Light from a Distant Star (37 page)

“Just a garbage truck,” he said, looking in the mirror. “But he’s going way too fast.”

“So! How come you didn’t go? To law school, I mean,” she asked in a rush, needing containment, safety, even if it was only his voice.

He sighed. “Sometimes it’s a matter of thinking too much. Of wanting so much to make the right decision that you end up not making any decision at all. You know what I mean?” he asked, as if still trying to make sense of it.

“Not me. I just do things,” she said with a shrug. Though in a million years it wasn’t true, not with the Australian letters under the floorboard and Jessica’s relentless pestering and her guilt about Max. But her father needed to tell her things he couldn’t share with anyone else, and she wanted to help him. It pained her to think Ruth might be right, that he was hapless and weak. “You know that book
Get Tough!
?”

“Sure. Uncle Seth’s book. Now there was a man of action. Omaha Beach. Three times they shot him, and he just kept crawling and crawling.”

“No, I know,” she said quickly. “His book, that’s what I do. I know all the holds, I study them, and it makes me feel—” She groped for the word.

“Strong?”

“More than that. Something else.”

“Empowered?” he asked, smiling when she said yes, that was it, kind of. “Very good,” he declared with the wag of a warning finger. “But a lot of people make that same mistake. They think it’s all about physical strength. And most of the time force is the greatest weakness of all. You can’t go too far wrong if you just remember this. Mark Twain said it. ‘How curious that physical courage should be so common in the world, and moral courage so rare.’ ”

In the stray of his eyes to the traffic again and the solemn lift of his chin, she saw the virtue he felt possessing such a truth, and how apart it set him, safe from her and her petty problems. And suddenly she was stung by his smug dismissal of everything she’d discovered and needed to be true, stung by the quiet tyranny of his kindness, the serene self-absorption that never needed or asked a thing from her or from anyone. For the first time she understood her mother’s frustration. He could as well live alone with his books, on an island somewhere, unreachable, and be just as content as now.

“I hate these stupid shoes!” she said, kicking them off. “They’re killing my feet. I don’t know why I had to wear them or these stupid clothes.”

“Nellie.” He took her hand in his. “I wish you didn’t have to go through this. If I could, I’d go in there and do it for you. Bad enough putting any child through something like this, but when it’s your own—” He shook his head. “Just doesn’t seem right.”

“So do you think he’s innocent then?” she asked, more challenge than question.

“Oh no. That’s not what I meant. It just seems they have all the evidence they need, so why drag you into it?”

“Because I was there,” she said bitterly. “I’m the only one that was.”

By the time she’d wedged her shoes back on and was limping up the wide granite steps, they were late. “Wait!” she said before he pushed open the glass door. “I’m going to tell them the truth, you know.”

“Well, of course.”

“You know what I mean.” A breeze kept lifting the hem of her stupid skirt. Two women hurried toward them so they stepped aside, next to one of the massive fluted columns. With the cold stone pressing against her arm, she knew what she had to do.

“You mean Mr. Cooper?”

She nodded. It would be the hardest thing she’d ever done. But she had courage, she did, more than enough, more than he knew, physical
and
moral.

“Nellie, you know why he was there. The offer … I told you. He couldn’t get me at the store, so he came to the house, and I wasn’t there, so he called me.”

“He made that up! He lied! Why don’t you believe me?” she said so insistently that the young man opening the door looked back at them.

“Listen to me, Nellie,” he said in a low voice. “Everything that happened that day was ugly and horrible. And you haven’t been able to forget any of it, not a single moment, because you’ve had to go back and try to keep it all straight in your head, every detail, from the beginning of the day, to the end. And I’m sure I can’t begin to understand your pain and anxiety, but just because Andy Cooper happened to come to the house that same day doesn’t make him guilty of anything. Don’t
look away. Listen to me! What about me? I was there! That morning, I was down cellar. I even knocked on her door. I was going to remind her about the new hot-water tank. But she never answered, so I figured she was still asleep. Then I left for work. But I was there. Not even out in the yard, like Andy Cooper, but right there, on her cellar stairs, right outside her door. So I don’t know, maybe that makes me a suspect. The police don’t think so, but maybe you do. Well, do you?” he asked as she stared down at her big, miserably pinched feet in the stupid blue flats.

They took the elevator to the second floor. The receptionist who led them into the district attorney’s office was wearing pants—so much for respect for the law. She apologized and said they’d have to wait a few minutes. District Attorney Cowie was running late. For such a large room there was little in it: the desk and leather chair, four wooden arm chairs, and a tall glass cabinet of law books. Nellie could smell dust, and something else. Pot, she realized sniffing inside Ruth’s purse. She closed it quickly, wondering if the courthouse had any drug-sniffing dogs roaming the halls. She and her father sat facing the empty desk. They spoke in low voices.

“Not very fancy, she whispered, breathing on her glasses and wiping them clean on her blouse.

“Austere.” Her father looked up at the high tin ceiling. “Bet that was the ice storm. Last March.” He pointed to the brown-ringed yellow stain above the window. “That was something, huh? Lucky for us we had a generator. The old store came in handy then, didn’t it?”

“I knew I should’ve worn pants.” She hugged her arms, shivering.

“Want my jacket?”

She rolled her eyes in reply. “Not even any pictures,” she said, looking around.

“Lots of diplomas, though. That’s what counts.”

The door opened, and a wide block of a man entered, carrying an armload of folders. He towered over her father, who stood up to shake his hand. He had silvery black hair, bushy black eyebrows, large eyes that stared, bright and unblinking, above an easy smile that made her want to like him.

“Finn Cowie,” he said, introducing himself and repeating their names as he shook her father’s hand, then hers.

“I know you probably hate missing school,” he said, winking as he sat down.

“Actually, I do,” she said stiffly. She hated it when adults said such lame things to her.

“Nellie’s a very good student,” her father said. “And very conscientious, which is why she understands the necessity of coming here today.”

Equally lame, she thought, glancing at her father, then saw how nervous he was. Was he afraid of what she might say?

“Well, this won’t take too long.” Mr. Cowie was opening a folder. “Just a few questions,” he murmured, turning pages. Which did she prefer being called, he asked, Ellen or Nellie?

“Nellie’s fine, thank you,” she said, braiding the fringe on the useless purse.

“Just so you’ll know, Nellie, when the time comes for you to take the stand and testify, all you have to do is answer the questions as best you can. Don’t be scared or nervous. You don’t have to please anyone. You don’t have to be afraid of saying the wrong thing, because there aren’t any wrong answers. It’s going to be about facts, the things you saw, the things you heard, and it’s that simple. Really. Nobody’s going to be shouting or yelling at you. It’s not like you see on TV.”

“We don’t have a TV,” she said, not knowing why, other than to offset a whole new fear, the thought of being yelled at in front of a courtroom filled with strangers. Or worse, people she knew.

“Really? Well, you’re probably a great reader then.” He seemed amused. “I’ll bet you read lots of books, don’t you?”

Not true, lately, but she nodded, then wondered: was she under oath and lying right now?

For the next few minutes, Mr. Finn Cowie proceeded through the same list of questions Detective Des La Forges had asked. Her answers were the same. And as the detective had, Mr. Cowie asked some again, rephrasing them, as if to be sure of every detail.

“So were you down there with Max Devaney, in the cellar, every minute, the entire time he was working on the water pipes?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Nellie, in the courtroom you’ll be expected to answer yes or no.”

She nodded, and he repeated the question.

“Yes,” she said.

“And you never left? Not even once?”

“No.” She didn’t like the way he was looking at her.

“You stayed right down there with him.”

Uncertain if these were questions or statements, she nodded. And for good measure, added, “Uh-huh, yes.”

“Doing what? Standing there? Talking? Helping?”

“Mostly watching. And talking, I guess.”

“Really. Some people think Mr. Devaney’s a pretty scary guy. How ’bout you? Did he make you nervous? Or afraid?”

“No! Max was always nice to me. Really nice.”

“Your mother didn’t like him, though, right?”

She looked at her father. “Well, just because he was in jail once, that’s all.”

“That’s right,” he said. “After we found that out, my wife was, well, uneasy having him around. But, of course, we didn’t know then, all the details, that is.”

“Does
she
?”

“Yes, we’ve talked to her.”

Who, me?
she wanted to ask, glancing between the men, but knew her father wouldn’t like it.

“We’ve asked her, and we’re satisfied that—” Her father cleared his throat. “That nothing of an untoward nature happened.”

Nodding, Mr. Cowie considered this, as he folded a scrap of paper into smaller squares. “So, Nellie, how was Mr. Devaney nice to you? Did he give you things? Or take you places? What did he do to be so nice?”

“Nothing really, he just was … nice, that’s all. He’d, like, talk to me, tell me things.”

“What kinds of things would he tell you?”

“About when he was a kid.” She shouldn’t have said that. Her mind raced to stay ahead:
The way his brother had died had been in the paper. But why bring up anything negative?
All she wanted was to help. “Things he did, fishing, how to stack wood so it won’t heave, stuff like
that. And his dog. We talked about him a lot. Boone, that’s his name. Plus, he saved my brother’s life once.”

“Yes, that’s right. And I can tell you’re a very sensitive and forthright girl, and you like Mr. Devaney, so do you think you owe him something for that? A favor or something?”

A trick question, because saving a life was the highest form of courage and selflessness, so of course Max deserved something. If not a favor or award, at least her respect and gratitude. But that wasn’t what Mr. Cowie meant. “I don’t know. No.” Her stomach felt shaky.

“What do you mean? What kind of favor, Mr. Cowie?” her father asked. “If I don’t understand you, I’m sure Nellie doesn’t.”

Mr. Cowie rubbed his chin on clasped hands, the pause unsettling. There was something unpleasant he didn’t want to say. “It’s just that there’s quite a discrepancy here. Nellie says she was down in the cellar the entire time Mr. Devaney was working down there. But Mr. Devaney says she left him alone down there twice. I don’t understand, that’s all. On the one hand, it’s not to Mr. Devaney’s advantage to say he was alone down there, and on the other hand, why would Nellie say she was with him the whole time if it’s not true?”

“Because it is true!” She’d spoken too quickly, too heatedly. She saw the alarm in both men’s expressions.

“You’re not afraid of him, are you, Nellie?” Mr. Cowie looked concerned.

“No.” She had to stay calm.

“Here, let me read this from Mr. Devaney’s statement,” Mr. Cowie said, running his finger down a typed page. “I was alone down there two times. Both times the girl went out to check on the dog.”

Her face flushed. Being called “the girl” really bothered her, but then again, he’d also said “the dog” instead of Boone. “He just must’ve forgot, that’s all.”

“Hm. He was pretty specific. He said you were worried about the dog being locked up in the hot truck.”

“Well, yeah, but we just talked about it.”

“He said you told him a neighbor had called to complain.”

“I know. But I only said it so he’d let Boone out of the truck.”

“So you made it up?”

“Yeah. To him. But for a good reason. It was hot in the truck. But he didn’t care. He was mad, so I just … I was just there.”

“He was mad? Mad at you?”

“No! At Boone. He said he had to stay in the truck.”

“Why? What did Boone do?”

“I don’t know. Barking, I guess.” Her foot was tapping a mile a minute.

“But Max seemed mad, angry, upset. Is that what you’re saying?”

“No, bothered. But just about Boone, that’s all.”

Her father’s foot nudged hers, so she locked her ankles together.

“Nellie.” Mr. Cowie sighed. “There’s nothing Mr. Devaney can do to hurt you. Nothing at all. You do know that, right?”

She nodded.

“But you’re afraid.” He leaned closer. “Why? What’re you afraid of?”

Of telling the truth, of getting up there and telling everyone exactly what I’d seen that day. Afraid where the truth might take us all
.

“I’m just a little nervous. About the trial, that’s all,” she said in a weak enough voice that Mr. Cowie assured her, as her father had earlier, that there was nothing to be nervous about. All she’d have to do is answer his questions. They went over a few more details, which she could tell was just his way of trying to make her feel better. Before they left, he gave her his business card and said she could call him if she thought of anything else they hadn’t discussed. Or if she remembered something or had any questions. Or if she just wanted to talk. She thanked him, and as she dropped the card into the purse, it amused her to picture Ruth discovering it among the illicit shreds of whatever substance she’d left in there.