sure you don’t want me to drive?” Karen asked.
Laura shook her head.
Karen stared out the passenger window for a moment before saying, “At least she called you. If you hadn’t come over to tell me, that call from the police would have been my first inkling. Come to think of it, that’s just how the policeman started too ... ‘Mrs. Tarata, there’s been an accident involving your daughter.’ And, you know, even though you’d already told me no one was hurt, I could feel ice pour into my stomach when he spoke.”
The drive continued in silence, both women reflecting on the accident and on their relationships with their teenage daughters. Laura Pascal was tense, anxious. She held the steering wheel firmly with both hands and continued to focus completely on the space of light the headlights of her car opened before them. Karen Tarata was equally upset, but her nature was more secretive and her body language more contained.
Laura was the first to break the silence. “The car, apparently, is a write-off.” It was the first time either of the two women had mentioned the vehicle. “It ... it ...” Her reluctance to deal with the details was more a factor of her own fears than worry that she might upset Karen. “It rolled twice after going through the guard rail so they must have been going pretty fast. Thank God for seat belts.”
“It was the Maleski girl? Cara? Her parents’ car, right?” Karen spoke without looking away from the passenger window. “I don’t know whether it’s the accident that’s making me say this, but I’ve never been entirely sure about her.”
Laura nodded at the road. “Going to the dance at Milldown High was her idea, but to be honest, Karen, I don’t think our girls needed much persuading. You know ...” For only a second, she broke her driving concentration and looked sideways at her passenger. Laura wasn’t sure whether to continue with her thought. The two women were neighbors, not really friends, but had been drawn together more than once in the past because their daughters “hung out.”
“No matter how I try,” she carried on, “I can’t understand their social pattern, these girls. My Allie, she’s seventeen, and, you know, the grad dance last month was the first time she went on an actual date. You know, where the boy actually knocks on the door. Comes to pick her up. And then brings her home again!”
There was another silence, then, still looking out the side window, Karen said, “Liberation.” There was another pause. “It’s the first stage in liberation. The first thing you do when you’re set free is act like your oppressors.”
Laura turned away from the road again, this time with new interest. Here was a facet of her neighbor that she’d never encountered.
“And because males cluster in groups and take on a group personality, that’s what girls do now, too. From what you told me, that’s probably what caused this whole thing tonight. Your Allie and that Cara, and Jenine – who was the fourth one? The Lotten girl from one street over? – the spat with that group of boys in the parking lot would never have turned into an incident if they weren’t acting as a group. Individuals back down, walk away. Groups fight. Imagine! Girls being asked to leave a dance. There’s liberation for you.”
Just ahead, the lights of Milldown were visible on the horizon. Laura slowed to obey the new speed limit.
“But Allie told me they left without a fuss,” she pointed out. “It was when they were on their way back home – they were about halfway she said – that they saw headlights coming up behind them and recognized the boys’ car. So – maybe it was Cara’s first instinct; who’s got judgment at that age? – she speeded up to get away and ... well ... you know the rest.”
Karen not only turned away from the passenger window, she shifted completely, so that her body was facing Laura. “And you bought that story?” she said.
?
What in Allie’s story does Karen Tarata not believe?
A Courtly Gesture
The two insurance investigators were almost exactly the same age. The same weight and build, too, and when the one with the pencil-line mustache wore his black shoes with the elevator heels – which he did every day – they were the same height. In every other way they were as different as could be. The man with the mustache – his name was Aubrey – was precise, organized, methodical, business-like. On alternate days he wore a brown or a gray suit. With the brown suit he wore a forest green bow-tie; with the gray, the bow-tie was maroon with royal blue dots. The shirt was always white. Everyone at the company, superiors, equals, office staff, called him Mr. Beckwith. No one ever called him Aubrey.
Except for the man walking at his side right now. Jerry Fawcett was the only one. Jerry even called him “Aub” on occasion. But that was Jerry, whose real name was Gerard – but hardly anyone knew that. It wouldn’t have mattered anyway. He was a nickname kind of guy. Easygoing with a ready smile, and blessed, it seemed, with both endless patience and a bottomless well of interest in whomever he happened to be with. Women loved him. Men liked him – even Aubrey, who didn’t much like anyone.
At the moment, the two were walking away from the house they had just visited, and as usual they were arguing. Not vigorously, but with the low-grade and seemingly constant level of disagreement that characterized their unlikely partnership.
“That was a bit over the top, the kissing the hand thing.” Aubrey had a surprisingly rich baritone voice. Most people, at first glance, would have expected something prissy, especially now, for he was annoyed at his partner.
Minutes before, as they stood to leave the house, Jerry had made a sweeping bow to the claimant and, with both his hands, raised one of hers to his lips and kissed it, in an old-world fashion. Although Aubrey would never have admitted it, even to himself, he had been impressed with how natural the gesture had been.
“In fact, way over the top!” Aubrey was warming up to a scolding now. “We’re supposed to be investigating her, not courting her! If she wins the case she could be into the company for – what – millions, maybe?”
Instead of answering, Jerry stopped and put his hand on the other man’s shoulder. He was grinning, as though sharing a conspiracy.
“But Aub,” he said. “Did you see the expression on her face? And the little blush on the cheeks? Just in front of her ears? She loved it!”
Aubrey suddenly realized that he had stopped automatically when Jerry did. He wrinkled his nose just a tiny bit at the hand on his shoulder, but he didn’t step back or try to remove it.
“This woman tells us, Jerry ...” Aubrey glanced back to the house. He knew his voice carried. “She tells us she’s been in that wheelchair since the accident six months ago. Hasn’t been able to walk since. She’s got that crackpot psychiatrist on her side, but our doctors ... they can’t find anything wrong. Not the orthopedic specialist, not the neurologist. The X-rays don’t show a thing. And now, along comes Sir Jerry on his white horse.” Aubrey was really winding up now. This time it was Jerry who looked back to the house. “My partner is supposed to be uncovering fraud, but what does he do instead, he ...”
“Aub – Aubrey! Relax.” Jerry put up his other arm, so that now both hands
