THE WORD OF A CHILD

by Janice Kay Johnson

  "When I have answers," he said with quiet force, "we'll talk."

  "I…" was all she could manage.

  "I love you. I don't think you could have made love with me the way you did last night if you didn't feel the same. Don't throw what we have away because you doubt yourself."

  "Yes," she said, shaken. "I'll think. You don't need to prove anything about Simon."

  "Yeah," he said. "I think I do." His voice gentled. "Go take a hot bath. Get to bed yourself. You know Zofie will be up during the night. You take care of yourself, okay?" A quiet click ended the conversation.

  She was left with hot tears pouring down her face and the terrible conviction that she had never really faced what had been wrong with her marriage.

  * * *

  Chapter 16

  « ^

  "Thank you for seeing me, Mrs. Thalberg." Connor gingerly chose a dainty chintz-covered chair not scaled for him. Nothing in the living room was—the furniture was all feminine and upholstered in pastel colors. It suited the petite blond woman, elegantly dressed, who had let him in.

  "I don't quite understand why you wanted to talk to me now," she said, sitting on the edge of the chair, her hands folded tensely in her lap.

  "I don't like unresolved cases like your daughter's," Connor explained. "Sometimes when I'm able to look at them with a fresh eye, I find answers I didn't at the time." He paused. "Is your husband unable to join us?"

  Her gaze shied from his. "I didn't tell you on the phone, but … we're divorced."

  Connor's interest sharpened. "I'm sorry. I hope your problems had nothing to do with the stresses brought about by Lily's molestation."

  "Oh, it's…" Her hands fluttered. "It's hard to say."

  "Does he see Lily often? Would he be willing to speak to me, do you think?"

  She still didn't quite want to look at him. "He's actually in California now. The Bay Area. It's been a year, and he hasn't seen Lily yet. He does pay child support, but… Well, she's very young to get shipped off like a parcel. He recognizes that."

  "Yes, that would be difficult."

  She met his eyes again, her chin lifting. "What is it you want to know?"

  "Will you tell me the story again to the best of your recollection?" He forestalled her. "I do have notes and my reports, but it's possible some memory has come back to you since then. I'm hoping to hear your perspective as if I never have before."

  She agreed, although the telling obviously distressed her.

  Lily had squealed in pain when she stepped into a soapy bath. "Down there hurts," she said. Ellen Thalberg's first thought was of a yeast infection, but Lily did go to day care, so of course her mother worried about hidden abuse. She asked questions. Lily was terrified, but she was too young to keep a secret for long. He said they were playing a game and did things to her, and had her touch him. She didn't want to say who, but finally she did: Zofie's daddy. That's when they called the police.

  Connor led her through memories of where Lily had gone the week previous to her accusation. Mrs. Thalberg mentioned one other friend's house that wasn't in his report. He made a note to check it out.

  He asked how Lily was doing, and was glad at least when her face brightened. "You know, I think she's completely forgotten. She's doing wonderfully in school and has lots of friends. I'm … undoubtedly overprotective, but you can see why. I don't let her spend the night at other people's houses, and I like to know them before she goes over, and…" She stopped with a sheepish smile. "I'll probably be trying to guard her when she's eighteen. Maybe I'll become her dorm mother. Except I'm afraid they use students for resident hall advisors now, don't they?"

  He smiled back at her. "Yes, but you'll relax as the years go by. Trust me. She'll make you."

  She half laughed. "Yes, I suppose she will."

  Seizing the moment when her defenses were lowered, Connor said straight out, "Mrs. Thalberg, I'm going to ask you now to be honest with me. Have you, in the years since that incident, had any reason to suspect that her father might have touched Lily inappropriately?"

  She stared at him openmouthed. "Her father? Why … why … of course not!" The last sounded forced. "Don't be ridiculous! Would I let Lily visit him if I thought anything so … so horrible?"

  "But in fact Lily hasn't visited him," Connor reminded her. "Which did make me wonder."

  "I explained!"

  "Yes, and very reasonably." He waited.

  She clasped and unclasped her hands, moving restlessly, at last saying, "What a terrible thing to suggest. No. The answer is no. I have never suspected Tom. I would never."

  "I'm sorry to have to ask," he said quietly. "Unfortunately fathers do sometimes abuse their own children."

  Her nostrils flared. "Zofie is the one you should worry about!"

  "That has certainly been a concern of her mother's. But in fact, Mr. Stavig seems never to have reoffended, if he did molest Lily."

  "Of course he did! Lily said so." Her agitation increased to the point where she shot to her feet.

  "Why would she name him if he didn't do it? Children don't make up things like that!"

  "They do only if the truth is something too awful to face. They can reason, 'It couldn't have been my daddy. It had to be somebody else's.'"

  "I'm going to ask you to leave now," she said frigidly. "Tom certainly has his flaws, but he would never, never do something like that to his own child. Please go."

  He rose slowly, careful not to alarm her. "I'm sorry I upset you, Mrs. Thalberg. I'm very glad that Lily has made such a wonderful recovery. I'll be in touch if I learn anything you should know."

  She quivered, torn between shame and indignation. "I know you didn't mean anything by your suggestion. I appreciate what you did for us."

  His mouth twisted. "Not enough, I'm afraid."

  "We couldn't have Lily testify in court."

  "As I said at the time, a videotape would probably have been acceptable. But, given her age, her word alone would not have been enough to convict Mr. Stavig."

  "No. I understand." She saw him out and shut the door very firmly behind him.

  He heard the click of the lock and understood that he was not welcome to come back.

  As Connor made the long drive back to Port Dare, he reviewed his week's activities without much satisfaction. The only good part had been arresting Eddie Page. The son of a bitch hadn't been cocky enough to continue as a regular at the Customs House where Tracy's mom worked, but he hadn't been hard to find. Connor didn't know when he'd enjoyed slapping cuffs on someone so much. Tracy was gaining in confidence by the day. He thought she was going to make a hell of a witness on the stand.

  The rest of his week, though, had consisted of spinning his wheels. He'd interviewed Lily's preschool teacher, the parents in the other homes she'd visited in the couple of weeks before her mother's hysterical call to 911, and the Thalberg's pastor. None had painted a different picture than he'd seen at the time: the Thalbergs were upright, likable people, genuinely concerned about their daughter's welfare. During her other play dates, Lily had not been alone with any man, that Connor could determine. Other parents from the preschool had not liked Simon Stavig. He was abrupt, often unfriendly, pushy about getting what he wanted for Zofie, uninterested in casual friendships.

  And yet he had been willing to stay home from a planned golf game to watch over Zofie and her cute friend. Such uncharacteristic cooperation had bothered Connor then, and bothered him now.

  As did Ellen Thalberg's discomfiture at every mention of her husband and Lily in the same breath. Maybe she didn't want to think anything so horrible about him, but he'd had the distinct impression that she had done so anyway.

  Traffic was sparse this Thursday afternoon once he broke free of Bremerton and Silverdale. It left him free to brood about other avenues he could pursue.

  Talk to Tom Thalberg—he'd get his address from DMV records. Track down this other family and find out—if it wasn't far too late—whether Lily had actuall
y played there. He'd have liked to talk to Simon, but couldn't.

  He felt an uncomfortable sense of urgency. Panic crowded close behind him. He had trouble not looking over his shoulder constantly.

  What if he found no answers? Could he live with himself? Would Mariah give him a chance?

  Could he blame her if she didn't?

  He'd called twice this week. Both times they had talked guardedly. Zofie was feeling better. Mariah had only had to miss one day of school herself. He'd remembered to tell her about Tracy, who was back in class by Tuesday, seeming freer, Mariah reported, as if a nightmarish burden had been lifted from her. Mariah hadn't talked to Simon; he hadn't called, and she hadn't known what to say so she hadn't phoned him. Connor didn't suggest they get together, didn't ask what she was thinking. She wasn't objecting to his phone calls. That had to be enough for now.

  Until he could settle the doubts that had clouded both of their lives for the past three years.

  Damn it, the truth was out there, he thought with intense frustration. He just had to find it.

  Except for Monday, Mariah managed to appear in front of her students every day that week with her lessons planned, her eyes sharp and her hair well groomed. She picked up Zofie from after-school care on time, they were never out of milk in the morning, and she stayed on top of the laundry so that Zofie could wear her favorite jeans on Friday. She amazed herself.

  Inside, she was a mass of painful recollections and raging arguments. She would be strolling through the classroom, watching students bent over an assignment, her expression deliberately watchful but pleasant, while in her head she was reliving year two of her marriage, or the fifth summer, or Zofie's birth, or the fights with her parents before the wedding.

  She began to see that, childishly, she had gone through with the wedding in part because of their objections. In her fierce resentment at their opposition, she had drowned her own doubts.

  That understanding took her further back yet, to see how hard she had worked for her parents' sakes to be a "good girl," and how wistful she had sometimes been when others broke the rules or even their hearts. But her parents were different than her friends', older. Their expectations were so high, she had never quite felt loved just for herself. She had spent her childhood scrambling to measure up to the standard set by her brother, who seemed another adult to her.

  She'd met Simon in college. Although she dated in high school, he was her first real love, Heathcliff and Darcy and Benedick all rolled up in one. Simon was dark and handsome and moody, a romantic hero, and he loved her.

  So what if he was angry sometimes without her quite understanding why, or if he wouldn't explain himself when he missed a date or snubbed one of her friends or stalked out of her parents' house when her father questioned him about his ability to support a wife and family? He had been wounded at some time in his life. Literary heroes did brood and even sulk. He just wasn't the kind of man her parents wanted her to marry. They valued insincere charm over depth. She would follow her heart, she had told herself grandiloquently.

  He made love to her with careless passion. He was always intense, and seldom patient. Now, after the one night with Connor, she could see that she had needed more tenderness, more seduction and less demand. Her body never responded quickly enough. After a while, it had quit responding at all.

  The first year, she had still seen him as the wounded hero. By the second she had become frustrated with his moodiness. But she was pregnant with Zofie, and they were both excited, and she couldn't admit her parents had been right. He didn't abuse her; if he cut her off curtly, refused to talk about something important to her, or was inexplicably, even frighteningly angry when he walked in the door after work sometimes, she walled off her unease, her anger, her resentment. She was good at that, she realized. She'd spent a lifetime doing the same.

  And he did love Zofie. Sometimes he hurt her with his moods, but mostly he tried for her sake as he didn't for Mariah's. By the time Detective Connor McLean knocked on her door that long-ago night, Mariah knew now, her marriage was a pretense. The sad part was, she had pretended not just to others, but to herself. She hadn't wanted to fail at marriage.

  Good girls didn't. They had nice families.

  It was Thursday night, when she was making dinner, that Mariah came to a conclusion of the sad story of her marriage. Her hands stilled over the cutting board, the knife suspended above the deep green broccoli, glistening with droplets.

  Lily Thalberg's accusation had given Mariah an excuse. Yes, she'd feared for Zofie. But most of all, finally she had a reason she could accept to leave him.

  She looked down blindly at the broccoli, seeing the past instead of her kitchen, her present.

  Oh, how fiercely she had clung to that reason, refusing to admit to herself that she had chosen poorly, endured rudeness if not emotional abuse, failed. She'd rather think that she had a lack than that she had been wrong. And, of course, she could always fall back on her belief that she had left Simon for Zofie's sake.

  Perhaps she even had, she thought, slowly setting down the knife. What she hadn't recognized was her enormous relief.

  "Mommy? Is dinner ready?" Zofie asked, coming into the kitchen. She still wore her soccer shorts and practice jersey, but had shed the muddy socks, shin guards and cleated shoes at Mariah's insistence.

  Mariah glanced back at the broccoli. "I still have to cook the vegetable."

  "But I'm hungry!"

  Another glance at the stove told her the noodles were ready to be drained and the stroganoff was done. "Oh, heck," she said. "Forget the broccoli. We can have some baby carrots."

  Zofie, who only grudgingly ate anything green, brightened. "I'll set the table."

  As Mariah put the broccoli away in the refrigerator and got out the bag of carrots, she felt … lighter. More at peace. Not sure yet what was right or wrong, but better for understanding what had never been.

  Tracy tentatively approached Ms. Stavig the next day, after her class. Students were still brushing by when she paused in front of the teacher's desk.

  "Um… Can I talk to you for a minute?"

  Ms. Stavig smiled warmly. "Of course you can."

  "I'm not living at home anymore." She took a deep breath. "The man who raped me was this guy my mother brought home. He's in jail now. My mom says she'll never bring any man home again, but Detective McLean and my social worker and my foster mom think we both need some time in counseling before I go home."

  "Yes, I'd heard." Ms. Stavig's eyes were as nice as the police officer's. "Are you all right, Tracy? Is your foster mom good to you?"

  Tracy hadn't wanted to cry, but her eyes felt wet when she pressed her lips together and nodded. She took a deep, steady breath. Rushing, she got out, "I just wanted to say I'm sorry for lying to you."

  "I understand why you did," Ms. Stavig said simply. "Just … don't do it again, okay?"

  "Okay." Beginning to feel awkward, Tracy fidgeted. "I guess that's all. I just… Well, I'm sorry."

  "Will you stop and talk to me every week or two?" the teacher asked, sounding as if she meant it. "So I know how things are going?"

  Tears threatened again. Tracy nodded hard. "Sure," she said, as she backed away. "I promise."

  "And will you try out for the spring play?"

  Tracy stopped, hope blooming. "Do you think I might get a part?"

  Her teacher's smile was a little mischievous. "I think you have great dramatic potential."

  Amazed at being teased, she began to dream as she left the classroom. Maybe she'd get a lead role. Her mom would be in the audience—without any guy. It would be just the two of them, like it used to be. Only maybe Detective McLean would come, and of course Ms. Stavig would be in the wings.

  Tracy did a dance step and bumped into a senior guy, who frowned.

  "Hey, watch it!"

  "Sorry!" she said, but she was still smiling when she whirled away.

  Calling Simon was the second hardest thing Mariah had ever d
one, right behind telling him she wanted a divorce.

  "I suppose you're going to justify necking with my worst enemy right where you knew I'd see," he said bitterly.

  It had hurt him. She had hurt him. Mariah bit her lip and said, "I didn't expect you for hours. You know that. I have never been cruel, Simon."

  "Haven't you?" His tone raked her.

  She let it pass, because he had some right to be angry.

  "There are things I should have said to you years ago," she began. "Because I'm a mother, I've been afraid. But I don't think in my heart I ever really believed you molested Lily."

  He gave a harsh laugh. "I can't believe I'm hearing this. It's a little goddamn late, Mariah. Do you expect me to be touched by the way you backed me?"

  She didn't let his fury do more than shake her briefly. "I'm sorry." Her voice quavered, but she kept on. "I wasn't honest back then with either of us. I didn't want to admit that our marriage was over, that I didn't love you anymore."

  "You didn't love me." His incredulity blistered the phone line. "It was that easy? You fell out of love, so you ditched me at the worst possible moment?"

  Because she felt guilty, she reined in her hot response. "Easy? No, it wasn't easy," Mariah said quietly. "I worked at our marriage more than you did." She told him some home truths, then, which he didn't want to hear. He was no more ready now to admit that he was moody, angry, domineering, than he had been then.

  Perhaps the worst part was when his voice became quieter and he said, "Why didn't you suggest counseling? Why didn't you confront me?"

  "You always brushed me off. I think," she admitted, "I was afraid of you."

  "I never hurt you! Not once!"

  "You didn't hit me," she corrected him. "You hurt me in small ways every day, when you didn't think my opinion was worth hearing, when what I wanted or needed didn't matter, when you didn't care about my day or my mood or my beliefs. I think to you women are second-class citizens, and I refuse to live as one."

  His string of obscenities didn't shock her; they made it easier to finish.