Age of Consent

by Marti Leimbach

  There is the other unfairness, too, not spoken of in the ordered courtroom: that she is on trial as well. For being a bad mother, for failing to protect her daughter. But hadn’t she protected Bobbie? Had she not allowed her to dream in bed as she, herself, had stayed up late, dusting shelves, making packed lunches, bleaching mold from grouting, hauling laundry in the old brown basket with the rupturing weave? That young woman who had all those years ago taken Bobbie to have her feet measured, her teeth checked, buying pink tops and beach balls and tickets for the merry-go-round, who was always by herself, scrubbing the kitchen table, washing out dresses in the sink, had she not been good enough?

  She tells herself it does not matter. She has already been tried and found guilty years ago when Bobbie left wordlessly into the night, leaving no trace. What can they do to her here on this witness stand that is worse than what she has already endured? For months, the police believed Bobbie was dead. And then arrived the first of Bobbie’s infrequent letters, telling June that she was fine and alive but did not wish to have any contact—yet. Those letters, posted every few months from different states across the country, kept June sane until, at last, the force of her love was drowned through misery, her heart a landmark and no longer a living place. Now they want her to testify, defend herself, aid the process of justice. And why should she?

  “Mrs. Kirtz, would you like me to repeat the question?” Dreyer says. “Please tell the court if you checked to see if your daughter was in bed when you came home the night of September seventh.” Dreyer glares down at her with his angular face and small, piercing eyes. He is like a bird standing above her, taking what is left of her dying body. He is a vulture eating her before she is even properly dead.

  She decides she will lie. She will tell them she came home that night and saw Bobbie in bed. Why should she be honest when they want so much to disgrace her? It would be easy to lie and she knows, too, how much Craig wants her to do exactly this. He has instructed her to say yes, she had seen Bobbie in bed. She looks at him now. She wants so much to please him. Never in all the years they’ve been together has he blamed her for Bobbie running away. He has always said that she did the best she could but that some kids are headstrong. Some kids just go their own way. She longs to reward him for his allegiance by saying that yes, she saw Bobbie in bed when she came home. She begins to open her mouth, but eyes the judge above her, and the line of jurors, and suddenly she is afraid. She mouths the word “no,” and immediately she feels a great wave of regret. Whether the regret is about not looking into the bedroom for Bobbie that night in 1978, or about what would come to pass because of her answer today in the courtroom, she isn’t sure. She is angry at herself for saying no, for missing an opportunity. When Dreyer asks her the next question she is determined to answer in a way that helps put an end to the preposterous notion that Craig had been sexually involved with her daughter.

  But Dreyer doesn’t ask another question. He asks the same question, as though she’d said nothing. Apparently, her answer had not been heard.

  “Mrs. Kirtz, we need to hear your answer. For the jury, please,” Dreyer says. He clears his throat. She thinks he looks so smug in his fancy suit, his thick silk tie, all that blond hair he’s swept back. Very slowly, he says, “Is it correct that on the night of the crash, the night that your daughter has stated she was in the car with Mr. Kirtz, and you were not with your daughter, not in the same state even, that you did not check on your daughter to see if she was in her bedroom?”

  She can’t let him debase her like this, or allow him to judge her. All her life, she has been cooperative, been nice, made peace, given of herself even when so tired she was on her knees. But not today. She opens her mouth and what comes out has little to do with the night of Craig’s crash, nor with Bobbie. It’s about what is taking place right now between this young man and herself. He wants her to tell the world she was a bad mother and she will not allow it.

  “I checked,” she says, her voice changing with the lie. Everything has become different with this simple declaration; she feels the lie breaking into her mind, eclipsing her thoughts so that she cannot imagine what she will say next. Yes, she was there that night. Yes, she saw her daughter. She looks at the judge, believing that she will find the woman scowling down at her with the full knowledge that she has lied under oath. She looks at Dreyer, thinking that he will laugh at her for believing she can fool him. But both the judge and Dreyer appear unable to detect what is happening. The judge gives a little cough, then reaches for a box of tissues on her table. Dreyer takes a step back, as though needing to rebalance himself after this unexpected news.

  Dreyer is genuinely surprised. June can see this. And she realizes that for the first time in a long while, she’s done something of significance. She’s done something that matters. He says, “Are you stating, Mrs. Kirtz, that on the night of September seventh you checked on your daughter, Bobbie, and that she was at home?” He looks confused, and it gives June some pleasure to see him so.

  This is the new truth. She saw Bobbie in bed. She was home that night. There is no turning back. She knows she must maintain these new facts all the way to the end no matter what is asked of her next, or how much pressure they exert upon her. She dares not look at Elstree; she is not sure whether she will be cross at her for altering her testimony or pleased that she is being so helpful for Craig’s defense. The problem—if there is one—is that before this moment June has never claimed to have actually seen Bobbie at home in bed. She has only ever stated that she believed her daughter to be at home. This new information will come as a surprise to everyone, not least Elstree, who has warned June that she does not like surprises. But she cannot worry about that now. Dreyer is glaring at her, waiting for her answer. June opens her mouth to speak and now the words glide effortlessly, lie after lie, slithering into the air. “I saw that she was in bed. I didn’t wake her,” she tells the court.

  Dreyer nearly stomps the ground in anger. “You’ve stated previously that you did not check on her,” he says.

  “I didn’t check her on the night of the seventh because I wasn’t home until after midnight. That is what I said previously,” she says, nearly spitting the words at him. “But the seventh becomes the eighth at midnight, does it not?”

  “You are stating that when you came home, you did check?”

  “Yes. When I came home she was there.”

  Dreyer touches his brow, concentrating. “What time was that?” he says.

  “I don’t remember.”

  “Where was your daughter when you saw her.”

  “Asleep. In bed.”

  “What day was this?”

  “After the crash.”

  “You mean the next day? The morning of September eighth? Or the night of September eighth?”

  “I don’t remember. After the crash.”

  “Mrs. Kirtz, it seems you cannot recall exactly when you checked on your daughter.”

  “I just told you it was after the crash.”

  “Okay, but from what you’ve said, you might have looked in at some point to see how your daughter was, but it could easily have been at any time after the crash. A day or two later, for example.”

  “Objection,” says Elstree. “Ask a question, counselor.”

  Dreyer looks hard at June. “May I remind you that you are under oath?”

  June looks over at Craig, who shines his approval at her. The way he looks at her strengthens her. Makes her realize she does not have to do what this man, Dreyer, wants her to do, to confess to being a negligent mother when she was not one. “I think I know that,” June says.

  There is silence in the courtroom. Dreyer takes a few steps away from her, his hands crossed in front of his chest, chin down, wrapped in thought.

  “Did your daughter ever express any concern over Mr. Kirtz coming to live with you?” he says all at once.

  “No concern at all,” she says, another lie. She panics a little in her seat, realizing that this i
s how witnesses get caught out. One lie, another, and then they lose track. Under all the pressure and with everyone watching, they fall apart.

  “Did she want him to come live with you?”

  An objection from Elstree, something about speculation. June has no understanding about why she doesn’t have to answer, or why it even matters. She’d only have said she did not know.

  Dreyer continues. “Did your daughter ever tell you she did not want Craig Kirtz to come live with you?”

  “She may have,” June says, then immediately regrets saying anything that might put Craig in a bad light.

  “She may have?”

  “It was a long time ago. I can’t recall.”

  “Think back. Did your daughter ask that Mr. Kirtz not live in the house?”

  “No,” June says, hearing the word as false, and as though someone else has spoken it. She wonders if anyone else can detect that she is lying. She sounds inauthentic, a second self who she hadn’t realized she could call upon. She can’t imagine how she will continue to lie in this fashion without it becoming obvious to Dreyer, obvious to everyone. And then there is the fact that she is lying. That she remembers all too well how Bobbie had felt about Craig coming to live with them. Bobbie had pleaded with June, with her face full of emotion that June refused to take into consideration, with words she refused to hear.

  A BAD DAY IN COURT

  2008

  Dreyer offers Bobbie a ride. She thanks him, but explains that she does not want to take him out of his way and that she’ll get a taxi. He insists, and she wonders if perhaps because it went so badly with June on the stand, he is trying to make it up somehow. As they walk through the parking lot, he seems preoccupied and closed off, a side of Dreyer she hasn’t seen until today.

  “That didn’t go particularly well, did it?” she says.

  He unlocks his car, drops his heavy case into the backseat with what seems like more force than is necessary, and says, “No.”

  His car is a boxy Audi diesel that chugs comfortably. Outside, a breeze clears away the heat and dust of the afternoon. In a different mood, Bobbie might have enjoyed the drive, the calm roads, the landscape on this pretty evening not so different from when she was a child. Nearly dinnertime, the sun is settling low in the sky, the temperature perfect for sitting outside. If she were here on a vacation she might unwind beneath the pergola at the inn with its manicured lawns and perfumed gardens, but her day has been a turmoil and she is not in a holiday mood. Her mind is alight with one thought: Her mother lied on the stand.

  “Tell me again what happened,” Dreyer says.

  “You already know.”

  “Yes, but there may be a detail, however small, that will help.”

  She tells Dreyer once again the history with Craig, with the crash, with its aftermath. She reminds him of the chain of events—not her mother’s version but her own. She feels doubt on Dreyer’s part, as though he may no longer be quite as willing to take her at her word. He doesn’t say anything to convey this, however. He nods as she speaks, driving assiduously along rural roads unfamiliar to him, relying on his GPS, never stating outright that he believes her or does not believe her. She watches him, eyes forward to the road, both hands on the wheel, his mouth clamped shut. She imagines him telling himself that it doesn’t matter what really happened but what he can win with.

  “I’m telling you the truth,” she says. She wants him to say, I believe you, but all he does is nod. Suddenly she wants all the people in court—the judge and jury and everyone else—to say that they believe her. For years she has consoled herself with the notion that one day the truth would reveal itself, and now that the day has arrived she discovers the truth is not enough.

  “It seems easy to get away with lying in court,” she says.

  “It’s not easy,” Dreyer says. “And it’s not over.”

  She hopes he will say something about how he sees the case going forward, but all he says is, “When there is no evidence and no other witnesses, lying outright is a good strategy for a witness. That is, if they’ve got the stomach for it.”

  “I don’t have the stomach for lying,” she says, all the anger deflating within her, turning into a slosh of other emotions, bewilderment, despair. She feels an unworthy opponent to Craig, who would always lie, and now to her mother, who had made lying look easy. “I can only tell the truth.”

  “That’s okay.” Dreyer’s tone conveys that he wants to end the conversation. Maybe he wants to distance himself from her. Maybe he is feeling a puncture in his professional pride. “That is all that is required of you,” he says.

  “I’m finding that difficult to believe right now.”

  Dreyer says, “You mustn’t come to any conclusions just yet. Your mother is back on the stand tomorrow. We get a second shot.”

  “Okay.”

  “Do you want me to get you in the morning?”

  “I don’t think so,” she says. “I may not go at all. I don’t want to watch as she perjures herself. God knows what she’ll make up next.”

  “She may find it challenging to keep track of what she’s said. That’s what we hope anyway.”

  “In which case she’ll get in all sorts of other trouble, and I’m not sure I want to watch that, either.”

  Dreyer takes in a breath, then blows it out slowly. “She’s taken a very specific position that is not in your favor,” he says.

  “She wasn’t always like this, you know,” Bobbie says. She recalls her mother as she was so many years ago. She kept recipes in card files, ironed the pleats in her skirts, instructed Bobbie not to slur her words, not to slump in her chair at dinner, not to lie. Ever. “But then, Craig came along.”

  Dreyer nods. “Well, he’s sweating now,” he says.

  She thought of Craig in the courtroom. His height and size gave him such presence and he seemed completely in control today, solid in his chair. No matter what was said of him, good or bad, he did not show any sign of his own feelings. He did not speak, except to occasionally whisper to Elstree. He did not fidget or even shift in his seat. “He doesn’t look like he’s sweating,” Bobbie says.

  “Of course not,” Dreyer says. “He’s a criminal.”

  It occurs to her all of a sudden that she has never heard anyone say that about Craig, that he was a criminal. It feels like an enormous release, as though a latch has finally been unlocked, a door opened, allowing light to pour in. A criminal, she thinks. She almost laughs out loud. Of course he is.

  They pull into Mrs. Campbell’s driveway and she can hear the crunch and pop of pebbles beneath the Audi’s fat tires. In the next moment, the inn with its pale painted timber and large sash windows, its borders of flowers that spill onto the flagstone path, comes into view. With the sun setting spectacularly in the field beyond, the colors reflecting in the windows, the house appears to glow.

  Dreyer says, “Get some rest. Don’t talk to your mother. I don’t care what she tries, even if she sets up a ladder and crawls through the window—”

  “I won’t talk to her,” Bobbie says. “There’s nothing to say. We are done. We were done a long time ago, but now…” What she realizes, even as she declares its end, is how she’d always thought that her mother loved her, and how much she longed for that love.

  He takes a moment to study her. “I’m worried about you,” he says. “Should I be?”

  She thinks it is sweet that he should be concerned. And maybe he should be worried about her. “I’m fine,” she tells him. “I’m tougher than I look.”

  “Actually, you look pretty tough. But assuming your mother lied—”

  “She did.”

  “Okay, so assuming that’s the case, she lied in the weirdest direction. Parents will lie in favor of their children all the time. But not against. That must be hard.”

  And there it is, a simple observation that sums up everything that is wrong now. She says, “It’s Craig’s influence. He gets people to do what he wants. I’ve never understoo
d how.”

  Dreyer shakes his head slowly back and forth. He looks more relaxed than he has all day, but tired, too. “How did he persuade your mother to let him come and live with you guys in the first place?”

  “How did he persuade her?” Bobbie repeats. She almost laughs. “It wasn’t like that.” She smiles at Dreyer. He’s a sweet man, she thinks, and far less worldly than one might expect of a trial lawyer. “He didn’t even need to ask.”

  HE COMES TO STAY

  1978

  Six weeks after the accident, June drove to the hospital after work as usual, touching up her makeup in the car, then trying to fix her hair so it didn’t hang so straight. She wasn’t expecting anything special to happen tonight. She was thinking about hair spray. Maybe, too, she was wishing she had eaten just a little bit less the day before. It didn’t show yet, but there had been an infraction, a chunk of almond nougat that she’d found irresistible. In secret, she’d eaten a big piece of it, so much nougat that she’d actually felt sick afterward, yet still wanted more.

  Walking through the hospital’s automatic sliding doors, she had considered taking the stairs to his ward in order to burn calories, then decided against the idea as it would only rumple her clothes and she didn’t want to risk appearing untidy. The hospital was too hot anyway, and hotter still as she rose in the elevator. By the time she was walking the corridor, she could feel the perspiration on her lip. In Craig’s ward, beds were being stripped, the mattresses up on their sides. She had a sense that something was changing, had changed. And yet everything was as it had been the day before. The same trolley of newspapers and magazines stopped and started from room to room, making the rounds. The same nurses she had grown to think of as friends hovered here and there along their station. Two physios were helping a man with a broken leg work out how to use crutches, and there was an old guy in a wheelchair waiting to be taken for a shower. This was all normal.