The Perfect Mother by Nina Darnton Page A

about the death of the Spanish boy, who was the son, after all, of a prominent Seville family and therefore a major local story. On the jump page there was always the same picture of Emma, the one she’d used for her application to the Seville program, looking serious and beautiful. He read two of the articles aloud. Each included a plea for the Algerian to show himself and a promise to support his immigration appeal.
    “This was the way they covered it until now,” he said. Then he pulled out that day’s paper. There was a front-page photo of Emma dressed in a low-cut tight-fitting black minidress and stiletto heels, her weight on her left leg, with her hip jutting out over it. Her lips were parted in a provocative expression. It was clear even in black-and-white that she was heavily made up, with dark lipstick and black eyeliner.
    “Oh, my God. What is this? She looks like a . . .”
    “Like a
puta
. I know.”
    “A prostitute. That’s what she looks like.”
    “Yes, that’s why they printed it. The headline says, ‘Innocent American?’ The story says, ‘This is the “innocent” American who claims our Spanish honors student tried to rape her.’” He continued to read to himself and then looked up. “It says that the picture shows a side of the American—they keep referring to her as
la americana
—that makes her story of the Spaniard’s actions suspect.” He turned the page, leafing through the paper to see if there was anything else. “There is an interview with Rodrigo Pérez’s parents telling what a fine boy their son was and accusing Emma of seducing him, robbing, and killing him herself.”
    Roberto handed Jennifer the paper and she stared at the picture of Emma in disbelief. “I don’t understand. Where did they get this? Where did it come from?” She put the paper down and looked pleadingly at Roberto. “Look, I understand the parents of the boy. How could I not? This is a tragedy for everyone, and of course they can’t believe their son is capable of trying to rape someone. And they’ve endured a terrible, tragic loss. But their conclusion about Emma is wrong. You have to believe me.”
    Roberto didn’t respond.
    He thinks I’m pathetic, Jennifer thought. He thinks we all are.
    But Roberto was just planning his next move. Finally he looked at her. “We need to speak to Emma. She must explain this picture so we can respond to it. Clearly there is a good deal more she hasn’t told you. They have stopped access to her until they finish questioning Paco. We’ll have to wait until tomorrow. I will accompany you there in the morning. I’m afraid you may find press and television reporters at the police station. Remember that you will not speak to them or answer any of their questions. I will be with you and help you pass through the crowd.”
    “The crowd?”
    “Probably. You must tell your husband to come immediately.”
    “I have already told him.”
    What she had feared had happened. Now surely the story would get out beyond Spain. How long before the American media picked it up and it became a circus with them, all of them, in the center ring? “I won’t be able to bear it,” she murmured.
    “You will. You must.”
    She felt a wave of anger. “That’s very easy to say.”
    “Easy to say, yes. Easy to do, no. I know that.”
    She closed her eyes and tried to collect herself. “I’d like a drink,” she said.
    They ate dinner and finished the bottle of rioja. Jennifer, who drank rarely and was already pretty far past her limit, asked for another glass, and Roberto ordered another bottle.
    “It’s so strange,” she said. “I always thought I knew Emma so well, as if I was inside her head, anticipating her needs and desires and mostly, to be honest, trying to satisfy them, to help her along, and so proud of how she was doing. And, I’ll admit it, proud of myself too, crediting my mothering at least partly for her success. I mean, I didn’t go back to work. I stayed