Page 8 of Martha Calhoun

“Until he’s twenty-one.”

“Segregation, right?”

I nodded. They keep the boys convicted of serious crimes away from the younger boys.

“Whew.” Sergeant Tony whistled softly. “That’s rough. They’re rough on boys down there.” He paused. “You know, I didn’t have anything to do with his case. That was adult.”

“I know.”

“I think he respected me. We had our differences, but, overall, I respected him and he respected me. You know?”

I didn’t say anything. Tom has a lot of problems and a lot of anger toward people, but, for all that, there’s a kind of harmlessness about him. He’s soft-hearted. In sixteen years, the only person I ever heard him wish ill of was Sergeant Tony.

“That ought to tell you something,” Sergeant Tony continued. “I’m someone you can talk to.”

When I didn’t say anything, he got up and stepped over to the window, looking out at the traffic going around the square. He’s short, far smaller than I. Standing next to him over the years, I used to feel guilty—afraid he’d hold my size against Tom.

“Your mother goes out on a lot of dates, doesn’t she?” he asked pleasantly. I didn’t respond. “It must be lonely for you, sitting home alone, with her havin’ all the fun. I mean, she’s just about the hottest thing in town, and you’re kind of on the discard pile, right?” He kept staring out the window. I could hear the cars honking and grunting as they edged around each other. Friday is a big shopping day on the square.

“She works,” I said.

“Hmmm?”

“She works evenings at the country club. She’s not out having fun.”

“Oh, I mean after she’s through work.” He turned and sat against the window sill, crossing his legs. “They stop serving dinner out there around nine, don’t they? And she doesn’t come home right afterward, does she?”

“Usually.”

“Usually? Hmmm. That’s not what I hear.” As an afterthought, he added, “That’s not what Tom told me.” I didn’t believe him.

He studied the back of his hand. “Who’s your mother dating these days? Anyone special?” He was used to my silences now. He just let them sit there and pound on my head for a few seconds before he went on. “Eddie Boggs, right? Yeah, Eddie.” He waited. “Eddie,” he repeated, sounding wistful. “Sad case. Tough. He ever talk about his wife?”

I shook my head.

“Tough.” He stood up and walked over behind my chair. I felt him leaning on the back of it. I wanted to curl up, to shrink, to wrap myself in some thick blanket to protect myself from him. Too late, I realized my left arm was exposed, resting on the edge of the desk. His hand clamped down over my hand, squeezing too hard.

“You’re different from them, Martha.” His voice came softly, from just above my ear. “Don’t get trapped in their kind of life.” I stared at his hand, hardly bigger than mine. The veins made thick, blue lines among the pointy black hairs. “Let’s get to know each other. Open up. It’s the only way you’re gonna get out of this. What was going through your mind?”

The door rattled suddenly, and Chief Springer walked in. “What’s going on?” he demanded. Behind him, a blur of pink pushed into the room. Bunny was still wearing her waitress uniform. Jumping up, I wrapped my arms around her, burying m

y face in her neck. The sweet fragrance of stale perfume mingled with the cigarette smoke clinging to her hair. The combination was so familiar—I wanted to pull myself up and climb into her arms.

“We’ll give you a few minutes together,” said Chief Springer. “Come on, Tony.” The chief gave a jerky, chicken wave with his arthritic arm, and the two of them left the room.

Bunny put her hands on my shoulders and held me at arm’s length. “I didn’t cry,” I said.

She dropped her arms, and, without saying anything, she started pacing the office. She’d get about three steps in between the bookshelf and the filing cabinet and then have to turn and repeat herself. It was dizzying watching her. “First Tom, now you,” she said finally.

“This isn’t at all like Tom,” I said. “It’s nothing like Tom.”

“It’s trouble, isn’t it?”

“But this is different. I can explain.” While Bunny paced, I told her about the Benedicts’ house and the children and playing purr kids in the woods, about Butcher’s room and his pictures and his baby manliness. Bunny hardly seemed to be paying attention, but when I said I’d let Butcher unbutton my blouse, she stopped suddenly. “You let him touch you?” she barked. Her look was incredibly fierce, and I found myself gasping for breath. So what I’d done really was that bad, after all.

Bunny plopped down in Sergeant Tony’s chair. She listened as I burbled on, hoping she’d start to understand, but I could see that her attention was drifting again. I felt so hopeless I was weak. My body weighed a ton. I had to go lean against the filing cabinet to support myself. No one would understand. Even I didn’t understand.

I stopped talking and watched as Bunny listlessly studied the gray linoleum. After several seconds, she said, “Why’d this have to happen now, just when I’m starting to get things together? This town’s been bad luck for me ever since we got here.”