I think about staying up past four this morning, finishing Sullivan's stupid jigsaw, supposedly for his birthday but really for myself, to guarantee it would be done before the Ratgut concert.
All for nothing now.
“Why didn't you tell me what was happening to you?
”
Mom asks. “Christ, Sarah, I can tell by the pictures that this...horrific...business...was going on for years. We could have fired David! Sent him to jail! We still can. Iâ”
“NO! It wasn't
â
”
Mom sighs. “Sarah, I know these pictures were taken at the restaurant. I recognize the furniture in the back room. There's a team of police officers out looking for David now. Iâ”
“
IT WASN'T DAVID! Please...” I swivel in my chair to address the cop. “Listen to me! Don't arrest David! It wasn'tâ”
“Sarah, what do you mean, it wasn't David?” The green drains from Mom's face, leaving it a ghostly gray. She speaks softly, slowly now. “He and your father were the only ones with access toâ”
Clearly Mom isn't any better at puzzles than Sullivan. She can't piece this situation together even with all the ugly pictures right in front of her. Maybe because she doesn't want to.
I help her along. “It was Dad.”
“Sarah, don't lie. Don't you dare tell me that. Your father would never do such a thing. He loved you, Sarah. Heâ”
“LISTEN TO ME! He said he'd kill Brownie if I ever told!”
My mother rises on shaky legs and reaches her arms out to me, but I stand and take a step back. I don't want a hug. It's too little, too late.
Victoria guides Mom back into her chair. Sliding the Hush Puppies box aside, she places a steaming cup of coffee on a place mat. Mom mumbles her thanks and eyeballs the coffee blankly, but I can see that her hands are shaking too much to take a sip without sloshing it everywhere.
The cop and my lawyer motion for me to follow them through the kitchen to the rec room. Someone has left a half-done Scrabble game on the coffee table. Little square letters are scattered everywhere. I imagine them sliding together to spell
D-O-O-M-S-D-A-Y
My lawyer, Barry Hendon, pulls the plaid armchair over to the couch and gestures for our small group to sit. “First of all, Sarah,” he tells me, “I haven't looked at the pictures.”
The cop has looked though. I can tell. He clears his throat too many times in a row and won't look me in the eye. In books, on
TV
shows and maybe even in big cities, they have sensitive, specially trained female cops and well-meaning social workers working round the clock to deal with cases like mine. Welcome to small-town reality, Sarah, I think. Despite my baggy clothes, I feel naked. Raw. Like a plucked chicken ready for the deep fryer.
Finally the cop leans forward and rakes his hands through the gray fringe of hair between his bald spot
and his ears. “I know this is difficult, but I have to ask a few questions, Sarah. Your mother and Barry have given their permission to proceed. These questions will be uncomfortable for you, but I need to make sure that charges are laid where necessary.”
“How can you charge a dead man?” I scoff.
He ignores my comment and flips open a notepad. He pulls a pen from his shirt pocket. “Now...you realize that what happened to you was a crime?”
I nod.
“I need a yes or no.”
“Yes.”
“Did anyone besides David Murray ever take pictures of you?”
“No! I told you! David didn't do anything! It only happened after David finished his shifts. Please don't tell David.”
Once, when I was nine years old, David brought me a whole carton of old dog-eared Archie comics he'd collected as a kid, just because he knew I liked cartoons. He never expected, and never got, anything in return but my happy “Thanks, David!” I loved David like a big brother.
The lawyer cleared his throat. “Sarah, just answer the questions.”
“Butâ”
“Where were the pictures taken?” the cop asked.
“In the storeroom. At my father's restaurant. By my
father
.”
“Was anyone else ever in the room with you while the pictures were taken?”
“No. How many times do Iâ”
“Okay, okay. Did your
father,
to your knowledge, ever sell or give the pictures to anyone, or scan them onto the Internet?”
I gulp for air. “I don't think so.”
“To your knowledge, did your
father
ever take pictures of anyone other than you?”
“I don't think so.”
The cop sighs deeply and turns another page of his notebook. “Was your mother aware of what was happening?”
“I don't think so.”
“You don't
think
so?”
“No. No, she wasn't.”
“You never tried to tell her? Or any other adult?”
“No.”
The cop raises both eyebrows. “And since your father's death, have you unwillinglyâor willinglyâparticipated in otherâ”
“NO! We're finished here.” I push myself up from the couch. I took the law elective last semester. I know he can't force me to answer his questions. I wouldn't have answered
any
questions if they hadn't brought David into the equation. Just one more fucking person I need to protect. Why does no one ever protect me?
“Sorry,” the cop says sheepishly, flipping his notebook closed and rising too. “That'll be all for now.” I watch him stride back through the kitchen and out the screen door. In the orange glow of the porch light, I see him plunk his butt on the top porch step, light a cigarette and pull his cell
phone out of his back pocket. I can't hear him talking over my mother's sobs, but I'd like to hope he's on the phone to whichever of his coworkers he's sent after David. I'd like to think that maybe this isn't just another day on the job for him. Just another day of busting up underage pit parties and chasing shoplifters. Maybe he hates what he had to do tonight, dredging up all my personal business.
Barry Hendon beckons me to sit back down. “I spoke to the judge, Sarah.”
I groan and pound a fist on my knee. “How many people are going to know about this before it's over?”
“The courts will not release your name to anyone. Besides, if what you say can be backed up with evidence that your father owned a Polaroid camera...”
“He did. Ask my mom. He used the same camera for taking vacation photos. I don't know if we still have it. Dad used to keep the camera hidden from me tooâprobably so I wouldn't break it or steal itâbut Mom might know where it is. And check his old credit card statements. There must be receipts for Polaroid film. Boxes and boxes of it.”
“In that case, this situation probably won't even make the papers.”
“But Riverwood is a small town. People talk.” Except for Sullivan, who will probably never speak to me again once he finds out.
Barry glances at his watch. “Judge Mather checked through the statements given to police the night of your automobile incident last March and said that in light of these circumstances, your reaction to being photographed
by your mother's boyfriend was understandable. Still inappropriate, but understandable. That said, you're free to go, Sarah. Tonight if you want to. I've got a couple of community service kids who might jump at the chance to replace you. Your outstanding community service hours will be erased. Take some personal time for the rest of the summer.”
I cross my arms defiantly. “I'm not leaving.”
“But...you don't have to stay anymore.”
“I want to stay.”
“You need time to...” He pauses, searching for a politically correct word. “Heal.”
“I'm staying.”
“But...” Barry Hendon stops, shrugs, snaps open his briefcase. He extracts his own cell phone and punches in what I assume is the judge's home number. “Kids,” he mutters.
Ten minutes later the cop and the lawyer are eager to get back to the mainland. And since it's clear that I won't go with themâat least not without some sort of physical interventionâmy mother begs them to wait. She can't just leave without talking to her daughter, can she?
To be honest, I wish she would.
“Couldn't all this have waited until the morning?” I ask her. We're standing at the head of the dock, while the cop and lawyer are at the foot, making more calls on their cell phones and preparing their boat for the short trip back to the mainland.
“I panicked, Sarah. When Tanner showed me theâ”
“Tanner? Tanner found them?” I hiss, afraid of raising my voice and having someone overhear. “What the hell was Tanner doing at the restaurant? And come to think of it, what the hell were you doing at the restaurant? You promised me that you'd wait for me toâ”
Mom sniffles. “I didn't break my promise about letting
you do inventory. It's just...the library is having a rummage sale next week. To raise funds for renovations to the children's wing. I thought it would be a nice idea to donate a few of your father's older cookbooks. Just a few, because I thought you'd want most ofâ”
“I don't want any of them.”
“But...I thought you were all fired up to do the inventory. I thoughtâ”
“I WANTED TO FIND THE PICTURES!”
Mom pulls a soggy tissue from her purse and blows her nose. “Tanner came with me to help carry books to the car. We were in the back room. I was pulling some dusty old spice encyclopedias off the bookshelf and found the shoe box lodged behind them. I passed the box to Tanner and asked him to check if the recipe cards inside were handwritten or typed. I thought if they were typed, we could bundle them up and sell them by lot.”
Bile fills my throat. I picture Tanner's face as he opened the box and discovered stacks of kiddie porn. Tanner's bewilderment when he realized the subject of said kiddie porn was his girlfriend's daughter. The disgust that must have pierced his heart when he wondered if Mom knew about, or had a hand in, the abuse. The understanding that I had a damn fine reason for not wanting his camera pointed at my face that foggy night last March.
“Tanner told me I had to call the police right away. It just never, never, neverâ”
“Never. I get it,” I mumble.
“âoccurred to me that your father was behind this.
Are you absolutely sure it was Ian, Sarah? Maybe you were too upset to remember clearly. Maybe Davidâ”
“DAVID NEVER DID ANYTHING TO ME!
”
I stomp my foot on the dock. “Face the fucking truth, Mom,” I hiss. “You were married to a monster.”
Mom buries her face in her shaking hands. “Sarah, I'm so, so sorry,” she sobs. “Where the hell was I when all this was happening?”
“At the library,” I tell her, whacking a mosquito on my left temple so hard that my ears ring. “With your nose in a book.”
My mother makes a sound like a cat with its paw stuck in a mousetrap and tries to lay a hand on my shoulder.
I wrench myself away. “You're a librarian. It's your job. Don't sweat it, Mom.”
It was like I'd hauled off and punched my mother in the face. She starts hyperventilating. “I just...I don't know how...I could have missed all this...going on.”
“You worked Tuesday and Thursday nights. You still work Tuesday and Thursday nights.”
Mom seems to have aged ten years in the past hour. Her face is wrinkled and flushed and defeated, like a half-deflated red balloon. “You mean...all those times I dropped you off...at the restaurant? Every time...?”
“Pretty much.”
Mom turns away from me, hugging her arms around herself like a do-it-yourself straitjacket. She stares out over the dark water of the St. Lawrence. “Christ, Sarah,” she mumbles, sucking in a long breath of damp night air and
letting it out slowly. “All those times you wanted me to sign you up for Tuesday evening Girl Guides and Thursday night soccer and I said no, because Tuesday and Thursday were slow nights at the restaurant. Your father wanted to spend time with you. I thought he was being a good father, an involved father. He said he was going to teach you to cook when you were old enough.”
“He did that too.”
“Why didn't you at least tell me after he died? He couldn't have hurt Brownie then.”
I take a deep breath and exhale slowly. “It was over then. All I wanted was to find the pictures and destroy them.”
“Butâ”
“I told you! I didn't want you to know!” I hiss again. “I didn't want anyone to know. I still don't.”
“But...why not? I'm your mother.”
I shake my head at her stupidity. “I was trying to protect you. And to protect myself from being humiliated for one more second. But look at what's happened! You're freaking out! And the police and my lawyer and Victoria and Tanner and the judge and God-knows-who-else all know about it.”
“Sarah, Iâ”
“Don't you see? As long as the pictures were my secretâsomething only I knew aboutâI thought I could fix things. Now, everything is just like you saidâa mess.”
Mom grabs my shirtsleeve and gives it a pull. “Come home with me, Sarah. Please.“
“No.” I yank my arm back. “I'm staying. I can't go back to Riverwood right now. The dogs need me.”
“I need you, Sarah.”
“You have Tanner.” He started this mess tonight; let him deal with my mother. I can't imagine how she feels, but if she feels even half as bad as she looks, she needs more than I can possibly give her right now.
“I can't face Tannerâor anyone elseâright now,” I tell her. “And I want the pictures,” I demand, pointing to the Hush Puppies box that rests on the dock next to Barry Hendon's briefcase. Such an innocent-looking box with such explosive contents. “I want them tonight. Now. Don't let the police keep them.”
Down at the dock, the cop and lawyer are trying to be polite and give me and my mother whatever time we need, but it is clear from the way they keep glancing at us and their watches, and pacing around impatiently, that they won't wait much longer. Mom looks trapped between wanting to stay with me and wanting to escape this madness. Between wanting to reach out to me and being afraid that I'll push her away.