Not his fault: he blamed Norah. She’d gone grown-up on him; he preferred the ten-year-old version.
Johnny Blanton was
buried in a cemetery on high ground on the north side of Belle Ville, near the county line. He had a white stone marker with his name and dates, not as big as the stone markers on either side.
“We should have brought flowers,” Norah said.
Pirate glanced around, saw a bouquet of flowers lying on a nearby grave. He went and got them, handed them to Norah.
“Thanks,” she said. She smelled the flowers—Pirate liked the way
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her nostrils flared—and leaned them against the stone. “Half of my DNA is his,” she said.
“Yeah?”
“You’d think if half of someone’s DNA was in you, you’d know them, just automatically. But I don’t know him.”
Pirate gazed up at the sky. Clear blue. The air was warm, the breeze soft; he heard birds chirping somewhere far away. This was nice.
“I’ve tried to get to know him from his writing,” Norah was saying.
Or something like that. She was talking too much. Why couldn’t she just enjoy the day? And now she was watching him, maybe waiting for some reply.
“He was a writer?” Pirate said.
She shook her head. “A scientist. You didn’t know that?”
Huh? Why should he know that? Why should he know anything about this guy? He, Pirate, was the victim. “Nope,” he said.
“A brilliant scientist,” Norah said. “He would have been famous.
But all his writing is so technical—I really can’t get a sense of him at all.”
“What about old pictures?” Pirate said; he didn’t want to encourage this discussion but it was an obvious idea.
“That turned out to be a problem.”
“Oh? Too bad.” He was ready to get back behind the wheel, but Norah didn’t seem to be in any hurry. She stood there, lost in thought.
More to break the spell than anything else, Pirate tossed out another idea. “How about asking your mom about him?”
“I used to,” Norah said. “Now that’s a problem, too.”
Christ. “How come?”
Norah turned to him. “It’s this whole
Hamlet
thing.”
Hamlet
thing. That meant Shakespeare. Pirate had never read Shakespeare, but she’d been talking about him, back at Joe Don’s barn, something about . . . movies, that was it.
“You’re talking about the movie?”
“No,” she said, “just the plot.”
Pirate didn’t know the plot of
Hamlet,
kept his mouth shut.
“Specifically, the central problem Hamlet has,” Norah said.
“The central one, huh?”
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She nodded. “Whether to believe the ghost or not.”
“There’s a ghost in it?”
Hamlet
was starting to sound not bad.
She glanced at him. He read her look, easy to read, right out in the open: she was getting hit by the fact that he knew squat about
Hamlet,
and seeing him different. Pirate felt the presence of the tiny weapon, even though it was back at the Ambassador Suites, under the mattress.
She smiled, a soft, friendly smile, but not enough for him to forgive her. “The ghost of Hamlet’s father says he was killed by the uncle, who takes the wife and the crown. Hamlet doesn’t know whether to believe the ghost. He keeps agonizing and agonizing.”
“And did he do it, the uncle?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
She closed her eyes, thought. “I don’t remember.”
How was that possible? “Stabbed him, maybe?” Pirate said.
“I don’t think so.” Her eyes opened. They were red, maybe from the weed, maybe from being upset; it was her father’s grave, after all, and she was the emotional type. “There is a sword fight, at the end,”
she said. “By that time Hamlet knows his uncle is guilty, but it’s too late.”
The story was getting hard to follow. “Why are we talking about this, again?” he said.
“Because of you,” she said.
“Me?”
“The fact that you didn’t do it means someone else did.”
That again. The mother had made the same point, or close to it.
She’d also denied having this daughter, having kids at all. Why? Any danger for her in him knowing? Not that Pirate could see. “Yeah,” he said. “Someone else did it. Party or parties unknown.”
“That’s what brings up the
Hamlet
problem.”
“How?”
“My grandfather put the idea in my head, all about the killer end -
ing up with the widow.”
“You’ve got a grandfather?”
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“Two. I’m talking about my dad’s dad. He lives in New Orleans, but I never saw him, growing up.”
“No?”
“Until last semester. And you know what he told me—and this was before the tape and everything? He said he didn’t think the right man was in jail.”
“Sounds like a cool guy,” Pirate said.
“But that wasn’t the most horrible part.”
“No?”
“The most horrible part was who he thought did it.”
Was that the most horrible part? Far from it, but now Pirate was curious. “And who’s that?”
Tears came, silent ones, just like her mom’s. “He always treated me so well, brought me up as his own daughter. I can’t believe he’d do something so awful. And why? There’s no reason.” Norah’s face twisted up in that ugly way.
Pirate realized who she was talking about. Everything clicked into place. He already had a perfect story for this moment, had used it once already to great effect.
“There was this thing that happened down in the cell,” he said.
“Way back when. Just the two of us, detective and me. He said, ‘Last chance to confess.’”
And Pirate told his little tale; he had it down pat. The response?
Socko, one more time. Tears rolled down, silent, in two silvery tracks.
It must have been in her DNA.
Nell?” “Yes?” A woman, black and educated, but Nell didn’t recognize the voice.
“Veronica Rice.”
“Yes. Hi, Veronica.”
“I’d like to talk to you for a few minutes.”
“Sure,” said Nell. “Go ahead.”
“If it wouldn’t be too much trouble and all, I was hoping we could make it in person.”
“All right. You know where I live?”
“I do, and thanks,” said Veronica. Pause; and after it, she sounded a little uncomfortable. “But is there any chance you could come here?
I’ll have some time at practice.”
“I thought you’d retired,” Nell said, realizing Veronica didn’t want to come to the house and wondering why. Some racial thing?
Not possible.
“I unretired,” said Veronica. “There’s been some delay with Bobby’s pension.”
Veronica Rice taught
history at East Middle School, and also coached softball. Nell found her sitting in the bottom row of the bleachers,
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watching the girls warm up, clipboard in hand. Veronica patted the bench beside her. Nell sat down.
“Thanks for riding over,” Veronica said.
“Not at all.”
“You’re looking well.”
That was a lie: Nell had checked herself in the mirror before leaving. “You, too,” she said. Also a bit of a lie: Veronica had lost some weight, but she was one of those powerfully built women who actually looked worse when that happened, no longer quite themselves; and her broad face was ashy, as though she hadn’t been sleeping.
“I’m sorry to hear about Bobby’s pension,” Nell said.
Veronica shook her head, a small, hopeless movement. “The medal came prompt enough,” she said.
“What’s the holdup, if you don’t mind me asking?” Nell said. Was that why Veronica wanted this meeting, to speed up the pension?
Veronica turned to her, gave her a close look. “Don’t mind at all,”
she said. “Always considered you a friend.”
“I’m glad.”
Veronica glanced out at the field. “Follow through, Aliyah,” she yelled. “And turn your body, child.” She lowered her voice. “It’s some paperwork problem,” she said. “Records got destroyed in the . . .”
Veronica bit her lip. “. . . in the flood. All the vacation days, sick days, overtime cards—gone. But everybody knows Bobby was with the department for twenty-seven years, common knowledge. The storm took away some people’s good sense.”
“That’s not all it did.”
Veronica gazed at her. For a moment, Nell thought she was angry.
But Veronica’s face was hard to read, at least for Nell, because she smiled and said, “Amen.” The smile faded. “Never gave you proper thanks for coming to the funeral.”
“Of course I—we came.” Bobby’s church, Fourth Street Baptist in Lower Town, had still been half underwater at the time of the funeral, which ended up at a small chapel in Stonewall County, the walls lined with blown-up photos of Bobby, including that last one—balanced on a rooftop, passing a baby to a man in a dinghy—taken seconds
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before something gave way beneath him. It took divers more than a day to find his body in all the rubble.
“Now there’s this reporter wants to talk to me,” Veronica said.
“Ms. Bonner. Claims she’s a friend of yours.”
“That’s true,” Nell said. “But she’s a reporter first.”
“Uh-huh,” Veronica said. And then, louder: “Butt down, girl, butt down on grounders.” She shook her head, turned to Nell. “No excuse for a grounder going through your legs, not never. Ms. Bonner wants to talk to me about the tape.”
“I thought so.”
“What did you tell her about it?”
“The tape?” Nell said. “I don’t know anything about the tape.”
“Your husband never made mention of it?”
“No. Did yours?”
Veronica’s eyes were expressionless but she nodded, very slightly.
“Talking to Ms. Bonner don’t feel right,” she said. “Bobby never trusted the press.” There was a long silence. Nell forced herself to be still, keep her mouth shut, but her heart was beating faster and faster.
“On the other hand, the tape turning up in Bobby’s locker, how it might look, that don’t feel right neither.”
More silence. When Nell couldn’t endure it another moment, she said, “Can you explain that last part?”
“Not much to explain,” Veronica said. “Why would I go and feel right? No one likes when folks pass tales.”
“What kind of tales?”
“You must have heard—tales about evidence that gets hidden, frame-ups, what all. Not saying that Bobby was a perfect man—ain’t no man nor woman perfect on this earth—but he was straight up in his job, by the book.”
“So is Clay.” That just popped out, almost like a reflex from some dead creature poked in a biology lab.
“Uh-huh,” said Veronica.
That
uh-huh:
two little syllables but they contained a powerful inertial force. Nell realized what should have been obvious from the start: their interests were not the same. “I think you know more than you’re telling me, Veronica.”
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“Likewise,” said Veronica. Maybe Veronica did consider her a friend, but at this point there was no sign of it in her eyes.
“I don’t really know anything,” Nell said. “I’m just trying to figure it all out.”
“And let the chips fall wherever they may?” Veronica said.
Nell wasn’t sure about that. She said nothing.
Veronica called out, “Three laps, team. Then we’ll take BP.”
Groans rose from the field, but the girls started running, feet thudding softly on the turf. “Think Ms. Bonner has a theory ’bout all this?” Veronica said.
“I don’t know,” Nell said. “She’s still gathering facts. With someone like Lee Ann, I think theories come later.”
“Makes sense.”
“Glad to hear you say that,” said Nell. “Because that’s what I’m doing, too, if there’s anything you can tell me.”
“Such as what?”
“Such as maybe Bobby said something to you about the tape.”
Veronica gazed past her, expression unreadable.
“A long time ago,” Nell added. “Just a hint, a suggestion. You might not have even understood it at the time. Maybe it’s starting to make sense only now.”
“And if we’re discussing maybes,” Veronica said, “maybe someone said something to you, too.” Her eyes were on Nell now, and readable again; readable and unsettling.
“No,” Nell said.
“No, just like that, no?” Veronica said. “Couldn’t have been a sug -
gestion in
your
case, a hint
you’re
only understanding now?”
“There wasn’t,” Nell said. “I’d tell you.”
“Yeah?” said Veronica. “Why?”
“Why? Because you’d deserve to know.”
Veronica shook her head; the gesture had an ancient finality, as though it dated from the dawn of humanity. “What a world that would be,” she said. “But I was born in Belle Ville. Family’s all from around here, going way back. So I understand how things work.”
“What do you mean?” Nell said.
“Power structure,” Veronica said. She rose, stepped onto the field.
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“Can’t help,” she said. “Sorry, because I always liked you, still do. But this is what I was fearing.”
“What?” said Nell. “What were you fearing? What do you think happened?”
But Veronica was no longer talking to her. She clapped her hands.
“Everybody in.” She picked up a bat.
The Miata was
parked in the driveway when Nell got home. She found Norah in the kitchen, eating ice cream from the carton. Nice to see her eating, so nice that Nell smothered the urge to bring her a bowl from the cupboard: Norah still looked much too thin. For a moment, in the quiet of her kitchen, Nell thought, despite everything, that a happy ending was possible.
“What kind is that?” Nell said.
“Good question,” Norah said, turning the carton in her hand, reading the label. “Macchiato Crunch. Want some?”
Nell had no appetite at all, but she said, “Sure,” and fetched a spoon. She sat beside Norah, dipped into the carton. A stillness descended, as though time was making a brief stop, lingering over a mother-and-daughter moment. “Mmm,” Nell said. “Good.”