At Risk of Being a Fool (24 page)

Dillon was glaring at her again, she realized. “Very nice tea, Mrs. Otero, thank you much.” Dillon relaxed, rolled Rita over, and scratched her stomach. Rita wrapped herself in a ball around his hand, chewed on his finger, and batted him with soft hind paws.

Mrs. Otero looked at the back of her grandson’s head, raising her hand to the silver cross she wore. Many parents denied their children’s misdoings; defended them with misguided lies; attacked those who bore the messages of guilt. Mrs. Otero loved Dillon with warmth, tenderness, and a hard-edged honest eye. It reminded Jeanie of a particular serial killer, whose mother came to his execution, not to watch, but to remain in the next room and pray.
Please tell my son
, she had said,
that I love him
. Mrs. Otero would have understood.

“Dillon, you talk now with Mrs. McCoy,” Mrs. Otero insisted. “It is kind of her to bring your books to you, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” said Dillon unwillingly. Mrs. Otero stroked his hair. “Thanks,” he added.

Half an hour of review on percentages stretched Dillon’s tolerance to the limit. He stretched and set Rita on the floor. He didn’t put the books and papers together, which probably meant he’d work on it later. Or perhaps he’d wait for his grandmother to pick them up. Now what? Should she just come out with it? Where were you last night? As if the answer would be enlightening?

“Dillon, you give her some flowers from the garden.” Mrs. Otero handed him some small scissors. “She has been so kind to you, of course you will want to do something for her.”

Of course, he would
. For a moment, Jeanie saw her own amusement echoed in Dillon’s face.

Mrs. Otero’s front yard was ablaze with color, the mild breeze heavy with the sleepy scent of roses. In the midst of the small, rundown houses on her block, Mrs. Otero’s stood out like a tropical fish among guppies. A mass of rose bushes
--
red, orange, yellow, and cascades of pink variegated blossoms
--
smothered the four-foot chain link fence. Briskly efficient, Dillon clipped off a bunch of flowers and stuffed them into her hands.

“Hang on,” he said, moving to a healthy orange-pink rose bush, set apart from the others. “She’ll ask if I gave you this.”

“It’s a Peace rose,” said Jeanie, in pleased discovery. “An award winner from decades ago. I used to have one, at my old house.”

Dillon shot her a glance, stone-faced. “She likes it.” He was more careful with this plant than with the others. He handed her two buds, one of them half-open.

“Your grandmother is an artist in the garden.”

His scowl lessened perceptibly. He selected a third flower, nipping it off further down the stem. He rotated it, carefully clipping off the thorns.

“Ah, that one’s for your grandmother,” Jeanie teased.

The rose stilled in his hands. Their eyes met. Dillon cleared his throat. “She means a lot to me.”

“I can tell.”

“I wouldn’t,” he paused, doling out his thoughts, “do nothing to hurt her.”

“Including slipping out at night?” asked Jeanie. “When she goes to Monday night choir practice?” A shot in the dark. But if he were slipping out at night, he’d time it so she wouldn’t know. And except for Bryce’s, the bombs were set on Monday nights.

“Church is right at the end of the block. I walk her to the church. And I walk her back home again.” He directed a look at the front door. “They searched the house. You know that.”

“Yes.” If he walked her to the church, then her car was available. She wondered if he’d implied on that purpose.

“They shoved her roses all over the place, looking under ‘em.” His foot mounded the bark mulch around the Peace rose.

“They didn’t dig them up, though. At least there’s that.”

“Metal detector,” he said meditatively.

“A metal detector wouldn’t have caught some of those ingredients. The police knew that, and they still didn’t dig up her roses. They weren’t being destructive.”

“I knew they’d tear the place up, if I did something. You think I’d put her through that?”

“Not on purpose. So you didn’t slip out last night.”

“I didn’t set any bombs, and I didn’t arrange for ‘em either.” It was a simple statement, not urging her to believe or disbelieve. “Wait here, I’ll get your cat.” Holding the perfectly trimmed rose, he vaulted the three steps and entered the house.

~*~

Nine-month-old Dominic grabbed the edge of the sofa and pulled himself onto his feet. He flashed a gap-toothed grin of triumph at his audience. He glanced at the floor by his feet. With a ludicrous change of expression, he measured the distance from his face to the carpet. The floor was much further away than he had expected.

Rosalie swooped on him, grabbed him in both arms, and gave him a throttling hug, like a small girl with a brand-new doll. “Oh he’s so big, isn’t he big, Jeanie? Maria, see how strong he is?” Rosalie was instantly engrossed in a conversation with Maria, comparing Dominic to Maria’s Nikki, who had visited yesterday. Dominic struggled to free himself. Rosalie didn’t notice.

Jeanie was glad she’d left Rita in Linda’s office. Esperanza had too much hustle and bustle, and not enough doors that closed, to prevent small cats from straying.

“I’m amazed you arranged visitation,” she told Linda. “I thought Mrs. Thatcher filed for termination of parental rights.”

“She’s filed, but visitation goes on unless and until she wins. Since you cancelled school, I thought I’d arrange it this afternoon. The whole thing’s a shame, really. Mrs. Thatcher is wonderful with Dominic, but she gets tight-lipped about Rosalie.”

A huge whiteboard hung in the hallway. Down one side were the hours of the day, marked in half-hour increments. Printed neatly across the top were the names of the twelve residents. Rosalie was fourth. In the midst of notations for group therapy, GED, work, morning chores, and KP were specific times and bus numbers indicating when each girl was supposed to leave and return. A second whiteboard displayed tomorrow’s schedule. A clipboard dangled nearby, holding phone numbers for every person in official contact with each girl. Jeanie spotted her work number, her home number, and even Oriole’s Nest’s number, with Kherra’s name printed next to it.

Dominic squawked. Rosalie covered his face with kisses. He wriggled determinedly. Rosalie growled and snapped at his nose. He dissolved into giggles and wound himself around her arm, grabbing her hair to keep his balance.

“I brought a textbook for her. She has the reading test Thursday. Will she have some time to go over it? A couple of hours?”

“Hours?”

“Well, let’s say several ten-minute tries?”

“Sure. Dominic goes back at five.” Linda crossed to the whiteboard, marked out the evening’s scheduled visitation, and replaced it with the word
Study
. “You think she can sit still through the test?” She added notations to the clipboard, and the next day’s schedule.

“I hope so. It’s her second try at this one.” If they’d let Jeanie into the testing center, she’d gladly sit on Rosalie for the duration, but it wasn’t permitted. Rosalie could know every answer and still be incapable of sitting still to write them down. A thought came to her. “Linda? How do you keep the girls in at night? I didn’t see any bars on the windows. They could just sneak out, if they wanted to.”

“They could and they do sometimes. This is a transition facility, not a prison. They have to get used to temptation, and making good choices.” Linda made a face. “Like not sneaking out windows at night. We do have bed checks, but I’m sure we miss some. Generally, I think, if they keep it up, we catch them.” A spark of humor lit her eye. “Sorrel Quintana is one of your students, isn’t she?”

“Yes.”

“Enough said.”

“Does Rosalie slip out?”

“She did once that I know of, but that was early on. And of course, we’re a bit more vigilant just now, after the drug incident.”

“At the child care, they told me that a man came by to visit her on the sly.”

“I know. I asked her about him. Cousin Arturo, she said, came to give her a message from her father.” Linda’s voice was heavy with disbelief.

“I thought her father didn’t talk to her any more. She’s always crying about it.”

“I don’t think it was her cousin. She talked to somebody on the phone yesterday. They get five-minute local calls, and we can track the numbers if it’s important. She does have to talk out here where everyone can hear her. It sounded innocuous.”

Rosalie put Dominic down, held his tiny hands, and walked him in front of her, crooning encouragement.

“She’s quite fond of Dominic,” said Jeanie.

“Oh, definitely.”

A breeze moved one of the drapes. Rosalie’s eye caught it. She let Dominic’s hands fall, wandered to the window, and peered outside.

Linda looked tired.

~*~

Tonio’s uncle opened the door and looked at Jeanie blankly. He scratched his bare chest and tilted his beer can. A small but steady stream missed his mouth, dribbling down his hairy chest. He shrugged at her question and shut the door in her face.

Yes, well.

Come to think of it, why was Tonio living with his uncle in
Salem
? If he was in the same gang as Quinto, he should have moved back to
Portland
as soon as he got out of the transition facility. Usually kids moved back home and transferred their files to the local probation officers.

So many worries, so many questions. Life had a frantic feel. She got in the car, double-checked the windows, and released Rita from her carrier. Rita remarked on every hidey-hole, discovered a dropped pencil, and chewed on it.

The web of violence tightened, and her world was its center. Bryce Wogan had given Quinto a hard time, and accused Dillon of theft. Sorrel and Brynna hated Estelle Torrez. Sorrel worked at the courthouse. The bomb at the courthouse was in front of Judge Hodges’ window, and Judge Hodges dealt with juvenile criminal cases, including Rosalie’s and, she’d found, Quinto’s. And now this new victim, Vic Dunlap, security guard, apparently set off a bomb taped to the inside of the chain-link fence at Quinto’s work site.

Why these particular people? Every rationale she considered seemed paranoid, and did battle with her instinctive affection for “her” kids.
Remember Robert
, she told herself firmly. A person could be engaging and likeable, and still be a villain. She shied away from the word “villain,” and forced her way back to it. What else would you call a boy who slipped his sister a date-rape drug at the request of his friend? The dizzying unreality swept over her, as it had when she’d first heard the story. Robert couldn’t have done such a thing, she’d protested. He wasn’t like that. He’d put in countless happy hours studying computer programming with her, and wasn’t that proof of something? Yes. It was proof that there were multiple facets, even to a villain. Just think about Dillon, the quiescent volcano, and his sweetness with his grandmother.

Shelley had weighed in on the matter, in last night’s e-mail:

We’re all bleeding hearts and totally blind when it comes to our own. Look at me, Jeanie. How many years did it take before I saw Sam clearly? Looked past the sweet, muzzy smile he gave me before passing out again on the sofa? Much as I love him, no matter how many excuses I find, he simply can’t stay sober . . .

Shelley had hit the end of her rope and end of her thirty years of civil service at the same time. Shelley retired, collected her pension, got a legal separation, and found a job in
Germany
, assisting American tourists with their problems. It was a low-level job, but she didn’t care. She could get by while she undertook an adventure in living alone.

Christy says he’s in a treatment center. What is this, the fifth time? I hope she won’t take him in the next time he falls apart. She’s stronger than I am, and Al-Anon has helped her a lot. Patricia is out of his reach. I doubt he’d go all the way to
Arizona
to collapse on her doorstep. I keep thinking I’m over him, but I’m not . . .

Every person was prey to his own delusions. She was deluded into thinking that her students were good at heart. She hoped it was her only delusion. An image of Kherra’s concerned face rose in her mind, and was banished.

Her students were at risk of permanently scarring themselves through their own terrible judgment. What did she risk? Nothing at all.

She was only at risk of being a fool.

CHAPTER
FIFTEEN

Castellano’s Plumbing and Supplies. The words shone bold and bright from the side of the service truck. Jeanie’s footsteps crunched through the graveled parking lot as she passed the cab and rounded the end. Inside, Horacio Perea stood making the weekly inventory on the mobile repair shop.

The middle-aged face didn’t fit the powerful body. Rock-like shoulders surmounted a back as straight as pillar of marble, and just as unyielding. He ran a precise hand down the racks of pipes, and turned to the tool chest fastened into one side of the truck’s wall. The top of the chest formed a compact workbench. He examined the tools, with a desultory look at the paper in his other hand.