Marge was living in a state of suspended animation. Instinctively she had felt that when Detective Wilson stopped in the day Kerry’s body was found, he had observed Jamie looking for her approval. Although she believed he had not told anyone about going into Kerry’s pool, it was always possible he would blurt it out to someone. It didn’t help that sometimes out of the blue he would refer back to it with her.
“Mom, I didn’t tell anybody about going swimming with Kerry.”
Her reassurances were quick and hushed. “That’s our secret, dear. We don’t talk about secrets.”
Every day, when she left him at the Acme market, she held her breath until she picked him up. Without realizing why, she found herself driving him both ways, instead of letting him walk.
As soon as he got home, she would ask him who he had talked to at work and what they had spoken about. Sometimes he would finish his answer with a triumphant smile. “And I didn’t tell anybody I went swimming with Kerry.” Marge was conflicted. She wanted to keep track of anyone he was speaking to. On the other hand, were these conversations making him think even more about what happened the night Kerry died?
It made things worse when he suddenly began to talk about “the Big Guy” in the woods. Jack’s affectionate nickname for Jamie was “the Big Guy.” Trying to sound casual, she asked him, “What about the Big Guy, Jamie?”
“He hit Kerry and pushed her in the pool,” he said matter-of-factly.
Marge forced herself to ask, “Jamie, who is the Big Guy?”
“Daddy called me the Big Guy. Remember, Mom?”
Her throat went dry. Marge whispered, “I remember, Jamie. I remember.”
Marge knew that she could not bear the burden alone. Her consuming worry was that the police might try to blame Jamie, especially since he had told them about swimming with Kerry, but she knew it wasn’t right to hide the truth from them.
The previous evening Jamie had told her a big guy had come around from the bushes after the first guy left, and he had hit Kerry on the head and pushed her in the pool.
But if Jamie told that to the police, they would compare him to Alan Crowley. Alan was medium height and on the thin side. Jamie was six feet, one inch, and not fat but broad. Sometime he calls himself “Big Guy,” Marge thought. If he says this to the police, they might think that “the Big Guy” Jamie was describing was actually Jamie himself. If they believe that, they might arrest him.
He’d be so frightened. He’s so easily manipulated. He always wants to please. He’ll happily say anything they want to hear.
Marge felt again the familiar tightness in her chest. Her doctor had warned her to take a nitroglycerin tablet whenever that happened. By the end of the day she had taken three tablets.
Dear God, don’t let anything happen to me, she begged. He needs me now more than ever.