Not That I Could Tell: A Novel

by Jessica Strawser

  Hallie was perched on a counter stool at the peninsula of Clara’s kitchen, eating an after-school snack of graham crackers and peanut butter and watching Clara assemble lasagna in a large glass pan. It was not a pretty lasagna, which irked Clara, though she knew Benny wouldn’t notice, let alone care. She just couldn’t understand why the ricotta, beef, and sauce mixtures had yet again intermingled in clumps rather than thin, smooth layers. She was relieved every time it was the noodles’ turn. They produced a clean slate upon which to start again.

  “Mama says you used to be an editor,” Hallie said, her mouth full.

  “That’s right.” Clara was surprised Natalie had remembered that. She always seemed distracted—though understandably so, with Hallie’s dad deployed overseas. Despite its proximity to Wright-Patterson Air Force Base, Yellow Springs wasn’t exactly a hotbed of military families—“too many hippies, too many anarchy A’s,” Natalie joked to her once—but Natalie, who’d gotten married out of high school after getting pregnant with Hallie, had come here to enroll at Antioch College part-time. Clara had been happy to help out by agreeing to get her precocious twelve-year-old off the bus on the days when Natalie had a late class.

  Of course, that had been before she’d realized just how persistent Hallie’s otherwise adorable precociousness could be. But still, she was happy to help.

  Mostly.

  “Was that before you were a mommy?”

  Clara nodded. The girl said it so matter-of-factly, as if it were common knowledge that Clara had been biologically meant to have two distinctive life phases all along: caterpillar, butterfly. It wasn’t a bad metaphor if you reversed the order—the shedding of wings and the storing of calories coming in the latter phase. Had it really been just over four years ago she’d found out she was pregnant with Thomas? Looking back, it wasn’t the nine-to-five editorial role that felt like another lifetime to her now. It was the fact that she’d showered, dressed, made up her face, and flat-ironed her hair every morning to go do it.

  Still, she loved it here in this cozy cocoon, with their snuggly sweet preschooler and chubby-legged baby and same old Benny, who claimed he was glad she hadn’t touched a blow dryer in a year. She doubted that was actually true, but he really was so convincing when he said it that maybe, it occurred to her now, she should try harder to find out. On the off chance that he did prefer it this way, the implications would be revolutionary for women everywhere.

  “Perfect!” Hallie chirped.

  Clara turned to grab the mozzarella from the fridge, stepping over Maddie, who had emptied the contents of the Tupperware cupboard onto the floor. “Why is it perfect?” she asked, frowning at the mess around her feet. Every lid would need to be washed.

  “Because I want to start a newspaper. Like, a real neighborhood gazette. And I need someone who can help,” she said smartly. “A professional!”

  “Oh, kiddo, I wasn’t that kind of editor.” Clara nodded to the bookshelves bridging the open space between the kitchen and the family room, where Thomas was zoned out on the couch watching PBS Kids. She’d helped Benny knock down the wall that once stood there and could still feel the satisfaction of it giving way, one primitive sledgehammer whack at a time. “See those art books, near the bottom there? The tall ones? I used to work with artists to create those.”

  Hallie’s long, poker-straight blond hair whipped around and back again. “Well,” she said thoughtfully, “that doesn’t matter. You know about writing. And grammar. And facts!” She splayed her hands dramatically on the counter. “This is about the facts.”

  “Really.” Clara eyed her. “Is there something going on around here I should know about?”

  “Probably.”

  She laughed, then checked to make sure Hallie didn’t think she was laughing at her. But as usual the girl didn’t seem bothered. She’d been the first neighbor Clara and Benny met when they were unloading their moving van last summer. She’d rolled up on her bike and said, “Can I talk to you?” Most people who selected that particular opening had an aim in mind for the conversation, but it turned out that Hallie just really wanted to talk. Responses from the listening party were largely optional.

  “I’d have to do interviews to find out, to get to the bottom of things. If you worked with the artists, you’ve probably done interviews, right?”

  “Well, some, but—”

  “Great! I even have a name for it: The Color-Blind Gazette.”

  Clara stared at her blankly.

  “Get it? Because the Yellow Springs aren’t yellow. They’re, like, rust. Orange, maybe, but definitely not yellow. Whoever named this town must have been color-blind.”

  Having been a little disappointed the first time she’d seen the springs, Clara couldn’t argue with that.

  “I’m sure your mom could help about as well as I could,” she told Hallie. “She’s at a writing class now, in fact.”

  “She said no. She has too many papers of her own to do.” Hallie wiped the crumbs from her last graham cracker onto her napkin and jumped to her feet. “Please? I only need, like, a little bit of help—on the days I come here anyway. I just don’t want it to be obvious a kid made it.”

  As she emptied the bag of cheese over the top of the lasagna, Clara tried to picture the sort of adult who might publish something called The Color-Blind Gazette but came up empty.

  “Please?”

  Hallie offered her broad, gap-toothed smile, and Clara wavered. These days with Hallie were meant to be the ones she would welcome Benny home from the office with a clean house and an atmosphere of calm control. Not that she had achieved that yet, exactly, but Hallie was capable enough of entertaining the kids, at least, that Clara could avoid that horrible what-on-earth-have-you-been-doing-all-day? feeling that came over her sometimes when he walked through the door, looking handsome and accomplished in his shirt and tie, to find her outnumbered and undone. She still hadn’t quite worked out how 1950s housewives had done it, but she suspected it involved far more ignoring of the children and far less guilt in doing so.

  Then again, she did miss using her brain for something that didn’t involve calculating how many ounces of milk Maddie had had, or whether three-day-old mac ’n’ cheese was okay to eat.

  “Tell you what,” she told Hallie as she popped the dish into the oven. “You write the first batch of articles, or come up with some ideas for them, and I’ll take a look.”

  “Boo!”

  Hallie jumped, and out from behind her popped a triumphant Thomas, a blanket draped over his head, laughing like crazy. “Woooo!” he yelled, in his best impression of a cartoon ghost. “Wooo!”

  Not missing a beat, Hallie took off running, grabbing a throw from the couch and ducking underneath. “The ghost of Hallie thanks you, Miss Clara!” she called, and Maddie got unsteadily to her feet and toddled after them to see what the fuss was about.

  “It’s Ghosts versus Maddie!” Thomas called, circling his sister with exaggerated steps.

  Clara shook her head. She was going to have to pay more attention to what was on these shows he was watching. It wouldn’t be Halloween for, what? Six weeks? Seven? Then again …

  She hadn’t quit her job so she could spend all day making lopsided lasagna.

  Spotting a basket of laundry she’d meant to fold days ago, she grabbed a pair of Benny’s baggy flannel pajama pants, draped them over her head, grasped the cuffs in her hands, and started waving her arms in slow motion. “How about Ghosts versus Pants?” she asked, and Thomas let out a squeal. She chased him around the couch as Hallie threw her blanketed arms around Maddie and yelled, “I’ll save you!”

  Thomas’s stocking feet slid onto the foyer tile, with Clara on his tail. She was laughing so hard she probably wouldn’t have heard the knock at the front door if she hadn’t been running past it. She flung it open and realized too late that she still had the pants on her head.

  A uniformed policeman raised an amused eyebrow even as her heart slowed at the sight of him.
She tossed her head back, and the pants fell to the floor.

  “Clara Tiffin?”

  She smoothed her hair with a hand. “Yes?”

  “I’m Detective Bryant, with the—”

  Thomas slid violently into her legs and clutched her around the knees. “Wow! A real police officer!” He peered out the door past him. “Where’s your woo-woo?”

  The officer glanced down at him, then back at Clara. “My woo-woo?”

  But he wasn’t just an officer. He’d said detective.

  She flushed. “He means your car. The siren.”

  “Oh! Well, little sergeant, it’s parked down the street. Maybe you can look at it later if I can just have a few minutes with your mom?”

  Clara’s mouth went dry. “Is everything okay?”

  “Yes, I just wanted to ask you a few questions regarding—”

  “Thomas!” Hallie thumped down the hallway behind her, holding Maddie, and Clara fought the urge to reach out and take the baby. Sometimes Hallie seemed to forget she was a real live thirteen-month-old and not a doll. “Oh.” She stopped short when she saw the officer.

  Clara turned, careful to keep her face calm. “Hallie, could you please play quietly with the kids in the living room? Maybe show them some books or puzzles? I need to have a quick grown-up talk.”

  Hallie nodded, her eyes wide. Clara gave Thomas a pat on the shoulder, and he followed Hallie reluctantly down the hallway.

  “Full house,” Detective Bryant said.

  “The oldest is my neighbor’s daughter. But yes. Quite full.”

  “Which neighbor is that?”

  “Natalie King, directly behind me.”

  He nodded. “I’m here to ask about Kristin Kirkland. Next door. I understand she was here Saturday night?”

  “Yes, I hosted a—” Clara stopped short. “Is everything okay?” she asked again.

  “Just a few moments of your time?” He gestured toward the formal dining room to their right.

  “Of course.” Clara led him to the table, took a seat, and watched uneasily as he settled himself across from her and flipped open his notepad. He looked to be about her age, which made her feel a certain skepticism for no fair reason. Clara still expected authority figures to be significantly older than her, a fact she felt as strongly in her midthirties as she had in her teens and twenties. One of these days she’d get used to the idea of growing up.

  “Have you seen or spoken to Kristin since she left here Saturday?” He looked up expectantly. His face was boy-next-door friendly, without a hint that he might be practiced at the art of intimidation, and his build was somehow both soft and sturdy, like an ex-athlete who didn’t work out much anymore. She wondered how long he’d been doing this job.

  She shook her head.

  “I understand your son goes to the same school as her twins. You didn’t see her or the kids on your way to drop him off this morning?”

  “Thomas does preschool part-time, only Tuesdays and Thursdays.”

  He made a note.

  “But I know she was taking the afternoon off work to volunteer at the pre-K Farewell to Summer party.” He looked unconvinced somehow, so she continued. “They’re big on having it near the actual calendar end of the season, not around Labor Day like everyone else.”

  “I understand she was supposed to.”

  “Supposed to?”

  “We’re trying to account for her whereabouts, Mrs. Tiffin. She didn’t show at work today, and Abby and Aaron never arrived at school.”

  She sat up straighter. “She’s missing? The twins are missing?”

  “They look to have packed some things. Her minivan is gone. She didn’t mention plans to go anywhere?”

  “I can’t imagine where she’d go.”

  “Think back to Saturday. See or hear anything unusual after she left that night?”

  “Not at all.” Clara didn’t mention that she’d been so tipsy from the wine that she’d slept like the dead.

  “And what time did she leave?”

  “Everyone left around the same time—midnight, maybe?”

  “Looks like your backyard might have some of a side view into hers. Did you happen to notice if any lights were on in her house yesterday? Or last night?”

  Clara replayed the day in her mind. It had been so miserable outside but so cozy inside. Benny was always doing something—weed-whacking, stacking wood, running to the hardware store. Not that she didn’t appreciate all he did, but she had come to love the rare days when he was forced to be lazy. She’d made banana pancakes, Benny had done a pan of his famous scrambled eggs with cheese, and they’d had such a feast it made everyone sleepy again. The kids dozed on the couch with Benny through most of the Bengals game while Clara baked zucchini bread with the extra squash Randi and Rhoda had given her from their garden. She didn’t remember so much as glancing out the window into the driving rain.

  “I have no idea. I’m sorry.”

  “How close are you to Kristin? Are you good friends?”

  “We’re getting to be. I just moved in last summer, and we’re both busy with our kids. But they love to play together, which has been nice.”

  He made another note. “Does she ordinarily call or text you on weekends?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “She talk much about her divorce?”

  “A little.”

  “Did she talk about it Saturday night?”

  Clara played it over in her mind—the laughter in the firelight, the way the conversation had turned personal as the wine flowed. Too personal, probably. There were some things she’d take back herself if she could. A tirade about her flat chest, for instance. “A little.”

  “What did she say?”

  Clara tried to remember. “Just that it didn’t seem to be affecting the kids much, which was a good thing. She said Paul was always getting called into work even when he was around. He’s an OB, so anytime someone goes into labor or is worried about some symptom or dials the physician on call…” Her voice trailed off. Of course he would already know all this.

  “How would you describe her mood Saturday?”

  “Her mood? Good. Happy. It was nice to be doing something social without the kids, even if it was only out back. We’d never done that before with the whole group—my husband recently finished laying the patio, and it’s sort of in the middle. It turned out everyone’s baby monitors reached.”

  “And who was ‘everyone,’ exactly?”

  “Natalie—behind me, whose daughter is here now. Izzy—Isabel, who lives across the street. And Randi and Rhoda—” She pointed a diagonal through the backyard. “Around the curve.”

  “They the ones with those rusty sculptures out front? The solar panels, the chicken coop, and all that?” Clara thought of telling him her husband called their home an “art bunker,” but thought better of it.

  “Yes. They own that boutique in town—Moondance?”

  “Oh, sure, my sister loves that place. Didn’t they just have a baby?”

  “Yes, a couple months ago. Like I said, we all needed a girls’ night.” She tried to laugh, but it sounded forced.

  “So it was just you five?”

  She counted silently. “Six, with Kristin.”

  “Did she seem nervous about anything?”

  “Not that I could tell.”

  “Is she a nervous person in general?”

  Clara laughed. “She is cool as a cucumber. She puts me to shame.”

  “What do you mean?”

  She tried to think of a way to quantify her friend. “Well, she’d never answer the door with pants on her head.”

  “And how well do you know Paul?”

  “Hardly at all.” He’d never been the type to be out in the yard, throwing balls with the kids. Usually, when she did see him, he was on the riding lawn mower, something he still came by to do in the separation. He always raised his hand in a silent wave, but that was it.

  “He friendly with your husband?”


  She shook her head. When she’d started getting to know Kristin, she’d tried to nudge Benny to reach out to Paul, but he’d called him “more of an indoor guy” and left it at that. She’d been worried Paul would think them unfriendly, but then he had moved out and she’d figured, No harm, no foul.

  “I have to ask: Ever notice any signs of domestic abuse next door?”

  Clara cringed. “No,” she said truthfully. “Never.”

  “Between the two spouses or between them and the kids? It doesn’t have to be physical. Any shouting? Threats? A general sense that something’s not right?”

  She shook her head again, trying to ignore the dizzy feeling sweeping through it.

  “Thanks. Well, if you think of anything else significant, here’s my card. Call anytime.” He slid it across the table. “We can’t tell you not to talk to the press, but we’d prefer you didn’t. You’ll be seeing this on the news. We’re issuing an AMBER Alert for the minivan—”

  “An AMBER Alert?” Clara felt a jolt of fear. “Is she being charged with kidnapping?”

  He frowned. “Not exactly. Since Mr. Kirkland never adopted the children, it’s probably something more along the lines of ‘interfering with custody.’ At this point our concern is just to locate them, make sure everyone is okay.”

  Clara squinted at him. “I’m sorry—what do you mean, he hasn’t adopted them?”

  Detective Bryant seemed to be reassessing her. “I guess I shouldn’t have said that. You’re friends—I assumed you knew the children aren’t biologically his?”

  If not his, then … “She was married before?”

  “She was widowed.”

  “My God.” Her mind raced. It made a little more sense, Clara supposed, how Kristin had seemed a bit blasé about how the kids were taking the divorce. But how—

  “An accident. One of those freak things.” He was watching her closely, and suddenly she felt defensive.

  “That’s horrible. Awful.” She shook her head. “She probably just didn’t want to discuss that, to bring it up in front of the kids.”

  “Right,” he said evenly.

  She was still trying to piece it all together. “I thought there was some kind of waiting period, for considering someone missing? I mean, couldn’t this all be some misunderstanding?”