The Other Side of Dark

by Joan Lowery Nixon

  “Well, not exactly. The conversation came around to you, and Mrs. Cooper is one of these concerned people, and—” He stops and sighs. “Stacy, I’m doing my best.”

  “So is Mrs. Cooper!”

  Dad laughs, and I have to laugh too. In a way it’s funny. “I have to admit, I was kind of glad to see her,” I tell him. “I wasn’t sure how I was supposed to say good night to Jeff.”

  “With a firm handshake,” Dad says.

  “Daddy!”

  It’s good to hear Dad laugh. It’s good to laugh together. But the telephone rings again. Dad reaches for it.

  “Hello,” he says, and pauses. “Hello? Hello?” He puts down the receiver. “Probably the same idiot.”

  But I know these aren’t just wrong number calls. And I can see in Dad’s eyes that what he said was designed to put me at ease. He doesn’t believe these are wrong numbers either.

  “Are you cold, Stacy? You’re shivering.”

  “I guess I’m just tired,” I tell him. “I’d better get to bed.”

  As soon as the dark seeps through my eyelids I can see Jarrod’s face. “I’m not going to let you ruin my life,” I whisper to those yellow eyes, “because I’m going to ruin yours!”

  Chapter Eleven

  Saturday. Long after Dad has left for work, I stretch from strange, troubled dreams into wakefulness. Saturday mornings used to be filled with waking to sun-bright windows and the buttery-sweet fragrance of Mom’s pancakes. I almost expect to hear the purr of the lawn mower, which would become a roar as Dad guided it under my bedroom window. Tousle-headed, I’d press my face against the window, squishing my nose, and yell, “You’re making too much noise!” Dad—who would follow the game, even though he couldn’t hear me over the noise of the mower—would shout back, “Get up! Get up! You’ve slept away half the morning.”

  No lawn mower, no pancakes. I make some toast to go with my glass of orange juice. At least there’s one Saturday routine I can continue. Today, after breakfast, I’ll clean the house.

  As I walk into the kitchen the doorbell rings. I freeze, trying to breathe. It rings again. I force myself to shove the fear aside and go to the door. Through the peephole I see a woman standing on the porch. She’s well dressed in a denim skirt and pink knit cotton blouse, but her youthful haircut doesn’t match the web of tiny wrinkles that stand out under the makeup around her eyes. Beyond her a large black Cadillac is parked at the curb.

  I open the door and say, “Hi.”

  She blinks a couple of times, then raises her chin imperiously. “May I please come in and talk to you?” she asks.

  “Why? Who are you?”

  “I do apologize. I assumed you would remember.” Her stare becomes even cooler. “You’re probably having a great deal of trouble remembering people from four years ago—even your neighbors. I am one of your former neighbors.”

  I still must look blank because she quickly adds, “My name is Eloise Tucker. I’m Jarrod Tucker’s mother. I think we need to talk.”

  I step out onto the porch, shutting the front door behind me. “Could we talk out here?”

  “It’s warm outside.” Her tone is peevish. “You don’t have to be afraid of me. I simply want to talk, to clarify a few things.”

  The porch isn’t large enough to have a porch swing on it, so I gesture toward the steps. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Tucker, but—”

  She sighs with annoyance and settles on the top step, wrapping her skirt around her legs. I sit on the same step, only as far away from her as possible. She’s wearing a perfume that reminds me of dead roses.

  She stares at her hands for a moment, then says, “It’s about the terrible, unbelievable situation you’ve created. About your ridiculous statement that Jarrod was the person you saw in your house.”

  “But he was.”

  “No, dear,” she says, “you’re wrong because during that day it all happened, that particular day, Jarrod was visiting my sister in San Antonio.”

  “He wasn’t.”

  “My sister and a close friend of hers are going to testify that he was.”

  “They’ll be lying!”

  “It will be your word against theirs. It won’t do you much good to insist on your version.

  “As we all see it,” she says, “when this tragic incident happened four years ago, it was a terrible shock to you. This morning my husband spoke with a noted psychiatrist who feels that it is entirely possible you may have—well, shall we say, some mental and emotional problems that are confusing you?”

  I lean over, resting my elbows on my legs, clasping my hands in front of me. “Mrs. Tucker, are you trying to talk me into changing my mind, or are you threatening me?”

  I suppose I expect her to get angry, but instead, she calmly says, “To quote our minister, who said he would be glad to be one of Jarrod’s character witnesses, Jarrod is a willful boy, but he wouldn’t shoot anyone.”

  “He did! He shot my mother. He shot me.”

  “You saw the gun. Is that right?”

  “Yes.”

  “You had your eyes on it.”

  “I—I guess so.”

  “Perhaps you were watching the gun so carefully that you didn’t really take a good look at the face of the man who was holding it.”

  “But I did!”

  “That will be hard to prove.”

  Now I feel like crying, but my tears would come from frustration, from rage. “Mrs. Tucker, no matter what you say, I know who was on that back porch. I know who shot me. And I am going to testify! Where is Jarrod?”

  Her tone is sarcastic. “That is what my husband and I have been asked repeatedly by the police, thanks to you. Unfortunately we don’t know.” She clenches her fingers so tightly the knuckles look like shiny white knobs, and her voice lowers and softens as she adds, “He didn’t come home last night.”

  I lean back against the railing around the edge of the porch and see, from the corners of my eyes, Mrs. Cooper busily sweeping her front porch. I pretend not to notice Mrs. Cooper.

  A gray sedan pulls up in front of the house and parks behind the Cadillac. The driver’s door opens, and Jeff climbs out, calling “Hi, Stacy!”

  “Jeff!” I jump to my feet.

  Mrs. Tucker quickly gets up, leans close to me, and murmurs, “Think about what I said.”

  Jeff’s long legs have brought him to the foot of the porch steps. He looks at Mrs. Tucker. For an instant I think I see a spark of recognition in his eyes before he puts on a smile and a bland look and politely says, “Hi.”

  “This is—” I begin, but Mrs. Tucker, ignoring Jeff, hurries down the walk, jumps into her car, and drives away.

  “You know her?”

  “Yeah,” Jeff says. “I’ve seen her around. Jarrod Tucker’s mother. Right?”

  His smile is open and charming, and I want to believe him. I open the front door and hold it wide. “Would you like to come in?”

  “Hello, Stacy!” Mrs. Cooper calls.

  I wave back. So does Jeff.

  “I’m going to come over in just a few minutes,” she says. “I made a tamale pie. All you have to do tonight is just stick it in the oven.”

  “Thanks, Mrs. Cooper,” I call back.

  “Shut the door,” Jeff says. “We can sit here on the steps.”

  I settle on the same step, not quite as far away as I had sat from Mrs. Tucker. I wish I had the courage to scoot over close enough so that our bodies would be almost touching. There are all sorts of strange feelings inside me, some of which I like and some which kind of scare me because I don’t understand them.

  “What did she want?”

  “Who?”

  “Mrs. Tucker.”

  “She tried to convince me I had the wrong person. She tried to talk me out of testifying. She even told me that her sister and a friend would testify that Jarrod was with them in San Antonio.” I look at Jeff. “Could they do that?”

  “Sure. Witnesses can say anything they want.”

&n
bsp; “But they’d be lying!”

  “Some people do lie.”

  “What if the jury believes them and not me?”

  “That can happen.”

  “Then Jarrod could go free?”

  “Yeah. I guess so.” Jeff cocks his head as he looks at me. “Instead of asking me all these questions, you ought to ask your Detective Markowitz, who’s working this case.”

  “You’re right.” I have to smile. “I don’t know why I just took it for granted that you’d know.”

  I pause, and he fills in. “Because I’m obviously wise and highly intelligent and probably know all the answers to everything.”

  “You’re laughing at me.”

  “No, Stacy. I just tried to cover what you didn’t want to say.”

  “How do you know what I was going to say?”

  “Because I have a little brother who’s twelve—no, thirteen last month—and he thinks because I’m older than he is I know everything—or ought to know.”

  I wiggle the toes of my sneakers and watch them intently. I feel so stupid, but in a way I’m glad for what he said. “You told me that you understand. I guess you do.”

  The telephone rings. I don’t care. I like sitting here with Jeff, and I don’t want to answer it.

  “Get your phone,” Jeff tells me.

  “It’s probably not important.”

  He jumps up and pulls me to my feet. “On the other hand, it could be. Are you going to answer it, or do you want me to?”

  He follows me into the house. I run the last few steps and catch the telephone on the sixth or seventh ring.

  “Hello!” I shout. I take a deep breath and try to calm down. “Hello,” I repeat, trying to be quiet and dignified.

  It’s Detective Markowitz. “We picked him up,” he says.

  “Jarrod? You did? Really? But his mother was just here. Did she know?”

  “We’re trying to reach his parents. No real urgency, though, since Tucker’s an adult.”

  “What did Jarrod tell you?”

  “Nothing,” he answers. “I didn’t expect him to.”

  “His mother said her sister and friend would testify that Jarrod was in San Antonio that day. But I know she’s lying.”

  “Oath or not, a lot of people lie, trying to save their own skin or someone else’s.”

  “But I saw him! I’m a witness!”

  “I think I told you, Stacy. Placing someone on the scene of the crime is just half of it. We need physical evidence to prove he was there.”

  “And you don’t have any?”

  “We may. They did come up with some fingerprints which they couldn’t make at the time. We have the casing, which was found in the room, and the slug taken from—Well, at least now that we know what we’re going on, there’s a slim chance that we might tie Tucker into the scene. To be perfectly honest with you, though, these factors may work out, they may not. That’s all I can tell you.”

  “You also told me about a computer search. What about that?”

  “Zilch.”

  I’m confused and feeling more frustrated by the minute. “What can we do?”

  “Come down for a lineup,” he answers. “That’s as good a place as any to start. It might help us hold Tucker a little longer.”

  “You mean he might get out?”

  “Depends on the judge and what we can come up with to convince him the guy shouldn’t be allowed bail.”

  “I’m going to come to the station right now,” I tell him.

  “Is anybody there with you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, someone who could drive you?”

  “Oh. Yes. A—friend is here. But I’ll call my sister and ask her.”

  As I hang up the receiver Jeff says, “I’ll go with you.”

  “Thanks, Jeff. But I’d better tell Donna where I’m going.” I dial her number and give her the latest news.

  “I don’t know Jeff,” she says. “I think your family should be with you. I’ll drive you.”

  “But, Donna—” I don’t know how to tell her, with Jeff standing beside me, that I wish she’d butt out for now, that I’d like to be with Jeff.

  “I’ll be right over,” she says firmly, and hangs up.

  I turn to Jeff. “She wants to come with me.”

  “Sure,” he says, and smiles. “She’s your sister.”

  He stays until Donna arrives. She smiles and chats, but at the same time she gives him a sharp once-over. Apparently she’s satisfied that Jeff is a nice guy because I can see her relax. She presses a hand to the small of her back and says, “Stacy, we’d better be going.”

  “I’ll be glad to take you there,” Jeff says. “It’s a good half-hour drive.”

  I’m hoping she’ll agree, but Donna smiles and says, “Thanks anyway, Jeff, but this is going to be a difficult situation. I think it had better be just family.”

  “Sure,” Jeff says. He walks to his car and watches us climb into Donna’s. I wish I could turn around and see him drive away.

  “He’s nice,” Donna says.

  “I think so too.”

  I want her to say more about him, but she talks instead about the party and Jarrod Tucker and all the things Dad told her until we reach the police station on Riesner.

  As we leave the parking lot Detective Markowitz suddenly comes out from the police building and trots down the steps to meet us. He leads us through a side door. Remembering how busy the lobby was the last time I was here, I’m grateful to miss the crowds.

  We enter the homicide room, and he bends to look into my face. “Ready for the lineup?” he asks.

  “I’m ready.”

  He nods, picks up a telephone, punches a couple of buttons, and tells someone to set things up. He puts down the receiver and turns to me. “A few other people will be in the viewing room with us. One of them will be Tucker’s attorney. He won’t talk to you, but he has the right to be there to make sure everything is done legally, that no one leads you to make a decision. Understand?”

  “He has an attorney already?”

  “We reached Tucker’s father right after we talked to you. The attorney was here within twenty minutes.”

  I’m glad that Donna is hanging on to me. I don’t pay attention to the route we’re taking. I can’t see anything except Jarrod’s face, which has glued itself to my mind.

  We’re led into a small room. Chairs are facing a glass wall, and beyond the wall is a stage with a height chart made of horizontal lines painted on the yellowed wall behind the stage. Detective Johns is in the room, as are some other men. Donna and I speak to Johns, but no one introduces us to the others. I wonder which one is Jarrod’s attorney.

  Markowitz tells us to be seated and relax. “The men you’ll see out there won’t be able to look in at you. This is a one-way glass,” he says. “So don’t be afraid.”

  “I’m not afraid.”

  A door opens at the left. A policeman comes in and picks up a microphone. Then a line of seven men come into the room and file across the stage. Each one is wearing a number on his chest. They all look something alike. “Turn right. Turn left. Face forward,” the policeman drawls, as though he’d given these commands so often he could say them in his sleep.

  I study the men facing me. I spot Jarrod immediately. His jacket is wrinkled and smudged. He needs a shave. The men with him must have been carefully picked. One of them looks about Jarrod’s age, one a little younger. All of them have dark or brown hair. Two of the men are staring at their feet. One has his chin tucked down, throwing his face into shadow.

  “Tell them to look this way. Tell them to look at the window,” I say to Markowitz. “There’s something I want you to see.”

  Markowitz picks up a receiver and relays my command to the policeman, who barks it out.

  The men look upward, to the window that separates us. I look into the pale yellow eyes of the guy who tried to get me away from the party last night. Was it an attempt to get rid of
me? If I had gone, would he have succeeded this time in killing me?

  What if I identify Jarrod, and he is released on bond? Will he try again? “You won’t have a chance,” I whisper, as though he could hear me.

  Donna is startled. She quickly turns and stares at me. I hear one of the men shuffle his feet. Another coughs.

  “Jarrod Tucker is second from the right, and I want you to look at his eyes,” I tell Markowitz. “Four years ago those awful yellow cat eyes stared into mine just before Jarrod shot me. I’ll never forget his eyes! Never!”

  The men in the room look at me sharply, and Donna nervously squeezes my hand. I realize that my hatred for Jarrod has made the room come into focus. I can smell sour body sweat and stale cigarettes, and my tongue curls at the edges with a taste like bitter lemon.

  “You’re positive?” Markowitz asks. He sounds pleased.

  “Merely a formality,” one of the men says. “She saw him at the party last night.”

  I twist toward them. “I’ll identify him from photographs,” I say eagerly. “Give me his photograph from four years ago, along with others, and I’ll pick him out. I promise!”

  “Stacy.” Detective Markowitz’s voice is low as he firmly squeezes my shoulder. It’s a signal to be quiet. It doesn’t matter. None of them answered me or acted as though they had heard me.

  Detective Markowitz speaks to the policeman in the lineup room. In turn, the policeman tells the men to turn around. They file out as they came in, and the door closes behind them.

  I stay in my chair, staring into the room. I can still see Jarrod Tucker’s yellow eyes.

  “That’s all for now, Stacy,” Detective Markowitz says. “Thanks for coming. We’ll be in touch with you.”

  I stand and look up at him. “How about the gun? Was it in Jarrod’s car?”

  “We found a gun in the glove compartment.”

  “And?”

  “It wasn’t the murder weapon. Different size caliber.”

  “Oh. I hoped so hard that—” I take a long breath. “Okay. What happens next?”

  “Someone in the district attorney’s department will want to talk to you, and Tucker will be arraigned.”

  “Does that mean the trial?”

  “No. That means the district attorney will bring a brief summation of the charge against Tucker before a judge, he’ll plead not guilty, and his attorney will ask for a trial.”