Dark Tort

together today. She said she had something important to tell me. It’s her birthday, too. But she told me not to get her anything.” He ran his fingers through his wild hair. “Oh, God. If she just would have talked to me.”

I ran my right sneaker across the Routts’ dusty gray doormat, with its inscribed “Welcome” worn down to nubs. “Talked to you about what?”

He shook his head, despairing. “Everything. Nothing. I don’t know.”

“Did she get along with the people at the law firm?” I asked mildly, my voice low.

Vic jerked his head around and stared up at me. “Now what do you think, Goldy? I mean, look what’s happened. It’s just like at that stupid school. Elk Park Prep. Everybody else screws up, and Dusty gets blamed.”

Everybody else screws up? I knew Dusty had become pregnant; I knew she’d been expelled. But who had screwed up? I asked calmly, “What are you talking about? Someone made a mistake and Dusty got blamed for what?”

Vic jumped up, dusted off the seat of his jeans, and pulled his keys out of one of his pockets. “I’m out of here. You want to know the details of Dusty’s history, maybe Julian will tell you.” He jumped down the stairs two at a time. “Nobody wants me here, right? ‘Could you come back later?’” He mimicked my voice so cannily that chills scurried down my back.

“Wait, Vic,” I pleaded. “Why don’t you go across the street to our house and wait for us? We’ll be over in a little while. Julian just needs to get some supplies, and after he does some cooking, he can stay with you—”

“Forget it!” He jumped over the Sebring’s driver-side door and landed in his seat with a whack. He shoved on a pair of dark glasses and revved the engine. “Could you come back later?” he aped again. He hooked a long arm over the passenger seat, twisted his head, and backed too fast out of the Routts’ steep dirt driveway. The Sebring rocked and bumped until it reached the street. Vic braked hard in the street and stared at me, all the goodwill from the previous night evaporated. Then he drove away.

Shaking my head, I watched Julian cross from our house. He was carrying two brown paper grocery bags.

“What was he yelling about?” Julian demanded. “He’s just going to upset Mrs. Routt even more.”

“I don’t know.” I frowned. “He wanted to come in, and she didn’t want to see him yet. Vic helped me last night, when I ran away from the law firm and was desperate for a phone. He was very upset when he learned the news about Dusty. Maybe talking to the cops pushed him over the edge—”

Julian shifted the bags and started up the porch steps. In a low voice, he announced, “Word I heard was that he and Dusty had broken up recently.”

“Yes, Dusty told me. She didn’t tell me the reason, though.”

“You know how ambitious she was. She must have been thinking, How far can a guy working his way through vocational school go? Can you open the door for me?”

“Sure.” Was that really what Dusty had been thinking? I wondered.

Twenty minutes later, Colin was shoveling Julian-made, syrup-soaked squares of French toast into his mouth so fast I was afraid he would choke. Julian rolled his eyes at me as he stood guard over Colin’s little table and waited to be told “More!” The dull yellow chair-within-a-table where Colin sat was a thick plastic square with a small seat cut out of the middle. It may have been the modern version of a high chair, but it was so scuffed and worn that I was willing to bet it had served at least four toddlers before it was given to the Routts.

Everything else in the kitchen, and in the house, looked second-, third-, or fourth-hand. In the living room, Sally still lay on the spread-covered couch. John Routt, whose elderly face always reminded me of an enormous piecrust that had spilled over the edges of its dish, tapped his way in with his cane, with Tom by his side. As usual, John Routt had his very thin white hair neatly combed back from his large forehead. He was wearing clean but extremely wrinkled clothing, including a large, formerly white shirt that hugged his copious belly. His much-washed black chinos had shrunk above his ankles.

He had composed himself somewhat, although his skin was still mottled and the area around his blue, sightless eyes was very red.

“Thank you for coming,” John said. “You all have always been very kind.”

“Oh, you’re certainly welcome,” I mumbled.

When I lowered myself onto one of the chairs, Sally sat up. She pressed her hands between her knees and stared down at them. Marla, murmuring reassurances, sat next to her and put her arm around Sally’s shoulders. It wasn’t at all clear if Sally was listening to her. I looked around the living room. The low walls held no pictures. Ranged across the space were an old portable TV on a dented pressed-wood console, a set of TV tables from the fifties, and a dinosaur-era computer on a seen-better-days card table.

After Colin had eaten, Julian and Marla and I all looked at one another: Now what? John Routt stood shakily, and seemed to be asking himself the same question as he swayed, sightless, chin held high, his right ear cocked, waiting for a cue.

“Sarah?” his low, brittle voice inquired. “Where are you, dear?”

“Here, Dad.” Sally rose and gently led him to the couch. Marla hastily stood as the old man felt his way into a sitting position. He set his cane onto the floor. When Sally sat down beside him, he put his right arm around his daughter’s shoulders.

I looked up at Marla, who shrugged. Tom said, “The food is all in the refrigerator, and I wrote out directions on how it should be heated up.”

“That’s very kind of you, Tom,” John said, his voice rusty.

Julian tipped his head toward the door, as in We should split. But I couldn’t just yet. I had to say something to the Routts, offer to help, to ask if I could do something practical besides just saying, “If there’s anything I can do…” I’d heard that sorry phrase enough at funerals, when it was offered to the bereaved as an exit line. To me it always meant “Don’t bug me.”

“I’d like to bring in your meals this week,” I announced to Sally. “I can call St. Luke’s, too, if you want, to ask, uh, Bishop Sutherland to come over, help you with the arrangements…” I stopped talking when Sally raised her head and gave me a sour look.

Sally snorted. “Please don’t insult me, Goldy. After Father Pete had his heart attack and that guy came in, I went to see him. Just to say hi, introduce myself. He asked if I was there for money. Before I could reply, he asked if I’d availed myself of the job-search services available through the county. I said no, because I had a three-year- old and a blind father to care for. I was so embarrassed, and I so wished I’d never stopped by. But it got worse. He sat there wearing his expensive, hand-tailored clothes—believe me, I can recognize fancy garments, even if I don’t wear them—and said our house had been paid for by the church, and he didn’t have the authority to give us any more funds. Goldy, I wasn’t there for money. But I was so taken aback, I just shook my head. My voice wouldn’t work, so I turned around and left his office. Later, of course, I thought I should have said, ‘Nice to meet you, too!’”

My brain muttered, God help us. “I, uh, I’m sorry—”

“You see, Goldy,” Sally said, her voice suddenly fierce, “that’s what you don’t understand.” She lifted her chin, and her thin face quivered. “I know you’re married to a cop, and Tom, I know you’re a good man. Julian, thanks also for your help.” She took a deep breath. “But as far as the rest of the world goes? We’re trash. I learned that when my dear—” Her voice cracked. “When my sweet son Edgar died in custody, who cared? Nobody, except us. I learned it again when Dusty was going to Elk Park Prep. One of her teachers gets her pregnant, and whose fault is that? Who gets kicked out? Not the teacher! He claimed she was lying, but she wasn’t.”

One of her teachers got her pregnant? Now this was a part of the Elk Park saga that I had not heard. “I—I’m sorry.” I faltered. “I didn’t know—”

Sally’s voice didn’t drip with sarcasm, it was a veritable waterfall of sarcasm. “Oh yes, the cops are going to find Dusty’s killer. Just like they found Edgar’s. The cops will find out what happened!” She rubbed her forehead with stiffened fingers. “Like hell.”

I said firmly, “You know our phone number—”

Sally shook her head. She stood up, as if to usher us out. Tom, Marla, and Julian responded with alacrity, hustling to the front door. Colin, sensing that another dramatic change was taking place, began to whine to be let out of his chair. But my feet were glued to the living room’s thin, faded rug.