The Word of a Child (23 page)

"The other girls will catch up," he said, as if
she didn't have anything to be ashamed of.

"I guess." Her eyes felt grainy and so puffy it
was like she was peering through a tunnel. "Sometimes he'd say
stuff." She mimicked his voice. "'Miss America has joined us. Tell
me, Tracy, is the bathing suit competition today?' The week before I went to
Ms. Stavig, I wore this shirt of my mom's one day.
I
thought I looked
pretty. Only I didn't know you could see through it. And I went to his class,
and this really hot guy I like stopped to talk to me. Only suddenly Mr. Tanner
was like, 'Tracy, stand up.' Everybody stared." She burned with
humiliation at the memory. "And he says, 'I see you took me seriously
about the bathing suit competition. Or … no. Is that a bra I'm looking at?
Should we be glad you're wearing one? Or disappointed?' Even the guy I like was
laughing and … and
leering."
She had to take several deep breaths before
she could finish. "Then Mr. Tanner tells me to go to the principal's
office and not come back until I'm
decent.
I ran out." Tears clogged her sinuses
and leaked out of her eyes despite her effort to maintain her dignity.
"That's why I hate him," she said intensely.

The big cop had this look on his face she couldn't read.
After a moment, he said quietly, "I don't blame you."

"Really?"

"You know, if you'd reported him, he would have been in
trouble for this kind of behavior,"

She curled her lip. "Like anybody would listen."

"Ms. Stavig listened, didn't she?"

Suddenly ashamed, Tracy ducked her head again.
"Yes," she whispered.

"This is his first year teaching middle school. He's
used to college students, who are less sensitive about their appearances and
whether they fit in. He may genuinely not realize he's hurting feelings."

"But he's kind of, like,
nerdy
looking.
He's got these thick glasses, and… Don't you think somebody made fun of
him?"

Ms. Stavig wasn't the only one who listened. Tracy was scared of Detective McLean in one way, but she also noticed that he paid
attention to what she said, thought about it and gave her answers that felt
honest. This was one of those times.

"Maybe he's teasing kids now because he was on the
receiving end of it a lot when he was a kid. Maybe it feels good to be the
powerful one now."

"That … that'
s …
cruel,"
she said in perplexity.

"I don't know. I'm just guessing. Probably he doesn't
know, either. Most of our behavior isn't consciously motivated. Things that
happened when we were little, things we don't even consciously remember,
motivate the way we respond to people, explain why we're afraid of … heck,
flying or dogs or teachers who are too tall. Mr. Tanner might be able to
change. He might even be sorry to know how much he hurt your feelings."

Tracy
pressed her lips together and thought.
Might.
That meant he might
not
be sorry, too.

"But after I lied about … him doing those things to me,
nobody will listen."

"I want you to tell Ms. Patterson and Ms. Stavig
exactly what you've told me about why you chose Mr. Tanner."

Terror made it hard to breathe. "Do I have to?"

He nodded, looking stern. "Lots of people are going to ask
you, and you need to tell them the truth."

"Like … like other kids?"

"There's been talk. You say, 'I got him in trouble
because I thought he was mean to me, but I didn't realize how
much
trouble
he would be in, and I'm sorry I caused it.'" He leveled his gaze on her.
"Are you sorry?"

She couldn't see him through the tears, but she could nod.

"You could be in trouble with the law for making a
false accusation, you know."

The fear was crushing her chest.

"What's important is that you tell me who did rape you."

Trembling, she shook her head. "You know me, Tracy.
I'll be back. I'll keep coming back until you tell me."

"I can't!" she whispered.

"Tell me why."

"I can't tell you that, either." If she did, he'd
know everything.

"I'm thinking you're protecting someone." He
sounded musing, as though instead of talking he really was thinking, but aloud.
"You were strong, sticking to your story. Stronger than I thought you'd
be. Some kid rapes you, I can't imagine why you'd care enough to protect him.
Nah." He shook his head. "Seems to me it must be someone close to
you. You haven't had contact with your father, you don't have other family you
see much, do you, Tracy? No, it's mostly been you and your mom. There aren't
that many people you care enough about to protect, are there, Tracy?"

She was breathing in huge gasps, just staring at him,
waiting for him to pounce.

"What I'm thinking is that we need to talk about your
relationship with your mom," he continued, in that same tone.

Her voice came out high and unnatural. "But my mom …
that's ridiculous. She's a woman. I thought I could be
pregnant."

"That's true." He nodded as though she'd said
something brilliant. "There's a man in this somewhere. I just don't think
that's who you're protecting."

He knew. How could he know?

"Tracy, if your mom is somehow involved, you will never
feel safe here again. I know it's hard to get her in trouble, but if she didn't
take any better care of you than to let you be raped, she needs help, too. You
cannot go on the way you are." His eyes were serious, caring, seeming to
see deep inside her. "The locks don't keep her out, or anyone she chooses
to bring home."

She heard her own breath scraping in, whistling out.

"I'm going to leave now, and I want you to lock up
tight behind me." He got to his feet, but his eyes never left hers.
"You do some thinking, Tracy. I can help you, but not until you tell me
what really happened."

She'd seen nature films. She was the mouse. Or the rabbit,
trapped away from the hole. "I'll be back, Tracy."

He let himself out, quietly. She sat frozen. He'd been gone
for several minutes when she flung herself at the door, her hands shaking as
she pushed the button for the knob's crummy lock, then fastened the dead bolt
and finally the chain, even though that would make Mom mad when she came home
in the middle of the night because she'd have to ring the doorbell and wait
until Tracy got up to let her in. Finally Tracy checked all the windows to make
sure they were latched, even though the apartment was on the second floor.

At last she went back to huddle in the chair, clutching the
tear-soaked handkerchief he'd forgotten.

She wished he hadn't left. She wished she could trust him.

She wished she didn't know she could never, never tell anyone,
even if he was right and she would have to be scared forever.

"One more story,"
Zofie
begged.

"Nope." Mariah set the pile of library books on
the coffee table.
"Cowardly Clyde
was supposed to be the last one. Come to think
of it, so was
Rosamund. "

Zofie scooted forward on the couch and grabbed for a book on
the stack. "Yes, but we haven't read this one. See?"

"Tomorrow night," Mariah said firmly. "Time
to brush your teeth. Come on."

"Oh, poop," her daughter muttered.

She widened her eyes. "Do you need to?"

"Mo-om!"

They shared a brief giggle.

While Zofie brushed her teeth, a task she had mostly taken
over these past few months, Mariah put away the books and started cleaning up
the kitchen.

Her gaze kept wandering to the telephone hanging on the wall,
and once she thought she heard the beginning of a ring and lunged for it before
she realized Zofie had turned on a music tape down the hall in her bedroom.

She didn't know the etiquette for adults dating. But
wouldn't it have been polite for Connor to call and say, "I had a good
time"?

Maybe he didn't have a good time.

She'd sworn beforehand that she wouldn't talk about Simon or
Tracy, either. Then what did they do but spend the entire evening talking about
both! Not to mention his sexually abused girlfriend, a topic he'd tried to
avoid.

Mariah moaned softly. She was a failure as a fun date.

"Live and learn," she said aloud, but she didn't
want to learn a lesson she could only apply the next time a man asked her out.
She wanted not to have blown it with Connor McLean.

Maybe it was meant to be, she thought miserably. She
shouldn't have dated him. The very fact that they couldn't avoid painful topics
should tell her something.

"Mo-om!" Zofie called. "I'm ready for you to
tuck me in."

The phone rang at that precise moment.

"Just a minute," Mariah called back, and picked up
the cordless. "Hello?"

"Mariah? This is Connor."

"Oh, hi." She tried to sound carefree, surprised
that he had called so quickly. To her own ears, she failed wretchedly.

His voice became intimate, warm. "I'd like to have had
dinner with you tonight, too, but I figured that was pushing you."

Pressing her hand to her warm cheek, she said, "I
couldn't have left Zofie…"

"Yeah. I know you couldn't. But, if she were away for
the weekend, would you have?"

Her mouth opened, closed. A sophisticated woman would
undoubtedly tease, play hard to get. "Yes," she said finally, baldly.
Truthfully.

"Good." His voice was rich with satisfaction.

"I shouldn't have said that, should I? I could have strung
you along a little." She sounded breathless with relief, even if she was
trying to flirt.

"I'm a straightforward guy. I'd rather you were
honest."

From down the hall came Zofie's, "Mom! I'm still
waiting!"

Guiltily realizing she'd forgotten her daughter, Mariah
said, "Um, listen. I have to go tuck Zofie in."

His voice changed, became deadly serious. "I was hoping
to talk to you about Tracy. I followed up today on your suggestion. Can I call
you back in a few minutes? Or… No, I suppose it's too late to come over."

Her heart did a peculiar little flip. "Aren't you at
home?"

"Actually I'm calling from the car. I just tried to
track down Tracy's mother's last boyfriend. Turned out to be a flop."

"Mo-om!"

"Then come," Mariah said hastily. "See you in
a minute."

She hurried down the hall, resisting the impulse to dance.
"Sorry," she said to Zofie, enveloping her in a big hug. "Did
you do a good job brushing your teeth?"

By the time a knock sounded softly on the front door, she'd
settled the six-year-old into bed, told her that Connor would be coming over
and left her listening to a tape of gentle bedtime music sung by folk singers
like Pete Seeger and Arlo Guthrie.

Connor stepped in, took a swift glance around, presumably to
be sure Zofie wasn't in sight, and kissed her. When he lifted his head, he said
huskily, "I've been thinking about doing that all day."

"Me, too," she admitted, her voice squeaking.
"I mean, I've been thinking about you doing that."

"Good," he said for the second time tonight, with that
same satisfaction.

Stepping back, she pulled herself together. "Can I get
you something to drink? Did you have dinner? I could heat leftovers…"

"No, I'm fine." His mouth firmed, as if she'd
recalled him to his reason for coming by. "Let's sit down."