THE STORM PASSES.
Later that afternoon, Mom gets a call from Grandpa. He speaks. She listens. Then she stomps in my bedroom and says, “Is it true?”
“They talked to everyone with a black truck.”
“Amy! This happened yesterday and you didn’t even say anything to us! You got abused by fucking officers at school and you don’t even tell me? Why were they questioning you?”
“I have a black truck. How… how’d Grandpa find out?”
“You didn’t tell me. Your own mother. Why didn’t you say anything?”
“You and Dad had other shit going on.”
She taps her knuckles against the frame and bows her head.
Dad sits next to me. “You okay?”
“Yeah.”
“You need to tell us everything, sweetheart.”
I look at my feet. “I screwed up.”
She throws back my hair to expose my face, wipes my tears with her thumb, and tells me to control myself, to stop crying like a baby. Don’t I know how fucking serious this is?
“I lied,” I say. “I lied to the police.”
“You were with Paul that night,” she says. “What happened?”
“He left for like an hour, said he had to do something. When he came back, he was hurt. He’d been shot. He needed help, Mom. He was hurt, and I didn’t know why. He wouldn’t tell me. I helped him. I was scared. That’s why I called you. I didn’t know what had happened, what he did. I didn’t know what to do.”
“You do now,” Dad says.
“Yeah.”
She shakes her head in disbelief. “I didn’t raise you to be this stupid.”
With great control, I avoid laughing in her face.
“No,” Dad says. “You raised her to be loyal.”
Mom sets her palms on her knees and balances her weight.
“I need to call a lawyer,” Dad says. “One of your dad’s?”
“No. Not yet. We’re going to get ahead of this fuckup.”
I soak in her disappointment, a reverse validation. If only she knew. She’d be proud.
“There anything else?” she says. “Anything you’re not telling us?”
“No,” I say.
“I know he’s your friend,” Dad says. “But—”
“Amy loves him. That’s her fucking problem.”
They watch me. They watch me to avoid seeing themselves. The bullshit in this room is packed so tight not even the wind can pass through.
“I wanted to protect him,” I say.
“Alright,” she says. “Put on your boots. We’re going down there right now.”
“Where?”
“The station. You’re telling them everything.”
“The truth,” I say.
Dad nods, pats my hand.
She blinks, unimpressed. “Sure.”
Mom changes into a nice white dress, coils her hair into an enticing bun with ringlets. She puts on a fashion show, asks Dad which necklace best accentuates her huge mommy breasts.
She drives and coaches me, tells me to speak slowly, stick only to the facts, tell them what happened and nothing else, not what I think he did or didn’t do, not what I’m afraid of, not what I’m feeling, just tell them how it was. And don’t let these men intimidate me, twist my words. She’ll stay by my side, pounce if she has to. But I have to do the talking. I have to correct my story, admit to the lie like an adult.
Listening to her, I am not aggravated, defensive, or impatient. I recognize a quality I’ve learned, or inherited. Her voice is steady, emotionless, a firm poise. She’s good in a crisis. Her depression evaporates, and she seizes the wheel, as if she just waits for the darkness she breathes every day to become manifest. The world reveals itself and validates her inner reality, and while other dumb-asses get disorientated, she thrives.
“Hey,” she says. “You listening to me?”
“I am. I have been.”
She flips on the radio, tells me to relax, to just breathe. At a red light she cups my neck and pulls me to her, kisses my forehead.
“You’re going to be okay,” she says. “We’re with you.”
Dad sits in the back seat with Stonewall. We pass the VFW, bowling alley, and barbershop. Along the veterans memorial square a fat boy in a trash-bag poncho jumps in puddles; a little girl rides a bicycle with training wheels, a pink helmet, silver tassels on the handles; a boy in an army jacket shoots a BB gun at a wooden sign dangling from a wrought iron gate: Choose Jesus.
I wonder if my grandpa ever killed a white man, one of our own.
I wonder if there’s a difference.
I reach down to adjust the radio.
“What’re you doing?” She slaps my hand. “Amy, you know better than to touch that radio when Bob Seger’s on. We don’t change from Bob.” She taps the wheel as she and Dad sing along to “Mainstreet.”
Sheriff Wharton sits behind a metal desk, his gray hair wisped. Myriad high school athletic trophies hang on the wall, various criminal justice certificates and municipal awards, a stag’s head, a frame with a large golden key. Officer Durum sits next to him with smug validation. Officer Hastings leans in the corner and picks lint from his shoulder.
Dad and Stonewall remain in the lobby. Mom stays at my side, tells me to go on. The vents above us leak stale heat.
I tell them it was Paul. He left me alone. When he returned, I took care of him, bandaged his wounds, his burned scalp. He told me what he did. He didn’t say anything about shooting a man, not until I confronted him the following day. He told me to lie. He told me that if I didn’t, he’d hurt me.
“You lied to us yesterday,” Durum says.
“Yes. To protect him.”
He nods to Wharton. “I knew she was lying.”
“Where is he now?” Wharton says.
“I don’t know. I talked to him at school yesterday, told him I didn’t think I could lie for him anymore. He said it was an accident, that he didn’t mean for it to happen like that. I don’t know where he is now, but he was very angry.”
“You think he’s running?” Sheriff Wharton says.
“I don’t know where he’d go,” I say.
“He told you it was an accident,” Wharton says. “Those were his words?”
“Yes.”
Wharton folds his hands together. He goes out of his way not to make eye contact with Mom, not to look at her cleavage. “A rogue piece of shot went straight through the windshield, hit Steve in the artery. My thinking is a couple pissed-off kids think they’re in a movie and try shooting out the tire. But life isn’t like the movies.”
My face doesn’t even get red. I don’t even blink.
“We talked to Sadie Schafer,” Durum says. “She said he came to her that night, drunk, asked her to drive him. He wanted to get back at Demont for his dad, or something stupid like that.”
The walls melt into smears. The floor dissolves at my feet. I feel trapped. My mom squeezes my hand, brings me back.
Wharton leans forward. “I’m going to ask you something, Amy. And this is very important. You are here without legal representation, and we appreciate that. But even so, you don’t have to answer me now.”
“I want to help,” I say. “I have to.”
“Did Paul ask you to drive him, to help him do this thing? And did you?”
These words I use, the same words they use, mean nothing. We are just animals making sounds at one another. But unlike me, they believe these noises actually mean something. With these words I can create whatever truth I want.
“No. He never asked me anything like that. He’s better friends with Sadie. He came to my house and asked me to watch a movie at his place. I could tell he was upset, that he wasn’t himself. When he left me, I didn’t know where he was going. He told me to wait for him, that he’d be back, and when he came back, I helped him, and I lied for him. I did do that. He’s my friend, and I love him.”
“But here you are,” Durum says.
“He killed that man,” I say. “He killed a friend of my uncle’s. I didn’t know that’s what he did until after I’d already helped him. And then I was afraid. I didn’t know what to do. He said it was an accident. I’m sorry. His dad was home, upstairs, and so I think he was just using me, for like, a… I don’t know.”
“Alibi.” Hastings raises his head, an unreadable gaze. All these men in their costumes, but only he makes that black uniform look dangerous.
“I just knew I needed to come here and tell the truth,” I say.
“I don’t think you understand how hard this is for my daughter,” Mom says. “This boy is like her brother, her best friend. And here she is, telling you all this.”
Wharton says to me, “At any point, did you know what he was going to do? What he was planning?”
“I swear to God, I didn’t,” I say.
“She was helping her friend,” Mom says. “That’s it. She didn’t know.”
“If I had,” I say, and pause. “If I had, I would have stopped him. I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”
They all stare at me. No one takes notes.
“Your baby brother,” Durum says. “I couldn’t help but notice that the poor little guy’s got something wrong with him. He isn’t right.”
Mom zeroes in on him. In her family, looks don’t kill. They precede killing.
“Do you think his condition has anything to do with what’s going on out at your property?” Durum says.
“Demont is our livelihood,” Mom says.
“No,” I say. “I’ve never even thought of that. I don’t care about fracking.”
Mom squeezes my hand, once, twice.
“Your friend Sadie sure does,” Durum says.
“I. Am. Not. Sadie.”
“Look,” Mom says. “This is crazy. We have no bad feelings toward Demont. We set most of that money aside for her college fund. She’s going to become a veterinarian one day.”
Durum just focuses on me. “A legal adult with her whole life ahead of her. Be a bad time to screw up now.”
“You’re a little prick,” Mom says. “Aren’t you?”
Wharton says, “Your household owns a shotgun, of course.”
“What household around here doesn’t?” Mom says. “We’re here to help you. To help Paul. Amy is cooperating. Now, I know you’re pressed to solve this thing, Wharton. That’s why you’re pulling girls out of class and interrogating them.”
“It wasn’t a—”
“Fuck you. It was an interrogation. I know you got a lot of parties to make happy. If you don’t want my daughter’s help, if you’d rather have your dipshit officers make accusations, we can walk our happy asses right out that door. And the next time we talk, we’ll have a lawyer.”
I am my mother’s daughter.
“We’re just covering every base here,” Wharton says. “We are of course grateful for Amy’s cooperation.”
“That’s not what this feels like.”
“Mom,” I say. “Stop. It’s okay.”
“Instead of insulting my daughter, why don’t you find Paul?”
“We’re looking,” Wharton says. “Searched his house all morning, found a copy of The Anarchist’s Cookbook hidden in the basement. Didn’t find much else.”
“Then I guess my daughter just told you everything you need.”
Durum snorts.
“We appreciate her continued cooperation. When we find Paul, we’ll get the whole story. We are officially charging him. Amy, I’m asking again. Do you know where he is?”
“No. I’m sorry, but I don’t. Please find him soon. He’s so angry. He needs help. He… I just hope he doesn’t do anything stupid.”
Wharton rests his head against the seat. “He already has, girl.”
We walk down the municipal steps like a family leaving church. At the World War II memorial garden, Dad lifts Stonewall and twirls him around in the sun. Mom and I don’t look at each other, just at the marble columns and the soggy flags. It’s a point of shame for Tom that some of his family members are named on this thing, men who were misguided and used. “Good soldiers go where their government tells them, and when your government is controlled by warmongering Jews, you end up killing friends you believe are enemies.”
“We’re going to get you a lawyer,” she says. “My father knows a dependable one in Wheeling. He’s helped in the past. I just never thought any of us would be in a situation like this.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Stop saying that.”
Stonewall giggles. Dad makes helicopter noises as he loops his boy in circles.
“Thank you for staying with me, being there for me.”
“I’m your mother. It’s my job.”
The buildings along Main Street are washed in orange dusk. A serene haze surrounds the police station’s clock tower. I doubt they’ll find him tonight. I need time to recharge, to sleep. His death simplifies everything. No more choices. Every other way out has disappeared.
“I didn’t do it, Mom. I didn’t drive him or help him. I wasn’t a part of any of it.”
Her face is impassive. I recognize it well. She only says, “Good work in there.”
Mom will call the lawyer’s office when it opens at 9:00 AM. She sits on the couch and nurses Stonewall to distract herself. She sees me now by not looking at me. She can doubt all she wants, suspect her whole life. But I will never speak. And finally, we share something.
The police hunt Paul. The evening news asks the entire Ohio Valley to call with any information. He is considered armed and dangerous.
Mom and I watch a violent movie. A man kills another man with a shovel, stabs it down on his neck like a dull spear. The blood is too red, watery. These are actors. That man is no killer. And that other man is not dead. But there’s sad music playing, and soon Mom dabs at her eyes and says, “Horrible.” Don’t often see her crying like this. I know she once saw something similar in real life. And I know my grandpa made her watch. Nobody’s making her watch now.
Before going to bed, Dad sneaks in and kisses my forehead, tells me he’s here for me, always. I shouldn’t ever forget. He’ll listen. I want to tell him I appreciate him. That I’m sorry for not being kind, that I have unknowingly adopted my mom’s resentment toward his goodness. All the meals he cooks, the time spent helping me, how he always sees me out the door to school and tells me to learn a lot and have fun. How despite everything he so often smiles like a man truly thankful.
But I say nothing to him, just a long cruel silence.
“Love you, kiddo. I’m here if you need me.”
After they’re asleep, together, I listen to trees creak, but I can’t see them. I am alone and indulge in sentiment, see his smile, feel his touch, and remember us. I could cry until I hate myself. I could scream and scream and scream, but for what? One day, none of this will matter at all. It’s a universe of perpetual creation and destruction, an indifferent cosmos of churning matter in the blackness of infinite space. That is science, fact. That is the only truth that matters. What is visible in the sun is only life’s illusion. And at night the veil is drawn back, just enough.
One day there will come a time when only darkness moves.