A Thread of Truth

by Marie Bostwick

  I gasped and Bethany jumped up and down. “Mommy, you look bee-ooo-tee-ful!” she exclaimed, drawing out the adjective the way I always did when she modeled an outfit from her dress-up trunk.

  And it was true. I did look beautiful. Like me, but better. Sitting in the chair, I’d been a little nervous, afraid that the woman would overdo it with the makeup and I’d end up looking like a clown, but she’d used a light hand, applying just a little blusher to accent my cheekbones and jaw, a soft black/brown mascara on my lashes, and a peachy colored shadow that magically made my eyes appear larger and deeper in color, and, of course, the golden peach lipstick that was supposed to change my life.

  And now that I think about it, in a way, it did. Just not in the way I’d planned.

  Pleased with the results, I ended up buying the lipstick, mascara, and blush. The eye shadow was pretty and fun for a special occasion, but I knew I’d never really use it. With two children under the age of six, any makeup that couldn’t be applied in two minutes while holding a toddler on my hip was destined to gather dust in a drawer.

  I paid for everything and looped the bag on the handle of the stroller, where Bobby sat half-asleep with his head lolling to one side. Bethany skipped as we headed for the car. Maybe it’s silly to get excited over a little makeup, but I was. I felt really pretty and was anxious to get home and show off my new look for Hodge.

  Walking down the center of the mall, one of those great-looking men who is always trying to sell hand cream approached. He whistled low and said, “Lady, I’d try to sell you some of this but, honestly, I don’t think anything could make you look any better than you do right now. You are beautiful.”

  With two kids hanging on me, I knew he was just engaging in a little harmless flirtation, but I couldn’t help blushing a little at the compliment. It was nice to be noticed by an attractive man, even if he really was going to try to sell me something.

  Bobby woke up for a moment and looked at the man, a little dazed. “Daddy?” he questioned.

  The man grinned and winked. “No, kid. But I sure wouldn’t mind.”

  I rolled my eyes, grabbed Bethany by the hand, and continued on my way.

  At home, I put Bobby down for his nap. Bethany sat down to watch an episode of SpongeBob SquarePants while I started making dinner, a southwestern-style chicken dish I knew Hodge liked.

  When he left that morning he said he’d be late, but I heard the mechanical groan of the automatic garage door a little before four. The sound caused me a pang of anxiety. Hodge coming home early meant he wanted to check up on me and perform one of his surprise inspections, the kind I never managed to pass. If I’d been thinking clearly, I’d have rubbed off the makeup, knowing he wouldn’t be in the mood for me to surprise him with a new look.

  Instead I ran into the bathroom, straightening up the towels that were hanging askew on the rack and rinsing the slimy soap off the dish, things that drove Hodge crazy, and yelled out to Bethany, “Pick up your toys! Quick! Daddy’s home!”

  I heard the car door slam and I sped into the kitchen to scoop up discarded bits of onion and peppers from the cutting board.

  Hodge came in through the garage, scowling. “It smells like garlic in here. How many times do I have to tell you to turn on the fans when you cook? What the hell is that on your face?”

  I lifted a hand to my lips, remembering the lipstick, and swallowed hard. “Oh. I got some new makeup at the mall today. Do you like it?” I tried to sound casual, knowing from experience that signs of fear only fanned the flames of his anger.

  He let his briefcase drop to the floor with a thud and loosened his tie with one hand. “No. I don’t like it. Why would you think I’d like it?”

  He slapped me hard across the face. I told him I was sorry, that I’d take it off, but it didn’t do any good. He slapped me over and over, calling me names that I don’t say and won’t write; names that no one should ever be called.

  Bethany heard the noise and ran into the kitchen with her eyes blazing. Usually when Hodge started beating me, the kids ran for cover. That’s what I’d told them to do when Daddy “lost his temper.” Hard to believe now that’s what I used to call it. What kind of confused message was I sending to them, giving them the idea that a man who hits a woman has just lost his temper? I’d never tell them that now. I’ll never tell them that again.

  Seeing what was going on, Bethany ran to Hodge and pounded on his leg with her little fists. “Don’t you say that to Mommy! Don’t you call her names! She looks beautiful!”

  Hodge looked down and bellowed, “Bethany, get out of here! Ivy, tell her to get out of here right now!”

  I did as I was told, but Bethany wouldn’t budge.

  “No! You stop hurting her! She’s beautiful! We don’t need you. The man at the mall said she was beautiful. He wants to be our daddy, so we don’t need you anymore!”

  Hodge spun around and started slapping Bethany, screaming at the top of his lungs and demanding to know who the man was, what was his name, and calling her the same horrible names he’d called me, saying she was growing up to be a little tramp just like her mother.

  I was screaming, too, begging Hodge to stop, then demanding it. When that didn’t work, I grabbed a heavy crystal flower vase from off the kitchen counter, dumped the carnations on the floor, and held it up high over my head. “Stop it, Hodge! Leave her alone! Stop it or I swear to God, I’ll kill you. I’ll kill you if you touch her again!”

  Hodge spun around to face me. When he did, I screamed for Bethany to run, run into the bathroom and to take Bobby with her. She hesitated for a moment, but when I yelled, “Do it!” she obeyed. I heard Bobby cry, mad at being woken from his nap so abruptly, followed by the slam of a door.

  Hodge sneered and walked slowly toward me, forcing me to back around the kitchen island, circling me like a panther. Tears streaming down my face, I told him to back off, but he lunged for me. We struggled for the vase, but he was stronger.

  He ripped it from my hands, then grabbed my left wrist, pinned my hand down on the granite countertop, and smashed the vase down on it as hard as he could, breaking my little finger and shattering the top of the vase. Shards of glass cut my hand.

  I was bleeding, in pain, furious. It was one thing for him to beat me, but when he hit Bethany, something inside me snapped.

  Reaching my right hand across the countertop, I grabbed the jagged base of the broken vase and sprang at Hodge, cutting his face with the broken glass. That part of his story was true: The thin, white scar on Hodge’s face was my doing.

  He wasn’t expecting me to come at him like that. He cursed, let go of my wrist, and grabbed his bleeding cheek. I saw my opening and ran toward the bathroom, screaming for Bethany to open the door. She did. I had just enough time to run inside and lock the door before Hodge reached it, pounding and bellowing at me to open the door.

  You know the rest of the story—most of it—all except the part when, sitting on my lap on the bathroom floor with the angry red outline of her father’s fingers still visible on her cheek, my little girl put her arms around my neck and sobbed, not from the pain of the slap but from a childish, undeserved guilt she felt at having given me away, innocently sharing the image of another man’s interest in me, not understanding the consequences that her actions might bring.

  And with Hodge raging on the opposite side of the locked door, and my baby sobbing in my arms, I remembered another little girl, sobbing her guilt into the branches of an old oak tree, and realized how easily history can repeat itself.

  38

  Ivy Peterman

  During the night the thunderstorm knocked out the power.

  Abigail’s urgent knock woke me. “Aren’t you up yet? Arnie just called, wanting to know where you are.”

  I rolled over and saw the radio alarm clock blinking twelve. The last time I’d looked at it, the clock said three-forty. I felt rummy, almost drugged. “What time is it?”

  “Nine twenty-six. Doesn’t the
court reconvene at ten?”

  It did.

  I jumped out of bed and asked Abbie to call Arnie and explain what happened, and I told her to go ahead, saying I’d meet everybody at the courthouse as soon as I could.

  I showered, dressed, put on my makeup, grabbed my car keys, and ran out the door at nine minutes before ten. Naturally, the car decided not to start. I ran the four blocks to the courthouse and arrived just as the clock was striking ten. My blue pumps will never be the same.

  In the courtroom, Arnie was standing lookout. He closed his eyes and sighed with relief when I came in. “Thank God! The judge will be here any second.”

  “Sorry.” Abigail and Evelyn gave me an encouraging wave from the gallery and I waved back. “Hey, where’s Franklin? And Margot and Charlie?”

  “They’ll be here soon. There’ve been some new developments. Good ones. When we got to the office last night there was a…”

  The bailiff announced the arrival of the Honorable Joseph Maynard. Arnie leaned toward me and whispered, “I don’t have time to explain now, but whatever I say to you, just go with it. Okay?”

  I was the first witness. I told my story just the way Arnie and I had discussed, beginning with how I’d come to the Atlantis Club looking for a job and ending with the story about the lipstick that changed my life and brought me to New Bern.

  Arnie asked a lot of questions, more than he had when we rehearsed my testimony. I had the feeling he was stalling for time and remembering what he’d said about following his lead, I dragged out my answers until it was time to break for lunch.

  As soon as the judge left, Arnie turned on his cell phone, waving off my questions until he could listen to his messages. With the phone at his ear, Arnie’s face broke into a broad smile. He clutched his hand into a triumphant fist over his head, pulled it down sharply like a trucker tugging on his horn, and hissed, “Yesssss!”

  “What?”

  Arnie grabbed my arm. “Come with me.”

  Leaving Abigail and Evelyn to follow, Arnie hurried me to the Grill on the Green. Charlie was standing at the front door. “In the back room,” he said. “I didn’t think you’d want anyone from the other side to know she’s here.”

  “You thought right.”

  Still tugging my arm, Arnie led the way through the restaurant to the back room that was usually reserved for private parties. I came through the door and heard a voice from the past.

  “Well, bless my bloomers! There she is, in person. Miss Cracklin’ Ivy Rose.”

  I covered my mouth with my hand and laughed. “And there you are, in person,” I echoed. “Miss Carmel Sunday!”

  Everybody—Charlie, Evelyn, Franklin, Abigail, Arnie, and I—sat at the big round table watching Carmel Sunday enjoy the lunch Charlie had prepared just for her.

  Carmel clutched a hand to her ample bosom and groaned with pleasure. “Oh!” she exclaimed through a mouth full of food. “This is the most unbelievable thing I have ever eaten in my life! What is it?”

  Evelyn gave Charlie a coquettish glance and answered for him. “That would be the duck that makes food critics cry for joy.”

  “Amazing,” she murmured, closing her eyes as she swallowed.

  “Isn’t it?” Evelyn agreed. “That’s the recipe Charlie pulls out of his back pocket when he’s trying to impress the ladies.”

  Carmel opened her eyes wide and turned to Charlie. “It works! I am duly impressed.” Charlie blushed.

  Arnie cleared his throat. “Can we continue this meeting of the gourmet society later? We’ve got to be back at court in fifteen minutes. Carmel, remember what we talked about. Just answer my questions and then tell exactly what you saw that day at the club. No embellishments. Stick to that and you’ll make a very believable witness.”

  Carmel put down her fork and sat up straight in her chair, a hen with ruffled feathers. “Well, I should hope so. Hey! I may take my clothes off for a living, but I’m as honest as they come. Check my record; the only thing you’ll find there is a traffic ticket from 1988.”

  She turned to Evelyn to explain. “The cop said I was going forty in a twenty-five, but I swear I wasn’t. You tell that to the judge, Arnie! I’m an honest person. Nobody can say I’m not.”

  Arnie nodded and tugged at his shirt collar. “I’m sure he’ll realize that, Carmel.”

  “Carmel, thank you so much for doing this,” I said. “Really, this is going to be a huge help.”

  “Don’t mention it,” she replied with a wave of her fork. “You were such a sweet kid. The minute I saw you, I knew you were in the wrong place, but what could I do about it? After you left with Hodge that day, I wondered if you weren’t jumping out of the frying pan and into the fire.”

  She took a last bite of duck and dabbed her mouth with her napkin. “When my friend Sheila told me some people had come to the old neighborhood wanting to talk to anybody who remembered you, I called as soon as I could. Sorry I didn’t hear about it sooner, but I just got back from visiting my sister in Idaho. Sure am glad to be back. Don’t know what Vesta sees in that place. There’s not a shopping mall within fifty miles. Just scenery. Gave me the creeps.” She shuddered.

  There was a knock on the door. Margot came in, grinning from ear to ear. “I was right! It all checked out! Annie just called from her car. She’s on her way. She’ll be here a little after one and she’s bringing company with her.”

  Arnie jumped up so quickly, the chair he was sitting in fell over. He grabbed Margot around the waist and spun her in a circle. “You’re a genius!”

  “What’s going on?” I asked. “Who’s on the way?”

  “Annie Fielding, the forensic accountant we’ve been working with. I’m going to put her on the stand right after Carmel.”

  “Wait a minute,” I said. “I’m confused. I thought Donna Walsh was going to testify after Carmel.”

  Arnie put Margot down and picked up his briefcase. “Change of plans. Carmel? Ivy? Let’s go. Franklin, I haven’t had time to prep Annie; can you do the cross? Margot will fill you in on the details. Can you be ready to go by two-fifteen?”

  Franklin ran a hand over his shirtfront, making certain his necktie was smooth. “Absolutely.”

  “Franklin, are you sure this is a good idea?” Abigail said. “It’s another week until your doctor appointment. You know what the doctor said about avoiding stress.”

  “Abbie, the only thing that’s been causing me stress lately is having to sit on my hands while Arnie gets to have all the fun. I like being a lawyer! I’m good at it. I know I was overdoing it before, but prepping and cross-examining one witness is not going to propel me to cardiac arrest. Besides, I have to do it. This is for Ivy. And the children.”

  “All right,” Abigail assented. “Just don’t get too worked up.”

  “I won’t.” Franklin picked up his wife’s hand and held it to his lips. “I promise. Getting worked up is something I save for you, my love.”

  Margot’s eyebrows shot up as she tried, unsuccessfully, to stifle one of her signature giggles. I didn’t blame her. Apparently returning to work wasn’t the only activity Franklin hadn’t waited to clear with the doctor. No wonder Abigail seemed so cheery recently. I gave Evelyn a knowing look across the table. She raised her hand to her mouth, trying to cover a smile.

  Abigail glared at the three of us, making Margot giggle again.

  “Margot,” she said, carefully enunciating her words, “shut up.”

  Carmel was an excellent witness, clear in memory and quick with her answers.

  Hodge’s lawyer tried to get her to backpedal, suggesting that it would be impossible for her to remember all the details of something that happened so many years ago, but Carmel countered back, “Not for me. I’ve got a mind like a steel trap. I can still remember everything I learned in school: state capitals, algebra formulas, you name it.”

  “Is that right?” George Caldwell asked with a smirk. “Well, how about this: Who was the twelfth vice-president of the Un
ited States?”

  “Millard Fillmore,” Carmel answered proudly. “From 1849 to 1850. Then, the president, Zachary Taylor, died and Fillmore took over as president, but that was it for him. He never got elected president on his own.” George frowned, realizing he’d gambled and lost.

  Carmel continued, “That’s what I’m saying. I’m like an elephant. Never forget. And I remember everything that happened when Ivy showed up at the club. I knew Hodge already. He was one of the regulars. Always buying drinks and girls for those doctors, but plenty of times he came in on his own. Even after he took Ivy home with him, he used to show up at least a couple of times…”

  “Thank you, Miss Sunday,” Caldwell said grimly. “You’re excused.”

  Carmel winked at me as she left the witness box and I smiled. She’d done well. As she’d been speaking I’d seen the judge glance at me a couple of times with an expression that seemed to be wondering if maybe, just maybe, I might be telling the truth.

  Hodge and his lawyers were starting to look grim. Carmel’s testimony hurt them, but it was Annie Fielding who would deliver the knockout punch. And she did it without ever taking the stand.

  At two-fifteen on the nose, Franklin entered the courtroom, followed by Margot, and a petite brunette in a navy blue shirtdress, Annie Fielding, and two men I didn’t recognize, who wore dark suits and even darker expressions.

  Arnie requested and was granted a moment to talk with his colleague.

  “Change of plan. I’m going to put Ivy back on the stand,” Franklin said.

  Arnie looked puzzled. “Yeah? You don’t think it would be better to go straight to Annie?”

  Franklin shook his head. “No. If things work out the way I hope they will, we may not even need to call Annie. We’ve got to do this in such a way that there can be no question of Ivy’s involvement. We have to show she had no idea what was going on.”

  “That should be easy. I don’t have any idea what’s going on. What is going on?”