I tried hard not to think of the picture. The image remained, though, every time I closed my eyes. Mother and Mrs. Carter, all naked and twisted together. I tossed the ball back up and began to count each catch—a little something to tie up my thoughts so they couldn’t linger on that image, the elephant in the room (or Mother’s pocket, unless she’d found a good hiding place).
When Father drove up, he gave me an appreciative nod and held up his hand. I threw the ball to him. His arm shot up and snatched it from the air with the skill of a major-leaguer. He spun the ball between his fingers and walked over to me. “Busy day today?”
Father often spoke in code, another trick he and I were practicing. We could conduct a complete conversation on one topic while knowing full well we were talking about something completely different.
“You know, a little of this and a little of that,” I said, trying not to smile.
Between blinks, my eyes darted to the Carters’ car and back again so quickly as to be practically imperceptible, but Father caught it. I could tell by the slight smirk edging his lips.
He turned to the sky. The sun was setting, preparing for the night’s slumber. “I think we’ve got the makings of a fine night, champ. I think I’ll ask if your mother wants to go for a little drive, a date night in the big city. Think you can keep an eye on the house while we’re gone?”
The words hiding between the lines were quite clear. Father was going to drive the Carters’ car somewhere and dispose of it. He needed Mother to follow him so he could get back home. He was going to trust me to monitor Mrs. Carter while they were gone.
“Sure thing, Father! You can count on me!”
He tossed the baseball back to me and ruffled my hair. “Ain’t that the truth?”
I watched him disappear into the house and emerge ten minutes later, with Mother on his heels. She gave me a worried glance as she walked past and got into the Carters’ car. The door slammed with a squeak. She adjusted the rearview mirror, her eyes peering back at me. Father was standing at his Porsche, twirling the key between his fingers. “Shouldn’t be gone too long, champ. Couple hours at the most. I’m afraid I grabbed your mother before she could get dinner going. Think you can rustle up a little something on your own?”
I nodded. Mother had baked a nice peach pie earlier in the day and set the tin out on the windowsill to cool. We also had peanut butter and jelly in the cupboard. I would be fine. “You two have fun!” I told him in my best adult voice.
He smiled, donned his favorite hat, and dropped down behind the wheel. The engine roared to life, and he eased out the driveway and down the street, disappearing over the hill at Baker Street. Mother didn’t follow at first. When I turned back to the Carters’ house, she hadn’t even started the car. She sat in the driver’s seat, her eyes fixed on me. She glared at me something fierce. It almost hurt. I’m not lying; it was as if tiny little laser beams shot from her eyes and burned at my skin. I tried to hold eye contact. Father had always told me it was important to hold eye contact no matter how uncomfortable a situation may be, but I couldn’t—I had to turn away. When I did, she started the Carters’ car, shifted into first with a grinding of gears, and rushed out down the road after Father.
The dust lingered in the air above the Carters’ driveway. The setting sun seemed to catch it just right, a shimmer above the gravel.
I dropped the baseball and went inside.
I could hear the banging before I passed through the kitchen doorway, a loud metal-on-metal clanging coming from the basement.
I reached for the knob, part of me expecting the basement door to be locked. It wasn’t, though; the brass knob turned and the door popped open. A steady clang, clang, clang echoed up from below.
I descended the steps.
Mrs. Carter was standing beside the bloodstain on the floor. Somehow, she had wrapped her arm around the metal frame of the cot and was busy swinging it like a bat against the water pipe. Each swing was followed by a grunt; then she lowered the cot, swung it back to her side, and twisted back around, using her body weight to help propel the cot back again. Considering one wrist was still handcuffed to the water pipe and the other fastened to the side of cot, it was a wonder she didn’t break her arm.
As the cot slammed into the pipe, I saw the jolt rumble through her body; the vibration alone had to be painful.
If she saw me, she didn’t say anything. Her hair was askew, and sweat dripped down her forehead.
“The basement would flood, you know,” I pointed out. “If you were somehow able to break a big pipe like that, the water would probably fill up this basement inside of an hour, and there you’d be—chained to the pipe and the cot, bobbing along below the surface.”
She inhaled deeply and repositioned the cot, preparing to take another swing. “If I break the pipe, I’ll be able to slip the cuff off the end and get upstairs.”
“The pipe would rupture long before it would break clear through. Then all the water would come rushing out. It’s hard enough to swing the cot like that now. Can you imagine the difficulty gallons upon gallons of icy cold water rushing out at you would create? I’m not saying you’ve devised a bad plan. I just think it’s a little flawed, is all. Perhaps it needs a little more thinking through before you continue. You seem like you need to take a break anyway.”
She dropped the cot at her side. The handcuffs tugged at her wrist, threatening to pull her down, but she held firm. “You’re not going to try and stop me?”
I shrugged. “I kinda want to see what happens.”
She glared at me, her eyes red and glistening with tears. She was breathing hard. I couldn’t help but wonder how long she had been working at this little project. Mother had probably ignored her. I bet she’d been beating on that pipe for hours.
“So you don’t care if I die down here?”
I said nothing.
“If I drown or your parents kill me, it doesn’t matter to you? What did I do to deserve this? I didn’t hurt anyone. My husband beat me, remember?”
She plopped down on the edge of the cot, sulking.
It was funny. Although she was older than I, sometimes I caught glimpses of a much younger girl in her expressions and movements. Sometimes I spotted a girl much younger than I, one who was afraid and unsure, one who expected an adult (or a boy) to sweep in and save the day.
As an adult looking back on this moment, I now realize I’ve seen that same expression countless times. When someone is in trouble, they expect, they wait, for someone of authority to help them. I think it’s because that is how these things play out in the movies and on television. The hero always arrives at the last minute, foils the crime, and rescues those in distress from certain death as all other options are exhausted. The tears come after that, possibly a hug, followed by a commercial break before they wrap up the program.