Work Text:
Choir director Glen gave an irritated sigh. ‘As much as I do love you both coming in to check up on me,’ he said to his elder brothers, ‘I’m afraid Miss Rooker and I really must get back to our work. I’ll see you both later!’ He gave a stiff smile, hoping that they would take the not-so-subtle hint and get lost.
Ben shrugged. ‘Whatever. Catch ya on the B-side, baby bro,’ he said, grinning and throwing Glen a peace sign as he turned to leave.
Sheriff Tom Goode rolled his eyes. ‘Come on,’ he said, grabbing Ben’s arm and giving him a tug to follow as they both left the Shadyside High auditorium.
Glen watched as they left, waiting until they were sufficiently out of earshot before turning back to the Shadyside High music teacher, Miss Melinda Rooker.
‘I’m so sorry, Linda,’ he said, shaking his head slightly. ‘I wasn’t expecting them to drop in like this. And older brothers, you know; their main prerogative is to annoy me whenever we see each other. I just didn’t think it would extend to them being so rude to you.’
Linda waved her hand dismissively. ‘It’s alright, Glen,’ she said. ‘It’s no fault of yours. And when your father was Harry Rooker, you learn to take remarks about yourself and your family with grace. I’m mildly disappointed at such behaviour from our sheriff, but...either way. Best not to dwell on it.’
Glen gave a sigh. ‘Sometimes I do wonder whether he’s right, though,’ he said. ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if the school board has been denying you the opportunity to form your own choir based off of your family ties alone. And if that’s the case, I wouldn’t blame you one bit if you’re less than pleased to have me here instead.’
Linda gave him a smile. ‘I am sad that I don’t get to direct the Shadyside choir myself, but my students simply love you, and I know they’re in good hands with you. And for that, Glen, I couldn’t be happier.’
Glen returned her smile with a chuckle and one of his own. ‘Well, I have you to thank for giving these kids such a good foundation for us to work with. They’re lucky to have you for a music teacher.’
Linda’s smile widened as her cheeks flushed. ‘Oh, stop,’ she said, looking away and tucking a stray curl behind her ear.
Glen gave another chuckle before turning back towards the students, whom he had told to take a break while he spoke to his brothers. ‘Alright!’ he called, clapping his hands. ‘Let’s get back to it, everyone!’
The last half hour of practise passed by uneventfully. The kids descended from the stands and milled about, chatting about that day’s practise and plans later, gathering their belongings and slowly making their way out of the auditorium.
‘I’ll see you all on Monday!’ Miss Rooker called.
‘And I’ll see you all next practise!’ Director Glen added. ‘Whether that’s church or school. Have a good weekend!’
Several of the students returned the pleasantry as they left to make their way home or to hang out with their friends. After a minute or two, it was just the two teachers left.
‘Thanks for helping out today,’ said Glen, giving Linda another smile. ‘It’s always a pleasure having you sit in.’
‘You’re always welcome, Glen,’ she replied. ‘I love hearing the kids sing. I just hope I’m not too much of a bother.’
‘No, of course not,’ he said, shaking his head earnestly. ‘And again, I’m...sorry, about earlier.’
‘It’s fine,’ Linda said. ‘I’m used to it.’
Glen gave a slow nod, a frown still creasing his brow. ‘Alright,’ he said. ‘Well...I’ll see you at church.’
‘You too,’ said Linda, giving him another brief smile.
Glen turned and started towards the door, but only made it a few paces before Linda spoke up again.
‘Glen?’
‘...Yes?’ he said, turning to face her again.
She looked as though she was pondering something; as though there was a lot she wanted to say, but she didn’t know where to start.
‘How much have you heard about the...“Milkman Murders”?’ she decided on eventually, drawing air quotes around the name. Her voice had become much softer than it usually was; there was a strange vulnerability to it that Glen had never heard before.
Glen rubbed the back of his neck, his face twisting in an apologetic sort of grimace. ‘Quite a lot, I’m afraid,’ he said. ‘Lots of grapevines, y’know. But as far as actual facts go, I’m afraid I don’t have very many. They say he killed seven women with a switchblade, all housewives on his delivery route. That’s the only thing that doesn’t change. Well...that, and that he...did things, to them, while he killed them.’
Linda nodded slowly. ‘That’s also true, I’m afraid,’ she said. Her expression was unreadable, except for a distinct sense of melancholy. ‘Well—it was in the newspapers, and the police report submitted by the officer who found and killed him. It said that he found my father laying on top of her with his blade lodged in her ribcage, smelling her hair and licking her ear; said that he could only surmise he’d done the same to the others, that the attacks had been fuelled by a fit of rage and lust.’
Linda was silent for a moment, then closed her eyes, shaking her head. ‘But that wasn’t my father,’ she whispered, locking eyes with Glen. ‘I knew the real Harry Rooker my entire life, I was seventeen when he died. And my mother knew him for even longer than that.’
‘What was he like?’ Glen asked, finding that his own voice had gone quiet as well.
‘Nothing you’ve heard anyone say,’ she answered. ‘Not anymore, at least. Memories became warped after the killings, after rumours started to fly. But before then, you could’ve asked anyone on the street, man or woman, what they thought of the milkman Harry Rooker, and most of them would’ve said the same things. They’d have called him a swell guy. Friendly, if soft-spoken. A perfect gentleman. A hero.
‘It was 1931 when my parents met. They were both living in boarding houses at that time. Before he delivered milk, my father delivered eggs. He’d lost his job with the market crash, so he kept chickens to try and help make ends meet. He made deliveries to the house my mother was in, every week. The matron would give him a hot meal whenever they could spare it. And every week, my mother would sit and talk with him. It wasn’t long before they fell in love. Two years later, they were married.
‘I was...eight, I think, or nine, when my father was drafted into the war. He survived, of course, but he was permanently wounded. His unit had unknowingly stumbled into a trap, you see. There was an explosion in the building they were in, and a fire broke out. But my father made sure every single one of his men made it out alive. He walked right into that burning building, again and again, to save his brothers-in-arms. He succeeded, but he was burned, badly burned. That’s how he became scarred. He could no longer see out of his right eye after that.
‘He was hired as a milkman shortly after returning home. And not once, not once did my mother ever worry. Because she knew that she could trust him. He made deliveries to countless houses every day, and my mother knew that she could trust him to behave himself with the women in them. And they knew it too; even though talking and smiling were harder for him than they used to be due to the scarring, he still made an effort to be polite and friendly and brighten the day of every person on his route, at least a little bit.
‘When we received the news about what had happened, we didn’t know what to do, what to think. Mostly we couldn’t believe it despite the fact that it was undeniably him, but...I think, on some level, we both knew that something had been wrong. He had been acting...off, the previous night, and the morning before he left for work. We didn’t know what it was, but there were all sorts of theories. Doctors say it may have been a psychotic break, or the horrors of the war had finally gotten to him. And of course there was the age-old legend of Sarah Fier.’
Linda shook her head once again. ‘To this day, I still don’t know what it was. And to be honest, I haven’t entirely ruled out Fier. Most of Sunnyvale thinks we’re crazy for believing it, but far be it from me to know what sort of unholy curse that witch laid on our town, to drive my father to commit such horrors. “She reaches from beyond the grave, to make good men her evil slaves.” And before that day, that’s exactly what Harry Rooker was: a good man.’
Linda continued to look at Glen, her eyes searching, as though some part of her deep inside was looking carefully for any sign that he believed her, that her father had been a victim just as the women he’d killed were.
‘...It sounds like it,’ said Glen, his voice soft. ‘It...really is a shame that nobody remembers him for who he was before. Instead, all they ever talk about is “the Milkman Murderer”...sounds like a pretty lousy way to honour his memory, if you ask me.’
Linda nodded. ‘When I was younger I tried to fight it, tried to stamp out the rumours; I wanted more than anything to remind people of the man they’d known before the murders. But when nobody listened again and again, I was forced to give up. But even still, there are days when I just wish I could stand on the highest rooftop and shout, “He was kind.”’
‘I can’t imagine what it must feel like, even today,’ said Glen. ‘I know I said I was sorry back when we first met, but...I really, truly am. For you and your mother.’
Linda smiled once again; it was sad, but genuine. ‘We’ve learned to live with it,’ she said. ‘Maybe someday the truth will come out. Maybe the killings will stop. And I pray to God every day that they will, for the pain in Shadyside to end. But until then, knowing that you believe me means more than I can express, Glen.’
‘Thank you,’ he said, returning her smile. ‘I’m glad I can help, at least a little bit.’
The two stood there in silence for just a moment, before Glen spoke up again.
‘May I take you out for a soda?’ he asked.
‘...I’d like that,’ said Linda, joy returning to her face.