The Silence of Murder

by Dandi Daley Mackall

  I shove the door and go in. I’ve been here before. Every inch of this place holds a table, or chair, or dresser, or picture frame, or statue, or trinket. The smell of dust and must mixes with lemon and varnish.

  “May I help you?”

  May she? May anybody?

  God? I ask in my heart. May you help me? Is it a question? A plea? An antique prayer?

  I shake my head, then walk to a wooden banister and climb the stairs to the loft. It’s been transformed from a choir loft to period rooms. Dresses from the 1920s hang on a rack in front of the open room. Inside, there are helmets and uniforms from every war. Did their original owners kill people? Did they have sisters at home who would have died for them? Who believed they were heroes, no matter what they’d done?

  I sit on an army trunk tucked in front of a Japanese silkscreen room divider that splits the space in half, the West and the Orient. A bayonet hangs on the wall to the left, rifles and pistols in a glass case against the opposite wall.

  I want out. Out of my own century and into this one, the past. I don’t want the present, and I don’t want the future. “I can’t do this.” I say it out loud, even though there’s nobody to hear except God and me. I can’t prove Jeremy didn’t kill Coach Johnson. All I’ve done is wreck his chances for being found insane.

  Rita was helping Jeremy more than I was.

  26

  “Hope? Hope!”

  The shout jars me back to the present. I get up from the army trunk, walk to the balcony railing, and peer down. I know it’s Chase even before I see him. I turn away and slink back to the war room. I don’t want to see him. I don’t want to see anybody.

  But Chase must have spotted me. “Hope?” I hear his footsteps on the stairs. He barges into the past, my room, shattering the quiet here.

  “Go away.”

  “Hope, listen.…”

  I shake my head.

  “What did you do to your face?” He touches my cheek.

  It doesn’t hurt. I can’t feel it. Maybe I’ll never feel anything again. I brush away his finger.

  He sits down beside me on the trunk. “Talk to me.”

  “Go home, Chase. Leave me alone.” I stare at the floor, the wooden slats that let light peek through from below. Choirs used to sing here.

  “What happened?”

  I shake my head. “It’s over. I’m done.”

  “You don’t mean that. What about Jeremy? He needs you. And now you’ve got Caroline Johnson coming to court and reasonable doubt and—”

  “Wait. How did you know I was here?”

  “Rita,” he answers.

  “Rita?”

  “She called me, Hope. How else did you think I knew to come looking for you? She’s worried about you. She was afraid you might do something stupid.”

  This isn’t making sense. “Wait. Rita called you?”

  He smiles and nods. “Surprised me too. I don’t think I was her first choice. But she is worried about you. So am I. You can’t give up. I think things are looking better for Jeremy than they ever have.”

  “No. They’re not.” I shake my head and lower my voice. “Rita saw Jeremy that morning. Chase, he was trying to wash his bat.” I can see it in my head—Jeremy trying to get the bat into the sink, water and blood splashing, and that look, the wide-eyed look of being caught in the act. “Why would he do that if he hadn’t …?” But I can’t finish.

  “First of all, whatever Rita saw, Jeremy washing the bat, might never come out in court.”

  “If Rita has to testify, Keller will get it out of her.” My hand hurts, and I raise it to see why. My fingernails have left deep marks on my palm from the fist I must have been making.

  “Rita might surprise you. She kept it from you this long. My money’s on her keeping what she saw out of court.”

  Chase is right. Rita’s stronger than I am, a better match for the prosecutor. “Still … it doesn’t change what she saw.” I make the fist again. I want it to hurt.

  “What did she see?” Chase asks. “Jeremy cleaning his bat? So what? Who knows why he was doing it? Even you don’t know how his mind works all the time. Maybe he loved his bat so much that he couldn’t stand to have it dirty. Or maybe he was trying to cover up for somebody, to protect somebody.”

  “Like who? Caroline Johnson? They didn’t even like each other.”

  Chase shrugs. “Okay. So maybe he wasn’t trying to cover up for anybody. Maybe he just couldn’t stand having Coach’s blood on his bat.”

  That rings true to me. “Jeremy hates the sight of blood. Once when I got a nosebleed, I grabbed the nearest thing, a dish towel, to stop it. Jeremy made me throw it away, outside of our apartment.”

  “See?” Chase says, like I’ve proved him right. “Maybe that was why he tried to wash the bat. Or not. We don’t know, Hope, and we probably never will know. But it doesn’t prove anything. That’s all I’m saying. What Rita told you hasn’t changed anything. We’ve still got reasonable doubt. Jeremy still doesn’t have a motive for killing Coach, and Caroline Johnson still does. After Bob’s testimony, the jury could even believe that he had a motive.”

  “Bob? Why would he have a motive to kill Coach?” I can’t imagine Bob hurting anybody, not really.

  “Who knows?” Chase takes off one running shoe and dumps out a tiny pebble. He’s not wearing socks, and his shoes aren’t tied. “But if your mother was having some kind of love triangle thing going with Coach and Bob, that would give Bob a motive. I’m not saying he did it, just that he has a motive.”

  “And Jeremy doesn’t.” Relief, mixed with guilt, rushes over me. It’s hot, blazing hot, up in this loft. “Jeremy doesn’t have a motive.”

  “And,” Chase continues, the lines of his face deep and intense, as if he’s willing me to believe, “juries don’t like to convict without a motive, no matter what the law says about not needing to prove one. My dad’s always told me that people on a jury have to understand why someone would kill. That’s just human nature, and jurors are human.”

  I close my eyes. A picture comes to my mind of Jeremy about eight months ago, standing on top of a hill, ready to ride his sled. He’s the perfect image of innocence. It’s nighttime, and the stars are out in full force. I remember thinking that he looked close enough to heaven to touch it. And I thought about the song I’d heard in the car that day, a decade ago, the God song Jeremy “copied.” I’d give almost anything to hear that song now.

  “Jeremy couldn’t have done it,” I say quietly. I feel grief, a deep sorrow at having even for a minute believed that my brother could have committed murder. “I was ready to quit on him,” I admit, too ashamed to look at Chase.

  He wipes away whatever is on my cheek—blood, tears. “I doubt it.”

  I frown up at him.

  He shakes his head. “Not a chance. The Hope I know would never quit on Jeremy. I’ve seen the way you love your brother.”

  “But—”

  He puts his finger to my lips to stop words from coming out. Then he draws his fingertip across my bottom lip.

  I still feel his touch on my mouth, even after his finger is gone. Slowly, he leans in and presses his lips to mine, moving softly across the spot where his finger was. The heaviness in my body lifts until I feel like I’m floating. Around us, army uniforms, guns, and helmets watch as decades melt into each other, bringing us into the timeless group of lovers.

  “You up there! What’s going on?” Mrs. Gance, the owner, shouts, and stomps one foot, like we’re mice to be scared back into the walls.

  Chase and I break apart. He walks to the railing and calls down, “Sorry, ma’am! We were kissing.”

  “Chase!” I whisper, but it makes me grin.

  “In my store?” Mrs. Gance sounds horrified. “Well, you two can just skedaddle, you hear me? No kissing in my store!”

  “Sorry,” Chase says, running back to me and grabbing my hand to pull me up. “We must have missed that sign on the way in.”

  We thunde
r down the stairs and out the door. The sun is setting, and a flock of geese aim for it, honking. We stand on the sidewalk, facing each other. I’m pretty sure Chase is about to kiss me again. And if he doesn’t make the move, I will. We kiss again. I’ve closed my eyes without thinking about it, and I don’t want them closed, so I open them.

  T.J. is standing there. “What is this, some kind of joke?”

  I shove Chase away, so hard he nearly bumps into T.J. “T.J.? Wh-what are you doing here?”

  “Rita called me. She said you were going to do something crazy.” He glares at Chase, his brown eyes tiny dots filled with hate. “I guess she was right.” He turns his hate on me. “I just don’t understand why she had to bother me with it.”

  “Let’s go sit somewhere and talk, okay? I was upset … about the case, and Jeremy, and something Rita said that—”

  “I don’t care.” T.J. shakes his head.

  “Come on, T.J.,” Chase says, his voice calm. “We need to talk about this.”

  “Talk? I’m the one who made you help out Hope in the first place. You didn’t even want to.” He stabs the air at both of us. “I sure didn’t mean this! But I should have known. You are such a phony! You’re no better than all the rest of them. Your dad. Coach. Coach’s wife. And now Hope? Everybody treats you—and guys like you—like you’re kings. So what am I? Some cockroach? Just because I don’t have your money? Because I’m not cool?”

  “T.J., what do you—?” Chase tries.

  “I’ll bet you and Coach got a lot of laughs out of me and my family, didn’t you?”

  “If this is about the cookies,” Chase begins, “I said I was sorry. I don’t know what else I can say. And as for Hope and me, I’m sorry you—”

  “Right!” T.J. is screaming now. Two boys on bikes cross to the other side of the street, staring at us. “You’re sorry. So that fixes everything, then, doesn’t it? Do whatever you want, then say you’re sorry? Well, it doesn’t work that way! Some things you can’t take back! They’re done. Over. But they’re not, not really. And you can’t take them back!”

  I glance at Chase, who looks stunned to silence.

  “T.J., calm down,” I plead. “I’m sorry you’re hurt, but you’re scaring me. Can’t we talk?” I move toward him, but he steps backward.

  “No! We can’t talk. Don’t expect me to do handstands for you anymore either. I’m done! I’m done with the whole trial. And I hope your brother—!” He stops, choking on his own words. Then he turns and runs away, dashing into the street without looking.

  “T.J.!” I scream.

  A car slams its brakes and swerves to miss him. T.J. barely glances at it. The driver honks his horn, then takes off, tires squealing.

  I watch my friend disappear behind a row of houses.

  27

  I keep staring long after T.J.’s out of sight. “Chase, we have to go after him.”

  “That’s not a good idea, Hope.” He takes my hand. “Not now anyway. Give him time.” He starts walking toward my street, and I let myself be drawn along with him.

  “Why did he act like that?” I’ve never seen T.J. so upset, even when guys at school teased him or messed up his locker.

  “I told you he didn’t think of you as just a friend,” Chase says softly.

  “But it’s more than that. Do you think he’s really finished helping Jeremy?” I glance up at Chase, and he shrugs. “What did he mean about not being able to take things back?”

  Chase doesn’t answer for a minute. Then, without looking at me, without slowing down, he asks, “Hope, how well do you know T.J.?”

  “How well do I know him?” The question takes me by surprise. “T.J. was my first friend when we moved here. After the popular kids realized I wasn’t one of them, I didn’t have anybody at school. I don’t think I’d even noticed T.J.—and we had three classes together—until he brought in sea glass for a science project. I love sea glass. I used to make necklaces and earrings out of it. He walked me home that day, to see the glass I’d brought with me from Chicago. After that, he’d bring me a few pieces, and we’d hang out together. We went on walks, or we went cricking—you know, trolling creeks for fossils or cool rocks. It was nice to have somebody to talk to at school. I’ve eaten every lunch in the cafeteria with T.J. for the last three years.”

  “But how well do you really know him, Hope? And think about it before you answer.”

  “Why are you asking me this?” My stomach is twisting. I don’t want to answer Chase’s question. How well do I know T.J.? We don’t talk the way Chase and I do. After three years, I still don’t know how he really feels about being labeled one of the weird kids at school. He never tells me anything personal—like about the team making fun of his mom, about Coach joining in. He never said a word about going to the barn, not even when he knew I was trying to get a timeline fix on how Coach spent mornings at the stable.

  On the other hand, how open have I been with T.J.? I never talk to him about Jeremy or Rita or what it’s like for me not having a dad, moving all the time. “What are you getting at, Chase?”

  “I’m not getting at anything. It’s just … Well, if you need another suspect for reasonable doubt, I nominate that guy.”

  “You can’t be serious!”

  Chase’s phone rings, cutting me off. He checks the number, then swears under his breath. “I have to answer this.” He turns away slightly, and into the phone says, “Hey, Dad.” He glances over at me. “Yes, she is.” He holds the phone away from his ear while his dad screams at him. When the yelling lets up, Chase puts the phone to his ear and says, “Okay. I’ll be right home.”

  He hangs up and stares into space a second, and then smiles over at me, like he’s apologizing. “Sorry I have to go like this, Hope. My dad is on the edge. I don’t want to push him over.”

  He takes the time to walk me home first. When we’re a block away, he asks, “You okay?”

  “I’m pretty confused … but I’m not going to do anything stupid, if that’s what you mean.” I squeeze his hand, loving the feel of his fingers wrapped around my palm. “Thanks for finding me, Chase.”

  “My pleasure.” He stops in front of my house. “And don’t worry about T.J. He’s a big boy. He can take care of himself. You’ve got enough on your mind with Jeremy. He’s the one who needs you now. And he’s lucky to have you.” He leans down and kisses me goodbye. “Call me if you need me.”

  A glow from inside the house spills over the lawn. It flashes on and off as the TV images change. I guess we didn’t break the television. There’s no sign of Rita, but her car is here. The last thing I want to do is talk to her.

  So I do something I haven’t done in way too long. I dig out the lawn mower. It starts on the first try, although I don’t know how much gas I’ve got.

  Mowing our lawn is tough going because of the weeds. But once I make a clean swipe the length of the front yard, it feels great looking back and seeing what I’ve done. Maybe that’s why I like mowing. That, plus the fact that it gives me time to think. Mostly, my thoughts keep bouncing back to the way my hand felt in Chase’s, the way his finger felt on my lip, the way his lips felt on mine. I can almost feel him here with me as I walk back and forth across the grass, bringing order to the chaos of our lawn.

  Then, just like that, my mind flashes back to T.J. outside the antiques store. His hair is wild, his eyes too deep into his skull, like somebody pitched them there too hard. I don’t want this image of T.J. in my head. I try to picture him in his Panther jersey at a ball game. I can see Jer in his uniform and T.J. in his, but I don’t have a single memory of Jeremy and T.J. together. Why is that? T.J.’s never been mean or rude to Jer, like some of the guys were. But he and Jeremy have never been friends either. I accepted that. Maybe I shouldn’t have.

  My mind spirals down to Jeremy, and a whole tangled ball of nerve endings shoots through my brain. Jeremy. I miss him. I miss walking into his room and plopping onto his bed so I could tell him everything about my d
ay at school while he placed one of his jars on a shelf. I miss “talking” with Jeremy. He’d write his calligraphy almost as fast as I could talk. Sometimes we’d sit outside, each of us with a notebook, and we’d write miniletters to each other, exchanging them, then writing again. My handwriting always looked like somebody was elbowing me, but Jeremy’s was perfect, each letter a piece of art.

  I haven’t seen a note from Jeremy in weeks. They let me visit him in jail twice, with a plate of glass between us and two phones, which didn’t help much because Jeremy wouldn’t pick his up. I tried writing notes and holding them to the glass window: “Jer, pick up the phone!” “Are you OK?” “Write me!” Jeremy smiled at me and touched the glass with both hands. But he wouldn’t write.

  By the time I finish mowing, it’s pretty dark, but I go ahead and weed anyway. My eyes are used to the dark. I’ve caught Rita peeking out from the living room window a couple of times and from the back door once. I act like I don’t see her.

  I’m almost finished outside when the front door opens and Rita steps out. She’s wearing too-tight blue jeans and a peasant blouse tugged down over both shoulders.

  She stops when she gets to me. I’m kneeling by the sidewalk, and I brace myself for Rita’s attack. But she gazes around the yard and says, “It looks real nice, don’t it, Hope? Real, real nice.”

  I stare after her, still waiting for the punch line. It doesn’t come.

  When I go inside, my arms and shoulders cry out for a long, hot bubble bath. I start the water, then remember to close the shades and curtains. I’m struggling with the living room curtains when I catch sight of something white across the street. It’s the pickup truck.

  How long has it been there? Was someone watching me while I mowed? I shiver, thinking about it, picturing it. What if they were waiting for Rita to leave?

  Fast as I can, I lock the doors. Then I edge toward the window and peer out.

  Nothing moves.

  No cars drive by.