LOST TO THE STORM

Short story for Creative Writing Class.

In the small town of Furthermore, Kansas, Ruthie O’Connell was the last thing Sheriff Norman had expected to find in the old, abandoned well. He’d gone out there after complaints from Mrs. Graham, owner of the nearby acres, for the swooping vultures in the sky. At first she had thought it was just a rogue cow or a wolf’s meal gone bad. But the birds persisted. He could smell it before he saw it—a smell that a godly man wouldn’t bother to describe.

“Straight sin, that’s what it smells like,” Officer Burnham said. 

Sheriff Norman couldn’t disagree. He had taken his hat off to fan himself in the Kansas heat, but after seeing Miss Ruthie O’Connell’s body, he didn’t dare place it back on his sweaty forehead. Barely had a brain left, they said. Burnham suspected foul play; Sheriff Norman had no comment. 

Marilyn O’Connell was the one unfortunate enough to have to identify her. As she choked on her words, either from grief or that smell, she gritted out:

“That’s Ruthie alright.”

Marilyn wasn’t as beautiful as Ruthie O’Connell was. Marilyn’s jaw, always set stern and hard, was a gruff contrast to the soft curve of Ruthie’s. Despite having the same colored eyes, Marilyn’s were always cold, though Ruthie’s were a sweet chocolate color that drew people in with a simple bat of her eyes. Marilyn was a beautiful woman, anyone can see that, but there was a way that Ruthie pulled people in.

“Her head was encrusted in dried blood, sir,” Marilyn tried again, vain attempt after vain attempt to get the Furthermore cops interested in the supposed murder of her sister. 

“It’s 1935, Marilyn,” Sheriff Norman would say, “I bet she got caught in the winds.”

It was always some sort of rationale from him and his boys: 

“She was probably trying to hide from the dust and chose the wrong spot.”

“She probably tripped and fell while running to safety.” 

“It was merely an accident.”

Marilyn’s reality was as harsh as one could imagine. It was 1935 in the middle of Kansas, when the plains were ravaged by storm after storm of nothing but wind and heat. All the crops were gone. People were too poor to move. And according to the police, they were also too busy to care about a murder. 

Marilyn spent this free time talking to Sheriff Norman, trying to vouch for her case. He’d let her talk, let her imagine run wild, while he stroked his greyed beard. 

Marilyn’s first suspect was Ruthie’s fiancé, Julian Ianso, who was conveniently out of town during the time that Ruthie would have died. Now, he is a businessman and he does go into the city to try and salvage some work with the states still in business, but that still doesn’t change him from being number one on Marilyn’s list.

“It’s just too easy. He goes out on business a couple times so people assume he’s busy and then he pops her off!” 

“Marilyn, Mr. Ianso was in New York. He has alibis. I’ve checked three times.”

There was also Hoggs, Ruthie’s boss at the mail office that was in love with her. He was absolutely infatuated, forever following her around and trying to steal her away for a chat. He’d busy up her breaks with small talk and while Marilyn knew Ruthie hated it, her sister was forever too nice to fully turn down the man. The only reason he’s backed off at all is because of Julian. Nothing terrifies a country man more than the sleek, sleazy smile and croon of a smooth talking cityman. 

 Norman lets her talk. He believes her suspicion is just her coping. It’s an odd form of denial, that it can’t just be a freak accident. Times are hard in Furthermore. Norman liked Ruthie, but frankly did not care nor have the time for if it was a real murder. 

A month after the murder, Marilyn claims it’s the bartender that favored her sister, always discounting her drinks when she came to dance. She won’t let go to the idea of Ruthie’s drunken ex as well. Marilyn claims that he comes to their house all the time, shows up drunk as a skunk right before the sun starts to rise. He’ll sit on their steps and cry and wail until Marilyn shoos him off.

On a late night in August, one that would have been so serene in a normal summer, Marilyn finds herself at the station again. The boys wanted to head out to the bars, but the dust picked up again. It was Ernie’s idea to bring out the booze. Marilyn had never drank more than a celebratory toast for holidays. Her ruddy cheeks and careful attitude was a relief to all. 

Perhaps that was why Billy Burnham was stuck to her side all night. Everyone knew Billy fancied Ruthie in school, but who didn’t. Norman didn’t know if the red in her cheeks was from the alcohol or his attempts at flirtation. The booze did good for the lot, lifting spirits and adding some color to the bleak, ashy scape of Kansas. 

When Marilyn started spilling and tripping, Burnham volunteered to take her home. The storm had subsided enough to see. It was time for the fun to end. Marilyn agreed with a loud hiccup that rattled the young woman. She slipped her arm into his, like they were going for a dance instead. With Norman’s approval, they set off, determined to get home safe before the morning winds stirred up the land again. 

Marilyn rattled on their whole way home, talking about how her sister’s fiancé was probably home, waiting up for her, hoping she was alright. She flitted between anger over him and shedding tears over her sister that turned brown as they ran down her sooty cheek. Maybe it was seeing her cry or the booze in his veins, but Burnham clammed up, sputtered out. 

One must understand that Burnham, along with everyone else in that godforsaken town, was in love with Ruthie O’Connell. He knew she was too good for him, so he stayed away. His animosity only started when Julian soiled his chances. He vomited up this story to Marilyn, not bearing to look at her while her happy drunk face dropped into horror. 

Burnham had been pissed drunk, beyond any sober thought. He ran into Ruthie on her way to her house. The storm was wild that night. Marilyn recalls wondering if her sister would get home alright. Burnham knew the route well from his job and offered to guide her. Trusting her policeman and her friend, she agreed. She did not agree to his advances though. Burnham, in his drunken state, thought this was the perfect time to confess everything to Ruthie, which he did with the harsh press of his body. She pushed him off and it snapped something in him. He was hurt, humiliated, and he wanted her to feel pain too. So he grabbed a rock off the well. There was a sickly sound, a snap that reverberated through his body. Her eyes went glassy and her red hair went ablaze with streaks of blood red. 

“We need to tell Sheriff Norman,” Marilyn said, “ I was right. She was murdered,” 

Billy Burnham couldn't see Marilyn standing in front of him. His eyes were full of dirt and tears. He couldn’t see Marilyn but he could feel everything. Anger, red hot, burned inside. 

“No,” Billy replied, too calm. 

“Why not?”

“I am not losing everything I’ve built up.”

“You...you murdered my sister,” Marilyn said, her words sounding hollow as if she couldn’t believe them. And she couldn’t. The man she trusted, a murderer. She was wrong about Julian. 

“You murdered my sister,” she repeated. The words clicked, locking in like the final gear and propelling her forwards. Her small fists collided with his chest. He grabbed her by the wrists, throwing her to the ground, off of him. He got on top of her, grabbing at her and securing her by the throat. She choked on air and dust. 

“Billy,” she managed.

“I will not lose it all for her. I will not lose it all for you.”

It took Billy two minutes and forty seven seconds to take the life of Marilyn O’Connell, half the time it would normally. She was left out in the storm, letting the dust take her too. Marilyn became just another person to succumb to the Dust Bowl, such as her sister before her. Norman ran to the station from the scene, stumbling through the haze and tears. 

“It was Julian, I saw it all. He lost it,” he said to the Sheriff. 

Marilyn was buried next to her sister two days later, once the storm lessened and they could find her corpse. “Lost to the storm”, her tomb stone said. “Lost to the storm but never forgotten” marked her sister’s.