Issue 8, January 2011
Yardbones
By Ellen Parker
Thirteen murders, at least, in nearly thirty years. Surely there are others. Do you even remember them all? We saw their pictures in the paper; they took up a whole page; some of them were prettier than others. Oh, and one young man. (Bad luck for him. I guess you had to. He was with a girl in the woods, after all. What were they doing there together?)
That's one favor you did them, I'll give you that. You stopped the clock. Now they'll never get old. Just you will. Just you and the rest of us. That's one way we're the same.
One of your women was my mother. Those were her bones they found, following your well-drawn map. How could you bury my mother in your backyard? I cringe at the echoes of your kids' footsteps above her skull. She was my mother and every minute I wanted her. That night, why wasn't she home? I was tenderer then. I had a little watch, a night light. I kept under the covers. I listened. Over the years I've made a list of all the ways she was never enough. In bed, still, during those long hours I'm awake, I recite them in my head.
There's something I'd like to know. What did you say to her when you met her? What were your first words? Did you ask her if she could give you the time?
Afterword: Written in memory of the victims of Robert Lee Yates, aka the Spokane Serial Killer, who in 2002 confessed to thirteen murders to save himself from facing the death penalty in Washington state. He is currently doing time on death row at the Washington State Penitentiary.
BIO: Ellen Parker writes and edits in Seattle, Washington.