by N. Griffin
“Thank God!” cries Mr. Beach.
Dinah’s heart threatens to jump from her chest. “I told you!” she shouts, jumping up. “He does that! He does that all the time! He rides when he’s upset! Do they have him? Is he home?”
Beagie wakes and cries.
“Shhh, darling.” Mr. Beach cuddles him. He takes Dinah’s hand.
Her mother shakes her head slowly. “No, honey. I’m sorry. Not yet. They don’t.”
Dinah’s heart falls. But at least he’s alive. He’s riding. She grabs her hand out of her father’s and takes Beagie up and squeezes him.
“There’s another piece to it, though.” Behind Dinah’s mother a chickadee flies toward the Harps’ house next door.
“What, darling?” says Mr. Beach.
Mrs. Beach hesitates. Then: “According to this woman,” she says, “the boy she saw on the bike wasn’t alone. There was a smaller child with him, too. Riding on the handlebars.”
Both of Dinah’s parents are looking at her. Her mother bites her lip.
Dinah hands Beagie back to her father and goes swiftly inside and up to her room.
It’s a different policeman this time. The other half of the Aile Quarry police force: Officer Craig, with ecru teeth. The Beaches are all in the kitchen. Dinah is standing braced against the fridge, Beagie balancing himself on her feet. Be wary, Dinah Beach. Be wary, cagey, and alert.
“I know you’re upset, Dinah,” says Officer Craig. “Everybody is. We are, your parents. Skint’s mother, Ms. Dugan. K. T.’s family too. You know K. T.’s older brother, Avery, pretty well, I imagine? You all are in the same grade?”
Dinah nods.
“All of us know the family from church,” Mr. Beach tells the policeman. “Ken Vaar sings in my choir.”
The policeman nods. “The older son is pretty cut up about the whole thing,” he says. “Don’t think I’ve ever seen a kid cry so hard.”
The Vole? Dinah holds tight to Beagie’s hands. Beagie screeches and strains forward, arching his back.
“Do you know any reason why your friend and K. T. might be together, Dinah?” asks Officer Craig. “Any reason Skint might have the boy with him?”
“You are just assuming it was Skint and K. T. on that bike!” Dinah shouts. “It could have been any old body!”
“The description sounds like him, though, don’t you agree? And his bike is no longer over at Ms. Dugan’s.”
“So what?”
“Dinah, don’t be rude,” Mr. Beach admonishes her.
“His bike was only out on her porch,” Dinah points out. “Somebody could have taken it. Or maybe he put it away somewhere, out of the weather!”
“Is that likely?” the policeman asks gently. “Would that be typical of Skint?”
“Yes! Skint takes excellent care of his bike.”
The officer nods and says nothing.
“Skint cares about K. T.!” Dinah cries. “He would never—we think K. T.’s a wonderful kid!” Why don’t you just go out there and find them, then, if you already think Skint is guilty? For God’s sake, why don’t you start helping for once?
Mr. Beach crosses the kitchen swiftly toward Dinah, who swoops Beagie up and holds him like a shield to repel her father. Beagie roars in protest.
“Officer—” Mr. Beach begins.
“I didn’t mean to upset you, Dinah,” says Officer Craig. “I’m sorry if I did. In fact, I had another reason for coming by. There’s some good news to tell you, too.” The policeman leans against the countertop. “Ken Vaar got a call a few minutes ago from his ex. She says there was a knock at her door not long ago, and when she opened it, there was her son standing there, right as rain.”
Mrs. Beach bursts into tears. “Thank God!” she cries.
Mr. Beach puts his arms around his wife, then reaches out a hand toward Dinah, who does not take it. Beagie wails.
“Why didn’t you say so!” Dinah cries, sick with relief. “I told you!” Idiot policeman! He didn’t tell her so he could manipulate her the whole time, try to get her to implicate Skint.
Beagie starts to cry and her mother comes and takes him from Dinah’s arms.
“Skint, too?” Mr. Beach asks the policeman. “Was Skint there too?”
“No,” says the officer. “He wasn’t.”
The kitchen is silent.
“We’re still looking for him,” says the officer. “We want to be sure he’s safe, of course. And we’d like to ask him about this . . . this event with the younger boy.”
“But why? K. T. is fine!” says Dinah. “Why do you need to question Skint?”
The policeman rubs the back of his head with his hand. “You can’t just take a child without telling his parents, Dinah.” He takes his hand down and looks at her. “Even if you bring him back.”
“You still don’t know it was Skint,” says Dinah. “You don’t know.”
But she knows it’s useless to say that. Of course they know, or they will as soon as K. T. tells them how he got to his mom’s.
Her dad is clearly thinking the same thing. “What does K. T. say?” he asks.
“Well,” says Officer Craig. He clears his throat. “We did ask the little boy about Skint. He says he likes him a lot. We asked him how he got to his mom’s . . .” The officer rubs the back of his head. “All he’ll say is, ‘I flew.’ ”
Four days pass. No Skint. No news. Dinah has barely slept.
“Eat something, Dinah,” her mother pleads, but Dinah can’t eat, either. She can’t sleep or eat or breathe. Even crocheting is impossible. Her brain is a hollow, hurting thing, overloud in her head and clanging. K. T. didn’t rat out Skint, but it doesn’t matter. Skint’s still gone, on the run, a felon on the lam. The police are still after him, and it can only end in awful if he comes back, with courts, with trouble, with the law. She has called and texted him one hundred times, only to hear that he never even took his phone. It is still at Ms. Dugan’s.
There is no Skint anywhere, no Skint at all. There is nothing left to bring him back to her. Nothing left at all.
Saturday is church-cleaning day again, but Dinah can’t do it. So her father goes in and does the job, alone. That night is Mr. Beach’s Evensong and the Friendly as well, but there is no way Dinah can manage those, either. The Friendly would be unbearable enough, but the church will be full of Vaars and Chathams and all manner of people for the Evensong, all of them looking sympathetic, every one of them with something to say. If not to her, then to one another, stealing glances at Dinah, and Dinah cannot bear to see Skint discussed.
“I’ll stay with you,” says her mother.
“No,” says Dinah. “I want to be by myself. Besides, Dad will be devastated if you don’t go. I’ll be fine here alone.”
Her mother doesn’t insist. But she pokes her head in Dinah’s room again as the rest of the family is getting ready to go. “Come, Dinah, please. There’s no use staying here all alone.”
Mr. Beach’s head appears in the doorway above her mother’s. “I need you!” he cries. “To witness the carnage and rub my temples when it’s done.”
No no no. What if tonight is the night Skint comes back? What if he comes to see her and she’s not there?
He’s not coming. The thought is immediate, and Dinah knows it is true. It won’t happen. Her worry is just her wish in disguise.
“Dinah, please,” says her mother. “Please.”
Outside it’s already dark and purple, the house extra creaky and cold. The thought of being all alone is suddenly a tiny bit more horrible than not being alone.
Dinah hesitates. Then: “Fine,” she says. “Fine.” Feeling desiccated and thin, she gets herself dressed and goes.
She doesn’t go into the church with her parents, though. She waits in the car with Beagie until she is certain all of the attendees are inside and seated. Then she totes Beagie in and settles with him in the foyer amongst the coffee urns and refreshments. The door to the nave is open a bit, so she’ll be able to he
ar the singing when it starts.
Dinah opens Beagie’s little satchel of toys and he burrows about inside.
“Do you want your horse?” asks Dinah, handing it to him.
But Beagie shakes his head and flings the horse to the ground. In the nave the choir begins to sing.
“When David heard . . .”
“Dis!” Beagie cries, and thrusts two playing cards at her: a king of spades and a card with two quacking ducks on it from a counting game.
“. . . that Absalom was slain . . . he went up to his chamber over the gate and wept . . .”
Beagie takes the cards back from her and slaps them energetically together. Dinah stands up quietly and moves toward the doors to the nave. There is her father, shoulders working, and the tiny choir, looking earnest. Dinah catches sight of Mr. Vaar and moves so that he can’t see her through the space between the doors.
“. . . Absalom, oh, Absalom . . .”
Inside the nave Mr. Vaar’s voice rises and falls, notes trickling and shuddering like breath catching in a throat.
Dinah feels eyes on her from the back row. K. T., next to his brother, his body swiveled round to see her. They look at one another solemnly.
“. . . would God I had died for thee . . .”
K. T. disappears, ducking out of sight behind the pew. But then he springs up again, clutching his blue Super Ball. He smiles at her, and waves. It’s an odd, hook-fingered wave because he has to hang on to the ball. Dinah smiles back at him, blinking.
The Vole tugs at K. T. and he turns back around. Dinah steps quickly back into the foyer and picks up Beagie, who squawks in protest. She hugs him and hugs him.
School starts up again on Monday. Dinah can’t not go; they’d never let her just stay home. But being in school is unbearable. All these hours of being here, all these minutes, all this alone. No Skint-studded classes with jokes and light punching. No skipping or springing him from the Pit. The teachers are all solicitous to her and extra kind, and the other kids are, too; their glances are sympathetic, and more of them say hello to her than usual. But talk about people looking, talk about being the subject of conversation. Dinah feels skinless, scraped raw.
“Sit with us, Dinah,” Laley offers at lunch. But Dinah can’t. She shakes her head no and heads to her usual table in the back of the room, where she sits with her tray of lunch and stares out the window in the din.
There is a tremendous crashing of legs beside her. The Vole climbs over the bench and untangles himself down.
“Hey,” he says.
He arranges four desserts in a row above his slices of pizza. “Sign of your friend?” he asks.
Dinah shakes her head no. The Vole nods and fits half of a pizza slice in his mouth. Outside the window, groups of kids are clustered, slapping and laughing around.
Dinah clears her throat. “How is K. T.?” she asks.
“Good,” the Vole answers, through cheese. “He’s a punk. Stuck babysitting him half the time.” He chews. “Talks about your friend a lot.”
Dinah looks at him warily.
The Vole looks at her back and swallows. “Says he likes him. Says he was good at playing space guy.” The Vole smiles. “Eat your pizza, Dinah-won’t-you-blow-me,” he says. Then: “Sorry! Sorry! Excuse my mouth. Habit.” He grins.
“That’s okay,” says Dinah.
The Vole finishes his first slice and picks up another.
Dinah crumbles an edge of her pizza. “Do you want me to watch K. T. for you sometimes?” she asks. “I could play with him and take him places for you and stuff.”
“That’d be rad,” says the Vole through a gulp of Coke. “You can be the one to trip over all his goddamned action figures.”
Dinah nods and turns back to the window.
On her way home she passes the Rural Routes’ house. Only Mr. Rural Route is out, sitting in the lady Rural Route’s chair, a striped beanie on his head. Dinah waves. One hand up, bent at the elbow. Mr. Rural Route raises his hand back.
A few days later, Dinah watches from her window as her mother struggles out of the car with her arms full of bags and walks unevenly up the steps to the kitchen door. Mr. Beach meets her halfway to help. Mrs. Beach has been spending time with Ellen every day after work. She also arranged for counseling for her and listens to her a lot, too. Ms. Dugan has been helping as well. They both spend nights over there, sometimes, so Ellen won’t be so alone.
Ellen. Dinah can’t even think about her. She can’t think about anything but Skint.
Her mother looks exhausted, even from here, hair flying every which way and her features blurred.
My mother is extremely nice, Dinah thinks suddenly. She is. Dinah gets up and lies down on her bed, crossways, hair hanging down.
It’s too much. Too much. Skint. My mom. People all by themselves and sick, or sad; people alone and gone. Dinah can’t bear it.
Be better, she tells herself. Be better be better be better.
Her window is loose in its frame, and it rattles. Air drafts cool across her cheeks.
Dinah sits up. Then she leaps off of her bed and tears out of her room and down the stairs.
“Mrs. Beach,” she cries, careering into the kitchen. “Will you take me to Augusta, please? Tomorrow?”
The entryway by the reception desk is bright and calm, not the draconian gray Dinah imagined. It’s very clean.
“Room 205,” the woman at the desk tells her. “Up one flight, directly over the entryway where you came in, if you can picture where that would be.”
“Thank you,” says Dinah.
Up, up, up.
Here it is. 205.
Mr. Gilbert is in one of the chairs drawn up by the window. Dinah is relieved to see he is in his regular clothes and not some kind of nightie.
He sees her in the doorway and smiles. “Hello, young lady,” he says. “And who might you be?”
“I’m Dinah,” says Dinah.
“Thomas Gilbert. Please, come in. Sit down.”
Dinah crosses the room and sits carefully in the chair beside him. Together they look out the window. Heavy snow falling; already the lawn is covered.
“Skint,” says Dinah, or tries to, but her voice is too thick, crushed under the weight of the word and she can’t get it all the way out.
“My son,” says Mr. Gilbert.
Dinah nods.
“My son,” says Mr. Gilbert again. “My son.” His eyes fill with tears. Dinah’s cheeks chump up with not crying.
“My baby son.” Mr. Gilbert’s voice is splintered and full of water. “My gorgeous baby boy.”
Dinah has no right to cry, but she can’t help all these tears coming when Mr. Gilbert is crying, too. His reflection in the window buckles and waves.
Mr. Gilbert holds out his hand and she takes it. His hand bones are thin and hollow, like quills, like air.
“Have you seen him yet?” he weeps. “He’s the most beautiful infant in the world.”
Dinah’s head is bowed and tears are streaming down her cheeks. She can’t bear to look at Skint’s dad.
“My father will never see him,” Mr. Gilbert cries.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Gilbert. I’m sorry.”
Skint’s father is still holding her hand. Then she feels his other hand alight on her hair.
“There’s a Dinah who plays in the churchyard,” he says, his voice changed. “A tiny little girl with petals, flying.”
Dinah looks up at him. “I’m her,” she says. “That Dinah is me.”
“No,” Mr. Gilbert corrects her gently. “Dinah is just a little girl. She plays with my son. He loves her.”
“He doesn’t anymore,” says Dinah. Her voice shatters, breaks. “I drove him away. It’s my fault he’s gone, Mr. Gilbert; I’m sorry!”
Mr. Gilbert’s hand stills on her hair.
“I didn’t love him back enough,” Dinah sobs. “I didn’t love him correctly.” She weeps and weeps.
Mr. Gilbert’s hand warms on her head, grows substa
ntial, and rests. “My son is lucky,” he says. “That little girl’s love is in his bones.”
Outside, the wind eddies up and the tree branches wave, the snow piled on them falling down. Ermine robes sloughed off, gray and stately kings.
Dinah holds on to Mr. Gilbert and sobs.
Dinah’s mother is waiting in the car. It smells of old Beagie snacks and snow.
“How was it?” she asks.
Dinah nods, then sits very still. She twists her fingers around themselves and concentrates on the cold.
Then she reaches over quickly and puts her arms around her mother’s neck. “Thank you, Mrs. Beach,” she says into her mother’s shoulder. “I’m so sorry, Mom. I’m sorry.”
Two Saturdays later Dinah goes back to cleaning the church. On her way over she sees that the river ice under the bridge has grown uneven and thin. It’ll freeze up again, but for now it’s patched gray and white, melting and cracking, black water moving underneath.
At the church she starts her cleaning in the nave, sweeping between the pews and down the aisle toward the vestry. The church is cold but not unbearable. She’ll have to remember to turn up the heat.
Last week she went back to the Friendly. “I see you’ve brought a guest,” said Bernadine.
“Yes,” said Dinah. “Turn around, K. T. Let me tie this sarong around your waist.”
“Not necessary, Dinah Beach. Bring the boy in as he is and find him a chair.”
The motions for the pantry project and the first annual Aile Quarry Turkey Supper passed, the members turned their attention to letter-writing. Dinah had done a lot of research.
“Dear Mr. Secretary General,” one of the sample letters she had provided to the group began. “The Burmese junta has long oppressed and tortured its monks and nuns . . .”
Dinah set K. T. up with a cupcake and the oversize pencil he’d been clutching when his mother dropped him off at Dinah’s house before the meeting. “K. T.?” she whispered under the cover of people working.