County Line

by Bill Cameron

  “I almost played in college, but I hurt my knee and never got my quickness back.”

  “That’s too bad.”

  She waved a hand, dismissive. “I’d never have been more than a role player.” She studied Ruby Jane’s face. “Have you thought about college?”

  Ruby Jane looked away. “I guess. I don’t know.”

  “You have a lot to learn, but with your shot, you could start for a lot of programs.”

  “That’s a long way off.” But Ruby Jane couldn’t help but feel pleased. She tried not to smile.

  “Scouts will be at the games this season. They’ll come for Clarice, but they’ll see you.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “Trust me, they will—if you can get over this problem you have with her. You need to play like you’re part of the team, not a rival. The women’s game isn’t like the men’s game.”

  “It was a fight. No big deal.”

  “Why is it always Clarice?”

  “Sometimes it’s Moira.”

  Mrs. Parmelee didn’t have to say anything. Moira was Clarice’s proxy.

  “I’m not good at the popularity contest the way Clarice is.”

  “Is she popular?”

  “That’s what everyone calls it.”

  “What do you call it?”

  Ruby Jane sat back. Her cheek was cold. “I get it. We’re doing therapy.”

  “It was your question.”

  “Fine.” Ruby Jane thought for a moment. “It’s more like … authority. I mean, hardly anyone likes the popular kids. But everyone defers to them.”

  “I think that’s an insightful observation.”

  Ruby Jane felt like she was being played, but she didn’t care. If Clarice was what Mrs. Parmelee wanted to talk about, Ruby Jane was happy to oblige. “My brother does this thing. You ask him a question and even if he doesn’t know the answer, he’ll blurt something out like it’s holy writ.”

  “Male Answer Syndrome.”

  “Hah. But it’s not just boys. Girls too. Talk like you’re in charge and people act like what you say is true even if it’s total bullshit.”

  “Ruby, you really need to watch your language.”

  “Like you don’t swear.”

  “That’s not the point.”

  She was quiet for a while. “It’s bullshit, but we let them get away with it because they act like no one else knows better.”

  “It’s not all BS.”

  “Sure it is.”

  “You don’t think you’re popular?”

  “Not like that.”

  “Sweetie, it’s tenuous for everyone. Trust me. You’re not alone.”

  Ruby Jane didn’t have an answer for that. “I need to go.”

  “Practice?”

  If she hurried, she could still make the second hour. Speed drills. Lots of sweat. “Yeah, fucking practice.”

  “Language.” But it didn’t sound like her heart was in it. Ruby Jane gave her a quick, tight smile, grabbed her backpack, and fled.

  - 25 -

  Interview, April 1989

  There were days when Ruby Jane felt if she looked through the most powerful telescope or burrowed deep into the interstices between atoms, her father would be there. Dale Whittaker, the scarred-knuckle brawler who clawed free of the morainal till and into a life he couldn’t hope to sustain. Child of a woman who worked twelve-hour shifts at the tire plant until she collapsed on the line weeks shy of retirement and died not long after, Dale picked up where his imagined father left off: lingering in West Dayton taverns and after hours joints until starting time on the road crew each morning. His marriage to the rebellious rich girl was less surprising than its issue—two children spawned in the ashes of countless cigarettes and the dregs of untold bourbon bottles. Bella and Dale held out for two decades, an eon of late night screaming fits and broken furniture. But not long enough to get the one thing they most wanted: the rebellious rich girl written back into her father’s will.

  Gone eight months now, Dale Whittaker, a man who behaved like the whole world owed him a favor because he showed up for work every day, hungover or still drunk, but on the goddamn clock. Every morning when Ruby Jane awoke his was the first face she saw, gazing up out of a muddy hole in the woods. When Jimmie called from Bowling Green, early in the day while there was still a chance Bella would be sober, it was Dale Whittaker’s voice on the line ignoring her questions and telling her to put her mother the fuck on the phone already. Eight months, almost long enough to give birth if only Ruby Jane had had the sense to make a completely different kind of mistake. She couldn’t be rid of him.

  “So what you’re saying is you don’t know where he is.”

  Hands under the edge of the table, she put her fingers to her wrist and checked her heart rate. Too fast. Grabel had been on this track for half an hour. He had her perched on a knife’s edge now. If she fell to one side or the other her life would change forever, for better or worse. But the real danger was in slipping straight down.

  More than anything, she hated that Grabel had caught her off guard, had left her feeling so turbulent and lost. He’d played her from the beginning, dancing past Clarice and rooting around in her family history as if it was an aside, when it was the set up all along. She’d allowed herself to fall into his trap, given in to wishful thinking. She couldn’t let it happen again.

  “That’s what I’m saying.” Her throat felt raspy and dry. “I don’t know where he is.”

  “He just up and disappeared.”

  “I guess.”

  “You guess? You don’t know?”

  She shook her head.

  “When did he disappear?”

  She let the crown of her head fall against the window again. Her chair squeaked, the cassette recorder whirred. Chilled air flowed across her legs and arms.

  “I have no idea.” She slowed her breathing and concentrated on lowering her heart rate.

  “I find that hard to believe.”

  “You never met my father.”

  “Why don’t you tell me about him?”

  “What’s to tell?”

  “Most children would know right away if their father didn’t come home.”

  “I’m not most children.”

  “So I gather.”

  She pressed her tongue against the roof of her mouth. The window vibrated with passing traffic. Nash adjusted his stance. His expressionless gaze annoyed her. Did he know people called him the DARE Dork, usually right after a bong hit? The thought almost made her smile. Instead, she tilted her chair forward. “This is stupid. You want to know about this stuff, ask him.” She gestured toward Nash.

  His mouth dropped open and he popped off the wall. “What’s that supposed—”

  Grabel cut him off. “I’m asking you, missy.”

  “What’s the point?”

  He shrugged. “I told you. I want to know what you know.”

  “You’re just trying to trip me up.”

  He shook his head sadly. “Ruby, all you’re doing is dragging this out.”

  “Telling some has-been city cop my life history is what’s dragging this out. Maybe you should get back to me when you’re done reviewing the background.” She fixed him with a cold stare. “Background is good. Right?”

  Grabel’s wattle flushed. He looked at Nash.

  She squeezed her lips together to keep from smiling. Her turn. Now he’d have to wonder how much she’d overheard. He wouldn’t know she’d already used up all her ammo. After a moment he licked his thin lips and sighed.

  “Okay. Fine. What can you tell me, Officer Nash?”

  Nash looked at Ruby Jane for a moment. She thought she caught the flicker of irritation in his eyes. “Well, you know, Dale wasn’t the most reliable fellow.”

  “How so?”

  “He could be a bit of a problem. Heavy drinker.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “You have the reports. Some drunk-and-disorderlies, a couple of DWIs. We’ve been out
to the house more than a few times.” Ruby Jane noticed he didn’t mention the last time they were out to the house, the previous spring. Drunk and disorderly was the least of the problem.

  “None of that explains why Miss Whittaker here is so unconcerned about her own father.”

  She shook her head. Nash was useless. “Because it was when he was around that my father was the problem. Is that so hard to understand?”

  “Why don’t you explain it from your point of view?”

  “Would it help if I use one syllable words?”

  Grabel sat back. He looked up at Nash, though Ruby Jane couldn’t tell if he was looking for support or someone to unload on. Nash threw his hands up.

  “Ruby. Damn it. Just answer the man’s question.”

  “You’re not scaring me, you know.”

  Nash stared at her. She gazed back impassively. Grabel watched with obvious annoyance. “Christ.” He pushed away from the table, but there wasn’t enough room for him to get out of his chair without turning. She started to smile, but then he smacked the tabletop with both hands. She cringed as the sound of sudden blow cracked the air around her.

  “Your belligerence has grown tiresome.” Grabel’s dead eyes gazed at her from the dry chasms above his cheeks. A tremor ran through her and she struggled to keep her tears in check. She didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of thinking he’d regained the upper hand.

  “Dale didn’t come home a lot, and we liked it that way. Does that answer your question, asshole?”

  “Watch your mouth.”

  “Or what? You’ll arrest me? You’ll question me? You’ll threaten me?”

  Nash patted the air in front of him, a futile calming gesture. “Ruby—”

  “Screw off.”

  “You’re not helping the situation.”

  “It’s not my situation to help.”

  She thought back to that Sunday morning, eight months before. She’d awakened at first light, certain this moment was upon her, sure the police would be at the door. But all was quiet. She was alone. Jimmie had left during the night and hadn’t returned.

  Nash caught Ruby Jane’s eye, his expression pained. That’s when it hit her. They didn’t know anything. They were trying to trip her up. Someone had said something, Clarice most likely, running her mouth in a juvenile attempt at revenge. Not information, not fact. A hint, a guess, conjecture built on a foundation of sand. Then when questioned, Bella went screwy and melodramatic and suddenly this ex-detective from Dayton thought he was on to something.

  If they knew anything, there wouldn’t be questions, there’d be charges.

  “This room is a little close.”

  She shut her eyes, unaware of who spoke. Her pulse thudded at her temples and her chest labored to pump air. Outside, she heard birds, and a sharp voice shouting at a dog. When she opened her eyes, Grabel was staring at her. She flinched, decided just as quickly not to give him the chance to savor the moment.

  “Do you really care about my deadbeat father? He’s been gone since last summer. All of a sudden now you’re interested?”

  “We got a report—”

  “From who?”

  “Not relevant.”

  “I know it was Clarice.”

  They exchanged looks. “As a matter of fact, Clarice Moody did make a statement.”

  “And you listened to her.”

  “She’s a credible source.”

  Nash didn’t believe it. She could see it in his eyes.

  “Not when it comes to me, she’s not.”

  “Isn’t Clarice your teammate?”

  “Not anymore.”

  “No? I’m told you’re quite the player. There may have been an incident, but surely you can work things out. You were one missed shot from taking state. Next year the Spartans could win it all.”

  A semifinal loss in the regionals was a long way from taking state. “You’re trying to pretend you’re my friend now?”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Give me a break. I’ve seen Hill Street Blues. I’ve seen Miami Vice. I know how this works.”

  “Police on television and police in real life aren’t the same thing.”

  “No kidding. TV cops are better looking.”

  Grabel didn’t take the bait this time. “Let me explain something to you, missy. You committed felony assault against Clarice. If she, or her parents, choose to prefer charges, you could find yourself in a heap of trouble.”

  He paused. Ruby Jane kept her face blank. What Grabel didn’t realize is all she’d thought about the last twenty-four hours were the implications of her actions in the gym the day before.

  “Due to my intervention, the Moodys have agreed to hold off on their decision. I suggested this situation was more important, and in any case, I believe discipline in such matters is better handled through the school than through the courts. Don’t you agree?”

  “Just so I understand: If I tell you something you imagine I know about my father, you will convince Clarice’s parents to not press charges against the most well-deserved uppercut in the history of Valley View High School?”

  “I don’t think we’re imagining anything. There is the matter of what you told Clarice on the night of December tenth of last year.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  He went back to the folder. After a moment, he found what he was looking for, a sheet torn from a notebook covered with a looping scrawl. “Yes, here. Quoting, ‘She was a little drunk, but it’s not like she was out of it or anything. She said if anyone ever found out what happened to her father she didn’t know what she’d do. Go to jail, probably.’” Grabel set the page down. “What is your response to that?”

  “Sounds like you think I was doing some underage drinking.”

  “You may find this hard to believe, but I’m not troubled by kids cutting loose on a Saturday night. You weren’t driving, and my understanding is you had something to celebrate. A big win against a worthy rival.”

  “We won a lot of games. So what?”

  “But it wasn’t just any basketball game, was it?”

  “It wasn’t even a league game.”

  “No, it was against Princeton down in Sharonville, right? State 3-A champ two years ago, and a favorite this year. Valley View doesn’t often play against the big schools. You’re 2-A.”

  “It’s called Division II now.”

  “The point is you won an away game against a powerhouse program, and you did it in a particularly dramatic way. So you came home and celebrated. Understandable. I have no problem with that.”

  Nash shifted uncomfortably. He had a problem with it. DARE Dork. But he kept quiet.

  “I don’t remember it that well. I have no idea what Clarice thinks I said, but whatever it was, I was drunk out of my skull. Blotto. Hammered. Did my mother proud, I’m sure.”

  - 26 -

  Stormy Night, August 1988

  The Vega was nowhere to be seen. The pickup hung half in the ditch, headlights illuminating the scrubby growth on the east side of the road. The night was still, quiet except for the patter of rain. In light reflected off the wet pavement, Ruby Jane recognized the long scrape Bella put in the passenger side of her father’s orange Dodge Ram. She stopped a dozen paces away. A thickness gathered in her throat.

  “Dad? You in there?” Her voice was so feeble she barely heard herself speak. She listened to the responding silence. “Dale?”

  A dark form took shape on the road. She took a step back, resisted the urge to bolt. Jimmie’s lanky form was as distinctive to her as her own face in a mirror. He moved slowly, hesitantly. One hand hung at his side, weighed down by an uncertain yet familiar object, something black in the black night. He came to a halt between her and the truck.

  “What’s going on?”

  She couldn’t tell if he heard. The glow of the headlights scattered in the falling rain and threw Jimmie into stark silhouette. His hair clung to his head. She heard hi
s breathing, shallow and quick. He lifted his arm away from his side and the object in his hand took shape.

  It was their grandfather’s gun.

  She and Jimmie had long understood Grandfather Denlinger saw his own failure in them. “Isabella should have known better than to go whoring with Drexel trash,” he’d say with little regard for who might hear. “What did she get? A mouth-breather for a husband and two heathen spawn indistinguishable from monkeys.” The previous winter, during their once yearly visit to the house on Patterson Boulevard in Oakwood, Jimmie had led her to a door at the top of the tower, a door they’d never known to be unlocked.

  “I found a ring of keys hanging on a peg in the basement.” He jingled them for her, skeleton keys as old as the mansion itself.

  The door led into a small study, the dark wood desk flanked by a pair of matching ceiling-high bookcases. Faded wallpaper and a few forgotten cobwebs in the corners. Only the lack of dust and scent of furniture polish suggested the room was ever used. There was a worn spot on the Oriental carpet in front of a dictionary stand, the heavy tome open to the D’s. Her eyes fell on the word disgrace and she looked away. The window offered a view of the tennis court. While Ruby Jane ran her fingers across the spines of old books, Jimmie went through the desk, then got down on his hands and knees. She heard him jingling the keys.

  “You gotta see this, Roo. It’s some kind of hidden compartment.” He grunted and there came a loud click.

  “We should go.”

  He stood and showed her the pistol, a small revolver.

  “Put it away, Jimmie. If Grandfather catches us up here—”

  “He’ll send us home?”

  He had a point. “You still shouldn’t fool around with that thing.”

  “I’m just looking.” He turned it over in his hands, enthralled. She could smell machine oil. “I think it’s a twenty-two.”

  She didn’t know how he could tell. The metal finish was dark, the barrel stubby and menacing. She didn’t want to touch it.

  “Put it away.”

  Instead, he rounded the desk and crashed into the dictionary stand. The big book went flying. The stand crashed against the bookcase. At that moment, they heard footsteps on the stairs.