had been several hours already, definitely long enough for the medicine to wear off, and she’d be fine. I kept expecting the police to say something else to Mama, like “Don’t leave town” for instance, or some other TV-crime-show-type warning, but they never did. It was like she wasn’t even a suspect, which meant, as far as I could tell, that they’d believed Mama’s and my answers. I remember feeling relieved about that, like I’d cheated on a math test and gotten away with it.
Mama and I didn’t talk much on the way home, which, like I said, wasn’t unusual, but she didn’t even turn on the radio, or the air conditioner for that matter. I noticed how quiet it was first, quieter than an empty house, and then I started getting hot, and before long I was sweating so bad my thighs were sliding around on the leather seat.
“Do you mind if I open my window,” I finally asked.
Without taking her eyes off the road (Mama never takes her eyes off the road when she’s driving), she reached over and turnedon the air conditioner. Then she started crying. Not loud crying, or even tears-running-down-her-face crying. It was more like these short broken breaths, almost like she kept seeing stuff that startled her.
Funny thing was, I didn’t feel at all like crying. The best I can describe how I felt on that ride home, and in the days immediately following, was “dull,” like all my feeling edges, inside and out, had been smoothed over with fine sandpaper, leaving me without any emotion whatsoever. I wasn’t thinking much on Daddy, about him lying there like that, still and bleeding, or worrying over how he got himself that way. But through all that not thinking and not worrying, I admit I was doing some major wondering, which specifically had to do with the “whys” of things. Why didn’t I feel anything? Why wasn’t I balling my eyes out? Why didn’t I feel guilty about lying to Detective Kennedy? And most of all:
Why was I so hungry?
I mean that had to be sacrilege. I remember thinking that right at that moment, sticky thighs aside, while Mama and I were enjoying our ride home in the comfort of Daddy’s V-8-powered BMW 7 Series, which the marketing brochure had described as a full-size luxury sedan and likely the benchmark for large sport sedans on the market today, Daddy was probably zipped in a body bag and bouncing around on some stiff cot on his way to the morgue. My daddy, who had only hours ago been scooping wet sand out of my sand castle moat, would soon be rotting in moist dirt forever.
And I was hungry?
Mama went upstairs as soon as we got home. I thought she’d come back down and ask me what I wanted for dinner, but she didn’t. After a while, I went to check on her; she was asleep. I tiptoed to her money drawer, grabbed a twenty-dollar bill, went back downstairs, and called Pizza Palace. The pizza was delivered in less than thirty minutes just like the man on the phone said. I got a Coke from the refrigerator, turned on the TV, and buried myself in the sofa.
I must’ve fallen asleep because when I woke up I saw Daddy’s face on the TV. It took up the whole screen. Then there were pictures of the beach house, Daddy lying dead on the floor with a light blue sheet covering him, and Mrs. Butterworth talking into a microphone.
The next day, Mama got a call from a lady on her Junior League committee. I was surprised she actually answered it. I shot upstairs as fast as I could to pick up the phone in her room.
“Is it true, Diana?” the lady asked. “Is it true that Oliver is dead? That he was murdered? I just got a call from Rhonda Little.”
“The police don’t know for sure,” Mama said.
“You poor dear,” the lady said. “Is there anything I can do? I could bring dinner by tomorrow night.”
“Thank you, Joan,” Mama said. “But I think I need some time alone to digest all this.”
“Of course,” the lady said. “Please don’t hesitate to call me if you need anything at
Mama and I didn’t talk much on the way home, which, like I said, wasn’t unusual, but she didn’t even turn on the radio, or the air conditioner for that matter. I noticed how quiet it was first, quieter than an empty house, and then I started getting hot, and before long I was sweating so bad my thighs were sliding around on the leather seat.
“Do you mind if I open my window,” I finally asked.
Without taking her eyes off the road (Mama never takes her eyes off the road when she’s driving), she reached over and turnedon the air conditioner. Then she started crying. Not loud crying, or even tears-running-down-her-face crying. It was more like these short broken breaths, almost like she kept seeing stuff that startled her.
Funny thing was, I didn’t feel at all like crying. The best I can describe how I felt on that ride home, and in the days immediately following, was “dull,” like all my feeling edges, inside and out, had been smoothed over with fine sandpaper, leaving me without any emotion whatsoever. I wasn’t thinking much on Daddy, about him lying there like that, still and bleeding, or worrying over how he got himself that way. But through all that not thinking and not worrying, I admit I was doing some major wondering, which specifically had to do with the “whys” of things. Why didn’t I feel anything? Why wasn’t I balling my eyes out? Why didn’t I feel guilty about lying to Detective Kennedy? And most of all:
Why was I so hungry?
I mean that had to be sacrilege. I remember thinking that right at that moment, sticky thighs aside, while Mama and I were enjoying our ride home in the comfort of Daddy’s V-8-powered BMW 7 Series, which the marketing brochure had described as a full-size luxury sedan and likely the benchmark for large sport sedans on the market today, Daddy was probably zipped in a body bag and bouncing around on some stiff cot on his way to the morgue. My daddy, who had only hours ago been scooping wet sand out of my sand castle moat, would soon be rotting in moist dirt forever.
And I was hungry?
Mama went upstairs as soon as we got home. I thought she’d come back down and ask me what I wanted for dinner, but she didn’t. After a while, I went to check on her; she was asleep. I tiptoed to her money drawer, grabbed a twenty-dollar bill, went back downstairs, and called Pizza Palace. The pizza was delivered in less than thirty minutes just like the man on the phone said. I got a Coke from the refrigerator, turned on the TV, and buried myself in the sofa.
I must’ve fallen asleep because when I woke up I saw Daddy’s face on the TV. It took up the whole screen. Then there were pictures of the beach house, Daddy lying dead on the floor with a light blue sheet covering him, and Mrs. Butterworth talking into a microphone.
The next day, Mama got a call from a lady on her Junior League committee. I was surprised she actually answered it. I shot upstairs as fast as I could to pick up the phone in her room.
“Is it true, Diana?” the lady asked. “Is it true that Oliver is dead? That he was murdered? I just got a call from Rhonda Little.”
“The police don’t know for sure,” Mama said.
“You poor dear,” the lady said. “Is there anything I can do? I could bring dinner by tomorrow night.”
“Thank you, Joan,” Mama said. “But I think I need some time alone to digest all this.”
“Of course,” the lady said. “Please don’t hesitate to call me if you need anything at
Similar Books
