Later that night Nick, Parker, and I got blitzed on SoCo in Parker’s basement. Nick went upstairs to get water, and I started crying, and Parker put his arm around me and I kissed him. When Nick came downstairs again she made the funniest face, like she’d just walked into a party where she didn’t know anyone.
Still, Nick and I slept together that night, side by side, the way we did when we were kids. It was the last time.
“How’s your mama doing?” She’s putting on the accent real thick, like we’re in Tennessee. Women do that, I’ve noticed, when they’re about to say something you won’t like, like dropping all the consonants makes it harder to hear what they’re saying. Sugared face, sugared words. “I know she went through a little . . . depression.” She says it like it’s a bad word.
“She’s fine,” I say. We’ve stopped moving again. We’re almost at the water now. The ocean shimmers like metal just beyond a short, dark strip of wet sand. A woman—a reporter?—has taken an interest in our conversation. She starts edging toward us, clutching a mini tape recorder. “We’re all fine.”
“That’s good to hear. You tell your mama Cookie says hello.”
“I’m sorry to interrupt.” The reporter has reached us and, without acknowledging Cookie, shoves her iPhone in my face, looking not at all sorry. She’s overweight, wearing a nylon suit with big sweat marks soaking the underarms. “I’m Margie. I work for the Shoreline Blotter.” She pauses, as if expecting me to applaud her. “I was just hoping to ask you a few questions,” she adds, when I say nothing. Cookie lets out a little chirp of surprise as the reporter, undeterred, steps in front of her, effectively blocking Cookie’s view.
“Aren’t you supposed to be doing something useful?” I cross my arms. “Like interviewing the Snows?”
“I’m looking for a variety of human interest stories,” she says smoothly. She has big eyes, weirdly protruding, and she doesn’t blink very much, giving her face the impassive look of a particularly stupid frog. But she’s not stupid. That I can tell right away. “I live just outside Somerville. You’re from Somerville, is that right? You were in that terrible accident. It wasn’t that far from here, was it?”
Cookie makes a disapproving noise. “I’m sure she doesn’t want to talk about all that,” she coos, but with a wink in my direction, as if she’s hoping I will anyway.
Sweat is moving freely down my back by now, and the horseflies are fat, droning in thick clusters. Suddenly all I want is to strip down and get clean, scrub off this day, scrub off Cookie and the reporter with her reptilian eyes, watching me lazily as if I’m an insect she’s waiting to swallow.
Down the beach, the cop who looks like a dad is waving his arms and shouting something I can’t hear. But the gesture’s clear enough. We’re done here, he’s saying. Pack up and go home. I feel an immense, overwhelming surge of relief.
“Look,” I say. My voice sounds high-pitched, foreign, and I clear my throat. “I just came to help out, like everybody else. I really think we should, you know, keep the focus on Madeline. Okay?”
Cookie murmurs something that manages to sound both appreciative and disappointed. The reporter, Margie, is still standing there clutching her stupid iPhone like it’s a magic wand. I turn around and start moving back toward the parking lot, as the crowd disperses into smaller groups, everyone speaking in low tones, reverent almost, as if church has just finished and we’re afraid to use our regular voices too soon.
“What do you think happened to Madeline Snow?” Margie calls after me, her voice loud and easy—too easy.
I freeze. It might be imagination, but I imagine that the crowd freezes too, that for a second the whole day stills and becomes a picture, filter: sepia, a whitewash of grays and yellows and a flat silver sea.
I turn around. Margie is still watching me, unblinking.
“Maybe she just got tired of everyone bothering her,” I say. My throat is raw from the heat and the salt. “Maybe she just wanted to be left alone.”
http://www.theShorelineBlotter.com/home
WE NEED YOU!
Sign Our Petition and Join the Fight for Safer Streets!
On Sunday, July 19, nine-year-old Madeline Snow was abducted from her sister’s car just outside the Big Scoop Ice Cream & Candy Shop, a Shoreline County institution. This follows a year in which police budgets were slashed by 25 percent county-wide, leaving many police departments understaffed and underfunded.
Police commissioner Gregory Pulaski has spoken up about the need to demand that the state legislature expand the police budget to prerecession levels: “When times are hard, people get desperate. When people get desperate, they do desperate things. In order to function efficiently as a unit, we need to expand our presence on the streets, develop our training programs, and recruit and keep the best men and women for the job. That costs money. Period.”
Join the fight to secure safer streets. Sign the petition below, and demand that the General Assembly take action.
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Glad someone is finally taking action. Forwarded to everyone I know. Let’s hope the town actually listens.
posted by: soccerdadrules at 6:06 p.m.
25 percent?? No wonder there’s graffiti all over my neighborhood.
posted by: richardthefirst at 7:04 p.m.
Graffiti isn’t a crime. It’s an art form, dickwad.