by Harper Kim
“You trained me.”
“So was that advice you were trying to give me or were you just thinking out loud.”
Crogg raised his hands in submission and moved out of the way to let Malone begin the interrogation. He should learn never to second guess the master.
The kids were still huddled together. The boy was protectively jutting his body in front of the girl, acting like her shield.
“My name is Lieutenant George Malone and this is my partner, Detective Alex Crogg. We need to ask you a few questions before you are taken to Mercy Hospital for further observation and care. Do you understand what I have told you?”
The boy nodded.
“What happened here, son?”
The boy strained to remain composed but his hand was throbbing by this time and was a blistering blue. Nervously, he flicked his eyes from Malone’s stony stare to Crogg’s sympathetic one to the stairs and back to Malone. “My name is Neil Wilcox,” the boy said hoarsely. “This is my girlfriend, Elizabeth Hayes and the de—dead man is her father…I mean was…Pete Hayes.” His voice trailed to barely a whisper. Neil was restating the facts in the same order he recited to Dr. Dawes. He knew consistency was important, but his hand was killing him.
Crogg scribbled the names on his notepad, more for show than anything else.
“Now that the introductions are out of the way, how about you tell me how you came about that nasty hand injury?”
Elizabeth was suddenly aware of the broken wrist and gasped in horror.
Making a futile attempt to cover the bluish, angled stump inside the sling, Neil said, “Oh this isn’t that bad, really. Um, you see, Mr. Hayes was hurting Elizabeth and I tried to stop him. I—I learned martial arts…took a few lessons…just in case I might need to protect myself or something, you know, in self-defense. Well, you see Victor was talking about this pressure point thing in class and Sensei Hargrove also told us about it. And I tried it—well, I tried it on Mr. Hayes when he didn’t stop and—and…” Neil stared horrified at his hands, momentarily transfixed in a whirlwind of emotions.
“Who’s Victor?”
When Neil didn’t answer, Malone motioned for Crogg to step in. Malone could feel his ulcer coming back loud and strong. Before he combusted and lashed out at the kids, he decided it would be best for Crogg to coax the information out from the boy while Malone studied their expressions and body language.
Crogg knelt down on one knee beside Neil, so he would seem like less of a threat and even the playing field. Placing a comforting hand on the kid’s shoulder, Crogg said, “It’s okay Neil, take your time.”
Neil blinked and swallowed.
Elizabeth skimmed a finger gently over his swollen wrist, rooting him back to the present. Neil was able to finish explaining his story to Detective Crogg, who listened attentively and nodded at all the right moments.
Malone watched the girl more closely than the boy. Her face was bruised and void of emotion. She gripped onto Neil’s shirt as if doing so would protect her from all harm. The boy was her protector, he mused. She never once looked away from Neil, toward the stairs where her father lay dead; she seemed to avoid that section of the room altogether. Using Neil’s body as a shield, she covered herself, made herself small and nonexistent, and barely mumbled a word or two since they entered the scene. She was the victim and the man who’d been hurting her wasn’t the boy rehashing the details of the traumatic event but the man lying in a lump in the middle of her room. The man who should have been protecting her from the day she was born. The man whom she should have trusted instead of feared. All the evidence was in this room, this house, and her body.
Crogg stood up and Malone motioned him over to the far end of the room by the closed window. Leaning against the powdered sill, he crossed his arms over his chest, never lifting his eyes off the boy, and waited for Crogg to give his two-cents.
“I think the father abused the girl. Heroic boyfriend steps in to protect her. Father lunges at him. Boy kills father in self-defense.”
Malone nods.
Rubbing his chin, Crogg pondered his thoughts before continuing with his analysis. “The only issue is that it seems like premeditated self-defense. Doesn’t seem like the boyfriend just happened to catch the father in action or that the girl’s that great of an actress and didn’t show signs of being abused before today. So the kid signs up for martial arts classes after knowing his girlfriend’s getting abused, wanting to protect her. Figured he needed to bulk up first. That didn’t work so when he hears about this crazy voodoo-shit with the fast hands he figured he had nothing to lose by trying it. Then he happens to visit his girlfriend, unannounced. The door is conveniently unlocked, possibly by the girlfriend, or like the Rookie said, the vic didn’t worry about securing the place. Hell, why should he, he’s huge, and there’s that gun collection of his. So, the kid arrives, hears the noises coming from the room, enters, and strikes. It seems like—”
“It seems like self-defense,” Malone said curtly.
Crogg eyed him, uncertain.
“Now that we settled that, check to see where the girl’s mother is. If there is no mother, check if there are any close relatives that the girl could stay with.”
“Got it. What about the boy?”
Malone turned to watch Neil brush the streaming tears off Elizabeth’s swollen face and gently kiss her blank eyes. “Call Dawes back in. Tell her to escort them to the ambulance, and to ride along with them, even though she’d probably do that anyway. Follow them to the hospital and stay there while the kids are examined and treated. Meanwhile, contact the boy’s parents to inform them of his whereabouts. They can take him home once the cast is set. If you ask me, all we have here is a boy who was in the wrong place at the right time. That girl is lucky he was there.”
Chapter Twenty-Six:
Tuesday, June 19, 2012
5:15 A.M.
Loral Holmes:
Waking up an hour before the sun splashes light into a room filled with mismatched interests—purple and Dora for Tory, pink and Hello Kitty for Bella, creamy-blue and white and unlabeled for me—I wrap myself in a thin blanket and grab my notebook and pen. Quietly, I unclip the latch and push the casement window outward. Recently I added a bit of oil to the hinge so on mornings like this, I won’t have to worry about waking my sisters. I want to be completely alone.
Climbing onto the roof, I open my notebook and start writing. Early mornings are the best time to take a moment out of the day, to reflect and write. The air is sweet with dew. A milky sheen shrouds the trees. And the timid quiet of my surroundings always feels like a spark of new beginnings.
Shivering from the brush of wind, I peer up at the fading crescent moon in awe. It sits low on the horizon; Venus hovers lovingly to the left of the silver crescent on a purple-gray field. It is beautiful.
There is something about the serenity of the early morning that moves me deeply; the soft darkness, the living pastel of the horizon, the glistening leaves; one gentle trickle of life hiding away, another stream thawing, awakening to the coming day. The pain from the days before has been washed and the hope for a better day has awakened.
Once the sun eases its way over the horizon, I close the book with its pages of thoughts, stories, and poetic words and quietly creep back inside. Checking on the girls to make sure the opened window hasn’t chilled and reddened their button noses, I change into a long-sleeved t-shirt and faded jeans before heading downstairs.
Dirty pots and pans fill the kitchen sink, crusted with last night’s lasagna. Sighing, I push up the sleeves of my large Padres shirt that I got at the game with Mike last season, and scrub the dishes in hot soapy water before placing them in the dishwasher. Once the dishwasher is running, I wipe the countertops and tables with a sponge and dust-mop the tile floors (when four girls live under one roof, the floors are routinely blanketed in a sheet of fallen hair).
The living room is next. Toys are strewn across the couch, glass table, and carpet. Markers—uncapped
and capped—poke out from between the cushions. The carpet needs vacuuming, but I figure the rest of my family wouldn’t think it was worth the racket. I’m not in the mood for hearing any grumbling or having any pillows thrown at my face, so I settle on leaving the rest of the chores for the afternoon.
Judging by the time—seven o’clock—I have a good half hour before my family starts waking up. I open the kitchen cupboard and remove one of the three boxes of cereal, turn on the KUSI news to a low hum, and fill my bowl with Lucky Charms.
On the screen is a fairly attractive news reporter wearing a slim-fitted suit that cinches high at the waist, ostensibly to emphasize her curvy physique for the male viewers. She boasts a smooth wave of frosted brown hair swooped to one side, plump glossy lips, and gleaming hazel eyes that look not at the camera, but through it to you, the viewer.
The female reporter is highlighting the summer sports activities available at Patrick Henry this year. A fresh-faced kid in junior varsity football garb, noticeably winded from training, trots over beside her when she beckons with a wave of her arm. Bits of grass are matted against his sweaty forehead. He leans in, wheezing into the mic before the reporter can strategically distance herself from the overanxious kid. The subsequent interview drags on and on, interspersed with shoddy clips of boys and girls playing various sports. The kid never regains his breath, nor does the camera crew wipe the grass clumps from his forehead.
Figures, not much going on in the exciting town of San Carlos. Not today, not ever.
My recently devised plan of leaving town has been fresh on my mind these days, my previous trip to Los Angeles the fuel. I want to start fresh somewhere new and exciting. Leaving the quiet suburbs for the city would be a nice change of pace.
Excitement builds with each spoonful of softened cereal. I’m so done with high school, with this place. In a couple of months I will no longer wander aimlessly up and down the streets of San Carlos in a constant daze, but will be awakened in a bustling city where everyone lives life out loud—with passion, anger, or just for the sake of yelling. I want to feel alive, I need to, and East L.A. seems like just the place.
Thinking August will be a perfect time to unleash my plan, I decide to lay low for the time being and not intervene with Tess’s and Brett’s problems. The girls will miss me, but I’ll visit as often as I can. And once I settle into a place, I’ll invite them over; maybe take them on a train adventure and back. Besides, I can’t be expected to put my life on hold just for them.
At a quarter to eight, Tess rushes into the kitchen in a panic. Late as usual, she frantically grabs the mug of coffee I dutifully hold out for her and she takes a long, therapeutic sip.
“Mmm. Thank you, sweetie.”
Tess looks as if she just stepped out of a high-end boutique or the glossy pages of Vogue magazine. Her wheat-blond hair is coiled and pinned at the nape of her neck. Her ivory skin, painted in warm shades, plays up her lake blue eyes. She wears a simple charcoal pencil skirt and lightweight blazer over a silk lavender chemise. Tess looks the way she wants to: charming, elegant, and important.
A lingering scent of Chanel N°22 wafts in my direction and I stiffen. The scent, I know, is meant for a guy. She only wears this particular scent when she is out on the prowl. Once, she even wore it for Brett, but it’s been some time since I smelled that carnivorous scent on her.
Cautiously, I lean against the counter, stirring some milk into my second cup of coffee. “Are you going to be home in time for dinner?”
“Actually, I might be a little late tonight.” Tess pours the rest of the coffee into a travel mug. Glancing at the time on the microwave, she crosses to the tiled entryway. I watch as she slips her feet into a pair of nude Valentino heels; she looks up, giving me a warm smile. “Don’t worry about me sweetie, I’ll just grab a sandwich or have Chinese delivered to the office or something.” With a little wave and shrug, she blows me a kiss as she heads out the door.
Hardened over time from Tess’s light dismissals and nonchalance, I swallow the twinge of bitterness with a gulp of coffee. Sympathy and crude understanding simmer in my blood as I wash my cereal bowl.
For years, I’ve quietly accepted my role and the minuscule crumbs of love Tess tosses my way. I am Tess’s confidant, her friend. I share half of her genes and the other half with some guy that Tess either loved or detested, but never talks about. Either way, I now see myself as a constant reminder of Tess’s troubled past; a constant buzzkill who gets in the way of Tess’s otherwise carefree life.
Heavy steps thunder down the stairs. From the hallway, I spot two sleepyhead munchkins shuffling into the kitchen. Time to put on my game face.
“Good, you guys are up.” I scoop Bella onto my lap. Bella’s chubby arms wrap around my neck in a sleepy squeeze. Her chest rises and falls with my contact, putting her back to sleep. Before Bella’s face can sag against my shoulder, I place her in the chair beside me. Bella purses her lips into a frown, her eyes still halfway closed.
“Can we have pancakes today?” Tory’s eyes are round and hopeful.
“Sure, but only if I get some help. You know, it’s very hard work making pancakes so I’ll need assistance.”
“Ooo, I can help! I can!” Tory grins, jumping up and down as if about to make a little accident on the laminate floor.
Nodding, I turn to Bella and cock my head. “What about you, munchkin? Awake enough to help?”
“Can I just eat it?” Bella rubs a hand over her eyes, not quite ready for the day, producing a half-joking smile.
“Bella, things don’t come free in this world, you have to do your share of the work to reap the benefits.”
“What about the people who stand out on the streets holding signs? I saw this guy drive up and give one of them money. The dirty man wasn’t even doing anything, just holding up a sign.”
“Bella, those people don’t have a home or family and some people just want to give them a little something to help them out. It’s called charity or just being a nice person.”
“Oh,” Bella leans against the table with her head resting on her folded hands. Scrunching up her face into a frown, she says, “Why?”
I am not in the mood to lecture my five-year-old kid sister about the ways of the world or indulge her new fascination with infinitely regressive “whys,” so I just put my hands on my hips and say, “Bella, do you want pancakes or don’t you? Because if you do, I need you to wash your hands. We’re starting.”
Sliding out of her chair, Bella holds her hands in the air and glumly says, “Okay, okay. What do you want me to do?”
After we dig into a tall stack of pancakes, or at least try to—a few are a tad runny on the inside—Brett strolls in.
“Daddy, look! I made pancakes.” Bella lifts her plate of half-eaten pancakes with a puddle of sugary syrup dripping off the side of the plate and onto her sticky hands.
“That’s great, princess.” Brett leans in, giving Tory and Bella each a kiss on the head and gives me an awkward nod. “Morning.” He turns stiffly toward the counter and pours himself a cup of coffee. Sipping slowly, he clears his throat. “So Loral, did Tess say when she was going to come home tonight?”
I don’t respond. No longer hungry, I stuff a forkful of gummy pancakes into my mouth and chew slowly, feeling the raw batter ooze between my teeth and gums.
Brett turns to face me. Absently, he drums his fingers against the counter and clears his throat again. “Well, if she comes early, tell her I’ll be late.”
That was unexpected. I sit up in my chair and swallow hard. “Where are you going?”
“Class. And then I’ll be in the library working on a project.”
Brushing another kiss on Tory and Bella’s plump cheeks, he says goodbye and heads for the door. Dressed in a dapper, charcoal-gray suit for the first time since the wedding, he slips into a pair of black dress shoes that are slightly misshapen and dusty from being stuffed in the back of the closet for some time, and he opens the door. Hesita
ting, he looks back in my direction. “You’re okay looking after Tory and Bella today, right?”
“Yeah.” Before I can add, “I’ll watch them,” Brett is out the door.
I reach for my lukewarm mug of milky coffee and chug slowly, my frustration peaking. I force on a smile. “So, what do you guys feel like doing today?”
“Kung Fu Panda!” Bella jumps out of her chair and does her best kung fu impression.
I rush Bella to the sink before she can touch anything with her sticky fingers and prepare for another long, exhausting day. If this is what summer break is going to be like, I’m not sure that I can wait until August to fly the coop.
After watching Bella’s favorite movies, Kung Fu Panda and Kung Fu Panda 2, for the hundredth time while simultaneously coloring with Tory in her new princess coloring book, I get them dressed for the pool. I need some time to myself, need to unwind with my notebook, unleashing all my grievances onto the pre-lined pages.
The day is lukewarm at best. A few gloomy sheets of gray still lurk in the sky, portending a drizzle in the near future, but at the moment the weather is nice enough to warrant a couple hours in the pool—a far better option than being cooped up in the house all day.
While helping Bella into her floatation devices—arm floats and one hip float—I hear the distinct click of metal against rusted metal and a few excited barks from dogs anxiously protecting their pee-lined property. Looking up, I see the diligent mailman heading over to the next mailbox along our street.
I walk over to retrieve the bundle of mail, a meager stack of envelopes haphazardly jammed between voluminous folds of unwanted junk. Dumping the junk mail filled with lurid ads and coupon booklets into the blue recycle bin, I walk back to the pool with the remaining envelopes that appear important enough to open.
There are two bills that Tess is going to groan over, and one ivory-colored envelope addressed to me. Curious, I open the ivory envelope and unfold the letter inside. The thick paper, also ivory, is embossed with a golden university logo. The details perplex me. “Congratulations, you have been accepted into the Sarah Lawrence College Writing Program…” Scanning the rest of the page, I read that apparently they were very impressed by the poem they supposedly received, which won my acceptance, but they will still need my transcripts before registration starts in September.
