stayed there like they were stuck. It wasn’t the first time I wondered if caution had become second nature to her after twenty-five years of directing the agency, or if she had been put in charge because that was the way she already was. But then, what difference did it make? What mattered was that Betsy and Brion, for some reason I couldn’t understand, were treating me not like a colleague but rather like someone they didn’t trust.
“Mr. Harrell said another child was injured in the Mellon home,” I said.
Brion and Betsy exchanged quick glances.
“If he contacts you again,” Brion said, “refer him to my office.”
“He said it happened on June 8, 2000,” I said.
Brion’s face turned beet red. He wagged his finger in the air. “This is what the media does. They lead you to think they know something as a way to get more information out of you. Now tell me, if you will, exactly what you told this Mr. Harrell.”
“I told him the truth.”
“Which was?” He sounded like he knew it was already too late, that whatever I had said to the reporter had already been said, and there was nothing he could do about it.
“I told him I wasn’t aware of any incident in 2000.” I stopped there. I knew better than to mention that I had been on leave that year. The less Brion knew about my history the better. I pointed to the folder on the table. “It should be in the case file.”
Brion looked at me for a long time. I glared back at him.
“What else did you say?” he finally asked.
“That we would cooperate with the police.”
“Good,” he said. “Are we clear now that you are not to talk with anyone about this case?”
I weighed my chances of striking a bargain. Maybe if I promised not to talk to J. B. Harrell or anyone else he’d let me read the Mellon file in exchange.
“Well? Are we clear?”
“I don’t understand what’s going on here,” I said. “Come on, Brion, we’ve worked together a long time. You know I take my job just as seriously as you take yours.” I heard the desperation in my voice but I didn’t care; I would have done anything, gotten down on my knees if I had to.
“This is the way it has to be,” he said. “Until the police conclude their investigation, no one can be allowed access to the evidence, and that includes the case file.”
“It wouldn’t be responsible of me to not even...”
“The way to be responsible is to stay out of it.”
“We have to do this by the book, Sylvia,” Betsy said with an apologetic smile.
I stood there, unable to move, clenching and unclenching my fists in rapid succession. I didn’t understand what was going on or what was happening to me.
“You’re covering something up, aren’t you? Something that might make our agency look bad. We most certainly wouldn’t want anything negative about us to appear in the newspaper, now would we?”
“Sylvia,” Betsy said. “I care just as much as you do about finding out what happened so we can make sure it never happens again. We’ll get to the truth.”
“I know your first commitment is to the children, Betsy,” I said. I turned to Brion. “And I’d like to think that your first commitment is to the children placed under our care, too, and not to the agency.”
“I don’t think there’s anything else to discuss here.” Brion’s voice was low and thicker with authority than before.
“Oh, right,” I said, “I guess you have to run off to that supposed meeting you said you had to get to so fast.” I made no attempt to disguise my sarcasm.
Then I walked away from the administrative office suite and down the hall. Was Betsy really putting children first or was she, perhaps inadvertently due to her cautiousness, aligned with Brion in making the agency’s image the priority? Maybe I was overreacting. I knew I was prone to bouts of self-righteousness at times—it was a character defect I’d worked hard to change—but right now I didn’t care. What was worse, I didn’t care that I didn’t care. Something bigger than me, something I didn’t understand, had consumed me. I ducked into the women’s restroom and locked the door behind me.
THREE
May 1972
Jamie’s sinewy arms and lanky legs sliced through the air. He bounced across the deck and skidded to halt, and his best friend Tommy slammed into his back.
“Mom, guess what?” Jamie said.
Mary Williams had just finished washing down the picnic table. She put the bucket of soapy water and the wet sponge down. “What, sweetie?” She folded her son in her arms, taking in the smell of him.
“If you cut a worm in half you have two worms and you can cut it in threes or fours or even more. A man at camp showed us how to dissect them and Melissa almost fainted but I didn’t.”
“Wow, that’s really something. How about you go wash your hands now. There’s a treat for you in the kitchen. Soon it’ll be time to get ready for the parade.” Mary puckered her lips and Jamie giggled, gave her a little kiss.
“Race you to the door,” Jamie said as he and Tommy took off like lightning.
Mary picked up her bucket and followed the boys into the house. Memorial Day, for most people in the small town of Basko, signified the end of another long midwestern winter and the beginning of summer, when the air would once again be filled with the smells of charcoal grills and freshly cut grass. But for Mary, today marked the nearing of Jamie’s seventh year as her son. It was a celebration of the emergence of a life as flawlessly designed as the backyard tapestry of regal pines and brilliant white birch, a life with hopes and dreams as bright as the daffodils and tulips blooming next to the garage.
Jamie and Tommy, their hands still wet, sat in their usual places at the kitchen table, where Mary had placed pastry crisps, still warm from the oven, and two glasses of milk.
“I wish my mom knew how to make these.” Tommy took a noisy gulp of milk from his favorite glass.
“I know how, don’t I, Mom?” Jamie puffed up his little chest, as proud of himself for sprinkling sugar and cinnamon on top of the pastries as if he had landed a rocket on the moon.
“You sure do, sweetie.”
The cinnamon crisps, made with leftover dough from the meat pies that were still in the oven, were Jamie’s favorite snack—just as they had been Mary’s when she was a child. That made her think about her own mother, how having only one child had been, at times, too heavy a burden for her, although she’d tried hard to be a good mother in between the dark spells. Whenever Mary found herself wishing she’d been able to bring her mother the same kind of joy Jamie brought her, she’d tell herself it was best not to think too much about some things. Then she’d redouble her efforts to create the childhood for Jamie that her own mother had been unable to create for her.
Just
