“You’re talking about the movie?”
“No,” she said, “just the plot.”
Pirate didn’t know the plot of Hamlet, kept his mouth shut.
“Specifically, the central problem Hamlet has,” Norah said.
“The central one, huh?”
She nodded. “Whether to believe the ghost or not.”
“There’s a ghost in it?” Hamlet was starting to sound not bad.
She glanced at him. He read her look, easy to read, right out in the open: she was getting hit by the fact that he knew squat about Hamlet, and seeing him different. Pirate felt the presence of the tiny weapon, even though it was back at the Ambassador Suites, under the mattress.
She smiled, a soft, friendly smile, but not enough for him to forgive her. “The ghost of Hamlet’s father says he was killed by the uncle, who takes the wife and the crown. Hamlet doesn’t know whether to believe the ghost. He keeps agonizing and agonizing.”
“And did he do it, the uncle?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
She closed her eyes, thought. “I don’t remember.”
How was that possible? “Stabbed him, maybe?” Pirate said.
“I don’t think so.” Her eyes opened. They were red, maybe from the weed, maybe from being upset; it was her father’s grave, after all, and she was the emotional type. “There is a sword fight, at the end,” she said. “By that time Hamlet knows his uncle is guilty, but it’s too late.”
The story was getting hard to follow. “Why are we talking about this, again?” he said.
“Because of you,” she said.
“Me?”
“The fact that you didn’t do it means someone else did.”
That again. The mother had made the same point, or close to it. She’d also denied having this daughter, having kids at all. Why? Any danger for her in him knowing? Not that Pirate could see. “Yeah,” he said. “Someone else did it. Party or parties unknown.”
“That’s what brings up the Hamlet problem.”
“How?”
“My grandfather put the idea in my head, all about the killer ending up with the widow.”
“You’ve got a grandfather?”
“Two. I’m talking about my dad’s dad. He lives in New Orleans, but I never saw him, growing up.”
“No?”
“Until last semester. And you know what he told me—and this was before the tape and everything? He said he didn’t think the right man was in jail.”
“Sounds like a cool guy,” Pirate said.
“But that wasn’t the most horrible part.”
“No?”
“The most horrible part was who he thought did it.”
Was that the most horrible part? Far from it, but now Pirate was curious. “And who’s that?”
Tears came, silent ones, just like her mom’s. “He always treated me so well, brought me up as his own daughter. I can’t believe he’d do something so awful. And why? There’s no reason.” Norah’s face twisted up in that ugly way.
Pirate realized who she was talking about. Everything clicked into place. He already had a perfect story for this moment, had used it once already to great effect.
“There was this thing that happened down in the cell,” he said. “Way back when. Just the two of us, detective and me. He said, ‘Last chance to confess.’”
And Pirate told his little tale; he had it down pat. The response? Socko, one more time. Tears rolled down, silent, in two silvery tracks. It must have been in her DNA.
CHAPTER 25
Nell?”
“Yes?” A woman, black and educated, but Nell didn’t recognize the voice.
“Veronica Rice.”
“Yes. Hi, Veronica.”
“I’d like to talk to you for a few minutes.”
“Sure,” said Nell. “Go ahead.”
“If it wouldn’t be too much trouble and all, I was hoping we could make it in person.”
“All right. You know where I live?”
“I do, and thanks,” said Veronica. Pause; and after it, she sounded a little uncomfortable. “But is there any chance you could come here?
I’ll have some time at practice.”
“I thought you’d retired,” Nell said, realizing Veronica didn’t want to come to the house and wondering why. Some racial thing?
Not possible.
“I unretired,” said Veronica. “There’s been some delay with Bobby’s pension.”
Veronica Rice taught history at East Middle School, and also coached softball. Nell found her sitting in the bottom row of the bleachers, watching the girls warm up, clipboard in hand. Veronica patted the bench beside her. Nell sat down.
“Thanks for riding over,” Veronica said.
“Not at all.”
“You’re looking well.”
That was a lie: Nell had checked herself in the mirror before leaving. “You, too,” she said. Also a bit of a lie: Veronica had lost some weight, but she was one of those powerfully built women who actually looked worse when that happened, no longer quite themselves; and her broad face was ashy, as though she hadn’t been sleeping.
“I’m sorry to hear about Bobby’s pension,” Nell said.
Veronica shook her head, a small, hopeless movement. “The medal came prompt enough,” she said.
“What’s the holdup, if you don’t mind me asking?” Nell said. Was that why Veronica wanted this meeting, to speed up the pension?
Veronica turned to her, gave her a close look. “Don’t mind at all,” she said. “Always considered you a friend.”
“I’m glad.”
Veronica glanced out at the field. “Follow through, Aliyah,” she yelled. “And turn your body, child.” She lowered her voice. “It’s some paperwork problem,” she said. “Records got destroyed in the…” Veronica bit her lip. “…in the flood. All the vacation days, sick days, overtime cards—gone. But everybody knows Bobby was with the department for twenty-seven years, common knowledge. The storm took away some people’s good sense.”
“That’s not all it did.”
Veronica gazed at her. For a moment, Nell thought she was angry. But Veronica’s face was hard to read, at least for Nell, because she smiled and said, “Amen.” The smile faded. “Never gave you proper thanks for coming to the funeral.”
“Of course I—we came.” Bobby’s church, Fourth Street Baptist in Lower Town, had still been half underwater at the time of the funeral, which ended up at a small chapel in Stonewall County, the walls lined with blown-up photos of Bobby, including that last one—balanced on a rooftop, passing a baby to a man in a dinghy—taken seconds before something gave way beneath him. It took divers more than a day to find his body in all the rubble.
“Now there’s this reporter wants to talk to me,” Veronica said. “Ms. Bonner. Claims she’s a friend of yours.”
“That’s true,” Nell said. “But she’s a reporter first.”
“Uh-huh,” Veronica said. And then, louder: “Butt down, girl, butt down on grounders.” She shook her head, turned to Nell. “No excuse for a grounder going through your legs, not never. Ms. Bonner wants to talk to me about the tape.”
“I thought so.”
“What did you tell her about it?”
“The tape?” Nell said. “I don’t know anything about the tape.”
“Your husband never made mention of it?”
“No. Did yours?”
Veronica’s eyes were expressionless but she nodded, very slightly. “Talking to Ms. Bonner don’t feel right,” she said. “Bobby never trusted the press.” There was a long silence. Nell forced herself to be still, keep her mouth shut, but her heart was beating faster and faster. “On the other hand, the tape turning up in Bobby’s locker, how it might look, that don’t feel right neither.”
More silence. When Nell couldn’t endure it another moment, she said, “Can you explain that last part?”
“Not much to explain,” Veronica said. “Wh
y would I go and feel right? No one likes when folks pass tales.”
“What kind of tales?”
“You must have heard—tales about evidence that gets hidden, frame-ups, what all. Not saying that Bobby was a perfect man—ain’t no man nor woman perfect on this earth—but he was straight up in his job, by the book.”
“So is Clay.” That just popped out, almost like a reflex from some dead creature poked in a biology lab.
“Uh-huh,” said Veronica.
That uh-huh: two little syllables but they contained a powerful inertial force. Nell realized what should have been obvious from the start: their interests were not the same. “I think you know more than you’re telling me, Veronica.”
“Likewise,” said Veronica. Maybe Veronica did consider her a friend, but at this point there was no sign of it in her eyes.
“I don’t really know anything,” Nell said. “I’m just trying to figure it all out.”
“And let the chips fall wherever they may?” Veronica said.
Nell wasn’t sure about that. She said nothing.
Veronica called out, “Three laps, team. Then we’ll take BP.” Groans rose from the field, but the girls started running, feet thudding softly on the turf. “Think Ms. Bonner has a theory ’bout all this?” Veronica said.
“I don’t know,” Nell said. “She’s still gathering facts. With someone like Lee Ann, I think theories come later.”
“Makes sense.”
“Glad to hear you say that,” said Nell. “Because that’s what I’m doing, too, if there’s anything you can tell me.”
“Such as what?”
“Such as maybe Bobby said something to you about the tape.”
Veronica gazed past her, expression unreadable.
“A long time ago,” Nell added. “Just a hint, a suggestion. You might not have even understood it at the time. Maybe it’s starting to make sense only now.”
“And if we’re discussing maybes,” Veronica said, “maybe someone said something to you, too.” Her eyes were on Nell now, and readable again; readable and unsettling.
“No,” Nell said.
“No, just like that, no?” Veronica said. “Couldn’t have been a suggestion in your case, a hint you’re only understanding now?”
“There wasn’t,” Nell said. “I’d tell you.”
“Yeah?” said Veronica. “Why?”
“Why? Because you’d deserve to know.”
Veronica shook her head; the gesture had an ancient finality, as though it dated from the dawn of humanity. “What a world that would be,” she said. “But I was born in Belle Ville. Family’s all from around here, going way back. So I understand how things work.”
“What do you mean?” Nell said.
“Power structure,” Veronica said. She rose, stepped onto the field. “Can’t help,” she said. “Sorry, because I always liked you, still do. But this is what I was fearing.”
“What?” said Nell. “What were you fearing? What do you think happened?”
But Veronica was no longer talking to her. She clapped her hands. “Everybody in.” She picked up a bat.
The Miata was parked in the driveway when Nell got home. She found Norah in the kitchen, eating ice cream from the carton. Nice to see her eating, so nice that Nell smothered the urge to bring her a bowl from the cupboard: Norah still looked much too thin. For a moment, in the quiet of her kitchen, Nell thought, despite everything, that a happy ending was possible.
“What kind is that?” Nell said.
“Good question,” Norah said, turning the carton in her hand, reading the label. “Macchiato Crunch. Want some?”
Nell had no appetite at all, but she said, “Sure,” and fetched a spoon. She sat beside Norah, dipped into the carton. A stillness descended, as though time was making a brief stop, lingering over a mother-and-daughter moment. “Mmm,” Nell said. “Good.”
“I like the crunch part,” Norah said.
“Me, too.”
“Crunch crunch,” said Norah.
Nell gave her a quick glance, saw nothing abnormal. “Been into town?” she said.
“Affirmative.”
“How was it?”
“No complaints.”
“Do anything interesting?”
“Just hung out.”
“With?”
“Joe Don.”
“How’s he doing?”
“Good.”
“Tell me a bit about him,” Nell said. “What’s he like?”
“Nice,” Norah said. She tapped her spoon against her teeth, seemed lost in thought. “Real nice.”
Nell smiled. “Go on.”
Norah’s eyes shifted toward her, then away. The sense of stillness disappeared, and tension rose in Norah’s body, communicating itself to Nell. “Tell me something, Mom. Did you love my father?”
“Of course.”
“More than your present husband?”
“My present husband?” Now the happy-ending feeling vanished, too. “Why do you call him—”
“Less?” said Norah. “The same?”
“I don’t—”
“Come on, Mom—did you love him more, less or the same? It’s easy—multiple choice.” Norah’s voice rose, high and thin, toward hysteria; and now Nell noticed how red her eyes were, like she’d been crying. She reached out, touched Norah’s shoulder. Norah flinched away from her hand, jumped up.
“Norah, please. What’s happening to you? What’s going on?”
“You really don’t know? Read Hamlet.” Norah ran from the kitchen, banging the door closed.
Read Hamlet? What was she talking about? Nell went upstairs, knocked on Norah’s door.
“Don’t come in.”
“I loved your father,” Nell called through the door. “Of course I loved him. But comparing them—why is that so important to you?”
No response. This was unbearable. Nell turned the knob, pushed the door open. Norah was standing by the chest of drawers, throwing clothes in a suitcase.
“What are you doing?” Nell said.
“More, less, the same?” said Norah, not looking at her, camisole top, jeans, her cute little hat from Urban Outfitters, all missing the suitcase and spilling across the floor. “More, less, the same? More, less, the same?”
“Why do you want to know?” Nell said. “What difference does it make?”
Norah faced her. She was shaking. “How can you ask that? Are you stupid?”
Now Nell was shaking, too. “Out with it,” she said. “Whatever’s on your mind, out with it. This can’t go on another moment.”
“What’s on my mind?” Norah said. “Who killed my father—that’s what’s on my mind. What’s on yours?”
“The same thing,” Nell said. “Of course, the same thing.”
“And?” Norah said. “Any ideas?”
“I—” Nell’s throat closed up; her body refused to let her name names.
“You’re despicable,” Norah said. She spun away, zipped up the suitcase, a silk sleeve hanging out, and strode toward the door.
“What are you doing?” Nell said. She stepped in front of Norah. Norah kept moving, bumped right into her.
“Now comes a mother-daughter fistfight?” Norah said.
Even the idea should have been unimaginable. Nell stepped aside. Norah passed by without further contact.
“Where are you going?” Nell called after her.
Already on the stairs, Norah said, “I’m not spending another night in this house.”
A minute later, Nell heard the Miata starting up. What could she do? Norah was nineteen, an adult. Her family was walking out on her, one at a time. Nell was left alone in her daughter’s room—alone and shaking—with the stuffed animals on the shelves, and the monkeys, swaying very slightly on the trapeze.
Plus all of Norah’s high school books. It took her just a few moments to find Hamlet. She leafed through the pages, and soon came to:
Seems, madam! Nay, it is; I know not �
�seems.”
’Tis not alone my inky cloak, good mother.
In the margin, Norah had written in red—tidy penmanship, the letters fat and somehow cheerful-looking: What’s up with Hamlet’s mom?
And below that, in some other student’s spikier hand: She’s a whore.
CHAPTER 26
Night: a warm night with soft sounds in the air. Pirate, with his excellent hearing, didn’t miss any of them—a woman’s laugh, ice cubes in a glass, a passing plane, the kind that flew very high, on the way to Paris or Rio or some other place Pirate had never seen and had no desire to. He pressed record on Lee Ann’s digital recorder, said, “Twice as much as before,” and “she asses,” and listened to the sound of his voice. Then he tried gazing down at the bus stop, hoping the Indian woman would show up, wearing something skimpy. She did not. No buses came. He got restless and went for a walk, ending up at the Red Rooster.
“Kahlúa,” he said. “Rocks.”
“Coming right up,” said the waitress, a waitress he didn’t know, not pretty, no tits, barely registering on his consciousness. Despite his wealth—he was rich!—and freedom, he wasn’t in the best mood, which didn’t make sense. He found himself thinking of what he’d be doing at this hour up at Central State: lying on his bunk, most likely, fingering the gold tassel, at peace. Pirate glanced at the empty stage.
Music was what he needed.
“When’s the band start?” he said to the waitress when she brought his drink.
“No band tonight,” she said. “It’s Tuesday.”
“How come?”
“No band on Tuesdays.”
His mood got a little worse. “Make it a double,” he said.
She glanced at his glass, looked confused; no reason for that, and it pissed him off more. “Turn this one into a double?” she said. “I don’t think we can do that.”
“What can you do?”
“I could bring you another one,” the waitress said.
“A double?”
“If that’s what you want.”
“I want,” Pirate said.
He drank the single and the double. He stopped feeling pissed off, but the restlessness remained. Pirate went into the bathroom, splashed cold water on his face. There he was in the mirror: with the patch and now the earring, really looking like a pirate. He cheered up, paid his bill, leaving a big tip, and walked out of the Red Rooster, into the night.
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