Page 24 of Everything You Want Me to Be
“That kid’s got some answering to do.”
“Hold on there, Bud. We’re going to talk to Tommy again in the morning, and have him submit a DNA sample to test against what we found on Hattie.”
“You’re sure it wasn’t rape?” Mona whispered.
“It wasn’t rape. The medical examiner was positive. Don’t be thinking that, either one of you.”
Neither of them seemed able to speak anymore.
“I’m going to need to look through Hattie’s room. If you remember anyone else she was close to or in contact with, call me right away. Doesn’t matter what time.”
Mona resumed crying in earnest now and Bud went over to her. I left them alone and went to Hattie’s bedroom upstairs, without a word to the hens hovering by the kitchen doorway.
I was surprised there wasn’t much to see. A twin bed, dresser, and desk. She didn’t have posters splashed all over like most teenagers, just one picture—framed—of the New York City skyline above her bed. Her closet was about as messy as you’d expect but it was all clothes and purses holding lip gloss, bobby pins, movie ticket stubs, and loose change. Nothing that helped. Her desk seemed about the most personal thing in the room. The drawers were full of magazine pictures of subway stations, neon signs, and women walking down city sidewalks with little rat dogs tucked in their purses. I couldn’t find a diary or a journal, which struck me as odd. Hattie’d seemed like the type to keep one. Her laptop had a lot of stuff on it though and maybe we’d find something there. Jake could dig into those files with his computer tricks.
In the bottom drawer I found a program for a Rochester play where Hattie had gotten the lead. I remembered Bud saying something about that last fall. Scratching his neck, shrugging his shoulders as we winterized his boat.Kid’s a natural. Damned if I know where she got it.
Flipping through the program, my eye caught on a particular name.
Gerald Jones, director.
Now, why would Hattie be carrying, on the night of her death, the card and phone number of a man she hadn’t seen in over six months? A man she was connected to through the theater?
I smiled grimly, ready to put Jake in his place when I got back to the station. Look what old-fashioned police work turned up.
PETER/ Saturday, September 8, 2007
SHAKESPEARE WASone cunning SOB. I didn’t care much for his comedies, the farces full of village idiots and misplaced identities. I’d always gravitated to the tragedies, where even witches and ghosts couldn’t distract the audience from this central psychological truth: by our own natures, we are all inherently doomed. Shakespeare didn’t write anything new. He didn’t invent jealousy, infidelity, or the greed of kings. He recognized evil as timeless and shone a spotlight directly, unflinchingly on it and said,This is what we are and always will be.
Of course, right at this minute, I had no idea what my wife was.
“So Peter just found out he’ll be directing the spring play at school,” Mary said conversationally as she sliced through the tender breast meat of a chicken. She smiled at me, encouraging me to jump into the conversation, but I couldn’t concentrate on anything besides the chicken. It had been alive a few hours ago and now wafts of rosemary and cooked skin rolled off it, turning my stomach as Elsa and our neighbor Winifred lifted their plates for the entrée.
“DoThe Music Man. I like the songs in that one,” Winifred ordered. She often joined us for Saturday-night dinners and usually I looked forward to the bang of the screen door that announced her arrival. She was wiry and opinionated and had all the strength of heart that Elsa lacked.
I shook my head weakly. “The principal said it had to be Shakespeare.”
He’d told me he didn’t care which play, except it couldn’t beRomeo and Juliet. Nothing suicide-related, he said.
Elsa smiled fondly as she scooped up some peas. “Lyle always likes his Shakespeare.”
“Remember when he had them doA Midsummer Night’s Dreamin Will Davis’s bean fields?” Winifred scoffed. She glanced over and filled me in on the joke.
“All the chairs were set up on what they found out was a giant anthill, and before the first act was over, the whole audience was covered in biting ants.”
Elsa put a quavering hand on Winifred’s, changing the topic back to how she didn’t like Winifred living alone anymore. Having Mary and me around helped her see how much better it was to have support, she said. Winifred dismissed her friend’s concerns with a practiced flair and steered the conversation to the new furnace that was being installed in the town café.
Everyone enjoyed Saturday-night dinners with Winifred. The conversation was more animated. Elsa perked up and her complexion looked healthier, which made Mary relax. Once, we played cards afterwards and Winifred even had a beer with me, but it became obvious that Elsa didn’t have the capacity to play hearts anymore, so the game ended and the TV was switched on before she could become too flustered.
I was always the third wheel at these dinner parties, trying to find my way into conversations that debated the merits of different furnace brands or analyzed the year’s weather predictions from theFarmers’ Almanac. All my references to literature or pop culture fell flat, despite Mary’s or my attempts to explain the context. They didn’t intentionally ostracize me, but I was outside all the same. Tonight, though, I couldn’t even try to engage. My attention was torn between the chicken in the center of the table and Mary’s profile as she refereed the conversation.
“That doesn’t look very good.” Winifred leaned over my plate and poked at my veggie burger.
“Try it if you want.” I got up and grabbed a Coke from the fridge.
“They’re actually pretty tasty,” Mary put in. “Especially grilled and with some cheese and tomato on top. They make great lunches.”
“No, thanks, Winifred replied. “I only eat food I recognize.”
