school secretary, Helga the Witch, gleamed with malicious delight at my strident, unhappy sounds. I kept my back turned and my words as cryptic as possible, but every time I peeked she was staring, unabashed, and smirking.
“Mackenzie here.” A babble came out of the receiver. Shouts, calls, bedlam.
“It’s Amanda. I was wondering. Is it your case now or—what is that noise? A riot? A jailbreak?” I flashed with fear—who would you call if the police were in trouble?
“Christmas party. You were sayin’?”
“Is it your case?”
“Which is ‘it’?”
“You know very well which one.”
“Oh. The fahr. It’s not in this department. Yet. This is homicide.”
“It isn’t one, then?” I felt enormous relief. Of course the fire was an accident. Of course Laura was innocent—but all the same, nice not to have to prove it.
“Don’t know yet.”
“But you have no connection with it, right?”
“Not at the moment.”
“Then don’t do anything. You weren’t supposed to see those compositions, have any special knowledge about anybody.”
“But I did see them.” The cop party sounded as if it were going to have to be broken up by citizens’ arrests.
“Only because I was indiscreet.”
“What?”
“I was indiscreet!” Helga’s prurient-interest meter went off the chart. I hunched over the receiver. “You didn’t take a vow to tell everything even when you don’t know if what you know means anything.” The ruckus in the receiver was overpowering.
“What’s it mean—‘dake a cow’? Sounds unsavory. You sure I do it?”
“Take a vow, not dake a cow!” I zoomed around and yes, her hooded eyes were wide open and very interested. “Don’t say anything!” I shouted into the phone. “Don’t tell them! Don’t theorize!” The roar of manly chaos was taking over, a tidal wave of sound. “You have no moral responsibility.”
Let Helga have a heyday with vows, moral responsibility and indiscretion.
He slurred something. It didn’t seem worth asking for a translation. But I did ask if I’d see him later. It was, after all, soon to be Friday night. As in Thank God It’s.
He produced one of his noncommittal, frustrating and infuriating answers, the verbal equivalent of his shrug. I know he can’t predict his hours. I know that the first forty-eight hours after a crime are the most important and that Mackenzie and Company will work nonstop as long as they can and that it’s for the common good, et cetera. I know all that and it still annoys me. Especially on a weekend night. And my annoyance annoys Mackenzie.
“Never mind,” I muttered.
“How’s that?”
Useless. First the Philadelphia Police Force would carouse on my tax dollars, and then Mackenzie would work late. I hung up.
Bah. Humbug.
* * *
My last period class behaved like POWs sighting the armies of liberation, and Havermeyer had forbidden early dismissals. By the time we were all released, I felt bruised, inside and out.
At home, I realized I’d stormed off without feeding the cat that morning, and I apologized profusely while I fumbled through the catfood cans and Macavity strolled, purring, to his dish. “Yummy giblets,” I murmured, and then I saw a note propped against the can opener. “I fed the feline. Don’t let the little glutton bamboozle you.”
Life is really bleak when your own pet tries to rip you off. I put the catfood away, downed aspirin and made herbal tea that promised serenity. Then I sulked unserenely on a tall stool at the kitchen counter.
The cat settled in silky contentment on my lap as I flipped through late catalogues, cards from businesses and a manila envelope from Silverwood. I peeked inside and found a mimeographed collection of stories called Mining Silver. Some of the women who’d been in my Rediscovering the Classics class had also been in the Tuesday Creative Writing class, and they’d asked me, shyly, if they could send me their “book.” I put it aside for another
“Mackenzie here.” A babble came out of the receiver. Shouts, calls, bedlam.
“It’s Amanda. I was wondering. Is it your case now or—what is that noise? A riot? A jailbreak?” I flashed with fear—who would you call if the police were in trouble?
“Christmas party. You were sayin’?”
“Is it your case?”
“Which is ‘it’?”
“You know very well which one.”
“Oh. The fahr. It’s not in this department. Yet. This is homicide.”
“It isn’t one, then?” I felt enormous relief. Of course the fire was an accident. Of course Laura was innocent—but all the same, nice not to have to prove it.
“Don’t know yet.”
“But you have no connection with it, right?”
“Not at the moment.”
“Then don’t do anything. You weren’t supposed to see those compositions, have any special knowledge about anybody.”
“But I did see them.” The cop party sounded as if it were going to have to be broken up by citizens’ arrests.
“Only because I was indiscreet.”
“What?”
“I was indiscreet!” Helga’s prurient-interest meter went off the chart. I hunched over the receiver. “You didn’t take a vow to tell everything even when you don’t know if what you know means anything.” The ruckus in the receiver was overpowering.
“What’s it mean—‘dake a cow’? Sounds unsavory. You sure I do it?”
“Take a vow, not dake a cow!” I zoomed around and yes, her hooded eyes were wide open and very interested. “Don’t say anything!” I shouted into the phone. “Don’t tell them! Don’t theorize!” The roar of manly chaos was taking over, a tidal wave of sound. “You have no moral responsibility.”
Let Helga have a heyday with vows, moral responsibility and indiscretion.
He slurred something. It didn’t seem worth asking for a translation. But I did ask if I’d see him later. It was, after all, soon to be Friday night. As in Thank God It’s.
He produced one of his noncommittal, frustrating and infuriating answers, the verbal equivalent of his shrug. I know he can’t predict his hours. I know that the first forty-eight hours after a crime are the most important and that Mackenzie and Company will work nonstop as long as they can and that it’s for the common good, et cetera. I know all that and it still annoys me. Especially on a weekend night. And my annoyance annoys Mackenzie.
“Never mind,” I muttered.
“How’s that?”
Useless. First the Philadelphia Police Force would carouse on my tax dollars, and then Mackenzie would work late. I hung up.
Bah. Humbug.
* * *
My last period class behaved like POWs sighting the armies of liberation, and Havermeyer had forbidden early dismissals. By the time we were all released, I felt bruised, inside and out.
At home, I realized I’d stormed off without feeding the cat that morning, and I apologized profusely while I fumbled through the catfood cans and Macavity strolled, purring, to his dish. “Yummy giblets,” I murmured, and then I saw a note propped against the can opener. “I fed the feline. Don’t let the little glutton bamboozle you.”
Life is really bleak when your own pet tries to rip you off. I put the catfood away, downed aspirin and made herbal tea that promised serenity. Then I sulked unserenely on a tall stool at the kitchen counter.
The cat settled in silky contentment on my lap as I flipped through late catalogues, cards from businesses and a manila envelope from Silverwood. I peeked inside and found a mimeographed collection of stories called Mining Silver. Some of the women who’d been in my Rediscovering the Classics class had also been in the Tuesday Creative Writing class, and they’d asked me, shyly, if they could send me their “book.” I put it aside for another
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