“Are you in trouble?” Janice asked.
Marcie gave a quick shake of the head. “No,” she said, and looked up for the first time. “Please, Jan. Please do this for me.”
The desperation in her friend’s voice frightened Janice. She looked at the glistening brown eyes, the delicate freckles that, more than ever, made her look like Janice’s younger sister. “If she calls,” Janice asked, “and you’re not here, what do I tell her?”
“I don’t know. Anything.” Marcie took both of Janice’s hands in hers. “Tell her I was here, working on our paper. But then I went to the library for extra articles. That’ll make my dad happy—he’s always bugging me about ‘effort.’ ”
Janice paused. Her objections were practical, not moral; she did not want them to be caught in a lie.
“Please,” Marcie said again.
Janice saw the look on her face and, in spite of herself, nodded.
When Marcie hugged her, Janice remembered, there were tears in her eyes. As there were in Janice’s, turning to Tony Lord.
* * *
“At the funeral,” Janice said softly, “I couldn’t look at her mom. At either of them. I never will again.”
Tony saw the tears running down Janice’s face and thought of his own, finding Alison. “You were true to your friend.”
Silent, Janice turned away from him.
NINE
The Lake City Recreation Center was the former Taylor Library, a rambling nineteenth-century house on a grassy rise overlooking Taylor Park. On the lawn was a bandstand and a carousel; to Tony, the scene recalled the set of a Frank Capra movie, as though the artifacts of wholesomeness could provide the real thing. Nearby, on a dirt field, Ernie Nixon was holding softball practice for a group of seven-year-olds.
Tony watched them for a while. He was too far away to hear Ernie or the kids; what he saw was a silent film of a patient coach, pausing to give instruction, lobbing an extra pitch or two until the batter hit the ball. At the end, a couple of kids ran up to Ernie, seemingly reluctant for their practice to end. He showed one kid how to wear his cap, bill pulled down over his eyes at a jaunty angle. Then Ernie gathered up the balls and bats in a canvas bag, and the kids went off with whoever had brought them.
Tony walked across the field. Spotting him, Ernie put down the bag. From his posture, unsurprised and a bit resigned, Tony sensed he was expected.
“Hello, Tony.”
“Hello, Ernie.” They shook hands formally, almost ceremonially. “It’s been a while.”
“Well,” Ernie said, “you still look like you. Could have picked you out of a lineup, if that’s an appropriate thing to say.”
Tony smiled. “From this morning’s paper, I’m not so sure. Anyhow, you look good too. No fat.”
“No fat, and less hair.” Ernie drew a hand over his high, narrow forehead, his close-cropped salt-and-pepper hair. “Middle age—there’s no beating it, is there? Though it looks like you’re giving Father Time a run for his money.”
“Trying. So how’s your life these days?”
Ernie shrugged. “Two kids—a daughter nine, a boy seven. I miss ’em both. Their mother left with them, went back to Chicago.” His gaze turned to Taylor Park, and his voice softened. “Other than that, Mrs. Lincoln, a very nice girl got murdered here last week. I guess you remember what that feels like.”
There was more to this, Tony knew at once, than the flat statement “murdered”; a tacit accusation—perhaps against lawyers, or Sam Robb, or Tony for helping him. But Tony pretended to notice only what was explicit.
“Why do you say murdered?”
“Because I knew her.” His face hardened. “Marcie’s what you came to ask me about, right? Maybe figure out a way she just stepped over the cliff, or threw herself off one?”
Tony was quiet for a moment. “When we were kids, Ernie, you gave me the benefit of the doubt.”
Ernie put his hands on his hips. “That was then, man, and it was you. You were a pretty good guy then—I knew what you were going through about Alison, and you carried yourself like a man. Now it seems like you’ve done just fine—money, married to Stacey Tarrant, the whole nine yards.” He paused, and his voice was quiet again. “Now you’re somebody else’s lawyer, looking to get him off. No, not somebody’s lawyer. Sam Robb’s lawyer.”
With the training of years, Tony kept his own demeanor mild. “What have you got against Sam?”
Ernie scowled, gazing at the park. “You and Sam Robb had this thing going, the two biggest stars, fit company only for each other. I’m sure that was more him than you. But I’m not going to help you paint a fine young girl different than she was just to save his sorry, overconfident ass.”
Quickly, Tony sorted his thoughts—interest in how his friendship with Sam had looked to Ernie; an awareness that Ernie had taken the offensive to deflect Tony’s question; a disturbing undertone of certainty regarding Sam similar to the Calders’; the sense that Ernie reserved his strongest feelings for Marcie herself. He chose to address only the last, and only by indirection.
“What was Marcie like?” he asked.
For a long time, Ernie did not answer. Then he turned his startling green gaze to Tony and softly said, “An innocent, man. A total innocent.”
“You seem to have been fond of her.”
“You could say that.” He nodded toward the recreation center. “In this job, sometimes you can touch kids’ lives. But you don’t know how long, or how permanent, it’ll be. With Marcie, I thought maybe I could do some good. She was just so damn sweet, and open. That is, if some grown-up took the time to listen, not just talk at her.” His voice went cold. “I guess Sam Robb figured that one out too. In his own way.”
“Why do you say that?”
Ernie turned away. “You’ve met the parents?” he inquired after a time.
Once more, Tony had the sense of deliberate evasion, of a man determined to control where the conversation went. “Yeah. I’ve met them.”
“Well, Marcie needed listening, and the old man’s not a listener—or a major feminist, either. Meet him a few times, and you get the picture: women don’t work out in the business world, ’cause they just want to get pregnant and then get paid for it.” He gave a brief sardonic smile. “You know, they want ‘special privileges,’ like some other ‘groups’ out there. Her father had her figured for a ‘woman’s job,’ like teaching or counseling—one of those ‘nonserious-type’ jobs that women can just fall back on if their husbands die, still get their summers with the kids. The world scares him, and so did the idea that his quiet little girl had any thoughts of her own. So he raised his voice, I guess, so he wouldn’t have to hear them. It worked too. He didn’t.”
Tony stood next to Ernie, gazing out toward Taylor Park. From where they stood, he could see to the edge of the park, the two bands of blue beyond—water, then sky.
“So she came to you?” Tony asked.
He nodded. “Sometimes she’d drop by the office. A few times she baby-sat the kids, and after we’d come home Dee would go to bed, and we’d just sit up talking for a while.”
“About what?”
“Whatever was in her mind. A few times, it was that she wanted to write stories—not for adults, but for kids—maybe illustrate them herself, ’cause she was always good at drawing. Even drew a picture of me once. Other times, it was what college she could go to that was big and away from here and not run by the Church. Maybe in a city, even.” His voice became sardonic. “Her old man said she was so quiet. With me, she could talk for hours. All you had to do was listen, maybe ask a question or two. I guess Sam Robb figured that out too.”
For the first time, Tony sensed more than simple anger. “Did she ever talk about Sam?”
“Not by name.” Ernie paused, then added grudgingly, “Toward the end, she said she’d gotten ‘close’ to someone. I knew what she meant.”
“Sex?”
“Yeah.”
“She talked with you about
that?”
In profile, Ernie gave a thin smile. “You got a kid, Tony?”
“A son. Seventeen.”
“Well, if you’re around them enough, like I am, you’ll notice that kids these days will talk about damn near anything, even on Geraldo—unless maybe their parents are listening.” Ernie shook his head. “Sometimes I think we give these kids so much sex education, it’s like handing them the keys to your sports car and begging them to try it out. Besides, they see it all the time on Beverly Hills 90210.”
Tony felt his patience slipping. “I’m a little lost,” he said. “What does this have to do with Sam?”
Ernie turned to him. “She came to me about a month before she died. Just walked into my office, closed the door behind her, and said she needed to talk.”
For a fleeting instant, Tony thought of Sam’s account of Marcie shyly closing the door behind her, needing to tell him something.
“What happened?” Tony asked.
* * *
The door clicked softly behind her. The first thing Ernie thought of, he said to Tony now, was how this might look to someone else. And then Marcie said, “I need your help,” and, as Ernie described it, something in her voice made him stop worrying about himself.
“What is it?” Ernie asked.
She sat in a chair, looking at him intently. A girl who could tell her friend Ernie Nixon anything.
“I’ve started having sex,” she said.
Her voice was soft, determined. But to Ernie, there was something heartbreaking in the words—a sense of lost innocence and, in a way, enormous loneliness, that she should need to tell him this. Almost against his will, he asked, “Is that a good idea?”
Marcie nodded slowly. “I love him, Ernie. I wanted to give myself to him.”
For a moment, Ernie felt himself not wishing to hear anymore. “I guess it’s a boy at school.”
“No. He’s older.” She paused at the expression on his face, and then said quickly, “It’s better that way, really. I don’t know anything, and he can teach me.”
Inwardly, Ernie winced. “I guess I was hoping you might wait a little while. When it happens, there’s a lot of emotion, and a whole lot of confusion. It’s a bunch to take in if you’re not ready.”
To his surprise, Marcie did not take offense. “I wasn’t sure I was,” she said. “Then he said he wanted me, and I knew it was time.”
Watching her face, Ernie felt defeated. All that he could do was listen. “How can I help you?”
“Talk to me.” She looked down. “You know what it’s like. I mean, to be him.”
Ernie felt this like a slap. “If I were him,” he answered gently, “we’d stop this right away.”
Her eyes opened wider, and then he saw a first film of tears. “His condom broke,” she said.
“What?”
“His condom broke.” Ernie watched Marcie force herself to go on. “I was wondering what else might be best for him, and for me.”
Ernie drew a breath. “This is hard for me, Marcie. I guess your parents don’t know.”
“No.” She looked alarmed. “They can’t know, ever.”
“Then you should talk to your doctor.” Ernie paused. “Do you know where else this guy’s been? And with who?”
Marcie flushed. “He’s all right that way. I know it.”
Ernie sat back. “I don’t much care what’s best for him,” he said at last. “But I know what’s best for you. Not catching something. Not getting pregnant. Laying off.”
Her eyes filled with tears. “I can’t.”
Ernie watched her for a while. Absently, she brushed her long black hair from her face, trying not to cry. “About what you use,” he told her quietly, “your doctor knows more than I do. But promise me this, for your own sake, and for my own peace of mind. Promise you’ll make him use a rubber, always.”
Her eyes, still moist, shone with gratitude: she could talk to him, and he still cared for her. It was more poignant than he could ever describe.
Perhaps Marcie saw this. Suddenly she stood, circling his desk, and fleetingly kissed the top of his head.
“I really love you,” she said, and was gone.
* * *
For some moments, Tony was silent. “I guess you never told her parents,” he said.
“Wish to God I had.” Ernie gazed out at the park. “But that would have betrayed her, and if you want the truth, me having that kind of talk with a teenage girl would make some folks pretty nervous. And not just her folks.”
“Did you think she had a crush on you?”
“Maybe.” His voice was bitter now. “Maybe, in that sense, I was the first. But being the first takes a different kind of man.” He turned to Tony. “She was a sweet kid,” he said more softly. “The kind who makes you wish you could be sixteen again, to see things the way they see it. But if you’re sane, you know you’re not sixteen. Especially if you’re me.”
This was said with dispassion, the hint of resignation. “Why did you come back here?” Tony asked.
Ernie gave another faint smile. “Why does anyone come to a place like this? Because it’s safe—the schools are pretty good, the drug situation a lot better than most, and your kids can chase around and ride their bikes without getting run over or snatched off the streets.” He paused, shrugging. “Johnny D’Abruzzi called me, maybe five years ago. I was in Chicago, not liking my job, my neighborhood, or all the money I wasn’t making, and we’d kept in touch. Next thing I know, he’s persuaded Doug Barker—the mayor—I’m not a threat to property values, and I’m down here interviewing for a job—”
“Doug Barker was the mayor? The same jerk who helped keep you out of the Lancers?”
“Uh-huh. Now he’s school board president. Doug’s finally gotten to be what he was practicing for all those years—a pompous middle-aged man without a thought in his head that someone else didn’t have first. In this case, Johnny.” He shook his head. “Maybe it would be different now, I thought, better for the kids than where we were. And it’s some better, but not great. No place to raise black kids, Dee finally told me, especially with a man who doesn’t know he’s black, and a town full of folks who can’t find some normal way to talk to blacks.” His voice grew bitter again. “So she went back to Chicago, to our old neighborhood. Schools are shitty, but there’s a truckload of black folks. Can’t fault her math at all—with my family gone, I’m back to being the only black in town.”
Tony nodded, silent. He remembered the sense of solitude he had perceived in Ernie Nixon. He could feel it now. Yet he wondered, too, whether the end of Ernie’s marriage was nearly that simple. And then he had another thought—that Marcie Calder, in her openness, would in some ways be better company for a guarded black man than Marcie’s parents ever would. Or, perhaps, the man’s own wife.
“About Marcie,” he said, “I’m really sorry.”
Ernie faced him again. “Tony,” he said, “you’ve forgotten what sorry is. You want to come around here, fine—we can talk about old times. But we’re not talking about Marcie Calder ever again.”
* * *
Picking up the telephone in his motel room, Tony saw that it was well past six o’clock.
“Stella Marz,” she answered briskly.
“It’s Tony Lord, Stella. Working late?”
“Not for me.” She had the crisp tone of someone who did not welcome this distraction. “What can I do for you?”
“I just was wondering whether you got the autopsy report back.”
There was a pause. “Actually, I’m reading it.”
This made him edgy; something in her voice was close to hostile. “Is there anything new?” he asked.
“At least one thing. Marcie Calder had sex that night.”
This gave him pause; either Sam had lied to him or there was someone else. “You can DNA the semen, I suppose.”
“There is none. The coroner found traces of a lubricant used on a common brand of condom.” Her voice was flat. �
��It’s called Adam’s Rib. Because of the ridges.”
Tony was quiet for a moment. “Guess I’ve missed that one.”
“I wouldn’t know.” Stella paused. “It was in the anus, Tony.”
Tony sat back. “As in sodomy.”
“Yes.”
“Was it forced?”
Stella was silent. “There were abrasions,” she said coolly. “But maybe it was just her first time. I suppose you can ask Mr. Robb.”
What he had heard, Tony realized, was anger. “It could have been anyone, Stella. It could have been rape. Without sperm, you’re not going to know. Unless you get a match on a pubic hair.”
She went quiet again. Tony guessed that there had been no hair; in this, whoever had anal intercourse with Marcie Calder had been lucky. Especially if it was Sam.
Cautiously, Tony broke the silence. “Is there anything else?”
“Not until we get the DNA results. Any explanation for that spot of blood, by the way?”
“Not yet.”
“Too bad,” Stella said, and hung up.
TEN
“Sam’s gone running,” Sue told him. “He took a look at you and decided he was out of shape.”
On the telephone, her voice had an edge; Tony wished that he could see her face. “I’d like to talk with him.”
There was brief silence—worry, Tony guessed. “I can have him call you,” Sue answered. “Or you can just come over.”
Tony thought for a moment. “I’ll come over.”
When he pulled up to the house, it was twilight. Down the street, a shadowy runner passed beneath the trees; even now, thirty years later, Tony recognized the loose-jointed grace of the boy he had once played catch with, laboring to carry the thicker, older body that now contained him. The shadow became Sam, stopping beneath a streetlight. Rivulets of sweat ran down his reddened face. His chest rose and fell as his lungs sucked air.
“You’ll have a frigging heart attack,” Tony said. “I guess Johnny D’Abruzzi already did.”
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