“The white-haired lady?”
“Florence.”
“Do they think the person who did it is a real sicko? A perv?” He trembled, wiped his brow.
“Don’t you? Anybody who would do that to a little kid is sick.”
“Do what? Killing the kid? Or . . . the other stuff?”
“All of it. Jesus, Mickey.”
Mickey stepped closer to SJ. “What if the boy, you know . . . what if he . . .” He swallowed. “What if the kid, you know, wanted to have sex with the guy?”
SJ stared. “He was ten.”
Mickey was quiet for a minute. “Yeah, yeah, okay. I was just wondering, you know, what if? Like maybe the kid wanted to have sex with a man? Like maybe he didn’t know other kids his age he could do it with or something?”
“So why’d the guy kill him, then?”
“Freaked. He’d just done it with a kid. He wasn’t a friggin’ homo, just did it with the kid, but then he freaked cuz maybe now he might be a homo?”
“Is that what you think? Do you think Leo Rivera wanted to have sex with the guy?” SJ asked.
Mickey flopped into one of the metal chairs. “Not Leo. Not that little kid, but I don’t know, man. I think the guy must’ve thought he wanted to or something, cuz why else would he pick up a little kid and screw with him? It don’t make no sense . . . Sorry about today,” he added without looking up. “I should’ve called.”
SJ shifted her weight. “Listen, I’m going to leave.” She peered at Mickey slumped in the chair. He looked small himself. So young. SJ stepped in front of him, and Mickey jumped up and grabbed her shoulders, waited just long enough that she could register the grip of his hands and the beery smell of his breath, and he kissed her, hard. For a moment she stood, frozen, accepting his kiss. Finally, she pulled away and walked out without a word.
* * *
When SJ pulled into the driveway, the lights in the living room were on. She had been hoping that maybe Deirdre had gone out, Friday night and all. But no such luck. SJ wasn’t in any mood to face her questions. She held out her hands; they were still shaking. She took a couple of deep breaths before heading into the house.
“There you are,” Deirdre called from her stretched-out position on the couch as SJ opened the door. Deirdre kept her eyes on the TV, watching a sitcom SJ didn’t recognize. “Where’ve you been?”
“Out,” SJ said. “Driving around.” She closed the door behind her, shrugged off her tote bag, and let it drop on the floor.
“Yeah? Driving around? Great. The one night I need you . . . the one most horrible night of my life and you’re out driving around.” Deirdre drank from a beer bottle on the floor next to the couch.
“Don’t . . . start,” SJ said weakly. “I’m not in the mood.” She scuffed through the living room, the dining room, and went directly to the bedroom. She pulled off the hoodie without unzipping it, stopping to breathe in the smoky smell of the car shop. She could still taste Mickey’s mouth, wet and sour, feel the imprint of his lips on hers.
Had she wanted it, back in high school? She thought she did, but had she?
“Oh great!” Deirdre yelled. “You come home hours late . . . How did I know you weren’t road kill somewhere, and you totally ignore me, like I’m the one who’s done something wrong?”
SJ started to reply, “Have I done—” then stopped. What was the point? She walked into the dining room. “You’ve been lying there on the couch, waiting for me to come home?” She waved her hand at the beer bottle.
“I’m so pathetic, is that what you think? I have no life of my own? What is wrong with you? Why do you not even care that I might have gotten fired today?” Deirdre started to cry.
“What?” SJ hurried into the living room. “What happened?” She sat in the rocking chair opposite Deirdre.
Deirdre blew her nose on a used tissue wadded up and lying on the floor next to her bottle of beer. “It’s a long story . . .” She sat up cross-legged on one end of the couch.
“Before you start, can you shut that thing off?” SJ pointed to the clicker. “That’s better.”
And Deirdre told the story again, of how Anna had come late to school, how she’d forged her mother’s signature, how she had ridden in the van on the way home, and then, finally, how Anna had kissed her in the school parking lot and how her mother saw the whole thing. When she was finished, SJ was silent.
“Say something,” Deirdre said.
“Like . . . what? What do you want me to say? Not I told you so. Not I told you to be careful.”
“Like, how about, oh, you know, Deirdre, everything will be okay because you didn’t do anything wrong, or how about that school needs me, maybe, and so there’s no way Martin Loring will fire me on Monday morning, you know, something like that?”
SJ didn’t say anything.
“And don’t give me some shit like I was asking for it, being alone in the van with Anna,” Deirdre continued, her voice rising. “I’ve heard enough of that already from Forest.”
“Come on, Deirdre. You’re a veteran teacher. You should know better than to be alone in the van with one of your googly eyed girls. I’ve been saying this for years . . .” She had been alone with Mr. Freeman. She had willingly climbed into that car, hadn’t she?
“Oh, years you’ve been saying this—right. What kind of crap is that? Since when is it a crime for a female teacher to be alone with a female student?” Deirdre grabbed a pillow from behind her head and hugged it with both arms.
“And if Forest had been alone in the van with Anna, and she kissed him?”
“That’s different . . .”
“How is that different?” SJ asked quietly. She sat on the edge of the chair.
“For one, because Forest admitted to me tonight that he thinks about kissing students like Anna Worthington, something I don’t think about, thank you very much!”
“No?”
“What?”
“Look, as far as Martin Loring is concerned, he’s got to treat you like he would a male teacher in the same situation, since as a lesbian, you are sexually interested in females . . .”
“Not fifteen-year-old girls!” Deirdre tossed the pillow across the living room, where it landed with a soft thud in front of the TV. “SJ, of all people, you know how seriously I take this job. You know how dedicated I am, how much being a teacher means to me. You know that.”
“I know,” SJ said, getting up out of the rocker, “that you spend way more time than is normal worrying about those kids and that you get way too involved with their personal lives, for whatever reason. That’s what I know.” She reached back and pulled her hair into a ponytail with her hand. “Look, Martin Loring seems like a fair guy. He’ll do what’s right, but personally?” She let go of her hair and crossed her arms. “Maybe it’s good that something like this finally happened so you could wake up and see what is really going on between you and those girls.” SJ raised her eyebrows, a what-do-you-think-of-that expression, clicked the TV back on, and turned to walk out of the room.
But instead, she stood frozen in place when the newscaster from the local ten o’clock nightly news announced the lead story—an arrest in the disappearance and murder of Leo Rivera.
“. . . just moments ago,” the newscaster said. “We go live . . .”
SJ must have turned from where she stood. She must have had some sense of foreboding to stay riveted to that spot on the rug, aware of Deirdre on the couch behind her—painfully aware—while they both stared at the familiar figure of Mickey Gilberto, handcuffed, emerging from his gas station where, “according to sources,” he had been living lately, and not in the house he shared with his mother, a house that, ironically, was right next door to Leo Rivera’s.
The chief of police spoke before a crowd of reporters, saying how proud he was of the investigative team, that the suspect had been under surveillance for the last few days, saying that they had waited until the right moment to go in and make the arrest, “until we h
ad all the facts.” He must have continued talking, because he remained on the TV screen and his mouth was moving, then the program cut back to the live scene at the shop, the very spot SJ had been less than an hour earlier. (Had those same detectives been waiting outside the shop? Had they watched SJ go in, heard the conversation on a wiretap? Watched as Mickey grabbed and kissed her?) In a sickening moment, SJ wondered if maybe she had been followed, if she were the one who’d given Mickey’s whereabouts away.
“Oh God,” she said out loud. Mickey, what have you done?
Pleading, wondering, his voice thin and childlike. Not the voice of a murderer. But the things he’d said . . . Not the face of someone who would do that to a kid. Like killing my own brother, man, he’d said too, hadn’t he?
The mouth with the silk wisp of a mustache kissing hers, pressing her lips, his tongue slippery and dangerous. His grip strong and exciting.
“Oh God,” SJ said again.
SJ, the voice played like a broken record. SJ, the voice repeated in her head. SJ, the voice wondered, what if he wanted it?
Chapter Ten
Deirdre liked running in the fall. For one thing, the weather was cooler, and on weekend mornings she could sleep in before taking her run. This morning she lay in bed awake but unwilling to move, even to make coffee, even to grab a cup after SJ put the coffee on. Even to see where SJ was going as she headed out the door.
They had gone through all of Saturday hardly speaking. Deirdre had spent the day in the yard, cleaning up the garden, pulling weeds, planting mums in the front. She needed to do something physical, dig in the dirt. Partly, she had to get rid of her hangover from Friday night, and partly, she had to do some kind of work with her hands in order to focus on something other than the phone call she knew was certain to come from Martin Loring.
Why he hadn’t ever called Friday night was a mystery in itself. Maybe Frances Worthington hadn’t said anything yet? Maybe she was going for something more dramatic—saving her announcement for Monday morning, in front of the whole school? In one of their brief conversations on Saturday, before SJ had left the house, SJ suggested that maybe Deirdre should call Martin herself, give him a heads-up about the other phone call he was certain to receive if he hadn’t already. Headmasters like that, being tipped off so they weren’t on the defensive; hadn’t Deirdre said that herself?
“You should call him,” SJ had said, arms crossed, standing next to the phone in the kitchen.
But Deirdre couldn’t do it. She couldn’t see any good way of really explaining how Anna Worthington had ended up kissing her in the van, how it wouldn’t at least sound like it was Deirdre’s fault.
“I’m sure he’s going to call,” Deirdre had said to SJ. “He must not be around, or else I would have heard from him.”
Late morning, the phone had rung and Deirdre froze. SJ was out of the house already, and Deirdre let the machine pick up. Her hand shook until she heard Florence’s voice.
“Florence. Hi.” A big sigh. “SJ’s not here.”
“You know when she’ll be back? This is pretty important.”
“Don’t know. But I’ll leave her a message.”
Some sounds on the other end. Florence’s breathing or tapping of some sort. Then, “You see the news last night?”
“The arrest? Yeah, we saw. How freaky is that that he was one of our movers . . . ?”
Again, nothing on the other end of the phone except Florence’s breathing. Then, “Tell SJ to give me a call as soon as she can, will you? Tell her it’s urgent.”
After talking with Florence, Deirdre had gone to the garden and tidied up, pulled dead flowers and weeds. She had needed to do something while she waited for the phone to ring. She spent the rest of the day outside, came in and washed up, and still no phone call.
When SJ came home—well after six o’clock—Deirdre asked where she had been and SJ had said, “The library—went in to do some work.”
“So what was so urgent?”
SJ looked puzzled.
“Florence? She called looking for you, said it was urgent. She didn’t tell you?”
After that, neither of them spoke to the other for the rest of the evening.
Now, here it was Sunday morning, SJ gone again and Deirdre didn’t know where. The clock ticked lazily past nine and Deirdre didn’t move. She had agreed to meet Paul at ten for a run. She stretched her legs and rubbed them against the flannel sheets she had put on the bed in spite of SJ’s protests that it was too early in the season. “Putting on the flannel sheets now,” she had said, “gives us nothing to look forward to.”
Deirdre winced at the unintended omen. Only one week ago, Deirdre and SJ had been arguing over the appropriateness of flannel sheets—and now, now they were hardly talking to each other. Now SJ was disappearing for hours, entire afternoons, and lying about it. Now Deirdre was about to lose her job and her entire career. Funny that in a week your entire life could change.
Deirdre threw back the covers and put one pajamaed leg onto the floor. Get up, she told herself. She at least wanted to stretch before she had to meet Paul. As soon as she got her second leg out of bed and was standing on the floor, the phone rang.
Deirdre picked it up immediately. “Hello?” she said.
“I’m sorry if I woke you.” Martin Loring sounded sad and a little distant.
“No, no, I’m up.” Cold all of a sudden, Deirdre looked around for her robe.
“You . . . I’m sure you know why I’m calling . . .” He hesitated.
Deirdre said nothing. Nodded stupidly, as if Martin Loring could see her. Where was her bathrobe?
Martin cleared his throat. “You have to know this is serious. Or I wouldn’t be calling you at home on a Sunday.” Why hadn’t he called immediately on Friday? But Deirdre had the sense that to rush in with her own version of the story was foolish, that it made her look defensive, and guilty. Still, she wanted to say something.
“Martin, I . . .” But what was there to say? Anna Worthington is in love with me? That’s why she kissed me? “I’d rather talk about this in person,” she said. What was she thinking? If she couldn’t get the words out with Martin Loring safely on the other end of the phone line and not sitting directly in front of her, how was she going to be able to say anything to him in person? “Could we . . . Would it be possible to meet somewhere? Today, even?”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “But I’ll need to see you first thing Monday morning. Seven o’clock in my office. Okay?”
“I’ll be there,” Deirdre said, and she hung up.
As she pulled on her running tights and then a CoolMax shirt, Deirdre felt an odd sense of relief. Martin hadn’t yelled and screamed—not that she imagined he would do that exactly—but had been rather gentle. Still, Deirdre was certain the man was going to fire her on Monday morning.
* * *
Paul was stretching his hamstrings when Deirdre pulled up and parallel parked next to the entrance. They always began their run here at the park, halfway between their two houses.
“Deird!” Paul yelled, dark hair bent to his outstretched leg. “You’re a little late. Thought I’d have to start without you.”
“I’m—what—ten minutes late?”
“Fifteen. You stretched?”
“Some. Here, let me just do a couple of these . . .” Deirdre said as she crossed one leg in front of the other and half–sat back to stretch her glutes.
“Great day for a run.” Paul jogged in place, shaking out his hands.
But Deirdre’s heart wasn’t really in it. After hanging up with Martin Loring, she wanted nothing more than to sink back beneath the covers. Sleep and sleep and sleep. Total inertia controlled her body, but something convinced her to keep this running date with Paul, some sense—both absurd and real—that being with him was just the thing she needed to keep her sanity.
“All right, let’s get this show on the road,” Paul said. “You up for fast or slow?”
“Don’t know. Feelin
g kind of sluggy, so could we start off slow?” Deirdre jumped up and down, loosening her muscles.
“I’ll do my best, but listen, if I’m on a roll, you’ll understand, right? If I get in that groove . . .”
“Just run, would you? Like a normal person? . . . Hey, slow down!” Deirdre ran to catch up with him at the stop sign. “You’re already being a show-off. Cut it out.”
Paul grinned. “Come on, Deird. You usually kick my butt. What’s with you today?”
Deirdre concentrated on her breathing. Martin Loring. Martin Loring. She ran beside Paul without talking, without looking at the trees, the colors of their leaves so vibrant they could hurt your stomach with the pain of their beauty and with the knowledge that such beauty was fleeting. Those last days, in early November, when the few remaining leaves clung to bare branches—they were the hardest to endure, and Deirdre sometimes wished for a big wind to blow through and take the leaves all at once, so difficult it was to watch them drop one by one, the stabs of red left dangling. She couldn’t bear it. But now, in late September, the leaves were almost at their deepest hues, and normally it was all she could do to run past them without tripping, staring up at them, mesmerized. Yet the hurricane had blown many off early this year. So she ran and breathed. Martin Loring. Martin Loring. What was she going to do?
“Hey, slowpoke, you really are sluggy today. What’s up?” Paul slowed to let Deirdre catch up.
“I’ve got a lot on my mind.”
“Like what? Things okay with SJ?”
Deirdre stopped and stared at Paul’s back, waiting for him to realize she wasn’t beside him. “Do you realize that’s the first time you’ve ever asked about her?” she said when Paul turned around.
“That’s crazy. I like SJ.” Paul jogged in place.
“I didn’t say you didn’t like her—I said you never ask about her. There’s a difference.”
“So that’s it, huh? Something going on with you two?”
Deirdre started running again. “No, that’s not it, smart-ass.”
“Then what?” Paul asked, jogging beside her.
“I don’t want to talk about it.” Deirdre ran harder now. She headed up the hill, past her favorite Victorian, painted mauve with white trim. She didn’t complain, as she usually did, about the incline, but instead started to sprint, running furiously. She ran up School Street and right on through the intersection to Oak. Past her next-favorite house on the route, the one she always had to point out to Paul if he didn’t beat her to it. Mentioning the house turned into a game between them, to see who would say something first, but today, Deirdre ran right by it, Paul behind her, yelling to wait up, to stop. She ran with a fierceness she couldn’t control, straight past Sophie and Mark’s school—JFK Elementary—past shaded lawns and parked cars. Past another house she had looked at with SJ, a house they could better afford than what they bought and a house SJ preferred to the one they ended up with. Because it was farther from Brandywine, farther from the Brandywine neighborhood, a more “mixed” neighborhood, as SJ would say.
The Year of Needy Girls Page 9