The hate was satisfying and exonerating. Inside the hate, Rose could be silent forever. “I’ll clean up the coffee,” she said primly.
The hate had vanished before she reached the paper towels, but her parents had vanished before she got back with them. She heard doors slamming as they chose solitude over another minute in their daughter’s presence.
She wondered why Anjelica Lofft had called twice. Whether she would call again.
And whether it had been a black Explorer that had waited so patiently in the emergency lane to see who wore the orange trash vest.
S
ATURDAY AFTERNOON, FROM
two to five, Rose Lymond found herself at the police department, assigned to CJ Pierson. She knew from two days of transport van gossip that nobody got rehabilitated on a weekend. Saturday and Sunday were your own, in which presumably you tried to consolidate your gains, thinking about your crimes, planning to omit future ones. On Monday, you arrived in good spirits for more rehabilitation, eager to improve.
Her parents and the police must have decided on a Saturday schedule for Rose. If only Rose were as tall and strong as Megan Moran. Then she could look down on people. CJ Pierson could not be so relentlessly in charge if Rose were taller. Chrissie, at five ten, truly mourned her lack of height, and for the first time, Rose understood.
“Hello, Rose,” he said cheerfully.
She decided to be cheerful right back. It was a weapon she had not yet used. “Hello, Detective Pierson,” she said brightly. “What fun. Look at all the stray papers on your desk. I hope I get to file. Don’t worry if I throw a lot out. I’ve developed a trash habit.” This sort of flippant banter was so unlike Rose that it undid her instead of him; she felt her chin tremble and her eyes water.
“You know, Rose, you’re growing on me,” he said. “The problem I see, though, is what’s gonna be growing on your grave if you don’t talk.”
Rose pulled herself together. “A person’s community service time is not the time in which a person should be interrogated by a law officer. A person being rehabilitated should work diligently and not be distracted. Concentration—”
“Yeah, have a seat, Rose. I’m looking through some old newspapers. I thought you might want to browse with me.”
Rose sat before she saw the dates of the newspapers. She was very sorry she had sat down. She picked out a spot on the window to stare at. The windows were filthy and there were a multitude of spots to stare at, some of them alive and moving. Perhaps she would assign herself Windex and paper towels.
“Friday through Wednesday,” said CJ Pierson. “Of a famous weekend. Come on, Rose. Rehabilitate yourself. Read every word and tell me what you think.”
His shirt was white, with heavy starch. The collar was very crisp above his fine tie, a silky horsetail gray flecked with tiny dark red diamonds. Rose distracted herself by listing the people she felt like strangling with that tie.
CJ Pierson spread a four-year-old Friday paper on his desk and began tapping headlines and advertisements, announcements and fillers. His pencil eraser made a soft, friendly little thud on the newsprint.
Rose had never glanced at the newspapers back then. She had been twelve, after all. How many twelve-year-olds curled up with a newspaper? She didn’t know what was in the papers. But since the news of Frannie Bailey’s murder had not been available to television until Monday, it wouldn’t have been in the newspaper, either.
“So here’s my current guess,” said CJ Pierson, smiling at her. He had a nice smile. It reminded her of Grandfather’s, whose portraits were everywhere in Nannie’s house and with whom Nannie was convinced she would live again after death. Grandfather had not been a talker, like Nannie and Dad and Tabor. He had been an audience.
They all want to be my audience, she thought. They all want to sit quietly while I entertain them with my story.
“See, what I’ve been thinking is,” said the detective, “suppose we’re heading in the wrong direction when we question you about Frannie Bailey. Suppose the real story is here in these newspapers.”
Another sick headache began with a faint pounding like a train in the distance, and the absolute knowledge that the train would arrive and explode inside her head. How awful to go through this routinely, like Chrissie’s mother.
“There was a hit-and-run the same night Milton.
Lofft was driving you to the lake estate,” said CJ Pierson in a slow, informative voice. “Did you see that hit-and-run, Rose? It was never solved. Was the driver somebody you care about? Was it your brother, Tabor? Was it his friend Alan? Guy you’ve had a crush on for years? Or was it somebody else in his band? Verne maybe? Who quit the band that weekend? And never drove again?”
Rose could not prevent a shudder, but she did not look up to see if the detective had registered it. Of course he had. That’s what police did, they read body language.
In the gentlest voice, so similar to her great-grandfather’s that Rose almost caved in, CJ Pierson said, “Rose, there was a fatality. A man was killed in that hit-and-run. He had no children, but he left a wife with multiple sclerosis who was completely dependent on him for nursing care. With him dead, she had to be put in an institution. She’s not doing well, Rose. She still cries for her dead husband.”
Rose put a hand over her mouth. Four years and some poor hospitalized woman who couldn’t walk by herself was still sobbing for the man who had loved her. It was a horrible story. She could not think about it.
With large red-handled utility scissors, CJ Pierson cut out the article on the hit-and-run. He taped it to a piece of blank white paper and outlined it in thick black marker. Then he photocopied it and handed Rose the copy. “For reference.”
The article looked like a jail. Black-edged and barred.
“Read it, please, Rose.”
She read it. Her suffering did not compare with what this poor woman was enduring. In fact, Rose wasn’t suffering if you compared her to the widow in the hospital.
“Are you protecting the driver who killed her husband?” the detective asked. He wasn’t being combative. He was being nice. She pictured him visiting the widow in the hospital, being nice to her, too.
It took two tries but Rose finally found her voice. “I’m not protecting anybody. Really and truly. I didn’t see anything. I don’t know anything. Really and truly.” She was starting to cry. She pressed her fingertips hard against her temples and eyes to beat down the tears.
“Your brother got into lots of trouble when he was in high school, Rose. Stupid, minor trouble. Stuff nobody cares about anymore. Tabor didn’t have his driver’s license back then, of course. He was a few months short of sixteen back then. But that doesn’t mean he didn’t drive, does it, Rose?”
Rose folded the photocopy neatly in half and drew her thumbnail down the crease. Then she folded it in half again.
“Lot of six-packs in that car?” asked CJ Pierson. “Lot of teenage boys having a lot of beer? Is that it? You protecting the whole band?”
“Please believe me,” whispered Rose.
“I can’t believe you, Rose. You didn’t steal a police car because of nothing. You stole a police car because of something.”
Rose had no tissues. She wiped her eyes on her sleeve.
“Is your secret worth dying for?” he asked.
Detective Pierson drove her home.
He didn’t pull in the driveway but stopped in the road to let her out. He said, “Rose, you call me if you have second thoughts, okay?”
Second thoughts! Rose was on her ten thousandth thought. “Thank you for the ride,” she said dully. “I’ll see you next week.” She looked up at her house, which again tonight was not going to be a sanctuary from trouble. Yellow light spilled from the kitchen windows on the darkening grass. Very clearly she saw into the kitchen, saw who was getting a glass from the cupboard next to the sink.
Tabor.
Rose faced the police car, although she was not large enough to block the view. She stood very still, as if Detective Pierson were her child and she must watch and guide his safety as he headed down the street He shook his head, frustrated by her, and finally drove away, without, she hoped, seeing who was here.
Tabor home for the weekend?
But he’d be back for the summer in only a few weeks anyway. The airline ticket must have been so expensive.
Mom and Dad must be hoping Tabor would make her talk.
He wouldn’t have the remotest idea how to do that, since Tabor’s entire life was built upon being the one doing the talking. Tabor loved the sound of his own voice. If Tabor could not be the center of things, he didn’t come.
The household had pivoted around Tabor, and then, he was gone. College absorbed him as paper towels absorb a spill. He left no trace.
Tabor had chosen a college as far away from family as he could get. Dad had been crushed, having always thought that family was the finest gift he presented his children. To which Tabor basically said, “Yup, and I’m out of here.”
Rose had to face him this evening, and tomorrow probably through church and Sunday dinner, and probably he’d take a midafternoon flight back to college. It was a long time to hold off a brother.
Her strategy would be exuberance. She would go in like a cheerleader, make him the center of things, which he loved; get him to talk, which he loved.
Go to bed early, which Rose was going to love.
“Tabor!” she yelled, running up the driveway. “What are you doing home? Tabor! I’m so glad to see you!”
The family poured out of the house.
Even in the short time since February break, when he was last home, Tabor had changed. Twenty was just so much older than nineteen. He reminded her of Dad in the photo, eager and exuberant and ready to take on the world.
How glad Dad was to see Tabor. How bright and joyful it made the father to be near the son. Rose watched her father circling his son, making little offerings of conversation and compliments, stories and jokes. Dad was thrilled.
It strengthened Rose. She had lied to CJ Pierson, of course. There were people to protect.
“How was rehabilitation?” asked Tabor.
“I’ve become a good person at last,” said Rose. “Filing at the police department is very character building.”
“What kind of stuff did you file?”
“Patrolmen’s notes on crimes,” she said. “DNA results. Placement services for retired police dogs.”
“You’re such a liar,” said Tabor. “I bet you washed windows.”
“I tried.
They
certainly don’t wash windows. I’m starving to death, Mom. What are we having for dinner? Or are we going out to celebrate Tabor being home?” On the one hand, Rose was way too tired for dining out. A bowl of cornflakes was all she could face. On the other hand, they couldn’t interrogate her in public.
“I’ve been cooking since Dad left to pick Tabor up at the airport,” said Mom. “We’re having a Louisiana shrimp, chicken, okra, and rice dish I learned how to make on the Food Channel.”
Tabor and Rose moaned in unison. “At least skip the okra,” said Tabor. “It’s the slimiest vegetable.”
“I want my children to be sophisticated diners,” said Mom.
“Since when is okra sophisticated?” asked Tabor. “Anyway, you lose on the sophisticated diner front. I live on pizza. I never touch a vegetable except tomato sauce.”
“Fine,” said their mother. “Pick out the okra and move it to the side of your plate. Now, while I finish fixing the salad, you two sit out here on the porch and catch up.”
“Is this how we refer to the little episode of snatching a cop car?” asked Tabor.
“Perhaps a subject of greater interest,” said Rose, “would be my phragmites research.”
“Nobody cares about your phragmites inoculant,” said Tabor. “Or does it work now? In which case, I want a percent of the profit.”
Rose admitted that it did not work. Tabor did not care about a percent of nothing.
Their parents went inside, shutting the door firmly to imply that secrets could now be exchanged in the safety of the outdoors.
Tabor sat on the porch steps, resting his chin on his knees. He patted the step next to him and she sat. Shadows poured into their laps. The soft air smelled of narcissus.
“Bus to the airport, one hour,” said Tabor, lifting his fingers and ticking them off. “Wait for plane, one hour. First flight, two hours. Change planes and layover, one hour. Second flight, three hours. Drive back home, one hour. I have spent a nine-hour day, Rose, dwelling on your crimes.”
Yeah, well, I’ve spent four years, she thought. “Congratulations,” she said mildly. “That’s probably more time than you’ve considered your sister in your whole life.”
“You bet,” said Tabor. “I spent my nine hours denying that my steady, sober little sister changed so much that she’s off stealing cop cars for a hobby. Denying that my little sister has enemies. Denying that people out there want to mow her down so she won’t talk. Denying that she has anything to talk about.”
“You may continue to deny all of that,” said Rose in her most comforting voice. “I stole one police car. It is not developing into a hobby. I have no enemies. Nobody is mowing me down.”
Tabor nodded for a while. “Rosie, I never read your diary. I never trespassed on you. I never sneaked into your room and stole the key and opened up your diary. Do I get points?”
“No. The reason you didn’t read my diary isn’t because you’re saintly. It’s because you knew it wouldn’t be interesting.”
“I was wrong, huh?”
“Tabor, convince Mom and Dad there’s nothing to worry about”
“Yeah,” said Tabor. “Like telling people who live under an exploding volcano not to worry; it’s only lava.”
They laughed.
“Alan says you’re just shrugging about the whole thing,” said Tabor. “Rose, from the way Mom and Dad tell it, there’s nothing to shrug about. Aside from the fact that you’ve now got a juvenile record —”
“You’re just jealous.”
“I’m totally jealous. I was always proud of the way you and I divided up the burden of being kids. I made trouble, you were perfect. It was a good fit.”
They laughed.
“So you ordered Alan to be friends with me,” said Rose. “Why was that?”