Kids & Parenting

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Sister Golden Hair, Goodbye.

By D. Jordan Knight.

Nearly thirty years have passed since the brutal rape and grisly murder of Paula Bohovesky. Her killers have served the minimum portion of their sentence, and will soon petition for the freedom to walk down the street where your children play, or to follow your daughter home from the library.

I cannot stop them from trying, but I can fulfill a promise made to a friend.

I can remember....



MOBILE, ALABAMA - SPRING, 2009

“Chloe and I are walking to church.”

It is one line of text from my daughter, Victoria; one that should not, by any measure, cause a mother to panic, yet my hands are shaking, and I can see my breath in the cold night air - short and quick. I have to calm down. It is only three short blocks from the civic center to the church.

Three short blocks, in a sleepy little town, in a cold, ugly world.

I look to the moon for answers; the sole, silent witness to this mother’s despair. But the moon holds its peace, and watches, as it has over mothers throughout the ages. And it occurs to me, that perhaps this is why it is blue.

My heart churns, and I close my eyes tight, trying to squeeze the images out of my head – and there, alone in the darkness of my own memories, comes one of my own daughter: She is five years old again, and stares up at me with puddles of trust in her eyes.

“Mama, is there such a thing as For-Really Monsters?”

But I did not trust myself to answer.


PEARL RIVER, NEW YORK - AUTUMN, 1974

“He won’t hurt you, you know.”

I did not know any such thing, nor was I inclined to accept the word of a girl who hid in the shadows of tall oak trees. All I knew at the moment, was that there was a squirrel on my shoe, and he did not belong there.

“He’s just hungry,” the shadow girl spoke again. “He likes peanuts.”

“I don’t have a peanut.”

“Well of course you don’t. Who walks around with peanuts in their pockets?”

I could hear the brightness of her smile in her reply, and it was so compelling that I could not help but glance away from the furry little thug on my foot.

Paula stepped into the path near the gate, from behind the safety of the tall oak tree, her pockets full of peanuts. She had a halo of wild blond hair that lifted and danced in the autumn breeze, and eyes that sparkled as though privy to some private joke.

And I believed in angels.

The squirrel was utterly enchanted. He took the peanut from Paula’s hand, then paused as though to say thank you. I believe, had he owned a hat, he might have tipped it at her and bowed before scurrying off with his prize.

The memory is as clear in my mind as if it had happened yesterday, yet far too many yesterdays have come and gone since that magical moment; that magical, timeless moment. Timeless, like Paula.

My Sister Golden Hair, surprise.


PEARL RIVER, NEW YORK - AUTUMN, 1977

“Well I keep on thinking ‘bout you, Sister Golden Hair, surprise…”

On some level, I knew it was funny, and under normal circumstances, I would have laughed at Paula, dancing in the creek to her own self-proclaimed theme song with a crayfish back-up singer in either hand; but these were not normal circumstances, and laughter alluded me. If I could laugh, then I could cry – and if cried, I would have to accept that my father was gone.

Instead, I sat in the shadow of the bridge, guarding my cassette player and Paula’s wicker picnic basket; the contents of which included two egg salad sandwiches, a half-eaten carton of lo mien, and a bag full of warm oatmeal cookies. Even her picnics had character.

She wiggled a crayfish at me. “Will you meet me in the middle? Will you meet me in the air? Will you love me just a little, just enough to show you care?”

“No.”

“Spoil sport. I think this one is sort of cute. What do you think?”

“It looks like a giant cockroach.”

“That’s not very nice. What if it’s a prince, under an evil spell? I think you should kiss it,” she wiggled it closer. “Go ahead. You know you love him.”

She huffed at my lack of enthusiasm. “Fine. I’ll do it, myself.”

But the crayfish had other ideas.

SNAP! Not quite close enough to pinch, but more than close enough to startle --- and the next thing Paula knew, she was waist deep and sputtering in the ice cold October water.

And I laughed. And I laughed. And I laughed until I cried. And I cried. And I cried.

Mission accomplished. Paula sat next to me, soaking wet and shivering, her arm across my shoulders, with tears welling in her eyes. Tears for me.

My Sister Golden Hair cried.


PEARL RIVER, NEW YORK - AUTUMN, 1980

“He’ll watch over you while you’re gone.”

Gone. I hated the sound of it. This sleepy little town of friendly people was all I ever knew. Every memory that played in my head, did so against the backdrop of this place that I would forever call home; and most of them with Paula by my side.

I turned the gift over in my hand. It was small, but weighty; a hound dog sculpted of solid pewter. I smiled, so that I would not cry. But I wasn’t fooling Paula.

“I think he looks like Walter Matthau.” I laughed, partly from her deadpan delivery, and partly because it was true. He did look a little bit like Walter Matthau.

My mother honked the horn, breaking the mood. All that was left to say was goodbye; but how do you part with a blood-sister? A girl who knows all of your secrets and with whom you braved those terrible coming of age years? A friend that you would take a bullet for? It had to be special.

“I guess I’ll see you around.”

“Yeah.”

I climbed into the car and offered one last smile to Paula, as my mother backed the car out of the driveway.

To this day, I am unsure what impulse she acted upon in that exact moment, and it is something I have often pondered these many years. Perhaps I will never know what prompted her to run after the car, but I can see her still; her impossibly long legs stretching out in pursuit; wild, blonde hair streaming behind her, glistening in the sun.

“Stop!” It wasn’t necessary – my mother was already pulling over.

Paula grasped my hand through the window, her breath short from the run. There was an earnestness in her eyes, deeper than I had remembered ever seeing.

“Promise you won’t forget me.” As if I could. As if anyone could.

“I promise.”

It was the last thing I ever said to her.

Gone. I hated the sound of the word. But two months later, that’s exactly what she was.

My Sister Golden Hair, goodbye.


MOBILE, ALABAMA - SPRING, 2009

My eyes snap open and I am back in my office, my face damp with tears. The back door slams and my husband appears, our daughter safe in his shadow. I know I should be firm, and I try to be, but I dissolve into a sobbing heap of relief, and pull her into a hug that at nearly sixteen, she feels is completely uncool.

I don’t care. I hug her tighter. She is my baby, and always will be as long as I can close my eyes and remember:

“Mama, are there such things as For Really Monsters?”

Yes baby, there are. And I pray God they never find you.

It is late now, and the rest of my family slumbers deeply, but I have a deadline to meet, and so I work into the night. Or at least I should be working - but it is impossible to do so, for Walter Matthau sits upon my desk, as he has for nearly thirty years, regarding me with an expectant gaze. He just doesn’t seem to understand how difficult it is to put these things down on paper -- like removing a tourniquet from an emotional artery.

Or perhaps he does know, and this is why he waits so patiently. I heave a sigh and reach for my pencil cup. A promise, after all, is a promise.

Paula Bohovesky is not a case number. She is a little girl with peanuts in her pockets, who has her own theme song, and dances with crayfish. And one day, I will walk down a different garden path, toward a different gate, and I will tell her that I never forgot.

And together, we will feed the squirrels.

My Sister Golden Hair and I.



Copyright 2009 Dori Knight
Reprint rights granted with inquiry.


NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR:

Every other year, Paula's mother (now in her 70s), must face her daughter's killers with a list of petition signatures, and ask the parole board not to release these men into the world.

A local judge has created an online petition to help her, and an old classmate of Paula's has designed a FB cause page to support the site.

The author encourages you to help keep Paula’s killers in prison and away from our children.

Those on facebook can find the group at:

http://apps.facebook.com/causes/264503/16408740?m=cc366e79


To go directly to the petition, just visit:

www.petitionforpaula.org

Thank you.

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