by Joy Fielding
“I’ve always been a sucker for speed,” he said, pushing himself off the ground. “Come on, Kate. What’s your problem?”
“For one thing, my name’s Megan, not Kate.”
“I know that.”
“The point is, you don’t know me,” Megan told him, thinking if she could just keep talking, she might be able to forget about the feel of his lips, the taste of his tongue. “And more important, since that doesn’t seem to bother you a whole lot, I don’t know you.” She knew she’d give anything for him to kiss her again.
Instead, Greg plopped down on the bench, supporting the back of his head in the palms of his hands. “What do you want to know?”
“I don’t know,” Megan admitted, lowering herself onto the seat beside him. She hadn’t thought that far ahead. “Tell me about yourself.”
“Nothing to tell. Like they say, what you see is what you get.”
“I don’t think so.”
“You don’t?”
“I think you’re way more complicated than that.”
He shook his head. “Anybody ever tell you, you think too much?”
“My father used to tell my mother that.”
“Yeah? Not so much anymore, I guess. Sorry,” he apologized before Megan could react. “I guess that was a pretty dumb thing to say.”
“It’s okay. I mean, it’s not exactly a secret that my parents have split up.”
“I like your mom.”
“You do?”
“Yeah. I give her a hard time and everything, but … she’s cool.”
“Cool?”
“And she’s a good teacher.”
Megan felt a surge of pride. She thought of her mother in her red-and-white silk dress and wondered what she was doing right now. “What about your parents?”
His body stiffened beside her. “My father is your typical farmer. He’s a mean son of a bitch.” He smiled, as if he’d just paid his father the highest of compliments.
“And your mother?”
“Dead. Two years ago. Cancer.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“Yeah, well, what is it they say? Shit happens?”
“You must miss her.”
“Not so much anymore … You want to know what I miss?” he continued, unprompted. “I miss the way she used to sing when she was making dinner.” He laughed.
“Did she have a good voice?”
“She was good at everything she did.”
“I guess that’s where you get your talent.”
“Maybe.” It was his turn to get to his feet. “So, I guess we should go join the others.”
“We could sit here a little while longer,” Megan offered, not wanting to leave.
“No, we should go. You’re right. This isn’t the time or place.”
Megan stood up, waited for him to take her hand in his. But he was already walking away from her, and he didn’t look back or slow down.
SIXTEEN
Where had his sister disappeared to now? Tim wondered, his eyes scanning the shifting crowd. He checked his watch, pressing the button on its side that illuminated the large dial, noting it was almost eleven o’clock. Where had she gone this time?
He peered through the darkness at the shadowy forms. Despite the tall, overhead streetlights that circled the park like a halo, and the smaller, more ornate gas lamps that lit up the various inner pathways, it was difficult to make out the individual faces of those still present. A number of kids had started wandering off about half an hour ago, having grown restless after more than two hours of well-intentioned, if badly executed, songs and pleasant, if boring, reveries, and those who remained had begun breaking off into smaller groups, which had made it harder for him to keep track of Megan.
Not that he wanted to. But what choice did he have? Someone in his family had to start behaving responsibly. And wasn’t he the man of the house now? Wasn’t it up to him to make sure everything was okay, that life continued on as normal a course as possible? Except what was normal anymore? Did anybody know?
He certainly didn’t.
Young girls were murdered and their killers moved on, while fathers left home, also moving on—if not in, at least not yet—with every teenage boy’s wet dream. Except, of course, his father was far from a teenager, Tim thought ruefully, kicking at a small stone with the pointed toe of his black leather boot and watching it skip across the dry grass. And shouldn’t a man that age know better? And now his mother had taken off for Fort Lauderdale with her best friend, who just happened to be the school nurse, but who sure hadn’t been dressed like the school nurse when she’d arrived at his house earlier tonight. And how long would it be before he was able to wipe the image of her plump, crinkly breasts spilling out of the top of her too short, too tight dress from his mind? God—what had she been thinking? What did people actually see when they looked in the mirror? Or didn’t they look?
“Keep an eye on your sister,” his mother had urged on her way out the door, undoubtedly the same advice she’d given Megan. “Keep an eye on your brother,” he could hear her whisper, and he found himself wondering what she was doing at this exact moment, if she was having a good time, and that if she was on a date, if she was conducting herself in an appropriate manner.
Unlike his father.
Unlike his sister.
What did Megan think she was doing tonight anyway? And with Greg Watt, of all people. It was bad enough she’d allowed that overgrown celery stick to pick her up and toss her over his shoulder as if she were some weightless sack of potatoes, but then to make out with him in plain sight of everyone, in the middle of what was supposed to be a tribute to a murdered friend! Did she really think no one could see her? Just because she and Greg had gone to the other side of the park didn’t mean they were invisible. Besides, somebody would have seen them even if they’d gone to the other side of the moon. Had she no sense of decency? No sense of decorum? No sense, period?
And then, mercifully, something had happened. He’d been too far away to see what it was, too far away to hear what was said, but clearly, something had happened, somebody had said something, and suddenly Greg and his sister were no longer clinging to each other like overgrown vines, and Greg was walking one way and Megan the other, and Tim hadn’t seen them together again all night.
Nor was Megan with him now, Tim realized, not sure whether he was more relieved or worried as he caught sight of Greg and Joey in the middle of a group of jocks playing an improvised game of touch football. They were seemingly oblivious to the group of kids still sitting in a circle listening to Victor Drummond’s execrable rendition of the old Beatles classic “Strawberry Fields Forever.” Was Megan part of that group?
She didn’t appear to be, Tim realized, trying to spot his sister in the dim light. But Megan wasn’t among those either swaying to the music or waving their burnt-down candles against the cloying air. She had no interest in strawberry fields, Tim thought gratefully, thinking he’d never really liked that song. Stupid thing made no sense at all.
Not that anything did.
The sweet smell of reefer wafted toward his nose and he peered through the darkness at a group of kids passing a joint around beneath a large pineapple palm. For whatever reason, the cops had left them alone, probably deciding they were less likely to get into trouble if they were high on weed. Or maybe they were just too stupid to realize what was going on right underneath their noses.
Tim saw Ginger Perchak and Tanya McGovern and a few other girls crying softly as they waited for their toke, and he wondered if they were crying for Liana or themselves. He thought it interesting that even now, more than a week after Liana’s body had been pulled from the ground, girls were still bursting into tears at the slightest provocation, or sometimes no provocation at all. Sometimes all you had to do was look at them the wrong way—was there a right way?—and they’d start to cry. And no one berated them or called them names. No one questioned their sexual orientation. Why were girls allowed—even exp
ected—to show their emotions, no matter how trivial the situation, and boys forced to maintain their composure, no matter how serious? Where was the fairness in that?
“It’s all right to cry, you know,” his mother had told him after his father had left, her own eyes overflowing with tears. But it wasn’t all right. He knew that without being told, even as he heard Megan sobbing in her bedroom. His father had lost his moral compass, and as a result their world had been turned upside down. Now he had to be vigilant, on the alert, ever watchful. If he wasn’t strong, if he turned his head away, even for a moment, if he allowed his eyes to cloud over with tears, as his mother’s eyes continued to do when she thought nobody was looking, how would he ever find his way again? How would he be able to lead them out of the darkness?
Once again Tim illuminated the dial of his watch, knowing even before he checked the time that only a few minutes had passed since the last time he’d looked. Where the hell was Megan? She wasn’t with Greg and she wasn’t with either Ginger or Tanya, and it was getting late, and they had to be home in an hour, and surely she hadn’t wandered off somewhere on her own. Surely she wasn’t that stupid.
And then suddenly the night air was filled with the most beautiful sound. A girl was singing, her voice as pure and clear as a cold mountain stream. Can you save me in the morning? she was singing, her voice gaining strength and purpose with each mournful refrain. Can you save me in the morning?
Tim turned toward the sound.
I’ve got to sit back down and quench my thirst. Before I cross that line, could you draw it first?
Tim found himself holding his breath. The singer was Delilah Franklin.
All around him, people began shifting their positions, cocking their heads, turning toward the sound. Whispers of disbelief wafted through the air. “Who’s that?” someone whispered. “Is that really Delilah Franklin?” asked somebody else. “She must be lip-synching,” proclaimed a third.
“Holy crap!” shouted Greg, dropping the football in his hands and pushing his way into the circle. “Is that Big D I hear singing?”
Delilah instantly fell silent, lowering her head and staring at the ground, as if praying it would swallow her whole.
“What’s going on here?” Joey Balfour demanded, appearing breathless at Greg’s side. “Sounded like a pig in heat.”
“Shut up, Balfour,” Greg said.
“I thought for sure another chick was being butchered.”
“Jesus. I said, shut up.”
“And I say, fuck you,” retorted Joey.
“And I say, everybody’s said enough,” interrupted Victor Drummond. “We’re supposed to be honoring Liana’s memory, not acting like a bunch of assholes.”
“Yeah, well, you’d be the expert on assholes, wouldn’t you now, faggot?” Joey said.
There was a collective intake of breath. Tim watched Victor grab his guitar and slowly push himself to his feet. Tim wondered for an instant if Victor was going to swing the guitar at Joey’s head, but Victor only turned his back and began walking away. “Party’s over,” he said over his shoulder.
“Oh, no, it ain’t,” Joey called after him. “Haven’t you heard? It ain’t over till the fat lady sings? Oops,” he added. “The fat lady did sing.”
There was laughter from those still sitting.
“Guess that means we can all go home,” Joey continued. “The fat lady has definitely sung.”
Tim waited for Greg to tell Joey to shut up again, to encourage Delilah to continue with her song. One word from him and all the ridicule might stop. But instead, he laughed along with the others, then shrugged his massive shoulders, as if to say, Sorry, I tried, then returned to his football game.
Delilah remained seated for several seconds, her head bowed. Tim wondered what she was thinking as she slowly struggled to her feet, then moved away from the group. “The fat lady has sung,” a boy shouted from somewhere to Tim’s right.
“Party pooper,” a girl called after Delilah.
And then another burst of song, this time from the other side of the rapidly unwinding circle. It was quickly spread throughout the park by myriad disparate voices: Every party needs a pooper. That’s why we invited you. Party pooper. Party pooper.
The unforgiving voices chased Delilah out of the park and onto the street. Tim watched her run across the road and disappear around the corner, feeling sorry for her in spite of himself. He didn’t want to feel anything but scorn for the daughter of the woman who was responsible for breaking up his family. He shook his head, hoping to rid himself of such ill-placed sympathy. It didn’t matter that Delilah had the voice of an angel. What mattered was that she was fat and awkward, and that made her an easy target. And being anywhere in her proximity made that person a target as well. No—Tim couldn’t afford the luxury of sympathy.
“Wow,” a girl said from behind his back. “Who knew she could sing like that?”
Tim spun around, found himself staring into the face of Amber Weber. “Yeah,” he said, unable to say more. He’d always been shy around girls, and Amber Weber wasn’t just any girl, she was the sheriff’s daughter, and while she might be really skinny, she was also really tall, at least two inches taller than he was, and pretty, and he’d never known what to say to really pretty, really tall girls whose fathers were sheriffs, so what he said again was “Yeah.”
“It makes you feel kind of sorry for her,” Amber continued, as if she could read his thoughts.
“Yeah.”
“Too bad she’s so fat. She’d have made a great Kate. Sorry,” Amber apologized immediately. “I know Megan will be fabulous in the part. I’m really looking forward to working with her.”
“Yeah.” Was she flirting with him? Tim wondered. She’d never said more than two words to him before, even though they were in most of the same classes together. “Have you seen her?”
“Your sister?”
“Yeah.”
Amber looked around. “No. I saw her before,” she said, then stopped without completing the thought.
Tim completed it for her. With Greg, the thought continued.
“How come you didn’t try out for the play?” she was asking.
Tim shrugged.
“You should have. It’s fun. Maybe you could talk to Mr. Lipsman. It might not be too late. You could be in the chorus or something.”
“I don’t think so,” Tim said.
“Musicals just not your thing?”
Tim shook his head. What was she implying? That because his name had made that stupid faggot list it meant he was supposed to like musicals?
“Do you know what time it is?” Amber asked.
What was the matter with the watch she was wearing? Tim wondered, checking his wrist. Wasn’t it working?
“That’s so cool,” Amber said, pointing to the illuminated dial.
“It’s almost eleven.”
“Damn. I have to go. My father’s picking me up.” She pointed to the opposite end of the park. “You want a ride home?”
Tim would have loved a ride home. His leg had been bothering him all day and standing around half the night hadn’t helped matters. Not to mention he was bored and tired and mad at Megan. Where was she anyway? “Can’t.” He thought he saw a hint of disappointment flicker through Amber’s eyes. Was it possible? “I could walk you over there,” he offered, the longest string of words he’d put together all night.
“That’d be great. I’m a little nervous. You know.”
“Yeah.”
They started ambling through the park, sidestepping the kids still clinging to the edges of their disbanded circle, now barely a semicircle really, and trying to avoid being hit by the careless football whizzing past their heads. “Hey, jerk-off,” Greg called after him. “Leaving without saying good-bye?”
“You see my sister?” Tim asked.
Greg made no response.
Tim wondered for an instant whether Greg had heard him, but the slight sneer tugging at Greg’s lips conf
irmed he had, and that there was nothing to be gained by asking the question again. He toyed with the idea of giving Greg the finger, then quickly thought better of it. His mother had enough to worry about without him coming home with a body full of broken bones. Again he wondered what his mother was doing, and whether she was on her way home. Fort Lauderdale was approximately an hour’s drive away. That meant she and Rita should be heading for the highway if they planned on making it back home before midnight.
“He’s the jerk-off,” Amber whispered, touching his elbow.
Tim felt a bolt of lightning travel from his arm directly to his penis. He had to stop for a minute, his legs unable to proceed.
“Are you okay?” Amber asked, touching him again. If she didn’t stop, Tim thought, he’d be a paraplegic before he reached the sidewalk. “Yeah,” he grunted.
“Something wrong with your leg?”
“I hurt it earlier,” he managed to croak out.
“Yeah? How’d you do that?”
“Tripped,” he lied. He couldn’t very well tell her he’d been trying out some moves from a kung fu movie he’d seen on television the previous night and had gotten twisted inside his own feet before crashing to the floor. It had looked so easy, he was thinking. And it might come in handy if he ever had to protect his mother or sister from …what? And who was he kidding? He couldn’t get out of the way of his own feet, for God’s sake. How would he be able to protect anybody else?
“You have to be more careful,” Amber said.
“Yeah.”
This time she kept her hands to herself and they walked the rest of the way in silence, Tim’s eyes perusing the premises, hoping to catch sight of Megan. Amber’s father’s police cruiser was parked on the street when they got there, her father waiting beside it.
“Hi, Dad,” Amber said, pulling away from Tim’s side. “This is Tim. Tim Crosbie.”
Tim watched the sheriff’s eyes narrow as he extended his hand. “Ian Crosbie’s son?”
“Yes, sir.” Tim felt his fingers crunch inside the bigger man’s sturdy grip. His hand went quickly numb.
