by Tim Johnston
In the kitchen she hung the jacket on a chairback and found the bottle of wine. The opener was beside it and she twisted the skewer into the cork as Caroline had taught her and drew down the arms and pulled the cork free with a deep pop. You were supposed to let it sit for a while, breathe, so she carried the dirty plates and the glasses and the silverware from the table and set them on the counter. Ominous music was playing from the TV as a man spoke of a fresh twist in the case; a woman had murdered her husband with a pair of scissors—or had she?
Audrey returned to the bathroom with the two glasses and Katie said, “Oh, you’re in a cast—I’m sorry, I wouldn’t have asked you to open the wine.”
“It’s fine. Should I . . .?”
“Yes, just set mine there, please.”
The little girl was standing now, with her hands over her face, as Katie filled a plastic Cool Whip container from the spout and emptied it over her head. The girl’s wet hair hung in a dark curtain down to her little biceps, islands of suds slipping down her tummy and down her legs and she stood with no embarrassment at all; her nudity was nothing to her.
“How old is she?”
“How old are you, Mel?”
One little hand came out from under the hair with four fingers raised and went under again.
“Four?”
She nodded.
Katie tossed a towel over the girl’s head and lifted her out of the tub and set her on her feet and began rubbing at the body under the cloth. As she rubbed she looked at Audrey more carefully, as if it were only now possible to do so.
“I saw you on the news,” she said. “You’re lucky to be alive.”
“What?” said the girl, her small voice muffled and shaken.
“I’m talking to Audrey, baby.”
“Oh.”
Audrey sipped her wine.
Katie said, “I’m sorry about your friend. Caroline?”
“Yes. Thank you.”
“Just so awful.”
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry about your father too.”
“Thank you.”
“You’ve had a rough time of it, haven’t you.”
“I’m all right.”
“How old are you?”
“Nineteen.”
“Nineteen. Lord. How’s that wine?”
“It’s good. Thank you.”
“Is Audrey sleeping over?”
“No, baby. Audrey and Mommy are going to talk for a while after you go to bed like a good little citizen.”
“I wanna talk too.”
“No, you don’t. This is grown-up talk.”
“So?”
“Come on,” she said, lifting the girl again. “Let’s get you in those jammies.”
Audrey sat on the loveseat and watched the crime show with the volume turned down, and after a while the little girl came thumping out and dropped to her knees in the space between the sofa and the coffee table and began moving the horses around.
“What are their names?”
“This is Lavender and this is Strawberry. This is Peaches, she’s Strawberry’s sister, and this is Dave.”
“Dave?”
“Mm-hmm, and this is the corral and that’s the meadow where you’re sitting.”
“Should I move?”
“No, they already runned in the meadow before.”
“Oh, good.”
“What did you do to your hand?”
“I broke it.”
“Does it hurt?”
“Not anymore.”
“Can I touch it?”
“Sure.” She held out the cast and watched as the girl stroked it like it was a soft pet.
“I like the color.”
“Thank you. I do too.”
Katie came out in sweatpants and a University of Minnesota T-shirt. “I slipped into something a little more comfortable, as they say.” She went to the kitchen and came back with the wine bottle and set it on the coffee table away from the horses. They sat and watched the crime show while the little girl played with her horses and chattered. At the end of the show you still didn’t know if the wife had done it or not; she was in jail awaiting her trial. There was no end and no answer.
“They always end like that,” Katie said. “It’s one big tease.”
Audrey was feeling the wine. She’d almost forgotten why she was there. She thought she could curl up on the loveseat and sleep over after all.
“Will you be all right while I put her to bed?”
“Sure.”
“We read for a bit. It could be awhile.”
“It’s OK. Take your time.”
“Say good night to Audrey, baby.”
The girl came around the coffee table and lifted her face, her lips, and Audrey leaned forward for the softest kiss. “Good night, Audrey.”
“Good night, Mel.”
When they were gone she put her head back and closed her eyes and soon she heard Katie’s reading voice down the hall, and then it was as if she were in the bedroom herself and the voice were reading to her, and next she knew a hand was on her shoulder gently shaking and Katie was sitting facing her with one foot tucked up under the other leg. The TV had been shut off and music was playing quietly from somewhere.
“I’m sorry . . .” Audrey said.
“Don’t be. I almost didn’t wake you. I almost threw a blanket over you and went to bed. But then I remembered you wanted to talk to me.”
Audrey sat forward and felt the blood go to her head with a deep thump of pain. “Maybe I’ll have some of that water now.” She pressed the heel of her hand to her forehead.
“I shouldn’t have let you drink all that wine. Did you eat anything?”
She couldn’t remember. “Yes,” she said.
Katie got up and Audrey turned her father’s watch on her wrist. It was just nine o’clock. The second hand seemed connected to the pulse in her head.
Katie came back with two aspirins and a large glass of water and sat as before and watched as Audrey took the pills and drank down half the glass.
“Do you feel sick?”
“No, I just feel like . . . like I don’t know where I am.”
“You’re here, with me, in my apartment. You wanted to talk to me.”
“Yes. I just don’t know where to begin.”
“How about why.”
“Why?”
“Why me.”
Audrey shook her head. “I don’t know. I mean—I was just trying to figure something out about something. About someone.”
“Who?”
“A man named Ed Moran.”
Katie stared at her. Just stared, no expression. Then she picked up the wine bottle and refilled her own glass and set the bottle down again.
“Do you know him?” Audrey said.
“I know he used to be a sheriff’s deputy down there.”
“He’s a sheriff now, down in Iowa.”
“Lucky Iowa.”
“Why do you say that?”
She shrugged. “Smart-ass reflex. So what about him?”
“He’s investigating my case. Mine and Caroline’s.”
Katie nodded slowly, recalling. “There was a second car, they said. Did they ever find it?”
“No. Or those two boys either.” She didn’t want to go into what her father had done. Or Moran’s photo line-up.
“Two boys?” said Katie.
“From the gas station.”
Katie shook her head and Audrey said, “The ones who tried to—who grabbed me?”
Katie stared at her. “I don’t remember anything about two boys.”
“Young men, actually.”
Katie was silent. Then she said, “What did they do?”
“Nothing. Caroline got them with the pepper spray. We were driving away when we went off the road.”
“And was it them, those two pieces of shit, who pushed you over the bank?”
“I don’t know. We could only see the headlights.”
“
Jesus,” Katie said. Then she said, “All right. So what has this got to do with me?”
“I don’t know. This person I know . . . this woman who worked for my father—”
“Your father the sheriff.”
“Ex-sheriff, yes. She gave me your name.”
“Gloria Walsh.”
Audrey opened her mouth, and closed it.
“I went to school with her daughter,” Katie said, answering the question Audrey had not asked. “Does she still work for the sheriff?”
“Yes. I went to talk to him, the sheriff, but it was her—Gloria—who gave me your name.”
“And why did you go talk to the sheriff, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“Because of Danny Young.”
“Danny Young—?” Her eyes grew large, and Audrey thought she was about to stand up, but she only shifted in place and tossed her free arm over the back of the loveseat.
“You and he . . .” Audrey said.
“Yes,” said Katie. “About a million years ago. He was my brother’s best friend. A year older than me. How do you know him?”
“I don’t. I only know him through my dad. Through the Holly Burke case.”
“Holly Burke. God, there’s another name I haven’t heard in forever.”
“Did you know her?”
“I knew her. We weren’t exactly friends.”
“You weren’t?”
“No. Most of her friends were boys. Or men. She was known as bad news, generally.”
Audrey thought of Gordon Burke, his good old face and his big hands and his kindness to her, his gentleness when she was sick.
She said, “I’ve gotten to know her father a little bit since I’ve been home. Mr. Burke.”
“Oh God, that poor man. I thought he’d moved away.”
“No, he’s still there. And so a few days ago Danny Young came out to Mr. Burke’s house, and—”
“Wait.” Katie raised her hand. “Danny Young went to Gordon Burke’s house?”
“Yes.”
She sipped her wine. “All right. I’m just going to shut up now and listen. Go on.”
And Audrey went on, telling her all that she herself had learned in the last two days, and when she was finished Katie sat looking at her.
“You sound like that TV show, Audrey.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize.” She took another sip of her wine, and Audrey drank her water.
“So, what are you telling me here? That Deputy Moran had that torn pocket?”
“Yes. I mean, according to Danny Young.”
“And he pulled Danny over so he could plant it on his truck, and then he just—let him go . . . but then they never found it?”
“Right. Danny found it first.”
“And held on to it for ten years.”
“Yes.”
“And then all of sudden decided to show it to Gordon Burke.”
“Yes.”
“Because . . . ?”
“Because he wants Mr. Burke to know the truth.”
“Why didn’t he do it ten years ago?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think he understood it back then. I think he was just a scared kid.”
Katie set her glass down on the table and turned it around slowly by the stem, watching it. “And that’s why you’re here. Because you want to believe Danny Young.”
“Because I want to . . .” she said, and faltered. The beat in her head thumping on. “Because I want to know the truth.”
“And you think I can tell you that?”
“I don’t know. I only know that Gloria gave me your name.”
Katie stared at her—then put her face in her hands, as her little girl had done in the bathtub to keep the water out of her eyes. “Jesus,” she said. “What a convoluted cluster-fuck of goings-on.”
“I know, I’m sorry. I didn’t know how else to tell it.”
“How else could you tell it? It’s impossible.”
Katie dropped her hands and sat looking across the room, at the wall, or maybe at something beyond the wall.
“Well, Audrey,” Katie said, “well . . .” and was silent again.
“Holly Burke . . . Jesus,” Katie said. “That girl. We heard all kinds of things about her. Said all kinds of things about her too, little bitches that we were. She was sleeping with this boy and that boy. One DUI after another. Giving married men blowjobs for money.” She shook her head. “But did she have dealings with that deputy? Could he have had reason to kill her? Is that what you want to know?”
It was the first time Audrey had heard the idea expressed out loud. It sounded ridiculous.
“Yes,” she said. “That’s what I want to know.”
“Well, I just can’t answer that, Audrey. I’m sorry.”
Audrey looked at her own hands where they lay in her lap, the twined fingers. White from squeezing. She untwined them and wiped her palms on her jeans.
“Then why would Gloria give me your name?” she said quietly.
Katie was still looking off.
“Katie—?”
Katie turned and looked at her. “Your dad let him go. He had him and he let him go.”
“I know. It bothered him the rest of his life.”
“And now it bothers you.”
“It bothers Mr. Burke. And it bothers Danny Young and his family,” she said, thinking of Danny Young’s twin brother. Of that poor woman trying to bury her dog. “It bothers the whole town.”
“Why doesn’t Mr. Burke,” Katie began, and stopped. “Why doesn’t Danny . . . I mean, why doesn’t he go to the sheriff—the new sheriff—with this?”
“I don’t know. I guess because he doesn’t think anyone would believe him, ten years later.”
“You guess? He didn’t tell you that?”
“No. I’ve never spoken to him.”
“You’ve never spoken to him?”
“No. Like I said, I’ve never actually met him.”
Katie stared at her. Then she lifted her glass and drank and put the glass down again. She shook her head. “Danny Young. God. I thought I was in love. I thought we’d get married, someday.”
Audrey didn’t know what to say, so she said nothing.
“But it wasn’t Holly Burke that ended it,” Katie said.
“It wasn’t?”
“No.”
Audrey was quiet. She tried to breathe evenly and quietly.
“What ended it, really, was one stupid decision on one stupid night,” Katie said. And then she told Audrey about the night—August 15, which she remembered because it was Ginny Walsh’s eighteenth birthday and Ginny always threw a party at her house, and it was always the last party before the new school year. Ginny’s mother, Gloria, was there and so was Mr. Walsh, and everyone was allowed to drink one glass of champagne each, and the girls were going to sleep over. But then at three in the morning Katie had slipped away; she’d wanted to go see Danny and she thought she could go see him and sneak back in before dawn and no one would know the difference. She’d drunk three glasses of champagne and Ginny Walsh always left the key to her Honda under the seat and all the girls knew this and they would borrow it at lunch hour to drive to McDonald’s and Ginny didn’t care and Katie didn’t think she’d care this night, and she let the Honda roll down the driveway before she turned on the engine and the lights, and she was doing all right, she was doing just fine, until she rolled through a stop sign on Old Indian Road and the colored lights lit up in her rearview and Shit, oh shit, she was so screwed. Arrest. DUI. Her parents. College—it all just flashed before her eyes.
Audrey knew before Katie said it: it was Moran. Although Katie didn’t know him then. Had never seen him before, or if she had, had never noticed him.
He came up and put his flashlight on her and said, Can you turn that engine off for me, miss? and she did, and then she saw that his headlights were off too; just the colored cop-lights flying around in the night, in silence, lighting up the side of h
is face blue and red where he stood. Moran looking down at her, flicking his light around the inside of the car, over her knees, the short skirt she’d worn for the party. He said he knew this car and it wasn’t hers. She said her friend said it was OK to borrow it.
She did, did she, said Moran.
Yes, sir.
And where were you taking it?
She hesitated. Nowhere special. I just felt like a drive.
Just felt like a drive, so you took off in your friend’s car at three in the morning.
Yes, sir.
How much have you had to drink tonight, miss?
Just a little champagne, Officer. At my friend’s birthday party. Her parents were there.
Were they.
Yes, sir. They bought the champagne.
He watched her. And how old are you?
Eighteen.
Can you prove it?
Sir?
Can I see your license.
Yes, sir.
She handed it to him.
He put his light on it and handed it back.
He took a breath and put his hands on his hips, the leather belt creaking. They were all alone out there on the county road. No lights anywhere but the colored lights flashing silently.
We got us a situation here, Miss Goss.
I know.
I don’t think you do. I got you for failure to stop at a stop sign, driving under the influence, and possession of a stolen vehicle.
It’s not stolen, I told you, I—
Miss. Please. I don’t like this any more than you do. Young girl with her whole life ahead of her. College. But what am I supposed to do? What kind of officer would I be if I let you kids go driving all over the county like this, endangering the lives of others? What would your parents want me to do?
She’d begun to cry. She hated herself but she couldn’t help it—what her father would say, the way he’d look at her—or not look at her—when he came to collect her from the jail . . .
Officer, please, I promise . . .
He sighed. He clicked off the flashlight. He looked up and down the road.
Well, look, honey. There’s a solution here. Very simple. It will require just a few minutes of your time, but then you’ll be free to go on your way. You think you’re up for that?
She was looking up at him, trying to see his whole face under the brim of the hat but only half the face was there, the other half still glowing blue and red.