Lacy Eye (15 page)

“I did not.” She spoke calmly, directing her words at the windshield rather than across the seat to me. A few more minutes passed before she murmured, “He always liked me. But he shouldn't have.”

“Why do you say that? A lot of people liked you.”

“That's not true, Mommy. But it's nice of you to say.” She took a deep breath, then added, “I know I was a loser all my life. Until I met Rud.” She mumbled toward the window of the passenger seat. I wasn't sure I'd heard right, so just in case, I asked her to repeat it.

“I said,
until I met Rud
,” she echoed herself, louder, turning so that I could make no mistake this time.

The sound of his name on her lips halted my hand as I went to shift. “Dawn,” I said, intentionally lowering my own volume in an effort to slow my heartbeat, “Why are you bringing him up now? And in that tone?”

“What tone?” It was the thing that had always angered Iris most about Dawn.
She pretends she doesn't understand what you're saying, when of course she does
. I used to defend Dawn, telling Iris that her sister was just a slower processor than some people. I borrowed the word
process
from Pam Furth, even though I scorned it when she used it to describe Emmett. “You make her sound like a Cuisinart,” Iris said—clearly pleased with her own witticism, which made Joe chuckle before he realized he shouldn't have—“when really she's just being a pain in the ass.”

I shrugged at Dawn now, trying not to let the motion go out of control the way it wanted to. “I don't know. Wistful, or something.” It was all I could do not to tell her about Gail Nazarian's visit, and her suggestion that Rud and Dawn might have been in touch with each other. It was another question I couldn't ask because I did not want to hear the answer.

As we drove toward the parking lot exit, Dawn looked out the window and said, “Hey, remember?” She pointed at Little Folks, the store where we had bought her first training bra together. It was a rite of passage Iris had not let me be a part of; she'd gone shopping with a group of friends for her first bra, without letting me know what she was up to. When it came Dawn's turn, I offered to drop her off at the shop if she wanted to browse by herself, but she said she wanted me to be there, and I knew she was telling the truth. Afterward I took her to Lickety Split to celebrate, and she told me I was her best friend. Though I know it was wrong of me, I felt gratified hearing it, even as I felt sad for her. I couldn't help loving, that day, how much I knew she loved me.

Now I followed her gaze to the lighted bank kiosk we had to pass before exiting the plaza. “I meant to ask before, do you think I could borrow some money, just until I find a job?” she asked. “I'll pay you back, I promise.”

I told myself that I shouldn't be surprised—after all, she'd mentioned that part of her reason for moving home was financial. As I went to open the car door, she said, “Do you want me to do it? It's so cold out. You could just tell me your password, and I'll get it myself.”

I felt a chill that had nothing to do with the temperature outside. Insisting to myself that she just wanted to save me the trouble, I told her I didn't mind doing it and stepped out of the car. When I returned with the cash, she kissed me on the cheek and tucked the wad into her pocket without looking at it. We were halfway home before somebody coming the other way flashed his lights at me, and I realized we'd been driving dangerously in the dark.

A
rriving back home, we saw someone standing on the front stoop, and I tried not to let on to Dawn how apprehensive the unidentified shadow made me feel. Then we recognized Cecilia Baugh, with a reporter's notebook tucked under her armpit as she blew into her hands to keep them warm.

“I'm freezing my butt off,” she said when we got out, in the tone of someone who'd had an appointment and been kept waiting for hours.

“What are you doing here?” I asked her, as if I didn't know.

Cecilia answered me with the same eerie calmness she'd possessed since she learned how to speak. “I know you don't like me, Mrs. Schutt. But I heard Dawn was home. And I wanted to talk to you both.”

I bit back the question
How did you hear?
It had been only a few hours. Then I caught Cecilia's glance falling on the Furths' house next door, and remembered Pam's slow drive-by when Dawn first arrived. I remembered that Pam and Cecilia's mother played Bunco together. There was a light on in the kitchen, and I wondered if Pam was watching my exchange with Cecilia the way someone else might watch a soap opera.

Cecilia said, “We're working on a story about people besides Rud Petty who might have killed your husband. We're not getting very far on the Marc Sedgwick angle, but a lot of people seem to like Emmett Furth for it.” Now she inclined her head toward Pam's house.

If I had been fond of Cecilia, I might have smiled at the way she used the lingo from TV cop shows, as in people
liking
Emmett for the crime. I also understood then that if Pam had been the one to notify Cecilia of Dawn's arrival, she had no idea that the story Cecilia planned to write might suggest that her son was to blame for the attack against us.

Looking at her, I couldn't help seeing—along with the adult reporter I would not invite into my house—the four-year-old girl, with black pigtails long enough to sit on and the bearing (even back then) of someone who knew she was admired, who used to come over to play Chutes and Ladders with Dawn on the days I picked them both up from preschool. If Cecilia ended up with a bad draw from the card pile, she always managed to convince Dawn that she should get to choose a different card. I used to listen to her say things like “It's not fair, because you're taller” and “Since we're playing at your house, you should let me go again,” and I'd want Dawn to stand up to her and say, “That doesn't make sense” or “That doesn't matter,” but I stayed out of it because of Joe's belief that kids should work things out for themselves.

“When you say ‘we,'” I asked, “you mean that
Bloody Glove
website, don't you?” Cecilia was still in college, majoring in journalism at the university, but she freelanced for the town newspaper and, more recently, the sensationalistic online tabloid that was trying to give
The National Enquirer
a run for its money. Somehow, she'd convinced them that she had an “in” on what had happened in our house three years earlier.

“Maybe.” She shrugged and smiled, and I had to look away because I hated her so much. She went on: “Some people seem to think Emmett's a distinct possibility. If the defense can put enough doubt in the jurors' minds, they think Rud Petty might get off.”

Until now, Dawn had remained in the darkness behind me. But now she stepped forward and said, “Hi, Cecilia,” in a fawning tone that made me want to shake her.

Cecilia gave Dawn a smile she would never have wasted on her five or ten years earlier. “Hi, Dawn. You look great,” she said, and then I wanted to shake
her
. I watched her glance narrow as she peered closely, without wanting to be caught doing it, at Dawn's face; I could tell she was noticing that the operation to fix the lazy eye was coming undone. Surely sensing an advantage, Cecilia continued to press. “I was hoping you'd be willing to sit down with me to talk about the tree house.”

Behind me, I heard Dawn make a noise. “No,” I told Cecilia. “We have no desire to talk to you about the tree house or anything else.” I could feel Dawn begging me silently not to mortify her.

“Okay, Mrs. Schutt.” Cecilia closed her notebook. “I understand. I'm sure I can get what I need from somebody else.” She leaned around me as I moved in front of Dawn to try to protect her. “What do
you
think, Dawn?”

 Dawn looked at me, and I could tell she felt trapped. “You don't have to answer any questions,” I told her.

“But why not?” Cecilia pointed her pen at me. “Is there something to hide?”

In a faint voice, Dawn said, “Emmett didn't do it.” Probably without realizing, she gestured at the bedroom window above us behind which the attack had taken place. “It was Rud Petty.”

“And you know this how—did he confess to you? Are you going to testify?”

Cecilia and I both watched as Dawn shook her head.

“Then you can't be any more sure than anyone else, right? Did you know Emmett was arrested two weeks ago for breaking and entering? A house over in Shelby Falls?” I could tell how much Cecilia enjoyed telling us this, so I tried not to let her see my surprise.

“Breaking and entering isn't the same thing as murder,” I said.

“True. But the homeowners in that case caught him and called the police before he could do anything. Who knows what he was intending?” Her eyes were sly.

I said, “I think you'd better go now.”

“Mom,” Dawn whispered desperately. “Mom.”

Cecilia turned and made as if she were returning to her car, which was parked at the curb. Then, as if she'd only just in that moment thought of something else, she turned and called out, “Oh, I almost forgot. Do either of you want to comment on the vandalism?” She gestured toward the driveway.

At first I had no idea what she was talking about. Then, through the darkness, I saw that someone had used blue spray-paint to write
KILLER
!
on the passenger door of the Corvette.

Dawn stared at the car, then held a fist up to her forehead and pressed it into her skin. “But I was found innocent. What's wrong with these people?” she said, sounding not indignant but hurt.

As at the restaurant with the Cahills, I knew there was no point in correcting her. The grand jury had not ordered her bound over for trial, but that was not the same as finding her innocent.

“You sprayed that on there yourself, didn't you?” I said to Cecilia. “To stir up drama for your story, because there isn't any. Who else could it be?” I looked around us at the empty street.

“Of course I didn't.” She gave me a look that said she pitied the fact that I could actually think such a thing. “It might be some random Halloween prank. Or maybe it was him,” she added, nodding at Emmett Furth's house.

I spit out a curt “No comment,” before I hurried into the house. If I'd had a stone in my hand, I might have thrown it at Cecilia's car as she pulled away.

Dawn waited until we were back inside before she said, “You didn't need to be like that,” and the fact that she didn't express any anger made me feel more of my own.

“Yes, I did. I did need to, Dawn.”

She said, “But she's an old friend of mine,” and I thought she was going to cry.

It took everything in me not to remind her what Cecilia really was.

In fifth grade, every student in Mrs. Karp's music class had to sing “God Bless America” in front of the rest of the class. I couldn't imagine sitting there and listening to twenty-one renditions of any song, let alone that one with all its opportunities for missed notes, but that's what Mrs. Karp and every kid in Dawn's class had to do on the Monday after the February break. I don't know when Dawn practiced, or if she did, because we never heard her singing at home before that Monday night, when Mrs. Karp called to say that she understood Dawn was shy, but did we think we could convince her to sing the song in the school's upcoming Spring Showcase?

“Spring Showcase? I'm not familiar with that,” I said.

“It's the new name for the talent show,” she told me. “They don't want kids who decide not to participate to feel untalented.” She went on to say that in class that day, Dawn had nailed the song, to the extent that many of the other kids sat with open mouths as they listened. When she finished, there was that stunned silence that usually precedes a standing ovation. “She shocked them. Shocked me,” the teacher said. “You know, I think it would be really
good
for her to perform. She'll bring the house down. She's gifted, Mrs. Schutt.”

On the other end of the phone, I didn't know what to say. Finally I managed to mumble, “You're kidding,” and when I realized how negligent it made me sound as a parent, I thanked her and said I'd do what I could to talk Dawn into performing. When I told Joe about it that night, he expressed the same skepticism I felt. “Is this the teacher who drinks?” he said, and I told him no, that was the music teacher at the middle school.

We went to Dawn's room together and told her Mrs. Karp had called, and we asked her if she'd mind singing something for us. She blushed. “I can't do it in front of people,” she said.

But she'd done it in front of her whole class, we pointed out.

“It was part of my grade. I had to.” Her voice tightened and I realized how stressful it must have been for her to do this. I could tell Joe understood it, too. I was going to leave it at that, and drop the idea of her signing up for the show, but Joe had different ideas, more in line with the music teacher's. He told Dawn he understood how difficult it might be for her, but that he thought it would be a big step; if she could force herself through that anxiety and perform onstage, it would do wonders for her.

I remember that this was the exact phrase he used—“It would do wonders for you.” I know he really believed it, and risked putting that pressure on her only because he wanted so badly for her to have the new and unfamiliar experience of succeeding at something, especially if it could be witnessed by the kids who made a habit of teasing her.

I watched the moving complications in her face as she struggled with how to respond. She did not want to do anything onstage before an audience, that much was clear. And yet I knew she did not want to disappoint us. Finally, she said she'd think about it, and we left her to go to sleep. In the morning, at breakfast, she said she'd decided to give it a try. Iris started to say something, but I gave her a warning look. At school Dawn told Mrs. Karp to put her on the program, and the teacher called to thank us, saying she was thrilled.

We waited to hear Dawn practice, but she never did. On the night of the concert, she let me curl her hair and zip up the new dress Iris had helped her pick out. Joe drove us all over to the school in silence as we took our cue from Dawn, who, it seemed, was too nervous to do her usual nattering. I dropped her off at the music room with the other kids, most of whom—including Cecilia Baugh, dressed in a black-spotted leotard for her jazz dance interpretation of “Eye of the Tiger”—did double takes in surprise at the sight of her. I pretended I didn't notice, and tried not to make a big deal out of wishing Dawn luck before I left her behind (feeling her eyes bore into my back as I did so) to take my seat with Joe and Iris in the auditorium.

It probably goes without saying that it was a disaster. It would have been better if she had just chickened out before she even got onto the stage, but as it was, she emerged in her assigned place on the program, after Graham Tompkins and Lyle Kroke performed the “Who's on First” comedy routine. She walked to the microphone, and I felt my stomach constrict as the spotlight fell on her. I could tell by the way her bad eye twitched and flickered how scared she was. Mrs. Karp began playing the music on the piano, her big face beaming encouragement at Dawn. Dawn opened her mouth, and I held my breath waiting for the first note, but instead she turned and threw up, onto the floor of the stage behind her and her own dress. A murmur passed through the audience; I heard “Gross,” “Eew,” and “Poor girl.” Dawn rushed off the stage and out the exit, and I knew she'd be running toward the car. Joe began the grim passage out of our row, and Iris and I followed, but not before I caught sight of Cecilia Baugh behind the curtains at the side of the stage, her face showing disgust and a triumphant fascination. I knew they could never return to the friendship they'd had once, after that. Standing along the wall, Pam Furth tapped my arm and said, “Oh, dear, Hanna,” and I heard the tone of false sympathy in her voice. In the car, Dawn apologized to all of us, and even though we all (including Iris) said she had nothing to be sorry for, I knew we didn't convince her.

A few weeks later, Dawn came home one day looking uncharacteristically happy, and I felt wariness spread through my blood. At dinner she filled us in on the reason for her mood: Cecilia Baugh had invited her to a party.

“She's having it at Hot Wheels,” Dawn told us, her face so animated that for a moment she almost looked pretty. I smiled to encourage her to continue, even though I could feel a stitch starting in my side the way I did when I tried to run too fast with Abby—a warning to slow down or stop or, in this case, be cautious of my daughter's exuberance.

“Cecilia Baugh does
not
want you to come to a party,” Iris said to her sister, in the same emphatic tone she had begun using on all of us as soon as she hit puberty. “Dawn, you can't be such a sucker when you get to middle school. You just can't.” Though I knew she was speaking partly out of protectiveness and for Dawn's own good, I knew it also embarrassed her to have a sister people considered a dunce. I shivered inside at the harshness of her message, as I could tell Dawn did.

“And she's
not
having a party at Hot Wheels. You
know
that's a place for little kids. Like, little.” Iris put her hand out beside her chair and leveled it at about three feet. “This is a setup, Dodo.”