by Judy Alter
“But you apparently weren’t good friends?”
“No, we weren’t. I came to dislike her. Missy had, ah, different interests than I did.” She was at work again, scraping away a thin layer of clay here, adding another there.
Susan saw that she looked continually at a newspaper clipping pinned on the wall behind her. It was the picture of Missy that had appeared in the newspaper the day after the girl’s body had been found.
Susan seated herself on a stool a few feet away from the young girl and watched silently for several minutes. Finally, she said, “You want to tell me more?”
“Not really. My mother told me never to talk ill of the dead.” She didn’t look up from her work.
“I take it then you have nothing good to say about Missy? Her record on campus makes her seem too perfect to be true.” Susan was thinking that this remarkably blunt and self-contained girl might hold the key to what happened to Missy Jackson, if only she would open up.
“You got that right,” Barbara said, whirling to face her and apparently speaking before she thought. Then there was a long pause, and finally she said, “All right. If it was your car, you got a right to know. Missy really worked hard to create that picture of the perfect student. She got good grades, she joined the right groups, she did charity work, but that wasn’t her.”
“What was?” Susan found herself leaning forward, anxious to hear the truth.
Barbara turned back to her work. “She was scheming, selfish… she wanted fame, if that’s what being an outstanding student on this campus means, and she wanted money. Always said she grew up poor, and she’d do anything never to be poor again. She practically disowned her parents, didn’t want anything to do with them.”
Susan remembered those grief-stricken parents. “I didn’t think her family was that poor.”
Barbara laughed scornfully. “I could have told her about poor on a hardscrabble farm in East Texas, but she never would have listened. She wanted to believe her own story about a miserable childhood as much as she wanted to get rich quick.”
“Where did Eric Lindler fit in? I mean, if she wanted money and fame, why was she going to marry a preacher?”
“Marry a preacher?” Barbara’s voice was scornful now. “She would never have married that poor boy. He was part of her act, like singing in the choir. Eric Lindler was riding for a fall, a big one, and he was too dumb to know it. Or maybe too naive. He’s a nice enough guy, but Missy really had him fooled.”
Susan thought about the careful way he’d handled the books in the library and that brown shock of hair that fell in his eyes. He was a good kid, and she right then hated Missy Jackson for what she’d been going to do to him and for involving him in a murder. It dawned on her she hated Missy Jackson for involving her, too.
“Dr. Hogan?” Barbara’s voice called her back to the present.
“Sorry. My thoughts wandered.” Susan decided to ask the most important question. “Did you see her do anything that would bring her lots of money right away?”
“No.” The emphatic answer was followed by a softer, “But I’ve heard rumors since we roomed together. You better talk to Brandy Perkins. I’m not repeating anything I don’t know for sure.”
Susan considered for a moment, shifting her weight on the stool to relieve her aching bottom. How do these kids perch on these stools for hours on end? “Barbara, tell me one more thing: if you disliked Missy, why are you sculpting her head now?”
Barbara turned to look directly at her again. “Because if I can make this work out, she’ll stop haunting me. I may not be Miss Perfect, and I’ve done some things my folks would be ashamed of, but I never did what Missy did. And I feel, I felt for a long time, that I should have somehow helped her, kept her from…” She would never say from what, but Barbara Buckness said one more thing, “We are our sister’s keepers, aren’t we?” Then she turned back to her work, and the set of her shoulders clearly said she was through talking to Susan.
Susan thought of Shelley. She could never tell this girl that she understood perfectly the need to put away the haunting sense that she had failed as her sister’s keeper. “Barbara,” she said to the girl’s back, “thanks for talking to me. And I think you’re pretty terrific.”
A mumbled “Thanks” followed her out the door.
Susan’s thoughts were in a jumble, but she realized that it was significant that she’d just heard the first truthful description of Missy Jackson. Now, how could she convince everyone else, especially Lieutenant Jordan? And did she want Eric Lindler to know this or would it just hurt him?
Thursday afternoon it began to rain lightly just as Susan left campus on Jake’s moped. The dark sky seemed to promise more fall rains, for which everyone would be grateful except Susan if she got caught in a downpour on that damn moped. Stuck down in one of the side compartments she had a plastic parka of sorts that went over her head and waterproofed her completely but brought out her slight tendency toward claustrophobia. She had no adequate way of protecting her books and papers and hadn’t thought to bring the plastic bag she usually used in case of rain. If she put the parka over the books, she’d get soaked—but that, she decided was probably the best plan, if it rained hard. Maybe I can beat it home, she told herself with fingers crossed for good luck.
She had parked at the library, and as she rode down the hill on Main Street south of the campus, Susan eased her foot off the accelerator to slow down without having to brake so hard the moped would skid. To her alarm instead of slowing the moped picked up speed. It was still getting gas, and its acceleration was increased by the downhill slope. Susan felt a sudden panic, gripped the handles of the moped tightly, and looked in the rearview mirror. Behind her, an old Ford driving far too close to her forced a fast decision. Later, Susan thought she would have gone on downhill if it hadn’t been for that car, but making a split-second decision, she chose to try for the turn to the right, even though that wasn’t the direction she wanted to go. Heart pounding and vision blurry from fright, she made the widest turn she could. The Ford went straight, and Susan was so busy fighting to control the moped that she never saw it slow down to a crawl as the driver looked back in her direction.
With the moped still gaining speed, she braked as hard as she dared. But the combination of speed, wet pavement and loose gravel was too much. Susan’s stomach threatened to come up in her throat and her heart stopped for a minute—she would later swear to Jake that it did—when the moped skidded, turned sideways and went down, her right leg under it. A sharp pain in her ankle made her feel instantly nauseated, even though she had eaten nothing for hours.
Shocked, she lay still for a minute, letting the sickness pass and trying to figure out how she felt. She moved her arms gently, shrugged her shoulders, turned her head, and decided everything but the one ankle was intact. But she couldn’t move the bike off her leg. And she felt like a trapped animal lying there with her leg caught—it made her think of beaver caught in those awful spring traps that were now illegal.
Within seconds, of course, she was surrounded by spectators, some of them students, who had appeared from nowhere. They shouted a chorus of questions. “You all right, Dr. Hogan?” “Holy cow, how did you do this?” She managed to regain her composure and answer them coherently. In fact, she was sharp with the young man who wanted to know how she did it. “I didn’t! The moped did!”
Several students helped her bend her left leg so that they could slowly and carefully lift the moped off her other leg. Just as they were doing that, Seymour, one of Jake’s patrolmen, drove up. “Don’t move her!” he ordered.
“Wasn’t about to,” said one student. “Just wanted to get this thing off that leg.”
Seymour knelt by her. “You okay, Dr. Hogan?”
She shook her head. The ankle was really throbbing, and she didn’t want to cry in front of all these people. A deep breath enabled her to say, “All but my ankle, I think.”
Seymour’s fingers were surprisingly gen
tle as he explored the ankle. Even so, that nausea-causing pain shot through her again. “I think it’s broken, but it ain’t a bad break. Bone’s in place. Maybe just a crack, but we’ll have to have it x-rayed.” He took off his slicker and put it over her shoulders. “I’ll just call Jake. He can splint it good enough to take you to the emergency room.”
“My books,” Susan said through gritted teeth. “Would you see they don’t get wet?”
It was raining harder now, and he looked around helplessly. “Soon as the patrol car gets here,” he said and began talking into his cellular telephone.
A tall young man with a burr haircut threw his waterproof jacket over her books, and Susan tried to smile at him. “I’d give you an A if you were in my classes,” she managed to say, and he grinned and gave her a thumbs-up sign.
“Maybe I’ll take one just for that,” he said, water beginning to drip from his hair onto his face.
By the time Jake arrived, Seymour had propped her head on a volunteered book bag and was hunkered down beside her, talking softly. Jake was all business.
“How’d you do this?” he asked tersely, and Susan knew the anger in his voice concealed his concern.
“Slid on the gravel,” she muttered.
“Going too fast, I bet,” he said. Jake went to the Jeep for his first-aid kit. The burr haircut followed him with her books. Jake just nodded and didn’t even say thank you.
“Okay, Susan, I’ll be as gentle as I can, but it’s gonna hurt. Bite on Seymour’s hand if you have to.”
“Boss!” Seymour yelled.
“Well, at least let her squeeze your hand, would you?” Jake slipped the loafer off her foot and asked, “These good pants?”
“Yes,” Susan muttered.
“Damn,” he said under his breath. “At least the pant leg’s a little wide. I’ll see what I can do without cutting the pants.”
For just a moment, Susan forgot her pain. “Cut my pants?”
He ignored her. Gently, Jake pulled her pants leg up as close to the knee as it would go and then pulled a blue plastic tube over her leg. Then somehow he inflated the tube—Susan could feel it put slight pressure on her lower leg. “There. You can run a race now,” Jake said.
“Thanks,” she muttered.
“That’ll keep it from moving till we get to the hospital,” he explained, “but don’t walk on it. Let us help you.”
She was helped to her feet ever so carefully. Then Jake picked her up and carried her to the back of the Jeep where she could stretch out. “The moped?”
“I can probably fix it,” Jake said. “Don’t see any major damage to it.”
That wasn’t what she’d meant. He probably could fix the damn moped easier than her ankle would be fixed. “We can’t leave it here,” she said.
“Seymour’ll take care of it.”
Then she voiced her next worry. “Aunt Jenny.”
“I’ll call her. Susan, would you stop worrying and let me take charge. Please?”
She lay back on the carpet in the car and felt the vehicle begin to move. Jake drove even more carefully than usual so as not to jar her ankle. She heard him punching buttons on his car phone.
“Aunt Jenny? Jake. Nothing serious, but Susan’s had a little accident… Yes, it was on that blasted moped, but it’s not serious. I think it’s a broken ankle. Yes, I’ve had a little emergency med training. Have to for my job. Yes, ma’am, we’ll have a real doctor look at it and x-ray it. I’ll call you from the hospital. What? Sure, chicken soup would be a good idea when she gets home.” He punched the “end” button and said over his shoulder, “I don’t think she trusts me.”
“She’s always been a worrywart,” Susan said.
“I bet you gave her lots of cause to worry too.”
“Some,” she admitted. Then, “Jake? Is this… is this like someone trying to run me down with their car?” She didn’t want to tell him how scared she was. It wasn’t the pain. It was the idea that someone was deliberately trying to hurt—or kill—her.
“Nope,” he said with confidence. “It was too much speed on a wet road.”
“I took my foot off the accelerator,” she said slowly, “but it didn’t slow down.”
“Mopeds don’t react like a high-performance car,” he said.
Susan decided to give up the conversation, but she wasn’t reassured.
At the hospital they gave her pain medication that made her goofy. Jake’s face swam in front of her as she lay on the gurney, and she clutched his hand to make the room stop spinning. He stayed by her side every minute except when they actually took the x-ray. In seconds after that he was back, accompanied by a doctor who said, “Nice, clean break. Lower portion of the fibula.”
“My ankle?” Susan asked.
“Not really,” the doctor said cheerily. “The lower portion of the smaller bone in your leg. But it’s not badly swollen—that’s the good news—so we can go right ahead and cast it. I’ll just cut the cast a bit so it’ll have some give and take. I’ll have to cut your pants off.”
Susan opened her mouth to protest but Jake beat her to it. “Doctor, can’t we slide them off. They’re good pants, and she’ll yell like a banshee if you ruin them.”
The doctor looked at him. “You her husband?”
“No, but I know her well enough to help you take those pants off.”
The doctor grinned, and together they eased the pants down without jarring the leg.
Then Jake asked, “You said no swelling was the good news. What’s the bad news?”
Groggily, Susan realized that they were talking about her as if she weren’t there—or were a half-wit. She opened her mouth to protest but nothing sensible came out.
“She’ll be on crutches for several weeks,” he said.
Now Susan wanted to shout, “Then why are you so damn cheerful?” But she couldn’t form those words either. At least her leg didn’t hurt so badly any more.
Casting the ankle or leg or whatever seemed to take an hour, but finally the doctor gave Jake instructions about keeping her off her foot, out of the shower, and making her use crutches when she had to move about. “Much as possible, she should keep the foot elevated.”
She began to recover her speech. “I can’t do all that at school,” she wailed.
“You’re not going to school,” the young doctor said, his voice still irritatingly cheerful, “for at least three or four days. Then we’ll see.”
Susan thought he was probably an intern. She opened her mouth to protest but was stopped by one word from Jake.
“Susan!” He said it firmly, like an order, and she was reminded for the second time that day of All in the Family, when Archie Bunker used to say, “Stifle, Edith.”
“Take one of these every three or four hours as needed. Fewer you have to take, the better. And practice walking on those crutches while he’s around.” He jerked his head toward Jake. “More people hurt themselves falling off crutches…” On that note, he was gone.
* * *
Aunt Jenny greeted them with great solicitation for Susan, effusive thanks for Jake, and the news that good hot chicken soup waited on the stove. Susan sipped at small spoonfuls of the soup, grateful for its warmth but not really hungry. Her hazy mind was trying to figure out how to arrange for her classes, notify Dr. Scott—all the things that had to be done to keep her daily world going while she was immobilized. And beyond trying to think about practical things, Susan was wondering what had happened to the moped. She knew, she just absolutely knew, she had been driving carefully.
Jake’s mind was on practicalities. “I’ll call Ellen, and she can notify Dr. Scott. Just tell him you broke your ankle in a freak accident. No need to tell him it was on the moped.” Jake also knew that it would sit badly with the English department chair if he himself called. “I’ll get your books out of the car. You can get a lot done on that Zane Grey stuff,” he said cheerfully. When he returned he plopped the books on the table and said, “Okay, let’s get you
ready for bed.”
“It’s only seven o’clock,” Susan protested.
“You’re going to take another of those pills, and you’ll sleep through the night,” he assured her.
With Jake’s help, Susan was up on the crutches. The doctor was right—they were awkward and scary, as though they might slide away beneath her. She remembered once seeing a newborn colt trying to take its first steps—that was how she felt.
“Take Aunt Jenny with you to the bathroom,” Jake said. “And brush your teeth and do everything you have to now, ’cause you’re not getting up again.”
“Jake Phillips,” she said, “you’re bossy!” But she did as she was told.
“You’re not going to sleep in that T-shirt and underwear, are you?” Aunt Jenny asked aghast. “Jake is still out there in the hall.”
“It’s better than the blanket I had wrapped around my nether portions when I came home from the hospital,” Susan yawned. If Aunt Jenny hadn’t been there, Jake would have helped her out of her clothes himself, but there was no sense upsetting her aunt with that revelation.
Jake did carry her from the bathroom to the bed—pretending to struggle under the weight—and tucked her into the covers as though she were a child. Then he handed her a pill and a glass of water.
She took them obediently, and as Jake predicted she was out in minutes. He sat by the bed with her until her even breathing told him she was deep asleep. Then he went into the kitchen in search of Aunt Jenny.
“She’ll probably sleep much of tomorrow. Just kind of try to get her to eat, and watch out if you hear her head for the bathroom in the night. She’s too big for you to hold up, but you might steady her.”
Aunt Jenny’s hands were on her hips. “She’s not too big at all. I can still take care of that girl!”
He laughed. “I’m sure you can, Aunt Jenny. And I’m glad you’re here to help her now.” Actually, a hidden corner of him wished Aunt Jenny weren’t around so he could stay with Susan. A thought occurred to him. “Maybe I should sleep on the couch?”
“Go on with you now, Jake. You get out of here. I can take care of things.”
