THE WORD OF A CHILD

by Janice Kay Johnson

  "Dead?" She gaped.

  "You didn't know."

  "I haven't heard from the bastard in years," she said bitterly. "He never paid a cent of child support, you know. He didn't want to be a father. Like I wanted to be a mother then! But I was raised Catholic, even if I don't go to Mass now, and I wasn't about to get an abortion. He hung around for a while, but he yelled when Tracy cried and got mad when I had to take care of her instead of him. One day, I got home from work and picking Tracy up at day care, and he was gone. Just cleaned his stuff out. The only decent thing he did was, he didn't take all my money. I guess he saw I'd need it. I never tried to find him."

  Connor nodded. "I wanted to be sure he hadn't been in touch with Tracy. Maybe gotten curious about her. He died in the King County jail six years ago. He was in for thirty days after being picked up on a warrant—unpaid tickets. He was knifed by another inmate." Feeling it was called for, he said more gently, "I'm sorry to have sprung it on you this way."

  "No." She took a breath and squared her shoulders. "I'm glad to know. I always thought he might show up again some day. I never actually got a divorce. I swore I wouldn't remarry." She gave a twisted smile. "Now I guess I might someday. I like having a man around. It bugs Tracy. I can tell she wishes I was some kind of Susie Homemaker, always making cookies and being Room Mother and that kind of stuff, but it's just not me. I am who I am."

  "Tracy's at the age when being dissatisfied with your parent is normal."

  "You mean, the one whose mother is the PTA president wishes she looked like me?" She cocked her hip and splayed one hand on it.

  "Could be."

  Her laugh was raucous and somehow sad, as if she knew he was lying. "I don't suppose Randy had any life insurance?"

  "That, I don't know. You might contact the jail, see if you can't find out whether he was employed. He might have had insurance through a job. If you were still legally married…"

  "Unless he got a divorce without me knowing, and I don't think you can do that, can you? Besides, he knew where to find me."

  "Check it out," he advised her.

  "Yeah. I'll do that." She stole a glance at the clock, her body language suddenly restive. "You probably want to talk to Tracy without me here, don't you? I gotta do things on the way to work. You being here gives me a chance to leave without having to tell Tracy every step I'm making."

  What kind of mother, he thought again, would leave her daughter, obviously upset, to be interviewed alone by a cop? He contrasted her casual attitude with Mariah's willingness to sacrifice everything for Zofie's sake. But Ms. Mitchell's suggestion suited his agenda, so he nodded.

  "Yeah, I would just as soon speak to her alone. She's more likely to open up." Translation: she was more likely to break when she felt more vulnerable, without her mom to back her.

  "Hey, honey," the mother said blithely, bustling into the living room with her hips swinging. "The officer wants to talk to you alone, so I'm heading off for work now."

  Following close behind her, Connor got a bird's-eye view of the way Tracy flinched from her kiss.

  "Well." Her mother retreated, forced an artificial smile and went to the door. A huge handbag that looked like it could hold two outfits as microscopic as the one she wore hung over the top of the TV. She grabbed it, said, "Be good," and was gone.

  Tracy sat stone-faced.

  Connor chose the end of the couch closest to her chair. He picked his words carefully. "I shouldn't have implied that you're lying. I don't know that you are. I just want to make sure you understand what's going to happen to Mr. Tanner if we prosecute."

  She didn't move, but she was listening.

  "He will, of course, be fired. Losing his job for a reason like child sexual molestation will mean he can never teach again. It will certainly get in the way of him finding any work at all. He will have to pay a lawyer to defend himself. I have the impression that will take every bit of savings he has. Without a salary, he'll probably have to go stay with a friend, give up his apartment. Say the jury believes you and he's convicted. He'll go to prison. Probably not a real long term. Rapists never get the sentences we cops think they deserve. But he'll spend time behind bars."

  She shivered.

  "If I were a woman, I wouldn't marry—heck, I wouldn't date!—a man who had been convicted of a crime like this."

  Tracy's mouth worked.

  "His life won't be over, but it won't be the same." Connor leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and said gently, "Is that what Mr. Tanner deserves, Tracy? Because if it is, I'll get on with it. If he did this to you, that is what he deserves."

  A whimper escaped her, then another one. She seemed to crumple, drawing up her legs at the same time so that she ended in a ball, rocking as she sobbed.

  Connor dropped to his knees beside her chair and tried to hold her as she cried. At first she resisted him, shutting him and everything else out in her misery, but finally she relaxed enough to cry onto his shoulders.

  And at last she mumbled something.

  He patted her back. "What?"

  The swollen, wet face that looked up at him bore little resemblance to the pretty, brittle teenager he knew.

  "He didn't do it. Mr. Tanner didn't do anything."

  Suddenly the policeman thrust a huge white handkerchief at her. Tracy snatched it, then mopped her face and blew her nose.

  "I lied," she said, fresh tears filling her swollen eyes. Why hadn't they just fired Mr. Tanner? Why did they have to call the cops?

  "Tracy." Connor waited until she looked at him. "I didn't tell you what I did to make you feel sorry for your teacher. If he pressured you into having sex, I meant it when I said he deserves everything coming. Don't take back what you said now because you feel sorry for him."

  "It was never him," she admitted miserably.

  He got up from being on his knees in front of her and sat back down on the couch. It was as if he couldn't get away from her fast enough. "Then why did you say he did?" he asked.

  Tracy blew her nose again. Tears ran unchecked down her cheeks. "I was afraid I was pregnant!" she wailed. "I had to say it was somebody!"

  "Tracy, do you have a boyfriend?"

  She shook her head furiously.

  "Did you voluntarily have sex?"

  Her face crumpled again. She pictured the dark silhouette in the paler rectangle of her bedroom door, the weight tilting her mattress, the hand that covered her mouth. Somehow she was rocking and couldn't seem to stop herself. Eyes downcast, she shook her head again.

  "Who raped you, Tracy?" His voice was hard. He was mad, probably at her. She didn't even blame him.

  "I can't tell you." She gave him one wild look. "I won't! You can't make me!"

  "Why won't you tell me? Why would you protect someone who did that to you?"

  She shook her head. Kept shaking it, until her hair lashed her cheeks. If she stopped, he might make her talk, and she wouldn't. She wouldn't!

  But his voice was soothing, as if he could tell she was about to break. "All right. Then tell me why you chose Mr. Tanner to accuse."

  "Because he's such a jerk!" Her eyes flooded with tears, her mouth trembled, but this time she kept her chin up. "I hate him! I … I did hate him. I don't know anymore."

  "Why did you hate him?"

  "He makes fun of students. It's like, he's teasing, and everybody laughs, but it's not funny if you're the one he's … he's being mean to."

  "What kind of teasing?" he asked.

  Tracy sniffed. "Like, there's this boy in my class who isn't very smart. I think he does special ed part of the day. Mr. Tanner is always saying stuff like, 'Does everybody get this? Does even Kyle get this?' And, like, everybody thinks that's funny, but I see Kyle kind of hunch. You know?"

  The policeman surprised her. "I was my current height when I was in seventh grade," he told her. "Tripping over my own feet, they were so big. I got teased, sometimes by teachers, too. They never seemed to recognize that I was sensitive about being diffe
rent."

  "Well, I'm kind of, um, mature for my age, too," she went on, cheeks red. "I mean, not tall, but … you know." She stole a glance up to see if he got it.

  His glance swept over her, but not offensively. She thought maybe he did think of her as a child. That made her feel safe.

  "The other girls will catch up," he said, as if she didn't have anything to be ashamed of.

  "I guess." Her eyes felt grainy and so puffy it was like she was peering through a tunnel. "Sometimes he'd say stuff." She mimicked his voice. "'Miss America has joined us. Tell me, Tracy, is the bathing suit competition today?' The week before I went to Ms. Stavig, I wore this shirt of my mom's one day. I thought I looked pretty. Only I didn't know you could see through it. And I went to his class, and this really hot guy I like stopped to talk to me. Only suddenly Mr. Tanner was like, 'Tracy, stand up.' Everybody stared." She burned with humiliation at the memory. "And he says, 'I see you took me seriously about the bathing suit competition. Or … no. Is that a bra I'm looking at? Should we be glad you're wearing one? Or disappointed?' Even the guy I like was laughing and … and leering." She had to take several deep breaths before she could finish. "Then Mr. Tanner tells me to go to the principal's office and not come back until I'm decent. I ran out." Tears clogged her sinuses and leaked out of her eyes despite her effort to maintain her dignity. "That's why I hate him," she said intensely.

  The big cop had this look on his face she couldn't read. After a moment, he said quietly, "I don't blame you."

  "Really?"

  "You know, if you'd reported him, he would have been in trouble for this kind of behavior,"

  She curled her lip. "Like anybody would listen."

  "Ms. Stavig listened, didn't she?"

  Suddenly ashamed, Tracy ducked her head again. "Yes," she whispered.

  "This is his first year teaching middle school. He's used to college students, who are less sensitive about their appearances and whether they fit in. He may genuinely not realize he's hurting feelings."

  "But he's kind of, like, nerdy looking. He's got these thick glasses, and… Don't you think somebody made fun of him?"

  Ms. Stavig wasn't the only one who listened. Tracy was scared of Detective McLean in one way, but she also noticed that he paid attention to what she said, thought about it and gave her answers that felt honest. This was one of those times.

  "Maybe he's teasing kids now because he was on the receiving end of it a lot when he was a kid. Maybe it feels good to be the powerful one now."

  "That … that's … cruel," she said in perplexity.

  "I don't know. I'm just guessing. Probably he doesn't know, either. Most of our behavior isn't consciously motivated. Things that happened when we were little, things we don't even consciously remember, motivate the way we respond to people, explain why we're afraid of … heck, flying or dogs or teachers who are too tall. Mr. Tanner might be able to change. He might even be sorry to know how much he hurt your feelings."

  Tracy pressed her lips together and thought. Might. That meant he might not be sorry, too.

  "But after I lied about … him doing those things to me, nobody will listen."

  "I want you to tell Ms. Patterson and Ms. Stavig exactly what you've told me about why you chose Mr. Tanner."

  Terror made it hard to breathe. "Do I have to?"

  He nodded, looking stern. "Lots of people are going to ask you, and you need to tell them the truth."

  "Like … like other kids?"

  "There's been talk. You say, 'I got him in trouble because I thought he was mean to me, but I didn't realize how much trouble he would be in, and I'm sorry I caused it.'" He leveled his gaze on her. "Are you sorry?"

  She couldn't see him through the tears, but she could nod.

  "You could be in trouble with the law for making a false accusation, you know."

  The fear was crushing her chest.

  "What's important is that you tell me who did rape you."

  Trembling, she shook her head. "You know me, Tracy. I'll be back. I'll keep coming back until you tell me."

  "I can't!" she whispered.

  "Tell me why."

  "I can't tell you that, either." If she did, he'd know everything.

  "I'm thinking you're protecting someone." He sounded musing, as though instead of talking he really was thinking, but aloud. "You were strong, sticking to your story. Stronger than I thought you'd be. Some kid rapes you, I can't imagine why you'd care enough to protect him. Nah." He shook his head. "Seems to me it must be someone close to you. You haven't had contact with your father, you don't have other family you see much, do you, Tracy? No, it's mostly been you and your mom. There aren't that many people you care enough about to protect, are there, Tracy?"

  She was breathing in huge gasps, just staring at him, waiting for him to pounce.

  "What I'm thinking is that we need to talk about your relationship with your mom," he continued, in that same tone.

  Her voice came out high and unnatural. "But my mom … that's ridiculous. She's a woman. I thought I could be pregnant."

  "That's true." He nodded as though she'd said something brilliant. "There's a man in this somewhere. I just don't think that's who you're protecting."

  He knew. How could he know?

  "Tracy, if your mom is somehow involved, you will never feel safe here again. I know it's hard to get her in trouble, but if she didn't take any better care of you than to let you be raped, she needs help, too. You cannot go on the way you are." His eyes were serious, caring, seeming to see deep inside her. "The locks don't keep her out, or anyone she chooses to bring home."

  She heard her own breath scraping in, whistling out.

  "I'm going to leave now, and I want you to lock up tight behind me." He got to his feet, but his eyes never left hers. "You do some thinking, Tracy. I can help you, but not until you tell me what really happened."

  She'd seen nature films. She was the mouse. Or the rabbit, trapped away from the hole. "I'll be back, Tracy."

  He let himself out, quietly. She sat frozen. He'd been gone for several minutes when she flung herself at the door, her hands shaking as she pushed the button for the knob's crummy lock, then fastened the dead bolt and finally the chain, even though that would make Mom mad when she came home in the middle of the night because she'd have to ring the doorbell and wait until Tracy got up to let her in. Finally Tracy checked all the windows to make sure they were latched, even though the apartment was on the second floor.

  At last she went back to huddle in the chair, clutching the tear-soaked handkerchief he'd forgotten.

  She wished he hadn't left. She wished she could trust him.

  She wished she didn't know she could never, never tell anyone, even if he was right and she would have to be scared forever.

  "One more story," Zofie begged.

  "Nope." Mariah set the pile of library books on the coffee table. "Cowardly Clyde was supposed to be the last one. Come to think of it, so was Rosamund. "

  Zofie scooted forward on the couch and grabbed for a book on the stack. "Yes, but we haven't read this one. See?"

  "Tomorrow night," Mariah said firmly. "Time to brush your teeth. Come on."

  "Oh, poop," her daughter muttered.

  She widened her eyes. "Do you need to?"

  "Mo-om!"

  They shared a brief giggle.

  While Zofie brushed her teeth, a task she had mostly taken over these past few months, Mariah put away the books and started cleaning up the kitchen.

  Her gaze kept wandering to the telephone hanging on the wall, and once she thought she heard the beginning of a ring and lunged for it before she realized Zofie had turned on a music tape down the hall in her bedroom.

  She didn't know the etiquette for adults dating. But wouldn't it have been polite for Connor to call and say, "I had a good time"?

  Maybe he didn't have a good time.

  She'd sworn beforehand that she wouldn't talk about Simon or Tracy, either. Then what
did they do but spend the entire evening talking about both! Not to mention his sexually abused girlfriend, a topic he'd tried to avoid.

  Mariah moaned softly. She was a failure as a fun date.

  "Live and learn," she said aloud, but she didn't want to learn a lesson she could only apply the next time a man asked her out. She wanted not to have blown it with Connor McLean.

  Maybe it was meant to be, she thought miserably. She shouldn't have dated him. The very fact that they couldn't avoid painful topics should tell her something.

  "Mo-om!" Zofie called. "I'm ready for you to tuck me in."

  The phone rang at that precise moment.

  "Just a minute," Mariah called back, and picked up the cordless. "Hello?"

  "Mariah? This is Connor."

  "Oh, hi." She tried to sound carefree, surprised that he had called so quickly. To her own ears, she failed wretchedly.

  His voice became intimate, warm. "I'd like to have had dinner with you tonight, too, but I figured that was pushing you."

  Pressing her hand to her warm cheek, she said, "I couldn't have left Zofie…"

  "Yeah. I know you couldn't. But, if she were away for the weekend, would you have?"

  Her mouth opened, closed. A sophisticated woman would undoubtedly tease, play hard to get. "Yes," she said finally, baldly. Truthfully.

  "Good." His voice was rich with satisfaction.

  "I shouldn't have said that, should I? I could have strung you along a little." She sounded breathless with relief, even if she was trying to flirt.

  "I'm a straightforward guy. I'd rather you were honest."

  From down the hall came Zofie's, "Mom! I'm still waiting!"

  Guiltily realizing she'd forgotten her daughter, Mariah said, "Um, listen. I have to go tuck Zofie in."

  His voice changed, became deadly serious. "I was hoping to talk to you about Tracy. I followed up today on your suggestion. Can I call you back in a few minutes? Or… No, I suppose it's too late to come over."

  Her heart did a peculiar little flip. "Aren't you at home?"

  "Actually I'm calling from the car. I just tried to track down Tracy's mother's last boyfriend. Turned out to be a flop."