“Griff never said a word.”
“Of course not. All he’s doing is counting the days until he can leave this insanity behind.”
Ross looks at me, steady and deep. “And you? What do you want?”
No one has ever asked me that before, not even Griff. Life has always been navigating through the surprises and challenges of the current day. The future is nothing but that blue glimmer of the Pacific Ocean Griff has promised.
“You mean, like right now?” I finally ask. “Or over the long haul?”
“I’m pretty sure I know what you want right now. But once this is all behind you and the door to your future opens up. What’s on the other side of it?”
“If I could do anything I want? No limitations?” It’s such an impossibility that I’ve never considered it.
“Well, within the realm of semi-reality. No fair using the Miss America answer of ‘achieve world peace’ or ‘eradicate hunger.’ What would you choose for yourself?”
“Well, if you’re going to ruin it with semi-reality . . .” I shrug, but I’m really buying time. I don’t want to throw just anything out there. Not to Ross.
“I’ve never really taken the time to think of it clearly, in detail.” I’ve never had to, I let Griff do that thinking for me. “Truthfully, the entire concept of a future based solely on my unrestricted choice scares me to death.”
He’s quiet for a moment. “I get it. I never chose to be a lawyer—which is, in essence, our family business—but there’s something safe in having other people already laying that path in front of me, the choices already made.”
“So you don’t want to be a lawyer?” I can’t imagine tossing away a life of Ivy League schools and unquestionable respect.
And then I look at it through Ross’s eyes. A boy with his wealth, his intelligence, his opportunities, can easily be anything he wants, Jonas Salk inventing the polio vaccine, John Glenn circling Earth. What would that feel like, having everything as a viable possibility?
He shrugs. “It’s not that I don’t want to be—exactly. It’s more the weight of the expectation, the idea that it’s a foregone conclusion that bothers me.”
I never considered a family caring could be a burden. I lean my head on his shoulder. His arm comes around me and, despite everything, I feel at peace.
Then the dinner bell echoes across the orchard.
20
Ross and I are sitting on the front steps waiting. My mouth is cottony and I’m picking my cuticles.
“He’s here!” Ross says in a near whisper and grabs my elbow.
We stand. Feet thunder through the front hall and onto the porch. Gran, Margo, and Mrs. Saenger burst out the door right behind the twins.
Mr. Rykerson’s Cadillac comes up the drive. The windshield has a huge spiderweb crack on the passenger side. Griff is only a dark shape behind it. As the car pulls closer, I see a foot-size dent in the passenger door and understand why Mr. Rykerson insisted he go alone to pick Griff up from jail. I’m shocked by the violence that marks the car, and yet deep down not truly surprised.
“My Lord.” Mrs. Saenger’s breathless voice comes from behind me.
The twins run past. I follow them to the car, my insides a whirl of contradictory emotions: relief, worry, happiness, anger, anticipation, dread. Overshadowing them all is a protective rush of love for my brother.
Walden and Dharma don’t know exactly what’s going on, but have clearly caught the elation of Griff’s homecoming. Bouncing with excitement, Dharma reaches the passenger door and yanks it open. But Griff doesn’t jump out. He just sits there, his face ashen, his mouth grim.
Dharma grabs his hand from his lap and pulls. “Come on! We’re having a party.”
As always, Walden is more intuitive. He steps close to me and whispers, “What’s wrong with him?”
I lean to his ear. “He’s just really tired.” But he is changed. I can tell from the set of his shoulders, by the way he won’t look at me.
He finally gets out of the car and gives Dharma a strained smile that borders on a grimace. Pulling his hand from hers, he walks past me as if I’m a part of the landscape. He passes Ross, then Gran, Margo, and Mrs. Saenger without a word, not once looking at any of them.
Gran has the sense to be quiet and let him go, but Margo makes the mistake of reaching for his arm. “We’re going to make them—”
The look he gives her is chilling enough that she lets go and takes a step back.
“Why isn’t Griff coming to the party?” Dharma takes it as a personal affront.
He goes into the house and a few beats later I hear his bedroom door slam.
Mr. Rykerson says, “Let’s go inside and I’ll fill you in.”
Gran says, “Dharma and Walden, the burlap sacks for the pecans arrived yesterday. You two go on out to the barn and unpack them. You know where to put them. Then I want you to break down the boxes and take them to the burn pile.”
“I thought we were going to have fun today!” Dharma stamps her foot. Silently, Walden tugs her hand. As he leads her to the barn, she must be giving him an earful because her pigtails are bouncing and about every fifth step she stamps her foot again.
In the parlor, we gather around Mr. Rykerson as if he holds the Ten Commandments sent down from God.
“As I explained on the phone, the district attorney has decided not to press charges against Griffin. Of course, that could all change if there is new and compelling evidence—”
“They can’t just let this hang over his head forever!” Margo says.
“Unfortunately, they can. And yet, it’s highly unlikely that they will rearrest him, all things considered.”
“What do you mean by ‘all things considered’?” Margo asks.
I wish she’d disappear like she usually does.
Mr. Rykerson continues. “First, they would need enough clear-cut evidence to contradict the medical examiner’s cause of death, which is traumatic injuries to the head and spine from an accidental fall and establishing a window for death between midnight and 3:00 a.m. We have eyewitness corroboration of Griffin’s departure from the bonfire around ten—thanks to Phillip’s good work—and Tallulah’s confirmation of his arrival home at ten thirty.
“And honestly, with public sentiment”—his gaze casts through the front window toward his car—“and the upcoming election for the district attorney, if they had anything, they would have pressed charges and hoped for a biased jury.
“Now, there was another finding at the autopsy.” He clears his throat. “Miss Colbert was approximately three months pregnant. This, combined with lack of witnesses and the time of death bolsters the argument for suicide—if it comes to needing to argue the case.”
“Wouldn’t it also bolster the argument for murder?” Margo asks. “What if the father killed her?”
“Margo!” Gran holds a palm up.
“I’m just stating facts.” Margo snatches a pack of cigarettes off the coffee table. “What if she was about to name the father? What if he’d do anything to keep it from becoming public? We need to be realistic about the possibility they could come after Griff again.”
My head is reeling. “You think Griff is the father?” A girl as fast as Elizabeth Taylor appeared could have a long list of possible fathers. “He would never—”
“Be quiet, Tallulah!” Margo snaps. “You have no idea how boys—”
I raise my voice. “I was going to say he would never hurt someone he cared that much about! He would take responsibility—”
“Enough!” Gran is visibly trembling. “Hold your tongues and listen to what Mr. Rykerson has to say.”
Mr. Rykerson appears unbothered. “Griffin has assured me it is not possible for him to be the father. If she’d been home in Tupelo at the time of conception and not here attending summer school, that would erase that possibility altogether. But right now, they have nothing but Chief Collie’s ‘gut feeling,’ and the fact that she was dancing with Griffin at the b
onfire. Frankly, I’m surprised they picked him up at all. I still thought you should know—about the pregnancy. These things tend to come out. I didn’t want you to be blindsided.”
Gran says, “So that’s it? They cast this pall over Griffin’s reputation based on Chief Collie’s gut?”
Margo pipes in, “They need to be held accountable for false arrest! We need to bring suit.”
“It’s fully within the law for them to hold possible suspects in a suspicious death. Anyway, it’s all part of the process,” Mr. Rykerson says. “Of course, anyone can file a civil suit, but your chances of getting anywhere are marginal at best.”
Gran says, “Yes, yes. And it will just keep gossip alive. It will do Griffin no good at all.”
“He’s my son . . .”
I can see the rabbit hole this conversation is headed down and back silently out of the room. For a long moment, I look down the hall, toward Griff’s closed bedroom door. Then Ross comes up behind me.
“You can bet he’s in the clear,” he says. “Sam’s cautious. If he wasn’t positive, he wouldn’t have said it’s unlikely they’ll come after Griff again.”
Right now, I just want my brother back. “Did you see him? Do you think this broke him?”
Ross sighs. “I think it’s been a hell of a couple of days. Anybody would be a wreck. Are you going to try to talk to him?”
“Not yet.” I’m afraid. If I knock on his door and he sends me away, I couldn’t bear it.
We turn around and head out to the front porch and stare at that horrible accusation scrawled across our house. What must that have done to Griff, seeing that hateful word there?
* * *
The Saengers and Mr. Rykerson are gone. Griff won’t come out of his room, won’t eat. Gran and Margo are in a round robin of accusation and blame. I listen to Dharma complain about being cheated out of a party about as much as I can stand. I get her and Walden parked in front of The Flintstones with Swanson TV dinners, then creep outside into the cool twilight, forgetting my sweater.
It’s the first time I’ve been alone all day, so I don’t risk going back inside to get it.
As I push myself back and forth on the porch swing, I watch the bats dart against the purpling sky. Halloween is in two weeks, and I haven’t made Dharma’s and Walden’s costumes yet. Walden’s easy. He’s happy with a sheet thrown over his head and being a ghost. But Dharma, every year she wants something more elaborate, more dramatic. I’m wondering if any of Margo’s old prom dresses can be cut up and reworked for her request for Cinderella. I, however, have drawn the line at her request for a glass slipper.
Headlights creep slowly up the drive. After the events of the past twenty-four hours, I ready myself to flee inside and bolt the doors. But as the car gets closer, I see it’s Tommy’s family’s station wagon.
I’d almost forgotten there’s a friendly face left in this town. Getting up, I meet him at the front steps. In his arms are a stack of textbooks and folders, on top of which sits my purse. Thinking of the arrowhead inside, it’s all I can do to keep from snatching it out of his hands.
Holding them out to me, he says, “I volunteered to bring them. I figure you won’t be back at school for a few days.”
I take my things, hiding my irrational eagerness to get that piece of flint back in my possession. “Thanks. Griff’s home. He didn’t have anything to do with hurting that girl.”
Tommy shifts his gaze away from me and rubs the back of his head—a sure sign he’s uncomfortable.
“What’s going on?”
“Nothing. I’d better go.” He starts to back toward the car.
No matter how things sit between Griff and Tommy, and regardless of his general shyness around girls, he has never been this standoffish with me.
“Did you ever see him with her?” I call out.
“Who?”
“Come on, Tommy, don’t play dunce.”
He takes another swipe at the back of his head. “Not with him exactly, but around. Sometimes she parks at the Wig-Wam and talks to the guys cruising there.” The Wig-Wam Drive-In is the high school hangout; the college kids all hang out at Eddie’s—their carhops wear short skirts and skates.
“Why would she be there?”
He shrugs. “Guess she likes high school guys.” He takes another step away. “I really gotta go.”
“Don’t you want to see him?”
“I have to get back home. My folks . . .”
“Why are you in such a hurry?”
“Look, Tallulah, I just wanted to give you your stuff and see how you’re doing.”
“Me?”
He looks directly at me for the first time. “People just seem to . . . overlook you. With all of this going on, I know it’s been rough.” He comes back up the three steps and grabs me in an abrupt hug. “Take care of yourself.” He turns and trots down the steps and to his car.
The finality of his goodbye hits me hard. My knees buckle and I sit on the steps to watch our childhood drive away. Just one more casualty amid the wreckage.
* * *
After Gran leaves, I knock on Griff’s door. Margo downed a full bottle of wine and locked herself in her bedroom.
“Griff,” I loud-whisper. “It’s me. Let me in. Please.”
I hear him moving. He stops on the other side of the door and then it sounds like his forehead thumps against the wood. “Not tonight, Lulie.”
I can hear him breathing, but he doesn’t move away.
“Please.”
His slow, heavy footsteps move away from the door.
Not tonight. I read a lot into those two words . . . maybe tomorrow.
As I cross the hall, a flash of headlights arcs across the wall. My pulse kicks up. My mind is filled with broken car windows and spray-painted accusations.
I press myself against the wall and inch toward the front of the dark house.
A police car sits in the spill of the porch light I left on in case Dad shows up. The only reason for the police to be here is to arrest Griff again. I wish with all my heart it was just vandals with more paint.
Before I can decide whether to get Margo, a knock sounds on the front door and she bursts from her bedroom pulling on a robe.
“Who in the hell is knocking at this hour?”
I’m right behind her when she opens the door. Chief Collie, that sanctimonious, two-faced monster, is standing next to a county sheriff’s deputy.
I step beside Margo. “You can’t take him! He didn’t do anything!” All of Mr. Rykerson’s arguments jumble in my head: eyewitnesses, time of death, suicide.
“Mrs. James,” the sheriff’s deputy looks at Margo and takes off his hat. “May we please come in?”
“No, you may not.” She steps in front of me again. “Not without a warrant.”
“A warrant, ma’am?”
“Search or arrest. Otherwise, you can just climb back into your car and go back the way you came.”
Chief Collie says, “I’m afraid you misunderstand—” There’s an unfamiliar tone in his voice that grabs my stomach—not with an aggressive fear like when he came after me, or a frustrated anger like at the police station. This is a rancid, curdled dread.
“Oh, I understand all right!” Margo’s voice rises. “You just won’t stop until you ruin his life, you small-town, narrow-minded—”
“Margo.” I don’t care what she calls the chief, but I realize those are not the faces of police officers here to haul someone off to jail.
The deputy says, “If we could just step inside, ma’am.”
I push open the screen door. “Come in.” I’m not sure if the clammy chill crawling across my skin is from the chief’s proximity, or fear of what they’re going to say.
“They don’t have a warrant—” Margo blocks them with her body.
“Mrs. James, please, we’re not here about Griffin.” The chief sounds almost nice. And that scares me more than anything.
“What then?”
The deputy says, “I’m afraid we’re here to inform you that your husband’s body was discovered early this evening in the Pearl River about three miles downstream.”
Margo’s scream is so horrible, it brings Griff running from his room.
21
The pecans lay moldering on the orchard floor as the days pass in a fog of pain. All I can think of is how alone Dad must have felt, how much he suffered. Was he in the river from the very first hours he was missing? Could I have found him before it was too late if I’d looked harder, searched farther?
I’ll never again hear his laugh. Never have the chance to rail against his demand for logical, unemotional debates. Never have another vocabulary word.
When the carousel of casseroles (from every hypocrite in town), hymn selections, and flower-arrangement arguments (Gran and Margo fought tooth and nail over whether the casket spray ribbon should say father or husband) finally stop, my guilt overshadows my grief like an alp over an anthill. If only I’d pushed Gran about Dad. Maybe she didn’t see.
After Griff was arrested, I didn’t even worry about Dad. And now my heart yearns for him, the wound so wide and so deep it will never heal.
Margo is on her own roller coaster; either sobbing and carrying on like a madwoman, or blanketed under a thick layer of Valium—a new drug the doctor calls a miracle for overwrought women. I thought when the shock wore off and the funeral was behind us, she would improve. If anything, she’s gotten worse. Her hysterics frighten the twins so much, I personally deliver a Valium to her every six hours. At least when she’s huddled alone in her bed, unwashed and unmoving, Walden isn’t wild-eyed with panic.
The Myth of Perpetual Summer Page 22
