by John Hart
“Listen,” he said. “I know about your brother.” He raised a hand, as if I might interrupt. “No need to speak of innocence or guilt—I’m sure you would say all the right things—but, at this moment, I’m responsible for Becky’s well-being. She’s a guest of my family. That means I must act in her interests, almost as a father. Do you understand that, son?”
“Listen, sir—”
“Please don’t sir me. I know you snuck into my daughter’s room last night. I won’t pass judgment on that alone—perhaps you felt justified, somehow—but it does speak to your character.” I felt heat in my neck, a sudden dryness in my throat. “What matters most is this: I can’t have you speaking to Becky today, not in church and not afterward, not until I return her to her own father. Do you understand?” He leaned closer, his arm along the back of the pew. “I’m not judging you, son, not on this murder business, and not on the actions of your brother, but this is a difficult thing whose full meanings are not yet known. Work with me, okay? Do the right thing, today of all days and here of all places.”
He gave my shoulders a squeeze, then slid out of the pew to rejoin his family. Becky looked my way, but I was burning too hotly to meet her eyes. Instead, I stared at the woman in front of me, at the lacquered hair and the floral dress. I thought everyone in church had heard what Dana’s father had said, and could see the shame he’d put inside me, this thing that was a flame. Pride alone kept me from leaving before the service ended, and even then, I kept my seat, watching to see who nodded or spoke or simply stared. Becky was the only one I cared about, so I rose as she entered the stream of people and found a place on my side of the aisle. Dana’s father was watching from behind, so she kept her eyes straight ahead, and said nothing at all to me, choosing instead to press her church bulletin into my hand as she passed. I waited until the church was empty, then looked down to see four fine words in Becky’s lovely hand.
Five o’clock.
The quarry.
* * *
The rest of the day was a lifetime. I met Chance, and we played pinball at the 7-Eleven, then sat on the curb and ate sandwiches sold cold for twenty-five cents.
“What’d you get?”
“Pimento cheese. You?”
“Egg salad.”
That’s how the conversation had been all day. It’s not that we couldn’t run deep, but that Chance understood the way our friendship worked. If he was down, my job was to be there and be cool. Same thing in reverse.
“I’m thinking something cold and wet.” Chance dunked his trash in the can, went back inside, and came out with a six-pack under his arm. I looked up with sun in my eyes, and he passed me a can. “This will help.”
“I guess you heard, huh?”
“That Jason killed a girl? Yeah, pretty much everybody’s talking about it.”
“That’s not all.” I told Chance about the guns and cash, and the biker Jason shot in the foot and leg. “Darius something or other. I was there. I saw it.”
“An actual shoot-out?”
“I guess. They arrested him right after. I was basically with him.”
“Okay, time-out. Back up.”
Chance wanted specifics, so I gave him the story in detail. “He was going to run, start a new life. He asked me to go with him.”
“You said no, of course. Please, God, tell me you did.”
I didn’t answer right away. Cars passed on the street. “I saw Becky in church today.”
It was a hard right turn, but Chance gave it to me. “Was she hot?”
“Sundress. Pretty hot.”
“Becky freaking Collins…”
“She wants to meet me this afternoon.”
“Be still my heart.”
He was trying to lighten the mood, but I felt cheap, like I shouldn’t have mentioned Becky at all. “Listen, I’m going to get out of here.”
“Something I said?”
I stood, shaking my head. “No, brother. We’re good.”
“Well, damn…” Chance stood, too, looking unhappy. “I know you’re upset about this—your brother and all—but we could go to the movies or the mall, take your mind off things.”
“I need to think this through.”
“One for the road?” He offered another beer. In response, I handed back the one I’d not yet opened. “Okay, all right. But call me later, yeah. Tell me what happens with Becky.”
I said I’d try, but doubted it would happen. Something had changed in the church. Maybe it was the way blood had risen in her cheeks at the moment she’d first seen me, or the curve of her neck, the vulnerability of that pale, smooth skin and the small hairs that brushed it like lashes. I knew only that something was different between us, like I was on the mountain once again, and too high above the world to breathe.
* * *
I took a drive to clear my head, but found no clarity at all. My thoughts wandered, and so did I, driving past the house, the police station, even the school. When I reached the quarry, I found a dull sky that pressed down on whitecaps and dark water. A single car was in the field, so I parked beside it, and walked down to the stony beach. Becky was there in blue jeans and a buttoned shirt. The wind took her hair, and streamed it like a flag. She wore no makeup, no shoes. If anything, she was prettier than she’d been in church. When she saw me, she pushed her hands into her pockets, so the jeans rode low on her hips. “It’s strange,” she said. “This place without our friends.”
Stupidly, I said, “I got your note.”
Tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, she smiled shyly. “I’m sorry about Dana’s dad.”
“Ah, Mr. White’s okay.”
“He thought people would talk. He just wanted to help.”
“You looked beautiful,” I said.
“It was Dana’s dress.”
“I’m not talking about the dress.”
The smile came again, and she led me along the shore, and it was quiet for a while. Barefoot, she picked her way along the quarry’s broken edge until we reached a stand of pine, where we sat on a bed of needles, and spoke of things like school and Chance and the future. She asked for my thoughts on Vietnam, and I struggled to find the right answer. The war was a mess, but others my age were fighting and dying.
“Do you think you’ll be drafted?”
“Odds are against it.”
She drew her knees to her chest, and watched me with those cornflower blues. “Are you thinking of enlisting?”
No one had ever asked me that straight on. Maybe no one saw me so clearly. “Why do you ask?”
“I know your brother died in Vietnam. I know you were close.”
I had no easy response, so we stared across the water, her shoulder against mine. “You haven’t asked about Jason.”
“Do you want to talk about him?”
“Not really.”
“Then let’s not.”
She touched my hand, and we found other things to discuss. It turned out that Chance was right about one thing. Becky had been accepted to Princeton, but wasn’t going. “Too expensive,” she said; but I saw no bitterness. “Come on, there’s more to see.” She led me farther along the water’s edge, and when we reached a finger of rock, she clambered down to a place where water almost covered the stone. Once down, she crossed her arms as cool wind raced across the water. “My parents told me about Princeton two months ago, that it was impossible, even with financial aid.”
“That blows. I’m sorry.”
“It’s life. Besides, it taught me the difference between things I can control and those I can’t. It’s why I brought you here.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Don’t you?” The same cool wind streamed hair across her face, and she smiled at my confusion. “Kiss me, Gibby.”
“Really?”
“I’ve wanted to kiss you since sophomore year.”
“But you never said … I had no idea.”
“Well, now you do.” She stepped closer, so I kissed her, lightl
y at first, and then not so lightly. Her hands found my shoulders, and mine, the small of her back. She drew away, in time, but her eyes were bluer and deeper and smiling. “That was my first kiss,” she said. “My first kiss ever.”
17
At the police station, Jason was moved from holding cell to interview room, then back and forth again. It lasted all day, and most of the questions were about Tyra. He knew better than to talk about that, so he didn’t. Besides, the cops were assholes.
Smith.
Martinez.
Late in the day, they left him alone, so he stared at the mirrored glass, thinking of Tyra. She was dead, he felt certain, though the cops had been careful to share nothing but their questions. How did you meet? When did you see her last? Why the fight? What happened to Tyra’s gun? They had other questions, too, but Jason learned early how to tune them out.
Eventually, a man entered that Jason didn’t know. He wore a suit and a wedding ring. “My name is David Martin. I’m captain of the homicide division.” He sat, lacing his fingers on the table. “The recording devices are off. It’s just us.”
Jason gave the man a dead-eyed stare.
“You’ve not asked for a lawyer. As a gesture of respect to your father, I’m here to suggest, most strongly, that you do.” The captain leaned forward, his features plain but intent. “Silence is not a valid defense. You should have an attorney.”
“I hate attorneys.”
“Everyone does until they need one.”
Jason shifted in the seat, chains rattling where his hands were secured to an eyebolt in the table. “The last lawyer I had talked me into a plea I should have never taken.”
“Twenty-seven months for felony heroin, a good deal by any standard.”
“Only if I was distributing. I wasn’t.”
“Still…”
“Have you ever been to Lanesworth?” Jason asked. “You would not be so glib if you had.”
“Very well.” The captain rapped on the mirrored glass. “We’re recording now.”
“I have nothing to say about Tyra Norris.”
“So let’s talk about this.” The captain withdrew photographs of the van and its contents. “Ninety thousand in cash, and enough weapons to fight a small war.”
“I’ve had enough of war.”
“So has the city.”
Jason studied the cop’s face. He seemed decent enough, smart enough. “Is my father behind the glass?”
“He can’t help you, son.”
“What happened to Tyra?”
The captain leaned back, considering. “What would you like to know?”
“How she died and why you think I’m the one who killed her.”
The captain drummed his fingers, then shrugged. “Some days ago, you rented a room from Charles Spellman.”
“Yeah, 1019 Water Street. It’s no secret.”
“Your room is on the second floor on the northwest side.”
“It is.”
“And you’re still the registered tenant.”
“What’s your point?”
Captain Martin didn’t respond. Instead, he placed three evidence bags on the table, each holding a Polaroid photograph. He fanned them out, and Jason paled. He’d known more blood and death than most, but that was another life in a different world. “That’s Tyra?”
“It is.”
Jason struggled to imagine it, but the shape of her was right. The hair. The cloudy eye. “I would never hurt Tyra. Not like that.”
“And yet…” The captain laced his fingers on the table, leaning close. “When we searched the Water Street house this morning, we found those photographs in your room, beneath your pillow, in fact.”
“I did not kill Tyra Norris.”
“We found this as well.” The captain produced a fourth evidence bag. In it was a scalpel, mirror-sharp and stained blackish red. “That’s Tyra’s blood on the blade. So you see … Murder weapon. Photographs.” The cop leaned back this time, sad but certain. “If there are mitigating circumstances, something from the war, something you think I should know about…”
Jason reached for the photos, but the chain was too short.
“Nothing?” the cop asked.
“No.” Jason could barely speak. “Nothing.”
“I’m sorry, son.” The cop gathered up the evidence, and stood. “I’m sorry for Tyra Norris, for her family, and for yours. It’s a bad case, truly horrible. That being said, you’re still your father’s son. If you think of something you’d like to say, either to him or in mitigation, I will always be willing to listen.”
* * *
Saying goodbye to Becky was not an easy thing to do. We were at the cars. She was standing close. “Why sophomore year?” I asked. “Why then? Why me?”
“You really don’t know?”
I shook my head.
“Math class, first day.” Her eyes twinkled as she spoke. “Mrs. Ziegler called me to the board to work a problem. You remember?”
“What I remember is how much you’d changed over the summer.”
“Yeah, you and every boy in school. The legs. The boobs. But that first day in math class, you were the only one who looked at my face. You watched my face and you nodded and you smiled.”
“I promise, I was no saint.” Becky blushed, and dug a toe into the grass. “You seemed confident, though. Very self-assured.”
“But I wasn’t at all. No boy had ever looked at me the way those other boys did. Standing at the board, I could barely think straight. I still don’t know how I finished the problem. I kept asking myself, Why did I wear a skirt this short, a shirt this tight?”
“And that’s the reason you wanted to kiss me?”
“Not the only reason. Your life seemed so tragic from the outside: your brothers and the war, what people said about your mother. I liked the way you carried that weight.” She lifted narrow shoulders, smiling. “Plus the way you look in those jeans.”
“These?” I asked.
“Those jeans.” She pressed into me. “Any jeans.”
* * *
On the drive home, I thought of the things Becky had said, of her toes in the grass, and the small, possessive smiles. I’d have to break it off, with Sara, no question. It would be hard, I knew. She’d just lost Tyra. I didn’t want to pile on the hurt.
But maybe she wouldn’t care.
Maybe I was the smallest of distractions.
At home, I found the kitchen cold and empty, my mother on the sofa, drinking vodka. I’d not seen that in a while. “Hey, Mom. I’m sorry I didn’t call.”
“This time it’s okay.”
“Did you eat something?”
She held up the glass, then put it down. “Come sit.” She patted the cushion beside her. “How was your day?”
“It was fine. You know. Considering. Where’s Dad?”
“In his office, looking for lawyers, though what luck he expects on a Sunday night is for him alone to know.”
I studied my mother’s eyes. They were glazed. The vodka bottle was four inches down.
“How was your day?” she asked again.
“Mom, look at me.” She did it, but slowly. I thought, Pills, maybe, or maybe an earlier bottle. “What are you doing?” I asked.
She shook her head, but I knew the answer.
Hiding, I thought.
Like me.
* * *
At my father’s study, the door was closed, but I could hear him on the phone. “I don’t care what the fee is. His first appearance is tomorrow morning. I need you there.”
I felt guilty, but eavesdropping seemed a small sin, considering. When the call was over, I knocked on the door.
“Come.”
My father was unshaven and exhausted, with enough color in his face to hint at the frustration I’d heard in his voice. “Lawyers,” he said.
“Did you find one?”
“I believe so.”
“A good one?”
“An expensive one.
Where have you been?”
“With a girl, actually.” I sat across the desk, which I’d only done once before in my life. Too much murder, he’d told me once, meaning files and photos and autopsy reports. “Will the lawyer help?”
“Who knows with lawyers?”
“He didn’t do it,” I said.
Across the desk, my father slumped more deeply into his chair. “Are you sure about that?”
“Yes.”
“Sure enough to promise me? To bet your life on it? To bet your mother’s life?”
“Why would you phrase the question like that?”
“Because it looks bad, son. It looks really, truly bad.”
* * *
I went to my bedroom, but that image of my father stayed with me.
The helplessness.
The heartbreak in his eyes.
I needed to know what he knew, and could think of only one way to get the information. It was late, but that didn’t stop me. Dad was in his office, Mom in the bottle.
I walked through the front door, keys in hand.
No one noticed or cared.
* * *
It took time to reach Ken Burklow’s house. He lived across the city line in a small house on a neat street.
“Gibby. What are you doing here?”
He filled the door, surprised to see me.
“May I come in?”
He stepped aside to let me pass, then studied the street with cop eyes like my father’s. “It’s late. Are you okay?”
I’d thought I was. Now I wasn’t sure.
“Sit down, son. Before you fall down.” He put me on the sofa, and came back with a glass. “Drink that.”
“What is it?”
“Very expensive whiskey.” He sat across from me, a big man in jeans and loafers. “So…”
He let the word hang, and I found myself strangely uncertain. I’d come for answers about my brother, to guilt Ken if I had to. Instead, I was swept up in visions of my family as it had once been. Against the backdrop of now, it was too much, so I went elsewhere. “I think I have a girlfriend.”