Kisscut

  Sara set down her pen, trying to recall what she knew about Jenny Weaver’s father. Mothers were more likely to bring their children into the clinic, and as far as Sara could remember she had never met Jenny’s father. Some women, especially women who were recently divorced, would volunteer information about their husbands as if their children were not in the room. Sara was always uncomfortable when this happened, and she usually managed to cut it off before it could really start, but some women talked over her, bringing up the kind of personal information that a child should never know about either parent. Dottie Weaver had never done this. She was talkative enough, even chatty, but Dottie had never disparaged her ex-husband at the clinic, even though Sara had gathered from the sporadic way the single mother paid her insurance balance that money was tight.

  Sara’s glasses slipped up as she rubbed her eyes. She glanced at the clock on the wall. Sunday lunch at her parents’ was at eleven, then Jeffrey was expecting her at the station around one-thirty.

  Sara shook her head, skipping over any thoughts of Jeffrey. A headache had settled into the base of her neck and the dull throbbing made it difficult to concentrate. She took off her glasses and cleaned them with her shirttail, hoping this might help her see things more clearly.

  “HELLO?” Sara called, throwing open the door to her parents’ house. The cold air inside brought welcome goose bumps to her clammy skin.

  “In here,” her mother said from the kitchen.

  Sara dropped her briefcase by the door and kicked off her tennis shoes before walking to the back of the house. Billy trotted in front of her, giving Sara a hard look, as if to ask why they had spent all that time in the hot clinic when they could have been here in the air-conditioning. To punctuate his displeasure, he collapsed onto his side halfway down the hallway so that Sara had to step over him to get to the back of the house.

  When Sara walked into the kitchen, Cathy was standing at the stove frying chicken. Her mother was still dressed in her church clothes, but had taken off her shoes and pantyhose. A white apron that read DON’T MESS WITH THE CHEF was tied loosely around her waist.

  “Hey, Mama,” Sara offered, kissing her cheek. Sara was the tallest person in her family, and she could rest her chin on her mother’s head without straining her neck. Tessa had inherited Cathy Linton’s petite build and blonde hair. Sara had inherited her pragmatism.

  Cathy gave Sara a disapproving look. “Did you forget to put on a bra this morning?”

  Sara felt her face redden as she untied the shirt she was wearing around her waist. She slipped it on over her T-shirt, offering, “I was in the clinic. I didn’t think I’d be there long enough to turn on the air.”

  “It’s too hot to be frying,” Cathy countered. “But your father wanted chicken.”

  Sara got the lesson on sacrificing things for your family, but answered instead, “You should have told him to go to Chick’s.”

  “He doesn’t need to eat that trash.”

  Sara let this go, sighing much as Billy had. She buttoned the shirt to the top, giving her mother a tight smile as she asked, “Better?”

  Cathy nodded, taking a paper napkin off the counter and wiping her forehead. “It’s not even noon and it’s already ninety degrees out.”

  “I know,” Sara answered, tucking a foot underneath her as she sat on the kitchen stool. She watched her mother move around the kitchen, glad for the normalcy. Cathy was wearing a linen dress with thin, vertical green stripes. Her blonde hair, which was only slightly streaked with gray, was pulled up behind her head in a loose ponytail, much the same way Sara wore hers.

  Cathy blew her nose into the napkin, then threw it in the trash. “Tell me about last night,” she said, returning to the stove.

  Sara shrugged. “Jeffrey didn’t have a choice.”

  “I never doubted that. I want to know how you’re holding up.”

  Sara considered the question. The truth was, she was not holding up well at all.

  Cathy seemed to sense this. She slipped a fresh piece of battered chicken into the hot oil and turned to face her daughter. “I called you last night to check in with you.”

  Sara stared at her mother, forcing herself not to look away. “I was at Jeffrey’s.”

  “I figured that, but your father drove by his house just to make sure.”

  “Daddy did?” Sara asked, surprised. “Why?”

  “We thought you would come here,” Cathy answered. “When you weren’t at home, that was the obvious place to check.”

  Sara crossed her arms. “Don’t you think that’s a little intrusive?”

  “Not nearly as intrusive as childbirth,” Cathy snapped, pointing at Sara with her fork. “Next time, call.”

  After almost forty years, Cathy could still make Sara feel like a child. Sara looked out the window, feeling as if she had been caught doing something wrong.

  “Sara?”

  Sara mumbled a quiet, “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I worry about you.”

  “I know, Mama.”

  “Is everything okay?”

  Sara felt her color rise again, but for a different reason. “Where’s Tessa?”

  “She’s not down yet.”

  Tessa lived over the garage of their parents’ home. Sara’s house was just a mile down the road, but that was far enough to give her some sense of independence. Tessa did not seem to mind the closeness. She worked with Eddie, their father, in the family’s plumbing business, so it was easier for her to walk down the stairs and report for work every morning. Besides, part of Tessa was still a teenage girl. It had not hit her yet that one day she would want a house of her own. Maybe it never would.

  Cathy flipped the chicken, tapping her fork on the edge of the pan. She slipped it into the spoon rest, then turned to Sara, her arms crossed. “What’s going on?”

  “Nothing,” Sara answered. “I mean, other than last night with the girl. And the baby. I guess you heard about the baby.”

  “It was all over the church before we even walked through the doors.”

  “Well”—Sara shrugged—“it was very hard.”

  “I can’t even imagine how you do that job, baby.”

  “Sometimes, I can’t either.”

  Cathy stood, waiting for the rest. “And?” she prompted.

  Sara rubbed the back of her neck. “At Jeffrey’s…,” she began. “It just didn’t work out.”

  “Didn’t work out?” her mother asked.

  “I mean, didn’t work out as in…” Sara gestured with her hands, encouraging her mother to fill in the rest.

  “Oh,” Cathy finally said. “Physically?”

  Sara blushed again, which was answer enough.

  “Well, that’s not a complete surprise, is it? After what happened?”

  “He was so…” Sara looked for the right words. “He was…abrupt. I mean, I tried….” Again, she left out the details.

  “Is this the first time that’s happened?”

  Sara shrugged. It was the first time it had happened with her, but who knew about Jeffrey’s other conquests. “The part that was awful…,” Sara began, then stopped. “As long as I’ve known him, I have never seen him that mad. He was furious. I thought he was going to hit something.”

  “I remember once when your father couldn’t—”

  “Mama,” Sara stopped her. It was hard enough talking to her mother about this without bringing Eddie into the picture. Not to mention that Jeffrey would kill Sara if he knew that she had told anyone his performance had been less than stellar. Jeffrey’s sexual prowess was as important to him as his reputation as a good cop.

  “You brought it up,” Cathy reminded her, turning back to the chicken. She snatched a paper towel off the roll and lined a plate to put the chicken on.

  “Okay,” Sara answered. “What should I do?”

  “Do whatever he wants,” Cathy said. “Or nothing at all.” She picked up another piece of chicken. “Are you sure you even want to bother at this point?
”

  “Meaning what?”

  “Meaning, do you want to be with him or not? Maybe that’s what it boils down to. You’ve been dancing around this thing with Jeffrey since the divorce.” She tapped the fork on the pan. “As your father would say, it’s time for you either to shit or get off the pot.”

  The front door opened, then banged shut, and Sara heard two thumping noises as Tessa kicked off her shoes.

  Tessa yelled, “Mama?”

  “In the kitchen,” Cathy answered. She gave Sara a pointed look. “You know what I mean?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Tessa stomped her way down the hall, mumbling, “Stupid dog,” as she obviously stepped over Billy. The kitchen door bumped open, and Tessa came into the kitchen with an irritated expression on her face. She was wearing an old pink bathrobe with a green T-shirt and a pair of boxer shorts underneath. Her face was pale, and she looked a bit sickly.

  Cathy asked, “Tessie?”

  Tessa shook her head as she walked to the refrigerator and opened the freezer door, saying, “I just need coffee.”

  Cathy ignored this, and kissed her on the forehead to take her temperature. “You feel warm.”

  “It’s a hundred freaking degrees outside,” Tessa whined, standing as close to the freezer as she could without actually getting in. “Of course I’m warm.” As if to reinforce this, she flapped her robe open and closed several times to generate some cool air. “Jesus, I’m moving somewhere where they get real seasons. I swear I am. I don’t care how funny they talk or that they don’t know how to make grits. There has got to be a better alternative.”

  “Is that all that’s wrong?” Sara asked, putting her hand on Tessa’s forehead. As a doctor, Sara knew this was about as effective a gauge for a fever as Cathy’s kiss, but Tessa was her baby sister. She had to do something.

  Tessa pulled away. “I’m premenstrual, I’m hot, and I need chocolate.” She stuck out her chin. “Do you see this?” she asked, pointing to a large pimple.

  “I don’t see how we could miss it,” Cathy said, closing the refrigerator door.

  Sara laughed, and Tessa popped her on the arm.

  “Wonder what Daddy’s gonna call it?” Sara teased, slapping her back. When his daughters were teenagers, Eddie had taken great delight in drawing attention to their facial blemishes. Sara still felt a flush of shame when she remembered the time her father had introduced her to one of his friends as his oldest daughter Sara, and Bobo, her new pimple.

  Tessa was phrasing a response when the phone rang. She picked it up on the first ring.

  Two seconds passed before Tessa hissed a curse and yelled, “I got it, Dad,” as Eddie obviously picked up the extension upstairs.

  Sara smiled, thinking this could have been any Sunday from the last twenty years. All that was missing was their father walking in, making some silly comment about how happy he was to see all three of his girls barefoot and in the kitchen.

  Tessa said, “Hold on,” then put her hand over the mouth of the receiver. She turned to Sara. “Are you here?”

  “Who is it?” Sara asked, but she could guess the answer.

  “Who do you think?” Tessa snapped. She did not wait for a response. Instead, she said into the phone, “Hold on, Jeffrey. Here she is.”

  6

  BEN WALKER, Grant County’s chief of police before Jeffrey, had kept his office just off the briefing room in the back of the station. Every day, Ben had settled himself behind the large desk that almost filled the entire room, and anyone who wanted to talk to him had to sit on the other side of this mammoth hunk of wood, their knees grazing the desk, their backs firm to the wall. In the mornings, the men—and they were all men then—on the senior squad were called in to hear their assignments for the day, then they left and the chief shut his door. Nobody saw him again until quitting time, when Ben got in his car and drove two blocks up the street to the diner where he ate his supper.

  The first thing Jeffrey did when he took over the station was throw out Ben’s desk. The oak monstrosity had to be disassembled to get it through the door. Jeffrey made Ben’s old office the storage room, and took the small office at the front of the squad room as his own. One quiet weekend, Jeffrey installed a picture window so he could look out on the squad and, more important, so they could see him. There were blinds on the window, but he seldom closed them. Jeffrey made a point of leaving his office door open whenever possible.

  He stared out at the empty squad room, wondering what his people would make of Jenny Weaver’s shooting. Jeffrey felt an overwhelming sense of guilt for what he had done, even though his mind kept telling him he had not been given a choice. Every time he thought about it Jeffrey felt like he couldn’t breathe right, like not enough air was getting to his lungs. He could not let go of the obvious questions in his mind: Had he made the right decision? Would Jenny have really killed that kid in cold blood? Sara seemed to think so. Last night, she had said something about having two dead teenagers today instead of one if Jeffrey had not stopped the girl. Of course, Sara had said a lot of other things last night that had not exactly been a comfort.

  Jeffrey pressed his hands together in front of his face, leaning his head against his thumbs as he thought about Sara. Sometimes, she could be too analytical for her own good. One of the sexiest things about Sara was her mouth. Too bad she didn’t know when to shut up and use it for something more helpful to Jeffrey than talking.

  “Chief?” Frank Wallace knocked on the door.

  “Come in,” Jeffrey answered.

  “Hot outside,” Frank said, as if to explain why he wasn’t wearing a tie. He was dressed in a dark black suit that had a cheap shine to it. The top button of his dress shirt was undone, and Jeffrey could see his yellowed white undershirt underneath. As usual, Frank reeked of cigarette smoke. He had probably been outside, smoking by the back door, giving Jeffrey some time before he came in for their meeting. Why anyone would voluntarily hold a burning cigarette in this kind of heat, Jeffrey would never know.

  Frank could have had Ben Walker’s job if he had asked. Of course, the old cop was too smart for that. Frank had worked in Grant County his entire career, and he had seen the way the cities were changing. Once, Frank had told Jeffrey that being chief of police was a young man’s job, but Jeffrey had thought then as he did now that what Frank meant was it was a foolish man’s job. During Jeffrey’s first year in Grant, he had figured out that no one in his right mind would sign up for this kind of pressure. By then, it had been too late. He had already met Sara.

  “Busy weekend,” Frank said, handing Jeffrey a weekend status report. The file was thicker than usual.

  “Yeah.” Jeffrey indicated a chair for the man to sit down.

  “Alleged break-in at the cleaners. Marla told you about that one? Then there’s a couple or three DUIs, usual shit at the college, drunk and disorderly. Couple of domestic situations, no charges filed.”

  Jeffrey listened half-heartedly as Frank ran down the list. It was long, and daunting. There was no telling what a larger city dealt with this weekend if Grant had been hit so hard. Usually, things were much quieter. Of course, the heat brought out violence in people. Jeffrey had known that as long as he had been a cop.

  “So…” Frank wrapped it up: “That’s about it.”

  “Good,” Jeffrey answered, taking the report. He tapped his finger on the papers, then with little fanfare slid Jenny Weaver’s file across the desk. It sat there like a white elephant.

  Frank gave the file the same skeptical look he would give an astrology report, then reluctantly picked it up and started to read. Frank had been on the job long enough to think he had seen everything. The shocked expression on his face belied this as he examined the photographs Sara had taken.

  “Mother of God,” Frank mumbled, reaching into his coat pocket. He pulled out his cigarettes, then, probably remembering where he was, put them back. He closed the file without finishing it.

  Jeffrey said, “She di
dn’t give birth to the child.”

  “Yeah.” Frank cleared his throat, crossing his legs uncomfortably. He was fifty-eight years old and had already put in enough time to retire with a nice pension. Why he kept working the job was a mystery. Cases like this must make Frank wonder why he kept showing up every day, too.

  “What is this?” Frank asked. “Good Lord in heaven.”

  “Female Genital Mutilation,” Jeffrey told him. “It’s an African or Middle Eastern thing.” He held up his hand, stopping Frank’s next question. “I know what you’re thinking. They’re Southern Baptist, not Islamic.”

  “Where’d she get the idea, then?”

  “That’s what we’re going to find out.”

  Frank shook his head, like he was trying to erase the image from his mind.

  Jeffrey said, “Dr. Linton is on her way in to do the briefing,” feeling foolish for using Sara’s title even as he said it. Frank played poker with Eddie Linton. He had watched Sara grow up.

  “The kid gonna be here, too?” Frank asked, meaning Lena.

  “Of course,” Jeffrey answered, meeting him squarely in the eye. Frank frowned, making it obvious that he did not approve.

  For everything Frank was—sexist, probably racist, certainly ageist—he cared for Lena. He had a daughter about Lena’s age, and from the moment Jeffrey had partnered her with Frank, the old cop had protested. Every week Frank had come in, asking for a change in assignment, and every week Jeffrey had told him to get used to it. Part of the reason the city had brought in Jeffrey, an outsider, was to drag the force out of the Stone Age. Jeffrey had handpicked Lena Adams from the police academy and groomed her from day one to be the first female detective on the squad.