Jasper Jones (14 page)

But I walk close as we near the oval. I hope those belligerent dick-heads are training at the nets so they can see me with her. But they’re not. The oval is empty, save for an old man practicing his golf swing under the shade of a fig tree.

I pretend to watch him with interest. I’m panicking. I should be regaling her with chatter. I should be squaring my shoulders like Jasper Jones. I scour my stupid empty head for witticisms and repartee.

“What book did you buy?” I ask, nodding toward the brown bag.

“Oh.” Eliza holds it up with two hands.
“Breakfast at Tiffany’s.”

I nod once and open and close my mouth like a large fish. I silently scold myself for not having read it. And I resolve to. Tonight.

“I’ve seen the film four times,” she says. “But I haven’t read the book yet. My mum says I’m not allowed, which is so stupid because I already know what happens, but I’m going to anyway. I can’t wait to read it. I wish I lived in Manhattan.”

“So do I. Or maybe Brooklyn,” I say.

“Well, I’ll live in Manhattan, and you can live in Brooklyn, and we’ll meet at the Plaza Hotel for high tea. And I’ll wear a fox-fur coat and penny loafers, and you’ll have a tartan scarf and a brown pinstripe suit. And a pipe.”

“Sounds swell.”

Past the oval, we make our way down the pea-gravel road to her house. This is the old part of town, where two-story houses with large trees out the front are common. It is the only part of Corrigan which hints toward any division of class. It’s eerily quiet today, though. No cars swish past; there are no kids or pets about.

“Do you like Audrey Hepburn?” I ask.

“Yes. Absolutely.” Eliza seems to ignite. “I think she’s
brilliant
. And pretty. She’s so … 
dignified
. Do you like her?”

“Are you joking?” I’m pleased she’s excited. “I mean, she’s beautiful. Really beautiful. Stunning. She’s perfect. She’s my favorite, you know,
actress
. For certain.”

She smiles. I hope I’m not being too obvious. I can’t control my hands. They’re flapping about like I don’t own them. I must look like I’m unraveling my own innards. I go on.

“And talented. Of course. Obviously. I mean, she’s not just, you know,
pretty
. She’s smart too. I really like her. A lot.”

Eliza seems amused. “Have you seen
Breakfast at Tiffany’s
?” She looks up and squints as she asks.

“Well, no. Not yet I haven’t.”

“Really? You should. What films, then?”

Shit. I am in it now. What films, then, Charlie? Idiot.

“Oh, um. Well. Probably my favorite would be … it would have to be … the last one. With …,” I stammer.

“Rex Harrison?”

“Yes!” I almost burst with relief. “I’m no good with names.”

“My Fair Lady,”
she says, and I could kiss her.

“That’s the one!” I say. “She was amazing. Really.”

“Is that because her name was Eliza?”

“Oh. Oh, of course,” I say, and blush.

Eliza smiles and looks down. I’m eager to move away from this conversation. We go quiet for a time.

We round into Sullivan Street, which seems significantly busier. The lawns are lush and thick and well kept, and two rows of trimmed peppermint trees track down its length. Eliza slows her pace.

“So you’ve probably heard, then?” she says softly.

My stomach wrenches and my body tenses. I’m not sure what to say. My breath stalls and that familiar dizziness returns. I want to run away.

“No. What?”

“My sister. She’s gone missing. Since yesterday. We don’t know where she is.”

I stay quiet. We stop and duck under a tree a few houses from hers. We peer out through the thin strands of peppermint branches. Eliza looks very small in the dappled shade.

“My parents are going crazy. Well, my mother is. She hasn’t stopped shaking and crying. My dad is just trying to be normal, which means, you know, stinking of beer and yelling a lot.”

I can’t speak. My mouth is too dry.

“The police have been at my house all morning. That’s why I had to sneak out. I hate them being here.”

“Do they …” I clear my throat. “Do they have any idea where
she might be?” I ask. There’s a tingly rash on my neck, as though I’ve already been caught.

“No,” she says. Her tone is strange. Like she’s describing someone else’s family. There’s no sign of panic. Neither of us can look each other in the eye. Eliza looks down; I look over her shoulder. “No, they don’t have any idea, really. They’re going to start searching soon. Sometime this afternoon. I think they’re organizing some people from town as well, and there are special police coming from the city.”

“Oh, okay. My god. Eliza, this is terrible. You must be … Are you all right? Do you know where she might be?”

I should place my hand on her shoulder. Or rub her back. Or say something comforting. But it would feel trite and stupid. And dishonest. Because I know exactly where her sister is. Because Eliza Wishart is hurting and I’m just trying to cover my arse. I feel like such a phoney.

Before she can reply, a loud shriek cuts the street. It is Eliza’s mother, coursing this way, not quite running. Her face is red and her eyes are pink and puffy. She looks haggard and furious. I step back.

“What are you
doing
?” she screams at Eliza, and ducks into our umbrella of foliage. Her mouth is turned down sharply at the corners. Eliza remains passive and calm as her mother shakes her roughly by the shoulders, which has her head rocking wildly back and forth. Eliza looks so brittle, as though she might snap, but she stands firm.

“What are you
doing
? You
stupid
little girl! Where have you been? Why on earth would you leave the house without telling anybody? We have been looking everywhere! You stupid,
stupid
little girl! What are you trying to do to me?”

Eliza’s mother is trembling with feeling, and clearly attempting to smother her sobs. She keeps her grip on her daughter’s shoulders.

Eliza looks engulfed, like she’s been caught by a bird of prey. Her voice is soft.

“I just came down the street for a while to see Charlie. I wasn’t far away. I’ve been right here. I told Dad before I left.”

“Don’t tell me
lies
!”

“I’m not,” Eliza says plainly, with a shrug.

Her mother slaps her hard, just once, across the face. I feel ashamed and awkward. Eliza seems unmoved.

“Where did you get this, then, young lady?” Eliza’s mother snatches the book from her hands and holds it close to her face.

Eliza’s composure impresses me.

“Charlie bought it for me. That’s why we met up, because he wanted to give me a gift. That’s all.”

Her mother glares at me for the first time, seething and suspicious. It’s clear she thinks it is bullshit. My face is a mix of fear and earnest corroboration.

“Well, I should think it’s time for you to head home now, if you don’t mind,” she says to me tersely before grabbing Eliza tight by the arm, tugging sharply.

Eliza turns and smiles thinly as she is led away.

“Bye, Charlie. Thanks for the book.”

“You’re welcome,” I call out, then add, “I’ll see you at the Plaza,” but I don’t think she hears, and so my first hint of wit gets caught in this wall of leaves.

I pull back the green ropes and watch Eliza’s mother huddle over and shake, sobbing into her hands, as they walk toward their home. I notice the balance has shifted—Eliza is now leading her back. Her arm around her waist. Leaning in.

I think about Eliza’s manner. So dry and centered. So matter-of-fact amid the panic. I watch her climbing the garden steps to their front door, holding her weeping mother. Someone is there to meet them with an outstretched hand and a look of concern. I shrink behind the branches. And then, swift as a knife, it occurs to me. A rash of sparks coats my skin. My heart almost leaps from my chest, and my brick slides.

Eliza Wishart knows something.

***

Before I can close the front door, my mother has slapped me. Hard and sharp. Much like Mrs. Wishart, but with considerably more venom. It stings for a long time. I touch my face, shocked. My mother calls out to my father:

“It’s him, Wesley! It’s okay!”

It is rare for my mother to slap me. It is even rarer for her to call my father Wesley. I can only assume this means I am right in the shit. As I’d walked back down our deserted street, I had hoped she might have forgotten my stealthy exit this morning.

Then she slaps me again. Harder. I cry out in protest. The interrogation begins.

“What in
Christ
do you think you’re doing? Where have you been?”

“At Jeffrey’s!” I yell at her and look away, scowling. I hope my eyes aren’t glassy.

“Bullshit, Charlie. Don’t
lie
to me!” She slaps me again, and shakes me by the collar.

“Stop it! It’s
true
!” It obviously isn’t. I am a terrible liar.

“I was over there three hours ago looking for you, young man! You’re lying! Where did you go? Where have you been?”

“I just went to the library! Calm
down
. I’m sorry!”

“Calm down?
Calm down
! Jesus
Christ
, do you want people to think you have no parents?”

I want to slap her wrist from my collar. I want to kick her shins and run back outside.

“What does that even
mean
? I just went to the library!”

“Oh! You
just
went to the library, did you? After I
told
you not to leave this street. After I
told
you not to leave this house without changing your clothes. It is
dangerous
out there, Charlie, okay? Do you know that? There’s a bloody kidnapper on the streets, and you’re walking about like you’re lord of the manor! Who do you think you are?”

“What?”

“A girl is
missing
, Charlie,” she hisses at me, close to my face. She digs her nails into my arm. “Laura Wishart. She has gone
missing
. Do you understand that?”

“Missing or abducted?” I ask. I want to know what she’s heard.

“Don’t answer
back
!” she snarls, and moves to slap me again. I shift my weight, and she cops me across the ear. It chimes through my brain.
For a moment it feels like I’m underwater. Without thinking, I push her off me. She looks stunned.

“Go to your room!” she screams.

“I can’t! There’s a wasp in there!”

“What?”

“There’s a
wasp
in there! That’s why I couldn’t get changed!”

“I don’t care!” she yells, pointing toward the back of the house.

“Well, that’s been patently obvious for some time!”

“Ex
cuse
me?” She leans in, aggressive, speaking through her gritted teeth.

“God
damn
it!” I yell. “I’ll go and get bloody stung!”

And I march off, with her close behind. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I just
swore
in front of my mother. That’s as close to hara-kiri as you can get without a sword. I slam the door and chock it with a thin Penguin paperback before she can burst in and thrash me to death.

She’s hollering from the other side, but my immediate concern is the wasp that may or may not be trapped in here. I quickly scan the walls and the ceiling. I snatch my open copy of
The Naked and the Dead
from my bed and retreat into a corner. I wonder what Norman Mailer would think of me right now. He’d probably smirk and shake his head and call me a fugging pussy. Probably come at me with a penknife. I am hot with anger and shame.

The yelling ends. Book poised, I search every inch of my sleepout. It seems, miraculously, the wasp is gone. For now. But elsewhere, of course, I’ve shaken up a whole hive of problems.

My mother bursts through the door like she’s the Gestapo. The wedged paperback skids across the floor. She glares at me and issues a beckoning finger like a gnarled coathook. She is holding a shovel. I don’t know why. I hope it’s not a weapon.

“Come with me,” she says.

I don’t argue.

I follow her outside. It’s the middle of the afternoon and unbearably hot. I squint through the glare. I stand motionless as she aims and
stabs the spade tip repeatedly into the ground with purpose, like she’s chasing something she wants to kill. I cock my head when she stops. She’s fashioned the outline of a circle, roughly the diameter of my armspan. I frown.

My mother thrusts the shovel at me. I take it.

“What’s this?” I ask.

“A shovel,” she says shortly. I can’t place her tone. I can’t tell if she’s hurt or angry or pleased with herself. Perhaps she’s all three.

“I know that,” I say.

“Well, start digging, then. Right here.” She thrusts a finger at her crude markings.

“What? Why?” I ask meekly. I’m genuinely confused.

“You’ll find out later. When it is deep enough, you can stop.”

I shake my head.

“
What
? No! It’s too hot!”

Her nostrils flare as her finger lifts and jabs at my chest.

“Charlie, I’m
not
going to tell you again. You will keep digging until this hole is deep enough. If you do not, you’ll spend the rest of this summer in your bedroom, wasps or no wasps. Do you understand? And I will take your books away. Every single one. Those are your choices.”

“What? But how is this fair? This is ridiculous!”

“I’m not here to be fair. I’m here to teach you how to do what you’re told.” She starts to move back toward the house. She knows she’s won. She always wins.

I grip the shovel limply and stare at this patch of ground like it has betrayed me. Like it’s the portal to hell itself.

I scowl and shick the spade into the earth and imagine I’m slicing clean through her neck. I’m sweating already. Flies are hovering around me like I’m the Holy Grail and I spasm in fright when I feel them land. I stab, lever, and lift, cursing my mother in the dirtiest language I can muster. This is a whole new degree of vindictiveness. Maybe when I’m finished with this hole I can throw her in it. The
work is made a little easier by my anger. If anything, it’s cathartic for a short while. But this only lasts until the sandy top layer of earth melds into a dense clay and a blister forms on the webbing of my palm. I strip my wet shirt off and throw it to the ground. I kick some clay over it, knowing who will have to wash it. I am thirsty. I am dying. I am so bloody hot, I feel like I’m digging my own grave.