shit me. Why don’t you just come out and say it? All of you. It’s my fault. Go ahead, say it! You think I drove her off. If she’s dead you’re going to blame me!”
There was a long, stricken silence. Mr. Harrison’s face turned white as the word he had not dared to think was spoken aloud for the first time. He sat back and closed his eyes as Phyl said, in a low voice, “Barb! For God’s sake!”
Realizing what she had said but unable to go back, to retract or modify her words, Barbara answered, “That’s what you’re all thinking. Why don’t you just say it?”
Then she started to sob and Mrs. MacHenry went to her, putting her arm around the girl and saying in a consoling voice, “Barb, you don’t know what you’re saying. I think you’ve had too much to drink, dear. Mr. Harrison is going to have a very poor impression of this house.”
“I don’t give a shit,” Barbara answered, pulling from Mrs. Mac’s grasp. “I’m sick of people insinuating things around here.” She swayed and steadied herself on the edge of the table. “I’m sick of people never coming out and saying what they really mean.”
Phyl moved to her and said quietly, “Barb, why don’t you go up and lie down for a while? We’re all upset and no one—”
“Oh, shut up!” Then she turned to Mrs. Mac and added, “And leave me alone, goddamn it! I know you think it’s my fault. You’ve been implying it all the goddamned afternoon!”
“Barb,” Phyl said, looking across to Mrs. Mac, “you’re drunk. Now go to bed!”
Barbara was about to answer but she felt herself grow dizzy. With an effort of will she drew herself up, pushed off from the table and stormed from the dining room, slamming the door behind her. Mr. Harrison, his eyes closed, sat still, except for the slow negative motion of his head as he shook it back and forth in fear and disbelief.
The lights were burning bright in the police station as Lieutenant Ken Fuller sympathetically watched and listened to a thirty-five-year-old woman wearing rollers in her hair who was trying to keep her voice from quavering as she sat in his office and told him a story. Fighting back the tears, she said, “She’s out of school for the Christmas holidays but you see there was band practice today, over at the high school. Janice plays the clarinet and even though school is out they have practice because they’re going to give a band concert.”
About the same age as the woman, Fuller could only think that he might be the father of a daughter such as the one she was talking about. That he might have a Janice who played the clarinet. He tried to erase such an image and to concentrate as dispassionately as possible on her words.
“Go on, Mrs. Quaife.”
“When she didn’t come home, I called Melody Greene’s place. That’s her best friend. But they hadn’t seen her all day. I talked to Melody and to Mrs. Greene. She’s only thirteen, Lieutenant, my Janice and she’s never been late like this. My husband, he’s a trucker and he’s on the road this week, half way across the country. I don’t know how to get in touch with him. Anyway, I was so worried, so I came over here.”
Her last words were almost apologetic as though had her husband been home he might have prevented her from doing anything so foolish as going to the police.
To make her feel more easy, Fuller said, “You did the right thing, Mrs. Quaife. That’s what we’re here for. Now . . . how long since you—or anyone—actually saw her? Saw Janice?”
“Well, not since band practice this morning. She was there. I checked and she was at practice, then she left and that’s the last . . .” She was about to break down again when her attention was turned to the noise outside as a young man and woman came in the front door of the station house.
The young man was visibly angry but Sergeant Nash on the front desk nearby did not notice it as he extended a warm greeting.
“Here’s our star goalie!
There was a long, stricken silence. Mr. Harrison’s face turned white as the word he had not dared to think was spoken aloud for the first time. He sat back and closed his eyes as Phyl said, in a low voice, “Barb! For God’s sake!”
Realizing what she had said but unable to go back, to retract or modify her words, Barbara answered, “That’s what you’re all thinking. Why don’t you just say it?”
Then she started to sob and Mrs. MacHenry went to her, putting her arm around the girl and saying in a consoling voice, “Barb, you don’t know what you’re saying. I think you’ve had too much to drink, dear. Mr. Harrison is going to have a very poor impression of this house.”
“I don’t give a shit,” Barbara answered, pulling from Mrs. Mac’s grasp. “I’m sick of people insinuating things around here.” She swayed and steadied herself on the edge of the table. “I’m sick of people never coming out and saying what they really mean.”
Phyl moved to her and said quietly, “Barb, why don’t you go up and lie down for a while? We’re all upset and no one—”
“Oh, shut up!” Then she turned to Mrs. Mac and added, “And leave me alone, goddamn it! I know you think it’s my fault. You’ve been implying it all the goddamned afternoon!”
“Barb,” Phyl said, looking across to Mrs. Mac, “you’re drunk. Now go to bed!”
Barbara was about to answer but she felt herself grow dizzy. With an effort of will she drew herself up, pushed off from the table and stormed from the dining room, slamming the door behind her. Mr. Harrison, his eyes closed, sat still, except for the slow negative motion of his head as he shook it back and forth in fear and disbelief.
The lights were burning bright in the police station as Lieutenant Ken Fuller sympathetically watched and listened to a thirty-five-year-old woman wearing rollers in her hair who was trying to keep her voice from quavering as she sat in his office and told him a story. Fighting back the tears, she said, “She’s out of school for the Christmas holidays but you see there was band practice today, over at the high school. Janice plays the clarinet and even though school is out they have practice because they’re going to give a band concert.”
About the same age as the woman, Fuller could only think that he might be the father of a daughter such as the one she was talking about. That he might have a Janice who played the clarinet. He tried to erase such an image and to concentrate as dispassionately as possible on her words.
“Go on, Mrs. Quaife.”
“When she didn’t come home, I called Melody Greene’s place. That’s her best friend. But they hadn’t seen her all day. I talked to Melody and to Mrs. Greene. She’s only thirteen, Lieutenant, my Janice and she’s never been late like this. My husband, he’s a trucker and he’s on the road this week, half way across the country. I don’t know how to get in touch with him. Anyway, I was so worried, so I came over here.”
Her last words were almost apologetic as though had her husband been home he might have prevented her from doing anything so foolish as going to the police.
To make her feel more easy, Fuller said, “You did the right thing, Mrs. Quaife. That’s what we’re here for. Now . . . how long since you—or anyone—actually saw her? Saw Janice?”
“Well, not since band practice this morning. She was there. I checked and she was at practice, then she left and that’s the last . . .” She was about to break down again when her attention was turned to the noise outside as a young man and woman came in the front door of the station house.
The young man was visibly angry but Sergeant Nash on the front desk nearby did not notice it as he extended a warm greeting.
“Here’s our star goalie!
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