“The following little girls will remain after three.” Madeleine looks up. She is already taking her homework out of her desk, preparing to bolt with the rest of the class at the sound of the bell—
“Madeleine McCarthy …”
She freezes.
“Marjorie Nolan and Grace Novotny.”
Has she time-travelled back to October? If she looks outside, will the leaves be red and gold? No, because Claire McCarroll’s desk is empty. It’s still April. Mr. March has put Madeleine back into the exercise group and there is nothing she can do about it.
Auriel turns to her with a quizzical expression but Madeleine can’t move her muscles to return the look. Only her eyes can move.
The other kids leave forever, and Madeleine remains at her desk along with Marjorie and Grace. Mr. March is up at his desk, cleaning his glasses. A tap at the door. He answers it and the policeman comes in. The sight of his friendly uniform is a relief, but a second man follows him in. He wears a raincoat open over a civilian suit and he’s holding a hat. He has a sharp face. Madeleine fears she has seen him in a dream, but how is that possible? Are they going to run the exercise group now, with Mr. March?
Mr. March says, “The police want to ask you young ladies a few questions about your friend Claire.”
Madeleine feels her body return to life, like a leaf in water. Mr. March sends her out to wait in the corridor with Grace Novotny.
Marjorie puts the noose around his neck.
“Ricky asked me to go to Rock Bass.”
“He did?”
“Mm-hm.”
Inspector Bradley is seated beside the teacher’s desk, facing the little girl. He has positioned the teacher behind her so that she won’t look to him for cues. The man sits at one of the child-sized desks. Constable Lonergan stands by the door, taking notes.
“When?” asks Bradley.
“Um. On that day.”
“What day?”
“The day that — the day when she got lost.”
“Who? Claire?”
“Mm-hm.”
“Go on.”
Marjorie smiles and the serious man leans forward. Their knees are almost touching. “He was always asking me on picnics,” she says, breezy.
The inspector lifts one eyebrow slightly. Marjorie looks down, folds her hands in her lap and adds, “Well, not always, maybe just once or twice.”
“What did he say when he asked you?”
“He just said, ‘Hey Marjorie, would you like to come for a picnic at Rock Bass? I know where there is a nest.’”
“And what did you say?”
“I said my mother wouldn’t let me.”
“Did you ask your mother?”
“No, because I knew she wouldn’t let me.”
“Why wouldn’t she let you?”
“Well, for one thing,” says Marjorie, “my mother is sick and she needs me to look after her. And for another thing,” she adds gaily, “Ricky Froelich is way too old for me!” And she chuckles.
Inspector Bradley smiles and doesn’t take his eyes off her. Marjorie smooths her hair and smiles back. “Marjorie,” he says, resting his elbows on his knees, “has Ricky ever”—choosing his words—“behaved in such a way as to—”
The tiny desk chair creaks as the teacher shifts his weight.
The inspector smiles at Marjorie, just-between-you-and-me, and continues, “Has Ricky ever acted as though he were your boyfriend?”
“Oh yes,” says Marjorie, solemn now.
“In what way?”
She turns to check in with her teacher, but Inspector Bradley says, “Look at me, Marjorie, not at the teacher. Can you answer my question?”
She starts crying.
Inspector Bradley hands her his hanky.
“I told him I couldn’t.” She wipes her eyes. “I’m too young.”
“Did Ricky ever touch you?”
She pauses, her face in her hands. Then shakes her head.
“It’s all right, Marjorie,” says Inspector Bradley. “You don’t have to say anything else. You’ve been very helpful.”
Marjorie smiles up at the inspector and thanks him for the use of his hanky.
“Side door, little girl,” says Mr. March.
Grace pulls the rope tight.
“Come in, Grace.”
She hesitates in the doorway. Her plaid jumper, braids, white short-sleeved blouse — Grace is looking very fresh today. She enters the room in response to Mr. March’s prompting, and looks up at the two strange men. Both are big, one is old; he looks angry already.
“Grace, the officers want to ask you one or two questions,” says Mr. March, then sits at Philip Pinder’s desk.
“Hello Grace,” says the angry one, taking a step toward her.
Grace groans, her hand strays to her crotch.
“Grace,” says Mr. March, and she clutches her hands together. “Sit down.”
She obeys, entwining her fingers inwardly as though she were playing “Here’s the church, here’s the steeple.”
The angry man pulls up a chair and sits. “How are you today, Grace?”
“Speak up, Grace,” says Mr. March.
“Fine.”
The man smiles and leans toward her. She can smell his face. What does he want?
“You knew Claire McCarroll, didn’t you?”
Grace moans and hugs herself, begins to rock slightly.
“It’s all right, Grace,” says Mr. March. “Just a couple of questions, then you can run along.” Grace nods, looking down, still rocking.
“Grace,” says the angry man, “did you play with Claire last Wednesday?”
Grace groans, then cries, her forehead crumpling, her voice rising rapidly, mouth wide open like a much younger child—
“Grace,” says Mr. March firmly. She grinds her fist into her eyes, wipes her nose on her wrist. Mr. March hands her his hanky. “Calm down now.”
The other policeman, standing in the corner near the door, writes in a notebook.
Mr. March says, “Can you answer the officer now, Grace?”
It’s silent in the dim green corridor. Kids only experience this odd aquarium feeling when they are excused to go to the bathroom in the middle of class, and they float down the empty halls.
“What are you gonna tell them?”
Colleen’s face looks darker than usual; she is standing too close to Madeleine, outside the classroom where Grace has just gone in.
“Depends what they ask.”
“Tell them you saw Ricky turn left toward the highway.”
“But I didn’t see him.”
“Yeah, but he did turn left.”
“Yeah, but I didn’t see him.”
Colleen licks her lower lip in the dry way she has and says, “You better say you did or they’ll hang him.”
Madeleine stares into Colleen’s eyes — blue flints, narrow, almost slanted. She says, “They won’t hang him,” and sees a pale featherless bird slowly tumbling.
“Say it or you break our friendship,” says Colleen.
“Did you see Claire last Wednesday?” the inspector asks. Grace answers the corner of the big desk. “Yes.”
“Did you play with Claire?”
Grace nods, her lips still parted, her nose red, eyes glazing.
“When was that, Grace?”
“On Wednesday,” she tells the desk.
“When on Wednesday?”
“Um. At the schoolyard.”
“During school? Or after.”
“After.”
“Go on.”
Grace steals a glance at him from under her brows. He is leaning back in his chair; she pictures him with his thing out. “I saw her at the schoolyard ’cause me and Marjorie helped Miss Lang for Brownies.” Bwownies.