The Wages of Sin (16 page)

Elsie looked from the box to the principal. Ms. Key was chewing the inside of her cheek; it looked to Elsie like a painful exercise. “Can you just tell me what happened?”

The principal turned to Ivy, whose hand was still clasped in the preacher's tight grasp. “Ivy, please tell Ms. Arnold about the box.”

Ivy shook her head.

The principal softened her voice. “Please, Ivy.”

“I don't know nothing.” Ivy looked down, avoiding eye contact. Elsie saw her glance at the box of Trojans and cut her eyes away.

Reverend Albertson spoke; his voice holding a note of command. “Ivy. Tell the lawyer.”

He said lawyer like it's a dirty word,
Elsie thought.

Ivy looked up. Elsie crossed her arms on her knees, crouching so they were eye level. “You can tell me, Ivy.”

Ivy's eyes flickered to the right. “At recess, by the swings. The box was laying there. With my name.” One of her legs swung, with a new canvas shoe, the lace untied. “I can read my name.”

“Who found it? You?”

“Everybody seen it. It was by the swings.” The shoe swung back and forth, the shoe string flapping.

“Who put it there?”

Ivy shrugged. Elsie persisted. “Do you know who did it?”

When the girl didn't answer, Elsie turned to the principal for illumination. “Do you know what's going on here?”

The principal opened her mouth to respond, but Ivy spoke.

“I don't know nothing.” Elsie watched Ivy, trying to read her demeanor. Her face was closed. She didn't look like she'd been crying. But she seemed to be locked behind a wall of secrecy. Elsie had encountered that wall with young witnesses before. It was hard to break through.

The principal said, “There's been some trouble. Some teasing by the other children in class. All these things we've heard on the news—­” Her voice faded, but it was clear that she referred to the murder case and the courtroom drama involving Larry Paul.

“The sins of the mothers,” sighed Reverend Albertson. Elsie shot him a piercing look, then turned to the principal.

“Ms. Key, you think this was a first grader's prank? Because I don't see how a six-­year-­old would be buying a box of Trojans.”

The principal looked at the offending box, distress evident in her face. “But who else could do such a thing? Teasing a child like that?”

“You call that teasing?” Elsie said.

The preacher interjected, “Shaming, perhaps. That would be the better word.”

Elsie tried to get Ivy's attention. “Ivy? Who gave this to you?”

The girl looked up, her eyes hollow. “Nobody give me nothing.”

“Who showed it to you, then?”

“It was by the swings.”

Ms. Key broke in. “Her teacher questioned the class. No one saw anything, until she was holding the box. Then an older boy knew what the box was for, and there was a scene.” She sighed. “Bedlam.”

Elsie sat back in her chair. “So it's just an unsolved mystery. Well.” Picking up her purse, she pulled put her car keys. “Unless there's anything else to discuss, I guess we'll head out. Ivy, Tina Peroni said I'm supposed to drive you home.” She stood, and the principal did likewise.

Ivy remained rooted in her seat. “I want preacher to take me.”

The smug look on his face lit a contrary flame in Elsie's chest. “Hmm. Well, you know, Ivy—­Tina's your social worker, and she put me in charge. So let's get your backpack and stuff. Got to hit the road.”

The principal pawed through papers on her desk. “I wonder if I should have you sign a form.”

Ivy and Reverend Albertson remained seated, side by side. He'd resumed patting her hand. “I'll take care of you, Ivy.”

Ivy nodded, avoiding Elsie's eye.

Elsie was growing impatient. “Come on, Ivy; I'll have you home in a flash.”

“I'm going with preacher. He's supposed to keep an eye on me.”

With a frustrated exhale, Elsie surrendered. “Fine. I'll let Tina know.”

She watched the preacher lay a hand on the child's head. Ivy narrowed her eyes, but tolerated the caress without protest, her face closed.

Elsie turned to go, ignoring the warning buzz in her head. Something was off, but she didn't know what it was. Ivy's demeanor was unreadable today. She didn't know whether to attribute the girl's stony behavior to the condom box, or the principal's office, or the influence of Reverend Albertson. There was an underlying vibe that troubled Elsie.

She shook it off; she'd done her part. It was time to head to the Baldknobbers. She deserved a drink. She needed one.

 

Chapter Thirty-­One

On Wednesday afternoon,
Nell Stout drove the Buick down Delmar Street, keeping a close lookout. She had her orders. No time for waffling. Nell was a soldier, had been one all her life.

When the yellow school bus pulled up to the street corner Nell hit the brake and waited. She reached over to the passenger seat and clutched the black ski mask that she'd been instructed to bring. She saw that the price tag still dangled from it, identifying it as a purchase from the dollar store in a neighboring community. Nell pulled it off with a jerk. She'd been laying out money all week; trifling amounts, but it added up. She'd bought the condoms two days ago, the ski mask last weekend. Money didn't grow on trees, she thought; and wondered whether she'd be reimbursed for the purchases, as well as her time and trouble.

None of this was her fault. She hadn't told Larry to go at Jessie with that bat. When he'd whined about the baby in Nell's presence, she'd advised him to hush his mouth. And she'd told her boy, Bruce, a hundred times or more to keep his rod out of that woman's tail.
Don't lose your head over tail,
she'd said. She hoped to goodness he'd had the sense to wear a rubber. Everybody knew that woman was trash. Considering what they all knew, it was no wonder that Smokey pulled her out of the meatpacking plant and put her to work selling product instead. They said you couldn't catch it from food, but Nell wasn't so sure.

Nell watched as the schoolchildren filed out of the bus. A double handful of kids emerged from the open door, jumping down the steps onto the curb. She knew who would appear first: kids from the upper grades, with permanent teeth and cocky attitudes. She put her car in Park and waited for the little ones, the last to descend. Finally, Ivy walked down the steps of the bus, clutching the rail.

Nell put the Buick in gear and trailed Ivy, not worried whether the child was aware of the tail. The hour of reckoning had arrived. It wasn't her decision, not her call. She was working under direct orders from the Big Boy.

A Ford Escort turned down the corner and tore down the street, slowing as it reached the ambling cluster of schoolchildren. The car pulled directly in front of the Buick, its brake calipers squealing with the effort. The window of the Ford rolled down. “Ivy!” the driver shouted.

The child looked over at the driver, her face closing with apprehension. Nell drummed her fingers on the steering wheel, debating what to do next.

“Ivy,” the driver repeated in a friendly, singsong voice. Nell cursed under her breath as she caught a glance of the driver's face in the Ford's side mirror. It looked like that prosecutor, the one that the Big Boy hated like poison. The one everybody in town knew was blowing the big detective at the police department. Big Boy swore she would try to bring him down one day.

With a dogged expression, Nell covertly watched as Ivy approached the Ford and leaned into the passenger side window. The girl was talking to the lawyer, and Lord only knew what she might reveal. Big Boy said he wasn't about to let the operation fall apart on account of a white trash kid. There was too much at stake.

Stretching her arm to the glove compartment, Nell reached inside and pulled out a Smith & Wesson .357 revolver. She inhaled deeply. This was a fly in the ointment, complicating what should have been a simple execution. She let the gun rest in her lap and pulled out her phone, pondering whether she should text for advice, knowing he wouldn't like it.

Nell was torn. The presence of the lawyer was a wrinkle they hadn't prepared for. She could still bide her time and follow through, though it would be a whole lot harder to pull it off. The lawyer was a risk. A big fat risk. Not just to Big Boy, but to Nell personally. She had survived to the ripe old age of sixty by keeping her head down and dodging catastrophe. Watching the car ahead, she was inclined to abort the mission. To play it safe.

But she was a mother. She loved her son. And she was loyal, no question about that. Loyal to the Big Boy, just as she'd been loyal to his daddy.

With one hand on the gun and the other on the phone, she waited for inspiration.

Elsie had not
planned to meet Ivy after school. Her work hours didn't mesh with the end of the school day. After spending two days in trial, she had played a frantic game of catch-­up on Wednesday. Moreover, time spent with Ivy was no joy ride. The sight of the girl's grim face behind the broken glasses could kill a buzz on Christmas morning. That child would wipe the smile off Ronald McDonald.

But while sitting behind her desk at the courthouse that afternoon, Elsie couldn't quit thinking about the condoms. As she stared at the computer screen, she would recall the image of the box of Trojans, plastered with a yellow sticker bearing Ivy's name.

“I'm not your mama,” she would mutter, as if it was Ivy's fault that Elsie fought to banish the image from her head.

But she kept envisioning the girl, her shoe untied, her hand caught in the preacher's grasp. Elsie could sense the power the man held over Ivy, and she didn't like it. It was easy enough to understand that a recently orphaned child would attach herself to an adult who offered her kindness. But she worried that it was unhealthy, and moreover, she wondered about Albertson's motives. Because his brand of Chris­tian charity was suspect, in Elsie's book.

She wasn't getting any work done. Elsie logged onto Twitter, but no one had posted anything diverting, and she didn't dare to initiate a tweet; Madeleine frowned upon the staff dawdling on social media during work hours.

She turned back to her desk, sorting through the Larry Paul files and putting the folders in order. The file bearing the investigative photos spilled open, and she was confronted with Ivy's unsmiling image, behind the broken glasses. It was a copy of the very photo that once made Chuck Harris wet his pants.

Elsie stuck the file on the corner of her desk. “Fuck a duck,” she said. She checked the clock: it was just past 3:00 P.M. Elsie bowed to the inevitable. She would seek out Ivy, check and see whether she was okay. Once Elsie determined that all was well with the girl, she could get that picture out of her head.

She slipped out of the courthouse without a word to anyone. Ordinarily, she would have checked in with Breeon, and asked her to cover for Elsie's departure. But that Wednesday, she didn't even pause beside Breeon's office door. The strain in their friendship grew heavier with every day that Elsie continued to serve as counsel in the Larry Paul case.

Driving down the street to Ivy's foster home, she scoured the sidewalks for schoolchildren, trying to determine whether Ivy might be home.

She planned to wait at Ivy's foster home, but she saw the school bus stop down the block. Elsie was driving too fast.
Slow
down—­watch out for kids
,
she reminded herself, as she pulled in front of an old Buick and rolled the passenger window down. Ivy was stepping off the bus. Elsie called to her.

She saw the child's reaction. Ivy's face puckered; she dropped her chin and looked at Elsie over the broken glasses. Elsie sighed. When was someone going to do something about those glasses?

She leaned across the passenger seat and spoke again, smiling like a clown. “Hey, Ivy! Can I walk you home?”

Ivy didn't answer. She was staring at the Buick behind Elsie's Ford. Elsie also shot a glance in that direction, following Ivy's gaze. A quick movement in the front seat, so fast that it was a blur, made her look twice. Was the driver hiding, she wondered. The afternoon sun reflected off the windshield. She couldn't be sure.

But she had a bad feeling. She beckoned to Ivy.

“How you doing, Ivy?”

Ivy tore her gaze from the Buick and looked at Elsie with trepidation.

Elsie tried again. With a light voice, she said, “I was in the neighborhood. Just thought I'd say hi.” To reassure her, Elsie added, “No court business. Nothing like that.”

Ivy didn't speak. Elsie cut off the engine and exited the car, crossing to meet the child on the curb. “How about if I walk you home? That okay with you?”

Ivy slid her hand into Elsie's. Elsie gave it a squeeze, gratified by the gesture of trust. Ivy headed toward her yellow house at a brisk pace, almost a run: Elsie had to move quickly to keep up. She saw Ivy look over her shoulder.

Elsie glanced back; the Buick was still there. “Do you know that car?” she asked Ivy.

Ivy pulled at Elsie's hand, heading for home. “I don't know nothing.”

When they reached the steps of the yellow house, Elsie saw the Buick zoom down the street, passing them by so fast she couldn't get a look at the driver. She stepped off the sidewalk, trying to read the rear license plate.

The car didn't have one.

 

Chapter Thirty-­Two

Elsie stood in
the lobby of the Barton Cinema Palace on Friday night, clutching a bucket of popcorn in one hand and a jumbo drink in the other. A clock over the entryway showed that Ashlock was late again. She wanted to check her phone, but her hands were full.

The size of the popcorn tub made her self-­conscious; but the high school concessions worker informed her that the jumbo size was five cents cheaper than the medium combo. It made economic sense to order it. Besides, she would share it with Ashlock. And his son.

When Ashlock called her in the afternoon to suggest they see a movie, she was delighted. It sounded like an excellent escape, a date night where they might sit in the dark, holding hands. Maybe make out, like a ­couple of teenagers, if they nabbed a seat in the back of the theater.

Then he dropped the bomb. “
Jurassic World
is playing. There's a showtime at 7:20.”

Elsie made a horrified face at the phone. “Dinosaurs?”

“Yeah, Burton wants to see it. It's supposed to be a good show.”

Elsie had swallowed back her negative response: that she didn't like dinosaurs or action adventure films. And that three ­people was an odd number for a Friday night date. With false cheer, she agreed to meet Ashlock and Burton at the theater. He had to pick Burton up after debate practice at school, so he might not be able to swing by and pick Elsie up at her apartment.

“No problem,” she'd said, trying to keep a cool note out of her voice.
I am going to be a good sport,
she thought as she ended the call.
Just gonna go with the flow.

But as she stood in the crowded lobby, her resolve to be a good sport disappeared. When Ashlock and Burton finally made their way into the theater, she had to restrain herself; she wanted to bite his head off.

“Sorry,” he said. “We're a little late.”

“Yeah, you're late. They're already showing the previews.”

“Well, that's good. We haven't missed anything. But I didn't mean for you to buy your own ticket.”

“I don't mind laying out seven dollars. What I do mind—­” she dropped her voice, because Burton had taken a step backwards, as if trying to distance himself. “What I do mind is standing around here like an idiot, not knowing when you were going to show up.”

He frowned at Elsie, then looked over at his son. “You want anything to eat, Burton?”

“I got popcorn. To share,” Elsie said.

Burton tilted his head, studying the pictures of concessions. “I could go for a pretzel.”

Elsie closed her eyes and willed herself to stay silent.
Not a pretzel. The pretzels take forever. When I'm in line behind a guy who orders a pretzel, I want to throttle him.

Ashlock handed Burton a ten-­dollar bill, then took Elsie by the elbow. “We'll go on in and get our seats,” he said.

The theater was packed. They had to wade to the center of the second row to find three adjacent seats. Elsie set her jumbo Diet Coke on the floor and put the popcorn bucket on the armrest she shared with Ashlock. “I got this to share,” she whispered.

He stared into the bucket. “Did you salt it?”

“Yeah. Salted the hell out of it.”

“Shhhhhh,” sounded from someone behind her.

Ashlock dropped his voice. “I'll let you have it. I'm cutting back on salt.”

She pinched her lips together and pulled the bucket onto her lap. Burton found them; balancing a soft pretzel on a paper plate, he scooted down the aisle to join them in the seat that Ashlock saved. As Burton crossed in front of Elsie, he kicked her drink. The plastic lid slipped off when it fell sideways onto the floor, flooding Elsie's feet.

“Sorry,” he whispered as Elsie leaned over to right the cup. The woman on her left stood and deserted her seat, muttering.

“You want me to get you another one?” Ashlock asked. Elsie shook her head. Maybe she could take a nap. If she fell asleep, she might enjoy herself.

She slid down in the theater seat, resting her head against the cushioned back. Watching the activity onscreen through hooded eyes, she entertained a hope that the dinosaurs might tear off Chris Pratt's clothing, because he was looking good. Kicking the ice cubes underfoot out of her way, she stretched her legs and fell into a light snooze.

Her rest was broken when Ashlock let out a piercing shriek.

She sat up with a jerk, knocking a layer of popcorn from the bucket. Turning to Ashlock, she clutched his arm. “Are you okay?”

He shook his head with a sheepish grin. Elsie glanced at the screen; apparently the monster dinosaur had popped onto the screen unexpectedly, to give the audience a scare.

Turning back to Ashlock, she saw him focused on his son. Burton was laughing so hard that it choked him; he wiped tears from his eyes. “You squealed like a girl,” he said, when he could catch his breath. Ashlock nodded in acknowledgment, covering his face in mock shame.

Burton punched him in the shoulder. “Real tough guy. Dad, you're showing your true colors.”

Ashlock whispered something in reply that Elsie couldn't quite catch, but as she watched the interaction of Ashlock and his son, she had a change of heart. With new eyes, she focused on Ashlock and Burton taking in the film together, laughing, whispering plot theories of what might happen next. With a feeling of remorse, Elsie wondered: why on earth would she begrudge Ashlock that? He shared a bond with his son like the one she had with her parents—­particularly with Marge. It was a gift. No one should create a divide between something so precious.

She was smiling when Ashlock glanced her way. “What you thinking about?” he asked.

She couldn't tell him the turn her thoughts had taken. So she leaned in and whispered, “You're even cuter than Chris Pratt.”

Ashlock rolled his eyes at her extravagant claim. Burton must have overheard it, because he choked on his pretzel.

Ashlock whispered, “Wish you'd set that bucket in the empty seat by you. I'd like to hold your hand. I might get scared again.”

She tossed the popcorn aside and slipped her hand in his. He gave it a squeeze. Then she rested her head on his shoulder, not minding the wooden armrest that dug into her flesh.
This is nice,
she thought.
This works.