Purity

It was another lovely evening in the small town of Purity, Oregon. Although the air was crisp, the low westward sun painted the horizon with warm reds, oranges, and deep purples, and cast a golden glow on the twenty acres of farmland that made up Enid Cresswell 's property. The endlessness of space began to unfold. Stars hidden throughout the day appeared as distant points of light. Enid imagined one of them was her husband, gone these many years, and that perhaps she could reach out and touch him if she tried.

She slowly rose from the cedar porch swing on the veranda. Joel had built the entire house by hand and added the swing only at Enid's continued insistence. It came to be their favorite place to spend time together. First, they listened to the music of their youth as they watched countless sunsets like she enjoyed now. Later it became a play structure for their children, but once the kids were abed, they would relax as the gentle breezes swayed them. When Joel was diagnosed, this was where they cried together.

She stretched wiry limbs in preparation for the night ahead. Decades of farm work made Enid far stronger than those soft city girls who never lifted anything heavier than a coffee cup for their boss, but frequent cracks and popping sounds reminded her she was in fact an old lady. That would have worried her thirty years ago but was now simply everyday existence. Although tolerable, it was the arthritic joints which bothered her most days. It was a well-earned badge of honor, but a painful one. Her once delicate fingers had become swollen at the knuckles, with a few curled inwards so as to be almost useless. Still, she carried on, day to day.

Sighing, she looked once more at the fading light, boosted herself from the swing, then entered the foyer of her empty house. She had most of what she needed already but grabbed a light woolen jacket with suede trim on the elbows, cuffs, and collar, in case it got too cold. She draped this over her arm and found her keys, then walked back outside to Joel's old F-250 Highboy. He'd owned the pickup since before they met over fifty years ago. He was reluctant to add the canopy but admitted it would come in handy for working in the rain and for discouraging "nosey lookey-loos," as he called them. She placed the jacket on top of a checkered picnic blanket in the truck bed.

Enid hadn't bothered with maintenance since her husband passed. He would be upset about that, but it couldn't be helped. The cab was pristine, however, and Enid made sure to clean it every week, the way Joel had taught her. By the Lord's grace, the engine roared to life once more, despite being neglected, and she flipped the headlight switch as the sky darkened. On the radio, Don McLean sang the last line of "American Pie," and Enid hummed in time with the famous lyrics.

The truck rattled along the packed dirt road. The deejay came on with news of a body found near the main highway. A killing. Enid knew there was petty crime in her city, of course, that was a given pretty much everywhere nowadays. This discovery was altogether different. Although the name of the victim wasn't released, it still gave Enid cause for concern. Always the wary sort, she wasn't afraid of getting murdered, but much preferred a quiet life, and a mystery here would disrupt that life with news crews and teams of investigators.

Still, she thought, it made excellent gossip among her social group, which was really an excuse to drink too much wine. Gloria and Margaret would be excited. But Dorothy, paranoid of everything, would be certain she was next. They were silly, but they had bonded over the years, each having ended up in Purity while on their way to somewhere else.

Enid roused from her bemusement barely in time. She slammed on the brakes and cranked the suicide knob to the right. The truck didn't swerve, but rather skidded at an angle to a dusty stop. The truck bobbled on its frame before it settled. All was quiet.

The streetlamp overhead crackled, and the dust cloud seemed to dance as it vibrated from the sound and pulsed with the inconsistent light. A shadow rose and walked from it. The shadow became a man and coughed several times in rapid succession, rubbed his eyes with gaunt forearms, then noticed Enid maybe ten feet away, standing beside her truck.

She stood seemingly undisturbed, briefly checked her hair, and straightened her dress. "I'm so sorry," she said. "But whatever were you doing in the middle of the road, sir?"

He stood there and looked at the tiny old lady before him. His white business shirt was stained dark on the chest and arms. "Car broke down, and apparently I'm not a mechanic. Been walking for an hour," he said. "Thought it was safe 'til you about flattened me."

"You're headed toward farmland. Closest gas is in the town, about six miles back the way you came. It should only take you a couple of hours."

"Hey --"

"Get in the truck. You deserved that for scaring me."

"Well, yes ma'am. Suppose I did."

The old Ford started on the third try. Enid looked sheepish but hit the gas and sped on down the highway. The radio filled the cab with background noise.

"What brings you to town?"

"Through town, ma'am. Finalized my divorce in Portland and I'm starting over in Pittsburgh."

"Why so far? Do you have family there?"

"Got nothing there, that's why. After the divorce I have nobody, nowhere. Figured I'd give Pittsburgh a shot."

"Pioneer spirit, then. I'm glad I could help."

"Sure do appreciate it, ma'am." The man's eyelids drooped. His head rolled from side to side. He began to shiver.

"You've had quite a night. There's an emergency blanket in the glove box. Get yourself warmed up." The stranger wrapped himself and soon stopped shaking.

The deejay came on the radio again. He announced that police believed the deceased was a hitchhiker. Enid wondered how they figured that. She shared a sideways glance with her passenger.

"Should I be worried?" he asked. His eyes squinted and crow's feet formed at the sides. His smile was broad and sincere as he turned to look for Enid's return of humor. Thy both laughed.

He didn't see the Bowie knife as she plunged it into his throat. Blood gushed out when she drew back. The front of the blanket was quickly soaked. His eyes were wide as he wrapped his hands around his neck in a futile effort to delay his death, but he passed into unconsciousness in seconds, and his breath stopped soon after.

Enid pouted. Some of the stranger's blood had splattered on her nice dress. It didn't seem like much, but she thought her friends would surely notice.

She drove on for a few minutes, then turned off the main road and slowly crept over the bumpy terrain until she found the small pile of stones Joel had placed as a marker. A hand carved headstone ensured the location would remain undisturbed if anyone happened upon it.

The truck slid to a stop as she pressed the brake and turned to illuminate the headstone. She let the engine run with the parking brake on and walked around back for a shovel. When she opened the canopy, the rusted smell of dried blood wafted outward. She thought of Joel and the times they shared. An old red toolbox sat behind the wheel well. She removed a small flashlight and lit up the truck bed. The Rhino Liner was caked with dirt and old blood. Bits of plastic wrap and dead skin coated the interior. Yes, Joel would be furious at how sloppy she had become.

She leaned the shovel against the tailgate and pulled on a roll of Visqueen, then pulled shears from the toolbox to cut a twelve-foot length of the clear plastic. She laid the sheet flat on the ground, spread it out, and found some small rocks which anchored the corners in the light breeze.

She had little trouble as she lugged her latest kill out of the passenger seat of the High Boy and slung him over her shoulder. His wiry frame matched her own. He was maybe five-foot eight, which made him ideal since Joel died. Only her knees objected, but her legs held up. She flopped the body on the Visqueen and straightened the thermal blanket out to the corners. She slid him to one edge then rolled him up like a cigar in the heat reflective material, then repeated the process to wrap him again in the plastic. From Joel she knew that moisture and heat accelerated decomposition. They always buried their kills this way.

The ground was soft and spongy as it had rained this past week, but she dug through the earth with little problem. Her arthritis flared, so she flexed her fingers and stopped to rest often, but within an hour she dug deep enough. The other corpses lay rotted in their wrappings, only their skulls showed.

Enid rolled the stranger into the ditch with the other bodies. "Ladies, this is George. He's joining our group. Won't you pour him a glass?" They accepted him with silent consent, and Enid laid the small picnic blanket down, so as to not dirty her dress more than necessary.

She decided she didn't need the sweater after all.