Child of My Right Hand (22 page)

“The what?” Genna demanded.

“Don't take me wrong,” Heinsohn said. “Not that he's to blame.”

“Then he's the object of an unprovoked attack,” Genna said. “Not the cause.”

“That's what I meant, ma'am.”

Heinsohn replaced his hat. He looked different with his head covered. College professors, Jack could imagine him thinking. Liberals. Jews. No wonder. Trent replaced his officer's hat and Jack walked them towards the door, very conscious of walking between two men who were larger than he was.

Outside, Heinsohn said, “I hope I didn't upset your wife.” His bushy eyebrows moved up and down. “My English ain't never been the most precise.”

“Don't worry,” Jack said. “By the way, the Klan still active around here?”

“Not that I know of,” Heinsohn said. “But I might not know.”

Trent asked, “Okay we come back around eight?”

Jack nodded.

Heinsohn said, “Don't worry, Mister Barish, we're gonna catch whatever vermin did this.”

Trent yanked at the scorched wood, which came away easily. Not knowing whom to trust or believe, Jack watched them advance up the tree-lined drive, two large cops carrying a cross.

***

After dinner, Simon and Lizzie bracketed Genna on the couch. Funny, Jack thought, lugging the reading chair's hassock towards the coffee table then straddling it. Well, not funny, strange, how much more he felt Simon resembled Genna now that he'd met Sweets and saw the origin of features. Simon lay his head on Genna's shoulder. If he could have climbed onto her lap, Jack suspected he would have. Even Lizzie, who usually maintained a minimum physical distance, the objective correlative to her psychic perimeter, crept close. Like puppies, which was Genna's favorite description when the kids were little. Puppies craving contact, soft, piled bodies, the available teat.

Four mugs of Ibarra Mexican hot chocolate rested on the coffee table. Comfort on a cool night after a warm day.

Jack said, “I know you don't want to talk about this, but we have to. Have you thought of anyone who might be angry enough to do this?”

Lizzie shook her head and glanced across Genna's bosom at Simon.

“Half the fucking school,” Simon said. “Why does everyone hate me?”

“It's not your fault.” Genna patted his shoulder. “They're just ignorant.”

“They're assholes. I wish we'd never moved here.”

He sobbed and buried his face on Genna's shoulder. One thing, Jack thought, we've completely abandoned keeping the kids from swearing.

“Say something,” Genna mouthed.

For a moment, while guilt washed over him, he couldn't speak. Then, raising his head above the swirling waters, he said, “They're ignorant and they're assholes, which is a deadly combination. Like beans and a long car ride.”

Genna groaned. “A Barish joke, kids.”

“That stinks, Dad.” Lizzie laughed. “Really stinks.”

Simon bit his lower lip. He could go from seventeen to seven in a heartbeat.

Genna said, “I know it's hard, but you've got to tell us.”

“If I give them names, some won't be right, and they'll get back at me. So what's the point?”

“The point”—Jack felt the vein in his neck wake and stretch—“is some cowardly asshole or assholes, they're usually in groups like cockroaches, burned a cross in our yard, and we have to do something about it.”

“They'll get back at me,” Simon said. “Not you.”

He wanted to say, You're a big guy. Just stand up to them. But he could read Genna's eyes. Stop blaming the victim. Jack hoisted a mug, inhaled the chocolate-cinnamon aroma, and blew across the rim.

“Is it cool enough to drink?” Genna asked.

He nodded. Lizzie leaned forward and cupped a mug between her hands to warm them. “Simon,” she began, blowing into her cup. “If you don't tell, I will.”

“Shut up, Dizzy!”

“Tell what?” Genna asked.

“What happened yesterday.”

“You brat!” Simon lunged across Genna and shoved Lizzie. Hot chocolate spilled over her hands and onto the table.

“Ow!” Lizzie screamed and kept screaming. “OwwwWWWWW!”

Jack raced for the kitchen, returned with a sponge and paper towels; chocolate dribbled off the low table onto the white carpet. In the hall bathroom, he could hear Genna running cold water over Lizzie's hands. Simon sat on the couch, arms folded, staring out the picture window into the trees.

“Help, goddamn it!” Jack tossed Simon the paper towels and swallowed the urge to say more. Together, they cleaned the table, then Jack started on the rug, blotting the spilled chocolate, and flushing the stain with cold water. Genna emerged from the bathroom with Lizzie, realized what he was doing, and screamed, “Is that water cold or hot?”

“Cold.”

“Damnit, Jack! Cold sets chocolate.”

So he raced down to the family room and returned with their Little Green Machine. When he'd done all he could—the carpet still looked soiled—it was five to eight. The cops would arrive any minute.

“So what did happen yesterday?”

Simon bit his lower lip. “I'll tell Mom.”

“What about the cops?” Jack demanded, thinking Sissy boy, and hating himself for it.

“Jack, be quiet. He said he'd tell me.”

“Tell them about Grandpa Sweets,” Lizzie said, dark eyes glistening. She rarely displayed emotion, but when she did, it was often followed by a total meltdown. “Tell them about Danny!”

“You're dead, you little bitch!”

“Simon!” Genna shouted.

Lizzie ran into the front hall then turned back. “I hate you!” she cried, her face streaming tears. “I hate being your sister!” She wrenched the front door open and slammed it behind her.

“You shouldn't let her talk to me like that.” Simon stood, angrily. “She should respect her elders.”

Then he fled, too, pounding down the family room stairs.

“That went well.” When Genna didn't respond, he added, “What do you think she was talking about?”

“I'm afraid to ask.” She stood, grimly. “But I will.”

Genna followed Simon downstairs. He considered pursuing Lizzie, but knew it would take her a half hour or more to calm down. Until then, he'd never find her. Jack checked his watch; the cops were late. Then the phone rang. Now what?

What
turned out to be Harold Mackey, editor of the
Tipton Gazette
. Mackey, who asked to be called Mac, said he'd heard about the “incident,” and wanted to come over and do a story in time for this week's edition.

“How'd you hear?”

“I have my sources, but can't reveal them.”

There was some sort of background buzz, as if the editor were in a theater lobby, or more likely a bar. “Unless I know how you found out”—Jack heard a car in the driveway and walked towards the sink window to peer out—“I doubt we'll agree to be interviewed.”

“Tipton police,” Mackey said. “I'll be over in half an hour, what do you say?”

***

When Jack knocked on Simon's door, Genna called, “We'll be right up.”

Jack muttered through the door. When his footsteps receded, she whispered, “Don't mention the business with your grandfather to the police.”

“You think I'm stupid?”

Simon looked scared. Inside that big body, he remained such a little boy. He was right to be scared. She was scared. “I think you have to mention Rich's father.” Simon looked even more terrified. “By now, they've probably figured out the Martin Long business.”

“Or beat it out of Rich.”

She couldn't process what Simon had just told her about Sweets. “So they probably know you wrote those notes last fall.”

“That's why I shouldn't mention them, either. If the police question them, I'll get in trouble.”

She didn't know. She just didn't know.

“And if I mention Nick Fleming and it's not him?” Simon bit his lip. “Tina will be really mad, and it will mess up the play. So I'm not going to mention Nick, either.”

How could Sweets do it? That's all she could think, how could Sweets do it?

“You promised, Mom, you wouldn't make me tell if I didn't want to.”

She wished the cops would go away and no one would ever mention this again. “Come on,” she said. “They're waiting.”

Upstairs they marched, towards the living room, where the two giant cops sat on the couch sipping hot chocolate; Jack must have heated up what was left in the saucepan.

“Ma'am,” said the younger one, standing.

Lourdes, his name was, no, Trent, some cathedral town. “This is our son, Simon.”

The older cop smiled. Why couldn't she remember names? He said, “You look kinda familiar, Simon.”

Oh, no, Genna thought, and turned, panicky, towards Jack.

Simon said, “Two whoppers, king size fries, chocolate shake, large coffee, cream and sugar.”

The sergeant grinned and patted his substantial gut. Heinsohn, that was his name. “My home away from home. Quite a memory you got there, Simon.”

Genna's eyes went to Heinsohn's ring finger. No wedding band. He must eat there often if Simon, who did not have a particularly good memory, remembered his order. Everyone sat. It felt like a blind date. Trent said, “This hot chocolate's really good.”

“First-rate.” Heinsohn drained his cup to the dregs. “Now, Simon. Do you have any idea who might want to do something like this?”

Simon shrugged his big shoulders.

“Someone who might be angry at you?”

Again, he shrugged. When he wanted to, Simon could look blank as a bar of soap.

Trent asked, “What about kids who've been passing remarks on account of your outwardness?”

The young cop glanced at her, and it was all she could do not to hoot.

“Your parents said you've been getting lots of remarks.”

“Not lately.”

“What about before?” Heinsohn asked.

“I don't know their names.”

Jack glared at her, the vein dancing in his neck.

“None of them?”

“They look the same. I call them the moonfaces.”

“So you have no idea,” Heinsohn said.

Simon shook his head.

Jack whispered, “Can I talk to you in the kitchen?”

Genna was afraid to look at him. This was wrong, she knew it was wrong, but she couldn't seem to stop it. She followed Jack, a chastised woman. Steam was coming out of his ears, like a cartoon character who was all burned up. He closed the louvered pocket door.

“What the hell is going on?”

“He's terrified.”

“The cops know he's lying. How stupid do you think they are?”

“Outwardness?”

He almost smiled, then his anger won out. Oh Jack.

“He's making us look like fools.”

As if that's what matters.

“What about all those things Lizzie was talking about, that Simon said he'd tell you?”

But all she could think about was Sweets's betrayal, and Jack's last year, all her men driven by their goddamn hormones.

“For Chrissakes, Genna. Lying isn't helping, it's really not.”

Then he slid the door open and stomped back to the living room. When she followed, Jack sat on the couch beside the cops, three large inquisitors facing Simon, whose back was towards her. An air of unease, like a bad smell, hung over the room, and Officer Trent looked somehow altered. After a moment, she saw what it was: a hot chocolate moustache arched over his pink lips.

Heinsohn said, “We'd like to question your daughter. Maybe she, you know, can shed some light.”

She looked at Jack. Jack looked at her. Simon's shoulders slumped a little more. Jack said, “She, uh, went for a walk.”

“When do you expect her?” asked Trent.

Heinsohn whispered something to Trent, who wiped his mouth with the back of his large hand. “It's still there,” Heinsohn said.

Genna handed him a paper napkin; Trent was someone's son, after all, and not that much older than Simon. This time, when Trent wiped, his lip came clean.

“She'll be back soon,” Jack said, “but we're not sure exactly when.”

“She really likes to walk,” Genna added, smiling.

“I guess we'll be going then,” said Heinsohn.

The cops stood and replaced their hats. They really were large.

“If you think of anything else…”

Heinsohn let the ellipse lengthen until it lasted long enough to take in their entire house and the budding woods beyond.

“…call day or night.” He passed Jack a card and handed her one, too. “I got both numbers, home and the station. I know this isn't pleasant for you. You're not from around here, so I want to say again how sorry I am. This ain't the real Tipton.”

Yes, it is, Genna thought.

“It's probably just kids,” Trent added.

“Racist, redneck kids.” Jack started towards the door.

“There's bad apples in every barrel,” said Heinsohn.

The four adults had reached the front door. Simon hung back in the living room.

“One last thing,” Heinsohn said. “And this goes double for you, Simon. Don't talk to no one about this, especially not at school. Anyone asks, you say ‘I'm not allowed to talk about it,' unnerstand?”

Simon nodded. Jack asked, “What about the newspaper?”

Trent and Heinsohn exchanged glances. Trent said, “Mackey call you?”

“He's coming over.”

“No way,” said Heinsohn, black eyes narrowing under his hat. “He wants anything, tell him to call me.”

She glanced at Jack. When had this happened? Oh yes, the phone.

Jack said, “Of course, ongoing investigation.”

The cops nodded. Finally, she believed they were thinking, these professors
unnerstand
something.