I nodded and began to run.  I treaded paths I had walked 
since I could walk and I had never seen them look so dark.  
Shadows leaped at my from all sides, I burst into my dining 
room where the rest of my family were still laughing over 
dinner.  It amazed me that we had only been gone fifteen 
minutes.
 “He's killed her.  He's killed Mary.”
Mr. Luise had been molesting Mary in some form or another 
since his wife left, perhaps before.  The child had been his.  
He had been so afraid that his daughter's pregnancy would 
reveal his crime to the world he had killed her when he 
found out.
Mary had made no call that night.  Whether it was some 
form of miracle, the wrong number or the Phone Company 
as my father said we will never know.  I do know that soon 
after I left her the current dislodged Mary's fragile grip on 
the structure and my sister had to grab hold of the dead 
girl's hand to prevent her from being taken as her father had 
meant her to be, down to the sea.
Mary could never tell on her father while she was alive.  I've 
been to countless counseling sessions since her death, and I 
am still angry with her for not trusting us, for not trusting 
me.  Although I’ve been told her psychological reasons 
many times, I like to think, in some way, she managed to tell 
on him in death.  By clinging tightly to the post, by waiting 
for me by the post as she had promised.
Mary's father was arrested, but he was tried in a larger 
town, away from the outrage of the community, my family.  
He was convicted, and sentenced to not nearly enough time 
in prison.  I now firmly believe in the death penalty and 
have to stop myself from wanting to provide it myself.  It's 
been two years now.  Time has healed nothing for me.
As I sat in the family room writing this, watching as the rays 
of the sun flowing though the window become less and less 
my sister watches me out of the corner of her eyes.  Her 
husband is a truck driver; he lives with us now.  Not that 
they couldn't afford a house of their own.  It's just that Janice 



Copyright Jackie Bulner 1999