by David Ellis
Her parents are not home anyway this weekend, off to some fund-raisers a few hours away. Daddy is “collecting support,” as he likes to say. He is going to try to run for attorney general and it sounds like the people who make such decisions—you would think it was the people of the state but apparently not—seem to want Daddy to be the one.
She is happy for him, but envious as well. She wants adventure, too, and wouldn’t Daddy understand? A train ride into the city, unsupervised, unapproved. She met people on the train from Haley to the city—eighteen stops in between, she counted—and she introduced herself as “Andrea,” she had just moved from out east and had been visiting a sick uncle in Haley and was now heading back to her home in the city, “near the park,” she had said. There was a park but she didn’t know where it was, precisely; she had been fearful that someone would pin her down on specifics but that was the beautiful thing about people in the city, they didn’t ask such questions, they didn’t have to pry into the minute details of one’s life. Andrea—she had not given a last name—will exist in the city in perfect anonymity.
Her watch says that it is half past eight in the evening. She has been to the museums and to the shops on Atlantic Boulevard—she only has a little over a hundred dollars in her pocket so she was only looking, not buying—and now she has taken a taxi to the baseball park. It doesn’t look like they’re playing baseball today but the activity level is still high. People of all ages, all races, all speeds of stride—some busy, some relaxed. A hot dog vendor shouts out. Kids on skateboards, young teenagers like Shelly, jumping the air with their boards, trying to perfect this move or that one. More black people than she has ever seen in one place up close. Different languages spoken. Cars driving recklessly, pedestrians veering with abandon across the street.
The sky is bruising as the sun falls and storm clouds gather. She will probably run out of things to do and will make her way back to the train station. She is a block north of the baseball stadium now, on a residential street. She sees a gathering of people heading up a block of concrete steps. They don’t have housing like this in Haley. They are all freestanding homes with lawns and driveways. The houses here are jammed together with no outdoor space that she can see.
She reaches a cluster of three people who are reaching the stairs. She looks at the first woman—she is probably no older than twenty-one but to Shelly, at age fifteen, she seems so old. She is taller than Shelly and beautiful; her face reveals a certain breeding, her high cheekbones, skin so smooth it seems to glisten, long flowing hair much darker than Shelly’s cinnamon.
She looks at Shelly as she adjusts the purse hanging on her shoulder. She speaks to Shelly, and Shelly wonders if there was something in the way she was looking at this woman that made her feel compelled to do so.
“Going to the party?” she asks.
Shelly nods. Then smiles. She has been so immediately accepted. “I’m Andrea,” says Shelly. She moves into the group as they take the concrete stairs.
“Dina,” says the woman. Such a wonderfully elegant name. “Are you in art school with Steve?”
“Yes,” she says quickly. “I just graduated high school out east and I’m trying to decide what to do.” This much she has already said several times to various uninterested travelers on the train.
“Cool.”
The door at the top of the stairs has been propped open; a sign on the door signals visitors that Steve’s place is on the top floor. Shelly’s heart drums as she hears the angry music blaring down the staircase and the smell of alcohol—beer, she assumes. She has never had a drink but there is a first time for everything. She looks at Dina and she thinks that this is who Shelly Trotter will be some day, a beautiful, graceful, confident woman. Oh, if her father could see her now.
32
Victim
SHELLY LEFT HER apartment and went down to the building’s front door to allow Ronnie Masters in. She was no longer comfortable using her buzzer to blindly open the front door. She was relatively sure she was safe now, but she would take no chances.
Ronnie was hopping in place. The temperatures were below freezing and he was only wearing that hooded sweatshirt.
“Is that warm enough, Ron?” she said as she ushered him in.
He shook himself out. “I’m fine.”
She immediately regretted the comment. Asking him about the sufficiency of his clothing was tantamount to highlighting his lack of financial resources. Of course he would prefer something warmer, but he could not afford it.
She showed him inside and quickly made some hot chocolate. She brought two steaming mugs into the living room—this was what she called the room that was not the kitchen or the bedroom, a small space with a couch and chair, a fireplace and mantel.
“Thanks.” Ronnie sipped the cocoa and nodded at the photographs on the mantel. There were two plaques Shelly had received for outstanding public advocacy, a photo of her with the rest of the CAP staff, some law school graduation photos of Shelly with her grandmother.
“Your grandma’s who you stayed with,” he said.
“Yes.” Alex had apparently informed Ronnie of the details. When she had become pregnant at age sixteen, Shelly had moved from her house in Haley to Otter Lake, where her Grandma Jeannie (her mother’s mother) lived as a widow. The stated purpose for leaving Haley was that people could be cruel, and Shelly would have a lot to deal with as it was, without the comments from her fellow students. Sure. Shelly would attend high school in Otter Lake, get a tutor when she became “too pregnant,” and have the baby down there. There would be an excuse given—her grandmother was ailing, and Shelly, who was closest to Jeannie, wanted to stay with her to assist. No mention of Shelly’s pregnancy.
It was, of course, pure nonsense to believe that the ruse would hold. It would only take a single leak and the news would spread throughout the small town of Haley. No one would believe that Shelly went down to Otter Lake in the middle of her high school career—where she was on pace to be valedictorian and one of the state’s top tennis players—just to look out for her grandmother.
No. Shelly was not sent to Otter Lake to make life easier for her.
She never knew if the secret got out, because she never went back. She remained at Otter Lake after she had the baby and graduated with the rather small class down there. She obtained a scholarship to the state university and went to college, returning only sparingly, and then almost always to Otter Lake.
She had some fear of this whole ordeal coming to light when her father ran for attorney general four years later. She assumed that his opposition discovered the secret, but what could be done with such information? His daughter had become pregnant and given up the baby for adoption? Was that not precisely what a pro-life candidate like Langdon Trotter would support? What, exactly, could they accuse of him of—being consistent? And how ugly would the Democrats look, picking on the daughter?
“That must have been hard,” said Ronnie.
Shelly felt a wound open inside her. When that happened, periodically over the years, she would do as she did now: take a deep breath and plow through it. “You deal with it,” she said.
“This whole thing.” Ronnie waved his arm. “Kinda brings it all back.”
“Don’t worry about that.”
“Are you, like—” Ronnie’s eyes dropped.
“Am I what?”
“Ashamed or something, like, I don’t know.” He rubbed at a stain on his blue jeans. “Forget it.”
She watched this boy struggle, and it came to her what he meant, exactly.
“I’m not ashamed of Alex, Ronnie. I may be ashamed of certain aspects of my own behavior, but I am absolutely not ashamed of Alex.”
Ronnie managed a peek at Shelly but did not confront her. “I mean, ’cause of how it happened.”
“Because of how it happened?” She recognized the heightened volume of her voice but made no adjustment. “You mean that I was raped? You think I blame Alex for that? He was just an i
nnocent little b—” Her throat closed on the words. She felt the heat in her face. She got up from the chair to give herself some space.
Did she, on an unconscious level, blame this child? Was she punishing the rapist by punishing the offspring? No. It was inconceivable. No. But then—why hadn’t she ever looked for this boy? She was consumed suddenly, overcome, with shame and guilt.
“Hey, I’m sorry,” Ronnie said.
She held out a hand but she was not prepared to speak. She could see what was happening. Alex and Ronnie had been talking. Alex had reported that Shelly was keeping a distance—more of a distance than when they had simply been friends. The revelation of her motherhood had opened a chasm between them. Shelly knew this to be true. She couldn’t explain why and, really, had made little attempt to. She was doing the same thing now as she had her whole life, wasn’t she? She was hiding.
“I can’t blame Alex for this,” she said simply. “Alex is the victim. The greatest victim of all. His only crime is that he wanted to find his real—”
The worst part was that she could not see the finish line. She didn’t know if or when she would feel maternal love for Alex. And Alex could sense her struggle, she knew.
“Maybe,” said Ronnie, “it would have been better if he hadn’t looked for you.”
“Is that what he thinks?” It was her first acknowledgment of her suspicion that Ronnie was speaking for Alex now, that he was interceding to discuss a topic on which Alex and Shelly could not personally converse. She found her way back to her seat, across from Ronnie on the couch. “I need time, that’s all,” she decided. “I don’t mean to make Alex feel worse about this. This is—this is just not an easy situation for anybody.”
“No.”
“I know I let Alex down—”
“Join the club.”
That stopped her. “How did you let him down?”
He shrugged. “I didn’t keep a close enough eye on him.”
She smiled. This kid thought he had to be Alex’s brother and father, at the same time. “That’s not your job, Ron. And I can tell you that Alex doesn’t see it that way.”
He waved that off.
“You saved his life, he told me.”
Ronnie rolled his eyes.
“Alex told me,” she said. “He got himself into a jam a couple years back. He was a stupid freshman who hot-wired the wrong kid’s car. He said you saved him.”
“Yeah, I’m a real hero. How am I helping him now?”
“Well, that’s why I asked you over, actually.” She was moving now to an issue that was at least as serious and important as the prior one. She had left Officer Julio Sanchez feeling that her client had been deceiving her. “I have some reason to believe that Alex may have been working with Officer Miroballi, but not in the way that had been explained to me.”
Ronnie opened his hands. She detected little from his expression. She had spent years giving hard truths to young people, mostly male, and she had challenged them many times. If her experience were any guide, Ronnie was not hiding anything from her.
“I’m wondering if Alex was working for Miroballi as his informant.”
Ronnie paused a beat, as if he were waiting for more, then grunted a chuckle. “C’mon.”
“It’s not exactly a flying leap, Ronnie. He was the feds’ informant. They caught him and flipped him. There’s no reason why Miroballi couldn’t have done the same thing.”
“No.” He shook his head. “I don’t know where you’re getting that kind of bull—”
“I got it from Miroballi’s partner.”
“No.” Ronnie would not be moved. “That’s nuts. What the hell’s Alex gonna tell this cop, anyway? It’s not like he’s some big-time dealer or something. He doesn’t have the kind of information a cop would be looking for.”
“No?”
“No.” Ronnie reached for his sweatshirt and got to his feet. “You’re taking a cop’s word over Alex’s? You think this guy wouldn’t bullshit you, Shelly? Are you that big a fan of cops all of a sudden?”
It was like he had punched her in the throat. She looked at him, the breath temporarily whisked from her lungs. He left on that note, triumphant in his closing remark. She listened to the door close behind him, and it was a long time before she could leave the chair.
33
Liar
I WAS RAPED.
She had said it the first time a week after it happened, while her parents were away and she could steal off to the city again, this time under far more humbling circumstances. She didn’t know if she would say it. She hadn’t even said the word to herself. But she had done it, filed a report with the city police, to a very understanding detective named Jill.
It has been two weeks. Give us two weeks and come back, said Jill, who had agreed to respect Shelly’s privacy in the matter. She would not call Shelly at her home or contact her in any way.
So Shelly has taken her third trip to the city in a month. She thinks of the comforting words of Jill the Detective. And the other words, too. Shelly should be tested for “STDs,” she had advised. Syphillis. Gonnorhea. Herpes. AIDS. Take a pregnancy test, too.
Precautions, all of them. Probably nothing to worry about. Shelly hasn’t been able to schedule a visit to her doctor yet. She can’t imagine doing it.
She closes her eyes as she approaches the police station. She turns and walks away, then stops and looks back. Twenty minutes doing this, which is okay because she is early anyway, she doesn’t want to seem too eager, but that doesn’t make sense, either.
Will there be a line-up of suspects? She can’t identify her attacker. Tests performed? Maybe the man confessed!
Two women race by Shelly on roller blades. A vendor on the corner is arguing with a woman over the price of a hot dog. The sun has come over the buildings to rain rays down on the police station. Summer is in full bloom in the city, even if hasn’t officially started yet. She should appreciate the energy of the city’s north side, but what had passed for cosmopolitan and vigorous now seems cold and heartless.
She walks again past the rows of blue-and-white squad cars parked along the street. Two uniformed officers are standing by a car smoking cigarettes and looking with disinterest at Shelly. She draws a breath and returns to the police station. There is a different person at the front desk, an older woman with a saggy chin and bifocals resting in the middle of her nose.
The man who emerges from behind a door is large, old-looking for an officer, closer to her father’s age, dressed in a shirt with brown stripes and a plain tie. He has large, scaly hands with dirty fingernails and a stomach that hangs over his belt. His neck is thick and stubbly with whiskers. “Hello, Shelly,” he says. “I’m Officer Stockard.” He motions to the back room. “Let’s have a talk, okay?”
Where’s Jill? Shelly returns to the same conference room where she spoke with the female detective. Something doesn’t feel right. Something in the officer’s expression, his tone of voice, his curtness. There is a file folder resting before him and a fresh notepad. He looks down at the file and starts to speak, then catches himself and looks up. “How you holding up?”
“I’m okay.”
“Sorry to hear about what happened.”
“Thank you.”
“Shelly, we’ve looked into this thing. I’ve talked to a lot of people. We have some problems. Some—” He strokes his chin, then levels his eyes on her. “Some real inconsistencies.” He opens his file, which contains about a dozen sheets of paper. He seems annoyed. “We get a lot of these,” he explains. “A lot of people who say they were assaulted.”
Say they were assaulted? Her stomach seizes.
He raises his hands, then places them together on the table. “Who’s Andrea, first of all?”
Shelly clears her throat.
“You told your friends your name was Andrea. Why did you do that?”
She shrugs. “I was just—I don’t know. I wanted to—” She draws her arms around herself.
&
nbsp; “You wanted to be eighteen, too, I guess. Didn’t you tell your friends you were eighteen?”
She nods. Yes, she did that.
“You said you were a high school graduate, just moved here from out east?”
“I said that.” She wasn’t looking at him any longer, just staring into the desk.
“So you see what I’m starting with here? You lied about everything.”
“I—I guess I wanted to be different.”
“You wanted to pretend.”
Her eyes fill.
“They said you looked eighteen, too.” She doesn’t respond to that. “Have you talked with your friends? Ms.”—papers shuffle; he bends back a page and struggles with the name—“Patriannis, for example?”
Dina, he means.
“Or Ms. Winters?”
Dina’s friend. Mary.
“No,” she answers quietly.
“Your friends aren’t too happy with you, Shelly. They said they never would have taken a fifteen-year-old to that party. They’re mad. I don’t blame them.”
Shelly loses control of her emotions. She weeps quietly, covers her face with her hands.
“Is there anything else you lied about, Shelly?”
She shakes her head no.
“I’m not saying I don’t believe you, Shelly. But if we take a case like this to trial—assuming we could ever find out who is responsible—that person would have a very smart lawyer who would ask you some very hard questions. You know what I’m talking about?”
She manages to say yes.
“He’ll say you lied, over and over again, to your friends, to your parents. He’ll say you looked like an adult. He’ll say you can’t identify who did this to you. He’ll say you’re lying under oath. He’ll say you’re committing perjury. You know what perjury is?”
She nods.
“You can get in trouble if you lie about it. I want to make sure you don’t get in trouble.”
A moment passes. Shelly grinds her teeth and fights hard not to sob. She will cry but will do so alone.
