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?”
“I ordered him to give me a second opinion of what’s going on. Mom and Dad are ballistic and you won’t come to the phone. What are you going to give me now—the Aunt Sheila treatment?”
Rose stared at him.
“Come on,” said Tabor impatiently. “You haven’t talked to Aunt Sheila in years. You won’t even write her thank-you notes if she remembers presents. Last time even I was embarrassed and I thanked her for your Christmas present in my letter.”
How strange and terrible was memory. It cascaded down in a waterfall of its own. Drops of thought, rainbows of understanding, splashes of depth.
The memory of Aunt Sheila and Mom talking blended with the memory of Mr. Lofft’s book tape and Anjelica’s movie tape and the police then and the police now asking the same questions. Rose might have been sitting on the leather reclining seat in the big brown Navigator, listening to Anjelica open the bag of chips, looking out the window, and seeing nothing but the interior of her soul.
“Let’s help Mom set the table,” she said, getting up before Tabor could stop her. She stepped inside and tripped over his luggage just behind the door. Tabor traveled with more possessions than a Victorian explorer.
Rose had taken Tabor’s duffel bag that weekend to go to Anjelica’s. Aunt Sheila had been genuinely annoyed. “Oh, don’t take that tatty old thing. It stinks of sweaty sneakers. Here. Use my suitcase. See how pretty it is, with flowers on the fabric?” Rose had refused the loan of the suitcase.
“That smells wonderful, Mom,” said Rose, entering the kitchen. “What’s the spice?” She didn’t listen to the answer. She was busy avoiding her father’s look. He knew perfectly well she didn’t care what the spice was.
Dinner was delightful. Rose even tried the okra. It was as squishy and tasteless as she remembered. The shrimp, chicken, and rice, however, were creamy and thick and wonderful.
Tabor talked about himself, and in Lymond fashion had wonderful stories about college and friends and class, failure and success.
All Lymonds talked. Their specialty was family stories. Lymond ancestors ran away from home, worked in a coal mine, fished for cod, died at sea, and specialized in losing lots of money. When Rose was little, though, she loved her mother’s stories best, because Mom’s stories were always about Rose. Mom used to take out one of the old calendars she saved each year, flip to any page, and start talking. “Look, Rosie!” she’d say. “When you were five, you had a December ballet program.
Look at this little note. I was responsible for bringing food to the reception.”
“Tell me what I did,” Rose would demand.
“You were a snowflake. You snowed so beautifully. I was so proud. All your grandparents and greats were there. Let’s find the right album and look at your snow photographs.”
O, family, thought Rose. I cannot be the one to damage the beauty of our family.
She held herself far away from the knowledge of who had really damaged the beauty of the family.
Mom set out an ice cream cake, Tabor’s favorite dessert but not Rose’s. Then Mom sliced through the frozen cake, saying in the cheery voice of one giving a toddler extra long tub time with a new yellow ducky, “You know what let’s do now? Let’s reconstruct that weekend.”
Rose left the table. “I’ll be washing my hair.”
“You’re staying here,” said her mother sharply.
“I’ve told you a hundred times, I have nothing to say.
“Stay here, Rose,” said her father. “We have to work this through. Your mother and Tabor and I are part of this nightmare whether we want to be or not.”
You’re not part of it, thought Rose. Whether you want to be or not.
She flung herself into the one chair in which she could not be touched but would be fully protected by the wide, curving wings of the upholstered arms. She pretended the protruding arms were the veiled sides of her nun’s habit and part of her silence.
Mom marched to the shelf in the TV room where she kept the used-up engagement calendars and the photograph albums. Most people had gone years ago to complex date books of the Filofax type or handheld computers. But the Lymond family engagement calendar still sat on the counter in the kitchen below the wall phone, next to a mug of pencils and Post-its in many colors. Written in Mom’s tiny neat hand on those calendars were the details of their lives: dentist appointments, car pool responsibilities, committee meetings, ball games. Rose knew now that there had been omissions in those entries.
“Here we go,” said Mom, finding November just where it always was, toward the end. “Sheila was here that weekend.”
“Aunt Sheila was here two weeks,” said Tabor. “I remember because I was pretty sick of her by the time that visit ended. Rose was the lucky one, getting away for a few days.”
Nobody corrected this slight on Aunt Sheila.
“We did a lot with Sheila that week,” said Mom, sounding pleased. “The new aquarium, the theater, the car races. On Friday, Rose had swim class after school, Mr. Lofft was due to get Rose at four-thirty, Tabor’s band was here to practice, and then you and I took Sheila into the city, Thomas, to see a play.”
Rose maneuvered herself upside down in the armchair so that her spine lay on the seat, her legs in their faded jeans stuck up the back, and her head hung toward the floor.
“You used to do that when you were little,” said her father affectionately. He could never hold onto his anger. “You were taking gymnastics and wanted to be famous on a balance beam. You were always twisting yourself into pretzels so you’d become flexible.”
“I don’t remember that,” said Tabor. “How come you didn’t stick with gymnastics, Rose?”
“I wasn’t flex
ible. Or good. I just wanted to wake up one morning and be famous.”
“If Milton Lofft comes to trial, you’ll get your wish,” said Tabor.
Rose tucked herself into a doughnut.
“Now, Saturday you had a football game, Tabor, and we sat with the Finneys.”
“We won, too,” said Tabor. Tabor never forgot his victories. Actually, he never forgot his defeats, either. Tabor was fond of thinking about his past activities.
“Saturday night your band played someplace called The Train Whistle.”
“Juice bar,” said Tabor. “It flourished for about two weekends. The thing about Saturday was Verne calls me up just before I leave for the football game to say he’s quitting because he has better things to do.” Tabor still sounded offended. “I think it’s a real testimony to my sportsmanship that I could still play a winning game and go straight from the locker room to arrange rides and a substitute bass player.”
Rose waited for them to ask about Milton Lofft and it took, by her watch, twelve more seconds.
“Tell me one thing about Milton Lofft’s,” said Tabor. “Did he really have a sixteen-car garage?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“And it faced front and back, eight cars to a side, each one in its separate little garage.”
“What did you get to drive?”
“I didn’t.”
“You are being so annoying,” said Tabor. “This can’t have anything to do with anything. You can at least describe the cars.”
“No, I can’t, because we didn’t drive after all, even though Anjelica said we would. It was just some empty boast of hers.”
“What did you do?”
All the Loffts really did was watch television. Like so many driven people, Mr. Lofft had to be up to speed on every event in the world, the nation, the state, and the region. The house thrummed with the voices of reporters.
“We just ran from one activity to another,” said Rose, upside down. “We were busy, you know, the way little kids are.”
This was largely untrue. They had been seventh graders. Rose had left behind her little-kid behavior, and Anjelica perhaps never possessed it. She and Anjelica just walked around in an odd, slow silence, as if Anjelica were wishing she had invited somebody else.