by Amy Brashear
“It has to be someone local,” Karen says in the locker room while we change for PE. “Why didn’t Nancy and her family try to escape when they were locked in the bathroom? Why didn’t they fight?”
“Fear,” I say.
“Fear? I’d hope that if I was in that situation, I wouldn’t just be willing to be led to slaughter.”
Slamming my locker shut, I head for the door.
“Carly, what’s wrong with you?” she asks.
But I walk right out of there. I’m not in the mood for what-ifs.
As the winter sun sets, the people of Holcomb gather on the Finney County Courthouse lawn in Garden City. The entire town is here. Mom, next to her Junior League ladies. Asher, with his teammates. Dad’s in the courthouse, speaking with Judge Tate.
Since Monday, Dad’s been quiet. Too quiet. I don’t want to think about where this is going, even though I already have a hunch.
I’m standing next to our county’s small version of the Statue of Liberty when Mary Claire runs over, grabs me by the arm, and pulls me toward the press line. Karen is there, giggling and flirting with the photographers. I pull away and shake my head.
The temperature’s cold enough to snow. My ears are red and my feet are numb. I blow on my hands for warmth.
“They’re coming!” someone yells.
Two dark sedans turn the corner onto 8th Street and pull right to the curb. The crowd falls silent. Mary Claire grabs my right hand. The doors open and flashbulbs brighten the dark sky.
In shackles, the two men shuffle past us—past the friends, family, acquaintances of the Clutters. But there are so many others here whom I don’t recognize. So many curious individuals. Agent Dewey escorts the shorter one, but that’s all I can see. Reporters swarm after them, shoving Mary Claire and me aside. The courthouse doors slam in the reporters’ faces.
After a few minutes, the crowd scatters, leaving behind pop bottles and candy wrappers.
It’s not as dramatic as I thought it would be. I expected something . . . different. This didn’t take away any of the pain. There is no closure.
CHAPTER FORTY-five
Mom’s cooking is cause for concern.
Asher and I sit at the table, watching Mom burn hamburgers and French fries. Dad reaches into the fridge and pulls out four glass bottles of Coke. He breathes deeply and loudly. Mom jumps back from the stove, barely missing the grease flying from the hot pan.
“I give up! How about hot fudge sundaes for dinner and hamburgers and French fries for dessert?” Mom asks, heading for the liquor cabinet.
“Sounds good to me,” Asher says, licking his lips.
After mixing herself a martini, Mom scoops vanilla ice cream into glass dishes while Dad sits at the table sipping his Coke. He looks as if someone has died.
“Dad, what’s wrong?” I ask, even though I know the answer.
“I have some news,” he says.
Of course you do, I think. I’ve been here before. We all have.
Three years ago, Dad sat us down in the living room of our row house across from Washington Square Park and delivered the exact same words.
Mom was already lying on the couch. She had a cold compress on her forehead. Asher and I were scared.
It turned out we had reason to be. Dad told us we were moving. To Kansas.
Where the heck was Kansas?
Asher ran to the bookshelf and looked it up in an atlas. Kansas, the rectangular state in the middle of the country. Landlocked. Hours to get anywhere. No trees. All wind. The only people I knew from Kansas were Laura Ingalls Wilder and Dorothy Gale. Frontier women. I was a city girl.
We didn’t have to ask Dad the reason. We were moving because of Frank Beggett. The name we agreed never to utter. The name of the man who murdered a teenage girl; the name of the killer my father exonerated. So much of the evidence seemed to prove he committed the crime. Very little didn’t. But Dad was like a broken record during the trial, repeating the same two words over and over: “Police misconduct.” In the end, that was all the jury remembered. The press had a field day. A travesty of justice.
Later, Mom started drinking. Threw a fit. The word divorce was whispered. A trial separation was brought up as well.
“You go; we’ll move in with Mother,” my mom spat.
“Why does it have to be Kansas?” Asher asked.
“Because I know Kansas,” Dad explained.
This was the first we’d heard of it.
Turned out he’d spent summers near the Colorado border there with his great-aunt Lucille and uncle Olin. He had a cousin who was leaving the “four-seasons-in-one-day climate” for Arizona. Dad wouldn’t give the cousin’s name, which made me suspicious. Maybe the cousin was an outlaw. Maybe that was why Dad had never mentioned Kansas. Especially since this mysterious cousin told Dad about all the small towns “in need of a fine defense attorney.” The point being: it was a perfect opportunity. Dad could relax. Take things slow.
And that was that.
It was my freshman year. Asher was in eighth grade. School had already started. None of that mattered. Not even Mom’s empty threats to leave him.
Case closed.
Now, here in Kansas, here in our new home, Mom walks over and sits beside Dad. He takes Mom’s hand.
“What’s going on?” I ask.
“I’ve been asked by Judge Tate to represent one of the accused,” he says.
My body turns to ice. “You’re going to get them off,” I say.
“Carly, now—”
“How could you?” I shout.
“Carly—”
“Why you?”
“Somebody has to do it,” he says.
“But not you,” I plead. I’m crying now. Dad hands me a napkin to blow my nose. Taking a deep breath, I look at him and ask, “Which one?”
It probably doesn’t matter which one, not really. But to me, it does. They confessed. In the paper Dick Hickock claimed that Perry Smith pulled the trigger and cut Mr. Clutter’s throat. If you had to defend one, wouldn’t you want to defend the one who didn’t pull the trigger and cut a man’s throat? Dick Hickock. I want my dad to say Dick Hickock. I think of Landry. I met Dick Hickock’s mother.
“Which one?” I ask again. “Which one?”
“Perry Smith,” Dad whispers, staring at the floor.
Mom is crying, too. I don’t blame her.
Maybe all those people back in New York City were right to hate Dad. How could he do this to me—to us—again? I grab my coat and my bike from the garage and head straight for Mary Claire’s.
It’s at least a twelve-minute bike ride out to her farm. My knees ache.
All I can think about is my father standing beside Perry Smith. He’s a traitor. He betrayed our family by saying yes. From now on his name will be spoken in the same breath as Benedict Arnold and Judas Iscariot. Judas took thirty pieces of silver in exchange for handing over Jesus with a kiss. Benedict Arnold nearly lost the Revolutionary War by siding with England against the United States. Arthur Fleming broke his promise to his family to free a cold-blooded killer.
What will people do to my dad when they find out?
Dad says he has no choice, that Judge Tate is forcing him to defend Perry Edward Smith. The charge is capital murder—death by hanging.
Forcing him? I don’t buy it. Everybody has a choice.
Dick and Perry had a choice that night back in November.
Liar.
I stand in front of Mary Claire’s front door at least ten minutes before I have enough courage to knock. I turn back to the road and shiver, blowing into my numb hands. It’s dark and cold.
The door squeaks open and a burst of hot air hits my back.
“Carly, what are you doing here?” Mary Claire asks. “It’s late. Carly, what’s wrong?”
“It’s bad. Like, real bad,” I say.
She closed the door behind us, wrapping her arms around herself. “What’s bad?”
“If I tell you, you’ll look at me differently from now on. I just know it.”
“Carly, you’re scaring me,” she says.
I don’t look her in the eye. I can’t. I’m ashamed.
“What did you do?” she asks, rubbing her hands on her arms.
“I didn’t do anything—it was my dad.”
“Your dad?”
The door swings open. It’s Mrs. Haas. “Girls, come inside, you’ll catch your death. Carly, what are you—?”
“I’ll explain later, Mom,” Mary Claire interrupts, dragging me inside, up the stairs, and down the hall to her room. The warmth feels so good. I flop down on her bed. She joins me. We lie side by side. She grabs my hand and interlocks her fingers with mine.
“Now, will you tell me?” she says.
Looking at the ceiling, I tell her. I tell her what Dad said at dinner. I tell her how I feel. I tell her that I can’t take it. I tell her how scared I am to go to school. I tell her I’m afraid of what people will say, think . . . do. I tell her everything.
My stomach growls. I didn’t eat my hot fudge sundae for dinner or my burned hamburger for dessert.
Mary Claire runs downstairs and comes back with a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and a glass of milk.
“Here,” she says, handing me the plate.
“Thanks,” I say, tearing off the crust. I like to eat that part last.
“So, your dad’s going to represent Perry,” she says.
I nod.
“Carly, I’m sorry,” she says.
“Things are going to be different, aren’t they?” I ask.
“No,” she says, shaking her head. But she’s looking at my glass of milk.
“You’re not a very good liar.”
She flashes me a sad smile. “I don’t claim to be.”
I sit the empty plate on her nightstand and hold the glass of milk with both hands. “Of all the lawyers in all the towns, Judge Tate had to choose my dad.”
“I guess your dad’s the best,” she says.
“I wish he wasn’t.”
She’s quiet for a moment. “You’re not going to be alone. I’ll stand by your side.”
“Will you?”
“Promise,” she says, holding out her pinkie. “You’re my best friend.”
I wrap my pinkie around hers. “Thanks,” I whisper, my chest heavy.
There’s a knock at the door.
“Carly, honey?” Mrs. Haas says. “Your dad’s downstairs.”
Of course she called him. I trudge down the stairs. Dad stands in the entryway, waiting for me. I turn and wave good-bye to Mary Claire. She waves her pinkie back, affirming her promise to me that life isn’t going to change tomorrow. Even though I want to believe her, I can’t. Human nature always gets in the way.
CHAPTER FORTY-six
“So, it’s true, your dad’s representing one of the murderers?” Karen asks the moment I walk into the school cafeteria the next day.
Of course she knows. Audrey, the deputy’s daughter, told her. Or maybe she found out some other way. By now, everyone knows. The ugly truth is on everyone’s lips. Dad is the public defender for Perry Smith, alleged murderer.
According to our house’s resident traitor, the word alleged makes all the difference.
I don’t answer Karen. I don’t have to.
Quickly, I eat lunch. Placing my tray on the stack, I head for the restroom. Usually, it’s very noisy right after lunch, but today it’s undeniably quiet in the hall. And that’s when I see them. There they are, standing outside the girls’ restroom. The bullies. Some I don’t even recognize. Some I do. I’m not even scared. I try to walk to my next class but they surround me.
It unfolds as if I’m watching a movie I’ve already seen. Where a nudge turns into a push and that push turns into a shove and then the teachers descend. Without asking any questions, the adults decide who’s “responsible” for the fight. I’m one of the guilty ones. I sit in the principal’s office with the other delinquents, all because of my dad and his inability to tell Judge Tate no.
CHAPTER FORTY-seven
“Trust me, they won’t come,” I tell Mom.
She’s cutting open a box containing a belated Christmas present Aunt Trudy sent us. It’s a film projector. It’s amazing. But I feel nothing.
“Nonsense,” Mom says.
I’ve felt the ramifications of my father’s actions. My mom has, too. I see the women whispering behind her back at the grocery store and at the department store in Garden. I’ve even noticed that Mom hasn’t received the amount of invites she normally receives this time of year.
Dad says capital murder cases take months to plan. Even though they confessed, they still have to plead their innocence—or for their life.
Rope costs less than a dollar at the hardware store or you can go to any farmer and they’d probably be willing to hand some over free of charge. Why don’t we save time and money?
“You invited them, right, Carly?” Mom asks.
“Yes, but that doesn’t mean that they’re going to come,” I say.
“They will—they’re your friends.”
Friends? No.
Mary Claire and I haven’t talked since we pinkie swore to stay friends. Karen is back to her usual snide self. Seth rolls his eyes when he sees me. And Landry’s moved back to Olathe.
“They love this movie, don’t they?” Mom asks, pulling out the reel from another cardboard box.
“Yes,” I say.
“Then they’ll come.”
Last December, thirteen months ago, they came and watched it on our brand-new color TV. Color TVs are expensive, $495 each. Mary Claire doesn’t even have one. The TV Guide had a huge advertisement: The Wizard of Oz in Technicolor, a Christmas Season Special on CBS. It’s been on TV before, but we’d never known any difference. When Dorothy enters Munchkinland, it goes from black-and-white to Technicolor, but you can’t see the change on a black-and-white TV.
Mom remembers seeing it in the theaters back in 1939. She says it was fantastic on the big screen, and everyone gasped when the color changed on the screen. She says it was the greatest movie she ever saw in a theater—next to Gone with the Wind. So, needless to say, Mom was overjoyed to receive this present from her sister—just the ticket to get back in people’s good graces. Aunt Trudy sent us a projector and The Wizard of Oz on 16mm reel in a tin can to watch anytime we want. Funny that I can count on Aunt Trudy more than Mary Claire.
Mom made me send out invitations.
She thought it was a good idea to get all of us girls together before we were too busy with homework and 4-H projects. I called each one personally when I didn’t receive any RSVPs. They didn’t flat-out say no, which Mom took as a sign that maybe everything would be fine. But it wasn’t going to be. Mom has to know this. The front page has been covered with nothing but the murder case for the past few weeks.
hickock, smith waive early hearings
little emotion shown by prisoners in courtroom
attorneys named
smith admits being at clutter farm home
father blames hickock’s troubles on prison life
The one that really gets me is: i wish now they hadn’t let me out.
Me too. Me too.
Mom has Asher set up the equipment while I mix up some cherry Kool-Aid and lay out the store-bought cookies on a tray, and the cream cheese–cucumber sandwiches Mom remembered having as a child with tea.
“They’ll come,” Mom repeats for the hundredth time.
I start the movie anyway. Mom sits at the kitchen table, muttering angrily. I don’t know what she’s saying, but it doesn’t matter. She figured it
out, too; they aren’t coming. They never were. I’m about to shut off the projector when there’s a knock at the door.
Karen stands there, staring at me, on the front porch.
“Don’t let her stand out in the cold,” Mom says.
“My mom said I better come. It would be rude not to,” Karen announces, taking off her coat.
Not even a hello.
Of all the girls I invited, Karen had to be the one who shows up.
Mom calls Asher to come restart the movie, which he does begrudgingly.
We sit side by side on the couch. Mom serves us punch. She even pulls out the popcorn maker.
“If Glenda said only bad witches are ugly; then why did she ask Dorothy if she was a good witch or a bad witch?” Karen asks, grabbing a handful of popcorn and jamming it into her mouth.
“I never thought about that,” I say.
“Listen, I was lying before. My mom didn’t make me come.”
“Then why are you here?” I ask.
“I drew the short straw. Mary Claire looked relieved that she wasn’t me,” she says.
“Why are you telling me this?” I ask.
“I think you should understand how this is going to go.”
“Going to go?” I echo, raising my voice.
“Do you girls need anything else?” Mom calls from the kitchen.
“No, Mrs. Fleming. We’re good,” Karen says.
We’re silent until Dorothy throws a bucket of water on the Wicked Witch of the West and she melts away. At that moment, Karen turns to me, puts her hand over mine, looks me dead in the eyes, and whispers, “Do you really think you’re wanted here? Can’t you see that you’re not? How much clearer do I need to make it? Your father has to see that, right?”
I nod. The funny thing is, I agree with her. I don’t understand why Dorothy was so keen on getting back to Kansas. Dorothy might think there’s no place like home, but to me, Kansas is lies, all lies.
Karen leaves before the movie is over. Mom asks if I think Karen had a good time. She doesn’t ask about me. I lie, too, and say she did. Mom’s still like Dorothy. She believes that if you click your heels together (and sip a martini) everything will be right as rain. I’m leaning toward the Wicked Witch.
