by Kelli Kimble
“I don’t want that snake of a man looking at my daughter,” Daddy said.
“Clark, be reasonable. He’s doing the investigation.”
“There’s nothing reasonable about that sheriff, and I’m not going to let him ogle her like some kind of a burlesque show.”
I banged the closet door as I retrieved my coat so that they’d stop. Daddy came out of the kitchen.
“Ready, Cupcake?”
“Yes, sir.”
The car was parked on the street again, which meant the graffiti was probably still there. My feet felt like they were encased in cement as I walked to it.
At school, wherever I went, people openly glared at me. Yesterday I’d mostly been ignored, with only an occasional curious look. But today everyone stared as if they wanted me to shrivel up and die.
Even the teachers.
I was tripped in the hallway. My books were knocked to the floor repeatedly. Someone pulled my ponytail so hard that my eyes watered. The teachers did nothing, though I knew more than one of the incidents was directly in their line of vision. I heard whispers of how I’d made hateful accusations against Gary, and, in every class, I was forced to pretend that I prayed for his speedy recovery.
At lunch, I slipped away to the library and into the world history section of the reference books. There must be a book that would tell me something or other about Mr. Anu’s hieroglyphics. I pulled a book about Egypt from the shelf and sat right on the floor to read it. Here in the stacks, there was nobody around to harass me.
Miss Cucciolo happened into the aisle, her reading glasses perched on her nose and an arm full of books.
“Oh. Iris. What are you doing on the floor?” she asked.
“I’m trying to translate some Egyptian text,” I said, holding up the scrap of paper that Mr. Anu had drawn the symbols on. “Do you know anything about hieroglyphics?”
“Fascinating,” she said. She stacked the books on a nearby table and took the scrap of paper. “I believe I know what it says. How did you come upon this? Was it in your history book?”
“No. A friend gave it to me.”
“Ah. Let’s just confirm my suspicions.” She ran her finger along the spines and selected four volumes, then she hunkered onto the floor beside me. “You check these two.”
She handed me two, then she paged through the first of hers and cast it aside. She quickly found an alphabet of sorts in the second book. “Look.” She pointed to the letter for ‘I’. It wasn’t exactly the same as Mr. Anu’s symbol, but it was very close.
“Do you think it matches?”
“Oh, yes. I think it’s a question of handwriting, wouldn’t you say? You don’t write every letter the same as everyone else, do you?”
I shook my head.
“Mm. Yes, this spells your first name, except for this last symbol. It doesn’t match the alphabet.”
“It doesn’t,” I agreed.
“You know, this business with Gary is a shame.”
“Mm.” I kept my eyes on the alphabet page.
“Gary is a smart boy. Always has been. A little too smart for his own good.”
I grabbed the paper and shoved it back into my bag, then started re-shelving the books.
She put a hand on my arm. “You think that I’m siding with him.” She checked over her shoulder before continuing. Then she whispered in an even softer-than-library-tones voice, “but the truth is, you're his perfect victim. Nobody here will question the boy leading the football team to the state championship. Especially when he appears so well-rounded.”
“Why would you think that?”
She frowned. “People think what they do in the library is secret. And some of it is. But not everything.”
A boy with acne appeared at the end of the aisle. “Miss Cucciolo?” His voice cracked, and he cleared his throat. “Can you help me find a book? I have a report due next period.”
Miss Cucciolo sighed and got to her feet. “Yes, Owen. I’ll be right there.” She held out a hand and helped me up. “I’m praying for you, Iris,” she whispered, before turning back to the boy.
“Now Owen. Waiting until the period before it’s due isn’t a terribly good strategy.” She turned him away from me and guided him towards the circulation desk.
“I know, Miss Cucciolo. But I forgot!”
Miss Cucciolo caught me just as I was leaving the library. “Iris. The last symbol. It’s a dog. Or rather, a hound.” She smiled, revealing a deep dimple in both cheeks. “Like you. Iris Hond. Can I see the paper again?”
I fished it from my bag for her.
“Yes, see. This oval, drawn around the symbols? It’s a cartouche. That signifies a proper name. And this line at the bottom? It means that the named person is royalty.” She jabbed me with her elbow. “Are you a secret Egyptian princess, Iris?”
I laughed in a wooden way. Her conclusion seemed dangerously close to Mr. Anu’s assertions. She mistook my response for something else.
“Hey, chin up, Iris. This thing with Gary will get worked out.”
The bell for the next period rang. From inside the library, Owen wailed for Miss Cucciolo to help him. I thanked her and went to my next class, where the teacher led us in an overly zealous prayer for Gary’s recovery and the swift punishment of his attacker.
Chapter 9
The next morning, I didn’t get out of bed when my alarm clock jangled. I turned it off and rolled over to face the window. The curtains were drawn, but I could make out the early morning dark sky fading to a smokey purple in a sliver between the two panels.
At a quarter after six, there was a knock at the door.
“Come in,” I said.
Someone opened the door, letting a shaft of cozy light into the dark room.
“Iris? Are you still in bed?”
I sat up. “Mother? Close the door?”
She shut the door and rushed to my side and put a comforting arm around me. “What is it, darling?”
“I want to do what you said. Can you take me to the sheriff’s office today?”
She retreated and her hands immediately went to her apron string. “Your father has forbidden it,” she said.
“People blame me for what happened,” I said. I didn’t tell her how I’d fished the newspaper out of the trash so that I could read the article. “They don’t believe I was trying to defend myself. They don’t even know that’s what happened. They only believe in Gary.”
She glanced at the door. “Your father has very strong feelings about this.”
“So do I.” I grabbed her hand and shook it to free the apron string. “Mother. I was defending myself. If there is no evidence of that, then what is there? My word against his, and everyone believes him.”
She nodded. “Yes, that’s just what I thought.” She pulled her shoulders back. “I’ll tell your father you aren’t feeling well. After he leaves for work we’ll go to see the sheriff.”
I sank against her. “Thank you.”
She embraced me again and kissed the top of my head. “I’m so sorry this happened to you, sweetheart. I wish we’d never come here at all.”
The door opened and the light turned on. “What’s this? Aren’t you getting ready for school?”
“Turn off the light,” Mother admonished. “She doesn’t feel well. Lie back down, sweetheart. I’ll make you some tea.” She tucked me back into the covers. Daddy turned off the light but didn’t retreat.
“What’s the matter with her?”
“Oh, nothing a day or two home from school won’t help,” she said. “Womanly things, you know.”
Daddy grunted and moved away. Mother trailed after him. “Would you mind walking to work today, so that I might take her to the doctor if necessary?”
They were descending the stairs, but I still heard Daddy’s insistence that she was coddling me.
Good. He believed that I was sick.
I lay in bed stewing while I waited for him to go to work. He didn’t come back to say goo
dbye; he’d rather not have heard any further references to female issues. When the front screen door finally banged shut, I threw back the covers and got up. I opened the curtains. The morning was bright and sunny, a crisp picture of autumn.
When I was dressed, Mother and I went to the car. Daddy hadn’t moved it to the street and it was parked beside the graffiti. I glanced up at the sheet, fluttering in the morning sunshine.
“Your father will fix that soon, Iris. I’m sorry it’s still there.”
“I’m sorry Daddy used your good sheets.”
“That was my idea. Nothing else covered it properly.”
She drove to the sheriff’s office in silence. When we got there, she hesitated before shutting off the car. “You’re sure you want to do this?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“All right.” She shut off the car, dropped the keys in her pocketbook, and snapped it shut. She was wearing a Sunday dress and heels, and a pretty pillbox hat was perched in her hair. She was the picture of Jackie Kennedy: style, confidence, grace. I drew a modicum of strength from her as she ushered me into the office.
Mother was all business. She walked in like she owned the place, stripping her gloves off with efficient motions while looking down at Sally with a charming smile. Sally was sitting where I’d last seen her, nose still planted in that bodice-ripping book.
“I’m Mrs. Hond. I called earlier this morning about reporting my daughter’s bruises.”
Sally turned the book open to her page face down on the desk. I hate it when people do that to books; it breaks the binding. “Right. The sheriff’s not in yet.”
“I don’t want the sheriff to look at her. We discussed this on the phone. She’s a young lady and her father doesn’t want a man doing that kind of thing.”
“I’m just a secretary. I can’t write a report or anything like that.”
“Perhaps you could simply take some discrete photos for the report. Of just her arms.”
Sally’s eyebrows knit together.
“Don’t you have a camera for photographing evidence?”
“Of course. But it’s locked in the sheriff’s office.”
Mother’s lips depressed into a thin line. “Is that the waiting area?”
Sally nodded. “Please,” she held her hand out towards the wooden benches that flanked the front door.
“We’ll just wait for the sheriff to come in, then. Will it be long?”
“No. He’s usually here by eight.”
Mother hustled me over to the benches and we sat. On Friday I hadn’t noticed, but there was nothing in the waiting area to occupy your time. No radio playing, no magazines, newspapers, or even pamphlets detailing how to burglar-proof your home or what to do if you were involved in a fender-bender.
“I don’t want to upset Daddy,” I said. “Maybe we should go.”
Mother patted me on the knee. “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of everything.”
The bench was beginning to permanently bend my tailbone when the sheriff strolled in without looking at us. He went to Sally’s desk and they had a brief conversation where she handed him a stack of papers. She also pointed to us, but the sheriff didn’t turn. He went right into his office and shut the door tight.
Eventually, Mother got tired of waiting. “Come with me,” she said. She rose, bypassed Sally — who was again engrossed in her novel — went right to the sheriff’s door and knocked.
“Yeah.”
Mother opened the door and we entered. The sheriff was reading through some papers and didn’t look up.
“What do you need, Sally?”
Mother stepped forward. “I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure of meeting. I’m Betty Hond, and you know my daughter, Iris.” She pushed her hand into the sheriff’s face, forcing him to shake it. “And you are?”
“You can call me sheriff,” he said, scowling.
Mother giggled. “We don’t need to stand on such formality, do we?” She leaned in, still holding his hand, and read the name off of his badge. “Ah. Sheriff Stone. A pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
He didn’t answer. Mother sat and patted the chair beside her for me.
“I don’t know if your assistant told you, but I have discovered evidence that pertains to your investigation of Mr. Damien.”
That finally got a reaction out of him. He put both palms flat on the desk and leaned forward.
“I assure you that the only investigation of this situation is surrounding your daughter, Mrs. Hond. Mr. Damien was only awake enough to speak to me just last night. And he claims that your daughter snuck up on him in the dark and attacked him without provocation of any type.”
“But she has bruises,” Mother said.
“Where?”
“On her arms. Where he grabbed her.”
He rocked back in his chair. The vinyl creaked.
“Show me.”
Mother’s cheeks reddened. “I already explained to your receptionist. My husband doesn’t want a man to inspect her bruises.”
“Then how do you expect me to believe you? I grew up with Gary’s family; I visited his mother in the hospital when he was born. I was the coach of his little league team and the den master of his scouting club. He’s a good student. I’ve seen him with my own eyes, helping elderly people with their groceries. He’s well-liked by adults and his peers. What do I know about your daughter? She moved in here, muscled her way onto the cheerleading team, hasn’t made a single friend — and I’m supposed to believe her over Gary?”
“You’re a law enforcement official,” Mother said. “It’s your job to be impartial, to learn the facts. It sounds to me like you’ve decided what happened before you even investigated.”
“I’ve investigated enough.”
“It’s all right, Mother. I’ll show him the bruises.” I’d worn a short-sleeved blouse underneath my cardigan, and I moved to take it off. Mother put a hand on my arm.
“I want a witness,” Mother said. “Someone impartial. Someone who doesn’t know Gary or Iris.”
“You’re in no position to make demands, Mrs. Hond. In fact, I’d recommend you find yourself a lawyer.”
Mother blanched. “But we can’t afford a lawyer.”
“Your daughter should have thought of that before she beat a boy nearly to death. Whatever happened before that, she almost killed him, and she’s got to pay for that.”
“Excuse me, sir.” Sally was at the door. “There’s someone here to see you.”
A handsome couple was standing behind her. The woman had red puffy eyes but was otherwise well dressed. The man had his arm protectively around her shoulder and wore an expensive-looking suit.
“Mr. and Mrs. Damien. Please, come in. How’s Gary doing this morning?”
They edged into the room. There were no more chairs, and I stood. “Would you like to sit down, Mrs. Damien?”
Mrs. Damien offered me a watery smile. “Why, thank you, miss. I only wish our son’s attacker had manners like yours.”
I cast my eyes to the floor. The sheriff made a sound like he’d swallowed down the wrong pipe.
“I’m sorry to hear about your son, Mr. and Mrs. Damien,” Mother said. She put a hand on Mrs. Damien’s knee. “It’s just awful, his injuries. I’m sure you’re most interested in justice.” She turned to the sheriff, who was still choking. “Do you need some water, Sheriff Stone?”
“I’ll get it,” Sally said.
The sheriff held up a hand to stop Mother. But she was on a roll.
“I only say that because my daughter has been injured by an attacker, as well, and Sheriff Stone here was just telling us that he doesn’t believe her and won’t even have someone look at her injuries.”
“Sheriff,” Mr. Damien said. “If the girl’s been injured by someone then it’s your responsibility to investigate.” He wagged a finger at the sheriff.
Sally returned with a paper cup and handed it to the sheriff.
“It’s the right thing to do,
even if it isn’t popular,” Mother said.
“That’s right,” Mrs. Damien said. “She’s somebody’s baby, just like Gary is mine.”
The sheriff finally got ahold of himself.
“Mrs. Hond, I really don’t appreciate your antics,” he said.
Mrs. Damien clutched her pocketbook as if one of us were about to snatch it. “Hond? Are you Iris Hond’s mother?”
“I am,” Mother said. “And this girl, the one who gave up her seat for you even though she knew you’re her attacker’s mother, is Iris.”
“This is Iris Hond? This slip of a thing?” She pointed at me with a jab of her chin.
“Yes, ma’am,” I said. “I’m Iris.”
“Wait just a second, sheriff,” Mr. Damien said. “You told us that there was no evidence against Gary.”
“There isn’t. Not as far as I’m concerned. If she won’t show me the bruises, then it’s all just hearsay.”
I took a step out of Mother’s reach and removed my cardigan.
“Iris,” Mother said. There was a note of warning in her voice.
“No,” I said. “I’m not going to let everyone pretend that I was unprovoked.” I turned to his mother. “These bruises on my arm, they’re from where he grabbed me. I told him he was hurting me, and he didn’t let me go. He squeezed harder. And here, here, and here,” I pointed to three half-moon-shaped gouges in my upper arm, “are where his fingernails dug into me through the sweater that I was wearing.” The bruises were deep purple, mottled with navy blue.
Mrs. Damien’s lower lip trembled.
“And why are you just now reporting these injuries?” the sheriff asked.
“You never asked me if I was injured,” I said
“Likely story,” he muttered. “I think we’ve had enough of this circus. Mrs. Hond, you and your daughter are excused.”
“I want the bruises documented, Sheriff Stone,” Mother said. “And the images will be part of your report.”
“The report contains what I say it will contain,” he said.
“Then you’ll have no trouble with me taking my daughter to the hospital to report and document these injuries by an authority who isn’t governed by you.”
