"Tell me," he said, gently smoothing my hair.
"It's hard to find the words because it isn't sexual, even though it's almost as romantic as first love. Oh hell, who am I fooling? It is first love! With all that pre-Freudian intensity. Flirting with each other. Telling innermost secrets. The hurts and jealousies if you think she likes a another girl better than you. You spend hours analyzing hairstyles and clothes, and then you spend even more time analyzing each other. You know her thoughts and moods as well as you know your own—better than your own maybe, because at that age you usually don't like your body very much and you certainly don't like the dark disturbing thoughts that are rolling around in your head. And you're protective as the devil if anything or anyone threatens her. I guess she thought Herman was abusing Annie Sue and, since she'd already stopped the abuse in her own life, why not make Herman sick and stop it in Annie Sue's?"
"Not kill him?"
I shrugged. "She could have just given him one big dose instead of several small ones. Maybe she thought if he felt a little sick, he'd leave Annie Sue alone. At the hospital Saturday night, though. That's when she finally realized there was nothing perverted between Annie Sue and Herman, and that's the real reason she couldn't stay in that hospital room." * * *
They found Paige's car parked in front of Miss Sallie Anderson's the next day. An empty bottle of Terro Ant Killer was in a little box under the front seat.
Her neck wasn't broken, but it was four days before she came out of the coma. There's residual paralysis on her left side and the fingers of her left hand tend to curl, but they're hoping therapy will help. She says she doesn't remember a thing about that night and that these past few months have a dreamlike quality, as if they happened to someone else. Paige doesn't deny what she's done, she just doesn't quite understand why.
Considering the severity of her head injury, her doctors say she's probably telling the truth. Zack Young's counting on their testimony when she goes to trial this fall. He thinks it'll be a mitigating factor in her sentencing.
Annie Sue and Cindy have rallied around. They say Paige isn't quite the same. Quieter. Maybe not quite as sharp as before she hurt her head. "But still real sweet."
They don't hear the pity in their own young voices.
CHAPTER 23
TRIM WORK
"The part of the finish which is purely ornamental is called trim."
BeeBee Powell's house was dedicated at a ceremony the weekend before Labor Day.
Living room, large kitchen, three small bedrooms, one-and-a-half baths. The siding was painted pale creamy yellow with black shutters and porch railings, and a burnt orange door. Inside, everything was fresh and clean and sparkled almost as brightly as Kaneesha's snaggle-toothed grin.
She and Anthony Carl had colored two bright THANK YOU!! posters and hung them by the front door.
Retha Dupree and Ava donated the Coffee Pot's services and catered a picnic in the yard. (After pulling a two-week drunk in South Carolina, Bass Langley had sweet-talked his way back into Ava's good graces and was back lifting and toting and washing dishes again.)
Mr. Ou hadn't put in the grass yet, but neat borders of liriope lined the new front walk, and azaleas were mixed with Korean boxwoods around the foundation. People were trying not to step on anything.
Everyone who worked on the house was there, including a few who merely donated money or materials. Not Paige, though. She was at a rehab place over in Durham, not far from the detox center where Graham Ogburn had stashed his son to wait for his jury trial.
I could thank Zack Young for that nugget of information because there was certainly no on-the-record mention of young Layton at the dedication. This was blue sky PR all the way. Lu introduced the owner of Tri-County Building Supply, and the Ledger's photographer bounced strobe flashes all over the house as Graham Ogburn announced his intention to furnish all the materials for a second house—"At cost, ladies and gentlemen! In honor of what family values can accomplish when a whole community pulls together!"
(Applause. )
Clapping loudest were Kimmer Norris and her three kids, who'd been promised that house.
The women of the community college's cabinetry class had donated their labor on the cabinet work and, in the end, they took pity on some of their male classmates who felt discriminated against, so it wasn't totally an all-woman project after all. By then, no one really cared. The point had been made.
Annie Sue and Cindy hung in till the end. They could have ducked out without blame, but Annie Sue was determined to finish what she'd begun and Cindy wouldn't admit she couldn't handle it, too.
As each person's contribution was called out and Knott Electrical was recognized, Herman didn't try to stand, just reached back for Nadine's hand on the wheelchair handle and made a joint wave. They smiled proudly when Annie Sue was named, but there was still a worried look in their eyes.
And with reason.
Annie Sue's done a lot of growing up this last month, but she knows how much blame she deserves for what happened to Herman and she's quit dramatizing anything. No more stomping off in anger, but no more flamboyance either.
Not so oddly, I think Herman sort of misses it. More than what he's lost, he's troubled by what Annie Sue has lost. * * *
The following Saturday, I was still at the breakfast table when Dwight came by to pick me up. K.C. Massengill was having an end-of-the-summer weekend party at her lake cottage, and he'd been invited, too.
The puppy met him at the back door, yipping importantly like a real watchdog, but then spoiling it by wagging his little tail like a crazed metronome.
Dwight accepted Aunt Zell's invitation and sat down across from me with a hot corn muffin and a cold glass of milk.
"What'd you end up naming him?" he asked her.
"I just can't decide," Aunt Zell sighed. "I thought sure I'd find a name in Paris, but he's too American to be a Jacques or a Pierre, isn't he? I think I've narrowed it down, though. Copperfield, because he was orphaned, too. Or Mowgli. Which do you think, Dwight?"
"What about Q?"
"Short for Barbecue," he said innocently.
I about strangled on my coffee.
Aunt Zell looked at me anxiously. "You all right, Deborah?"
"Or Pork Chop's a nice na— Ow!"
Dwight suddenly reached down and rubbed his shin.
My sandals weren't designed for effective kicking, but it's like building a house: one does what one can with the tools at hand.