about an entire weekend with the Loffts. The band knew because they were standing on the pool table with their ears literally pressed to the ceiling, trying to hear every word spoken in the room above.
“But what about—?” said the police, “and how about—?”
“Nothing,” said Rose.
“I can’t remember,” said Rose.
“I didn’t see,” said Rose.
Tabor was embarrassed. Everybody had been hoping to get in on hot police activity and glamorous crime, and his sister was a complete dud. They played softly, so Mr. Lymond wouldn’t come to the top of the stairs and yell at them and so they could get over their embarrassment at having listened in to start with.
Alan’s fingers moved automatically on his keyboard while his mind fixed on Rose. She’s so smart, he thought. Much smarter than Tabor. Twice as smart as me. Smart enough to have seen and understood everything. Her brother believes her lame little statements. I don’t.
A few nights later, during band practice, Alan ran upstairs to the kitchen for a cold soda. Rose was standing in the middle of the room doing nothing, holding nothing, and as far he could tell, seeing nothing. “Hey, Rose,” he said cheerfully. “No diary tonight?”
Her head snapped back as if he had struck her. He actually looked down at his hand to see if he’d done that, and then looked at her cheek to see if it was bruised.
She was not breathing. Her entire body, including her eyes, was rigid. It was like a motionless seizure. “You okay, Rose?” he said uncertainly.
Her body turned in his direction. A few beats later she looked in his direction. She still had not blinked. “I outgrew keeping a diary,” she said. She backed away from him.
Outgrew it when? thought Alan. Last Thursday you were sitting on the cellar steps, scribbling away.
Rose fled from the kitchen. She literally ran away from him. The sensation of having slapped her lived on in the flat of Alan’s hand and the muscles of his arm. You may have stopped writing in a diary, thought Alan, but I bet you didn’t stop keeping it. I bet you still have it. And you wouldn’t have a silent seizure unless you had a serious secret written down in that diary.
It was only an hour before Mr. and Mrs. Lymond and Rose drove off to visit relatives and the rest of the band drove off to pick up pizzas. Alan claimed he wasn’t in the mood to get off the couch. He stayed by himself in the basement.
How silent was this house that usually rocked with percussion. He could hear newly made ice cubes clunking inside the refrigerator. A clock ticking.
Alan walked upstairs. He entered Rose’s room. The key was where Tabor said it would be. Against the slanted wooden headboard of Rose’s large bed were a dozen frothy pillows. He imagined slumber parties, with girls leaning on pillows to eat and giggle and watch TV. He shifted the pillows carefully so he could put them back in order. His fingers scrounged around the cubby, closing on a leather book as pretty as any volume he had ever touched.
How well he remembered Rose’s handwriting, the graceful slope of each letter. He remembered the final pages where her handwriting disintegrated into a frantic blotchy scrawl. Over and around the words he read in such shock were odd puckered circles.
Dried tears.
In his remembering, Alan forgot the present. Now it returned in the voice of a cop. “We’re wondering, Alan,” said Craig Gretzak softly, “if Rose saw something else that weekend. Nothing to do with Milton Lofft. Something to do with Tabor. Or you.”
CHAPTER SIX
I T WAS NOW THURSDAY . Rose’s father drove her to school. Her parents were rarely willing to drive her, since there was a perfectly good bus, and anyhow, it cramped their work schedules. But Rose’s father was afraid of her choices now. For all he knew, a daughter who stole a car at the beginning of the week might be headed toward drugs and prostitution by the end of the week. Rose had thought of her silence
“But what about—?” said the police, “and how about—?”
“Nothing,” said Rose.
“I can’t remember,” said Rose.
“I didn’t see,” said Rose.
Tabor was embarrassed. Everybody had been hoping to get in on hot police activity and glamorous crime, and his sister was a complete dud. They played softly, so Mr. Lymond wouldn’t come to the top of the stairs and yell at them and so they could get over their embarrassment at having listened in to start with.
Alan’s fingers moved automatically on his keyboard while his mind fixed on Rose. She’s so smart, he thought. Much smarter than Tabor. Twice as smart as me. Smart enough to have seen and understood everything. Her brother believes her lame little statements. I don’t.
A few nights later, during band practice, Alan ran upstairs to the kitchen for a cold soda. Rose was standing in the middle of the room doing nothing, holding nothing, and as far he could tell, seeing nothing. “Hey, Rose,” he said cheerfully. “No diary tonight?”
Her head snapped back as if he had struck her. He actually looked down at his hand to see if he’d done that, and then looked at her cheek to see if it was bruised.
She was not breathing. Her entire body, including her eyes, was rigid. It was like a motionless seizure. “You okay, Rose?” he said uncertainly.
Her body turned in his direction. A few beats later she looked in his direction. She still had not blinked. “I outgrew keeping a diary,” she said. She backed away from him.
Outgrew it when? thought Alan. Last Thursday you were sitting on the cellar steps, scribbling away.
Rose fled from the kitchen. She literally ran away from him. The sensation of having slapped her lived on in the flat of Alan’s hand and the muscles of his arm. You may have stopped writing in a diary, thought Alan, but I bet you didn’t stop keeping it. I bet you still have it. And you wouldn’t have a silent seizure unless you had a serious secret written down in that diary.
It was only an hour before Mr. and Mrs. Lymond and Rose drove off to visit relatives and the rest of the band drove off to pick up pizzas. Alan claimed he wasn’t in the mood to get off the couch. He stayed by himself in the basement.
How silent was this house that usually rocked with percussion. He could hear newly made ice cubes clunking inside the refrigerator. A clock ticking.
Alan walked upstairs. He entered Rose’s room. The key was where Tabor said it would be. Against the slanted wooden headboard of Rose’s large bed were a dozen frothy pillows. He imagined slumber parties, with girls leaning on pillows to eat and giggle and watch TV. He shifted the pillows carefully so he could put them back in order. His fingers scrounged around the cubby, closing on a leather book as pretty as any volume he had ever touched.
How well he remembered Rose’s handwriting, the graceful slope of each letter. He remembered the final pages where her handwriting disintegrated into a frantic blotchy scrawl. Over and around the words he read in such shock were odd puckered circles.
Dried tears.
In his remembering, Alan forgot the present. Now it returned in the voice of a cop. “We’re wondering, Alan,” said Craig Gretzak softly, “if Rose saw something else that weekend. Nothing to do with Milton Lofft. Something to do with Tabor. Or you.”
CHAPTER SIX
I T WAS NOW THURSDAY . Rose’s father drove her to school. Her parents were rarely willing to drive her, since there was a perfectly good bus, and anyhow, it cramped their work schedules. But Rose’s father was afraid of her choices now. For all he knew, a daughter who stole a car at the beginning of the week might be headed toward drugs and prostitution by the end of the week. Rose had thought of her silence
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