You Could Be Home by Now (18 page)

“You're telling me. I had to disconnect the phone, and I'm afraid to even check my e-mail.”

“Those other girls. Someone made a what's-it-called—a mash-up?—about them. Your voice and their pictures, how to get hold of their parents.” The sun was up behind his house and its light fell across her face. She raised a hand to shield her eyes. An errant eyelash rested on her cheek. Tara used to wish on them. Ben brushed it away with his index finger. Sadie startled.

“Eyelash.” There was no point in wishing. Stephen had seen it, Sadie had seen it, a whole host of crank callers had seen it. Inevitable that Veronica would. Pictures and parent info, Jesus Bartholomew Christ. Veronica would know the opportunity he'd squandered. Some measure of desperation must have shown on his face.

“Don't worry,” Sadie said, misreading. “They bleeped out the—it was censored. So maybe it'll do some good. Maybe one of those girls will see it and come home.”

Which would help not at all on the Veronica front, not when it could have been Tara. He was so tired, marrow-tired from yesterday's fall, and damned tired of caring what Veronica thought.

“Ben, you there? It's a good thing, Ben.”

He was tired of talking, too. “I think your granddaughter's up.” He indicated the house.

Sadie turned toward home. “Duty calls. Can I ask—?”

“I'm not going to do anything to Lily. I told you already.” Sadie could put a bow on it and call it loyalty. That didn't change the way the girl led her around by the nose.

“I wanted to ask about Mona, actually. Is that really what you think of her?”

The Rosko house was awake, too; a shadow skimmed the curtains. “I don't need a lecture,” he said.

“No lectures.” Her tone was so cheerful it back-bent around to brusque. Clear indicator that a lecture was, in fact, inevitable.

“I guess I should probably touch base with her. Send flowers.” He thought of the soups he'd had sent to Sadie on the eve of Gary's funeral. Soothingspoons.com's comfort quartet: chicken noodle, minestrone, rustic potato, and something French and unpronounceable involving leeks. He'd never tasted a spoonful of their product. As far as he knew, Veronica hadn't either. Yet they sent them and sent them, every time somebody passed. “Flowers or something,” he said.

“I think she'd prefer not to be disturbed.” Sadie's tone was icy in a way he didn't really follow.

“Ahh, well. Maybe I'll catch her at the HOA thing today. She'll be there, yeah? I bet she'll want to speak her piece.”

“She's certainly good at that.” Sadie's sour mouth reminded him of Lily's.

“I don't really know her,” he said. “I told the reporter that, too.”

“Well, I've been getting to know her. What you said—she certainly deserves it.”

“And here I thought you liked everyone.”

“Not Mona. I don't mind about the boy, and I hope she can sell and move on fast, but—I think you were right on the mark about her. She was awful to Lily.”

“That I'd have paid to see. Your girl can more than hold her own.”

He was edging close to
too far
or had stepped beyond it. He didn't know Sadie as well as he might, but that much he could guess. You didn't mess with the granddaughter. But no. She grinned as if he'd meant to compliment. That bright Sadie optimism. She wielded it like a cudgel. Veronica was right. He should see a damn shrink. He should've been seeing one for years. Look at him. You were supposed to go after women like Sadie—generous women, warm, who went optimistically through their lives like kindergarten teachers. You were meant to be happy when things came easy. When you said your piece and forgave and were forgiven in turn. Veronica, or life, or his own fool nature had really done a number on him. All that Sadie sunniness and what hooked him, hard, was his neighbor's vitriol toward Mona, her unexpected snappishness, the intricate sweep of her sarcastic bow.

T
HE
G
ODS OF
E
XCESS
D
RAMA
evidently had it in for her. For lo, there was Nicky Tullbeck in all his stalktastic glory. He rang the bell; Gran jumped a little even though she was facing the window and had to have seen him approach. Multiple choice: Gran was (a) mentally casting Benjamin Thales as her very own wrinkled Romeo, (b) running through the list of third-tier relatives to pawn Lily off on, or (c) having a series of tragic but minor and wholly age-appropriate ministrokes. Gran opened the door. “Lily's unavailable right now,” she said. “Lily is taking a bit of a break from amusements.”

Translation:
grounded
. At least she'd spelled it out. The morning had been a case study in passive aggression. Lily had been the one to say good morning and she'd been the one to ask any and all questions. Gran's answers were pleasant, but not pleasant enough to balance out their terseness. And then there was the visual coding. Gran's laptop had—cue the spooky music—mysteriously vanished and the printed activity schedule had migrated from refrigerator to trash can, which only went to show that Gran was out of practice. Grounding was so much harsher if you saw the world buzz along without you.

Nicky Tullbeck apologized. “I hate to intrude on your family time, ma'am, but I'm here in an official capacity. I'm a reporter. From the
Crier.
”

An intern. Lily let the fabrication slide, considering the self-puffery involved in elevating herself to official Rosko spokeswoman. Which, oh fuckadoodledoo, had to be why he'd come. Her guts felt jumbled and quick and sick. Gran smiled and let Nicky in. He was careful to wipe his shoes on the mat. Either they were new or he'd gone a little nuts with the polish.

“Lil-
lay
,” he said, with the same smug inflection adolescent males the world over appeared to find so genius. It would serve Gran right if he actually was a stalker. He'd hack Lily to bits and scatter the various joints around The Commons' award-winning greens. The per-vet's property value would tank due to his proximity to the murder house and he'd reap exactly the sympathy he'd shown Mona Rosko. And Gran. She'd pickle inside, remembering how she'd flounced her way through the girl's final morning, conveying to the best of her ability that
Lily < Ben.
Mom's hair would go guilty white and refuse to hold dye. Dad would be hospitalized in short order with a roiling triple ulcer, but not before establishing a scholarship fund for Tyson Rosko in lieu of funeral flowers.

But Sierra. Sierra would speak at the all-school memorial. She'd wear blush half a shade lighter than her usual NARS New Order and mascara that was strategically not waterproof. When her eyes brimmed, even the stoners in the back row would see the streaking and think
that poor, brave, beautiful creature
. Teachers would cut her slack on assignments and she'd commandeer the
Lily Birnam 1995-2010
yearbook spread, selecting photos in which she looked better than the dead girl, or at least ones where the camera had caught her at a thinner angle.

Gran offered Nicky a cup of coffee, apologizing that it was only instant. Apparently there was a genetic predisposition toward that thing Dad did where you had no idea exactly how pissed he was until he squared his back to you and became pleasantness cubed to whomever else was in the room. Dad had learned from the best. Gran offered Nicky his choice of mug, spooned the powder in herself, stirred, and presented him with sugar in an actual sugar bowl. Nicky chose the Forest Park Day mug apparently at random, but who knew what might happen. Even now he was filing the school name away. He'd hitchhike to St. Louis, lurk by the entrance for the 3:15 bell, break out the chloroform, and bury Lily alive. Police would be stymied until Gran remembered how she'd let the slavering beast boy into her home. For the rest of Gran's life, even a whiff of coffee would set her retching.

Nicky sipped. He let out a commercial-worthy sigh. He took a chair at the kitchen table.

Lily resisted the pamby girl impulse to fold her arms across her chest. Talk about a cascade of causality. First you look weak, then you act weak, then you are weak. “What do you want?”

Gran shot her a look and mouthed
manners.
The intern was unperturbed. “This doesn't taste like instant. Thanks again. Lily's been such a valuable source. I wanted to firm up a few details.” His voice was shiny as his shoes. Lily stood barefoot in her Cherry
Pi
pajamas. Critics, take note: If fashion were really nothing but fluff, that wouldn't matter. But it did. She wished she were confidently pencil-skirted. Nicky said he was looking for confirmation of the daughter's name. “You said Carrie Rosko, right? I'm guessing with a
C
?”

“They're going to
love
you at Rice next year.” Brilliant maneuver, putting him on defense. Genius, really. No wonder Lily was universally beloved.

Nicky's mug steamed. Gran took a small sip from her own. “We don't actually know the Roskos that well,” she said. Her face was open and apologetic.

Nicky shifted focus. “Still, you know her a little. What's she like?”

“Prickly,” said Gran. She looked out at the cul-de-sac and the orderly green beyond. She faced the Thales house, not the Rosko, which was apt enough.

“How so?”

“She doesn't—” Gran paused. She picked up a spoon and clattered it around her coffee cup. Then she looked at Lily, proper eye contact and everything, for the first time since the accident. You could see her thinking, all those cogs and sprockets. No, I won't out my granddaughter to a reporter.

Lily's heart sprang seesaw. Pop quiz. Keeping it secret means (a) Gran loves you and has your back or (b) Gran's embarrassed. “Mona doesn't approve of me.” Might as well spare Gran the trouble of saying it.

“You mean the job you're doing?”

Awareness sliced through Lily with the word.
Job.
Game over. Gran looked confused, and no wonder. She settled the spoon neatly onto her napkin. When she spoke, she looked at Lily, not the intern. “Mona's under tremendous pressure. Unimaginable. And pressure like that . . . some people turn into diamonds, but most of us turn into—let's be polite and say orifices.” She laid her hands neatly parallel to the spoon. Gran, who couldn't say
gay
to a reporter but had no trouble with the Latinate plural of asshole.

Nicky's stylus was out and scrawling. Lily was pretty sure Gran had meant all that for her alone. “Don't quote my grandmother,” she said, and her voice was hard and low. It had to be. It had to counterbalance the suntanned vulnerability of her legs, the boxers patterned with twinned cherries and 3.14159, the Greek letter–emblazoned circle-with-a-slice-out pie splayed over her breasts like a target.

“It's fine, Lily,” Gran said, but it wasn't.

She wanted to die. Really, truly, and actually. There was a reason
mortal
and
mortified
had 44.444-forever-4 percent of their letters in common.

Nicky said, “I'm just here for the daughter's name. Maybe her rank and service branch if you've got them. You're sure she's Rosko, like the mom?”

Gran asked how on earth they'd know.

Nicky's attention shifted to Lily, joy of joys. Her bones rubberized, giving the flesh of her nothing to tense onto. “Yeah. Rosko. I guess.”

“You guess?”

“I'm not really the official spokesperson.” She pulled it off without the creep of blush. At least there was that.

“I figured as much.” Nicky tapped his head and grinned. “Rice, remember? The Stanford of the South?” He made a face like he couldn't believe he'd said that. “I bet you never even met the Roskos.”

“I did. I have.” Lily sounded about five.

“So the deal with the mom—”

“Is something you'll have to ask our neighbor directly.” Gran stood.

“She doesn't return calls.” Nicky sounded about five, too.

A birdlike tilt of her head conveyed Gran's disinterest. Nicky tried Lily. “I can't get confirmation of a service record for Carrie Rosko. I've tried Caroline, Carolyn. So before I waste any more of my time on this, I'd like to know how much you were messing with me.” He spoke like someone who watched a lot of cop dramas. Sierra would probably be weak with lust. “The only Carrie Rosko I can find is down in Florence,” he said.

“So? We have bases in Italy.” Lily was pretty sure, at least. And it sounded good.

“Florence, Arizona. As in, the women's penitentiary. Inmate number”—he checked his phone—“583446/RO.”

“
R
and
O
aren't numbers.”

“You know what? You're crazy. You're a crazy person.”

Thank the Drama Gods for Gran, who indicated the door. She upped the wattage of her smile. “Off the record?”

Nicky hovered. “Yes.”

“Completely?”

“Completely.”

“My granddaughter's something of a drama bug. She's down here after being nearly expelled from her school for bullying. She got herself mixed up with the Roskos; yesterday, she practically put another neighbor in the hospital. She's just spinning you around.” She touched his arm, conciliatory. “I'd head back to my desk if I were you.”

He went. The screen door needed oiling.

Gran wheeled on Lily. “Official spokesperson?”

Lily made a squeak not unlike the door.

“Look at me.”

Gran was fully dressed already: cream-colored trousers, silk blouse, low-slung necklace with a round fob. Subconscious stethoscope. She'd rather be across the street Florence Nightingaling. She steered Lily to the window. Lily could taste the warmth of her own mouth. Gran pointed. “That's the Romers' house. New car, right there in the drive. Convertible. Leather seats, like they always wanted. Why don't you go egg it?” Gran moved through the kitchen like a javelin, sharp, lean, designed for speed. She flung the refrigerator wide, popped open a Styrofoam clamshell and began grabbing eggs. “Here. Take them. Go.” Lily's hands cupped by instinct. Gran said, “After, you can TP the Driskells'. Maybe play a round of ding-dong-ditch.”