Yes, thank goodness for Benny, as usual. He’d been her partner in slime fighting all weekend, running to the Amish store for homemade chicken soup and coming home with silly toys from the dollar aisle—flimsy airplanes to be assembled, coloring books to be filled, playdough to be molded. She’d taken over solo on Monday with the still-cranky version of her kids, and the long hours of double sick duty had taken it out of her. Here was Tuesday, though, and the morning had gone better. The antibiotics at last kicking in, Maddie and Thomas both went down for their naps willingly—a small miracle in itself—and now she had serious cleaning to do if she didn’t want to be the next one sick. Not that there was any real chance of escaping that, but she had to go through the motions, for her own sanity.
And also, for the health of anyone who might happen by. Hallie and her parents had gotten back sometime yesterday—Clara spotted their lights on last night—but Natalie had never called. Clara could guess Hallie would claim she’d forgotten Clara’s instructions to ask her to, but then again, it had also been Jim’s last night home, and Clara couldn’t bring herself to intrude on their good-bye. Now, though, Hallie was back at school, and Jim was back at the base, and Natalie was fair game. She usually worked a shift at the Sunrise Café on Tuesday mornings, then studied in the afternoon. Clara wasn’t exactly looking forward to their conversation—she still hadn’t grown comfortable discussing her own children’s bad behavior, let alone someone else’s—but she knew they needed to talk. And she was glad for the excuse to talk with just one more person about the extent of the drama next door, to find out what she made of it all. She’d sent Natalie a couple of vague texts earlier, with no response. If she didn’t hear back by the time Maddie and Thomas were up, she was heading over. She’d already waited too long.
She gathered all the hand towels and set the washing machine to hot. She sanitized the doorknobs, the light switches, the remote controls. She ran out to her car and gathered the detritus from the backseat—the follow-up appointment reminders from the doctor and the dropped Cheerios and the wrinkled books and clunky computerized toys she’d dragged along in a failed attempt to distract them from the pain between their ears.
And then she went to the mailbox.
As soon as she saw it, she knew. The gravity of her mistake hit her with full force as she took in the large letters across the top of a crudely stapled pair of trifolded papers: The ColorBlind Gazette. But it couldn’t be. How could Hallie have possibly found the time? Where could she have even done this, without her parents seeing? At the Lakeside Lodge? Or did her parents know? If that was the case, at least Clara would be off the hook for not having warned them when she’d had the chance …
Though it seemed unlikely.
She unfolded the pages, hands shaking, and alarming phrases wasted no time leaping off the page at her.
A middle-of-the-night search frenzy relating to domestic violence resources …
What some might call a lame excuse for not allowing police to search the house more thoroughly …
The presumed innocent man seemed uneasy, asked if he was a suspect …
The article ended, Clara had to admit, somewhat smartly, considering that its author was a twelve-year-old.
At a time when so much has been made of the missing life insurance money, one must ask: Was more than one kind of life insurance at play?
She turned the page. The next sheet contained a simple calendar of events, a call for submissions or story ideas to be sent to [email protected], and, in the top left corner, a masthead.
Editor and Lead Staff Writer: Hallie King.
Editorial Adviser: Clara Tiffin.
No. Hallie wouldn’t have. She couldn’t have—
But she had.
Once, when Clara was a child, her mother had yelled at her so terribly that she’d run straight to the trash can and thrown up, right in the middle of the kitchen. It had silenced and shocked her mother, as they both knew Clara hadn’t done anything all that wrong—at any rate, surely nothing to warrant screaming or vomiting. What had it been? A missed chore? A missed bus? A missed grade? All Clara could remember was that her mother had apologized, a rare occurrence, and taken her for ice cream, a rarer one.
She was transported back to that kitchen now, filled with that sense of being in terrible trouble that was not completely unwarranted but was far worse than what was due. She wondered if she might deposit her lunch right here on the curb. She wondered if she might pass out. Her vision was tunneling, ever so slightly. She turned toward Paul’s driveway and saw his car parked there. A cold foreboding shivered through her.
She was going to have so very much explaining to do. She didn’t have the energy for this. She didn’t have the time for this. She had a house full of sick children. She hadn’t slept in days. All she wanted was to be left alone.
Clara quickly folded the paper and stuffed it into the stack of bills and catalogs she was holding, as if doing so might hide it from the whole neighborhood. She surveyed the street, not bothering to pretend she wasn’t. She didn’t see anyone. Maybe they hadn’t gotten their copies yet? Maybe she could still retrieve them all?
She envisioned herself running along the curb, opening each mailbox, reaching in, swiping the flyer, and running on to the next one. She then imagined Paul pulling up next to her while she had a fistful of Gazettes—how she would fumble trying to explain she was not involved in a situation that was the very definition of being caught red-handed. What would he possibly say to her after this? He was her next-door neighbor, for pity’s sake!
And not just any confused, grieving neighbor. One who police had reason to suspect might have a violent streak.
It seemed too risky to gather them all up and be seen.
It seemed too risky not to.
She fled up the walk and back inside. She needed a second to think. The door closed too loudly behind her, and Maddie let out a wail from upstairs. Great. So much for her little reconnaissance mission. Unless the stroller could serve as a cover … Maybe it could! She’d be just another mom, out for a walk in the fresh air, conveniently stopping at every mailbox to … well, to teach her children about the mailman. Or something. She’d come up with a story on the spot, if she needed to. At least the stroller had a pouch where she could stash the vile things.
Maddie’s fever had finally broken—her outfit was soaked with sweat. Clara’s mind raced as she wrestled the wriggly little arms and legs into a fresh one-piece outfit that snapped up the front, humming “Twinkle, Twinkle” in an effort to keep them both calm. How many houses might Hallie have delivered these to? Surely not the whole of Yellow Springs. Was Clara lucky enough that it might have been just this block? But when had she even done it? The afternoon school bus hadn’t come yet. It had to have been this morning, before school. Unless maybe Natalie had kept her home again today? Maybe to compensate for her dad’s departure?
There was no telling how much damage had been done, or how much Clara could still undo, but she had to try. And she couldn’t leave Thomas here alone, sound asleep though he seemed. Maddie in her arms, she burst into his room. “Naptime’s over, buddy,” she told him, tickling his tummy. He moaned, and she glanced at the robot clock on his wall. He’d been down only an hour. Hardly long enough, given how sick he’d been. This was not all-star parenting. But neither was having your name plastered on something that could rile up the entire neighborhood and … what, get her sued for slander or libel? She tried to remember the difference between the two. It hardly mattered. Could it put her family in danger?
She coaxed Thomas out of bed with the promise of a popsicle if he’d just put on his shoes and come along for a ride in the stroller. With each valuable moment that ticked by as she attempted to wrangle her sluggish children, her fury with Hallie was building. Blind fury—pure, hot, and indiscriminating. What could the girl possibly have been thinking?