by Laura McNeal
“What, sweetie?”
“How come you were calling Mrs. Harper?”
Clara thought she heard her mother inhaling. “Oh, all these weeks I just couldn’t stand not knowing what you were doing, and your father wouldn’t talk to me and you wouldn’t talk to me, so...” Her voice trailed off for a moment. “So Sylvia was nice enough to tell me what you’ve been doing.” She paused. “Perhaps now I could just deal with you direct?”
“Yeah,” Clara said. “Maybe that would be better.” But she had to hand it to Mrs. Harper, who’d been pretty good at digging up the facts. “What time is it over there?”
“Just past seven. At night. It’s dark out.”
In Jemison, it was still bright and sunny. In Spain, it was already night. It was like a different universe, Clara thought. She didn’t know what to say, and pretty soon her mother was saying how much she loved Clara, and Clara knew it was time to get off the phone. “Are you ever coming back home?” she asked.
“Well, I won’t stay here forever, sweetie, but I’m going to finish out the school year, I know that. I like it here. If you were here, too, it’d be heaven.”
When her mother said this, something small and hard in Clara made her say, “Someone named Lydia’s been calling Dad up. Lydia Upchurch Elgin.”
There was a short pause. “Yes, she’d called a couple of times before I left.”
“Well, Dad seems kind of hyped about it. He’s out jogging right now, trying to get himself in shape.”
Another pause. “Your father and I are legally separated now, sweetie. So I guess we shouldn’t be surprised if he begins to get out a little bit.”
Legally separated. Clara stared out Mrs. Harper’s kitchen window and imagined a thick wall of law books with her parents sitting quietly on either side.
Her mother tried to sound cheerful when she told Clara she would call soon, but Clara could tell she was not cheerful. She wasn’t cheerful at all.
30
WOULD-BE BOYFRIENDS
Saturday night, Amos’s mother was working at Bing’s, Liz was out with friends, and Bruce had to go somewhere with his father. Amos, without really planning to, walked to the school, arrived a few minutes early for The Smiling Gumshoe, and slipped into one of the vacant seats in the last row. He knew the plot now, since he’d come the night before. Last night, when he’d seated himself, he’d had the definite sensation that he was being looked at. He’d scanned the theater, fearing he would see Eddie Tripp. But there, two rows ahead, smiling demurely back at him, had been an old lady in a black spangly sweater. She’d actually waved, and Amos, not knowing what to do, had waved uncertainly back.
The houselights dimmed. The Smiling Gumshoe was a murder mystery. People were dropping like flies, but these early deaths were loud, bloodless, and clearly faked. Then Clara came on, delivered her line (pretty well, Amos thought), and was shot dead. This time, however, unlike earlier deaths in the play, blood appeared. All the actors stiffened and stood frozen for a moment in what seemed like genuine shock; then, breaking character, they rushed for Clara’s bloody body. Mrs. Van Riper, in one of her familiar school dresses, ran onto the stage and began shouting frantic instructions. “Lock the doors!” she yelled. “Nobody leaves! Call for an ambulance! Bring out the prop man!” Mr. Duckworth, also in normal school attire, appeared and carried Clara off the stage. Sands Mandeville, who’d been sent for the prop man, came back alone. She looked pale and scared. “The prop man’s dead,” she said, and then, while all the actors, as well as Mrs. Van Riper, turned to her in stunned silence, the curtains swept closed.
Immediately two students dressed as cigarette girls—pillbox hats, high heels, satin shorts, and cropped jackets—passed in front of the curtain carrying a banner suspended from a rod that rested on their shoulders. End of Act I, the banner read. The audience relaxed as one and broke into murmurs, mild laughter, and applause.
After intermission, the final act of the play concerned itself with finding the student who’d supposedly replaced the blank with live ammunition. It turned out to be a boy in the Clara character’s social studies class. “A would-be boyfriend,” the smiling gumshoe character said, putting his feet up on his desk and leaning back in his swivel chair, and the Sands Mandeville character, wearing a soft sweater and sitting on his desk, yawned and stretched in a way that showed her figure to advantage before the curtain fell on the final act.
When Clara came out and, smiling uncertainly, took a quick bow, Amos clapped so hard that a stinging lingered in his hands after he stopped. After the curtain closed for the final time, Amos drifted outside and into the shadows of the tennis courts, where he could watch for Clara while avoiding Sands and Sophie. He’d done this the night before, too, but Clara had somehow eluded him.
And she seemed to have eluded him again tonight. He’d left the courts and was just turning the corner when he heard Clara’s voice and instinctively stepped back. “No, really, I can’t,” she was saying. She was talking to someone in a big sedan that had pulled over. Only it wasn’t just a sedan. It was the half car, half truck Eddie Tripp had been driving the night he and Charles had accosted Amos. Tonight Eddie was alone. Amos could see his profile leaning from the driver’s side toward the passenger window. Amos couldn’t make out Eddie’s words or Clara’s. She’d leaned close to the window but now straightened up as a pair of headlights fell on her and the half-sedan. “There he is now. So thanks anyhow.”
Clara jumped into her father’s car, which slowly drove away. Eddie’s sedan sat idling for a moment or two, then followed along behind. Amos, in the dark, stood watching both vehicles go.
31
PRIVATE INVESTIGATION
The next morning, Clara’s father came in panting, with Ham trailing behind him. “Whew,” her father said, catching his breath. He was wearing his jogging outfit and carrying the Sunday paper, which he unbanded and glanced at before going to the refrigerator.
“How about poached eggs and fat-free sausage for breakfast?” he said, peering in. This was another aspect of New Dad—he counted fat grams.
“And baked tomatoes?” Clara said. Her mother had liked to bake tomatoes.
“Yuck,” her father said cheerfully, but pulled two tomatoes out of the fruit bin. He began whistling the old moonlight song, and Clara saw that this was a New Dad kind of day. Her father ate heartily, read the paper, and, after cleaning up with Clara, went up to shower. Clara could hear his singing through three walls. When he came downstairs, he was wearing a new shirt and his favorite khaki pants, fresh from the dry cleaner. When he passed by her, Clara caught the faint scent of New Dad cologne. “Okay, I’m off, Polkadot.”
“Where to?”
A funny expression came and went in her father’s face. “No place special. Just getting together with some friends. How about you? What’s on your agenda?”
“Nothing. Homework maybe.” Then, remembering, “Except that boy, Amos? He might come over for pizza tonight around six.”
“Great,” her father said, jangling his keys. He seemed anxious to leave.
“And I was thinking Appleby’s pizza.”
Her father nodded. His hand was on the doorknob now.
“But they don’t deliver. So could you bring some home?”
“Sure,” her father said. “I should be home by four.” And then he was gone.
Clara had thought she would do the surface cleaning of the house this week, but now she didn’t feel like it. Having a clean house for Amos, if he showed up, was just one more thing she didn’t care about. She stood at the window thinking about all the things she might do that day but didn’t really feel like doing. Finally she turned on the TV and ate ice cream and fell into a deep sleep on the sofa.
In her dream, Clara was in Spain in a big apartment overlooking the ocean. Everything was white and warm. Clara and her mother had been happy, playing cards and drinking iced sodas, but then an insect had gotten into the room, an invisible insect that made a strange, persisten
t tapping noise. It was driving her mother crazy, and it bothered Clara, too, because you could hear it but not see it.
When Clara opened her eyes, the tapping noise didn’t go away. It grew louder. It was Eddie Tripp, staring through the living room window, tapping on the glass with a car key. When he saw she was awake, he waved her over.
It was hot in the front room. Clara, in a kind of sleep daze, came over and raised the window. Cool air rushed in. It felt good.
“Hey,” he said, smiling a pleasant smile. His eyes in this light were a startling, opalescent blue.
“What are you doing here?” she said.
He laughed. “Watching Sleeping Beauty.”
Clara blushed, then tried to keep the tone severe. “There’s a name for people who peep through windows.”
“I wasn’t peeping.” He grinned. “I was tapping.”
“Worse,” Clara said, but she felt something inside her giving way.
Eddie, still grinning, rubbed his chin and then seemed somehow to redirect his playfulness into his eyes, which he held steadily on Clara’s before saying, “Wanna crawl out your window?”
The suggestion was so weird that Clara laughed. But she didn’t say no. She said, “Why would I want to?”
“To say you did.” Eddie stretched his grin. “And to go for a Sunday drive. And to have the best Philly cheese steak in Jemison.”
Her mother was gone. Her father was gone. She didn’t trust Eddie Tripp completely, but if Amos could hang out with Sands Mandeville and Gerri could find new friends, why couldn’t she take one little ride with Eddie Tripp? She’d never been out for a go-anywhere drive with a boy before. She checked the time: two o’clock. “Could we be back by three?” she said.
At first, it was fun, in an uneasy kind of way. Once she’d slid into the front seat, Eddie said, “There’s just one thing. The car battery’s dead, so I’ve gotta be careful not to let the engine die.” This made things interesting. “Wouldn’t want to die here,” he said, grinning, while making a left turn in the middle of a busy intersection or while slowing in front of the police station. Eddie had let her choose the radio stations, and they had eaten their sandwiches in the parking lot in the half-sedan, which he said they called a seduck. “Can you guess why?” he said, and for the first time, an actual chill coursed through Clara.
“No, why?”
“C’mon, you should guess. Seduck. You’re one of the smart girls. Where would that word come from?”
Clara didn’t like this. “What time is it, anyway?” she said.
“Early,” Eddie said. He turned the rearview mirror so he could see his face, then wiped his mouth with a paper napkin. “It comes from sedan and truck.” He turned his cocky grin toward Clara. “Put ’em together and what’ve you got? Seduck.” He winked, then let the car coast downhill out of the parking lot. He popped the clutch, and the car engine jolted alive.
Clara said, “I would’ve called it minotaur or satyr, because that’s what it seems like—half man and half beast.”
Eddie seemed to like the idea. “Is that what those are? Half man, half beast?”
“Yeah. They’re from Greek mythology.” Then she said, “Why do you need a car-and-truck like this? I mean, why not just get one or the other?”
“It was Charles’s big idea. He wanted two seats, so he could ride in the back while I drove him around like a chauffeur. And he needed the covered truck bed.”
“What for?”
Eddie laughed. “Charles is often hauling things from one place to another.”
Clara, to her own surprise, said, “Does Charles steal things?”
Again Eddie laughed. “Charles wouldn’t call it that. Charles calls himself an appropriations man.”
“And how about you? Do you steal things?”
Eddie’s expression was momentarily serious, then returned to his characteristic grin. He shrugged. “Gotta pay the rent,” he said.
Clara wondered why this answer didn’t bother her more than it did. She leaned forward and ran through the radio stations until she got to an old Billy Joel song she liked.
Eddie rolled his eyes and in a pleasant voice said, “Yikes.” When the song was over, Eddie said, “You’re friends with Amos MacKenzie, right?”
Clara considered it. “Yeah. We’re sort of friends.”
Eddie slid her a glance. “Sort of?”
“Well, we were starting to be friends, but now I’m not so sure.”
Eddie slowed to stare at a girl standing at a corner staring back, then resumed speed. “Isn’t Amos the one who called you a dink in order to feel up Sands Mandeville?”
Clara sat back in the seat. “I guess so. That’s what everybody says.”
A block passed in silence, then Eddie said, “Snap quiz. Say the first thing that pops into your head. Okay: the nicest thing about Amos MacKenzie is...?”
“How much he likes his pigeons,” Clara said without thinking.
Eddie turned in surprise. “Pigeons? What kind of pigeons?”
Clara told him about Amos’s racing pigeons, and then she told him the story of Hurricane and Ruby. “Ruby’s this really beautiful reddish pigeon, and I guess that’s the reason she’s his favorite,” Clara said. “That and the fact that she came back after so long.” Clara fell silent then. She was thinking of her mother again.
At Broadway, instead of turning left, toward Clara’s house, Eddie turned right.
From a church clock, Clara saw that it was almost three. “I should go home now,” she said.
Eddie said nothing, just kept smiling and driving. After several signals, the pavement narrowed and the car began to climb a winding road that led into the hills overlooking Jemison Valley.
“Eddie, I need to get back.”
Eddie merely smiled and drove on. When he turned off the two-lane road onto a wooded and muddy dirt lane, Clara said, “What are you doing?”
“I’m going to show you something.” He drove slowly, winding the truck between rocky outcroppings. The woods on each side of the road were dense. They were green and black. There was almost no sunlight here.
“What time is it?” Clara said, a kind of panic beginning to come over her.
Eddie didn’t speak. He was leaning forward over the steering wheel, assessing the rocks and mud in front of him. Once, when the rear wheels began to spin, he accelerated steadily. After fishtailing, the car continued moving forward. Finally the woods became less dark and gave way to a wide flat area that overlooked the entire valley. Off to the right was another car, a red coupe, but Clara couldn’t see who was inside. Its raised windows were covered with steam.
“Pretty cool, huh?” Eddie said, pulling up and leaving the motor running. He leaned back and looked out. “It’s like my favorite place.”
Clara wasn’t in the mood for scenic overlooks. “I’ve got to go now, Eddie. I really have to go.”
Eddie seemed not to have heard. He just stared serenely out at the vista before him. The car engine hummed. Eddie glanced at the dark woods surrounding the clearing. In a low, joking voice, he said, “Now this would be a bad place to die.”
A funny sickening sensation worked in Clara’s stomach.
Eddie, with his gaze and grin fixed on Clara, reached forward with his left hand and switched off the engine. “Oops,” he said in a low, calm voice.
It seemed suddenly very quiet. “This isn’t funny, Eddie,” Clara said.
Eddie kept his voice calm. He continued to smile. “No, it’s really not,” he said.
Clara turned away and glared out.
“You should come closer,” he said. His voice was coaxing. He leaned toward her. His breath smelled minty. “It’s getting cold, and now the heater won’t work.”
Clara sat rigidly, one hand frozen to the handle of the door.
“I’m not going to do anything,” Eddie said. Then, after a little silence, he pulled back and straightened himself. “My brother used to make me drive him and his girlfriend here.” A pause.
“Usually they made me wait outside, but when it was real cold, they’d let me sit in the front seat and listen to the radio.”
Clara didn’t speak or look at him. Two forms had risen behind the fogged windows of the other car. From inside, a hand was wiping moisture from the windshield.
“Remember when I asked you whether you were a virgin?” Eddie said.
Clara felt her stomach fist. Some kind of bile shot into her throat.
The other car engine started. It began a three-point turnaround.
Clara abruptly swung her gaze toward Eddie. “Eddie, let’s ask them for help. Maybe they have jumper cables. Let’s ask them right now, before they leave.”
Eddie seemed to be considering this.
Jump out, Clara told herself. Jump out and run over to the red car.
“They probably don’t have cables,” Eddie said. In the dimness, Clara felt his grin more than saw it. “And besides,” he said, “we’re not quite through here yet.”
It seemed to take forever for Clara to jump out and run over to the other car. The driver, a boy with a flushed face, lowered his window only partway. Across the way, Eddie swung open his car door. His body rose above the roof of the half-sedan. “Hey,” he called out. “What’s wrong?”
“I need a ride,” Clara said to the driver of the red car. “Please. I need a ride.”
The boy didn’t speak, but the girl beside him did. “Let’s go, Leo.” She stared straight ahead. “Let’s go, Leo! This isn’t our problem.”
As Clara reached for the door handle, the boy punched the accelerator. The back wheels spun, then grabbed. The car shot forward. Clara watched it disappear down the muddy lane into the woods. She turned around. Eddie still stood beside his seduck. She could tell he was grinning.
“It’s cold out here,” he said in his sweet, coaxing voice. “Why don’t you come on back?”
When he started to move toward her, Clara pried up a rock from the mud. “Don’t,” she said.
