“He’s got you.”
“And look where we are.”
“But you know that’s not—”
She held up another fuck you hand.
“They think the man Hal shot is dead.”
“I know.”
“They won’t search for him anymore. It was Darke. They don’t believe me.”
Together they walked through snow toward the cruiser.
“I think of Vincent King.”
He wanted to make a link, Star to Darke. He could not.
“You know this isn’t on you.” He read her well.
“It is, Walk. This time it is on me.”
He turned and wanted to hug her but she stuck out a hand and he shook it.
“I don’t think I’ll see you again.”
“I’ll keep in touch.”
“Can you not?” The first shake in her voice, just slight but he saw her turn her head. “Just go and tell me to be good or something, like you used to. And then you get on and I’ll get on. Ours is a small story, Chief Walker. Sad enough, but small. Let’s not pretend different.”
They stood in a silence that rode over the trees and the Radley land.
“Alright,” he said.
“And?”
“Be good, Duchess.”
29
THEIR CASE WORKER WORE PURPLE lipstick, as close to somber as she ever got.
Shelly. Her hair was three kinds of color, none of which Duchess decided were natural. She was loving, soulful, she held their future with the kind of care warranted, and cried openly for the man she had never met.
They sat in the back of her rusting Volvo 740. Coke cans on the floor, ashtray spilling though she never smoked when they were in the car.
Duchess turned by the water and watched the farmhouse for the last time as they dipped beneath the praying trees.
“You kids alright back there?” Shelly crunched second and the car shuddered.
Duchess reached over and took her brother’s small hand. He did not fight her and did not squeeze back, just let it lie there, limp and dead to her.
Shelly smiled in the mirror. “It was a lovely service.”
They drove mile on mile of white, winter reaching so long they could not recall fall, air so chill Duchess was grateful. Let the world freeze over, let all the colors drain till the canvas was blank once more.
They arrived in the town of Sadler, lines of neat, shoveled driveways.
The Price house sat on a street of identical ten-year-old homes. Theirs was painted a shade of putty so bland it was as if the developer was ashamed to blight such beautiful land with it.
“Here we are. You alright with Mr. and Mrs. Price?” Shelly asked that often.
“Yes,” Robin said.
“And Henry and Mary Lou?”
The Price children, close enough in age but a world apart. Church polite in front of their parents, but Duchess heard them talking amongst themselves, about Hal and what happened, how they should not go near the girl because rumor had it she chased down a man and fired a shotgun at him. And what kind of girl does that.
Obviously too sheltered to know of outlaws.
“They’re fine,” Duchess said.
They said goodbyes and took hugs. Duchess led Robin up the Price path. Shelly waited till Mr. Price opened the door then waved again and deserted them.
Duchess went to help Robin with his smart shoes but he moved away from her and did it himself.
Mr. Price said nothing, did not ask after the funeral, just turned his back and left them to it. Duchess could not claim they were mistreated, just left far behind. Dinner on different plates, drinks in plastic beakers instead of glass. They were left with the television set in the playroom while the Prices sat in the den. Here but not.
Duchess followed Robin through to the kitchen, white units and marble, Henry’s report cards on the refrigerator, Mary Lou’s artwork framed and hung above the dining table. Robin stood at the doors and looked out. The yard. The snowman was large, Mr. Price and Henry rolled more and more.
Mrs. Price and Mary Lou crossed snow with sticks, broke them to the right length for arms. Henry said something and they laughed.
“You want to go out?” Duchess said.
At that moment Mrs. Price looked up, saw them, then turned and went back to her own. She placed an arm around Mary Lou, protective, defining.
Their room was the converted attic. Duchess followed Robin up the stairs. They had a small bath to themselves, a basin and tub and toothbrushes in a cup. Some dog-eared books on a small shelf, Famous Five, a selection of Dr. Seuss.
“You want to change out of your smart clothes?”
He lay back on his bed and rolled away so she could not see him cry. His shoulders shook lightly and she went over and sat beside him. When she placed a hand on his arm he shrugged her away.
“You shouldn’t have even come today. You hated Grandpa. Even when he was kind you said mean things to him because you’re just mean all the way through.”
He stared at the skylight above them, snow drifted down, borrowed shelter all that kept them from the wilds now.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“You always say that.”
She poked his ribs. He did not smile.
“You want to read a book?”
“No.”
“You want to throw snowballs at Mary Lou’s face? I could make them out of pure ice.”
Almost a smile.
“Or I could nail Mr. Price with one. Break a tooth. Spear Mrs. Price with an icicle. We could make Henry eat yellow snow.”
“How do you make yellow snow?”
“Piss in it.”
He laughed then. She pulled him in.
“Will we be alright?” he said.
“We will.”
“How?”
“We’ll—”
“You can’t look after us. And I don’t think Mr. Price wants us here.”
“They get twelve hundred bucks each month to look after us.”
“So they might keep us for all that money.”
“No. This is just foster care, remember what Shelly said. She’ll try and find us a decent family to stay with forever.”
“With a farm and animals?”
“Maybe.”
“And we can go do Grandpa’s ashes soon.”
“When they call Shelly.”
“So we’ll be alright then. Everything will be alright.”
She kissed his head. She did not like lying to her brother. In the bathroom she
