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De
De
De
“No, she wasn’t,” his father said, popping a couple of Excedrin from a bottle on the counter. “We put her in the hearse and they took her to the funeral home.”
De
“Mendez wants to call in the FBI,” his father said to no one in particular. “Prick.”
His mother said nothing.
“Why don’t you want the FBI, Dad?” De
“Because they’re a bunch of pricks-just like Mendez.”
“He’s a spic prick,” De
His father gave him a look. “Watch your mouth.”
His mother wheeled on him. “De
She looked like her eyes were going to pop out of her head, like in a cartoon when one character had his hands around the throat of another character, choking him.
His dad turned on his mother then. “Cook the damn food! I’m hungry!”
“I am!”
He looked at her like he was just now seeing her for the first time since he had walked in the room. His face twisted with disgust. “You couldn’t wear something better than that?”
De
“I’ve been at a murder scene all night. You think I want to come home and look at this?”
De
His father swore under his breath. “Have you been drinking?”
“No!” she exclaimed, looking shocked. “Absolutely not!”
She yanked the frying pan off the burner, dumped the pork chop on a plate, and all but flung it at the table. “There. There’s your fucking di
His father’s face turned purple.
His mother’s face turned white.
De
“Here’s my fucking di
“I’m sorry, Frank. It’s late. I’m tired.”
“You’re tired? I’m the one that’s been working all night. I finally get home and all I want is a little di
His mother started to cry. “I’m sorry!”
There was a silence then that made De
“What are you looking at?”
De
He lay there for a long time, trying not to breathe too loud, trying to hear over the pounding of his pulse in his ears, waiting for the door to fly open. But a minute went by and nothing happened. Then another minute… then another… until finally he fell asleep.
8
Wednesday, October 9, 1985
“I can’t believe there was a murder and you didn’t call me!”
“I had a few other things on my mind,” A
They stood outside the door to the kindergarten room, on the patio near the sandbox where half a dozen of Fra
Fran Goodsell, her best friend. Thirty-nine, cute as a button, irreverent as he could be. She should have called him, she thought now.
Fra
That would have beat the hell out of lying awake all night, seeing every detail when she closed her eyes: the mangled hand reaching out of the ground, quietly begging assistance to rise up from the shallow grave.
“Don’t you watch the news?” she asked.
“Of course not,” he said, offended by the very idea. “There’s nothing good on the news.” His eyes went wide as he was struck suddenly with a possibility. “Did they interview you? Oh my God. I hope you weren’t still wearing that outfit you wore to school yesterday. You looked like a novice nun.”
True to form.
A
“Well, honestly, how do you expect to attract a man, Sister A
“I don’t expect to attract a man at school. Who is there to attract? Arnie the janitor?”
“Mr. Garnett.”
“I’m not interested in having an affair with our married principal.”
“His wife is sleeping with her yoga instructor. He’s as good as divorced, that’s all’s I’m saying,” which he said with an extra-thick Long Island accent.
Fra
He had spent a number of years in New York City and the Hamptons, teaching brats of the rich and famous-his words, of course.
“You’re horrible,” A
Fra
“And what now?” she asked. “Am I supposed to say something about it to my class, then just carry on with the day’s lessons? They never prepared us for this in college.”
“No,” he said. “But they also never told me teaching kindergarten would make me sterile.”
A
In truth, he was an excellent, award-wi
A
“Come tell me if any of them get arrested.”
“You’ll be the first to know.”
Principal Garnett and the good-looking detective (she assumed) from the news coverage were waiting for her outside her classroom.