“Not Baby, though,” Mrs. Hughes interrupts.
“And she told us there had been some party crashers, and one of them stole her car.”
“She was terribly upset. What her father isn’t saying is that she was really ill from crying and carrying on. Our Debbie isn’t the kind of girl who could tolerate a party like that.”
Mr. Hughes puts a hand on his wife’s knee, and she clutches it with both hands. “I called the police and reported the car stolen. Y’all talked to the police, so you know that.”
And apparently they reported my visit to him. “What time did you call? Before or after the accident?”
“Does it matter?”
“Only that it could have been Debbie driving the car, and the story about its having been stolen might not be true.”
Mrs. Hughes’s nostrils quiver and her lower lip juts out. “Are you trying to make us believe that Debbie didn’t tell us the truth?”
“I’m trying to find out the truth.”
Mr. Hughes leans toward me, his hands clenched, his elbows resting on his knees. “Debbie’s always been a good girl,” he says. “She’s pretty and popular and has lots of friends.”
I have to ask. “What does she think about? What does she talk about? What is Debbie really like?”
“What a silly question,” Mrs. Hughes says.
Mr. Hughes frowns again. “She’s like all young girls her age,” he says.
It’s just what I thought. They don’t really know their daughter. She’s living in the same house with them, and they talk to her every day, and her mother calls her “Baby,” and they just don’t know. Not any more than in my family.
But now it’s my turn, and I try to get a bead on Mr. Hughes’s stone eyes. “If you were really sure that Debbie was telling you the truth, you wouldn’t have been so quick to take care of her car.”
“I don’t like your suspicions, young lady,” he says. “And I don’t like what you’re doing—trying to hurt some fine kids who’ve grown up together in Fairlie, who’ll come back here to live and raise their children and help Fairlie continue to prosper.”
Mrs. Hughes quivers as she interrupts part of his leftover Chamber of Commerce speech. “You outsiders—y’all have no right to come in here and disrupt our lives! And you particularly—you have no right to upset Debbie the way you’ve been doing!”
We’re at a stand-off. And the only thing I’ve learned is that Debbie has lied to her parents. Because I’m beginning to believe that on that horrible Friday night there was no party.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Dad and Mom are sitting at the kitchen table drinking coffee. I feel like a fool for tiptoeing through the back way so quietly.
“I know,” I say. “I should have left a note. But you were talking, and I was upset, and—” I shrug. “Okay. I should have left a note to tell you where I’d be.”
“You can’t just walk out of the house like that,” Mom says. “Especially when it’s dark.”
“We were worried,” Dad says.
But they’re still cradling their coffee cups, and their voices are smooth with exhaustion, the aftermath of an argument that’s been settled. I’m glad they worked things out. I wonder if Dad tried to find out what Mom is feeling.
“Where were you?” Dad asks.
I sit down with them at the table, and brush away the cup Mom moves toward me. “I’ve been talking with Debbie’s parents.”
They wait for what I’ll say next, so I tell them about what Debbie told her parents and what Boyd told me.
When I finish, Dad just sits there, staring like some kind of zombie. Mom rests her forehead against her hands. “Dear God!” she whispers.
“And it’s all a bunch of lies,” I say.
She lifts her head and looks at me. “I read Jeremy’s poetry too. There is a lot of despair in it.”
“I don’t believe that Jeremy wanted to kill himself. And he hadn’t been drinking. I asked the doctor, and they didn’t find alcohol in his blood.”
“But Boyd said—”
“Mom, there are some kids who have worked out a lie for their parents, and their parents are busy kicking sand over that lie to cover it up so they won’t have to see it’s really a lie.”
“Why?” Mom looks so confused I put my hand over one of hers the way I would with a small child.
“Now, Angie, we don’t know there’s been a cover-up,” Dad says. “You don’t have facts. You’re just guessing. Adults have to deal with facts. It sounds as though you’ve been watching too many detective shows on television.”
“I’m not guessing. I’m trying to get the facts.”
“I still don’t understand,” Mom says. “Why would Boyd tell you that Jeremy had been drinking, and the doctor tell you they found no alcohol in Jeremy’s blood? Is there something else involved?”
I don’t want to tell them yet about the stolen watch. I don’t know why. It’s just a feeling I have, so I keep quiet.
Dad puts down his cup and gets to his feet, walking to the sink and back a couple of times before he says, “Angie, we don’t belong in Fairlie. We’ll move on from here, just as we’ve always moved ahead in the company. In a way I agree with Debbie’s father. Why should we stir up problems for the people who have made their lives in this town? All we should be concerned about is helping Jeremy to get well.”
“That’s why,” I say, and he stops to study me.
“I’m trying to reach Jeremy,” I tell them. “I have a strong feeling that if I know what happened, I can talk to him about it. I’m not sure of the reason, but I suspect he isn’t trying hard enough on his own, and maybe if he knows that we understand and things will be made right, it will help bring him back.”
Mom’s fingers tighten around mine. “I’ve tried talking to Jeremy, honey,” she says, “but he doesn’t hear us. He’s unconscious. You have to realize that.”
So I tell them what I told Mrs. Burrows about sleep learning and about the newspaper story I read last year of the child in a coma whose mother kept talking to him.
Dad shakes his head. “That’s pretty far-fetched, Angie.”
But Mom says, “Honey, if you think it will help, then do talk to Jeremy.”
Dad turns to Mom. “Dr. Branning will be back on Wednesday. They may make some tests.”
He and Mom begin to talk about tests and hospitals and doctors in Houston, but I tune them out. I think of my brother, and I know I’m going to summon every ounce of strength I’ve got to try to reach inside that dreamworld into which Jeremy is locked and bring him back. I can’t give up without trying.
But will I be able to do it?
The question haunts me all evening, and when I lie in bed ready for sleep it hangs over my head. I’m at that point where thoughts become fuzzy and unreal, making a slide into sleep, when it happens.
The wall behind the headboard of my bed thuds as though a giant fist has hit it. I scream and leap out of bed as the blow slams again.
Mom and Dad stumble down the hall and into my room.
“What is it?” Mom screeches.
But Dad throws open a window. “Hey, you!” he yells. As I rush to the window with Mom I see some shadows scrambling over the back fence.
Dad’s voice is tight and deep. “I’ll see what damage they did,” he says. “They must have been throwing something at the house.”
He strides from the room. Mom and I sit on the bed, just looking at each other. Finally I say, “Whoever it was must have known which was my bedroom. They were trying to scare me.” I add, “And they sure did!”
Mom pats my hand. “What makes you think they’re after you?”
But Dad is back. He holds out his right hand. His fingers are stained a dark red.
Mom gasps, and I shout “Dad!”
“Tomatoes,” he says. “They threw tomatoes against the wall.”
“Tomatoes? But they made so much noise!” I giggle with relief that it wasn’t blood.
“Should w
e call the police?” Mom asks.
But I shake my head. “They won’t do anything.”
Dad adds, “There’s nothing they can do. Whoever was in our yard has gone and we couldn’t identify them.”
“Why did they do it?” Mom asks.
They look at me, but I only shrug. Maybe they’ve figured out, too, that whoever did it knew which room was mine, that this was aimed at. me. But I guess it’s easier not to say what we’ve been thinking.
Finally Dad says, “Let’s get to bed. I doubt if they’ll come back.”
I lie in bed staring at the darkness, listening for sounds I hope will never come. I’m sure I won’t be able to sleep again, so I’m surprised when my alarm clock wakes me.
Carol and Bobbie are waiting for me in the hall at my locker when I get to school. I stuff in some books, the backs of my fingers rubbing against the grit of fine sand that has sifted through the cracks around the metal door.
Automatically I rub my hand down the side of my jeans, and Bobbie nods. “Wait till the wind really starts to blow, and everything you eat feels gritty. Yech!”
“How’s your brother?” Carol asks.
“The same,” I answer. I wish I could tell them what I’m trying to do with Jeremy, but they might think it’s dumb, just as Dad did. I don’t know them well enough to want to find out.
The bell blasts from over our heads. Bobbie claps her hands over her ears. “We’ll go with you to visit him, if you’d like,” Carol adds.
We begin to walk down the hall, dodging our way through the people who all seem to be hurrying toward us. “I’d like that. When he’s a little better, maybe.” I’m shouting at Carol, who’s now a couple of feet behind me. Bobbie’s pushing along behind her.
Some big oaf, who’s probably fullback on the first string, shoves between us, nearly flattening me against the wall. Carol waves and calls, “See you at lunch!” and she and Bobbie are swept down the hall.
The door to my first-period class is a few steps away. It’s a safe spot for now, a place away from hurrying, shoving bodies. A place where I’ll see Del.
In a way I’m surprised at the warmth that spreads across my shoulders like an extra sweater when I look across the room and catch Del’s smile. He’s been talking to Candy, but he quickly moves away from her and toward me, and I know he’s been watching for me to come through the door.
“How are you?” he asks, his voice so quiet that only I can hear him. I know he’s asking if I’ve come to terms with the status quo, if I’ve ended the fight.
“I think I’m a little closer to the answers now,” I tell him. For a moment I think I see a sadness in his eyes, and I don’t understand it. “Del, will you help me?”
“You know I will,” he says. When he smiles I realize I must have only imagined the sadness. Del puts an arm around my shoulders and we walk to our desks. My eyes meet Candy’s for just an instant, and this time the anger in her glance is not there, just a curious, speculative look. There’s something going on that I don’t understand. It’s a disturbing feeling that clings through the rest of the day.
At lunch time Bobbie slaps her tray on the cafeteria table and swings her legs over the bench. “My mother sent off a check for my housing next year!”
“Where?” I ask.
“A and M,” she says. “It’s a terrific university.” She scoops up a large bite from a baked potato.
“Where are you going to college?” Carol asks me.
“University of Southern California,” I answer. Just hearing the words aloud brings such a rush of excitement that I shiver.
Bobbie says, “You ought to go to A and M with us. You’d love it, and you’d still be in Texas.”
“I’d rather be in California.” I forget about the stuff on my lunch tray as I tell them about Meredith and what we have planned.
“It sounds terrific,” Carol says.
“Awesome,” Bobbie says around a mouthful of food.
“Most of the kids go to A and M or Texas, and some go to SMU, and there’s always Tech up at Lubbock and the out-of-state universities,” Carol says.
“Everybody goes away,” Bobbie adds.
“What about the junior colleges around West Texas?” I ask.
“Sure,” Carol says. “A lot of people go to them for their first two years. The ones who can’t go away to school.”
I had driven past one of the junior colleges—fairly new modern buildings on a campus near the edge of town, where students can glance out windows and see the flat desert, covered with scrub to the horizon, all of it dusted gray with a shifting, sifting layer of dry earth.
“They’ve got some good teachers,” Carol says.
“But it’s lots nicer to go away to school,” Bobbie adds.
For some reason this conversation disturbs me too. Maybe it’s just the day. I don’t seem to be with it. Everything is crowding in—too many thoughts, too many problems to handle. I’m relieved when the last bell rings.
I begin the short walk home. By the end of the first block the people going to their cars have dropped off, and only one or two wander on in my direction, but today I’m aware of footsteps behind me. I’ve got the scary feeling that something is wrong; so I whirl around. Close to me are five kids. Four of them I’ve seen but don’t know. The other is Candy. I’ve stopped, and they stop too.
“What do you want?” I wish I could sound calm. They must know they’ve frightened me.
“We just want to talk,” Candy says slowly. A couple of the kids shift position. A guy moves to my left. A girl moves close to the right, jostling my books out of my arms.
I try to gulp down my fear. “You want to talk about what happened to my brother? Is that it?”
“Let’s talk about your not being so nosy,” Candy says. “You say too much to too many people, and it gets back to us.” She steps forward and kicks at my books, sending my English book skittering across the dusty sidewalk.
“Cut it out!” I have to step backward as they move in on me.
“You don’t belong here,” one of the guys says.
I try to brace myself. I don’t know what’s going to happen next, but I’m not going to take it without a fight.
I’m suddenly aware that a blue pickup is coming down the street fast. It screeches to the curb, and Del jumps out.
He walks steadily toward the nearest guy. “Something I can do for y’all?” His words are a drawl, but the tone is hard and strong.
“Forget it,” the guy mumbles. He turns around, and the others follow.
“Don’t try this again,” Del says. They don’t answer as they walk back toward the school.
He picks up my books, then turns to me. “Taxi service to the hospital, ma’am.” He makes a bow and points toward his pickup, parked at the curb.
“I’m so glad you’re here!”
He smiles, but his eyes are serious. “I’ll stick around a little closer from now on.”
“You don’t have to.”
“Of course I don’t. I want to.”
He opens the door, and I climb up and in, leaning back against the seat, wishing I could close my eyes and sleep.
Del is beside me, watching me, one hand on the ignition without turning the key. “You look kind of pale,” he says. “My aunt Bessie would say, ‘downright peak-ed’.”
“What’s ‘peak-ed’?”
“The way you look now.”
Del starts the truck, pulls away from the curb, and doesn’t speak until we’re a couple of blocks from the school. “Did you have to read Don Quixote in the school you were in last year?”
“Tenth grade.”
“Okay. So you know how he kept fighting windmills —trying to set things right when there was no way he could win.”
“You think that’s what I’m doing?”
“I know that’s what you’re doing. Angie, give it up. Let things be. We’re talking about a bunch of kids at a party that got out of hand.”
“But you helped me, a
t first. You even found out about Debbie’s car.”
“I figured if you got some answers to all those questions it would satisfy you. How would I know you didn’t understand what to expect in a place like Fairlie?”
The sun glares against the windshield. I close my eyes, because they hurt. “We’re talking about hit and run,” I say. “That’s a crime. And I think the crime was committed with Debbie’s car.”
“There’s no way you can prove that.”
I lean back, away from Del. My words come out sharper than I mean them to. “You can tell Debbie you tried hard, but I wouldn’t buy it.”
“I don’t have to tell Debbie anything. Remember, I told you the way it was in small towns before Debbie ever asked for my help. I’d like you to drop this thing that’s got you so unhappy, so we can relax with each other.” He attempts a smile. “Remember, I promised to teach you country-western dancing.”
“I’m sorry, Del, but I’ve got to find some answers. I keep thinking about that old house and ‘the ghosts of now,’ which I haven’t found yet, and I feel somehow they’re tied in to the rest of it.”
Del drives into the parking lot of the hospital, turns off the ignition of the pickup, and turns, with his back to the door, to look at me. “What are ‘the ghosts of now’?”
I start at the beginning. I tell him about Jeremy’s poem, and I tell him about the web of lies spun by Debbie and Boyd, with the stolen watch caught in the middle like a fat, gleaming spider.
When I’ve finished, Del says, “But now you can’t prove there was a watch.”
His words are too much like Boyd’s. I sit upright, one hand on the door lock, wishing Del had said anything else. “I’ve got to see Jeremy.”
“Think about what I’ve said,” Del tells me, and he bends over and lightly kisses my lips. His skin has the warm, sour-spicy fragrance of sunbaked grass, and for a few moments I don’t think. I forget. Closing my eyes, I eagerly return his kiss.
A nearby giggle from someone passing by trickles through the open windows, breaking the spell. I’ve got to get away from Del. My feelings about him are so strong, so muddled that I just want to be alone.
The Ghosts of Now Page 12
