Chapter 3
My parents were in the kitchen, Mom standing over the stove lifting the last batch of peaches from the canner and Dad sitting at the table reading aloud from the daily newspaper. It was Saturday morning, two days after my sleepover. Dad stopped reading mid-sentence when I walked in and sat down beside him. Placing the newspaper on the table, he glanced over at me, his face instantly registering the familiar look of disapproval. “What’s that junk on your fingernails?” He asked quietly. He never yelled. He didn’t have to.
I looked down at my freshly painted pink nails then curled my fingers underneath my palms saying nothing.
“Get it off before you go anywhere and don’t let me see it again.” Then turning toward Mother, he scowled silently blaming her for my impropriety.
I sat quietly eating the Cheerios Mom had poured for me trying to catch a glimpse of the front page. Dad caught on, picked up the newspaper and departed for his bedroom. It was just like them – fretting about all of the bad things that might happen to me, yet never letting me hear or read about the awful events actually happening right in our own town.
Later that morning while I was in the bathroom restoring my fingernails to their pure God-given status, I heard the faint sound of the ringing telephone.
“Tess, Cathy’s on the phone for you.” Mom called up the steps.
I walked into my parent’s bedroom. Dad had gone out to check on his garden by then, and I lifted the receiver. “I’ve got it Mom. Thanks.” I yelled down the stairs, not wanting Cathy to start talking until I heard the click of the other receiver. No click. “Mom, I’ve got it.” I said again.
Cathy waited understanding my cue.
Finally the phone clicked. At least I thought it did, but one cannot be too careful. “Hey Cathy, I’m in the middle of something can I call you back in five minutes?” I asked.
“Sure.”
My strategy: never talk on the telephone when a parent has the potential to quietly listen in.
I tinkered for a minute back in the bathroom, cleaning up the nail polish remover and cotton balls; then I proceeded down to the dining room and dialed Cathy’s number.
“Hello.” Cathy answered.
“It’s me.” I said.
“Did you hear?” She asked.
“No.” I knew what she was referring to. It was certainly all we both thought about for the past two days.
“It’s all over the local news.” Cathy whispered excitedly. “We missed a murder by about half an hour. Freaky, isn’t it?”
“What else do you know about it?” I asked, whispering as well.
“It was a double murder. Sickening actually.” She began recounting what she’d seen on the local television news. Obviously her parents didn’t censor. “This druggie killed two guys in the neighborhood. One of them was the son of that lady who owns the small grocery store where we saw the police cars. You know that cute football player, Freddie Fullmer.” She paused catching her breath.
“When did they catch him?” I asked.
“Right away I guess. They found him crouched behind some garbage cans only a block away.”
Just then Mom walked into the room so I switched topics, “I don’t know if I can go to the pool today. Let me ask.” I said in a normal tone looking questioningly over toward my Mom, knowing she was eavesdropping. Mom nodded her permission.
“Yeah, I can go. I’ll see you at 1 o’clock. OK?”
