= CALLED TO WITNESS
  By J. Campbell


The police chief came in person to see Allison. That was very gratifying to her. The Ryder name did still mean something in this town, even if the last survivor was an old maid of eighty-three. Secretly, Allison had been afraid that she had been in the backwater of age for so long that most people had decided that she must be long since dead--assuming that they thought about her at all, that is.

The chief, Everett Barkley, was tall and well built, with little sign of the paunch that so many men his age have allowed to develop.

Barkley helped himself to her father's big leather chair, slumping comfortably to accommodate his frame to its rump-sprung curves. Allison started toward a straight-backed chair suited to the erect posture of her generation, then yielded to the pleading of well-aged bones and lowered herself carefully into her familiar upholstered armchair.

The chief surveyed the pie-crust table at his elbow, laden with silver-framed photographs. Gingerly he reached out and picked up Charity's picture.

"Mrs. Patrick. She must have been very young when this was taken"

"Nineteen. She sat for that four years ago." And Allison had watched, not an hour ago, as Charity was brought to the ambulance with a blanket over her face and body.

"Did you know her well? As you probably know, I've been in town less than a year and I had never seen her before the... before this morning."

Allison shuddered slightly. Automatically her hand went to her lap to caress Snowball, to seek comfort in the warm, silky fur and the gentle purrs. With a start, she remembered that she had let him out in the early hours of the morning, and he hadn't yet returned. 

"Charity came toddling up my front steps one day when she was about two, and we'd been fast friends ever since. At that time she lived just up the hill in the next block."

"And since they were married they've lived next door to you?"

"That's right."

"Miss Ryder..." The chief shifted his position, slightly ill at ease. "Would you tell me something about Charity? Anything you like. Just your mental picture of her."

Allison reached to take the photograph from him. "This shows her spirit well, those laughing, sparkling eyes. She was a happy girl. She used to come up running-and she looked so full of life. Vital is the word that comes to mind. Dancing, tennis, swimming, golf, singing--that was Charity."

Allison looked down at the gray old hands that held the picture, at the knotted veins and liver spots; Charity had been her youth all over again.

"I can see her right now, sitting on the porch railing, swinging those long tanned legs. 'Frank finally asked me to the dance, Miss Ryder,' she told me.  She was leaning so far out to look down the street that I was afraid she'd fall into my rose garden. 'Here he comes now. Bye. See you soon.' And the next thing you know she was gone laughing and waving to him."

She had been pleased about Charity and Frank, Allison remembered. She'd known Frank Patrick only as a dark, good-looking boy with a quick grin and a cheery wave. His charm swept up people like hit dance music. How could she have known he was one of those helpless, hopeless creatures that fed on hurt?

Allison handed the picture back to Barkley. Carefully he placed it back among the dozen or so others that crowned the little table.
"Nieces and nephews and their children," Allison remarked. "I even have one great," she told him, with visible pride. "But Charity was closer to me than any of them."

The policeman shifted his cap between his fingers in a broken, shuffling motion as if he were saying a rosary on it. 

"Miss Ryder," he said, lifting his eyes to meet hers, "it'll be out soon, so I might as well tell you, the doctor is almost certain that it was an overdose, probably of sleeping pills. We'll know for sure after the autopsy. What I'm trying to do now is get a picture of her, of her husband, of her new life. Now the Patrick house and yours are very close, can't be more than fifteen, twenty feet apart, and their bedroom is on this side. I noticed the window was open about eight inches at the bottom. Knowing how easily sound travels on these warm summer nights, I wonder..." He paused, hoping Allison would finish the sentence. She was wearing a look of polite attention, but said nothing.

"Well," he continued, "I just thought you might have heard something."

Absently Allison reached again for Snowball's head. Where could he be? She had heard him yowling on the back fence at about three this morning, so she knew he was near home. Then she shook herself mentally and returned her attention to the officer.

"My bedroom is on the far side of the house from the Patricks'. I'm afraid I can be of no help to you, Captain... Barkley isn't it?"

Allison half expected a bolt of chastening lightning from above but she hadn't lied, she decided. Her bedroom was indeed on the far side. She needn't tell him that most nights she didn't sleep well, and it was cooler out on the screened porch, practically outside Charity's open window.

Barkley nodded. "I understand that Mrs. Patrick was a complete invalid for the past couple of years. Can you tell me anything about that?"

Allison sat a little more upright, legs crossed at the ankles and hands quiet at her lap. Absurdly, a seventy-year-old picture flashed into her memory: her class at Miss Van Renssaler's Academy for Young Ladies absorbing the principles of propriety. What did any of it matter now, she wondered, after all these years? It was people, and what they did to each other, that mattered. Charity, too, had attended a private school, and see what had happened to her.

"She went out driving by herself one night," she told Barkley, "and... had an accident. Her spinal cord was partially crushed, and she was paralyzed from the waist down."

Allison remembered that night all too well. The stifling heat had been emphasized by the heartless cheerfulness of crickets. About eleven o'clock Allison had prepared a glass of lemonade for herself, and moved towards the old wicker lounge on the screen porch. Not wanting the heat or bugs the light would bring, she sat in the dark, sipping the tart drink and resting. 

At first the voices had been muffled, simply alto and baritone rhythms, then they had swelled until she caught a few of the phrases rising in passionate tones. Finally, there was no effort to hush their voices, and Charity's anguish had cried across the night to Allison, "She's going to have a baby and you expect me to be CALM? How could you betray me so, and with a creature like that?"

Frank's voice had resounded with mocking laughter. "Even you can't be that much of an innocent! Do you honestly believe your simple charms could be enough for a man like me? Sarah wasn't the first and you can be damned sure she won't be the last. Come on now, Charity, you're a sweet kid, and your family's been real helpful in getting me where I want to go, but you just can't tie a man down."

Allison cringed, remembering Charity's wounded cry. It had been followed by the slam of the screen door, then the footsteps pounding across the porch and down the steps. The car door slammed and the engine roared to life. Gravel spurted as Charity took off into the darkness.

The police chief cleared his throat. "Miss Ryder?"

Allison, while reliving that awful moment, realized she had a white-knuckled grip on the arm of the chair and returned to the present
"Yes?"

"I hope you'll excuse me for asking you so much about your friends and neighbors, but you see, well, it's all going to come out eventually, and I'm sure you'll be discreet. . .  incapacitated as she was, she had no access to the supply of sleeping pills. They were kept in the upstairs bathroom and her husband gave them to her whenever she needed them. It may be that she hoarded the pills, hiding them from her husband somehow, until she had enough for a lethal dose. Or it could be that Mr. Patrick was careless  and she received an accidental overdose. Or..." and he paused while Allison's eyes searched his. "Well you realize, we must consider the, uh... possibility that... perhaps the overdose wasn't accidental. Mr. Patrick wouldn't be the first man who felt tied down by a crippled wife and took the wrong way out."

"Captain Barkley," Allison said. "There was no reason in the world for Charity to kill herself. What does Frank say happened?"

"He insists that she must have taken them herself. According to him, she suffered a great deal of pain. He claims that she must have saved up the sleeping pills, which rules out any chance of an accident. This is why I wanted to talk to you. You were very close to Mrs. Patrick. Was she in much pain?"

Allison's fingers unconsciously pleated the plum-colored fabric of the dress over her lap. Her head went a little higher, and an imperious generation spoke through her.

"I've already told you, there was no reason in the world for Charity to kill herself. To my certain knowledge she was seldom, if ever, in pain. In fact I can give you the names of three or four ladies who would confirm that fact, who heard it from Charity 's own mouth. We'd often gather on the Patricks' front porch in the afternoon, so Charity could be a part of the group, and not a week ago we were discussing that case in the papers - you remember the man who shot his wife because she was dying of cancer? Charity was most upset. She was a dreadfully sympathetic child. She was torn between her distress at his immoral action and her sympathy with his concern for his wife's suffering. 'Perhaps I might judge differently,' she said, 'if I were in pain myself. I'm one of the fortunates, suffering only from the handicap. But even if I were in pain, I don't believe anyone except God has the right to take a life.' The other ladies will bear witness with me."

Yes, she said to herself, we were discussing the case. Maybe nobody else noticed it, it was so skillfully done, but Charity herself was the one who maneuvered the conversation to mercy killing. I didn't know then, Charity, but I can see now, what you were doing.

"Mrs. Patrick said herself she was in no pain? Ever?"

"At the time of the accident and several months afterward, yes, she did have pain. But not recently, I never heard her complain."

There now Allison, she realized, you did tell a lie; you can't wiggle out of that one. The same night as that conversation--remember--and Sunday night--and last night...

The scene had been the same all three nights, and the script had followed the same lines. Allison had been in her comfortable corner on the porch, Snowball's faint purrs pulsing against her caressing hand, the creaking wicker of the lounge cool against her bare arms. That first night it had rained earlier, breaking the heat, and the lilac leaves had whispered wetly to each other in the dark. Gentle dripping from the eaves seemed to deepen the quiet, rather than break it. Charity's blind had been pulled down only to the level of the raised window. The force of their intensity carried the muted voices across to her.

"Please! Frank! Please!"

Never had Allison heard such pleading in Charity's voice.

"I've told you, I just can't," he said. "If the pain's so bad let me get a shot for you, or something. But you don't know what you're talking about, wanting to kill yourself."

"What good am I to anybody like this? And the pain-I just can't stand it any more." Her voice had risen with a startling anguish.

Allison, listening in spite of herself, had tensed, wondering. Just that afternoon Charity had denied the pain, yet now... Hot tears had welled in Allison's eyes as she listened to the tortured voice.

If she hadn't hated Frank so much, she might have been able to pity him as his voice broke with indecision. "Charity I can't do it! Don't ask me to. Even if you're ready to die, think of the position you'd put me in. They'd say I killed you. Think of me, Charity! They'd give me the chair."

The argument had gone on and for three nights Charity had wept, pleaded, hammered away. The last night, Allison, hypnotized, watched the shadows shifting on the drawn blind. Charity had played out her drama. She had won. Frank gave her the pills.

Allison had no longer felt the heat of the night. Chilled with horror, she had fought her own battle. Her throat had throbbed with a scream to that silent window. She couldn't let Charity do this! But a thin hand to her lips cut off that scream before it sounded. What right did she have to interfere? Charity knew what she wanted, and what she was doing. She wouldn't thank Allison for stopping her now.

Allison sat quietly. Soon the Patricks' light went out. Only then did she rise stiffly and plod to her bedroom, where no one could hear her poorly stifled sobs.

The white cat had followed her to the bedroom. One soft, easy leap settled him beside the tired, sorrowful old lady. Allison remembered the day Charity had brought him to her.

"Frank says he's allergic to cats, Miss Ryder. He won't have one in the house but he's such a darling!" The vibrant face had gone quiet as she crooned over the kitten. "Snowball'd be a good name, don't you think? If you kept him, I could see him often. I could help you groom him, and things. It wouldn't hurt so much if I knew you had him."
So Allison had kept Snowball, but Charity had never visited him in his new home. The accident, as Allison resolutely called it, came just days later. Through those harrowing days the kitten grew, and comforted Allison. And he was full grown by the time Charity left the hospital.

There's not much left for an old lady, she thought, wishing Snowball would come home. I had Charity and I had Snowball, and now I only have the cat. 

A tear that a lifetime of discipline couldn't restrain slipped down the wrinkled, gray cheek.

Chief Barkley, tactfully clearing his throat again brought Allison back to the present. This policeman and his questions? Allison was weary, please no more decisions...

Barkley hoisted himself out of the deep leather chair. "Well Miss Ryder, I think you've told us what we need to know. One thing-could you write down the names and addresses of the other ladies that you said heard Mrs. Patrick say she suffered no pain? I won't trouble you now. I'll send a man over later today to pick them up.

Charity wins, Allison thought, but she felt no elation. Yes, Frank had killed Charity, killed her youth and innocence, and pummeled her spirit until she wanted to die. Yet, did Charity, or did Allison, have the right to sentence him? 

Allison struggled out of her chair. Chief Barkley rushed to help her, but she waved him aside. "Thank you, young man, but I have to do things myself nowadays."

Yes, Allison, she mused, you have to do things by yourself. Once you make this decision, don't fool yourself that somebody else sent Frank to the electric chair. They still execute murderers in this state, you know, and rightly speaking, Frank did not murder Charity. For eighty-three years you've known right from wrong. 

"Chief..." she started. Then her taut nerves jerked her like a marionette as the doorbell shrilled.

"I'll get it" the policeman offered.

It was another policeman, a close-shaven young man too big for his uniform, who bobbed his head respectfully to her, then turned towards the chief. "Morris says they're finished over there, any time you're ready to go back to the station."

Chief Barkley glanced in speculation at Allison.  Her expression told him nothing.

"I'll be out to the car in a minute." He held the door for the younger man.

"Oh I just thought I'd mention that we don't have to worry about that big white cat the neighbors said was yowling this morning. We found him in the Patrick trash can. Somebody wrung his neck." 

The chief nodded and turned back toward Allison where she stood by her overstuffed armchair, one hand gripping the back. Charity smiled at him from the piecrust table.

"You were about to say something...?"

Allison reached to pick up a white cat hair off the chair beside her. "Yes... I was going to say I'll get right on that list you wanted. You can send someone over in about half an hour. Good morning, Chief Barkley." 

Head erect, shoulders straight, she shuffled across the room to close the door behind him. 


Born and raised in the Ottawa region JOSHUA CAMPBELL has lived all over the beautiful land of Canada ranging from the beautiful forests of British-Columbia to the frozen northern tundra of the Yukon, to the hip city of Montreal.

Currently at the young age of 14 Joshua resides in the Ottawa region and will soon be attending Canterbury High School.

Copyright (c) 2000 J. Campbell