The American Girl (6 page)

JULY 31, 2015

B
ack in my room, I dragged off my wet clothes with a sigh, lay back on the bed in my underwear, and looked at my phone. Three
A.M.
Jesus.
There was a message from Bill that just said,
Call me
. I texted him back saying I had pay dirt for him and tried to send him some of the photos. When I couldn't get them to send with the spotty Wi-Fi, I threw my phone down in disgust and lit another cigarette. Hanging out the window, I looked down at the street below, its potholes and drift of trash, the occasional tourist or bum shuffling by.

I held my phone all the way out the window, as far out as I could manage, attempting to catch a few rays of their three-star internet. As if Bill sensed my moment of vulnerability through the transatlantic airwaves, my phone burred into life, “Jolene” playing on the ring tone. My partner-in-crime's raddled face smiled at me under his name and number. I an
swered, immediately noticing a shifty tone to his voice when he said hello.

Bill was a journalistic giant in his day, a hero of the Watergate era, and he likes a good exposé as much as he did when he was my media studies lecturer. I was in night school then, a last-ditch attempt to salvage an education after years of expulsions and reform schools and ultimately dropping out of college to attend the School of Life. Bill was one of that institution's most curmudgeonly alumni, so we hit it off. I wanted to be him; he saw a chance to work again by using me as his eyes and ears, his proxy out in the world. He'd be right at home in this era of whistleblowers and WikiLeaks if his wife would ever let him out of the house; but he has strict instructions from both his old lady and his doctor to cut back on work, booze, and cigarettes. The fact that he's done none of these might escape his doctor, but not his eagle-eyed wife, Nina, who by the sound of his voice when he spoke to me was sitting in the room.

“What's up, Swift?” he asked, trying to sound jovial.

“Nothing much. Enjoying the red wine and all that jazz.”

But just as I know Bill's voice, he knows mine. Knows for certain when I'm holding something back. It's not just the journalist in him—it's the dad.

“Rough day at work?”

“Well . . .” I took a swig of whiskey, toyed with a cigarette. “There's good news and bad news. First the good: I went to see the girl in the hospital, like you said. While I was there, I found out some stuff about the Blavettes . . .”

I started telling him about the police putting a bulletin out on the Blavette family, about going to their house, meeting Valentin. I could tell I'd grabbed his interest by the way he tip-tapped on his laptop as I spoke, probably Googling the news item.

You see, the main idea for
American Confessional
is that we take on stories of police incompetence or just general corruption, and find the real story. One day after he was retired and I'd just lost a job, we met for a drink and came up with the idea of a talking heads show based on old-fashioned undercover work and pavement-pounding. Our first series was a long haul and probably the hardest work we ever did on a case: a miscarriage-of-justice story about Manatee Mack, a poor, black guy from Florida who we argued had been framed by the police for his white teenage girlfriend's murder. We came close to clearing his name, got the Innocence Project on board, garnered support from millions of listeners, only to see the story end in the death chamber at Florida State. Both of us wanted to quit after that and did for a while. It was just too sad.

Maybe that was the reason the second series dealt with the opposite kind of injustice: Mindy Kaufman, a wealthy old lady who rented apartments on the Upper East Side and who everyone knew had poisoned her husband and housekeeper after she caught them together. Most of what we pulled together was gossip and hearsay, but we had a theory Mindy had used a slow-acting pesticide called Victor Cockroach Gel. The police had either been paid off or scared off, though: they wouldn't pursue it. In a marvelous piece of dumb luck, we got Mindy on tape chatting
about the murder to her pet mynah bird. Our listeners devoured that one.

In the end, what started out as a nostalgia piece became a popular show, not to mention a good earner because of paid ads and keen fans. I'm the anonymous roving ear who records the footage and sends it to Bill. He shapes and edits cleverly and generally protects my secret identity. He really knows how to pitch a story.

Finally, I told him about the whole mistaken-for-a-relative thing.

“You mean, they think you're the aunt or something?”

“I guess. At first I only said that to the receptionist to get in for a minute, then when I was sitting in the girl's room . . . a nun came. She was so thrilled that a family member had visited I started to feel pretty weird.”

“So you haven't 'fessed up?”

In the background of the call, like echolalia, I heard Nina's commentary. “‘'Fessed up,' Bill? What has she gotten into this time? Should you be involved, in your condition?”

“Yeah, I guess I should, really,” I said, talking more to myself than Bill, who was now busy bickering, “though I don't have to go back to the hospital, since—”

“Don't you have a casserole to heat up, Nina? Leave me alone,” Bill shouted, “and, Molly, for God's sake. You meet the inspector in charge of the case in a parking lot. He opens a goddamn door for you and I'm sure you all but castrated the guy. You have an in with the Holy Sisters at the hospital and you're too moral to play aunt all of a sudden?”

“Not too moral, but . . . I mean, would it be fair to the girl?”

“Fair to her? She's in a goddamn coma and none of her own family is straining themselves. Buy her some flowers if you feel guilty, but use it, Molly. Use it to find the story here. Use Valentin, too. Go to the police station and find something real.”

“Okay, okay. I'll do what I can. You don't need to shout.”

“Oh, don't mind me. Nina's getting on my case and my sciatica's raging and my prostate . . . never mind. All I'm saying is you have a talent, Molly, if only the one, and that's getting people to open up to you. Your vocation is to pry under the carpet of life and find the goddamn dirt underneath. Don't get—”

“—squeamish. I know. The story comes first. I attended all of your lectures.”

“So you're gonna use it?”

I took a deep breath, already feeling guilty. “They'll be onto me in seconds, but yeah . . .”

“I'm not saying you should become a sociopath, Molly,” he said in a kinder voice. “I'm just saying, do what those other journalists don't have the balls to do. Make a difference.”

JULY 31, 2015

I
crossed the road to the gendarmerie, pulling my baseball cap down over my eyes. I was abreast with the flagpole that marked the entrance, the tricolor on top fluttering serenely in the breeze, when I remembered Bill's words. If I was going to make this work, there was no point being shamefaced about it. I pulled off my cap and shook my hair out, checking it in the glass on the door. A pair of uniformed officers walked past me just as I was licking lipstick off my teeth. I flashed them my most wholesome girl-next-door grin. I was now Molly Perkins, a single continuing education teacher from Connecticut, who loved cats and yarn bombing and, most of all, her favorite niece, Quinn.

Inside the gendarmerie, I took a moment to size up the shabby front desk, the bedraggled receptionist sitting behind it, and the general air of ennui. Behind her a gendarme poured coffee from a percolator into a chipped cup.

“May I speak with Inspector Valentin?” I didn't even bother with French.

“He is over there,” the woman said, frowning uncertainly, “eating his breakfast.” She pointed to the café across the road, La Grande Bouche.

“I can see why he's solving this case so quickly,” I said.

“Comment?”
asked the receptionist in puzzlement, while the gendarme behind her glared at me over his coffee.

I
F
S
T.
R
OCH
were some place in the Midwest instead of the South of France, it would be what you'd call a one-horse town. One gas station. One supermarket. One clinic. One of everything. What it has lots of, though, is cafés. La Grande Bouche was a smaller and friendlier affair than the boho tourist cafés I'd visited so far. Since it was packed with gendarmes drinking black coffee, keeping an eye on crime from a distance, I gathered that it was a police café. I couldn't see Valentin through the crowd of uniforms eating fried beignets and bacon sandwiches, so I sat at a table near the door and picked up the plastic menu.

Within seconds, a woman with whitish hair tied in a loose bun came to take my order. The badge pinned to her baby blue cardigan told me that her name was Marlene Weiss, the manager.

“Wow, the service is fast in here,” I said.

“Keeping a low profile from all these . . .
journalists
, are you?” Marlene tapped her nose.

For a minute I thought she'd guessed my profession. Then I realized that she'd picked up the gossip from the hospital and,
hearing my American accent, must have assumed I was Quinn's aunt. Ironically, she now imagined me in flight from the press.

“Just waiting for visiting hours so I can go see my niece,” I said with a sigh.

“Well, if there's anything I can do for the dear auntie, please do let me know.”

“A coffee would be nice.”

“I'm sure we could rustle up a coffee. Georges!” Like a Sherman tank rumbling over a battlefield, she charged towards the cowering kitchen boy.

She brought the coffee back herself and settled into the opposite side of the booth, sliding her intimidating bosom across the Formica tabletop and resting her chin on her hands. “Mind if I join you?”

“I think you already have,” I said, smiling a little too brightly.

Marlene leaned over confidentially. “This place is a hellhole, no?”

“Are you kidding?” I said, surprised. “It seems like paradise here. The beach. The mountains. The wine. I love it . . . I mean, I would if I weren't busy worrying about my niece.”

“You are mistaking me,” she said with a disgruntled frown. “The landscape is satisfactory. But the people . . .” With that, she plunged into all the local gossip. I listened happily enough for a while, hoping she would drop a nugget or two about the Blavettes in there, but no such luck. As she talked, I peered around her, hoping that Valentin hadn't left yet.

I must have been more obvious than I imagined, because
the flood of words stopped and, as if she could read my mind, Marlene said, “Yes, that's him. That's Inspector Valentin. He is in charge of your niece's accident and the missing-persons case. I'll introduce you because we're old friends. Ever since his wife left him he is always happy to meet new women.”

Before I had time to answer, she was halfway across the room, sliding her arm through Valentin's and steering him over, cup and saucer in hand. He sat down across from me and Marlene squeezed into the seat after him.

Valentin looked me up and down across the table and, after a moment, appeared to recognize me. “Ah, the woman who told me I was . . . what did you call me? A look-alike of Jean-Paul Belmondo?”

“It was a compliment,” I said. In the daylight, I saw that, in fact, he was not quite Belmondo-esque, but a debonair blown dandelion of a man, the kind who would once have made an angelic choirboy. “If you'd radioed in about my car like a normal policeman, perhaps I would have known who you were.”

“I saw you go inside the gendarmerie earlier,” he said mischievously. “Have you reported it?”

“Not yet—” I began.

“Give her some break at least, Bertrand,” said Marlene, nudging Valentin with her elbow. “The poor woman has a niece in a coma. Where's your bedside manner?”

“You are the aunt of Quinn Perkins?” Valentin's blue eyes widened. I couldn't help but think he seemed a little skeptical.

“Molly Perkins,” I said hurriedly, and then to distract him, I added, “Any leads on what happened to my niece?”

“We searched the woods near the house last night,” he said wearily, “and we have been making a list of anyone who might have had a grudge with the family.”

“Such a list would be very long,” Marlene tutted, “beginning with Stella Birch and ending with the parents of that poor pupil of Émilie's who died—”

Valentin dropped his cup abruptly, spilling most of the coffee into the saucer. “Marlene, I've told you before about spreading these rumors!”

Marlene didn't even flinch. She just raised a sardonic eyebrow and, when he got up to leave, said, “See you tomorrow, Bertrand.”

After he'd gone, she wiped the table absentmindedly with the sleeve of her cardigan, which seemed to double as a dishcloth.

“Someone died at the school? How awful.” I sipped my tepid coffee to hide my curiosity.

“Before it closed down, yes. The poor girl suffocated. They said it was some sort of game that went wrong. The other staff were busy teaching classes to the younger pupils and Émilie was the only one in charge of that unfortunate school trip. She became diverted and did not see who was responsible, so—” she drew her finger across her throat “—fired.”

“All I heard was that there'd been ‘an incident involving a student' that made them close the old schoolhouse,” I said, casting my mind back to my stolen printouts.

“Ah, well,” she said, looking at me shrewdly. “Some things happen in St. Roch that are not shared with the rest of the world.”

JULY 14, 2015

Blog Entry

There's a weird feature to this house that I'm both creeped out by and obsessing over: out in the hallway is a locked door that once led to the dilapidated building adjoining this place, and I'm not allowed to open it.

The Old Schoolhouse—so called because it was built in the nineteenth century or whatever—
was
the St. Roch school until it shut down a couple years ago. Momma Blavette was the headmistress there (convenient since she lived next door). There's an old photo downstairs from when it opened in 1882: the pupils are lined up in front of the newly built school in a stiff row, unsmiling in their clean white smocks and shiny boots and suspenders, an austere schoolmarm keeping the boys and girls separate.

Not much has changed about the building since those stern and sepia-tinted days, from the outside at least. But on the
inside? I'm guessing p-r-e-t-t-y-d-a-r-n-c-r-e-e-p-y, especially since there've been quite a few break-ins there in the meantime. Not to mention the reason it shut down: some incident with the death of a student. Émilie was suspiciously vague on the exact circumstances, but on one subject she was very firm: I am
never
to open the door and go in there.

Naturally this makes me want to see inside there even more.
Who knows?
I thought when she told me.
Maybe one day when they're all out, I'll go take some pics for the blog.

Today I woke to an empty house. I saw that hussy of a day through half-open shutters, stretching out coyly in front of me, purring its delicious summertime possibility. I thought today could just be the day for urb-exing like I do back home in search of the Rockport Devil, the Fall River Witch. But my plan was derailed by a weird little episode, involving . . . you guessed it: the hot older brother.

The silence of the house tells me nobody's home, so I pad downstairs in my underwear. On the kitchen table I find a piece of baguette with butter and jam in it, a mug of cold coffee, and a Post-it saying Émilie and Noémie have gone to the weekday market in the village. Being an ex-headmistress, Émilie is the kind of mom who makes your food three days ahead, plastic-wraps it, and then writes you instructions on how to eat it, plus some career advice and a mini guilt trip. Kinda nice, though, being mommed like that again.

I mooch onto the patio, where Mme B's violets are slowly wilting. The paving stones burn the soles of my feet so much they freeze. I jump, treading cartoon water in the thick air
before racing onto the sharp bed of nails that's the fried-out grass and doing a little
Sound of Music
spin, taking in the blue, blue cloudless sky, the woods stretching out for miles, cloaking the house in mysterious silence. There's a David Lynch vibe to the creaking swing set the children used to play on, the sand pit, the empty football field. But the house, with its robin's egg shutters and white trellis wound with dog roses, is so perfect it looks like something out of an insurance ad.

A noise behind me makes me jump. Turning around, I see Raphael on the shady side of the patio. I do a little double take, a triple take actually, since I'm now acutely aware that I'm wearing nothing more than a T-shirt and underwear. No bra even. Meanwhile, Raphael's lying on a yoga mat in nothing but a kind of Indian yogi loincloth folded around his groin like a man-diaper. He's doing stomach crunches, his stomach glistening with sweat. Now he's rising from his yoga mat like a gleaming god and he's beckoning to me and smiling, not that blinding Colgate grin of his, but a subtle half smile, inviting me over.

And so I go, crossing hot patio stones to get to him and feeling a little freaked to be walking towards a near-naked man I barely know, in the brazen light of day. As soon as I reach him, he lies back down on his mat, beckoning me to some weird exercise headspace he's in where our near nudity is in no way embarrassing.

“Come,” he pants.

I stand over him shyly. “Where?”

“Here.” He gestures to his exquisitely muscled thighs and grins the Colgate grin.

“Um, you're kidding, right?” A blush creeps over my throat, along my breastbone, making my skin glow—I imagine—the red of irradiated apples.

He shakes his head, grinning away. “I've been working so hard, my
abdos
are nothing. I look female almost. No
muscles de l'estomac
at all. It's disgusting, no?”

“Oh yeah, totally gross.” I avoid looking down at his perfect six-pack in case I get vertigo. “Um, so how am I, um . . .”

“I need a little weight on my quads to stop me tipping up when I crunch,
tu sais
? It would be a big help for me.” He leans up on his elbows. I find myself thinking he is too cute, too obviously gorgeous, and he knows it. I don't even
like
guys like this. I'm from the East Coast. I like dark and wounded. And clothed.

But I don't want to be rude, so I sit down obediently on his thighs, trying not to let my whole weight fall on him, holding myself taut as he pulls his torso up easily and silently, an oiled piston pumping away in the heat. Sweat drips from his neck, runs down his smooth chest. It pools under my butt, forming a salty film that joins us together. Is this a way of flirting?

Stop it. Stop it
, I tell myself.
Don't think. Don't try to work out what's going on. Just imagine it's some surreal carnival ride.
I do, just letting him rock me, watching the clouds. Even still, I keep thinking the ride will stop, that Raphael will tire, or at least take a break. But he doesn't even get out of breath. A butterfly goes past, a huge blue one with tattered wings, seeking out a blown golden poppy inches from Raphael's face. I smile at the weirdness of my life.

The weirdness makes me think of yesterday, of Freddie, the text. “Hey, you know that Freddie guy. Is he kind of a weirdo?”

Raphael doesn't break from his sit-ups. He just says, “Oh no, he's a great guy, not very cool with the girls. But you know, I've known him since I was two.”

“It's just that yesterday he nearly drowned me.”

He laughs. “No, it was not serious. He only meant fun . . . to play.”

“It didn't feel like playing,” I say.

He says nothing, keeps going, and I suddenly have this weird sensation that we're being watched. Seconds more and something catches at the corner of my vision. I look up to see a dark shape flit behind an upstairs window, then turn, pale face to the glass. Noémie. She scowls down as if she wishes we would die. I almost tumble off my precarious flesh-perch. I mean, she's been bitchy before, but I've never seen that look on her face. That kind of homicidal look . . . who knew she was even here?

I stumble up, sweat slick, mumbling an apology to Raphael, who stops all of a sudden and grunts some reply. Later, as I shower, I hear voices raised in anger and can't tell whose, though I'm sure one is a man. They echo through the rickety pipes, gurgle up from the green-stained plughole as if some dark well hidden under the house has just begun to erupt.