The Other Side of Dark (13 page)

In a short time we park in the driveway to my house. Jeff leads me up to the front steps, takes the key from my purse, and opens the door. I look at him and gulp. Now what do I do? Will he just say good night? What if he kisses me? I’m terrified that he might, but at the same time I desperately hope that he will.

A rectangle of light suddenly spills from the open front door of the Cooper house, and Mrs. Cooper steps out.

“Is that you, Stacy?”

“Yes, Mrs. Cooper,” I call back.

“Your father said you’d be at a party. When I heard a car, I thought I’d check.”

“I came home early,” I tell her.

“Are you all right?”

“Just tired.” I remember my manners. “This is a friend of mine—Jeff Clinton. Jeff, our neighbor, Mrs. Cooper.”

They nod at each other, but Mrs. Cooper doesn’t go inside. She stands there, watching, as Jeff hands me the key and a scrap of paper.

“My phone number’s written on that,” he says. “You might want it sometime.”

“Thanks,” I answer. I wish Mrs. Cooper wouldn’t stare at us. “Would you like to come inside?”

From the corners of his eyes he glances at Mrs. Cooper and smiles. “What would your watchdog say about that?”

“I don’t care. I—I wish you’d look through the house to make sure no one’s there. I’d feel a lot safer.”

“No one’s there, but if you’ll feel better about it, I’ll check it out.”

I start toward the door with him, but he says, “Stay here. Your watchdog will protect you.”

I lean against the rough brick and smile at Mrs. Cooper. “He’s checking the house for me,” I tell her.

She nods. “Good idea.” She still doesn’t go inside.

I feel as though I should be making conversation, so I stammer something about what a warm night it is, and she quickly agrees. I’m relieved when Jeff appears in the doorway.

“Everything’s okay,” he says. “Call Detective Markowitz as soon as you’re in the house.”

“How did you know his name?”

“You told me.”

“I did? Oh. I did. You have a good memory.”

“Yes,” Jeff says. “I do.” Even with Mrs. Cooper watching he leans down and kisses my forehead. “You’ll be okay now,” he tells me.

As he starts down the walk toward his car I shut the door and lock it, then lean against it, thinking about what a nice guy Jeff is. But why is he such a mysterious person in some ways? He doesn’t want to talk about
himself. Why? And what did he mean about people not always being what they seem to be?

A thought breaks through the fuzzy fog that has settled on my brain. I realize that Jeff didn’t ask me my address. He didn’t ask where I lived. But he came here as though he had been here before.

I hear the whispery voice on the phone, the voice that mumbled, “Yes, I have a friend.”

What if Jeff is Jarrod’s friend?

Detective Markowitz calls me before I can call him. “I got the word on your identification,” he says. “They told me that someone at your party phoned it in.”

“Yes. I think it was Jeff. A lot of what happened is kind of mixed up in my mind.”

There’s a pause, and his voice is deeper, quieter. “How about the identification, Stacy? Could that be mixed up too?”

“No. I’m sure. I’m very sure.” Then I tell him everything that happened.

“I’ve got his record in front of me,” he says. “Minor stuff. A couple of charges on possession of drugs, but because of his age he was given probation.”

“But he’s a murderer!”

“That’s what we’ll have to prove.”

“He is! I told you! He is!”

“Take it easy, Stacy. I believe you.”

“What are you going to do now? Are you going to try to find Jarrod?”

“There are a number of things to do,” he answers.
“I’m working on them. I’ll get back to you tomorrow. You okay?”

“Yes. I’m okay.”

“Don’t worry about anything. It’s up to us for now.”

I remember that Jeff said my house would be the last place Jarrod would come to, but I can’t help asking Markowitz, “What if Jarrod comes here?”

“He won’t,” he answers. “Go to bed. Get some sleep.”

“Are you sure?”

“Stacy,” he says, and I can tell he’s trying to be patient and is probably tired and wishes he could be home in bed. “As I told you, I’ll get back to you tomorrow.”

When I put down the receiver, the house seems awfully quiet, as if it’s listening along with me. I shake my head. No. I can’t frighten myself like this. I’ll read a book. I’ll watch something on television. I know what I’ll do. I’ll take a shower.

A shower is a perfect idea. The water is hot and strong. I take a deep breath, then tilt my face up under the shower head, so that the steamy water beats against my forehead. When I can’t hold my breath any longer, I twist and duck, letting the force of the water massage my neck and shoulders. It’s warm in here and comfortable, and I wish I could stay here for an hour. But finally I turn off the water and stretch for a towel that’s on the nearest rack.

The silence in the steam-filled room makes me nervous. I’d forgotten that with the noise of the shower and
the bathroom door closed, I wouldn’t be able to hear anything else in the house.

But what would there be to hear?

In the distance the telephone rings.

I fumble with my pajamas and robe, scrambling into them, accidentally turning a sleeve of my robe wrong side out in my haste. I jab at the inside-out sleeve, nearly ripping it as I manage to get it in place so I can pull on the robe.

My hand is on the knob of the bathroom door when I realize that the phone rang only once. That’s funny.

Open the door. Don’t move. Wait. Listen.

Someone must have known it was a wrong number. Right? Or decided not to call after all. Sure. That’s it.

But just to be positive, I cautiously walk through the bedroom hallway. The lights are on in the den, just as I left them. I take another step, and a floorboard makes a snapping sound.

There’s a creaking sound in the den, a shadow against the wall, and a voice asks, “Stacy?”

“Daddy?” My voice wobbles. “Is that you?”

He appears at the other end of the hallway. “I thought you heard me come in.”

“I didn’t. I was in the shower.”

“Did I startle you, honey? I didn’t mean to.”

I run to him and hug him. “It’s okay. I didn’t expect you to get home so early.”

“The reports they sent us were incomplete, so there was no chance to do the work tonight.” He turns back to the den, where I see part of an apple on a plate
next to his chair. “I was having a snack. There are more apples in the refrigerator. Want to join me?”

“No, thanks.” I perch on the end of the sofa. “I thought I heard the telephone.”

“You probably did. One of those calls where it dawns on someone that he has the wrong number, but he doesn’t say anything and doesn’t hang up until he finally figures it out.”

“I saw him tonight, Daddy.”

“Saw who?”

“The guy who killed Mom. He was at the party. I recognized him.”

Dad gives a choking gasp, stumbles toward me, and grabs my shoulders. “What happened? What did you do? Does Detective Markowitz know?”

I hug my father tightly. It makes it easier to tell him about Jarrod and Jeff.

When I finish, Dad drops onto the sofa, next to me. “This Jeff shouldn’t have left you alone. He should have stayed with you until I came home.”

I’d thought the same thing but found myself defending Jeff. “He said I’d be all right. He did check out the house. Besides, Detective Markowitz told me the same thing.”

“Who is Jeff?” Dad asks. “Have I ever met him?”

“Daddy! He just took me home. That’s all. He said good night while Mrs. Cooper watched us, and he left.”

“Mrs. Cooper?” Dad suddenly looks guilty.

“Did you ask Mrs. Cooper to keep an eye on me?”

“Well, not exactly. The conversation came around to you, and Mrs. Cooper is one of these concerned people,
and—” He stops and sighs. “Stacy, I’m doing my best.”

“So is Mrs. Cooper!”

Dad laughs, and I have to laugh too. In a way it’s funny. “I have to admit, I was kind of glad to see her,” I tell him. “I wasn’t sure how I was supposed to say good night to Jeff.”

“With a firm handshake,” Dad says.

“Daddy!”

It’s good to hear Dad laugh. It’s good to laugh together. But the telephone rings again. Dad reaches for it.

“Hello,” he says, and pauses. “Hello? Hello?” He puts down the receiver. “Probably the same idiot.”

But I know these aren’t just wrong number calls. And I can see in Dad’s eyes that what he said was designed to put me at ease. He doesn’t believe these are wrong numbers either.

“Are you cold, Stacy? You’re shivering.”

“I guess I’m just tired,” I tell him. “I’d better get to bed.”

As soon as the dark seeps through my eyelids I can see Jarrod’s face. “I’m not going to let you ruin my life,” I whisper to those yellow eyes, “because I’m going to ruin yours!”

Saturday. Long after Dad has left for work, I stretch from strange, troubled dreams into wakefulness. Saturday mornings used to be filled with waking to sun-bright windows and the buttery-sweet fragrance of Mom’s pancakes. I almost expect to hear the purr of the lawn mower, which would become a roar as Dad guided it under my bedroom window. Tousle-headed, I’d press my face against the window, squishing my nose, and yell, “You’re making too much noise!” Dad—who would follow the game, even though he couldn’t hear me over the noise of the mower—would shout back, “Get up! Get up! You’ve slept away half the morning.”

No lawn mower, no pancakes. I make some toast to go with my glass of orange juice. At least there’s one Saturday routine I can continue. Today, after breakfast, I’ll clean the house.

As I walk into the kitchen the doorbell rings. I freeze, trying to breathe. It rings again. I force myself to shove the fear aside and go to the door. Through the peephole I see a woman standing on the porch. She’s well dressed in a denim skirt and pink knit cotton
blouse, but her youthful haircut doesn’t match the web of tiny wrinkles that stand out under the makeup around her eyes. Beyond her a large black Cadillac is parked at the curb.

I open the door and say, “Hi.”

She blinks a couple of times, then raises her chin imperiously. “May I please come in and talk to you?” she asks.

“Why? Who are you?”

“I do apologize. I assumed you would remember.” Her stare becomes even cooler. “You’re probably having a great deal of trouble remembering people from four years ago—even your neighbors. I am one of your former neighbors.”

I still must look blank because she quickly adds, “My name is Eloise Tucker. I’m Jarrod Tucker’s mother. I think we need to talk.”

I step out onto the porch, shutting the front door behind me. “Could we talk out here?”

“It’s warm outside.” Her tone is peevish. “You don’t have to be afraid of me. I simply want to talk, to clarify a few things.”

The porch isn’t large enough to have a porch swing on it, so I gesture toward the steps. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Tucker, but—”

She sighs with annoyance and settles on the top step, wrapping her skirt around her legs. I sit on the same step, only as far away from her as possible. She’s wearing a perfume that reminds me of dead roses.

She stares at her hands for a moment, then says, “It’s about the terrible, unbelievable situation you’ve
created. About your ridiculous statement that Jarrod was the person you saw in your house.”

“But he was.”

“No, dear,” she says, “you’re wrong because during that day it all happened, that particular day, Jarrod was visiting my sister in San Antonio.”

“He wasn’t.”

“My sister and a close friend of hers are going to testify that he was.”

“They’ll be lying!”

“It will be your word against theirs. It won’t do you much good to insist on your version.

“As we all see it,” she says, “when this tragic incident happened four years ago, it was a terrible shock to you. This morning my husband spoke with a noted psychiatrist who feels that it is entirely possible you may have—well, shall we say, some mental and emotional problems that are confusing you?”

I lean over, resting my elbows on my legs, clasping my hands in front of me. “Mrs. Tucker, are you trying to talk me into changing my mind, or are you threatening me?”

I suppose I expect her to get angry, but instead, she calmly says, “To quote our minister, who said he would be glad to be one of Jarrod’s character witnesses, Jarrod is a willful boy, but he wouldn’t shoot anyone.”

“He did! He shot my mother. He shot me.”

“You saw the gun. Is that right?”

“Yes.”

“You had your eyes on it.”

“I—I guess so.”

“Perhaps you were watching the gun so carefully
that you didn’t really take a good look at the face of the man who was holding it.”

“But I did!”

“That will be hard to prove.”

Now
I
feel like crying, but my tears would come from frustration, from rage. “Mrs. Tucker, no matter what you say, I
know
who was on that back porch. I
know
who shot me. And I
am
going to testify! Where is Jarrod?”

Her tone is sarcastic. “That is what my husband and I have been asked repeatedly by the police, thanks to you. Unfortunately we don’t know.” She clenches her fingers so tightly the knuckles look like shiny white knobs, and her voice lowers and softens as she adds, “He didn’t come home last night.”

I lean back against the railing around the edge of the porch and see, from the corners of my eyes, Mrs. Cooper busily sweeping her front porch. I pretend not to notice Mrs. Cooper.

A gray sedan pulls up in front of the house and parks behind the Cadillac. The driver’s door opens, and Jeff climbs out, calling “Hi, Stacy!”

“Jeff!” I jump to my feet.

Mrs. Tucker quickly gets up, leans close to me, and murmurs, “Think about what I said.”

Jeff’s long legs have brought him to the foot of the porch steps. He looks at Mrs. Tucker. For an instant I think I see a spark of recognition in his eyes before he puts on a smile and a bland look and politely says, “Hi.”

“This is—” I begin, but Mrs. Tucker, ignoring Jeff, hurries down the walk, jumps into her car, and drives away.