Jack Ketchum - Right to Life

“She didn’t want to say a whole lot in front of the girl but I gather the divorce wasn’t pretty. He’s moved all the way out to California, sends child support when he gets around to it. Liza Jackson’s living on inherited money from the grandfather and a part-time salary at, uh, let’s see…”

He flipped through his pad, checked his notes.

“… a place called It’s the Berries…”

“I know it. Country store kind of affair, caters to the tourist trade. Does most of its business during summer and leaf-season. Dried flower arrangements, potpourri, soaps and candles, jams and honey. That kind of thing.”

“She’s got no brothers or sisters. But Mrs. Jackson has no problem with taking care of Suzy for the duration.”

“Fine.”

She glanced at them over on the sofa. Mrs. Jackson was smiling slightly, brushing out the girl’s long straight honey-brown hair. A hospital’s no place for a little girl, she’d said. We’ll wait for word here. The EMS crew had assured them that while, yes, there was the possibility of concussion and concussions could be tricky, she’d come around very quickly, so that they doubted the head-wound was serious, her major problem at this point being loss of blood — and Mrs. Jackson was apparently willing take them at their word. Minty wouldn’t have, had it been her daughter. But then Minty wasn’t a Maine-iac born and bred and tough as a rail spike. Suzy had her back to the woman, her expression unreadable — a pretty, serious-looking little girl in a short blue-and-white checkered dress that was not quite a party dress but not quite the thing for pre-school either.

When they’d arrived she’d still been in her pyjamas. She guessed the dress was grandma’s idea.

The press would like it. There was a local TV crew waiting outside — waiting patiently for a change. The grandmother had already okayed the interview.

They were pretty much squared away here.

She walked over to the couch.

“Do you need us to stay, Mrs. Jackson? Until the interview’s through I mean.”

“That’s not necessary, Officer. We can handle this ourselves, I’m sure.”

She stood and extended her hand. Minty took it. The woman’s grip was firm and dry.

“I want to thank you for your efforts on my daughter’s behalf,” she said. “And for arriving as promptly as you did.”

“Thank you, ma’am. But the one we’ve all got to thank, really, is your granddaughter. Suzy? You take good care now, okay?”

“I will.”

Minty believed her.

Carole Belliver had rarely done an interview that went so smoothly. The little girl had no timidity whatsoever in front of the camera — she didn’t fidget, she didn’t stutter, she didn’t weave back and forth or shift out of frame — all of which was typical behavior for adults on camera. She answered Carole’s questions clearly and without hesitation. Plus she was pretty as all hell. The camera loved her.

There was only one moment of unusable tape because of something the girl had done as opposed to their usual false stops and starts and that was when she dropped the little blonde doll she was holding and stooped to pick it up and the dress she was wearing was so short you could see her white panties which Carole glimpsed briefly and promptly glanced away from, and then wondered why. Was it that the little girl acted and sounded so much like a miniature adult that Carole was embarrassed for her, as you would be for an adult?

It was possible. She’d done and thought sillier things in her life.

The piece was fluff of course but it was good fluff. Not some flower-show or county fair but a real human interest story for a change. Unusual and touching. With a charming kid as its heroine. She could be proud of this one. This one wasn’t going to make her cringe when it was broadcast.

It occurred to her that they could all be proud of this one, everybody involved really, from the dispatchers god knows to the police and EMS team to the grandmother who’d no doubt helped raise this little wonder and finally, extending even to her and her crew. Everybody got to do their job, fulfill their responsibilities efficiently and well. And the one who had made all of this happen for them was a four-year-old.

Quite a day.

They had down all the reactions shots. All they needed now was her tag line.

“This is Carole Bellaver — reporting to you on a brave, exceptional little girl — from Knottsville, Maine.”

“Got it,” Bernie said.

“You want to cover it?”

“Why? I said I got it.”

“Okay. Jeez, fine.”

What the hell was that about? Bernie had just snapped at her. Bernie was the nicest, most easygoing cameraman she’d ever worked with. She couldn’t believe it. It was totally out of character. He and Harold, her soundman, were packing their gear into the van as if they were in some big hurry to get out of there. And she realized now that they’d both been unusually silent ever since the interview. Normally when the camera stopped rolling you couldn’t shut them up.

But the interview had gone well. Hadn’t it?

Was it something she’d said or done?

By now the print media had arrived, some of them all the way from Bangor and Portland and they were talking to Suzy and her grandmother on the front steps where she’d taped them earlier. Flashbulbs popped. Suzy smiled.

Bernie and Harold looked grim.

“Uh, guys. You want to let me into the loop? I thought everything went fine here.”

“It did,” Bernie said.

“So? So what’s the problem?”

“You didn’t see? You were standing right there. I thought you must have — then went on anyway. Sorry.”

“See what?”

“When she dropped the doll.”

“Right, I saw her drop the doll.”

“And she bent down to pick it up.”

“Yeah?”

He sighed. “I’ve got it all on tape. We can take a look over at the studio. I want to know it wasn’t just my imagination.”

“It wasn’t.” Harold said. “I saw it too.”

“I don’t get it. What are you talking about?”

She glanced over at Suzy on the steps. The girl was looking directly at her, ignoring the reporters, frowning — and for a moment held her gaze. She’s sick of this, Carole thought. That’s the reason for the frown. She smiled. Suzy didn’t.

And she had no idea what all the mystery was about until they rolled the tape at the studio and she watched the little girl drop the doll and stoop and Bernie said there and stopped the tape so that she saw what she hadn’t noticed at the time because she’d looked away so abruptly, strangely embarrassed for this little girl so mature and adult for her age so that they’d simply not registered for her — the long wide angry welts along the back of both thighs just below the pantyline which told her that this was not only a smart, brave little girl but perhaps a sad and foolish one too who had drained the tub dry and dialed 911 to save her mother’s life.

Which may not have been worth saving.

Nobody had noticed this. Not the cops, not EMS. Nobody.

She rolled the tape again. Jesus.

She wondered about the grandmother. She had to know. How could she not know?

“What do you want to do?” Bernie said.

She felt a kind of hardness, an access to stone will. Not unlike the little girl’s perhaps. She remembered that last look from the steps.

“I want to phone the reporters who were out there with us, kill the story. Dupe the tapes. Phone the police and child welfare and get copies to them. I want us to do what her daughter evidently couldn’t bring herself to do. I want us to do our best to drown the bitch.”

They both seemed fine with that.