County Line Page 10

  She took a breath thick with the scent of soil. “I want to see ID. For all I know, he’s one of those perverts you hear about who can only get it up with teenage girls.”

  Grabel took a step toward her and thrust a finger at her chin. “That’ll be enough out of you, missy.”

  “You can talk.”

  Nash’s lips curved downward. He and Callan exchanged a look. Callan had taken the call the night of the Princeton game. “I told you she would be a pain in the ass.”

  Grabel scowled. “Then cuff her and let’s get the hell out of here. It’s too damn hot to be jawing with a smart-ass kid out in the boondocks.”

  “What are the charges, Detective Pervert?”

  Grabel’s wattle quaked in response and blotchy color rose on his neck. He opened his mouth but Nash took a step forward, both hands out. “Let’s everybody calm down. Ruby, please. It’s just a few questions.”

  “I got nothing to say.”

  “We’ll see about that. Now come on.”

  “ID first.”

  “I can pick you up on my own authority, Ruby. You know that.”

  “This is township, not town.”

  “Ride with me, ride with Callan. Either way, you’re coming in.”

  If anyone ought to be answering Turkey Neck’s questions, it was Clarice. But that’s not the way things worked in the treacherous ecosystem of Valley View High School. Clarice Moody sat atop the food chain. Everyone else was either her quarry or her confederate. What happened to Gabi Schilling wouldn’t change that. The first two knuckles of Ruby Jane Whittaker’s right hand couldn’t change that either.

  Sudden heat surged down her spine and into her legs, a sharp reminder of thoughts her run was meant to help her escape. She studied the heaped rock wall on the far side of the field, looked for gaps into the woods beyond. The muddy field would slow her down. She estimated twenty seconds to the trees, fifteen if the ground was firm. What could they do? Shoot her in the back, maybe. But they could never catch her on foot. Not Ruby Jane Whittaker, three miles into her run. She smiled, and then smiled wider as she realized her smile made them nervous. Nash bounced on the gravel, Callan’s finger tapped his holster. Grabel breathed through his nose.

  Try and catch me.

  But she didn’t run. She was a smart girl, like Nash said. They wouldn’t shoot her, and they wouldn’t chase her either. They’d get in their cars and catch her on Gratis Road or in the mobile home park at Lake of the Woods. Or wait her out. It’s not like she had anywhere to go. The morning chill nibbled at her bare arms as if to drive home the point.

  It was just a broken nose.

  She folded her arms across her chest. The cops were getting impatient. She could feel it in the charged air between them, see it in their faces when she glanced sidelong at them. Even Grabel, his eyes hidden behind shades, wore his annoyance like a mask. She licked her lips.

  “I’m not sorry I did it.” She spoke to the corn, and for a moment wondered if they’d heard. “I’m not.”

  Grabel was the first to react, with surprise and a quick look flashed at Nash. Easier than we thought, the look said. “Why don’t you tell us about it?”

  “She deserved it, end of story.”

  Grabel was quiet for a moment. “Come again?”

  “You heard me.”

  Nash was expressionless now, and Callan’s mouth opened, not to speak—to catch flies, maybe. The scrape of Grabel’s sudden footstep sounded absurdly loud. “Who we talking about, missy?”

  A trill of fear ran through her. Twenty seconds. Twenty seconds to the trees. She swallowed, pulled her arms more tightly against herself. “Clarice Moody?”

  One Grabel eyebrow appeared above the rim of his sunglasses. “Clarice Moody. Definitely.” He smirked now, grim and satisfied. “Now get your ass in that car. We have matters to discuss.”

  - 14 -

  Stormy Night, August 1988

  Started like any other Saturday night. They’d eaten, each on their own, left their dishes in the sink to await Ruby Jane’s annoyance and impatience. It was always left up to her to clean up everyone else’s messes. She felt restless, overheated, bored. School was still ten days off. Near, but not near enough to stoke that urgency the first week of September would bring. Bella had mixed her first pitcher of Old Fashioneds. She was in good spirits, singing to herself as she sipped from the sweating highball glass and listened to Stan Kenton. When Ruby Jane stuck her head around the corner and looked into the living room, her mother rushed her, Virginia Slim in one hand, drink in the other. “Dance with me, baby girl! Dahhhnce.” Ruby Jane recoiled. The burning tip of Bella’s cigarette threw sparks off the hand Ruby Jane raised to deflect her mother’s assault.

  “Mother, watch out!”

  Bella tried to snake her other arm around Ruby Jane’s waist and pull her into a swing. “But we’re dancing.”

  “What’s with you?”

  “It’s a good day. Isn’t that reason enough to dance, baby girl?”

  Ruby Jane pushed her away. Bella spun across the floor, pausing to stab out the half-smoked butt in the overflowing ashtray on the kidney-shaped coffee table. She continued to the stereo and bumped the volume from blast to clamor. Ruby Jane fled to the kitchen, where Jimmie stared into the open refrigerator. Four chicken legs and a pound of potato salad from IGA hadn’t been quite enough.

  “What are you doing here?”

  Jimmie was never home on Saturday night, not since graduation. At the beginning of summer he’d gone to work at the Wentz brothers farm out on Preble County Line Road. Long weeks for him, working, saving money for college. A lot of Friday nights he was too tired to do much except hog the remote. But Saturday night was drinking night with his wrestling buddies. The blockheads.

  “Jimmie. Helloooo … talking here.” Changes in routine made Ruby Jane nervous. Change led to trouble, and trouble meant a new mess for Ruby Jane to clean up.

  “I could ask you the same thing.”

  “You’re the one with the car.”

  “I’m going out later.”

  “Drop me at the Pizza Palace when you go?”

  “I’m not going that way.”

  “What other way is there?”

  Her father hadn’t come home. No surprise. He’d been working overtime on a job in Brookville. Lots of Saturdays. He often went to the Eagles Lodge after work. Maybe he wouldn’t come home until tomorrow morning. If then. Everyone was happy with Dale working overtime and drinking at the Eagles. Anything to keep him away from the house.

  “Where are you going, Jimmie?”

  “Don’t call me Jimmie.”

  “Whatever. Where are you going?”

  “None of your business.”

  “Are you going to Dayton? You could take 725 and drop me at the Pizza Palace.”

  “I’m going the completely opposite direction.”

  “Where? To West Alex? To Eaton? What the hell is there in Eaton?”

  “There’s plenty in Eaton.”

  “Is it a date? Did you actually find a girl in Eaton who would go out with you?”

  “Fuck off, Roo.” He stalked off, footsteps rattling the front windows as he stormed up the stairs. She heard the shower—had to be a date. Ruby Jane paced in the front hallway, eyes fixed on the bathroom door at the head of the stairs. What kind of girl would go out with Jimmie? Some watermelon-boobed dingbat—pretty, but dumb as a post, someone who thought Ronald Reagan defeated the Germans at Pearl Harbor with his bare hands.

  Her mother interrupted her reverie. “Ruby, Jesus, do your homework if you’ve got nothing better to do.”

  “It’s summer.”

  Bella wasn’t listening. She flitted past, humming Kenton all the way up to her room. The stereo still blared, loud enough to loosen fillings. Ruby Jane lingered at the foot of the stairs, restless, annoyed by the music but unwilling to leave her post lest she miss the chance to harass Jimmie on his way out.

  But when he left the bathroom he headed to
their mother’s room. Ruby Jane sidled up the stairs. Bella’s door was shut. Ruby Jane went into her room and sat on the bed, took the book from her nightstand. Watership Down. Bunnies. She kept looking into the hall. When she finally forced her eyes onto the page she realized she was holding the book upside down. She tossed it aside and went to the door. Stan Kenton’s horns drowned out any voices from behind Bella’s door.

  At least fifteen minutes passed before Jimmie appeared, dressed in navy sweats and a black concert t-shirt from when he and a bunch of blockheads went to Pink Floyd in Cleveland the year before. She followed him downstairs. He got one of their father’s windbreakers from the hall closet and threw open the front door. She smelled approaching rain, heavy as cigarette smoke on the night air.

  “Why on earth are you dressed like that?”

  In answer, he slammed the front door behind him.

  Had he called to confirm his date, only to learn his dimwitted girlfriend had found someone else? That wouldn’t explain his visit to their mother’s room. Ruby Jane and Jimmie never crossed that threshold except to retrieve the bundled sheets on Saturday morning or empty the ashtrays before Bella set the house on fire. Even Dale seldom slept there. Long and open, with good north light, it was not only her bedroom, but the place where Bella played at being an artist. Most of the space was given over to easels and shelves filled with paints and jars of brushes. The Studio, where gessoed masonite boards were stacked against the walls under the windows. Bella would watch Bob Ross on her portable TV, then paint happy little trees, happy little houses. The occasional murky watercolor found its way onto walls around the house. To Ruby Jane, Twin Creek Railroad Bridge was indistinguishable from Deer on Diamond Mill Road. They were all Bella Vomits Out the Car Window.

  Bella came down, refreshed her drink, returned to the living room. The music changed. Rachmaninoff, a bad sign. The Russians made her mother moody. At least she lowered the volume; Ruby Jane could now hear the ice tinkling in her mother’s glass. She needed something to do, somewhere to go. She needed to be gone before Rachmaninoff transitioned to Shostakovich.

  But her phone calls were answered by machines or oblivious siblings. She considered biking to Germantown, but if the rain came she’d arrive looking like a drowned raccoon—with no guarantee she’d find anyone anyway. Instead she tore into the dishes. After a while, her mother came into the kitchen and looked out the window. Quiet Farmersville, the street dark and empty.

  “What’s up with Jimmie?”

  “Who?”

  “Your son? Jimmie?”

  Bella stared out the window and pulled at her lip. Her cigarette had burned down to the filter.

  “James Whittaker? You gave birth to him.”

  “He’s out.”

  “I know that. I watched him leave.” Ruby Jane inspected her mother’s profile. Her earlier lightheartedness was gone, but whether it had been weighed down by the Russians or something else, RJ couldn’t say. “What were you two talking about?”

  “Who?”

  “Your son. Jimmie.” Bella’s face remained blank. “James.”

  “We weren’t talking.”

  “You stared at each other for all that time? Were you giving him a painting lesson?”

  “When?”

  “Before he left. He was in your room for like an hour.”

  “It wasn’t an hour.”

  Ruby Jane groaned.

  “It’s none of your business.”

  “Is something wrong?”

  “Nothing is wrong.”

  Bella fled to the living room without replenishing her drink. Ruby Jane followed.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Nothing.” Bella went to the stereo, hesitated, then she sank down on the couch and put her hand to her forehead. No Shostakovich, thank god.

  “Why is Jimmie going to Eaton?”

  “He’s not going to Eaton.”

  “So you know where he’s going.”

  “It’s none of your business.”

  “He’s too young to buy your liquor.”

  “Ruby Jane Whittaker, watch your mouth!”

  Her mother rattled her glass, realized it held only ice cubes and maraschino cherry stems. She opened the video tape cabinet under the TV. A half-empty pint of Jim Beam was tucked among Jimmie’s Miami Vice recordings. Bella splashed bourbon into her glass, sipped, added a little more. She held the glass to her forehead for a moment before returning to the couch.

  “Why isn’t Jimmie off partying with the blockheads?”

  “Who says he isn’t?”

  “He went to Eaton.”

  “He didn’t go to Eaton.”

  “Where did he go, then?”

  Bella sipped her whiskey. “He’s running an errand for me.”

  “Where?”

  “Not Eaton.”

  “West Alex? There’s nothing in West Alex.”

  The remnants of ice in her glass pinged as Bella’s hands trembled. She refused to meet Ruby Jane’s stare.

  “What are you making him do?”

  Bella had never been a pill-popper like Dale. Her father spent his days awash in Benzedrine, boozed after work to dull the edge, then chased sixteen hours of toxic soup with Seconal when he returned home at night. Perhaps Bella had sampled from Dale’s stash and discovered an affinity for the speedball express. But would she send Jimmie to score for her?

  With Bella, anything was possible.

  “Don’t you have friends, Ruby Jane?”

  “Where’s Jimmie?”

  “You’re boring. Go away.”

  Ruby Jane threw up her hands. “Fine. I’ll go for a run.”

  “Where? Where are you going to run?”

  “What do you care?”

  Bella didn’t answer right away. She swallowed bourbon, slouched into the couch as Rachmaninoff emoted. “It’s too dark to go running on the country roads. Besides, it’s going to rain.”

  “I’ll wear my reflectors.”

  “I forbid it.”

  Ruby Jane ran in the dark half the year. Her mother had never shown the slightest concern in the past.

  “Whatever. See ya later.”

  Her mother didn’t move. Ruby Jane went upstairs and put on shorts and a singlet. After she changed, Ruby Jane looked through her bedroom window. Outside, the street was empty except for Jimmie’s Vega parked in front of the house. How long had it been? Half an hour? She turned to the driveway, but her mother’s rusted red Caprice was parked at an angle in front of the garage. She frowned. Maybe someone picked him up. As loud as the Stan Kenton had been, she wouldn’t have heard a car unless it plowed through the front door.

  Downstairs, the music stopped. A moment later, Bella stumbled against the telephone stand in the front hall, then climbed the stairs and continued down the hall. The Studio door clicked shut. Probably done for the night. At least she hadn’t peered through Ruby Jane’s door pretending to be someone’s mother. Sleep tight, baby girl. Don’t let the bedbugs bite. Ruby Jane went to her doorway and listened. From behind her mother’s closed door, she heard a strange, foreign sound.

  Crying.

  Bella had never been one to waste tears on an empty room. Hers was a life lived on an imagined stage, Blanche Dubois yanked from a New Orleans terrace, Scarlett O’Hara airlifted against a matte-painted plantation backdrop and dropped in all her dramatic glory onto the streets of Farmersville. Bella Denlinger didn’t cry behind closed doors.

  Ruby Jane changed from shorts to jeans and pulled a hooded sweatshirt over her singlet. Erratic thoughts churned through her like muddy water down a sink hole. She ran down the stairs and out the front door, didn’t pause for a jacket.

  A dark shape hunched behind the Vega’s wheel. “Jimmie!” He turned, his face a pale oval among shadows. She felt a flash of relief, but at the sight of her he scrabbled at the steering column. The starter clicked and screamed. She called his name again. The Vega’s capricious engine roared to life. She was already turning back as he p
ulled away. Into the house, down the hallway. Fear hammered in her chest. She spilled the contents of her mother’s purse across the kitchen counter and grabbed the car keys. Ruby Jane didn’t have her license; she didn’t care. She banged through the back door. From the house, her mother shouted. Ruby Jane lunged to the Caprice, cracked her forehead on the doorframe. Blinded by shattering light, she fell into the seat and found the ignition with her hands.

  “Ruby! Don’t you dare—!”

  The rain began as she turned the key. She blinked tears from her eyes and dropped the shifter into reverse. The rear wheels threw gravel and the muffler shrieked across the curb. She threw the car into gear and stomped on the gas. Bella appeared in the street behind her, arms flailing. She stumbled and fell—Wyeth’s Christina in the field. Moments later, Ruby Jane had looped through town and headed west on Gratis Road, following the bouncing red will-o’-the-wisp of Jimmie’s taillights.

  - 15 -

  First Day of School, September 1988

  “You’d think your brother could stop by on his way back.”

  It was six-thirty, a grey morning—the first day of school. Ten days after she chased Jimmie into a stormy night.

  “He’s got a lot to do. His classes start on Monday.”

  “He found time to drive to the Jersey shore with his no account friends.”

  Jimmie hadn’t gone to New Jersey. That had been his excuse for leaving home early.

  “I would have done his laundry. He must have brought lots of laundry back from the beach.” Bella hadn’t done laundry since Ruby Jane grew tall enough to reach the dials on the washing machine. “He stopped at your grandparents’ house, but he couldn’t be bothered with saying goodbye to me.”

  “Why did he do that?”

  “How should I know? They were in London. Dorothy fixed him breakfast, and then he left.”

  Dorothy was the live-in cook. Ruby Jane didn’t want to know why Jimmie visited their grandparents’ house during his pretend trip to New Jersey, but if all he got was breakfast, maybe it didn’t matter. “What do you want me to say?”

  “Nothing. Why should you say anything? You always defend him. What chance do I stand against that?”