the side, 'Okay,' he said, slowly. Then he looked down toward Lucy Jones, and he seemed to begin to concentrate hard. It was almost as if the act of remembering took a physical effort. After a few moments straining, he broke into a grin. 'Boston Globe. September 20th, 1977. Local News Section, page 2B: Refusing to Be A Victim; Harvard Law Grad Named Sex Crimes Unit Head.'
Peter stopped. He turned quietly to Newsman. 'How much of the rest do you remember?'
Newsman hesitated again, doing the heavy lifting of searching his memory, and then he recited: 'Lucy K. Jones, twenty-eight, a three-year veteran of the traffic and felony divisions, has been named to head up the newly formed Sex Crimes Unit of the Suffolk County Prosecutor's Office, a spokesman announced today. Miss Jones, a 1974 graduate of Harvard Law School will be in charge of handling sexual assaults and coordinate with the homicide division on killings that stem from rapes, the spokesman said.'
Newsman took a breath, then rushed on. 'In an interview, Miss Jones said that she was uniquely qualified for the position, because she had been the victim of an assault during her first year at Harvard. She was driven to join the prosecutor's office, she said, despite numerous offers from corporate law firms, because the man who'd assaulted her had never been arrested. Her perspective on sex crimes, she said, came from an intimate knowledge of the emotional damage an assault can create and the frustration with a criminal justice system ill equipped to deal with these sorts of violent acts. She said she hoped to establish a model unit that other district attorneys around the state and nation can copy…'
Newsman hesitated, and then said, 'There was a picture, too. And a little more. I'm trying to remember.'
Peter nodded. 'No follow-up feature in the Lifestyle Section in the next day or so?' he asked quietly.;' Again, Newsman scoured his memory. 'No…,' he said slowly. The smaller man grinned, and then, as he always did, immediately wandered off, looking for a copy of that day's newspaper. Peter watched him walk off, then turned back to me. 'Well, that explains one thing and starts to explain others, doesn't it, C-Bird?' I thought so, but instead of answering the question, responded, 'What?'
'Well, for one thing, the scar on her cheek,' Peter said.
The scar, of course.
I should have paid more attention to the scar.
As I sat in my apartment picturing the white line that straggled down Lucy Jones's face, I repeated the same mistake I'd made so many years earlier. I saw the flaw in her perfect skin and wondered how it had changed her life. I thought to myself that I would have liked to have touched it once.
I lit another cigarette. Acrid smoke spiraled in the still air. I might have sat there, lost in memory, had there not been a series of sharp knocks at my door.
I struggled to my feet in alarm. My train of thought fled, replaced by a sense of nervousness. I stepped toward the entranceway, and then I heard my name called out sharply. 'Francis!' This was followed by another series of blows against the thick wood of the door. 'Francis! Open up! Are you there?'
I stopped, and for a moment considered the curious juxtaposition of the demand: Open up! followed by the query: Are you there? At best backward.
Of course, I recognized the voice. I waited a moment, because I suspected that within a second or two, I would hear another familiar tone.
'Francis, please. Open the door so we can see you…'
Sister One and Sister Two. Megan, who was slender and demanding as a child, but grew into the size of a professional linebacker and developed the same temperament, and Colleen, half her bulk and the shy sort who combines a sense of timidity with a dizzy can-you-do-it-for-me-because-I-wouldn't-know- where-to-start incompetence about the simplest things in life. I had no patience for either of them.
'Francis, we know you're in there, and I want you to open this door immediately!'
This was followed by another bang bang bang against the door.
I leaned my forehead up against the hard wood, then pivoted, so that my back was against it, as if I could help block their entrance. After a moment or two, I turned around again, and spoke out loud: 'What do you want?'
Sister One: 'We want you to open up!'
Sister Two: 'We want to make sure you're okay.'
Predictable.
'I'm fine,' I said, lying easily. 'I'm busy right now. Come back some other time.'
'Francis, are you taking your medications? Open up right now!' Megan's voice had all the authority and about the same amount of patience as a Marine Corps drill sergeant on an exceptionally hot day at Parris Island.
'Francis, we're worried about you!' Colleen probably worried about everyone. She worried constantly about me, about her own family, about the folks and her sister, about people she read about in the morning paper, or saw on the news at night, about the mayor and the governor and probably the president as well, and the neighbors or the family down the street from her who seemed to have fallen on hard times. Worrying was her style. She was the sister closest to my elderly and inattentive parents, had been since we were children, always seeking their approval for everything she did and probably everything she even thought.
'I told you,' I said carefully, not raising my voice, but also not opening the door, 'I'm fine. I'm just busy.'
'Busy with what?' Megan asked.
'Just busy with my own project,' I said. I bit down on my lip. That wouldn't work, I thought to myself. Not for an instant. She would just become more insistent because I no doubt pricked her curiosity.
'Project? What sort of project? Did your social worker tell you you could do a project? Francis, open up right now! We drove all the way over here because we're worried about you, and if you don't open up…'
She didn't need to finish her threat. I wasn't sure what she would do, but I suspected that whatever it was, it would be worse than opening up. I cracked the door open approximately six inches, and positioned myself in the opening to block them from entering, keeping my hand on the door, ready to slam it shut.
'See? Here I am, in the flesh. None the worse for wear. Just exactly like I was yesterday, the same as I'll be tomorrow.'
The two ladies inspected me carefully. I wished that I had cleaned myself up, made myself a little more presentable before heading to the door. My unshaved cheeks, scraggly, unwashed hair and nicotine-stained fingernails probably gave off the wrong impression. I tried to tuck in my shirt a little, but realized I was only bringing attention to how slovenly I must have appeared. Colleen gasped a bit when she saw me. A bad sign, that. Meanwhile, Megan tried to peer past me, and I guessed that she saw the writing on the living room walls. She started to open her mouth, then stopped, considered what she intended to say, then started again.
'Are you taking your medications?'
'Of course.'
'Are you taking all your medications?' She emphasized each word carefully, as if she was speaking with a particularly slow child.
'Yes.' She was the sort of woman that it was easy to lie to. I didn't even feel all that guilty.
'I'm not sure I believe you, Francis.'
'Believe what you like.'
Bad answer. I kicked myself inwardly.
'Are you hearing voices again?'
'No. Not in the slightest. Whatever gave you that crazy idea?'
'Are you getting anything to eat? Are you sleeping?' This was Colleen speaking. A little less intense, but, on the other hand, a little more probing.
'Three squares per day and a good eight hours per night. In fact, Mrs. Santiago fixed me a nice plate of chicken and rice the other day.' I spoke briskly.
