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Cicada Spring

Page 19

by Christian Galacar


  “I guess you know what type I am. I wasn’t supposed to say a word about this. Harry would kill me if he knew.” Allison said, shaking her head. “Did that woman ever mention her daughter? Say she had emotional problems or anything?”

  “Hah. Honey, all teenage girls have emotional problems. Don’t you remember being young? The hormones of puberty? But I don’t recall her ever saying anything like that, no. I mean I knew she had a daughter, but that’s about the extent of it. Like I said, she doesn’t really talk too much when she comes in.”

  “I know. I’m just looking for anything to…” Allison trailed off into tears. Her acting teacher would be so proud. “I’m sorry. Oh, just look at me. I’m the mayor’s wife. I’m supposed to be composed. I guess I’m still in shock about this whole thing. I only found out yesterday, and with the festival coming up… this just couldn’t have come at a worse time.”

  “Oh, please, honey, don’t apologize. Here, take this.” Elsie handed Allison a paper towel.

  Allison wiped her eyes. “I just don’t get it. What would make a girl say such terrible things?”

  “Well, hon, I think you probably hit the nail on the head earlier.”

  “What do you mean?” Allison folded the paper towel and dropped it on her lap.

  “Attention. The girl probably just wants attention. What kid doesn’t?” Elsie dabbed Allison’s fingers with another cold swab of acetone. “Harry’s a teddy bear, I can tell. Not a mean bone in his body. In my line of work, being in the service industry, you learn how to read people. And he’s one of the good ones. You lucked out, Ali, really. Don’t let some high school girl with something to prove make you doubt that.”

  Oh, how wrong Elsie was. There were mean bones in Harry’s body—and more than a few. Allison had seen them. There were times when Harry lost his temper, never in public, but behind closed doors. Usually it was when he was drunk, but not always. He’d frightened her on more than a few occasions, to the point where she’d left and gone to her sister’s for the night. It was in these times, and only these times, that she was thankful they had no children; she could only imagine the toll her husband’s erratic behavior would have taken on them. These occurrences of unwarranted rage were always followed by an apology the next day, and gradually things always seemed to return to normal. But it sent a chill down her spine. When it happened, it was like Harry was a different person. And there was that scar on his hand, too, of course.

  That scar, the thick white one on his knuckle. Harry had told her the story behind it the day after they got engaged. It almost made her reconsider marrying him altogether. But he’d convinced her otherwise, said it was just a stupid mistake from childhood. It was hardly the innocent adolescent mistake he’d made it out to be, though. He had waited after school with a lead pipe for that bully and shattered his kneecaps. Then he beat the kid’s face to a pulp with his bare hands and sent him to the hospital in a coma. It was all over a pair of sneakers the boy had taken from him. Allison always suspected that she and her husband shared two vastly different definitions of the word “mistake.” Mistakes could be forgiven and repaired with time—reconciled. The only reason Harry never got in trouble was because by the time the kid came out of his coma, he didn’t remember anything. And by then the family had moved out of town to live closer to the hospital where the kid was slumbering away in a dreamless sleep, living a counterfeit childhood, breathing and being fed through tubes.

  Only two people knew that secret about Harry: Harry’s mother was one, and Allison was the other. Allison had unknowingly accepted membership to an exclusive club when Harry had told her that secret, and it was a membership she'd never wanted. Up until the day of her wedding, it had been in the back of her mind, but after she said “I do” there was no returning the keys to the clubhouse. Allison felt she would have been better off never knowing. Sometimes she wished he’d lied to her about it when she asked him how he’d gotten the scar, said something—anything—but the brutal truth. Lying isn’t always bad, after all, not when you’re protecting someone from the truth. Not when your intentions are…

  (You don’t believe her, do you?… I was home doing yard work… The sheriff has nothing… The little bitch is trying to ruin me… She’s lying.)

  Allison’s mind stalled for a moment. She physically shook her head to clear the thoughts.

  “You okay?” Elsie asked.

  “Yes. Sorry,” Allison said, and then continued. “I guess attention is just the only motive I can think of. Why else would she do this? Harry can’t come up with any reason she would have it out for him. She’d only worked for him a day. Not exactly enough time to hate your boss. I just don't get it. Why Harry?”

  “Who knows? Kids these days are all screwed up. That’s why I never had any.”

  Allison had a hard time believing this was the real reason Elsie Francis was sans children at the ripe age of forty-one. Obnoxious, overweight, and single were the first three things that came to mind. It made much more sense than something as broad as “kids these days are all screwed up.”

  With those last snide thoughts, Allison suddenly became aware of the anger inside her. It was a hidden anger, teetering on the knife’s edge of stress and grief, being misdirected at Elsie Francis. And she wasn’t even sure what she was angry about. Kara Price and her lies, or was it Harry? A notion struck her at once and tightened her stomach: Maybe she was mad at her husband because somewhere inside her she was starting to realize that maybe… maybe he was capable of much more than she gave him credit for.

  Enough of those thoughts, Allison. You’ve been married to him for twenty years. You know this man.

  Allison altogether avoided Elsie’s comment about having children. It was not the avenue this conversation needed to go down. “I wish there was something I could do to make this all just go away,” she said.

  “Oh I wouldn’t worry about it too much. From what you tell me it sounds like this girl’s just throwing stones. Anyone who knows Harry won’t think twice. This too shall pass,” Elsie said. “Let the cops do their jobs. Sheriff Gaines is a smart enough fella. I’m sure it won’t be too difficult to prove a fifteen-year-old kid is just out for kicks. I’ve known Harry as long as I can remember, and he has never been anything but a nice, good man.”

  “None of it makes sense.” Allison said. “We’ll probably never know why she’s doing this. But I guess you’re right—the teenage brain isn’t exactly rational. Worst thing is that after this is all over and settled, she’ll probably get a slap on the wrist. But Harry… Harry’s name will be forever tied to that awful word: rape.”

  “Nonsense. I think you’re wrong. I for one don’t believe a word of it, and I promise you I’m not just saying that because, well, let’s face it, you’re the mayor’s wife, and I feel obligated. That forward enough for ya?” Elsie laughed again.

  In this moment, Allison saw that she’d succeeded in her intents. She didn’t understand this from Elsie’s words; it was her demeanor—the lightness with which Elsie had been receiving this information. There had never been any revulsion in her eyes, no placation in her voice, nothing that would suggest a woman masking her true feelings. Elsie’s sense of humor was a good indicator, too. The show of jokes in the wake of such heavy news could only mean that Elsie was on board with the story. The truth! It’s not a story, a voice screamed in her head.

  “Thanks, Elsie. That means a lot.”

  “What’d the sheriff say? Has he offered any insights? Tell you what he thinks happened?”

  Allison cleared her throat. The rest of this was a breeze. She was home free. “Harry talked with Calvin Gaines yesterday. He came to his office in the morning. I don’t know exactly what was said, but from what Harry told me, it sounded like the sheriff thinks the girl is making it up, too.”

  “Well then, there you go. Don’t sweat it.”

  “Easier said than done. But maybe you’re right.”

  Yes. Maybe she was right. She shouldn’t sweat it. Pe
rhaps this too would pass, and perhaps the doubt she felt, the burgeoning suspicion of her husband’s honesty, was all just a normal reaction.

  But something still lingered. There was a question, one she’d been trying to ignore, and it flashed bright and insistently in her mind, refusing to go away until she acknowledged it: If Harry had (and she stressed if) done these things, would she still lie to protect him… to protect them? To protect herself?

  And the scariest thing about that question was that she didn’t know the answer.

  “Have you gone and talked to the girl yourself?” Elsie asked. “Try to appeal to her decency?”

  “No. Harry wouldn’t allow that,” Allison said, her tone becoming almost impatient but not rude. “You know, I think I’d like to change the subject. Is that okay?”

  Her job was done now. She’d planted the seed. It wouldn’t be long until it germinated and broke through the soil.

  Elsie held up her hand and nodded. “Not a problem, doll. I can tell this ain’t something you want to talk about. Sorry if I pried a little too much.”

  “No. Not at all,” Allison said, and for the next twenty-five minutes, the two women talked about anything else. They talked about the lotions and creams. They talked about which vitamins made their skin glow and which made their hair thick and shiny. They talked about the cicadas. Allison learned a trick to use to remove wine stains from clothes. They spoke of actors on whom each had crushes—childhood and currently. They spoke of many things, but they did not speak of Harry Bennett and Kara Price again. Allison knew that talk would be saved for when she was gone from the salon, when the chatterboxes could gossip amongst themselves unabated.

  That was fine with Allison. She’d served her purpose. She’d protected herself and her husband, made sure the truth got out there before the lies. Yes, that was what she’d done. She’d protected them. And Harry thought they weren’t a team? This would show him otherwise.

  When Allison finally did leave, it was with great relief. She stepped out into the warm morning air. Closing her eyes briefly, she took in the sweet smell of spring. She breathed deep, happy to be free of the sharp scents of acetone and nail polish and the constant smacking of Elsie Francis’s gum. The cicadas were going full at it, and the sound was, as she’d always felt it to be, peaceful and calming.

  She headed down the sidewalk, along to the next stop on her campaign, Peggy Joslin’s bakery. She felt like Johnny Appleseed, her bag of seed a bag of gossip. And she would be careful how she sowed.

  But dear God, what if Harry actually had…

  No. Never mind. He never would. That was just foolish.

  CHAPTER 23

  Catherine was late.

  She’d called ahead that morning and spoken with Ellie Price about coming to see Kara, but that was before Sheriff Gaines had called a meeting to go over the security and traffic plans for the festival. It had lasted nearly all afternoon, and after the meeting, Gaines had finally said what she’d been anticipating. He made it clear that he wasn’t going to be dedicating all his resources to the Kara Price case at the moment. It simply wasn’t the time, and there were no new leads to go on. Of course he would stick to his word and still allow Catherine to go talk to Kara, but that was with an understanding that if she didn’t find any “actionable evidence,” then she was to leave it alone until after the festival. They weren’t closing the case by any means. Definitely not. They were only tabling it until they had the resources to pursue it properly, after the festival. And did she understand that?

  She had understood, albeit grudgingly.

  But she was still late.

  Catherine should’ve been at the Prices’ at three o’clock. That was what she’d told Ellie when they’d spoken on the phone. Now it was almost a quarter of five. She stepped out of her cruiser and walked up the driveway.

  Looking up, Catherine recognized Kara’s bedroom window. It had only been a few nights before that she had been glancing out of it nervously as she tried to comfort Kara. At the time, she had seen the view from the window but never really acknowledged the things she was seeing or where they were in relation to the rest of the world. Now to her left was the weathered picnic table sitting beneath the three pine trees, and beyond that was the mulched garden bed with the granite birdbath—all things that she’d seen previously from the window, but things that hadn’t made sense to her at the time. Suddenly she felt as if something in her head had come into focus—a new understanding—and the space around became uncomfortably familiar.

  Catherine knocked on the door.

  Ellie opened it after a few moments.

  “Hello, Mrs. Price. Sorry I’m late. Hope I didn’t keep you waiting. Got hung up down—”

  “Hi, Deputy. Nice of you to show up,” Ellie interrupted coldly.

  Okay, so there it was. There would be no more superficial kindness from the Prices. They were fed up. Their daughter had been raped, and she’d identified her attacker, but still, nothing had been done. Their faith in the law was lost. The public service they’d paid for, bit by bit from their paychecks through taxes over the years, had proved unreliable and useless.

  “You’re right. There’s no excuse. I can only imagine how frustrated you must be at this point,” Catherine said, ashamed.

  Ellie laughed derisively. “Ha! Yeah. I guess you could say we’re frustrated. Sure. That’s one way to put it.”

  Catherine couldn’t help but notice that Ellie had made no gestures to suggest she was ever going to invite her in. “I know this has been tough. And I wouldn’t be any less upset if I were in your shoes. In fact, I’d probably be handling it worse. It may seem like nothing is being done, but I assure you I am not letting this go. I want to talk to Kara again and see if I can find something useful. The other night when we were here, emotions were running high, and it’s easy for important details to be skipped over or forgotten when that’s the case.”

  “Useful? How much more useful could she be? She told you who did it. Isn’t that enough? The sheriff’s department has done squat with that information. Why would anything be different with this?”

  “Well, I’m sure it seems that way, but we need to find a way to implicate—”

  “Yes, I know, there isn’t enough evidence. That’s all I’ve been hearing.”

  Catherine felt her temper starting to slip. Didn’t this woman know Catherine was the only person fighting for her daughter? “No. There isn’t. But that’s why I’m here. I need every detail, otherwise that bastard is going to go free—” Catherine caught herself. “Listen. I’m only trying to help, Mrs. Price. If you’d like me to leave, then just say so and I will.”

  Ellie’s face darkened briefly and then went flat. “She’s around back, if you want to speak with her.” She opened the screen door and stepped aside. “Straight through to the back porch.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.” Catherine took a step forward.

  “And listen to me”—Ellie gated the doorway with her arm, forcing Catherine to stop—“she seems to be doing okay today, so don’t push her. I want that monster in jail, but not at the cost of my daughter’s sanity.”

  “Of course not,” Catherine said. “We all want the same thing, here.”

  “I’m sure we do,” Ellie said with a hint of hostility. Then she lifted her arm.

  Kara sat on the porch steps, rubbing the dog’s ears, scratching under his collar and behind his head, crooning those nonsensical, almost infantile words that only a pet-owner can conjure. She was in good spirits today. After a moment, she stopped and picked up the tennis ball between her feet. Without hesitation she pitched it to the back of the yard. Geronimo, their chocolate Labrador, broke away from the affection and darted after the ball, snatching it mid-bounce before it disappeared into the tiger lilies.

  “Good boy,” she said heartily.

  He returned to her, proud as ever, tennis ball clenched in his jaw, as if he hadn’t just done the same thing twenty-five times in a row and received the exact same
praise each time. Kara wondered whether he remembered those previous fetches, or if his mind reset each time she threw the ball. Or perhaps the dog just had an innate ability to release the past and simply enjoy the moment no matter what had come before. Maybe to the dog, the game of fetch was very much like Kara’s lip was for her: a sort of talisman that summoned her mind to the present. She smirked at that thought, not because it was really that funny, but because: was she really trying to relate to a dog?

  “God, Kara, you’ve been away from society too long,” she said, amused.

  From behind her came the sound of voices, her mother and another woman. They were speaking in the front of the house.

  Geronimo forced his snout into Kara’s lap, trying to drop the slimy tennis ball again. “Hold on, Mo,” Kara said, absently rubbing his head while she listened. She figured it out after a moment: the second voice belonged to Deputy Carlisle. Kara recognized the underlying toughness of it. Almost immediately she remembered that her mother had mentioned to her that someone from the sheriff’s department might be coming by that afternoon to speak with her again. Her stomach tightened. Another round of Can You Tell Me What Happened? She hated that game. There were no winners. It was a fool’s game. If she’d known more than what she had already said, she would’ve said it.

  “Great. You want to take my place, Mo?” She looked down at the dog. His head was cocked at an angle, his eyes honest with curiosity and anticipation. All he cared about was another round of fetch. She envied him. “I didn’t think so,” Kara said, and pried the tennis ball from his mouth. She threw it to the end of the yard and Geronimo gave chase.

  The screen door yawned open behind her and then shut solidly, the spring clattering against the wooden frame. Then came the sound of footsteps behind her. There was a timid quality to them. It was something she had grown to recognize in the last few days. It was the sound of people walking on eggshells. Don’t frighten the wounded pup.

 

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