"When it comes to my mother, I can. C' mon," she said, getting up, grabbing my hand, and leading me out of my bathroom. "Afterward, we'll play some Parcheesi and talk more about the boys at school. I know more about many of them, thanks to Dana." She stopped on the stairway and turned to me. "We've got to live as if nothing's happened, Zipporah. Otherwise, we'll go mad."
She continued down.
Maybe we had gone mad already, I thought.
Our chatter in the kitchen was built around the same topics we had discussed before the Harry thing. We were doing it so well that at one point, when we were laughing and giggling, I had to stop to ask myself again if any of it had really happened. Then the phone rang, and reality came crashing back. It was my father, asking if I was all right.
"I could come home for lunch," he said. "It's not a problem."
"I'm fine, Daddy. You don't have to come home to have lunch with me," I said, looking at Karen as I spoke.
"All right. Call if you need anything." He paused and then added, "You haven't had any other calls, have you, Zipporah?"
"No, Daddy. No one else has called."
"Good. There's still no sign of her," he told me. "Apparently, from what I've learned from a friend of mine over at the district attorney's office, there is no proof she got on a bus, either. Of course, she could have hitchhiked her way out of here, or," he said, "she could be hiding somewhere here."
I couldn't speak or even swallow to let me grunt an answer. I felt terrible letting him go on and on about her while she was standing right in front of me in his own house.
"Whatever," he said, realizing I wasn't going to say anything. "Talk to you later. Oh, I have bought our tickets for the New York show, and we'll be staying overnight at a hotel."
"Great."
"Bye. See you soon," he said.
"Bye."
"What?" Karen asked immediately. "Well? What did he say about me? I know he said
something."
"They know you didn't get on a bus. They think you might have hitched a ride out of here, but he said you could also still be hiding somewhere."
She lowered herself to a kitchen chair and looked very thoughtful and unhappy.
"My father said he bought the New York show tickets. We'll be going to the city on Saturday and staying overnight, so you'll have lots of freedom here. Just be very, very careful not to leave any clues or be seen outside."
She nodded, and then she looked up, smiling. "I have a great idea."
"What?"
"Come on," she said, rising and reaching for my hand. She tugged me along and led me back up the stairs to my room. We had spent so much time in my room together that she knew as much about my things as I did. She opened the closet, knelt down, and took out my tape recorder. It was very small and ran on batteries.
"What are we going to do with that?"
She tried it, and it didn't work.
"Oh, no. The batteries are dead."
"So?"
"Do you have any others?"
"Maybe in the pantry. Why?"
"Let's get them first, and I'll show you," she said.
We returned to the kitchen and went into the pantry, where I did find two unused batteries. After she installed them and tested the tape recorder, she sat at the kitchen table.
"Okay, I'm going to record something on here. You're going to put this in your suitcase, and when you are able to get away for a few minutes in New York, you're going to go to a pay phone and call my mother collect, using my name Then you'll play what I record now and immediately hang up."
"Why?"
"She'll tell the police I called, and they'll be able to find out I called from New York City when they check with the phone company. That's why I want you to call her collect. They'll stop looking for me here."
"What if I can't get away? I've never been by myself in New York City."
"You've got to get away. You've got to do this. It's too good an opportunity for us, Zipporah. Be creative. Tell them you're going to the magazine store or something. Don't fail," she warned. Then she gestured for me to be quiet.
She sat forward, her expression slowly turning angrier, and angrier as if she could work herself up into any mood she wanted just like a good actress. Finally, she pressed the record button.
"Hi, Darlene," she began. "Don't say anything. Just listen. I guess you never expected to hear from me again or so soon, but I just wanted you to know I was all right and you didn't have to risk a wrinkle by worrying about me, not that you would. I'm not coming back to Sandburg. I'm off to see the big wide world. You know I hated that place and living in that house with that man. Everything that's happened is more your fault than mine, so when you sit down to write your confessions, be sure to include it. I can't say any more. I have a train to catch at Grand Central. Have a good new life without me."
She let the tape keep running without saying anything, clicked it off, rewound it, and played it back.
"Perfect," she said, clicking it off again. "You just put the receiver close to the little speaker, and be sure to hang up before it goes off, so she doesn't know it's a tape recording, okay?"
"I don't know if I can do that."
"Yes, you do!" she cried, her eyes wide. "You know you can do it, Zipporah. Don't act thick now. It's too good an opportunity for us. Well? We can't lose this chance. It means a great deal to me, to us."
"Okay, okay," I said.
She handed it to me gingerly.
"Let's go hide it in your suitcase now, so you don't forget it, and be sure you pad around it well, so it doesn't get broken or anything stupid, okay?"
"Yes," I said, and headed back upstairs. She followed to be sure I did everything she had suggested.
"Now," she said when I was finished, "let's have a game of Parcheesi. I need some fun."
We played until we were both hungry, and I made the pizza. While we ate, we talked about our plans, thinking of ways to ensure that Karen's living up in the attic would remain undetected by my family.
"My brother's coming home soon," I reminded her. "It's going to be harder and harder."
I brought that up because she sounded as if she had no intention of ever leaving.
"We'll cross that brother when we come to him," she replied, and laughed. Once again, I was amazed at how casual she could be about it all. If I were living upstairs in her home secretly, I would be on constant pins and needles.
"What are you planning on wearing to school tomorrow?" she suddenly asked.
"I don't know. Nothing special. Why?"
"You have to wear something special, silly. First, I want you to look bright and happy and more mature, somehow. You're going to be the center of attention. The worst thing you can do is look dreary and depressed. People, especially boys, will stay away from you. If you play your cards right, you can enjoy this." "You're making me so nervous about going to school again."
"You'll get over it."
"I don't see how I can enjoy this, Karen."
"You will. You have to think of it that way, or you'll do something stupid. Let's check your wardrobe and think about tomorrow," she said.
"Wait!" I cried. "The dishes, everything first. My father could walk in here and see all this and wonder why, if I was alone, I needed two plates, two sets of silverware .. ."
"Okay, okay. You are the worrywart. I wouldn't have forgotten."
We cleaned the kitchen and put everything away so well it looked unused. I caught every crumb.
"I don't know," Karen said, looking it over when we were finished. "It looks suspicious. It's too clean. It looks like a coverup."
"No, it doesn't. I clean it this well all the time when my mother's at work."
"Mama's goody girl. I forgot," she said, looking angry at me for being so. Then she smiled again. "Okay, to the closet," she cried, and we headed for the stairway.
While we were picking out something for me to wear to school, she chose a few things to wear herself while she was up in the att
ic. I gave her fresh panties and socks. She didn't mind not having a bra.
"I don't want to take too much. It could raise suspicion if your mother noticed so many things were missing, unless she's like my mother and has no idea what I have."
"She doesn't?"
"One of the privileges I was given when she went to work at Harry's drugstore was the right to take care of my own clothes and be responsible for them. Wasn't that wonderful?" she asked with a smirk. "Once in a while, I went shopping with her and bought some new things, but she was very conscious of what she spent on me so Harry wouldn't complain."
"He would complain about that?"
"Of course, he would. He was like his mother. He knew just how many matches there were at the stove. Believe me, he died with his first dollar still in his bottom dresser drawer. Well, not all of it. I took some before I left. Forgot to mention it."
"But he made so much money, and the house is so nice. Why would he be such a miser?"
"Some people make money to spend it and buy things, and some make it to accumulate it and stare at numbers in bank books. With what she'll inherit, my mother won't lack for anything for a while, but only for a while. Her taste has gotten considerably richer since she's been married to Harry. She never hesitated spending on herself."
"Why didn't he complain about that?"
"He did, but she had ways of hiding things from him. I know she stole from him at the drugstore," she added casually.
"Really? She stole from her own husband? I can't believe it."
"Everything I tell you, Zipporah, is true. See what I mean about holding back some secrets sometimes? I wasn't exactly eager to brag about all this."
"I guess not," I said.
"Forget about it. It's all in the pasty' she said, waving her hand as if she easily could wipe away everything that had happened.
We both heard the sound of the garage door going up.
"Who is that, your father or mother?"
"I don't know. I didn't expect either one, but I'm glad we got the kitchen cleaned up. Hurry," I said.
She gathered everything she was going to take upstairs with her and went out.
"Oh, I've got to get something for your dinner," I moaned.
"Don't worry about it right now. When you get a chance, you'll do it," she said, and tiptoed up the stairs. I watched her enter the attic and close the door softly. Then I went downstairs to see who had come home and why.
It was my mother, and she didn't look happy. "Why are you home so early?" I asked.
She looked at me without speaking and then took a deep breath and put her purse on the kitchen counter. "I had a terrible to-do with Beverly Bucci."
"Alice Bucci's mother?"
Alice's mother worked in the radiology department at the hospital.
"Yes. In the cafeteria. Apparently, her daughter and her friends have done a lot of gossiping about you and Karen lately, and Beverly Bucci got an earful. She cross-examined me as if she was one of the detectives who interviewed you. She was very loud about it, and a crowd developed around us. I told her how upset you were and how you didn't know all that much more about it than anyone else, and she actually challenged me, wagging her head and saying she couldn't understand that. 'How could your daughter be practically her sister and not know what was going on?' I let her have it between the eyes and. . ."
"What?" I said when she hesitated.
"Some doctors and my supervisor had to break it up. My supervisor told me to take the rest of the day off. I'm glad about it. I didn't feel comfortable leaving you here by yourself all day after what happened, anyway."
"I'm all right, Mama."
"Of course, you are, but you don't know how these things will affect you or are affecting you, believe me. The nerve of some people. She practically accused you of being an accomplice. If that daughter of hers gives you even the slightest trouble tomorrow, I want you to call me immediately. I won't stand for it," she vowed.
"I can handle Alice Bucci," I said with as brave a face as I could put on. The word accomplice made me shudder.
"Sure you can." She smiled. She looked around. "Smells like you baked a pizza."
My heart started to thump. I had cleaned up the kitchen well, but I didn't air it out.
"Yes," I said. "I made a small one. I had to keep busy," I said, hoping she would be satisfied with that.
She kept her smile, but it turned into a little smile of curiosity.
"But you had pizza last night with Daddy."
"I didn't even think of it, but you know me and pizza. I guess I could eat it every night."
"I guess so. Okay." She looked at the time "I have an idea. Let's go for a ride. I don't think it's healthy for you to be shut up here all day. I don't care about anyone talking about it, either. There are too many busybodies."
"Where will we go?"
"Down to that little shop in Wurtsboro where they sell those pretty and unique things for the house. We don't spend enough time together," she added. "It's my fault. I give too much of myself to this job. Pretty soon, you'll be off to college like your brother."
"I like to be with you, Mama, but you don't have to do this. I'm not complaining."
"I know you're not." She hugged me. "You're too sweet. I'm going up to change into something comfortable, and then we'll be off." She started out and then paused in the doorway.
"You would tell me if she called you, wouldn't you, Zipporah?"
"I would tell you if she called me," I recited back to her.
She held her gaze on me for a few moments, scrutinizing my face. Some alarm had been triggered inside her. There it was again, I thought, that extraordinary sensitivity a mother has with her children. Maybe I was good at being as poker-faced as my father when if came to speaking to the police, but my mother surely honed in on my nervousness. She was just unsure whether it came from being in the spotlight because of Karen or something else.
"Okay. I'll call your father to let him know where we are, so he doesn't worry if he calls or gets home before we do."
"He's going to be upset when he hears what happened at the hospital."
"That's all right. It's not your fault, Zipporah. I know you're thinking that, but none of this is your fault, understand?"
"Yes:" I said.
She flashed another smile and headed for the stairs.
I felt my legs soften, and I plopped down onto a kitchen chair and listened to her footsteps on the stairway. If she ever discovered Karen, she would be devastated by my withholding the truth. She would surely feel betrayed. It would never be the same between us. I was risking so much. I felt like running after her and crying, "Mama, please listen. Karen's in the attic, hiding. I had to help her. She is my best friend, and when you hear why she had to do what she did, you won't be angry."
Why not?
I should do that, I thought, and started to rise, but then another voice inside me asked, "What will your mother feel like after she learns it all, even now? She's been defending you. Your father's been defending you. It won't make that much difference, and you'll lose Karen forever. Besides, maybe you really will be accused of being an accomplice, especially after holding back information. That detective made, it very clear."
I stopped and sat again.
It's too late, I thought. I've got to go through with it and wait for Karen to leave on her own.
A short time later, as my mother and I were driving off, I looked up at the attic window. Karen would see us go and know she could go downstairs and get herself water and something to eat for dinner. I hoped and prayed she would leave no clues behind. Every minute of every day, I would feel like someone walking a tightrope, I thought.
I knew my mother expected that our drive together and our fun shopping would bring us both some desperately needed relaxation and divergence. I had to do my best to get her to believe it was happening. I've got to be more like Karen, I thought, and move smoothly from one emotion to the next. Concentrate on it, I ordered myself.
My father was home before we returned. Despite my mother's reassurances, it was obvious that he was upset about her incident in the hospital when he heard about it.
"I'm not going to put up with this," he declared. "You tell me if anyone makes even the slightest accusation."
I wasn't sure if he was directing that solely to my mother or to both of us.
"People can be very nasty," my mother said. "What about the funeral, Michael? Are you going to be free to attend it with me?"
"I'll make myself free:" he said. "I'm taking the morning off, anyway. I have to get up to see Mom and explain why we didn't visit on Saturday. I'll get to the funeral right after that."
"When is it?" I asked.
"Tomorrow, eleven a.m.," my mother told me. "I'm sure there'll be people from other areas who are just too curious to stay home. What they expect they'll see, I don't know, but it's the first murder victim in a long time"
"Chief Keiser tells me that aside from a few suspicious hobo deaths during the summer, there have been none since the one that occurred in this house:'
"Allegedly occurred," my mother reminded him, and he laughed.
"Whoa. Who's the attorney in this family?"
They both smiled at me, worried that the talk of Harry Pearson's funeral would upset me even more.
"Lawyering is contagious," my mother said. I laughed at that, and everyone relaxed.
"What's for supper?" my father asked, and my mother went to prepare our dinner.
"Hey," she called from the kitchen. "You've been nibbling, Michael Stein."
"I have not," my father said.
My heart skipped a beat as he walked to the kitchen.
"Well, when I left this morning, this box of graham crackers wasn't opened."
"I had some," I quickly confessed.
"I thought you didn't like them," my mother said.
"Someone told me they were good with some jelly on them, so I tried it," I added. Karen had once told me that.
"Well, is it?" my father asked.
I nodded. "It's not my favorite thing, but it's okay."
"Nerves make us nibble and munch On things almost unconsciously," my mother explained, but it looked as if she was explaining more for herself and my father than for me.
Secrets 01 Secrets in the Attic Page 13