“Uh...sure.” I turn my attention back to the dishes.
Sullivan bursts through the screen door and wraps his arms around me, giving me a rib-cracking squeeze and swinging me around the kitchen. Soap bubbles fly everywhere as I fight him off with the yellow rubber gloves.
“You finished the puzzle!” He lets me go and turns to his mother. “Mom! Did you see it? I’m free!”
Victoria nods. “I have a bit of a surprise too, Sullivan. You can take the boat over to the mainland as soon as Sarah has exercised Judy and settled her down for the night. That new Bond movie you’ve been raving about opens tonight. I thought you two might like to see the early show.”
Sullivan does another little celebratory dance around the kitchen table.
“I checked the movie times,” Victoria continues. “So I expect you back by ten thirty. And remember your cell phone, Sullivan. And to test the boat lights before you go; it will be dark when you start back.”
“We’re traveling half a mile over to Gananoque, not heading overseas on the Titanic,” Sullivan laughs.
“That reminds me,” Victoria adds. “Remember your life-jackets. And the oars in case the motor gives you trouble. And the bail bucket. And for heaven’s sake, find a safe place to tie up, Sullivan.”
He nudges me. “Ain’t freedom grand?”
“Don’t be a smart-mouth,” Victoria says, pulling her son into a hug. “I can’t believe my baby’s seventeen.” She pulls away, muttering, “I can’t believe my baby got condoms for his birthday.”
Sullivan grins. “What’s that you always say, Mom? ‘Better safe than sorry.’”
“That’s what I say to other kids, not my kid...” Victoria groans. “Who knew how soon those words would come back and bite me on the...”
Say it, Victoria. Say ASS. I dare you. A-S-S, I think.
“...you know where.”
Sullivan holds my hand through the movie. After one particularly ghastly explosion, he leans over. “I’m surprised Mom didn’t force us to see the new Disney movie playing next door instead,” he whispers. His breath smells like lasagna and Skittles.
I wish Victoria had. I’m relieved when, minutes later, Sullivan’s eyes stay riveted to the screen during a skanky topless scene. That way, he doesn’t notice me clenching mine shut.
We arrive back at Moose Island at 10:32 PM.
“Don’t worry. Mom has a five-minute grace period.” Sullivan runs into the lodge to let Victoria know we are back. And to tell her he’s walking me to my cabin.
“Did she check your pockets?” I ask when he returns.
“For what?”
“For the condoms. Do you have them with you?”
“Shit...I could go back...,” Sullivan whispers.
I laugh. “I’m joking. And that’ll be five bucks for the cuss fund.” I hold out my hand.
Sullivan drapes an arm around my shoulder and steers me toward my cabin. “Shit’s only a buck fifty.”
“Aren’t you the bargain hunter.”
If this were a scene in one of my chick-lit novels, I’d focus on the moonlight reflecting off the spikes of Sullivan’s hair. The huskiness in his voice. The warmth of his hand on my shoulder.
But this isn’t a novel. This story won’t end happily ever after. Sullivan and I are doomed.
If you insist, the annoying voice inside me replies.
It’s true, damn you.
Then maybe, the voice persists, you should just enjoy this night while it lasts.
TWENTY - SIX
Fifteen minutes later, Sullivan and I are making out in my loft bed, counting off the minutes until 11:00 PM, when Dr. Fred bursts in.
“Sarah!” he gasps, completely ignoring Sullivan, or perhaps not even seeing him in the dark. “You have to get up! Your mother just arrived! The police and your lawyer are here too!”
Dr. Fred tries the light switch.
“It’s burned out,” I say, my thoughts screaming SHITSHITSHITSHIT—at least fifty dollars worth.
The light’s not burned out. When I wouldn’t let him get his hand under my shirt because the light was shining on me like a spotlight, Sullivan, in a show-off move that would have horrified his mother, shimmied across the rafters from my bed and loosened the bulb.
“It never crossed your mind to just lean over me and pull the cord?” I asked him when he shimmied back and wasted three minutes of good make-out time picking a splinter out of his palm.
“Nah. Too easy. It’ll be better when we get back to Riverwood. The light in my bedroom at Dad’s house has a clapper,” Sullivan said, like he really thinks we’ll still be making a go of it in September.
Now Dr. Fred holds the cabin door open and frantically gestures for me to hurry. But I feel paralyzed. Trapped in a nightmare. I can’t see Sullivan’s face in the dark, but I can feel the confusion in his eyes. The curiosity. The caring. It’s piercing my skin. Making me ache. Because there’s only one reason why my mother and a cop and my lawyer would trek out to Moose Island in the middle of the night.
Only one.
Mom has found the Hush Puppies box. She’s seen the Polaroids.
“Sarah!” Dr. Fred’s voice is sharp now. “I don’t know what this is about, but your mom seems very upset. She’s with Victoria at the lodge.”
I can’t breathe. I lumber down from the loft bed, stumbling when I reach the floor. My knees will barely support my weight. I grab the bedpost with one hand to keep from tumbling to the floor and somehow find the sense to use the other to straighten my twisted-up shirt.
Dr. Fred speaks more softly. “Sullivan, I know you’re up there too. Come with me, son. Let’s check on the dogs.”
When I slink up the porch stairs and through the screen door into the kitchen, Mom starts to stand up but then slides wordlessly back into her chair.
Slumped at the kitchen table, she sports a frozen grimace that I imagine is equal parts shock and horror about the situation and disgust and anger with me. Her skin, spotlit under the too-bright kitchen bulb, is a sickly pale green, like she’s been throwing up all evening. Her eyes are red-rimmed and dry, like she’s cried for hours even after her tears have run dry. She can’t stop blinking, even though each rapid lash movement makes her wince. I haven’t seen such a stunned and horrified expression on anyone—at least not since seeing the TV images of people in New York on 9/11.
The old cardboard Hush Puppies box has been duct-taped shut. It sits in the middle of the kitchen table like a cheesy centerpiece.
Does she want to hug me? Slap me? Disown me? Nothing would surprise me now. Mom didn’t even look this bad when she found out Dad had choked to death.
My heart is a jackhammer. I’m sure the thumps are audible—maybe even visible—right through my thick sweatshirt. I haven’t taken a full breath since Dr. Fred burst into my cabin, but oddly, I feel relieved.
Across the table, it seems as if the wheels in my mother’s head have spun out, hit black ice. I imagine Mom struggling to understand how our little family suddenly turned into something so ugly, something that only happens in sad novels or to other people’s families. I imagine her asking herself if we haven’t already suffered enough, what with a dead husband/father and this community service business? I imagine her thinking about all the times she’s chastised me about not wanting to get my picture taken, and finally figuring out where I was going—and why—the night I stole Tanner’s car.
“You know what’s in that box, don’t you, Sarah?” My mother speaks, finally, her voice a raw croak. I nod slowly, dropping into the chair across from her, my eyes scanning the scene around us, grateful that my mother is at least smart enough to know not to touch me right now, or ask me if I’m okay.
Victoria is trying to be inconspicuous. But I can tell by the too-quiet way she is shuffling around at the sink in a bathrobe and pink fuzzy slippers, making coffee, that she is listening to every single word, every change of tone, between my mother and me. Her peripheral vision is taking in and analyzing ev
ery movement and posture.
And worse, she doesn’t even seem shocked.
In a huddle across the room, the cop and my lawyer are grunting in low monosyllables, probably wishing they were home with their own less screwed-up families.
One bonus: Dr. Fred and Sullivan are taking an inordinately long time in the barn. Dr. Fred probably has an “all clear” signal worked out with Victoria. By the looks of things so far, it might be a long time coming. He and Sullivan might be better off bedding down with the dogs.
I think about staying up past four this morning, finishing Sullivan’s stupid jigsaw, supposedly for his birthday but really for myself, to guarantee it would be done before the Ratgut concert.
All for nothing now.
“Why didn’t you tell me what was happening to you?” Mom asks. “Christ, Sarah, I can tell by the pictures that this...horrific...business...was going on for years. We could have fired David! Sent him to jail! We still can. I—”
“NO! It wasn’t—”
Mom sighs. “Sarah, I know these pictures were taken at the restaurant. I recognize the furniture in the back room. There’s a team of police officers out looking for David now. I—”
“IT WASN’T DAVID! Please...” I swivel in my chair to address the cop. “Listen to me! Don’t arrest David! It wasn’t—”
“Sarah, what do you mean, it wasn’t David?” The green drains from Mom’s face, leaving it a ghostly gray. She speaks softly, slowly now. “He and your father were the only ones with access to—”
Clearly Mom isn’t any better at puzzles than Sullivan. She can’t piece this situation together even with all the ugly pictures right in front of her. Maybe because she doesn’t want to.
I help her along. “It was Dad.”
“Sarah, don’t lie. Don’t you dare tell me that. Your father would never do such a thing. He loved you, Sarah. He—”
“LISTEN TO ME! He said he’d kill Brownie if I ever told!”
My mother rises on shaky legs and reaches her arms out to me, but I stand and take a step back. I don’t want a hug. It’s too little, too late.
Victoria guides Mom back into her chair. Sliding the Hush Puppies box aside, she places a steaming cup of coffee on a place mat. Mom mumbles her thanks and eyeballs the coffee blankly, but I can see that her hands are shaking too much to take a sip without sloshing it everywhere.
The cop and my lawyer motion for me to follow them through the kitchen to the rec room. Someone has left a half-done Scrabble game on the coffee table. Little square letters are scattered everywhere. I imagine them sliding together to spell D-O-O-M-S-D-A-Y
My lawyer, Barry Hendon, pulls the plaid armchair over to the couch and gestures for our small group to sit. “First of all, Sarah,” he tells me, “I haven’t looked at the pictures.”
The cop has looked though. I can tell. He clears his throat too many times in a row and won’t look me in the eye. In books, on TV shows and maybe even in big cities, they have sensitive, specially trained female cops and well-meaning social workers working round the clock to deal with cases like mine. Welcome to small-town reality, Sarah, I think. Despite my baggy clothes, I feel naked. Raw. Like a plucked chicken ready for the deep fryer.
Finally the cop leans forward and rakes his hands through the gray fringe of hair between his bald spot and his ears. “I know this is difficult, but I have to ask a few questions, Sarah. Your mother and Barry have given their permission to proceed. These questions will be uncomfortable for you, but I need to make sure that charges are laid where necessary.”
“How can you charge a dead man?” I scoff.
He ignores my comment and flips open a notepad. He pulls a pen from his shirt pocket. “Now...you realize that what happened to you was a crime?”
I nod.
“I need a yes or no.”
“Yes.”
“Did anyone besides David Murray ever take pictures of you?”
“No! I told you! David didn’t do anything! It only happened after David finished his shifts. Please don’t tell David.”
Once, when I was nine years old, David brought me a whole carton of old dog-eared Archie comics he’d collected as a kid, just because he knew I liked cartoons. He never expected, and never got, anything in return but my happy “Thanks, David!” I loved David like a big brother.
The lawyer cleared his throat. “Sarah, just answer the questions.”
“But—”
“Where were the pictures taken?” the cop asked.
“In the storeroom. At my father’s restaurant. By my father.”
“Was anyone else ever in the room with you while the pictures were taken?”
“No. How many times do I—”
“Okay, okay. Did your father, to your knowledge, ever sell or give the pictures to anyone, or scan them onto the Internet?”
I gulp for air. “I don’t think so.”
“To your knowledge, did your father ever take pictures of anyone other than you?”
“I don’t think so.”
The cop sighs deeply and turns another page of his notebook. “Was your mother aware of what was happening?”
“I don’t think so.”
“You don’tthink so?”
“No. No, she wasn’t.”
“You never tried to tell her? Or any other adult?”
“No.”
The cop raises both eyebrows. “And since your father’s death, have you unwillingly—or willingly—participated in other—”
“NO! We’re finished here.” I push myself up from the couch. I took the law elective last semester. I know he can’t force me to answer his questions. I wouldn’t have answered any questions if they hadn’t brought David into the equation. Just one more fucking person I need to protect. Why does no one ever protect me?
“Sorry,” the cop says sheepishly, flipping his notebook closed and rising too. “That’ll be all for now.” I watch him stride back through the kitchen and out the screen door. In the orange glow of the porch light, I see him plunk his butt on the top porch step, light a cigarette and pull his cell phone out of his back pocket. I can’t hear him talking over my mother’s sobs, but I’d like to hope he’s on the phone to whichever of his coworkers he’s sent after David. I’d like to think that maybe this isn’t just another day on the job for him. Just another day of busting up underage pit parties and chasing shoplifters. Maybe he hates what he had to do tonight, dredging up all my personal business.
Barry Hendon beckons me to sit back down. “I spoke to the judge, Sarah.”
I groan and pound a fist on my knee. “How many people are going to know about this before it’s over?”
“The courts will not release your name to anyone. Besides, if what you say can be backed up with evidence that your father owned a Polaroid camera...”
“He did. Ask my mom. He used the same camera for taking vacation photos. I don’t know if we still have it. Dad used to keep the camera hidden from me too—probably so I wouldn’t break it or steal it—but Mom might know where it is. And check his old credit card statements. There must be receipts for Polaroid film. Boxes and boxes of it.”
“In that case, this situation probably won’t even make the papers.”
“But Riverwood is a small town. People talk.” Except for Sullivan, who will probably never speak to me again once he finds out.
Barry glances at his watch. “Judge Mather checked through the statements given to police the night of your automobile incident last March and said that in light of these circumstances, your reaction to being photographed by your mother’s boyfriend was understandable. Still inappropriate, but understandable. That said, you’re free to go, Sarah. Tonight if you want to. I’ve got a couple of community service kids who might jump at the chance to replace you. Your outstanding community service hours will be erased. Take some personal time for the rest of the summer.”
I cross my arms defiantly. “I’m not leaving.”
“But...you don’t have to stay
anymore.”
“I want to stay.”
“You need time to...” He pauses, searching for a politically correct word. “Heal.”
“I’m staying.”
“But...” Barry Hendon stops, shrugs, snaps open his briefcase. He extracts his own cell phone and punches in what I assume is the judge’s home number. “Kids,” he mutters.
TWENTY - SEVEN
Ten minutes later the cop and the lawyer are eager to get back to the mainland. And since it’s clear that I won’t go with them—at least not without some sort of physical intervention—my mother begs them to wait. She can’t just leave without talking to her daughter, can she?
To be honest, I wish she would.
“Couldn’t all this have waited until the morning?” I ask her. We’re standing at the head of the dock, while the cop and lawyer are at the foot, making more calls on their cell phones and preparing their boat for the short trip back to the mainland.
“I panicked, Sarah. When Tanner showed me the—”
“Tanner? Tanner found them?” I hiss, afraid of raising my voice and having someone overhear. “What the hell was Tanner doing at the restaurant? And come to think of it, what the hell were you doing at the restaurant? You promised me that you’d wait for me to—”
Mom sniffles. “I didn’t break my promise about letting you do inventory. It’s just...the library is having a rummage sale next week. To raise funds for renovations to the children’s wing. I thought it would be a nice idea to donate a few of your father’s older cookbooks. Just a few, because I thought you’d want most of—”
“I don’t want any of them.”
“But...I thought you were all fired up to do the inventory. I thought—”
“I WANTED TO FIND THE PICTURES!”
Mom pulls a soggy tissue from her purse and blows her nose. “Tanner came with me to help carry books to the car. We were in the back room. I was pulling some dusty old spice encyclopedias off the bookshelf and found the shoe box lodged behind them. I passed the box to Tanner and asked him to check if the recipe cards inside were handwritten or typed. I thought if they were typed, we could bundle them up and sell them by lot.”
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