“You need to go home,” I say gently, “and try to get some sleep.”
She raises her head and nods.
“Daddy’s probably called the police.”
The irony is too great. In a moment of anger I thought about calling the cops, too, and claiming Sarah had been kidnapped. What a disaster that would have turned out to be. Sarah never would have forgiven me.
Briefly, I tell Leigh what has happened. She listens sympathetically. Sarah is in a place emotionally Leigh may never occupy again, and I sense in some way she envies her.
“You’ve got to come down to Chet’s office today so we can prepare your testimony for Thursday.”
She bites her lip.
“Can I stay here the rest of the night?” she asks, sounding like a little girl.
“I don’t want to go home. I feel too weird now being under the same roof with him.”
I look at my watch. It is close to four-thirty.
“You have to promise to call first thing in the morning and tell your parents where you are.”
For the first time she yawns, her chest swelling under the gray sweatshirt.
“I promise I won’t be any trouble.”
I stand and lead her to Sarah’s room.
“My daughter’s room is going to be a mess,” I apologize, forgetting how bare she has left it. When I hit the light switch, my emotions almost get the better of me and I say in a soft voice, “Or used to be.”
I go find her a clean towel and washcloth and inspect the bathroom. It is passable. It was Sarah’s turn to clean it this weekend. Fortunately, she usually does a little better job than I do, and if Leigh doesn’t inspect it too closely, it will do. Standing in front of my mirror, I am repulsed by what I see. If my eyes had any more red in them, I could donate them to the blood bank. As I pick up the only hair I see on the sink, I can imagine Pearl Norman on her hands and knees scrubbing out the commode in her own home until it gleamed with an alabaster sheen. Her house was spotless, and I realize that Pearl reminds me of my mother, who lived in an age when it was okay if all a woman knew how to do was cook and clean house and take care of her husband and children. At least it was permissible until her husband died. I go to say goodnight, and Leigh thanks me for letting her stay.
“We have to talk to Chet today,” I re mind her.
She ducks her head.
“I can’t tell people,” she wails, “that I let myself be filmed dancing without any clothes on. I just can’t do that to my father.”
I try to contain my frustration by glancing around my daughter’s bare room. It is as if I were trying to rent it out. How strange! Leigh is facing life in prison for a crime her father may have committed, and once again she is worried about his reaction. My daughter runs away, and I haven’t done anything.
“We’ll make the jury understand,” I tell her gently, “the kind of influence Art had over you. By the time Chet is through with his opening statement they’ll hate Art as much as your father did.”
Leigh sits down on Sarah’s bed, twisting her hands in her lap.
“I can’t implicate my father!” She begins to cry.
“It’s my fault all this happened!”
I lean against the doorjamb of Sarah’s room and marvel at the guilt on this girl’s shoulders. Our battle isn’t going to be with the jury; it will be with her.
“You won’t be implicating your father,” I say, disingenuously.
“Only he can do that. You’ll just be telling the truth.”
For the first time the words come tumbling out: “I think Daddy killed Art!” she cries, tears streaming down her cheeks.
“I don’t think he meant to, but I think he did it!”
Despite the stench coming from me, I go sit down by her on the bed and put my arm around her shoulders as she sobs against me in gasps that rack her whole body.
How can I not believe her? If this were Sarah, I wouldn’t have a choice, and I have not smothered her nearly as much as this girl has been. Would Sarah risk her life and lie to protect me? I’d be lucky to escape being burned at the stake.
“You know your father wouldn’t want you,” I say, patting her shoulder, “to run any risk of being convicted.” I say it, but not convincingly at all. Despite all the alleged emphasis on the re deeming power of love emanating from within the walls of Christian Life, I am no longer certain that punishment isn’t Shane’s agenda. In his heart perhaps he knew even before she did that Leigh was past the point of no return, and this was his way of keeping her. What did Chet say that Christian Life would have ten people there on visiting day for her?
Leigh wipes her nose on the sleeve of her warm-up but doesn’t speak. I would feel better if she got angry.
I get up and say, “We’ll talk about it later. You need to try to get some rest.”
“Thank you,” she answers, and I leave her sitting in Sarah’s room.
I slip off my pants and get into bed, trying not to think about what she is sleeping in. How can I think of sex at a time like this? I ought to be put to sleep. I lie awake wondering if I am being conned. What happened to the video? Was there one? Maybe we shouldn’t allow her on the witness stand. Up to now, I thought we ought to pick the most conservative jury possible, but how is a Bible thumper going to relate to a woman who dances nude an hour or so before her husband is murdered?
Somebody ought to be punished, and it’s too late to teach her husband a lesson. Did Shane Norman do this?
There is no evidence that he did anything except have a good reason to hate his son-in-law. Chet has got to confirm Shane’s alibi today, or I will. I feel the bed sag slightly, but it is just Woogie, probably confused about the night’s events.
“Welcome to the club,” I say, reaching down to pet him as he curls up beside me.
“Some body’s in Sarah’s bed, but it’s not her, is it, boy?”
For a response, he burrows against me. I’m not much of a substitute. If Leigh stayed another night, he’d be in there with her. Damn. I wonder if I’d try to join him.
Why can’t I think of her like a daughter? For the same reason Art Wallace couldn’t, I guess. Incredibly, when the bed moved, I hoped it was Leigh. Sure. What could be more attractive than a whiskey-breathed, smokestenched, middleaged sad sack? As my old track coach at Subiaco used to say, “Page, if you had a brain, you’d be dangerous.” Still, it is nice to know my self-esteem is still intact. How boring life would be if I couldn’t make a fool of myself.
At six my alarm blasts me out of a sound sleep. How could I have even closed my eyes with all that caffeine?
I stumble into the hall to go to the bathroom and notice Sarah’s door is open. I can’t resist the urge to peek but it is too dark to see anything. After I piss, I go into the kitchen and find a note by the coffee pot from Leigh telling me that she will call my office later. I wait until seven and then call Chet and tell him about my over night visitor.
“You’ve got to determine today if Shane could have killed Wallace!” I almost yell at him.
“We’re almost out of time!”
He responds calmly.
“Come on out for breakfast,” he invites me, his voice strong.
“Wynona would love to cook for you.”
“Okay,” I answer. I hang up, nonplussed by his manner How can he be so calm? He has screwed this case up, and all he can think about is breakfast. It must be the medication.
Woogie wanders into the bathroom while I am shaving and looks up at me as if to ask, “Where’s Sarah?”
The few nights she has spent the night out in the past he has wandered from room to room obviously looking for her. This morning has been no exception.
“She’ll be back soon,” I say, without conviction. How could I have slapped her? We’ll both remember it the rest of our lives. I had no business doing that. The phone rings, jar ring me out of my growing self-pity.
“Have you heard from her yet?” Rainey asks, her voice concerned yet determinedly upbeat.
I beat down the feeling that she is ultimately responsible for Sarah’s departure, confident that Sarah is likely to call her before she calls me. It is odd to be estranged from the woman who has meant so much to me. If we had gotten married instead of backing away each time at the last moment, maybe none of this would be happening She wouldn’t have all this time for another “family” if she had areal one. It’s hard to escape the conclusion that Christian Life is what people do if there’s nothing good on TV. As bitter as I feel, I man age to avoid delivering myself of this sentiment. Like the comments of a rejected boyfriend, it would be taken as so many sour grapes.