Jesse had died when I was a baby. Actually, to be more specific, Jordie had killed Jesse when I was a baby. Today, twenty years later, I killed Jordie.
Confused? That’s okay.
Mom had lost her first husband in the terrorist attack on September 11th. She was pregnant with me, she just didn’t know yet. She met Jordie soon after at a group counseling session. He had allegedly lost his wife that same day. She believed him.
Here’s a spoiler for you - his wife may have died on September 11, but it was not a part of the terrorist attack. Once I left for college two years ago I was able to do a little bit of research. Long story short, Jordie’s wife was last seen leaving the grocery store on September 10, 2001 in New Jersey. According to Jordie she went to the World Trade Center the next day and died there. That’s what the official police report reads.
Strangely enough, her credit card was used that morning also in New Jersey. Jordie says he had it that day. Jordie says a lot of things.
I could never prove it, but I’m pretty sure he killed her and got lucky when hundreds of other people could not be identified in the wreckage of 9/11.
Then, he meets my mom. She’s bereaved. They become close. She finds out she’s pregnant. He selflessly becomes the father to her 5 year old, Jesse, and does all the expectant father things for me. They get married in the court house, and twenty weeks later I arrive.
Within six months Jesse, my brother, is sick. Jordie handled the doctor visits so mom can stay home with me. It’s the flu. He doesn’t get better. He died the day I turn 7 months old.
It took a long time for me to put this all together. For years, we believed it was just the most tragic year of my mother’s life. That’s what Jordie would have us believe. She clung to him. He was her rock.
I couldn’t tell you why he killed Jesse. Maybe because he was a spitting image of dad. Maybe because he asked too many questions. I don’t know.
Jordie was okay while I was growing up. He never helped me with my homework but he’d pick me up from school. He went on a lot of business trips, he was an insurance salesman.
His stories were odd but believable. Mom never questioned him. She was trusting, it probably saved her life. It was the people who asked questions that ended up dead.
Take our neighbor when I was in middle school for example. They came over to watch some game, and while they made burgers out back he asked Jordie about his work. Nothing prying, just normal neighbor questions. Jordie hated it. He told mom that the neighbors gave him an icky feeling. I thought they were nice. They had a son in my class.
A few months later they invite us over to celebrate their sons birthday. They asked us how we were, how was work, did we ever figure out our car trouble, etc. Jordie complains about them all that weekend.
The next week, they’re announcing the funeral for the dad. He’s been killed in a car accident. Their brakes gave out. The police investigation concluded that rodents ate through the lines. A bit weird since they stored their car in a garage and never had rodent problems before, but again, possible.
It’s all Jordie needs. Sorry, needed. All he needed was something plausible.
It was him of course. Our lives were sprinkled with freak accident funerals and tragic missing persons. I was the first to see through it.
It took three years for me to piece it together, and I still don’t have all the answers. All I know is that Jordie definitely killed Jesse. The doctor he supposedly took Jesse to when he was sick? They had no record of Jesse and, oh by the way, they did not see children. Ever.
Jordie’s late wife? She had no car and no transportation record exists for her travel to New York. Granted, it’s been a few years so that was harder to nail down. Even so, there is no proof that she was ever in New York.
The inconsistencies add up. So finally, today, on the 20th anniversary of Jesse’s murder - I killed Jordie.
I have not worked out exactly what to tell mom. Maybe nothing. For now, his body is wrapped up in an old comforter in the back of my hatchback and we are making a little road trip. No where sentimental, that’s how you get caught.
Jordie was awful, but in my research I was able to learn quite a lot about the best way to not get caught. I cannot afford to get caught. Even if I’m justified, the court does not like citizens that take justice into their own hands. I want to be a public defender. I worked an internship with the city all summer. There’s still lots of schooling left, but I’ve got my foot in the door and cannot afford to let this close that for me.
So, we take a drive. The fall temperatures have turned the leaves gold and red along this stretch of highway. I’m careful not to speed and I’m avoiding major roads. I want to get far enough south that his body won’t freeze this winter. Freezing only delays decomposition and the earlier his body goes away, the earlier I can breathe easy.
I know it seems a little harsh, to kill a man. You have to remember though, he was dangerous. I’m doing the world a favor. Just don’t ask mom, she won’t understand.
***
“Ma’am, can you tell me who Jesse was?” The therapist leaned over his notebook, eyes looking over his spectacles at her.
“Jesse was Dani’s imaginary friend. She went through a rather dark time where she’d pretend to go to his funeral about once a week when she was 7.” The woman sat with her hands crossed politely in her lap. She held her chin high but did not look up from her well-kept nails.
“Did Dani attend a lot of funerals?”
“Only one real one. A classmate of hers lost their father, we went to that one. After that she starting hosting imaginary ones. She had an . . . Obsession with death for a bit.” She crossed her ankles, black pumps glossy without a hint of scuff marks.
“Did Dani have any pets that died?”
“No.”
“Was she told how the gentleman passed away?”
“Yes. It was a car accident.”
“Did she get nightmares?”
“No. Well not then. She eventually got nightmares in high school, but that was after her preoccupation with death had passed.”
The therapist scribbled something in his notebook. He looked at the mother in front of him. Well-dressed, proud, and highly embarrassed to be here today. Her husband, a man by the name of Jordie, was sitting in the waiting room. Dani sat at a table in the next room over, observable from where they sat now.
Dani was pushing a toy car around a plastic clump of trees. She’d occasionally stop, look around as if deciding something, then turn the car and push it around in the opposite direction.
“When did you find the letter?” He asked the mother.
“This morning. Dani had left it on the table, not for me, it was just open there. She was packing her car. She’s supposed to go back to school this week.” She sat very still.
“Did Jordie read it?”
“No. I called him after I made this appointment. He was away on business.”
“Is Jordie Dani’s father?”
“No.”
“You know, of course, that the police will have to be called. Her claims will be investigated and Jordie will be questioned.”
“Yes.”
“Do you believe Jordie is dangerous?”
“I never thought he was.”
“Does Dani’s letter change your mind?”
“Do you think Dani is dangerous?” She asked instead. “Do you think she’s okay, in her mind I mean.”
“Trauma affects us in different ways. I do not know, yet, exactly what she went through to make her believe what she wrote.”
“Is she crazy?” The mother finally lifted her eyes to meet the therapist’s.
“Let’s talk more about Jesse. When did he first appear?”
***
I think Jesse would have been a good brother. He got to grow up a little bit with dad. He could have told me about who he was. I never got to see his pictures. Jordie replaced them all with new family photos - photos of him and mom and I.
I have decided to drop him in a swamp. There’s lots of water and critters there to help wash away the evidence. I can’t leave the blanket with him, that’ll protect him and could contain too much evidence. I’ll take his shoes, his wedding band, maybe even his shirt. The idea is to expose as much as possible to the elements.
If I’m lucky, no one will find him. Ever. If I’m not, they’ll find him but won’t be able to identify him or his cause of death.
It doesn’t do to depend on luck. Luck runs out. It’s a good thing I’m smart.