Everybody's Daughter by Marsha Qualey

back. It’s for good, I hope.”
    “I hope so.”
    “When I left there were at least eleven people here,” she said. “Where are they?”
    “I sent them home. Your mother’s in bed.” Beamer sat down. “What’s the scoop on Sandra?” Her father rubbed his eyes and massaged the bridge of his nose. “It’s not good. The charge is a serious one, the verdict will be guilty, and she will undoubtedly go to prison.”
    “Someone was killed. She deserves it.”
    “She didn’t intend to kill anyone, Bea. That is clear, even to the authorities. Otherwise it would have been a murder charge, not manslaughter. She didn’t mean to do it.”
    “But Dad, you have to hate what she did. A bomb, for Pete’s sake. And she wasn’t even smart enough to find someone who could make a bomb that would work right.”
    “We all hate it. And I’ve told her as much.”
    “Then why are you doing this for her? I know, I know. She and Daryl are old friends.”
    He lifted her legs onto his lap and massaged her ankles. “Did you knit these socks or did your mother?”
    “I did. Answer me.”
    “Bea, I do indeed hate the fact that she resorted to violence, even unintentionally. She knows how I feel. Friends are never exempt from judgment, but that doesn’t mean you stop loving them, and you certainly don’t desert them.”
    “You’re so noble.”
    “Noble, no. Tired, yes.” A smile spread across his face. “And looking forward to reading about my daughter, the child of hippies, in tomorrow’s paper.” Beamer groaned and swung her feet down. “I had almost forgotten.” She said goodnight and got up to go to bed. She stopped in the doorway to say something, but didn’t. Her father was deep in thought.
    Once she was in bed, she lay awake, the picture of her father troubling her. Just as she drifted off to sleep, she knew why: He’s getting old , she thought. They all are. Oh Lord, those people were going to change the world and look at them now. I wonder how it feels to hit middle age and know your dreams just can’t come true.
    *
    Beamer rose early the next morning. She dressed and slipped quietly downstairs. She wanted to read the paper and be miserable alone, and she knew that once the Woodies arrived for Sunday morning rolls and coffee, she would have no peace. She started a fire in the stove, then put on her coat and gloves and went outside. The morning sky was dark, with only a thin band of light behind the tall pines on the eastern horizon. Two bright headlights emerged from the dark distance. Beamer waved to the truck’s driver as she tossed two bundles of newspapers out the cab window, then sped away. Beamer lugged the papers inside, dropped them by the counter, and clipped the wires. She resisted the urge to rip apart the paper in search of herself and instead made a cup of cocoa. That done, she picked up a paper and sat by the stove.
    The story was on page one of the features section, next to a picture of Beamer that Rae had taken in the classroom. Beamer read it through twice, her flush increasing until she moved away from the stove and stood next to the cold window. “Nobody to blame but myself,” she said. She thought then of readers in Detroit, Philadelphia, Miami, all spilling their Sunday coffee and dropping breakfast crumbs across the story of her life.
    Daniel’s car turned into the lot as Beamer heard her mother descending the steps. It was too late to bury the papers in a snowbank.
    Daniel was accompanied by Maud and Jeffrey and their daughter, Alissa, who sullenly settled into a corner behind the minnow tank to read. Maud took a newspaper and laid a dollar bill on the cash register.
    “Is it there?” she said. Beamer nodded.
    Mrs. Flynn set clean mugs by the coffee pot. “We might as well put out the open sign.” Beamer nodded and went outside. She dragged the heavy iron easel with the sign down to the roadside. By the time she had returned another car had pulled into the lot. Peter and Sue and