Not That I Could Tell: A Novel

by Jessica Strawser

  “Still, in focusing on what we can control, we feel an arm’s length approach is a healthy approach.”

  Clara sat up straighter. Pam was serious. “There’s no such thing as an arm’s length approach when two of your own students are missing, your staff members and parents have been interviewed by police—”

  “That was last week. Do you or do you not have media parked outside your home as we speak?”

  “I do not.” They were merely driving past it on a loop.

  “Well, that makes one of us.” Pam crossed to her window and opened the blinds. At the street entrance, next to the CIRCLE OF LEARNING sign, a reporter was standing, microphone in hand, in front of a camera, talking and gesturing at the building behind her.

  “This is a first,” Pam said. “We can’t have them following you here. As soon as everyone has room to self-center, Thomas is welcome back.”

  Clara stared out the window. Aside from the news team, the parking lot was half empty now, quiet. The trees around its rim were warm bursts of color in the breeze, taunting her that the season was in full swing and the end-of-summer party that never happened was soon to be a distant memory—and Kristin along with it.

  “They were bound to show up sooner or later,” she said weakly. “They’re reaching, running out of things to say.” She turned back to Pam, who merely shook her head. “Come on, Pam. They’re out by the street, not storming the lobby.”

  Pam didn’t acknowledge that she’d spoken. “We’ll be organizing a penny wars fund-raiser in the twins’ names to benefit the Greater Dayton United Way,” she said instead. “I’ll be sure to send you the information in case you’d like to collect donations from your neighborhood.”

  The annoyance Clara had been fighting all morning surged into the unfairness of the past couple weeks and overtook her. “A freaking Tahoe was double-parked in your fuel-efficient spots today, and I’m the disruption tipping the perfect balance here?”

  “Watch your language, please.”

  She couldn’t help it—she rolled her eyes. If freaking was not a holistic enough variation of what she’d really meant to say, then one did not exist. “It’s a V-8,” she said, in protest.

  “Might I suggest you take some time to rejuvenate your own soul as well? To lose a friend is to suffer quite a loss. It’s a sisterhood not always acknowledged by the masses, but a very real one nonetheless.”

  Clara would have been more receptive to the sentiment had the sisterhood not just put her family outside its circle.

  19

  Iz: Please let me in? Sorry about your sweater but it REALLY wasn’t my fault. I’ll let you use ANY of my stuff you want. Even my new Janet Jackson CD. Though if Mom hears how dirty it is she will TOTALLY take it away from us both, so you’ll have to use headphones. Please?

  —Note slid under Izzy’s slammed-and-locked door by Penny, age eleven

  This was what Izzy had had in mind when she’d chosen Yellow Springs. And to think that if she hadn’t found Rhoda’s mail mixed up with her own, hadn’t dropped it by before resigning herself to another Friday pajama night, she would have missed her ticket. The invitation came spontaneously but not halfheartedly, and Izzy, in the habit of saying no to so much, had allowed herself to be talked into a yes.

  Which is how she found herself, not two hours later, here at Forest Meadow—to Izzy’s delight the actual capital-letter name of the place, which was indeed a meadow at the forest’s edge—for a Harvest Moon Celebration hosted by the Guardians of the Glen. Though Rhoda had explained the Guardians were simply a group of volunteers who maintained the trails in the nature preserve, Izzy was still picturing fairies or sprites, and really she wasn’t all that far off, though here they were in human form.

  The moon lingered beneath the tree line, but in the glow of the massive bonfire, the party was in perpetual freeform motion. Those who’d brought guitars or bongos had assembled themselves in a semicircle of camp chairs and started to riff in an almost primal rhythm, while a cluster of women on the other side of the fire had begun to dance, their long skirts flowing. A row of people seated cross-legged and barefoot in the grass had formed a chain to give one another shoulder rubs, pausing only to pass a bota bag down the line. There were coolers of strawberry wine, and mead, and cans of craft beer, and the air smelled of clove cigarettes and pipe smoke, with occasional whiffs of something less legal floating in from the dark periphery.

  Izzy hung back, huddled in her fleece on one of the thick quilts Randi and Rhoda had spread at the edge of the firelight, taking in the scene as her neighbors walked Adele from one cluster to another, showing her off from the flowered sling wrapped around Randi in elaborate layers. Izzy admired the way they’d simply melded the baby into their lifestyle, rather than recentering their world around hers, and though a part of her wondered how long it could last, tonight in the near utopia of the circle, almost anything seemed possible.

  “Whew!” Rhoda flopped onto the blanket next to her. “What do you think? Do you love it?”

  “Love,” Izzy assured her.

  Randi glided up with a precarious hold on three paper cups of golden liquid and handed one to each of them before settling herself gingerly onto the ground. She nodded down at Adele, who was sleeping now, and tipped her cup, gesturing for them to do the same. Izzy took a small sip. By the second helping, the honey wine would seem sickeningly sweet, but for now, it was just the thing.

  “I’m so glad you came,” Randi said, smiling around Rhoda at her. “I’ve been wanting to run into you for days. That segment you’ve had going, on divorce stories? Hilarious.”

  “And sobering,” Rhoda added. “Almost made me wish we didn’t have the right to marry. Well done!” Sonny’s idea had been so popular they’d end up stringing the discussion through the rest of the week, leaving Izzy feeling like an imposter in her own life, a producer of things she hadn’t quite produced. Truthfully, it was the last thing she wanted to discuss out here in the open, under the constellations, in the midst of all that was good and true in the world.

  “Thanks,” she said reluctantly. “I was a little worried it might be in bad taste.”

  “Everything’s in bad taste,” Randi said, shrugging. “The world is in bad taste.”

  “Not this,” Izzy said, gesturing around them. “I think you all have the right idea.”

  She could feel Rhoda’s eyes on her.

  “You really don’t like your job, do you? I mean, you told us, that night at Clara’s, but I thought it was more about the Second Date stuff bugging you when you’re trying to get over the thing with your sister.”

  Izzy shrugged. They were fans of her radio show. How could she suggest that they shouldn’t be? They were her neighbors. And she hoped they’d become real friends.

  “It’s not the job. It’s me. The fluffiness of it weighs on me.”

  Rhoda laughed. “Okay, by definition, that’s the opposite of what fluff is supposed to do.”

  “I know … But I’ll be looking for nonnews to cover, and fall down this rabbit hole of awful headlines, and then it’s like, How can you all joke at a time like this? Which of course makes no sense, because it’s always ‘a time like this.’” She made air quotes with her fingers, then felt ridiculous, like a politician at a Grateful Dead concert. She rushed ahead. “Also, I didn’t want Paul to think we were making light of his…” What to call it? “Situation,” she said finally.

  Randi nodded thoughtfully. “I get that. I mean, we’re conscientious. We spent I won’t tell you how much to make our house as sustainable as we could without going off the grid. We raise chickens. We compost. We march in Take Back the Night rallies. We’re citizens of the world, damn it!” She raised a fist, then dropped it. “But the world will drag you down if you let it. Sometimes you have to be happy in the little bubble you create for yourself. And thus we can celebrate the full moon equinox by night and still love superficial morning radio by day.”

  “Loud and proud,” Rhoda said, laughing
. Izzy had to admit it made her feel better—if a bit silly—though she noticed neither of them had chosen to comment on Paul.

  “Well, thanks for keeping me in a job,” she said. “Actually, I’d like to return the favor. Do you have any more of those knitted moccasins you sold me? The ah-mazing ones?”

  Randi smiled. “Just got more in.”

  “I was thinking of getting my sister some.”

  “Birthday coming up?” Rhoda asked.

  “No, she’s … she’s pregnant.” It was the first time Izzy had said the words aloud. They made her slightly dizzy. “I thought I’d get her a gift. Pregnant women get achy feet, right?” She looked to Randi, who had given birth only months before, but Randi was just staring at her.

  “Pregnant? With the guy who—”

  Izzy held up a hand. “I really shouldn’t have told any of you that. I’m well aware that he’s off-limits. I hope you don’t think I’d ever—”

  “Of course not,” Randi said firmly, saving her from herself.

  “Poor Iz,” Rhoda said. “We also got some horribly itchy moccasins in. I was going to send them back, but maybe you’d like to gift her those instead?”

  Izzy laughed. “That’d be more tempting if I weren’t buying this as a peace offering.”

  “Uh-oh. What happened?”

  “Just…” Blood flooded her cheeks. “My parents hosted a congratulatory thing for her and Josh the other day, and I couldn’t make it because I was sick, and—”

  “You were sick?” Rhoda raised an eyebrow.

  “Well, I felt sick…”

  “Oh, honey.”

  “I know. I’m a terrible human being. I need to unterrible myself.” She took a big swig of the wine, and winced. Apparently even honey could burn going down if you weren’t careful.

  Randi perked up. “Our friend Infinity is offering this new thing at the Humanist Center where she resets your karma.”

  Izzy blinked at her. “Isn’t that kind of cheating?”

  “That’s what I said!” Rhoda looked smugly at her wife.

  Randi scowled back. “It’s fine if Izzy doesn’t want to do it, but I still don’t see the harm in performing the ritual for Kristin,” she said defiantly. “Especially now that—”

  “Even if you could alter someone else’s karma, can you do it when she isn’t physically there?” Izzy cut in. She hadn’t meant to interrupt, but the idea was so utterly bizarre, and the implications …

  “She’s saying all the things I said!” Rhoda smiled at Randi, who offered an exaggerated pout and patted Izzy’s knee. “Back to resetting your karma, I see nothing wrong with old-fashioned bribery. Those new slippers came in gorgeous colors.”

  “It’s a start. I was also thinking of hosting a brunch—for my whole family. Maybe try to sort of start over. Do you think that would be horribly awkward?”

  Randi shook her head. “Better on your own turf, in your own space.”

  Izzy nodded. She had the idea to do it in the garden, where she’d feel more grounded, less claustrophobic. She was also eager to show off her handiwork. In full-on nesting mode, she’d finally gotten her plants arranged—some perennials in the ground, and varietals in pots that could be moved inside for the winter. This weekend, she planned to clean up the gravel pathways, set up the patio. And she’d need to fix the broken gate in the privacy fence. Not only could animals get in and undo her work, but its banging in the wind was driving her crazy. “Do you happen to know where I can get a new latch for my gate?”

  Rhoda nodded. “Come by tomorrow, and we’ll assist you with all your unterrible-ing needs.”

  “You carry hardware?” Izzy grinned. “I mean, I remember Randi saying you had a lot of tools, but I didn’t realize…”

  Rhoda burst out laughing, and Randi threw her empty cup at her.

  “Is anyone allowed to live anything down in this town?” Randi said, her face twisted into a pretend scowl. “Anyway, too bad we don’t carry eligible bachelors too. See anyone you like, Izzy? We could introduce you…”

  “Randi,” Rhoda chastised. “She doesn’t want to be set up. Come on.”

  “Who said anything about setting her up? Introducing. Being open to possibility.”

  Izzy found herself scanning the crowd. Why not? But the gathering was largely women, and most of the men seemed tied to someone.

  “Maybe on the ukuleles?” Randi murmured. Izzy took in the two long-haired musicians, who weren’t bad-looking aside from the fact that they clearly hadn’t showered in days.

  “Hmm,” she said. “Much as I love this field, maybe someone who isn’t quite so at home in it.”

  Rhoda cackled. What Izzy needed was more of a cross between those guys and … well, someone like Paul. Handsome, troubled, buttoned-up Paul. She was surprised to find herself thinking of him, but decided it wasn’t an entirely bad thing.

  Because for once her first thought hadn’t been: More like Josh.

  “Randi!” A couple of women Izzy recognized from the meditation class were huddled around some kind of ceramic pot, gesturing wildly.

  “Oh! They’re going to let me try this nursing tea. Be right back.”

  Izzy and Rhoda watched her go. The music was getting louder now, and the row of shoulder rubbers had started harmonizing hums in the absence of lyrics.

  “You know,” Rhoda said, “I dated one of Randi’s close friends before the two of us got together.”

  “You did?”

  “This may shock you, but lesbians do not flock to Ohio small towns in innumerable droves. Another of my exes married one of my cousins. A male cousin.”

  Izzy’s eyes widened.

  “My point is, when it comes to having feelings for someone who’s off-limits, it’s not so uncommon in my circle. I’ve seen some delicate situations that could have been handled better, and some handled better than you would’ve thought possible. But the important thing is, I’ve seen them handled.” She smiled at Izzy. “This thing with your sister—you’ll figure it out.”

  “Thanks,” she said, touched.

  A woman with a familiar dark cloud of curls ran past them, and they both whipped their heads around reflexively, craning for a better look. She was not Kristin. Not even close, really, aside from the hair. Izzy’s eyes met Rhoda’s ruefully.

  “I thought she would’ve turned up by now,” Rhoda said, shaking her head.

  “Yeah. Me too.” Izzy didn’t admit she had stopped following the coverage of the disappearance after the first week. It made her feel oddly disloyal to Paul to be gawking like some rubbernecker on the highway, and saddened to see the beautiful twins’ childhood reduced to a headline. When there was something to tell, she’d hear about it soon enough.

  “Speaking of which…” Rhoda nudged her shoulder, and Izzy turned to see a uniformed police officer headed down the path toward the clearing. Detective Bryant. Shit. Were alcoholic beverages allowed out here? She could still feel the sting of the embarrassment at having had to admit to him that she’d drunk her memory clean on Kristin’s last night. She upended her wine in the grass, crushing the conspicuous cup in her hand, while Rhoda hissed, “For goodness’ sake, be cool!” and offered him a friendly wave.

  The detective’s face broke into a boyish grin as he approached. “I’m not here to ruin anyone’s fun,” he told Izzy, and she flushed with the childish sensation of being caught.

  “Of course not,” she said, laughing nervously, trying not to grimace as the remnants of the sticky wine oozed between her fingers and dripped onto the blanket.

  “We try to let Yellow Springs be Yellow Springs.” She craned her neck up at him, nodding, wondering if she should stand. He gestured at the bonfire. “All our ‘official’ festivals get overrun by out-of-towners, but this is one of the few gems we’ve managed to keep secret for the locals. Glad to see you found your way here.”

  Izzy flushed with pleasure at the thought of a real local—could you get more “local” than a small-town cop?—considering her
one of them. Even if she did still feel like an outsider most of the time.

  “Here to join us?” Rhoda said brightly, though it was obvious from his attire that he wasn’t.

  He shook his head, his eyes still on Izzy’s. “Just a cursory check-in.” She smiled uneasily, wondering if he was checking in on how the festival was coming, or on what Kristin’s neighbors were up to.

  “I’ve been wanting to thank whichever of your colleagues posted those signs about cracking down on shoplifting,” Rhoda bubbled on. “They seem to be helping.” She was indeed the queen of being cool, for goodness’ sake.

  “I’ll pass it on.” He frowned. “If only the signs I created would have the same effect.” Izzy had seen them all over town, with that now familiar photo of Kristin and the twins at that summer picnic, bright eyed and innocent: Missing. If seen, please call … A few people nodded the detective’s way as he casually but methodically scanned the crowd, raising their hands in greeting, but most of them ignored his presence entirely. “Clara Tiffin here tonight?” he asked.

  “She decided to stay home.” It was news to Izzy that Clara had thought of coming at all—but why was he asking about her? She looked from the detective to Rhoda and back again, trying to discern if she was missing something.

  He nodded. “Well.” He tipped his hat in a gesture that fell somewhere between nervous habit and old-fashioned farewell. “Now I can say I came, I saw, I checked. Have fun tonight. Don’t make me look bad to the boss.”

  His eyes met Izzy’s again. “Notwithstanding a refill of whatever was in that cup,” he said, giving her a wink, and she looked away quickly, her cheeks burning in the darkness.

  “Poor Clara,” Rhoda said softly, downing the rest of her drink as they watched him go.

  Izzy realized with a start how long it had been since she’d checked in with her neighbor. God, she’d been so self-absorbed. Clara must be feeling bereft with no signs of Kristin—and Thomas without his playmates too.

  But still. Why not poor Paul?

  She was about to ask Rhoda what she meant when the crowd let out a collective whoop, and they looked up, startled. The moon had appeared in full above the canopy of branches. Randi came spinning toward them, pulling them to their feet. All around, people were laughing and embracing as if something wonderful had occurred—which, Izzy supposed, it had.