Nobody’s going to believe me!”
“I do believe you.” I took a moment to figure out why. We were nearly to the door before I stopped, and she did, too.
“You may have been mad enough to kill him,” I said, “but I know you didn’t. One, you would have confessed by now. Hildy, if you’d killed him, you’d be riddled with guilt. You couldn’t keep it to yourself. You’re the most open person I’ve ever met.” That was not particularly a compliment, but I didn’t elaborate. Instead I continued.
“And two? You value who you are and what you do too much to jeopardize either. Not only is it hard to be a minister’s wife when the minister is dead, it’s really hard to take the moral high ground when you’ve just murdered your husband.”
She sniffed. “I don’t know what I’m going to do.”
I’d already hugged her more today than I ever, ever guessed I might. But I hugged her again, for good measure. “We’ll see you through this. Just take it a step at a time. Go talk to Ed. Get through the cemetery service. Let Jack handle everything else.”
“How can I be a good example with something like this hanging over my head?”
In her place, that certainly wasn’t the first question I would have asked, but I nodded as if I understood. “You have many friends here, Hildy. It’s going to be fine.”
She walked into the parish house through the kitchen, and I walked home. When I rounded the house, I was delighted to see Marie was nowhere in sight. I let myself in and stared down the front hallway. It was way too early for a glass of wine. I don’t take tranquilizers. I settled for another brownie, a glass of warm milk, and Bruce Springsteen at top volume on our stereo.
When The Boss is belting, it’s blessedly hard to think about anything else.
7
Because of the uproar centering around Hildy, I didn’t have a lot of time to think about my encounter with Stephen Collins until late afternoon. The more I considered our meeting, the less comfortable I felt. He had been evasive, even disingenuous. But something else nagged at me, and it wasn’t until I thought about the girls who had surrounded him when I stood in his doorway, and the way he had so easily slung an arm over the shoulders of one in an “almost” hug, that I realized what it was.
Stephen Collins and my daughter had spent a lot of time together before she quit the debate team. Exactly what had transpired in those hours of practice? Had she been alone with him often? Had he overstepped boundaries? And if so, would she talk about it with me?
From experience, I’ve learned that the best way to help Deena open up is to face her over a table. With that in mind, I picked her up from a friend’s house late in the afternoon, and since Teddy was at soccer practice, I drove Deena to our favorite deli. The standard American favorites here are fine, but the Middle Eastern food is divine.
We greeted the owner, Ahmed Bahram, a gentle, scholarly man who loves to discuss theology with my husband, and I bought the falafel that was my excuse for coming. Then I asked Deena if she would like to sit at one of the tables with a plate of Ahmed’s splendid hummus and freshly baked pita bread.
“I feel like I’ve been running all day,” I said. “It would be nice to sit before we head home and make dinner.”
She looked faintly suspicious, but the hummus was too great a lure. We added steaming peppermint tea to our order and took one of the tables in the back. The deli decor is uncluttered and functional, with an emphasis on plain, hard surfaces that are easy to clean. This strongly discourages lingering on the molded plastic chairs. We had the back to ourselves.
I told her about Hildy and the police search. She was as interested as any fourteen-year-old can be when her mother introduces a subject. I examined her covertly as I talked. In the doldrums of winter she had gone to a sleepover at a friend’s house and come back with poorly cut bangs. A
“I do believe you.” I took a moment to figure out why. We were nearly to the door before I stopped, and she did, too.
“You may have been mad enough to kill him,” I said, “but I know you didn’t. One, you would have confessed by now. Hildy, if you’d killed him, you’d be riddled with guilt. You couldn’t keep it to yourself. You’re the most open person I’ve ever met.” That was not particularly a compliment, but I didn’t elaborate. Instead I continued.
“And two? You value who you are and what you do too much to jeopardize either. Not only is it hard to be a minister’s wife when the minister is dead, it’s really hard to take the moral high ground when you’ve just murdered your husband.”
She sniffed. “I don’t know what I’m going to do.”
I’d already hugged her more today than I ever, ever guessed I might. But I hugged her again, for good measure. “We’ll see you through this. Just take it a step at a time. Go talk to Ed. Get through the cemetery service. Let Jack handle everything else.”
“How can I be a good example with something like this hanging over my head?”
In her place, that certainly wasn’t the first question I would have asked, but I nodded as if I understood. “You have many friends here, Hildy. It’s going to be fine.”
She walked into the parish house through the kitchen, and I walked home. When I rounded the house, I was delighted to see Marie was nowhere in sight. I let myself in and stared down the front hallway. It was way too early for a glass of wine. I don’t take tranquilizers. I settled for another brownie, a glass of warm milk, and Bruce Springsteen at top volume on our stereo.
When The Boss is belting, it’s blessedly hard to think about anything else.
7
Because of the uproar centering around Hildy, I didn’t have a lot of time to think about my encounter with Stephen Collins until late afternoon. The more I considered our meeting, the less comfortable I felt. He had been evasive, even disingenuous. But something else nagged at me, and it wasn’t until I thought about the girls who had surrounded him when I stood in his doorway, and the way he had so easily slung an arm over the shoulders of one in an “almost” hug, that I realized what it was.
Stephen Collins and my daughter had spent a lot of time together before she quit the debate team. Exactly what had transpired in those hours of practice? Had she been alone with him often? Had he overstepped boundaries? And if so, would she talk about it with me?
From experience, I’ve learned that the best way to help Deena open up is to face her over a table. With that in mind, I picked her up from a friend’s house late in the afternoon, and since Teddy was at soccer practice, I drove Deena to our favorite deli. The standard American favorites here are fine, but the Middle Eastern food is divine.
We greeted the owner, Ahmed Bahram, a gentle, scholarly man who loves to discuss theology with my husband, and I bought the falafel that was my excuse for coming. Then I asked Deena if she would like to sit at one of the tables with a plate of Ahmed’s splendid hummus and freshly baked pita bread.
“I feel like I’ve been running all day,” I said. “It would be nice to sit before we head home and make dinner.”
She looked faintly suspicious, but the hummus was too great a lure. We added steaming peppermint tea to our order and took one of the tables in the back. The deli decor is uncluttered and functional, with an emphasis on plain, hard surfaces that are easy to clean. This strongly discourages lingering on the molded plastic chairs. We had the back to ourselves.
I told her about Hildy and the police search. She was as interested as any fourteen-year-old can be when her mother introduces a subject. I examined her covertly as I talked. In the doldrums of winter she had gone to a sleepover at a friend’s house and come back with poorly cut bangs. A
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