Bail had been set high, at twenty-five thousand dollars, because she would be charged as a principal in the case, which one of the lawyers said was the new term used for accessory to a crime. Hilton tried to explain this to her on the way home.
“You will be accused of helping Donny do some of the things he’s charged with. Do you understand?”
“All I did was hold the gun.”
“Did he force you to? Were you acting under duress?”
“It was hardly even a gun. It was only an itty-bitty thing.”
“Guns kill. That’s what they’re made for. Did you obey Donny because you were afraid for your life?”
“Heavens, no. Who could be afraid of Donny? He’s so silly.”
She sat beside him in the front seat, her legs drawn up and her chin resting on her knees. Her face was almost hidden by a beige curtain of hair.
“Where are your shoelaces?” he said.
She told him about Donny tying Ted’s hands behind his back as he lay on the bunk. Hilton listened, feeling the blood flow out of him as if each word she spoke was a puncture wound in his heart.
He ached with fatigue. He had been up all night, contacting lawyers, the judge who set bail, a medical doctor and a psychiatrist recommended by a bail bondsman. Every half hour he phoned the hospital for a report on Ted’s condition. He knew that whether Ted lived or died, Frieda would hold him responsible. His marriage had ended and his son was listed in very critical condition, yet he still knew almost nothing of what had happened since Cleo had walked away from the house with the basset hound on a leash. The psychiatrist had urged him not to question Cleo too closely. What good would it do anyway? A gun was an itty-bitty thing and Donny was merely silly.
“There was a nasty old doctor at the jail,” Cleo said. “He told me I’m not going to have a baby. How does he know anyway? He can’t see it if it’s no bigger than a grain of sugar.”
“It’s his job to know. He’s a gynecologist.”
“Long words don’t mean anything. Curriculum. Curriculum — what is that anyway? Donny had one at the school... Will I be going back there, to Holbrook Hall?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Oh, well, I don’t care. It wasn’t all that much fun.” She hesitated. “Will I be staying at home all the time like I used to?”
“That depends.”
“What on?”
“The judge will have to decide to what extent you were responsible for your actions.”
“I didn’t do anything wrong, Hilton. I just held that little wee gun.”
“Stop it. I prefer not to hear any more about it.”
“Oh, Hilton, you’re mad at me.” She peeked at him around the curtain of hair, wet-eyed and wistful. “Aren’t you?”
“No.”
“I’m glad. I didn’t really do anything much.”
His hands gripped the steering wheel as if they were trying to squeeze the life out of it. Nothing much. Roger Lennard was dead and Ted on the point of death. Rachel Holbrook’s life work was in ruins and Donny Whitfield would almost certainly be sent to the penitentiary. Nothing much.
“Everything can be the same as it was before,” Cleo said. “Frieda will read to me, and we’ll go shopping and to the movies, and maybe Frieda will teach me how to drive. Roger said that was one of my rights, to learn to drive.”
“Frieda won’t be living with us anymore.”
“Why not?”
“She doesn’t want to.”
The simple explanation satisfied her because she understood it. If you wanted to do something, you did it. If you didn’t, you didn’t.
“You can hire somebody to take her place, can’t you?” Cleo said. “Somebody like her, only nicer and more understanding.”
“I’m afraid I couldn’t find such a person.”
“That means there’ll just be the two of us, you and me? It doesn’t sound like much fun.”
“No, I don’t suppose it will be.”
“Valencia hardly speaks any English and Cook always chases me out of the kitchen because I interfere with the TV game shows. I won’t have anyone to talk to unless you stay home.”
“I can’t, Cleo. I have a job.”
“We have lots of money already, don’t we?”
“Quite a bit, yes.”
“Why do you want more?”
“To provide for your future. You’re only twenty-two. You may live another fifty or sixty years. You’ll require a great deal of money.”
“No, I won’t, Hilton. I’ll have a husband to take care of me. Won’t I?”
He didn’t answer.
“Won’t I, Hilton? Won’t I have a husband?”
“I don’t know.”
“I bet you don’t want me to. I bet you’re jealous. Look what you did to Roger.”
“You mustn’t talk like that, Cleo. There’s nothing in this world I’d like better than to see you married to a decent young man who will love you for your — your good qualities.”
“I don’t believe it. You told me I was never to let another man touch me. Don’t you remember, it was the night Ted and I—”
“I spoke during an emotional reaction. I didn’t mean it. After you’re married you will have an intimate relationship with your husband like any other girl.”
“But I’m not like any other girl, am I?”
“No.”
“I wonder why not.”
He turned into the long, winding driveway that led to the house. About halfway up, Trocadero was putting the finishing touches on a juniper sculpture, cutting the tiny needles as precisely as a barber. The basset hound Zia sat at his feet but came bounding out to bark at the car. Troc whistled him back and pretended not to see Cleo.
“Zia doesn’t like me anymore,” Cleo said. “I can tell. He wasn’t even wagging his tail.”
“We’ll buy you a dog of your own, any kind you like.”
“No thanks.”
“Don’t you want one?”
“I’d rather have a husband and babies.”
“Of course you would. But in the meantime—”
He couldn’t finish the sentence. It would be a long meantime, impossible to fill with dogs and movies and shopping.
He stopped the car in front of the house. “You’d better go up to your room and take a shower and put on some clean clothes.”
“I don’t want to. I like these ones.”
“They’re dirty. Valencia will wash and dry them for you while we’re having lunch. Please don’t argue with me, Cleo. I’m terribly tired.”
“I’m just as tired as you are. The jail was so noisy I couldn’t sleep.”
“Then we’ll both take a long nap after lunch. Right now I have to call the hospital again.”
She went up to her room and showered and shampooed her hair. Then she stood in front of the full-length mirror in her bedroom, letting the water drip down her body, tickling her skin. She liked the way she looked, a mermaid escaped from the sea.
Valencia came in without knocking to pick up Cleo’s clothes and take the wet towels away.
Valencia said, “Hija mala.”
“You’re mean to say things I can’t understand.”
“Wicked girl. You done wicked.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Troc say you wicked. Cook say you loco.”
“What do they know? They’re only servants.”
She put on one of the bathrobes Frieda had given her and went downstairs to have lunch with Hilton. But he was lying on the couch in his den, his face to the wall. She wondered if he was dead, so she touched him on the shoulder. It was like switching on one of the mixing machines Cook kept in the kitchen. Hilton began to shake all over as if he were being ground up inside, his liver and heart and stomach and appendix, all ground up into hamburger. It took away her appetite.
She went into the kitchen to see if Cook would let her watch television with her. But Cook shooed her away like a chicken, flapping her apron at her and making chicken sounds. So she sat at the long dining room table by herself, thinking about Hilton’s insides being all ground up. She left most of the food on her plate untouched and ate only a muffin. Then she went back into the den.