"There's just pictures of her with her class, and her face is so small you need a magnifying glass. She was very pretty," he told me. "Now that I see you out of a shell, you're very pretty yourself, and you do bear a strong resemblance."
"I wasn't in any shell."
"You weren't?" He smiled.
"I wasn't."
"All right. You weren't. Anyway," he said, turning back to his room, "I think my bed is where her bed had been, between those two windows. My mother had the panes replaced with more efficient ones, but that's where the windows were then and that's where they are now."
I walked in slowly and looked around. It was difficult now to envision this room ever being my mother's or any girl's room, for that matter. The furniture was heavy-looking dark oak. He had a set of dumbbells on a stand in the corner. Over the headboard of the bed was a school banner celebrating the basketball championship last year. On the top of his bookcase, he had trophies as well.
I thought the most interesting thing was an oil painting of a baseball player swinging his bat. The artist captured his movement and the tension in his forearms, neck and shoulders. There was just enough of his profile to show his intensity.
"That's very nice," I said, nodding at it. "It has great detail."
"Yeah. I saw it in a gallery in New York and my father bought it for me. It's called Hitter's Dream. I heard you paint, too."
"Heard?"
"Dicky Steigman is in your art class. Mr. Longo's pretty impressed with what you do. I agree with him. I saw one of your paintings."
"When?"
Nothing I had ever done was put on display.
"Oh, one day when no one was in the room. I went in on my own and found it on Longo's desk. It was the one you did of a hawk or some large bird sailing over a pond."
"That's sneaky," I said.
He shrugged.
"Would you have shown it to me if I had asked?"
"Probably not," I confessed. The last thing I needed was for the other students to start poking fun at my art.
"Case closed."
I turned away and looked out the window. It looked down on the front of the house, but from this vantage point, I could see the street and some of the village as well. Had my mother felt as trapped up here as she had back in our attic? It was a good-size room, but nowhere near the size of the attic.
"What exactly do you know about the Pearson case?" he asked.
"Not that much. My grandparents don't like to talk about it," I said.
He was just staring at me now, wearing the expression of someone who wasn't sure he should say anything else.
"What?" I urged.
"As I said, because I'm living in the house and sleeping in her room, I couldn't help but have some curiosity about it. However, my parents don't even know how much I've learned. It's better that way. They accused me of having a macabre curiosity, and my mother hates to hear about it."
"What did you learn?"
"I know what she claimed was happening to her and how in the end no one believed her because she made so much stuff up. Some of it was quite off the wall. Actually, I suppose most of it was."
"I think I better go," I said. Talking about my mother as if she was someone else was starting to bother me, and I was afraid of what else he might say. "I didn't tell my grandparents I was going for a walk."
"Take it easy," he said. "I'll drive you home. You might be interested in what I think about it all."
"I'm not," I said, starting out.
"Why not?"
"I'm tired of people making fun of me, for one thing," I said, pausing. "Slipping notes in my locker, whispering behind my back. Spying on my art," I added.
"Wait a minute," he said as I walked out. He followed me to the stairway. "I'm not making fun of you and I don't whisper behind your back. I'm not going to say I haven't heard other girls making fun of you, but they're idiots."
"Exactly what do you want?" I asked, turning at the top of the stairs.
"I just wanted to share my ideas with you, that's all."
"What ideas?"
"About your mother, the case. I told you why it intrigued me, and it has nothing to do with making fun of you. Not everything has to be about you. That's what my mother's always telling me about myself," he added, smiling.
"Okay, what?" I said, folding my arms under my breasts and shifting my weight to my right leg. Aunt Zipporah told me my mother used to do the same thing when she was a little annoyed.
"Come on back to my room for a few minutes. I have something to show you," he said and turned and walked back as if there was no doubt I would, too.
He's pretty damn sure of himself; I thought, but instead of concluding he was simply another arrogant boy, I envied him for his self-confidence and followed. He was sitting at his desk.
"Come on in," he said. "I won't bite."
"Aren't you worried that I might?"
He laughed. "I might enjoy it."
"Very funny. What do you want to show me?" I asked, stepping over to him. He reached down and opened the drawer on his right to pluck out a folder. Then he put it on his desk and opened it. The top page was a copy of a news story about the Pearson murder. I thought the headline was gruesomely tongue-incheek: "Prescription for Death, Druggist Murdered in Sand- burg."
"You ever see this stuff?"
I shook my head.
"I duplicated as much as I could at the public library. Here," he said, standing. "Sit down and read it. There's more in the folder. You'll even find the police report."
I looked at him, surprised.
"How did you get that?"
"Someone at the police department has a brother working for us at the lumberyard and did me a favor. Do you know, were you aware of the fact that your grandfather worked for my grandfather at the lumberyard?"
I shook my head.
"Yes, it's true. He died young. You knew that, right?"
I was ashamed to admit how little I knew about my mother's family, so I didn't respond.
"Go ahead. Read some of it. You want something to drink? A soda, juice?"
"Just some cold water;" I said, staring down at the papers on the desk. It was truly like a magnet drawing my eyes. I slowly lowered myself to the chair.
"I'll be right back. Take your time."
I could see how excited he was that I was going to read all this. I heard him charge down the stairs to get my water and get back. I smiled to myself, and then I began to read what was in the folder. It was truly like opening a forbidden door.
The first story told about the discovery of Harry's body and then the search for my mother. There were follow-up stories about the continual search, each story repeating the gruesome details. From the dates on the paper, it looked like not a day had gone by without something being written about the case. The reporter who was writing the stories made reference to the Doral case, as if somehow they could be related. It was the only other famous murder in the village, and here I was living in the Doral House, ironically touched by both crimes.
My aunt Zipporah was never mentioned by name, but references were made to a "close friend" who claimed this and claimed that. It was obvious to me who that was. There were many quotes attributed to Darlene Pearson, who was in and out of a state of shock, according to the reporter. In every instance, she had no explanation. According to her, it had all come as a big surprise. For a while at the very beginning, she even doubted my mother had done it and was worried that maybe she had been kidnaped by whoever had. That idea quickly disappeared when someone leaked the information that my mother had fled to New York City.
And then finally there was the story of the police picking her up. Someone in the police department, quoted as an anonymous source, revealed that she had been hiding in the attic of the Doral House, and once again, the possible murder of Brandon Doral was discussed as if there was some direct tie-in to the Pearson case.
Craig had everything, including the follow-up stories about the court procedure
s and my mother eventually being remanded to a mental institution.
"What do you think?" he asked, handing me a glass of water.
I took it and sipped some. "What do you mean?" "Anything you didn't know?"
How would I explain that most of it I didn't know? "No."
"Did you read the police report?"
"Not yet."
Actually, I was shying away from it. I imagined the gory details. He picked it up and looked at it.
"Harry Pearson wasn't a small man, you know. He was six feet two inches and weighed close to two hundred and ten pounds. Your mother was about your height, five feet four inches. I'm six feet one."
"So?"
"So stand up," he said.
"Why?"
"Just do it."
I did. He reached out for my shoulders and turned me to face him directly.
"Okay. Here," he said, putting a pen in my right hand. "Pretend that's a knife. Swing it at my neck. Stab me in the neck."
"What?"
"Do it. Don't worry. Do it hard, fast. Do it!" he nearly screamed.
Here I was, standing in what had been my mother's room, reenacting the crime she had committed, acting out a nightmare. Was he getting some sick pleasure out of this? Would he brag to his friends and make me even more of a target in school?
"I'm trying to show you something. Please, just do it."
I started to shake my head and then, I can't explain why, I did it. I raised my hand and swung it at him, and he easily blocked it. He held my wrist and smiled.
"That doesn't prove anything," I said. "He could have been looking away, never expecting it." "Looking away?"
"Yes. Let go."
He did, and I put the pen down.
"Why did you swing at me with your right hand?" he asked.
"What do you mean? You put the pen in it and you told me to do it."
"Are you right-handed?"
"No"
"Do you know where the wound was?"
"I told you. I didn't get to the police report." "It was on Harry Pearson's left side."
"So?"
"So, she had to have the knife in her right hand. That's why I told you to do it."
"Terrific," I said. All I wanted to do now was run out of his room and the house. I started to walk out.
"Wait. Like you, your mother was left-handed, and I wasn't there telling her to put the knife in her right hand. C'mon. Read this," he urged, shoving the police report at me.
I stared at him a moment and then slowly backed up and lowered myself to the chair. He handed me the police report, and I read it quickly. Then I looked up at him.
"Are you saying you don't think she did it?"
"No. She probably did it, but not with careful, well-thought-out premeditation like the stories implied. When you're in a panic or under some threat or struggle, you would do whatever you can. Actually, I think Harry was on the floor already when she stabbed him in a panic."
"On the floor already?"
"Maybe in a struggle with her and she reached for the knife. That's why he had his arms out." He shrugged. "My theory."
"Why wouldn't the police consider that, think about her being left-handed and wonder about it like you did?"
"It wasn't important to them. They knew she had killed Harry. She was telling a story that was so off-the- wall that they discounted everything. There was no reason to believe any of what she said, no evidence, no one who said a bad thing about Harry Pearson. And besides, police like to close cases, make it easy. She had been diagnosed and sent to a mental clinic. What difference did anything else make? From what I can tell, it's as if her attorney fell asleep in the courtroom."
I looked at-the report again and at some of the headlines on the stories. Could he be right? If he was . . . It made me dizzy, and I put my hand on the desk to keep the room from spinning. Then I took a deep breath.
"Are you all right?"
"Yes," I said quickly. "Thank you," I said and stood.
"Hey, no problem. I'm happy to talk about it with someone, especially you. I haven't looked at that stuff for some time, but I've thought about it often."
"I've got to go."
"C'mon," he said. "I said I would drive you home." "You don't have to."
"I know I don't have to. I'm an American citizen," he said, laughing. "I have the freedom of choice, but I would like to, okay? So don't take away my fundamental rights."
I had to laugh, too. After all the heavy reading, it was a relief to laugh about something.
"Okay," I said. "I don't want to be accused of being a bad citizen." We started out.
I glanced back at the room and the hallway before I followed him down the stairs.
"This way," he said and took me through the kitchen to the door that opened to their garage, where he had his car.
"When we bought the house, there was an area behind the garage where construction had begun to turn it into what my mother thought was a maid's quarters. She didn't like the idea of having a maid live with us, so she let my father turn it into a small workshop for himself. He put a television set in there and uses it as a hideaway." Craig added, smiling. "Although he pretends to be working on his little projects."
We backed out of the garage.
"I've got to tell you," he said after turning onto the street, "that I've always been curious about you. Not," he added quickly, "like some of the others in our school. I know what Mindy and Peggy did, and I've always thought they were air heads."
"What are you curious about?"
"Why you keep to yourself so much, for one thing. Where do you go in the summer, for another."
"I haven't found anyone I'd like to pal around with," I said.
He smiled. "C'mon. You really don't even try, Alice. You don't belong to anything, any club, any team. You don't go out for plays, chorus, whatever."
"You sound like my grandparents. If you know so much about me, why ask?"
"I don't know so much about you. That's the point. The other point," he said, looking at me again, "especially after seeing you dolled up, is I'd liked to."
I didn't say anything. I could feel the heat come into my face, and I didn't want him to see me blush, so I turned to look out the window.
"I go to my aunt's cafe in New Paltz every summer and work."
"Oh. And you stay there all summer?"
"Yes."
"You're going to do that this summer, too?" "Yes. I'm going to be a waitress."
"Well, that's not too far."
I looked at him.
"Too far for what?"
"A visit or two or three," he said.
If there ever was such a thing as a magical, winning smile, Craig Harrison had it, I thought. It made me want to dive into his face. Again, I felt the heat rise up through my neck.
"You like riding the bus to school?" he asked. "I don't mind. I get some reading done."
"How about I pick you up tomorrow?" he asked as we drew closer to the Doral House.
"Why do you want to do that? It's out of your way."
"That depends on what my way is," he said, smiling again. "I'll be here at seven a.m. The bus doesn't come by until about seven-fifteen, right?"
"Yes, that's right."
He pulled into our driveway and looked up at the Doral House.
"Your house is the most interesting in the area. I think, anyway. You ever go up to the attic?"
"Of course. That's where I do my artwork," I said. "Oh. Well, how about quid pro quo? You know what that is?"
"Yes. Tit for tat," I said, and he laughed.
"So? Do I get to see it?"
"Not right now, but maybe," I said.
"I'd even volunteer to be a model," he added, now smiling impishly.
"I bet you would. Thanks. For everything," I added and got out.
"See you in the morning."
He waved and backed out. I watched him drive off. Why was he doing this? Was he really interested in me, or was he going to use me to amuse hims
elf and his friends? How do you know when to trust someone, especially someone like him, who, as far as I was concerned, could choose any girl in the school?
It was nice of him to think that my mother wasn't as terrible as she had been made out to be, and yet I had to wonder if he was saying all that and showing me all that just to win my trust. My family was right, I thought, I needed to get out and about more so I wouldn't be so naive and helpless when it came to socializing, especially with boys.
"That you, Alice?" I heard my grandfather call as I entered the house. He was in the living room, reading. My grandmother was in the kitchen. I could hear her moving about and then saw her peer out to see me.
"Yes, Grandpa."
"Where were you?" my grandmother asked. "We didn't know you were still outside."
"I went for a walk and ended up in the village." "Oh?"
Should I dare tell them I had been in my mother's home and even in her room? Should I dare tell them about the research Craig Harrison had done? I had to at least tell them about him. He was coming for me in the morning, or said he was. Maybe he wouldn't show up.
"Yes. I met Craig Harrison," I said. "And then he drove me home."
"Really?" I heard my grandfather say. He came to the living room doorway. He looked down the hall at my grandmother and then back at me. "We didn't know you were friendly with him."
"I wasn't until today," I said. "He wants to pick me up in the morning for school. I said okay. Is that all right?"
"Sure," my grandfather said quickly. Then he looked at my grandmother. "Right, Elaine?"
"I suppose so," she said. She looked nervous. "Especially since you jumped in so quickly to say it was."
"Hey," he told her. "You're the one who had Rachel turn her into Miss America."
"I did not. Anyway, what are you implying, Michael Stern?"
He laughed and then winked at me.
"I'll be right down to help with dinner," I told my grandmother.
"There's nothing to help with. I was just cleaning up a bit. Your grandfather is taking us to have Chinese food in Monticello. We'll leave about five-thirty."
"Okay," I said and hurried up the stairs to the attic. Suddenly, I felt I had to be up there. It was the only place where I could think clearly and be comforted. My mind was reeling with a kaleidoscope of mixed emotions. The girl in me was excited and even fascinated with the way Craig Harrison spoke to me and smiled at me. I had no idea he had been watching me, thinking about me all this time. And of course, I had no idea he had developed such interest in my mother's story and secretly done so much in the way of research.