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She shrugged.

  “Not recently?”

  Grabel’s hands rested on the table. He waited. Overhead she heard a sudden scrabbling. A moment later, dozens of starlings descended past the window. Their strange, boiling motion and frantic screeching sent a trill of anxiety through her. Something about them was like Grabel, the ice in his voice, the liquid movement of the flesh hanging beneath his chin. His impenetrable indifference to anything except his own foreordained trajectory. She wanted to shout at him to read his fucking file, to listen to his own fucking officer.

  Nash already told the dried-up fucker Jimmie was in Bowling Green.

  Or was he?

  The thought hit her like a brick.

  Tell me about your family, grandmother, grandparents. How did you parents meet? A line of questions all leading to Dale, sure. She understood that. But then, just as they were getting to the heart of her father’s disappearance, Grabel shifts to Jimmie. She sat up, tried to read Grabel’s thoughts in the tracery of capillaries and crevices on his face.

  Even now, Jimmie might be in a room nearby, awaiting his turn to tell Grabel the story of his life. Or perhaps Grabel had already taken a run at him, badgered him, tricked him, broken him down.

  Jimmie wasn’t as strong as she was. He’d crumble at the first hint of pressure. They wouldn’t even have to play it heavy, simply insinuate she’d already given him up. Separate rooms, separate lies. Manipulate both until one confessed.

  Jimmie may have watched all those cop shows, didn’t mean he’d learned anything.

  She was almost disappointed they hadn’t tried the same stunt on her. We’ve already talked to James. He said you did it.

  Did what, Detective Pervert?

  That’s where she had them. Jimmie didn’t know.

  Even if he was sitting next door, even if he was babbling and crying and laying bare his soul, it didn’t matter. Because whatever he thought he knew was wrong.

  “Nothing to say?”

  All this effort, but break it down and what did anyone know? Clarice had a barrel of pissed off and some drunk talk. Bella could say only so much before she incriminated herself. And Jimmie, whatever he thought he remembered ended before the night was finished.

  All she had to do was wait them out. She smiled at him.

  But then he smiled back. “Fine. In that case, why don’t you tell me about your grandmother’s missing emerald ring?”

  - 29 -

  Stormy Night, August 1988

  The rain soaked her clothes and her scream died in thunder rolling across the fields. A memory surfaced like a bubble of gas in an overgrown pond. September or October—burnished leaves still clung to the sugar maple in the backyard—a Saturday morning. The dishwasher had broken again, and the dishes had piled high enough she was forced to eat her Cheerios from the one-quart liquid measure. After she ate, she started washing, the only one who would. Whittaker tolerance for mushrooming disorder was legendary.

  She stared out the window over the sink while she scrubbed, the peeling olive paint on the garage a reflection of her thoughts. She hummed tuneless renditions of Q-102’s latest obsessions: Madonna, Gloria Estefan, “Man in the Mirror” so many times in involuntary repetition she wanted to shove Michael Jackson off a cliff. As the soapsuds died she tried to force her attention onto something—anything—else. The cough of the fridge’s dying compressor, the scent of lemon Joy, the advance of mildew along the baseboards. Bella on the phone.

  It was a typical call: town gossip, her unappreciated art. Ruby Jane half-listened, grateful for something to combat pop earworms but otherwise disinterested in Bella’s prattling. When she mentioned Jimmie, Ruby Jane’s ears perked up. The phone cord stretched from its wall mount below the stairs to one end of the house or the other. Bella walked a circuit, phone tucked between jaw and shoulder as she gesticulated in unseen emphasis to her confederate in gossip. Bella avoided the kitchen, but as Ruby Jane’s hands pruned she picked up snippets of conversation on her mother’s loop through the dining room.

  “Tell me about it … James, yes, both these goddamn kids, but especially James …”

  Ruby Jane rinsed a plate, scraped at the scummed surface of another with her fingernail.

  “… you have to know … exactly. You have to know what buttons to push— … right, exactly.”

  Bella’s feet padded across the cracked and fading linoleum in the hall. Dale often talked about ripping out the linoleum and refinishing the oak he was certain he’d find underneath.

  “—what I’m saying is James is the weak one … yes … he thinks he’s tough …”

  Ruby Jane dropped a glass, heard it crack against the stainless steel basin.

  “… comes down to it, he’s the one I can—”

  Hidden by murky water, the broken glass sliced into her finger. Bella insisted it was a scratch, but she rode her bike to the urgent care clinic in Germantown anyway. Five stitches and a tetanus booster.

  But she thought back to Bella’s unfinished conversation now as Jimmie stood trembling beside her. Hunched over, forearms on her knees, she could feel him in the dark, hear his quiet whimpers.

  “Roo?”

  The stink of vomit at her feet assaulted her nostrils. She wiped her mouth on her sweatshirt sleeve. Her eyes were adjusting to the darkness at last. She could see his face now. Darting eyes, mottled cheeks. His mouth hung open, as if he had no strength to lift his jaw. He looked like something found growing in a damp basement.

  He reached for her. “What am I going to do?” His voice quaked.

  “Keep that away—” But the gun remained at his side. His empty hand hung between them.

  “You gotta fix this, Roo.”

  She shuddered and turned away, found herself facing Dale’s truck. “What I gotta do is get help.” Her stomach lurched again, but she bit back the rising bile and drew shaky breath.

  “Roo, please—” He scooted around in front of her. “They’ll put me in jail. I can’t go to jail over him.”

  She listened to the murmuring rain. “Maybe he’s okay.” The words sounded hollow.

  “He’s not okay!” His reckless agitation buzzed in the night air. “Look at him. Aw, fuck, Roo. Look at him.”

  Ruby Jane didn’t want to look at him. She could smell gunpowder in the air, a dark base note under the scent of rain and green corn.

  “Jimmie …” She fought back another wave of nausea.

  “You weren’t supposed to know. I was supposed to—” He shook his head, harder and harder.

  “Jimmie—”

  “You weren’t supposed to be here. I didn’t …” He turned to her suddenly. “You gotta do something.”

  “What can I do?”

  “You’ve always been smarter than me.”

  “No.”

  “It’s true. Even Mom says so.”

  “Bella is full of shit.” Then the realization struck her, bright and sudden as lightning.

  James is the weak one.

  Bella had been planning this for months.

  Ruby Jane knew whatever passion or defiance brought her mother and father together had long since eroded into malice. Dale saw himself as tragic and unappreciated, a man who worked his ass off to provide for a pack of ingrates. In Bella’s mind, Dale was resigned to a life at the margins, the needs and hopes of his family—of his wife—be damned. A theatrical demand for a divorce was long overdue.

  Instead, Bella had drifted into darker territory. Perhaps, after so many years of rebellion, she worried her parents would not welcome her back into the Denlinger fold. Dead Dale might offer more certainty, especially if there was insurance. For the cost of a single bullet Bella could receive a substantial payout and solve the problem of Dale all at once, without the muss and bother of what would surely be a bitter split. Drop the fucker and cash the check.

  And besides, grieving widow looked a hell of a lot better than booze-addled divorcée.

  Jimmie’s visit to Bella’s room earlier that evening wouldn’
t have been his first. Even the pliable blockhead would need more than a single brainwashing session in The Studio to convince him to take a step so drastic. Ruby Jane pictured it unfolding over many months. Whispered confidences and assurances, promises of support no matter what happened.

  “People have the right to protect themselves. The way your father treats you, …” Swoon.

  If anyone had cause to hate Dale, Jimmie did. Ruby Jane had iced no end of Jimmie’s bruises, cleaned and bandaged no end of cuts—all by Dale’s hand. But left to himself, his feelings would never amount to more than a brooding enmity.

  “Roo …?”

  Jimmie stared, dead-eyed and helpless. In a week, he was supposed to leave for college, free at last of the stultifying weight of life on West Walnut. He couldn’t wait. Dorm living, frat parties, college girls—a new world. He planned to major in business, learn how to get rich. He even joked about taking care of Ruby Jane someday. Big brother looking out for his little sis. One more week and he’d be free.

  While she was stuck here two more years.

  Her eyes flooded. The big, dumb blockhead.

  “Jimmie, I need you to think. What did Bella tell you to do?”

  The question seemed to make no sense to him.

  “What were you supposed to do after—” She shuddered. “After this.”

  “After—?” His breath smelled of Jim Beam.

  “Damn it, focus. Did you have a plan? What did she tell you to do?”

  “I don’t know, Roo.” He hung his head, as if more ashamed of having no answer than shooting Dale. “She never said anything about …” He swallowed. “… after.”

  An icy calm came over her. Bella had set Jimmie up. She expected him to get caught. Should Jimmie try to implicate her, assuming she hadn’t already convinced him it was all his idea, Bella would feign shock and innocence. “I don’t know what he’s told you, but I would never suggest such a thing to my son.” The drunken bitch was a master of deflection.

  The rain picked up. Broad flashes of lightning on the horizon resolved into distinct bolts to the north. The worst of the storm would pass them by, and with that thought the solution came to her in a long roll of thunder.

  “Give me the gun.”

  - 30 -

  Mid-Season, February 1989

  “How many times have you been here, Ruby?”

  “I don’t know.” Her neck hurt. Her legs hurt. Her whole body ached during the season. She wasn’t getting enough sleep, and not enough roadwork.

  “I do. Your next offense means a one-day suspension.”

  “Just because I swear at Clarice.”

  “It’s not only that.”

  It wasn’t Mrs. Parmelee’s week for detention duty, but she’d come to Mister Halstead’s room and pulled Ruby Jane out. Apparently the higher powers had chosen Mrs. Parmelee as Ruby Jane’s unofficial head shrinker. They went to Mrs. Parmelee’s room, sat under the Cézanne print.

  “Ruby, if you get a suspension you have to sit out a game.”

  “Shit happens.”

  “Ruby …” The compressed lips.

  “Sorry.” But then she shook her head. “Is everyone afraid I’m going to miss a damn game? Is that why we’re here?”

  “No one’s worried about that. Not even Coach.”

  “Now that I don’t believe.”

  Mrs. Parmelee smiled, conceding the point. Ruby Jane almost laughed. But then Mrs. Parmelee’s expression grew serious. “Honestly, I’m worried how you’re holding up. I know things are tough at home—”

  “That’s not it.”

  She instantly regretted the interruption. Mrs. Parmelee sat back and scrutinized the print on the bulletin board. The air felt as thick as syrup. A hot constriction formed behind Ruby Jane’s breastbone.

  After a long, taut moment, Mrs. Parmelee stirred. “I’ve seen you looking at this. Do you like Cézanne?”

  “I guess.”

  “It’s from a difficult time in his life.” Mrs. Parmelee gazed at the painting for a moment, then closed her eyes. “Not that he ever made things easy for himself.” It felt like an accusation. She opened her eyes again. Ruby Jane looked away.

  “I don’t believe I ever mentioned my ex-husband. Walter Parmelee.”

  Ruby Jane couldn’t imagine Mrs. Parmelee with a life outside of school—she was part of the Valley View infrastructure, had been for eons. Ex-husband? The notion didn’t make sense. Ruby Jane shook her head.

  “No, of course not. There would be no reason. One’s personal life is not the sort of thing one discusses with students.”

  “I guess not.”

  “But we’ve become more than student and teacher, don’t you think?”

  Ruby Jane thought of her other detentions. “Sure, yeah.”

  “Walter wasn’t a kind man. I shouldn’t say was. It’s not like he’s dead. He lives in Boston with his new wife.”

  “You kept his name.”

  “A matter of professional convenience.”

  “What happened?”

  “The specifics aren’t important. What is important is that I suffered through ten years of a very bad marriage, one I entered into too young and for the wrong reasons. Walter was cold. He could become violent if things didn’t go his way.”

  Mrs. Parmelee paused and swallowed, then attempted a quick smile. Ruby Jane saw a tremor in her hand when she brushed a stray hair off her forehead. Ruby Jane turned back to Bibemus Quarry. She was unaccustomed to seeing adults vulnerable, unless she counted drunk off their ass as vulnerable.

  “My brother is a district attorney for Montgomery County. He explained to Walter how far a motivated prosecutor can go in cases of spousal abuse. Roger helped me break away before the situation grew too dangerous.”

  Ruby Jane looked at her. The skin around her eyes felt tight.

  “What I’m trying to say is I know how difficult it is when someone who should love and protect you chooses to hurt you instead. Self-doubt and guilt overwhelm you. You blame yourself for the cruelty you suffer. You come to believe you deserve it. Why would they treat you so badly otherwise? I understand these feelings. And I understand not everyone has the choices I had. Sometimes you must take matters into your own hands.”

  “Mrs. Parmelee, I—”

  “Please, don’t tell me anything.” She gripped Ruby Jane’s forearm. “Don’t tell anyone anything.”

  Ruby Jane wanted to pull free. To run, to hide. She imagined a shadowy crevice in Bibemus to which she could flee. She supposed Mrs. Parmelee was trying to comfort her, to let her know she wasn’t alone. Perhaps even offer a measure of absolution. But Ruby Jane couldn’t help but wonder how many others had made the same astute guess about what she had done to her father, and why.

  - 31 -

  Interview, April 1989

  Her eyelids hung at half-mast but Ruby Jane wasn’t ready to sleep. Grammy Whittaker sat on Ruby Jane’s bed and gazed at the dark window. Outside, colored lights glowed in the night, Jimmie’s attempt to add a little holiday cheer to the house. A few of the thumb-sized bulbs were burned out, but Ruby Jane didn’t mind. Left to Dale and Bella, the place would look like Scrooge’s counting house.

  Grammy stirred. “Ruby, I want to give you something.”

  “But it’s not officially Christmas for another half hour.”

  Her grandmother stood up and patted Ruby Jane’s folded hands. “This isn’t a Christmas present.” She crossed the room to her suitcase. When she returned to the bed and sat down, she offered Ruby Jane a small black box.

  “What is it?”

  “Open it.”

  The box was soft and worn, with rounded corners: a jewelry box. Ruby Jane lifted the lid. A gasp escaped her lips. Inside, nestled in velvet, was her grandmother’s emerald ring. The large, square-cut green stone was surrounded by diamonds and set in gold. Her grandmother wore it on special occasions.

  “This is … you can’t mean this for me.”

  “It’s always been meant for
you.”

  “But … not now.”

  “No, not until I die. It’s in my will.”

  “I don’t want you to die.”

  “Oh, sweetie, don’t fret about that. I just wanted to tell you about the ring. It’s been in my family for a long time, passed down from mother to daughter. But I don’t have a daughter and, well, you and me both know your mother barely puts up with me. Anyway, your daddy would probably sell it. So I’m passing it to you.” She smiled. “Would you like to hold it?”

  She’d never known Grammy to let anyone else touch the ring, legacy of better times for the Whittakers. Now only Grammy, and this lone heirloom, remained of what Ruby Jane had heard was once a large and wealthy clan. She reached out her hand. “Yes, please.”

  “Put it on.”

  “It’s loose.”

  “My old, arthritic knuckles, that’s why. You can get it resized when the time comes.”

  “It’s beautiful.”

  “That it is, sweetie, even more beautiful on your hand.”

  The ring felt warm on Ruby Jane’s finger.

  “It’s like it was made for you.”

  “I don’t know what to say. Thank you.”

  “You don’t need to say anything more than that. All I ask is that you pass it on to your own daughter.”

  Ruby Jane blushed. She’d never thought about having a daughter, let alone imagined herself part of a legacy. She knew nothing of her grandmother’s past, but as green gem flashed on her hand, she felt the sudden weight of history stretching out behind her.

  “Objects have memories, you know. This ring carries the memories of all those who have worn it, the good and the bad. I hope you give it lots of good memories.”

  “Me too, Grammy.”

  “Now come here and give me a kiss, and then go get some sleep. Early comes early, you know. And that brother of yours is all in a tizzy at the possibility there’s a Walkman under the tree.”

  “Is there?”

  “Oh, probably.”

  Ruby Jane returned the ring to her grandmother’s hand. She kissed Grammy’s cheek, then went downstairs to the couch. Under the glittering light of the Christmas tree Ruby Jane thought about the ring and all the Whittaker women who’d worn it. Soon she drifted off, never dreaming this would be her grandmother’s last Christmas, or Grammy’s plan for the ring would fail.