What Comes After (18 page)

It didn’t work, though, because I was just as furious when I looked back at Mindy — with her doe eyes and tilted head and mousy brown hair and too-tight skirt and ridiculous high heels.

I stepped farther away from her toward the street. She reached for me, as if she thought I was going to jump in front of a car, but I pushed her away with my good arm. “If you ever say that to me again,” I said, “I will find out where you live and I will put ferrets in your bed.”

Mindy recoiled. “I’m only trying to help, Iris,” she said.

She sounded so wounded, so pitiful, that I almost felt sorry for her. But I also wanted to kick her.

“I just can’t hear that anymore,” I said. “It doesn’t help. Getting me back to Maine, and somewhere to go back
to
— that would help. Getting me away from the Tutens and their ferrets — that would help.”

Mindy shuddered, and I realized why she’d wanted to go for the walk. It wasn’t so we could be alone. It was because she couldn’t stand the ferrets and would rather totter around the block on high heels with no coat on and get frostbite and blisters than go inside the Tutens’.

“I’m sorry, Iris,” Mindy said, retreating back into her social-worker voice. “We’ll have to wait and see what happens with your friend and her family, but that doesn’t appear to be a viable option. And I’m afraid we can’t change the foster-care placement just because the family has unusual pets.”

I pointed at Mindy accusingly. “But
you
don’t like them.
You
won’t even go in their house.”

“It’s not me we’re talking about, Iris,” she said. “You have to give it a chance. The Tutens are very nice people, and they’re happy to have you with them.”

“You have to get me out of there,” I said.

Mindy seemed to be shrinking. “I’m sorry, Iris,” she said again, “but there’s nothing I can do.”

A detective came to the Tutens’ Friday morning. He wanted to know what I might have done to provoke Aunt Sue and Book. He already knew, of course, but he wanted me to say it. So I told him about how I let the goats out, and how Huey somehow found his way to the school.

He nodded. His name was Detective Weymouth, and he looked like a marine — tall, buzz-cut, ramrod straight. We were sitting at the Tutens’ kitchen table the day after Mindy’s visit. Mrs. Tuten made him black coffee, which she served in a white bone china cup and saucer. He took a sip and winced, so I guessed it was either too strong or too weak. Or maybe flavored. My dad hated flavored coffee, and so did I.

Mrs. Tuten excused herself, and Detective Weymouth got down to business.

“Miss Wight,” he said, leaning in. “Your aunt gave a long list of complaints against you. She called it her Bill of Particulars.”

“Like what?”

He pulled a sheet of paper out of his briefcase. I recognized Aunt Sue’s spidery handwriting. He read:

1. Wasted food on a working family tight budget.
   

2. Let dog loose to kill neighbor chickens.
   

3. Took Book to underage drinking party.
   

4. Vandalized family weapon used for self-defense. Second Amendment protection.
   

5. Stole food after hours against orders.
   

6. Stole and hid goats meant for family meat.
   

7. Talked back to grown-up, disrespectful, with cursing.
   

8. Made late-night long-distance telephone calls, not allowed.
   

9. Used ice pick to vandalize and destroy tires on new truck — all plus spare.
   

10. Assaulted Book Allen with shovel.
    

“So that’s it?” I said. “Just the ten?”

Detective Weymouth didn’t change his expression. “Were there more?”

I shook my head. “I don’t know. Maybe. Does that mean it was OK for Aunt Sue to have Book attack me?”

“No, no,” he said. “This is just part of the investigation. We need to know all the circumstances, and we need to anticipate what sort of case they might make in their defense when it comes before the grand jury.”

That caught me off guard. Somehow I hadn’t thought about this turning into an actual legal case, or going to a grand jury, or to a trial. What would happen to Aunt Sue and Book? What would happen to the farm? As much as I didn’t want them to hurt me anymore, I didn’t want to be responsible for sending them to prison.

But what was the alternative? They couldn’t go free after what they’d done — and after what I’d already told the authorities. There would have to be a trial, but how could I possibly stand up in court, in front of Aunt Sue and Book, and tell a roomful of people what had happened? Just thinking about seeing them again made my heart race, my hands sweat —

Suddenly I couldn’t breathe. I pushed myself back from the table and tried to stand up.

“Easy, now,” Detective Weymouth said. He stepped behind me and guided me back to my chair. “Here’s some water. Drink this.” Mrs. Tuten walked into the kitchen just then, which made me wonder if she’d been listening the whole time. She laid her cool hand on my forehead. I closed my eyes, but that made me dizzy again, so I opened them. I took a sip of water.

“You’re in a cold sweat,” Mrs. Tuten said. Then, to Detective Weymouth: “Should we let her go lie down and talk about this tomorrow?”

“It’s OK,” Detective Weymouth said. “I have enough.”

I raised my head from where I’d been resting it on my arms.

“Two things on that list are lies,” I said.

Detective Weymouth paused. “All right,” he said. “Do you want to tell me what they are?”

“I didn’t take Book to an underage drinking party,” I said. “He took me to one. And I hit Book with the shovel because he killed one of my goats. He stomped him to death.”

The detective and Mrs. Tuten looked at each other.

Neither one said anything. One of the ferrets popped up on Mrs. Tuten’s shoulder, and Detective Weymouth jumped back as if he’d been attacked.

“My apologies,” Mrs. Tuten said. “That’s just our little pet, Hob.”

Detective Weymouth scanned the room for more pets. I excused myself and stumbled into the bedroom.

I slept for the next fourteen hours, and had three dreams.

In the first dream, Beatrice and I were practicing cartwheels in a meadow in Maine, only the meadow changed after a while into the Devil’s Stomping Ground. Dewey was there — he’d come back to life — and I was so happy. But then I got frustrated. I could make it onto my hands, but I couldn’t cartwheel. I fell over each time. Beatrice kept saying, “It’s easy. It’s easy. See? Watch me.” And I kept getting madder and madder.

In the second dream, I was sitting with Nate, the boy I had dated back in Maine. We were in his car up on Mount Joy, where couples went to make out. He was trying to convince me to have sex with him.

“No,” I said. “My first time isn’t going to be in the backseat of a car.”

“Then where?” Nate asked.

“I don’t know where,” I said. “Nobody ever knows where these things will happen. You can’t know this, just like you can’t know when you’ll die.”

“Oh, yes, you can,” he said. “Scientists can tell you when you’re doing to die. They told your dad. He knew. He told you.”

“He didn’t tell me,” I said, horrified. “He didn’t know. Nobody did. They thought it would be different. They thought he would get better.”

Nate shook his head. “Everybody knew,” he said. “He must have told you.”

I shoved him against the door. I didn’t understand how he could be so sure. He was just a stupid boy. I cried and cried and cried.

The third dream was the most disturbing. I was on a beach in Maine. A thick fog had rolled in off the Atlantic. I was looking down on the beach from somewhere higher — I couldn’t tell where — and I could see all these bodies of people that I knew. Only their features had changed, so they were themselves but not themselves. Then I heard my name.

“Iris!”

I turned toward the voice. It was my mom, and she was angry.

Suddenly I was a little girl again. She grabbed both my arms and shook me. I hung from her fists, limp. If she let go, I would fall on the rocks and it would hurt.

“Iris!” she shouted again, and she kept shouting my name: “Iris! Iris!”

And then she started hitting me.

Mrs. Tuten drove me to school on Monday. Most of my injuries had faded. I wore my dad’s fishing cap to cover the missing hair. Mrs. Tuten had called the school office and gotten permission from the principal for me to wear it during my classes. I wasn’t limping too badly anymore, but I still couldn’t lift my left arm all the way. Mrs. Tuten must have known that I was anxious, because when she let me out of the car she said, “Everything will be all right, Iris. I promise.” I didn’t know how she could make a promise like that, but I didn’t say anything. Jill and Hob pressed their noses to the back window and watched me leave.

“Wave to the babies!” Mrs. Tuten called out. “They want you to wave!”

I waved.

I was supposed to go to the principal’s office first, but I went to my locker instead to drop off all my stuff. Someone had spit tobacco juice all over the front of it and the combina tion lock. They had also carved
#91
— Book’s jersey number — into the green paint.

I didn’t bother telling anyone. I just got paper towels from the restroom and borrowed spray stuff from the janitor and cleaned it up myself.

The principal was meeting with someone, so I had to wait on a bench outside his office. I kept nodding off. I shouldn’t have been so tired still after sleeping so much the day and night before. I finally just lay down on the bench and put my head on my backpack and closed my eyes. I must have looked so peaceful that no one thought to wake me, because the next thing I knew, the bell was ringing. I sat up, disoriented. I had no idea how long I’d been asleep, or what period it was, so I just wandered down the hall to English.

I sat in the back behind a couple of girls, neither of whom looked familiar, but I fell asleep again before I could figure things out. I woke up at one point and realized that they were discussing a new book —
I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings
— but then I dozed off again until the end of class, which was when Mrs. Roosevelt finally realized I was there.

“Iris?” she said. “Iris?”

I lifted my head. Everyone else was gone. I had drool on my cheek, and I wiped it off with my sleeve. “Yes?”

“Why are you sleeping here, honey?” she asked.

“Was I asleep?” I said. We seemed to be talking in questions. “Is class over?”

“This isn’t your class, Iris,” she said. “Your class meets after lunch. Are you all right?”

I sat all the way up and hugged my backpack. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Roosevelt. I’ve just been so tired.” My cheeks burned with embarrassment.

Mrs. Roosevelt said, “I think you ought to go see the nurse. Do you know where the nurse’s office is? How about if I walk you down there myself ?”

I was too tired to protest. The nurse let me crawl onto a crisp white cot and go back to sleep for the next hour. She woke me up when the bell rang for lunch.

I smelled hamburgers well before I got near the cafeteria, so I veered off and found the vending machines instead. Mrs. Tuten had given me a couple of dollars. I bought my usual Fig Newtons and Snapple, then found a secluded spot under the stairs. I slid to the floor and leaned against the dirty wall to eat. I was invisible, and I didn’t mind it at all.

I had my actual English class after lunch, though Mrs. Roosevelt led the same discussion of
I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings
that I remembered, at least in part, from that morning. The main difference was Shirelle.

“I don’t get it, Mrs. Roosevelt,” she said. “First Janie Starks in
Their Eyes,
and now Marguerite in
The Caged Bird.
Why does the black woman always have to be the victim? And why does the black man always have to be the one abusing her? It’s like, both these books are written by a black woman, but they have all the bad stereotypes about black people. All the white racist business in here, you know that stuff used to happen and all, because some of it still happens today. But Marguerite’s daddy, and her mother’s boyfriend, and that boy she lets get her pregnant — why do they all have to be such sorry people, and do the terrible things they do to Marguerite?”

Mrs. Roosevelt said that the book was based on the author’s life, so she had to be honest in writing her memoir.

Shirelle fidgeted in her seat. She clearly wasn’t happy with that answer.

The discussion didn’t go on for too long, though, because Rasheed jumped in. He wanted to know if Marguerite was supposed to be a lesbian, even though she had sex with a boy to try to prove she wasn’t.

I looked over at him when he asked that, and when I did, I saw Littleberry. He mouthed the words “You OK?”

I shrugged. I hadn’t seen him since the night of the mall, the night of Aunt Sue and her company and her gun. So much had happened since then — and not all of it had been in the paper.

Mrs. Roosevelt gave us a homework assignment at the end of class. We were starting another composition unit, and she wanted us to try writing a one-act play. Littleberry was still looking at me, wanting to talk, but the minute the bell rang I grabbed my backpack and bolted from class. Shirelle called out to me as I was leaving, but I didn’t turn around to see what she wanted. I didn’t want to talk to anyone. I wanted to remain invisible.