Pacific Avenue (23 page)

The June sun made us hot and thirsty. We got grape
sno-balls at the refreshment stand. Jamie ate a lot of mine. She gobbled the
syrupy ice and laughed, with grape running down her chin. We stayed to watch
the zookeepers feed the seals, Jamie laughing even more to hear them bark.
“Daw!” she yelled, and I knew she meant “doggie.” I understood her.

A couple close to us stared. Just loud enough to carry,
the woman asked, “Is that girl white?”

The man glanced our way. “Not anymore.”

Richard drew his breath in with a hiss. I pulled him
away from the seals, away from the white couple. Jamie started to cry, and I
thought she could sense my fear and anger. She coughed and whined, and I saw
her nose was running.

“Got a tissue?” I asked.

Richard rummaged through the pockets of his jeans and
found one. “Is she getting a cold?”

I felt her forehead. “I don’t know.”

“Want to head home?”

“Maybe we’d better.”

We went right back to the car. Jamie was sneezing and
wriggling. I settled her as best I could. Richard drove us to Gretna.

I thought we’d have a loud night, but when I’d cleared
Jamie’s nose a couple of times, she settled down to sleep. I was used to
Richard thrashing in bed, and he did, but no worse than usual.

I woke late the next morning in a quiet room. Richard
was still asleep, half off the bed, tangled in the sheet. I thought how well
Jamie had slept, and hoped that meant she wasn’t getting sick after all. When I
went to her crib, she was all twisted and jammed into the corner.

I turned her over to get her up and saw the bruises on
her stomach and arms. I couldn’t take it in. Even when I saw the dark stains on
the sheet, I thought it was something to do with the grape sno-ball. And then I
realized it wasn’t. I screamed and ran to phone for help.

Francine came barreling out of her house as the fire
truck pulled up, and it was hard to tell which one was screaming louder. An
ambulance and police car arrived a few seconds later.

Richard and I ran out to tell the men where we lived, then
we followed them to the house. One of the policemen turned and told us to wait
in the yard. We hovered near the door, trying to see through the screen, scared
to look.

When the door opened, two paramedics pushed past us
with a stretcher. It was lumpy, with a sheet pulled up all the way. It took me
a moment to realize Jamie was the lump. When I did, I ran down the drive after
them, but they ignored me. They loaded the stretcher into the ambulance like
movers loading a sofa, and drove away without using the siren. I stood at the
end of the drive. People gathered and stared. Francine put her arm around me
and steered me back toward the house. Her mouth was moving but I couldn’t make
out any words.

Richard stood at the door, where I’d left him. The policemen
came out, and one of them said something to him, something I didn’t hear. He
and Richard went into the house.

The other policeman walked over to Francine and me. His
starched blue uniform must have been pressed about one minute ago, and he
looked like maybe he’d been wearing it when it was. He eyed us coldly.
He
thinks we’re trash.
I hung on to Francine’s
arm.

“You the mother?” he asked me.

“Yes.”

His pale blue eyes flicked to Francine. “And you?”

“I’m her landlady,” said Francine.

“I need to talk to this young lady alone.”

Francine stood as tall as she could, which wasn’t much
taller than me. “You can’t send me away. It’s my own property.”

“Police investigation, ma’am.”

“I want your badge number.”

He gave it to her and watched her in a bored way till
she went inside. He pulled back one of the chairs at the patio table.

“Why don’t we sit down right here, and you can tell me
what happened.” It wasn’t a question. He was sitting down as he said it.

“Shouldn’t we go inside with the others?” I asked.
I
don’t want to be alone with him.

“No, we need to talk, just you and I.” I saw Francine’s
kitchen curtain move.
She’s watching.
If
the policeman noticed, he didn’t say. He took out a little notebook and a pen.

“Your baby’s dead,” he said.

He waited, but I couldn’t think of anything to say.
Not
Jamie.

He never took his eyes off my face. “She looked pretty
roughed-up,” he said. “How many times did he hit her?”

“He never hit her.” I couldn’t believe he’d said that.

His face was full of disgust. “That’s not how it looks
to me. There was blood all over the crib.”

“He never hit her.”
He isn’t writing what I said. It
doesn’t count.

“What about those bruises? He ever hit
you
?”

“
No.
He never
hit anyone.” I spoke louder, and the curtain moved again. But I knew Francine
couldn’t help.

“If you don’t tell the truth, you could get charged
along with him.”

“He never hit Jamie. Or me. Ever, ever. That’s the
truth!”

“You can lie if you want to, but you can’t change what
happened.”

Richard and his policeman came out into the yard. His
policeman said something to me, but I didn’t understand. My policeman stood up,
and the three of them walked down the drive. I heard the car doors closing.

Francine came back as soon as they left. “My God,
Kathy, what happened?”

I couldn’t say anything—I sort of flapped my hand down
the drive, where I’d had my last look at Jamie, not Jamie, a sheet pulled up
all the way. A sheet-covered lump, like Sharon and me when we used to play
ghost.
Jamie’s a ghost.
I was shaking.

“What happened? Was she sick?” Francine insisted.

“A cold. Not real sick. I didn’t
think. . . .” I shivered in the morning heat.

“Where’s Richard?” she asked.

I made myself pay attention to what Francine was
saying. She was as small and far off as a puppet play. “The police.”

“Oh, Jesus, honey.
Jesus.
Your folks know?”

“No, I have to call them now.” I turned away to go back
to the house.

She put a hand on my arm. I couldn’t feel any warmth
where she touched me. “Wait, Kathy,” she said. “Come over to my place—you can
use the phone in my guest room.”

“Richard might call,” I told her. “I have to be home.”

I wanted to go back into the house.
Jamie will be in
there, waking up, wondering what all the fuss is about. She couldn’t have gone
away. She isn’t old enough to go anywhere on her own.

“Soon as he does, come over,
cher.
I’ll be waiting for you.” She hugged me with a
heliotrope smell.

“Sure, Francine.”
Thank God she’s going.

The house was quiet and messy.
I better clean up.
Strangers came in. . . . They must have thought we’re hippies,
same as Mom does.
I picked up the newspaper
and Richard’s pillow.
Jamie’s new Raggedy Ann is on the floor. It’s
going to get dirty.
I propped it up in the
corner of the crib.
Maybe I should tell it.

“Jamie died,” I said. “I have to make some calls.” The
doll watched me dial the phone.

Sharon wasn’t home. I called my parents’ number.

“Woodbridge.” Dad’s voice.

“Jamie’s dead,” I said. “She died in her sleep.”
My
voice is as flat as the lady’s voice that says the time and weather.

“Jamie’s dead.”

“My God, what happened?”

“I don’t know.”

“Oh, God. Let me talk to Richard, honey.”

“He’s not here. He left with the police.”

Dad’s end of the phone went quiet.

“Dad?”

“Sorry. Kathy, oh God, Kathy, I don’t know what to say.
Your mother and I will be right there. We’re leaving
now.
” He hung up.

I put the phone down and sat on the bed, empty-handed.
I didn’t answer when Francine knocked, but she pushed the door open and came in
anyway.

“You talk to your folks?”

“Dad’s coming.”

“I called Martin and Eddie. You can’t be alone now,
Kathy. Come over to my place.”

“I can’t. Richard might call.”

Another knock, and Thu and Martin came in. “Where are
Dom and Joss?” I asked.
You can’t leave little kids alone. Something bad
will happen to them if you do.

Thu looked puzzled. “We left them with a neighbor.” She
put her arm around my shoulders. “You shouldn’t stay here, Kathy. Come and stay
with us.”

“I can’t.”
They all say the same things.
The padded feeling was getting stronger, quilts
between me and everyone else.

Eddie ran in. “My God, doll, what happened?”

I couldn’t answer. I looked down at my knees and shook
my head. Something strange had happened to words—they didn’t work anymore. I
was a foreigner who didn’t speak the language. I let go and sank into the soft
numbness. As hot as it was, I was shivering, so I lay down and curled into a
ball. Someone put a blanket over me.

I heard something beyond the words bouncing around the
room.
Why, that’s Jamie talking. That’s funny, she isn’t old enough to
really talk yet.
I listened harder, like
tuning in to a faraway radio station, and Jamie’s voice wound on and on. I felt
such relief, listening to it. The language she was speaking was my language.
That was where I wanted to be, in that peace, listening to Jamie. Someone
jiggled my shoulder, but I wouldn’t go back.

When I woke, the room was dim and quiet. I sat up and
looked around. Francine and Dad were sitting at the table. Mom wasn’t there.
Maybe
she’s lying down at Francine’s.
As soon as
I thought it, I knew how idiotic it was to hope that. But I couldn’t help it.

“Richard called,” said Francine.

“You should have woken me.”

“We tried,” she said. “You wouldn’t wake up.”

“What did he say?”

Francine glanced at Dad.

“Richard’s been arrested,” he said. “I offered to pay
his bail, but he wouldn’t discuss it.”

“Arrested? What for?”

“Second-degree murder.”

“But he didn’t do anything. Why did they arrest him?” I
tried to imagine Richard, what he looked like, what he might be doing, but I
didn’t even come up with an outline, let alone anything like Richard.

“He wasn’t specific. Apparently there’s some kind of evidence.”
Dad stood up and switched on the light. He turned his head and the glare caught
his glasses. I couldn’t see his eyes.

He was wearing his gardening jeans and a T-shirt he’d
bought on a family trip. “Bullfrog Gold Mine” was marqueed across it.
The
day he bought it, he put it on right away. The desert sun made the glitter
blaze across his chest. Dad the superhero.

Now the glitter was tarnished and flaking, and the
shirt had an L-shaped rip. I wondered if I should get my sewing kit and fix it.
I stared at it, planning stitches. I’d have to be careful at the corner, or it
would pucker.

I jerked my mind back—Francine was standing up. “I have
to go over to my place,” she said. “I’ll see you later.” She shut the screen
door carefully behind her, not letting it slap, the way we usually did.

“What else did Richard say?” I asked Dad.

“Just that he had to get off the phone. And he thinks
it would make it worse if we visit.”

“Worse?” I still felt groggy.

“I hate to say it, but he may be right about that. He
said he’d call again when he gets a chance.”

“Oh.”

Dad sat beside me on the edge of the bed. “Look, honey,
I know how awful this is for you. Would it make it easier if I take care of the
arrangements?”

“What arrangements?”

“Well, the funeral. Things like that.”

“I hadn’t thought.”

“No, no, I guess not. But we have some plots at
Greenoaks—I don’t know if I ever told you that. I’d like to bury her
there—that’s where your mom and I will be someday. Let me take care of it for
you, please?” He sounded like he was going to cry.

“Well, if you can. I don’t know what to do. Could you
call Sharon? I tried earlier, but she wasn’t home.”

“Sam and Sharon are in Hawaii—medical convention. I put
in a call to their hotel, but it sounded pretty chaotic. Anyway, I’m sure
they’ll call before long.”

“Did Mom come with you?”

“No.” This time, Dad didn’t give an excuse.

I felt groggy again. “Would you mind if I took a nap
now, Dad? I’m worn out.”

“Why don’t you settle down in Francine’s guest room?
That way, I can make some calls from here. I’m sure she’d be glad to put you
up. Maybe I’ll stay the night and we’ll go back to Baton Rouge together in the
morning.” He sounded tired and old.