Ear-Witness (9 page)

Then suddenly, too suddenly, his hands were all over me, totally out of control. His lips turned hard, and pushed against my teeth, and his tongue choked me. I shoved him away.

“What's wrong?” he said. He didn't sound happy.

“You're hurting me!”

“I am? How?”

“Your mouth. Everything.” I struggled to my feet, but he followed, holding my arm, holding it too tight. Bricks dug into my back as he squashed me into the wall.

He groaned. “You don't want to?” he said.

His hands grabbed roughly at my clothes and his breathing was funny, like he'd just run a race. I felt wild and scared and wonderful and dizzy, all mixed up together. I thought about Kelly, how far she was ahead of me, knowing everything, all the mysteries of sex. Almost all the mysteries. I wondered which of us would stop being a virgin first.

“C'mon, Jess,” he said. His voice was low and smooth and pleading. “Let's do it. It'll be so nice. You'll love it.”

As he squeezed against me, something hard pressed into my belly button. “I don't think I'm ready for this,” I said.

“It won't hurt. And I'll be careful, I promise.”

Careful. That word. It stung me.

“No,” I said. “I don't want to.”

I needed Kelly, needed her badly, and Carlos hadn't been gone two minutes before I was on the phone, looking for her. I had all these questions, and who could I ask but her?

Lately, every time I needed her, she wasn't there, and this was no different. She wasn't there that Friday night, she wasn't there Saturday, and she wasn't there Sunday. No one was, so they were all away somewhere. And on Monday, she cut school.

When classes were over I crossed Queen at Jameson, headed west for a block, then north. It's a quieter neighbourhood than where we live, and there are fewer people. Probably because there are hardly any apartment buildings.

Three blocks north of Queen I turned into a small house with a large porch. It was a pretty nice place, if you could ignore the Pain. The Pain's real name is Melissa, and she's ten.

Kelly wasn't at home. The Pain was, and so was Mrs. Curran.

“I don't know, Jess,” she said. “Kelly's spending an awful lot of time with that Joey person. Did you miss her at school?”

“Uh, we hardly ever have the same classes, Mrs. Curran,” I said. This was true, sort of.

“She skipped, didn't she?” the Pain said.

Mrs. Curran shook her head from side to side. “That girl will be the death of me, I'm sure,” she said. “And if she isn't, missy, you will be. Now scoot. Upstairs with you. I want to talk to Jess.”

“She won't tell you anything,” the Pain said. “She and Kelly have secrets.”

“You'll stay, won't you, Jess? I'll just put the kettle on and we'll have a nice chat.”

Mrs. Curran's idea of a nice chat was quizzing me about Kelly. “Uh I have to make supper,” I said. This was true. I mean, I don't
have
to make it, but it's what I do. “I just wanted to borrow a book,” I said. “But I'll catch her tomorrow.”

The Pain hung over the stairs, then stretched one leg down along the banister, as if it was a parallel bar. “You'll catch her tomorrow
if
she goes to school,” she said.

On my way home I crossed Queen again, then cut through the schoolyard beside the gym. I was thinking so hard about Kelly, and about why she didn't want to be friends with me any more, that I almost crashed right into Carlos. Carlos and a girl. They were standing on the sidewalk just a few feet in front of me, too busy kissing to notice anyone but each other. The girl had long, very dark hair, tight jeans, and a perfect body. I hated her.

I hated him even more. I wished I'd never laid eyes on him. I wished I never had to see him again in my whole life.

I backed up, around the corner of the building. What I really wanted to do was scream, right there in the school yard, just scream and scream and scream. My eyes were squeezed shut and my fingernails were digging into the soft part of my palms. I was leaning back against the outside wall of the gym. Carlos couldn't see me, but other people could. I took a deep gasping breath, and then I took another. I felt awful, worse than I'd ever felt in my whole life, like I'd just had a barbecue skewer stuck through my heart, but I knew I'd feel even worse if I saw anybody I knew. It was time to get out of there. I slipped around the corner of the school and ran home the other way.

I would have told Kelly everything, every intimate detail, if she'd been around. Maybe having no friends was a good thing. At least I didn't have to be embarrassed in front of anybody except myself. And him.

Jon worked Saturday mornings, so he was coming over Saturday afternoon to talk about the murder.

The apartment was a mess. Cleaning it is Mom's job, not mine, but I picked up the newspapers, took out the garbage and did the dishes. Jon lived in a really nice-looking house, with only one mailbox. I didn't think he was the kind of person who'd let that sort of thing matter, but a quick tidy-up wouldn't hurt.

I changed into clean jean cut-offs and a black T-shirt. Then I sat at the table and made some notes about the murder. I started writing down everything I could remember that didn't make sense.

Jon was one minute early. When he lowered his backpack to the floor, he looked around the room, then moved over to the couch, towards the portrait of me that Raffi painted.

“Who did it?” he said.

“A friend of my mom's. Her boyfriend, actually. He took some pictures, and did most of it from them. I only had to sit for him a couple of times.”

“It's good.”

I waved my arm towards the table. “Want to sit down?”

While I took two cans of pop from the fridge, he fished around in his pack. “Here,” he said, and handed me some newspaper clippings. “You probably saw these.”

They were write-ups about the murder, and I hadn't. I read them quickly. They didn't say anything I didn't know.

“There are so many strange things going on,” I said. I shifted the notes I'd made across the table so they lay between us. “I wrote some of them down. Most of them have to do with Tammi,” I said.

“She's the wife, was the wife, of Ray, who got killed.” I ticked off the important points on my fingers: the fight, the heavy body falling to the floor while it was still dark, Tammi crying and talking to someone for such a long time after that.

“Wow!” he said. “So she was there when her husband was murdered? Then she knows who did it!”

“She has to know, but she sure isn't telling. And what she is telling has to be the biggest bunch of lies I've ever heard. First, she said she didn't see the guy, that Ray had so many visitors she never even bothered to see who was there. And Ray never had visitors, never. Second, she said she didn't even know Ray was dead until she woke up in the morning.”

“After she was crying all night? After the big fight?”

“Yeah.”

“Wow,” he said. “You think she did it? Did she like this guy or what?”

I shrugged. “Yes and no,” I said. “He beat her up at least once, and was really sarcastic, but ...”

“But...”

“This is sort of embarrassing.”

“If we're serious about what we're doing, we have to say what we think. Besides, I'll probably be more embarrassed than you.”

I laughed, but just a little, because I could see that was probably true. “They banged away on their bed a lot, like it would hit the wall when they were ... you know. Which was almost every night. I wasn't
listening
, but I couldn't help hearing.”

A faint tinge of colour stained his cheeks. “So she liked him. Do you think she could have killed him?”

“No. Partly because she's so little and he was a really big guy, but also because of the fight with the other man. I'm sure he did it, whoever he is. The other strange thing is that Tammi doesn't seem very upset. I mean, if the person you were married to was killed, wouldn't you be really broken up about it? A week later, this woman was going to bingo!”

Jon looked serious. “They must have really loved each other once. Too bad, eh?”

“Yeah. Like my parents. My mom hates my father.” I heard my words, but I couldn't believe I'd said them. I never talked about my father to my friends. Never.

Jon looked sad, but he didn't say anything. That was good, because if he had, I probably would have started crying. I almost did anyway.

“There's a lot more weird stuff about this murder,” I said. “I didn't have time to write everything down.”

“So tell me.” He leaned back in the chair, tilting it dangerously. His legs stretched right to the other side of the table.

“Well, after the murder, Tammi went to visit her friend, for, I don't know, just a few days. When she came back she'd changed her style. Totally changed it. You'd hardly know she was the same person. I mean, she looks like my mother now.”

“What was her style before?”

“Oh, hot stuff! Hair sticking out all over the place, like she went to bed when it was wet, and never combed it in the morning. And her clothes! Spike heels, really short skirts, plunging necklines.” It was my turn to blush this time. Jon didn't seem to notice.

“She wouldn't want to dress like that now. She's in mourning.”

“Maybe. I don't know. She's dressed like a widow, but she doesn't seem particularly sad. She seems like herself, but in different clothes.”

“That isn't necessarily a clue, is it?”

“I think not being upset is a clue. My mom thinks she's scared, or at least she was when she first came back. I don't think she is, but I have to tell you another long story to explain that.”

“This is so exciting. Don't you feel kind of nervous with all that going on underneath you?”

I laughed my best woman-of-the-world laugh, and ran my hand through my hair. “Just wait until you hear the rest of it,” I said.

I started by telling him about the night Flavia and I babysat. But I had to interrupt that to tell him about the Orellana family and how Sheena (I had to explain about her too) thinks they're hiding something. It took the best part of an hour before I'd explained everything well enough.

“So that's it,” I said. “So far.”

“Wow! You were right. The whole thing is pretty wild. What gets me most is that Tammi wasn't scared to go back to the apartment after that guy broke in. And didn't call the cops.”

Sometimes when you tell somebody something, you understand it better yourself. “You know what?” I said. “Tammi and that killer are in this together.”

“Ah,” Jon said. “A triangle. The boyfriend who killed the husband to get the wife.”

I sat still for a minute, thinking. “It all comes together,” I said. “If she knows him, and is protecting him, everything makes sense. It explains why she wasn't killed, even though she probably witnessed what happened.”

“And the talking and the crying in the night. That's because he was still there!”

“She didn't call the cops until morning, to give him time to get away!”

“Of course,” Jon said. “But if he's her boyfriend, why did he need to break in the night you were babysitting?”

“And why did he turn off the power? Assuming it was him.” I added.

We sat there, sort of looking at each other, but not really actually looking because our eyes weren't focusing on anything. Then Jon grinned. “I've got it,” he said. “So nobody would see him come to visit, of course.”

“But we haven't figured out why he broke in.”

“How about this? He expected her to be there, and she wasn't, so rather than hang around where he could be seen, he went in. And found you.”

“Yes,” I said. “And she didn't call the cops!”

“And isn't scared to stay there.”

“You know what?” I said. “I just realized something else. Something happened the night after the break-in, well, it was the same night really. Mom was at work, so I was alone. My nerves were totally fractured because of everything that happened, and I wasn't sleeping very well. I thought I was sort of dreaming and waking up, but now I wonder if I was really asleep at all. Anyhow, what I think I heard was somebody coming up the back stairs, and then these banging noises, which seemed sort of familiar. But if that guy is Tammi's boyfriend, and he really came back, after hiding out in the basement, the noises I heard could have been ...”

Jon said it for me. “The bed hitting the wall. She must really like bed-bangers.”

I shrugged. “I don't know anything about stuff like that.”

“Neither do I,” he said. “I'd have to know somebody really, really well to ..., you know, do that.”

“That's how I feel too,” I said.

It was warm outside, but the school was cold, and dank. I was wearing a white long-sleeved cotton shirt with the big cuffs rolled back. There were goose-bumps on my arms.