If the Witness Lied

  The TV people balloon with delight. Today they will have their hearts’ desire—two missing sisters within camera range.

  The fat old phone below the large mirror is ringing again. Cheryl snatches it up. Immediately her face distorts with anger. “Madison said what? Mrs. Griz, I apologize for that. Madison has no right to interfere. Of course the producer and I will be there, just as planned. I’m so sorry about your conversation. Trissy’s sister is at such a difficult stage.”

  Trissy?

  Rhymes with “prissy” and “sissy”?

  For the thousandth time, Madison wonders how God could let Cheryl live instead of Mom.

  Cheryl covers the phone and hisses, “How dare you, Madison? You don’t even live here!”

  Mrs. Griz continues talking, so relieved she still has a chance to be on TV that she’s shouting. Everybody hears her say, “I’ve alerted the staff and we’re so excited!”

  Rule: TV cameras are always welcome. That’s where power lies. In television. It comes, it records, it airs, it lasts. A little boy caught inside television has nowhere to run. And there’s nothing Madison can do.

  Cheryl reenters the phone conversation. Her cheeks turn a dull red. “Jack has already picked Tris up? Oh, yes, of course. How could I have forgotten that it’s a half day?”

  Madison assumes Cheryl does not have the slightest idea what anybody’s schedule is, which is nice. If asked, Madison will also claim a half day as her own reason for showing up.

  “Oh, goodness,” cries Cheryl. “I’m glancing at my cell phone, and I see there is a text message from Jack. No doubt he’s letting me know. I’ve been so busy with the television crew, I just haven’t been aware of other details. Well, it doesn’t matter. We’ll still drop by. I have the associate producer and assistant director here.”

  Madison studies Angus and the bad-hair woman. Associates and assistants should be in their twenties, shouldn’t they? These two are probably in their forties. Perhaps they are not as successful as they claim.

  But that will not help, because people without success really want to present a riveting, heartbreaking family drama. And as far as television is concerned, the Fountain story has no missing ingredients. It will be a nice career move for these two.

  Coming down, her eyes averted from all those stares, Madison gets a momentary glimpse of kitchen cabinets at the far end of the hall. Her mother was the cookie maven: chocolate chip cookies, peanut butter cookies, molasses cookies, iced cookies, spritz cookies. Her mother loved that kitchen. Lived there. Sang there. Danced. Wiped away tears and celebrated triumphs. Read library books and—

  Madison is going to cry.

  Slowly, as if capturing a wild animal apt to spook, the cameraman lifts his camera to his shoulder.

  “Emotions are going to be very high,” says Angus, this man whose emotions are probably like a cotton shirt, just something to wear. “You know what, Maddy?”

  Only Mom called her Maddy. When Mom died, Madison never wanted that nickname again.

  Angus trots out his smile. It’s a rich smile, as if anybody he shares it with will become healthy, wealthy and wise. “Let’s you and I both meet Smithy at the railroad station! After all, we can get the day care anytime. And without Trissy, it’s lost any real meaning, hasn’t it? But you—the beautiful sisters, your first reunion—is it your first reunion?—I mean, think of it. The beautiful moment when you start to rebuild your family, facing tragedy with courage because you’re together.”

  They are beautiful sisters, and Madison has been dreaming of the moment in which she and her sister face their tragedy with courage because they’re together. But not in front of a TV crew sniffing the air like dogs. “Gosh, it sounds like fun, but I have a dentist appointment. Bye.” She walks straight into them, and they are forced to part. In a moment she’s outdoors.

  It’s drizzling. The drops feel cool and good against her feverish skin. But the tenacity of TV is not slowed by a mere damp sky. The bad-hair woman follows so closely they could share a sweater. Madison cannot go to her car and she cannot call Jack.

  * * *

  Friday creeps by. Diana has a sense of being too late; of being wrong. It’s a heavy, dark feeling. She’s been wrong and late already today, wasting the entire morning before making the decision to interfere in Jack’s life. The brief conversation with Jack’s aunt Cheryl keeps repeating in her mind. Mrs. Rand was awfully excited about a paint event. And when Diana strapped Tris into his car seat, what was with the smug little smile? Even Cheryl can’t gloat over clutter removal.

  In spite of the fact that Cheryl’s a big spacious woman, covered with attractively tailored clothing, adorned with well-chosen jewelry, she seems slimy to Diana. Diana thinks of her as a jellyfish floating on the surface, poisonous tentacles reaching down. Diana’s mother disapproves of talk like this. “That’s just plain mean, Diana. Where would those children be without Cheryl Rand?”

  Better off, in Diana’s opinion. Last winter, the older three were so stunned by their father’s death and how it happened, they couldn’t even stand up straight. They stumbled around, hunched and silent. Cheryl liked to remind Smithy and Madison that the reason they didn’t have a mom, and the reason they didn’t have a dad, was sitting right there needing a fresh diaper. Oh, you have a chance to get out of here? cried Cheryl. Take it!

  When Smithy asked to move in with the Murrays, Diana was thrilled.

  No, said Diana’s mother gently. Life is tough, but Smithy has to stick it out at home. She still has a family, albeit one that is smaller and sadder. We Murrays will always be here for her. But Smithy can’t move out.

  Diana’s mother was wrong.

  Smithy moved out within days. Diana’s friendship, the years of dolls and ice skates, slumber parties and lipsticks, was over. Instead, Diana became that handy tool, the babysitter down the block.

  “Cheryl has to be doing something right,” her mother insists. “Tris is a great little guy.”

  Diana does not agree. What saves Tris is a great day care and a great brother.

  Diana leaves her cell on, hoping Jack will update her. But when it rings during literature, the caller ID says Reed Fountain. Diana almost faints. Is he calling from heaven?

  Cell phones are not allowed in class to start with, but talking on them is absolutely forbidden. People often text, holding the phone under their desk, and some people even manage to play games, but Diana is not in this group. She gives the teacher a tight apologetic smile, whispers, “Sorry!” and scurries out of the classroom. The teacher says something, but Diana chooses not to hear. “Hello?” she says into her phone. She’s never talked to a dead man. She walks swiftly down the hall in case the teacher pursues her.

  “Jack took Tris early from day care because it’s a half day,” says Cheryl in a taut, angry voice.

  Diana reexamines the caller ID. It’s the Fountains’ house phone, hardly ever used. Cheryl always calls from her own cell. Cheryl has gotten rid of every other trace of Reed and Laura Fountain. She hasn’t realized that the caller ID still shows up with the dead man’s name.

  In spite of the fact that it’s Cheryl, Diana feels as if Mr. Fountain is trying to tell her something. He’s listening in, expecting something of her.

  “Jack texted me,” says Cheryl peevishly. “They’re at a soccer game. But I have to pick them up, Diana. This is quite urgent. Who are they playing?”

  There is no half day and the school does not have a Friday game schedule. They’re not playing anybody.

  But it is the plus and the minus of cell phones that the caller doesn’t know the location of the other phone, so Cheryl does not know that Diana is still in class, and that Jack should be too. Diana backs Jack up. “They’ll probably be home soon. How’s the paint job going?”

  “I can’t start on that yet. I have other things on my plate. Di, I’m really worried. I need to find them.”

  She hates being called Di. “What are you worried about?”

  “I don’
t know where he is!” cries Cheryl.

  Cheryl Rand never knows where Jack is. Or cares.

  “You know that Jack is very difficult,” says Cheryl, who sounds as if she is crying. There seems to be somebody with her, comforting her. This is not good. Cheryl will do anything for an audience. “He keeps ganging up on me,” says Cheryl. “I can’t cope with him.”

  Cheryl is showing off for somebody, and she’s doing it by slandering Jack. Who could that person be? Cheryl is friendless, as far as Diana knows. “I don’t think one person can gang up on you, Mrs. Rand. I think a gang of people has to gang up on you.”

  “Fine!” shouts Cheryl Rand. “Don’t help, then!” She slams the phone down, which you can do with a house phone. Cheryl has a very expensive smartphone, and during television ads she watches videos, checks celebrity news and comparison shops. She wouldn’t slam it around.

  Diana wants to phone Jack, but what if he’s in his room, rescuing his stuff? Diana’s call will give away his position. No, wait. Jack can’t be home, because he’s got Tris. Tris does not have an indoor voice. He has only an outdoor voice. Cheryl would know all too well if Tris and Jack were upstairs.

  Diana calls Jack, but it goes to voice mail. She is forced to leave a message. “Jack, Cheryl phoned me in school. She’s hunting for you. There’s something weird going down. Somebody else is in on it, but I don’t know who. Be careful, Jack. Call if I can help.”

  * * *

  “I’m Gwen!” cries the TV woman, jogging alongside Madison as if they’re on the same track team. “Madison, honey, you’re going to be a wonderful interview. You have so much personality. This program could open up a beautiful future for you, because you’re articulate and sexy and full of character. Are you interested in the film industry?”

  Is this the bait they offer Cheryl? She’s “articulate, sexy and full of character?” That would be a hard sell, but maybe they offered that line to Smithy. Smithy, who crosses state lines to come home and blat on television about precious, private things.

  Madison doesn’t want these people to know about her car. A car is freedom, but only if it’s a secret from the invaders. She trots in a circle, heading instead for the backyard and taking the shortcut through the little woods to Kensington, the next street over.

  “Where’s your dentist appointment?” Gwen says. “We’ll want to follow you during your everyday activities. Shall I drive you there?”

  Even if Madison wanted to be on TV—especially if she wanted to be on TV—she would refuse to be filmed with her mouth open and her saliva dripping. The image is so preposterous that Madison giggles as she plunges into their neighborhood wilderness. It’s not wide, but it is long. Chesmore and Kensington are separated for the length of the creek, with enough wetlands and rock-strewn woods to support turkeys, skunks, at least one raccoon and some years a fox. Jack and his friends used to play Survivor here, pretending to face danger in the forest.

  Madison does face danger. But it isn’t in the trees.

  She avoids the path made by her father and Jack, because Gwen could just trot after her, and walks straight into the briars, letting them snag her jacket and trousers. Her sneakers sink into the little marsh, getting muddy and stained.

  “Let me give you my cell number,” cries Gwen, brought to a stop by thorns.

  Madison hurries. Gwen is just the type to run all the way around and meet Madison coming out the other side.

  * * *

  Jack and Tris have no sooner finished watering a tree than Jack’s cell phone rings. It’s Diana. He doesn’t even consider answering. He can’t have a second conversation about Cheryl painting his room.

  When Tris spots the big-kid jungle gym, he forgets the library and hurries toward the playground gate. Jack trudges after him. In adventure films, people soar with adrenaline and leap from cliff to cliff, using some vast, untapped reservoir of energy. Jack can hardly hoist his own sneakers. It doesn’t bode well.

  The phone rings again in his hand. He jumps at the sound of his own ringtone.

  Madison. Twice in ten minutes. She sure is eager. How does television do this to people?

  Jack answers carefully. One syllable. No inflection. “Hi.”

  “It’s me, Madison.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I just drove over to the house. Jack, Cheryl’s gotten hold of a TV producer. They want to do a special on us. On Tris, actually. They’re going to bring in a psychiatrist and get us to talk in front of cameras and portray Tris as some evil baby creature, and hope that we cry, and above all they want to film the moment when Smithy gets here and we have a reunion. Smithy’s agreed to this, Jack. She’s in favor of it. She is actually on the train right now. She couldn’t come home to visit us or anything like that, but a chance to be on TV, and she’s on her way. Cheryl’s trying to hunt you down for this reunion. She knows you have Tris. I called Mrs. Griz and tried to convince her not to sign on, but that’s not going to happen. Mrs. Griz is going to help them.”

  The prospect of an ally should bolster him. Instead, Jack’s fading, like a setting sun. “How did you happen to be at the house today?” he asks, since Smithy isn’t the only one who doesn’t visit.

  Tris reaches the jungle gym, stretching his little fingers toward the high bar. His pants fall down. Usually this means that Tris falls down too. Instead, he carefully pulls his jeans up. It’s a first. Tris is normally as unaware of clothing as a chimpanzee.

  Jack catches up and helps with the blue jeans. It’s hard to hold the phone at the same time.

  “I came home because of yesterday,” Madison is saying. “Daddy’s birthday. I’m the oldest. I should have gathered us together and bought a sheet cake, and we would have written I LOVE YOU, DAD on his cake, and had enough candles. Do you ever think of them in heaven, and they’re looking down, and they’re disappointed in us? Well, not you, they’re not disappointed in you. But me.” Madison is crying. Jack is oddly comforted by this. “There’s a second thing that happened yesterday, Jack,” she adds. “Mrs. Emmer had to go shopping at the mall.”

  Girls! Just when you think they have something to offer.

  “I stayed in the car while the Emmers went shopping. I pretended I was going to study when I was really going to sit and think about Dad’s birthday. And parked at the back of the lot was a Jeep. Same model and year as Dad’s. I thought it might be Dad’s, so I went over to look for initials carved in the dash. Well, there weren’t any initials, it wasn’t his, but it was unlocked. Remember how Daddy never locked his Jeep either? I couldn’t help it, Jack. I opened the door and sat in the passenger seat.”

  He can’t stand remembering this moment when their father made his final fatal move. Shut up, shut up! he wants to shout.

  “Maybe not all Jeeps are like the one in the parking lot. Maybe there’s something different about that particular Jeep. But here’s the thing, Jack. The asphalt was flat and I knew the Jeep couldn’t roll, so I tried to release the parking brake. I wasn’t strong enough. It took me three tries.”

  Madison doesn’t continue. She doesn’t need to. She has just told him that Dad’s death did not happen the way the witness claimed.

  The only witness.

  Cheryl.

  It isn’t Tris’s fault? It never was? Is that possible?

  But then how did it happen?

  Tris’s stubby fingers are wrapped around the highest bar, his little shoe flailing around trying to find the right step. “Don’t help me,” warns Tris.

  Tris is like their mother. Determined. Now two weeks short of his third birthday, Tris has lost that baby look. He’s sturdier and firmer. Like Mom. Sturdier and firmer in a decision than anyone Jack will ever know.

  Jack has never cried. Not one tear. Not one sob. Not for Mom or Dad or Tris or himself. Now he can hardly talk over the lump in his throat. “We’re at the library, Mad. Meet us in the playground out back.”

  * * *

  Madison cuts through yet more backyards to return to her car.
She hasn’t run back and forth in the mud like this since she was young enough to play hide-and-seek. She’s unlocking her car door when the windowless rear of the white TV van appears through the trees as it slowly backs out of her driveway. Madison leaps into the Celica, yanks the door shut and slides down as low as she can get behind the wheel. She’s still visible.

  The van heads toward her. Is Gwen driving? Madison doesn’t risk a look. When the van passes, Madison straightens up. Tris’s day care is in the other direction, so whatever the TV crew is doing, it isn’t doing that.

  Yet.

  She starts the engine and is putting the car in first when the blue BMW drives straight toward her. It’s Angus. Too late to duck—movement would draw his attention. She sits still. He’s not looking her way. He’s not looking at the road, either; he’s fiddling with the windshield wipers or radio or something. The guy is a multiple menace.

  There’s one worry she can solve. She calls Mrs. Emmer. “Aunt Bonnie?”

  Mrs. Emmer is always distraught when she’s interrupted at work. “Hello, Madison, honey,” she says, sounding frazzled before she hears a word.

  “Jack phoned. He needs me at home. I’m just going to throw a few clothes in a suitcase and drive on over and stay for the weekend, okay?”

  “Of course. Is something else wrong? Can I help? What shall I do?”

  Madison is awestruck by Mrs. Emmer. What a sense of duty. How completely she has accepted her role as godparent. It doesn’t have God in it, but it has love. Maybe that’s the same thing. “I think he’s just feeling low. I’ve been the world’s worst older sister. I’ll let you know how it’s going.”

  Madison heads for the library. It’s only a mile. She checks her rearview mirror constantly. The three cars she’s worried about—the gray Lincoln, the white van and the blue BMW—are distinctive. She doesn’t see them and nobody is following her. Just in case, she goes through a bank drive-in lane, comes out in the supermarket lot and cuts through the alley, which is kind of fun. Or lunatic.

  She parks behind the library. The children’s playground is fenced so toddlers can’t run out among the cars. Through the chain link, she sees Tris teetering at the top of the old-fashioned jungle gym, an open metal cube with crossbars. Her heart lurches.