Samantha looked at her, obviously worried. Bridie was afraid she might be sick. Winslow was oblivious. He had the tape cued to where he wanted it.
“Let’s just see,” he said and pushed Play.
There they were in grainy black and white. Bridie could see the tip of her leg in the far right-hand corner of the screen, just finishing up her cleaning of the dairy case. In the foreground was Samantha, teetering on those high heels, looking behind her, guilty face turning this way and that, looking for witnesses before she reached up, took a bottle of wine from the shelf, then thrust it up under her shirt. Bridie watched, hypnotized, as she saw herself straighten up, dust off her hands, turn, and spot Samantha. Now she was coming toward her. Oops. There went the bottle. Now she and Samantha were talking. Here came Winslow. It was surreal. Now the three of them were talking, replaying the moments before. Winslow gestured toward the office, and then one by one they disappeared from view. The last scenes were of the wine and beer aisle, empty now except for the spattered mess of glass and dark liquid. Winslow turned, triumphant.
“I’ve got the proof,” he said. “Right here. The two of y’all on tape. You been in cahoots for a while? What? Bridie looks out and gives you the high sign, and then you come in and rob me blind?”
Bridie said nothing. She was going down. Down. And no one could help her.
“You’ve got proof I was stealing. And that’s true. I was.”
Shock opened Bridie’s eyes. Samantha spoke, her voice bold and clear. Her cheeks were pale and her eyes still ringed, but she didn’t look frightened anymore.
“You’ve got me on tape, but that’s all you’ve got. She wasn’t my lookout. She was busting me.”
Bridie blinked. Samantha stared back at her. Winslow narrowed his little beady black marbles and twisted his mouth into a satisfied smile. “Is that why she lied for you when I caught you red-handed?”
There didn’t seem to be an answer for that. Bridie heard her grandmother’s voice, cautioning her that lying never solved a problem, only took a bad situation and made it worse. She closed her eyes again.
“Is there a problem here?” A new voice entered the mix. Bridie felt light-headed. She reached for the chair and sat down before her knees buckled.
“Carmen called and said you were having some difficulty. I was close by and thought I’d see if I could be of service.” Bridie shaded her eyes from Newlee’s gaze, but when she peered through her fingers she could see his face was kind, not accusing. Samantha, apparently seeing she might be staying awhile, pulled out a chair as well.
“Why don’t we all sit down?” Newlee suggested, smiling. He pulled out a chair, too, and sat down with the creak of leather. Winslow looked as if he might have apoplexy. He remained standing and began punching at the security camera, rewinding the tape. “The problem is this young lady stole from me with the help of my employee,” Winslow said. “I was just fixing to call you.”
“How old are you, miss?” Newlee addressed the question to Samantha. She blanched. Apparently just being spoken to by an officer of the law was enough to shake her composure.
“Thirteen.” Her voice quivered. She looked more like a child than ever, no matter how much makeup she clumped around her eyes.
Newlee nodded and pulled a notebook from his pocket. “What’s your name?”
Samantha cleared her throat. “Samantha MacPherson.”
Newlee wrote. “Address?”
“Nine-twenty Fairfax Street.”
Newlee wrote more.
“Telephone?”
Samantha answered. Newlee wrote.
“Parents home?”
“My dad—” Samantha cleared her throat and her eyes spilled again. The tarry puddles moved south, led by a dark trickle. “My dad’s probably home.” She made a sound that was halfway between a hiccup and a sob.
Newlee nodded and looked up. Winslow was ready with the tape.
“Right here. You just watch, officer. Here we go.” He pushed Play and the tawdry little scene enacted itself again, and suddenly it seemed as if Bridie’s entire life was like that. The same scene played out over and over again. Never a break, never a variation. Doing all right for a while, then a fork in the road presented itself, and without fail, without a doubt, without variation, she chose the wrong one. She covered her eyes again.
“I see,” Newlee said, voice calm. “Looks like somebody got caught in the act.”
“Darned right,” Winslow crowed.
Bridie shut her eyes even tighter. Samantha’s noises were definitely leaning toward sobs.
“And one of my own employees lied to cover it up,” Winslow continued. “I think the two of them’s in cahoots.”
“We are not.” Samantha spoke again, her voice adamant in spite of her distress. “She didn’t know anything about it.”
Winslow started to argue back, but Newlee held up his hand to stop him. “I think you’d have a hard time making that accusation stick,” Newlee said. “From what I see on the tape there’s no reason to think your employee was involved in any way. I suggest you let her go back to work. I’ll take a report and escort this young lady back home.”
Bridie held her breath. Maybe, maybe, maybe things would work out after all.
“No, no, no.” Winslow was shaking his head. Samantha’s sobs got a little louder. She was probably having visions of herself, prison pale in an orange jumpsuit and leg shackles. “You go on and take her,” Winslow said, nodding toward Samantha. “I was fixing to call you anyway. But I’ll deal with Miss Collins here.”
Bridie dropped her hand from her eyes and sat up. There was no hiding from reality any longer. “I’ll spare you the trouble,” she said, rising.
“Oh no you don’t.” Winslow barred the door with his body. “You’re not going to quit before I can fire you.”
“Am I under arrest?” Bridie looked toward Newlee for an answer. He shook his head, his eyes looking troubled.
“Then I’ll get my things,” she said to Winslow. “You can write whatever you want on my paperwork.”
“You bet I will. Nobody else will hire you after I finish.”
“I’ll give you a ride home,” Newlee said.
“That’s all right,” Bridie protested. The last thing she wanted was an intimate conversation with Newlee.
“I insist.”
She looked at him. He looked back at her. Samantha’s sobs slowed. Her head bobbed between the two of them like she was watching a tennis match.
“Sure,” Bridie agreed, making her voice easy. “Let me get the stuff from my locker. I’ll be down in a second.”
Winslow gave Newlee a malicious look and moved reluctantly away from the door.
“Take your time,” Newlee said and creaked back down into his chair.
****
Lorna arrived just as the police were pulling up in front of the parsonage. She came through the doorway first, her eyes already red from crying.
“Oh, Alasdair.” She clung to his arm. “Maybe she’s just playing hooky.”
“Maybe,” he said, gripping her hand. “Calling the police is probably an overreaction.” The twins were wailing from their cribs upstairs. He’d been sick once while he was waiting for the police and felt as if he might be again. The room swayed slightly, and when he closed his eyes it spun. A dark little figure huddled in the basement of his psyche, whispering evil. He’d failed his daughter in some elemental way. He’d known that for months, years, perhaps, and now she was alone in the world, long before she was able to negotiate it safely. He had failed her. The realization hit him like a vicious stab through the diaphragm.
The policeman arrived at the door and came into the hallway. As he began asking questions, Alasdair was transported back to another time when he’d answered those same sorts of questions. “Did she seem upset when she left?” “Do you know where she was going?” “Who saw her last?”
“Do you have a current picture?” the policeman asked him now.
Alasdai
r’s inner screen was showing its own pictures, too awful to bear. He coughed and began shivering.
“I’ll find one,” Lorna said through her tears.
The knocker rapped. He and Lorna both bolted for the door, and Alasdair felt if it was someone from the congregation with some niggling complaint, he might knock them to the ground. He flung it open, and his relief was so great it rushed through him like a surge of heat. It was Samantha, with another policeman following close behind her and a woman behind him. He didn’t speak a word, just gathered her into his arms and nearly crushed her.
“What were you thinking?” he demanded, pushing her to arm’s length so he could look at her, hearing his voice, hoarse and loud.
Samantha began crying. Again. Her makeup was already smeared, her nose red. He wanted to stop shouting, to comfort her, but all the emotion he’d felt as illness and guilt, panic and anxiety, were finding their way out through this tunnel of anger.
“Alasdair,” Lorna murmured.
“What were you thinking?” he shouted again, his hands still on her shoulders. “Where were you?”
“At the Bag and Save,” she said through her sobs.
“There was a little problem.” The new policeman spoke, nodding to his comrade. They stepped away and began a murmured conversation.
Alasdair let go of Samantha. She took a step back. He shook his head. None of it made any sense. That fact joined the rest of his existence. Every day was beginning to have the same feeling. As though some cosmic mind took joy in dumping a handful of random puzzle pieces onto his head. “Here, see what you can make of these.” Blasphemy, he knew, but there it was. The truth of how he felt.
“Why were you at the Bag and Save?” He had visions of Samantha dawdling at the candy counter, looking at comic books, the things children do when they run off from school.
Samantha ducked her head. The second policeman stepped forward. “Your daughter was caught shoplifting—a bottle of wine.”
Alasdair’s stomach did a flip, and he wondered if he would be sick again right there in the hallway.
Samantha lifted her face to him. It was sad and bleak and perfectly matched his own feelings. “Go to your room,” he said. She turned and left, silent on the stairs for once.
The babies were screaming. He stood and stared at the wall behind the policemen, who were having another huddle. Lorna went upstairs to see to the children. The woman who’d been standing behind her came into view. She looked very familiar, but he couldn’t seem to place her.
“Sir, I think we’re finished here.” The first policeman spoke. “We won’t fill out a report on this unless the store manager insists.”
“I’ll handle the situation,” Alasdair said. “She’ll be punished.”
“Is that your solution?” the woman asked sharply.
Alasdair turned toward her. “Do I know you?”
The two policemen shifted their weight. Lorna came back down with a child on each hip. The woman who had spoken held out her arms to Cameron. He went to her, shuddering with sobs, and buried his runny nose in her hair. The woman nuzzled his neck and began making soothing circles on his back. Alasdair remembered her now. She’d been a guest for a meal. Thanksgiving dinner.
“Your daughter needs help,” she said, her voice lower but her tone still iron hard. “A man of your intelligence ought to be able to see that. Punishing her isn’t going to solve anything.”
How are you involved in this matter? he wanted to ask her. Why are you here? But nausea rose just ahead of the words. He turned and left the room. When he was finished being ill, the policemen were gone and the hallway was empty. He could hear voices from the kitchen. He climbed the stairs, feeling as if each one was a journey in itself, passed Samantha’s door without stopping, and lay down on his bed without even turning down the covers.
Eleven
Bridie lay on her bed and stared at the ceiling. There was no particular reason to get up. After all, she had no job. She jabbed her pillow and pulled the covers up so that just her nose was exposed. This was a fine mess she was in. Again. What was that her papa used to say whenever Mama wanted him to help somebody? No good deed will go unpunished? “You were right about that,” she said out loud to the empty room.
It had been a mistake to come to Samantha’s rescue. Another mistake in a lifetime of mistakes, beginning with Jonah. It had seemed like her only choice at the time, but it had only led to something worse. Then she’d thought that getting away from him would be the answer to all her problems. The one tiny little complication was that she’d decided taking his money would be a good idea, and then she’d been stupid enough to let it get stolen from under her nose. And the real insult to the injury was that for all the time she spent thinking about Jonah and Dwayne and being afraid of them, looking for them behind every bush, she might as well still be there.
The prayer she’d whispered long ago came back to mock her. “Oh, that I had the wings of a dove! I would fly away and be at rest. I would hurry to my place of shelter, far from the tempest and storm.” She gave a snort from under the covers. No matter how many miles she tried to put between her and her past, she couldn’t get away from herself. And she was getting tired of running.
What if? What if she’d never left with Jonah? What if Mama hadn’t died? She’d probably be a teacher right now. That’s what she’d wanted to be. She imagined herself with a classroom full of shiny-headed children looking up at her with love and affection as she taught them things—good things they would need to know. But that would never happen now. How could she march into the college and say, “Sign me up; I want to be a teacher”? No. She would never be a teacher, or a nurse, or a mother, or have anything but a no-account job and a no-account life.
She might as well go back to dealing.
The thought shocked her chattering mind into silence.
Not that it hadn’t occurred to her before. But the suggestion had always been quickly dismissed, usually with a shudder. Now it presented itself as a logical option. She had no job. She had one friend—Carmen. Lorna didn’t count. Church people had to be friendly.
And there would be another benefit. If she wandered back to the old haunts, she could hook up with somebody scarier and badder than Jonah was. If she made herself useful enough to him, he might make good what she owed Jonah, or more likely, run him off when he got out of prison. She had enough saved to get back to her old stomping ground. Just barely—after she paid Carmen what she owed.
She lay there another moment and weighed her choices. Go back to dealing, or get up and read the want ads. Stay, or go back to the life she’d run away from. She felt like flipping a coin. She would throw her life up in the air and see where it landed. Why not?
Getting up to find a penny seemed like too much effort. She decided to make a wager instead. With God? With whoever was listening. She sat up in bed and nodded as she reached a decision. If she found a job by the end of today, she would stay here in Alexandria until it was time to put a little more distance between her and Jonah. If she didn’t find a job by the end of the day, she would wander back to the hills, make herself indispensable to somebody else’s operation, and let them deal with Jonah. By the end of this day, one way or another, her fate would be decided. She stood up and felt a little better, though it was a hard, brittle better. She looked around her room through narrowed eyes.
She didn’t bother to make her bed, just went to the bathroom, then padded through the apartment and took the phone off the hook. Thank goodness Carmen’s door was closed tight and Newlee’s car was gone. Their ride to the reverend’s house had been uncomfortable, the conversation one-sided.
“Carmen’s concerned about you,” he had started out.
She had listened, arms folded, staring out the window, reminding herself of Samantha.
“If you’re in trouble, maybe I could help,” Newlee had offered, his voice concerned, too.
“Thank you,” she’d answered. “I appreciate that. I really do,�
� and for just a moment, looking at Newlee’s broad, honest face, she was tempted to tell him everything. To pour it all out and let things fall where they landed. What a relief that would be. The silence had drawn out between them and finally snapped. “This is something you can’t help me with,” she’d finally said.
Opening the front door now, she leaned out over the landing and retrieved the paper, then closed the door quickly against the morning, which like her mood was cold and dark. She thought of Samantha and wondered how her day was shaping up. Remembering Alasdair MacPherson’s stern face, she felt a stab of pity for the girl, and wished again that there were something she could do to help her. The words “lost soul” formed themselves in her mind, but oddly, it was Alasdair MacPherson’s face that accompanied them, not Samantha’s. It ought to be her own, she told herself, and resolved to tend to her own business.
She prepared coffee and went to perform her other morning ritual. Sitting down at Carmen’s computer, she booted it up and signed on, using Carmen’s Internet server. With a few clicks she was on the Virginia Department of Correction’s inmate locator for Jonah Porter. She did not click on the picture, just checked the release date, still comfortably far away.
The coffeemaker gurgled. The coffee was ready. She poured herself a cup and opened the want ads.
****
“It’s true influenza.” Fiona’s husband, the internist, had diagnosed Alasdair after a house call last night. “Bed rest and chicken soup,” he’d prescribed.
Lorna shook her head and wondered how they’d manage this new trial. She had stayed last night in the guest room to see to the babies, who still woke, crying and upset, several times a night. Like their sister and father, they seemed troubled by anxieties they couldn’t name. She’d taken last night and today off, to the displeasure of both of her bosses. There was no way she could hold this fort indefinitely.
She put another handful of Cheerios on each twin’s tray and checked her watch. It was almost time for Samantha to leave for school, and she hadn’t heard her stir since waking her up forty minutes ago. After moving the twins to their playpen, she climbed the stairs and pushed open her door. Samantha was still in bed, an immobile lump of sheet and blanket.
Not a Sparrow Falls Page 13
