a period on the page.

So much blood flows every chapter. Hard-boiled PIs, names of metal and luck like Mike Hammer and Sam Spade, go it alone. Tough guys, quick with their fists, they pound flesh and pavement. I fall in love with these characters. They've seen it all. And, they have done it all. At least that's what I tell Thomas, years later, when he wants to know why I quit my job and how we expect to pay our bills, much less make it and get ahead. Ordinary questions, I guess, from someone who prefers reading biographies of dead men, models to live by.

Locked room mysteries confuse me since what can't be, is. The key usually is in the victim's pocket. When Thomas hires a security firm to install electronic sensors, I can never remember the code. Mother says I'm lucky he's such a good provider. He puts deadbolt locks on her front door and back, showing her how to work them fast in case of fire.  At my house, I set off alarms, punching in wrong numbers. Finally, I'm fed up with all the noise. No one understands why I want a divorce. Of course, he says, you'll change your mind.

Miss Marple clicks her knitting needles, knowing all the time. Liars and murderers are no more than microbes in a glass of water set on the kitchen sink. I drink gallons of well water, live dangerously.

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© 1995-2003 Carol Carpenter
"Case Closed" originally appeared in Whetstone (Fall, 1995)