arms.
“Do you know that he breaks their noses?” she said.
“What?”
“He breaks their noses. It’s his trademark. Apparently, he doesn’t always kill them the same way, but he always breaks their noses. I read that in the paper.”
I recalled Colin Friendly’s photograph in the
Palm Beach Post.
(“What do you see when you look at him?” I’d asked my sister. “I see a little boy who’s been hurt,” she’d said.)
“There are times when I want to burst into that courtroom and confront that monster myself,” Donna was saying. “Demand that he tell me if he killed Amy. ‘Tell me,’I want to scream. ‘Just tell me so I know one way or the other, so I can get on with my life.’ And then I think: No, I couldn’t bear to hear him say he’d killed her, because if I know for sure that she’s dead, what life do I have?”
I said nothing. Donna and I watched the mother duck as she stood up and checked beneath her feathers, then repositioned herself slightly to the right.
“I keep thinking back to the night she disappeared,” Donna said. “We had an argument before she went out. Did you know that? Did I tell you that?”
“No, I don’t think you did.”
“I didn’t think so. I haven’t told anybody. I’m too ashamed.”
“Ashamed about what?”
“It was such a stupid argument. It was raining. I wanted her to take an umbrella; she said she didn’t need one. I told her she was acting like a child; she said to stop treating her like one.”
“Donna,” I interrupted, “don’t do this to yourself.”
“But it was the last thing I said to her. Why did I have to make such an issue over a stupid umbrella?”
“Because you cared about her well-being. Because you loved her. And she knew that.”
“Sometimes, when we’d argue, and it was always about little things, never about anything important, but everything always seemed so damned important at the time, I don’t know, maybe because I was a single parent, and I always felt I had to make up for Roger’s not being around, I don’t know, I don’t know what I thought anymore, but I remember … Oh God, do you want to hear something really awful? I remember that sometimes I thought it was just too much for me, that maybe she should go live with Roger, that it would be easier if she weren’t around. Oh God, oh God, how could I think such a thing?”
“Every parent has thoughts like that from time totime,” I tried to assure her, thinking of my mother and Jo Lynn, myself and Sara. “It doesn’t make you a bad person. It doesn’t make you a bad mother.”
As if on cue, the egg we’d been watching cracked apart, and a scrawny creature, wet feathers plastered to its tiny, shaking skull, beak spread wide, eyes tightly shut, pushed itself into the open air, impatiently shucking off its protective shell, then collapsing onto its side with the effort, lying prone on the ground without moving.
“Is he dead?” Donna squealed.
“No, he’s just too weak to move around yet.”
Donna stared at the fallen duckling. “I have to know what happened to Amy,” she said.
I said nothing. My mind was on Sara. Children drive you crazy, I was thinking, sometimes even make your life an absolute hell. But once they were part of your life, there was no life without them.
It was this thought more than anything else that persuaded me to accompany Jo Lynn to the courthouse on Wednesday.
Chapter 5
I arrived at the courthouse at just after eight o’clock Wednesday morning. Jo Lynn was already in line, near the front of the long queue that snaked its way through the lobby of the magnificent new peach-colored marble building in the downtown core of West Palm Beach. Jo Lynn had warned me to be at the courthouse at least two hours ahead of time in order to get a seat, but I’d refused to arrive before eight, and she’d agreed to hold a place for me. Cutting into the line, I got more than my share of dirty looks.
“Next week, you’ll have to come
“Do you know that he breaks their noses?” she said.
“What?”
“He breaks their noses. It’s his trademark. Apparently, he doesn’t always kill them the same way, but he always breaks their noses. I read that in the paper.”
I recalled Colin Friendly’s photograph in the
Palm Beach Post.
(“What do you see when you look at him?” I’d asked my sister. “I see a little boy who’s been hurt,” she’d said.)
“There are times when I want to burst into that courtroom and confront that monster myself,” Donna was saying. “Demand that he tell me if he killed Amy. ‘Tell me,’I want to scream. ‘Just tell me so I know one way or the other, so I can get on with my life.’ And then I think: No, I couldn’t bear to hear him say he’d killed her, because if I know for sure that she’s dead, what life do I have?”
I said nothing. Donna and I watched the mother duck as she stood up and checked beneath her feathers, then repositioned herself slightly to the right.
“I keep thinking back to the night she disappeared,” Donna said. “We had an argument before she went out. Did you know that? Did I tell you that?”
“No, I don’t think you did.”
“I didn’t think so. I haven’t told anybody. I’m too ashamed.”
“Ashamed about what?”
“It was such a stupid argument. It was raining. I wanted her to take an umbrella; she said she didn’t need one. I told her she was acting like a child; she said to stop treating her like one.”
“Donna,” I interrupted, “don’t do this to yourself.”
“But it was the last thing I said to her. Why did I have to make such an issue over a stupid umbrella?”
“Because you cared about her well-being. Because you loved her. And she knew that.”
“Sometimes, when we’d argue, and it was always about little things, never about anything important, but everything always seemed so damned important at the time, I don’t know, maybe because I was a single parent, and I always felt I had to make up for Roger’s not being around, I don’t know, I don’t know what I thought anymore, but I remember … Oh God, do you want to hear something really awful? I remember that sometimes I thought it was just too much for me, that maybe she should go live with Roger, that it would be easier if she weren’t around. Oh God, oh God, how could I think such a thing?”
“Every parent has thoughts like that from time totime,” I tried to assure her, thinking of my mother and Jo Lynn, myself and Sara. “It doesn’t make you a bad person. It doesn’t make you a bad mother.”
As if on cue, the egg we’d been watching cracked apart, and a scrawny creature, wet feathers plastered to its tiny, shaking skull, beak spread wide, eyes tightly shut, pushed itself into the open air, impatiently shucking off its protective shell, then collapsing onto its side with the effort, lying prone on the ground without moving.
“Is he dead?” Donna squealed.
“No, he’s just too weak to move around yet.”
Donna stared at the fallen duckling. “I have to know what happened to Amy,” she said.
I said nothing. My mind was on Sara. Children drive you crazy, I was thinking, sometimes even make your life an absolute hell. But once they were part of your life, there was no life without them.
It was this thought more than anything else that persuaded me to accompany Jo Lynn to the courthouse on Wednesday.
Chapter 5
I arrived at the courthouse at just after eight o’clock Wednesday morning. Jo Lynn was already in line, near the front of the long queue that snaked its way through the lobby of the magnificent new peach-colored marble building in the downtown core of West Palm Beach. Jo Lynn had warned me to be at the courthouse at least two hours ahead of time in order to get a seat, but I’d refused to arrive before eight, and she’d agreed to hold a place for me. Cutting into the line, I got more than my share of dirty looks.
“Next week, you’ll have to come
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