Blood Orange (13 page)

The policeman wanted Bailey to be examined by a doctor to determine if she had been molested.

“I’ll find out myself,” Dana said.

“Begging your pardon, but you’re not a professional, Dana. You
won’t be able to tell.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m her mother.”

Gary also wanted Bailey to speak with a psychologist to get her to
name her abductor and describe him or the place where she was taken.
Dana was opposed to this too, and at first David supported her.

At night they lay in bed, their faces inches apart, and whispered
that they wanted to put the whole nightmare as far behind them as
possible.

One evening after supper Dana took Bailey into the bath with
her. In a tub full of warm water and clouds of grapefruit-scented
suds, she soaped her daughter’s body, pausing to enjoy the pleasure
of her silken skin, the feel of slender arms and legs under her hands.
Dana had feared she would never see her again, and when she
touched her now, it was as if the world had been made new. Bailey
was bony and straight, with valiant little squared-off shoulders, and
her skin was the warm, dark color of eucalyptus honey except
where her bottom had been covered by shorts or underwear.
Though she had not lost weight during her months away-had, in
fact, gained a pound-she had grown taller, causing her knees and
elbows to lose their pillows of flesh, and when Dana ran her hands
up Bailey’s side, her daughter’s ribs felt like a xylophone.

“Stand up, Bailey.”

She was a water sprite with two new teeth, huge, unblinking
brown eyes, and hair made dark by the water, plastered against her
head, dripping down her face.

“I need to look at you, Bailey. I need to touch your private
places.” The moment was delicate as old parchment. One careless
touch and all would crumble. “May I do that, Bailey?”

Bailey blinked and nodded once.

“And you must tell me, just nod your head, did anyone hurt you,
Bailey, while you were gone?” It was not a matter of being gentle;
the question itself was an assault.

Bailey blinked and looked at Moby standing guard at the bathroom door.

Dana rested her hands at her daughter’s waist, the butterfly
bones where her hips would be. She smoothed a hand across the
pout of her tummy and kissed her belly button, this place where
they had been connected for nine months. Bailey had swum in the
waters of Dana’s womb, rocked and jollied there like a dolphin
baby. She had been warm and secure in the dark one moment and
then expelled into the glare of an electric sun, hung by her heels and
slammed by sound. And then in May it had happened again. Someone
had ripped her from the home where she knew only warmth and
love. She had been dragged off and forced into a strange van. It was
too easy to imagine Bailey’s fear. If her kidnapper had done more
than steal her, Dana almost did not want to know.

But she had to know.

At eye level Bailey’s labia was innocent and tender as a folded
rose, as sweet as anything Dana had ever seen. She thought of a
man’s hands resting where hers did now, the heel of her hand on the
small mons, and a sob choked her and she forced it to the back of
her throat.

A man with bright white hair and starched black eyebrows had
lived alone three houses down from Imogene and Dana. He gave
the children of the neighborhood generous treats at Halloween, and
one October he said his house was haunted and dared the kids to
come inside. Dana took the dare first. The place did not scare her at
all, but something in that house must have frightened some little
girl, because right after Halloween there was a furor up and down
the street and a policeman came to the house and stood in the kitchen talking to Imogene. He asked Dana questions, and she
thought he had a mean voice so she was not very cooperative. Then
Imogene stepped in, angry with her, saying she was as stubborn as
your mother. Eventually Imogene took her to a doctor, and Dana
was made to undress and put on a voluminous cotton gown. She lay
on a table and the doctor told her to stop shaking and open her
knees, but she couldn’t or just as likely wouldn’t, so the nurse and
Imogene held them so far apart Dana thought she would split in
two.

No one would force Bailey to do anything.

Bailey stood in the tub, and Dana asked her to turn around. The
only marks on her body were a scab on the knee and another on her
elbow. Ordinary kid scrapes. No rope burns or bruises.

Dana’s hands slipped down to Bailey’s thighs and gently, barely,
parted her legs. As she soaped her, she keyed her senses for a flinch
or shudder; just the ripple of a muscle beneath her hands might indicate a tender spot. But Bailey let herself be washed as she had
done all her life, without shame or apprehension, with heartbreaking trust and perfect innocence.

“Turn around, sweetheart.”

Dana ran her soapy hands down Bailey’s back, along the straight
knobbed spine;, feeling each bone as if she suspected the crime
against her daughter might even be this, the theft of a vertebrae. She
spread Bailey’s buttocks so she could see the dark pink circle of her
anus, and again her child submitted without shying. No bruises, no
tears. Dana drew her down onto her lap in the water, holding her
tight against her breasts, trembling with relief as the water sloshed
about them.

For several days after Bailey’s return Dana kept her indoors.
David spoke to the press gathered around the front steps, holding his daughter in his arms. Reporters asked him how Mrs. Cabot was
holding up and wasn’t she thrilled to have Bailey back.

“Say I’m an emotional wreck,” Dana told David, laughing as she
prodded him toward the front door. “Tell them I’m dead-drunk
with joy.”

She watched the scene from a window.

A female reporter put a microphone in front of Bailey and asked,
“How’s it feel to be back with your mommy and daddy, Bailey?”

Bailey hid her head against David’s shoulder.

David did not say that though Bailey was healthy, eating and
sleeping well, watching her old favorite videos and hanging her
arms around Moby’s neck whenever the dog would let her, she had
not spoken a word since Dana found her on the steps.

The blonde asked David, “Is she all right? Have you had her examined by doctors?”

“She’s seen the family doctor and she’s fine. We’re all happy and
relieved to have our girl back with us.”

Another reporter shoved a microphone in David’s face and
asked, “Do you think Bailey’s kidnapping’s connected to the Frank
Filmore case?”

“I really couldn’t say.” David looked behind him at Lieutenant
Gary. “You’ll have to talk to the police about that.”

Gary stepped forward. “It does seem pretty clear that the crime
was part of a pattern of harassment designed to intimidate Frank
Filmore’s defense team. The fact that Bailey appears to be unharmed supports our theory.”

“Do you have any leads?” the blonde asked.

“I can guarantee it’s only a matter of time until we get whoever’s
responsible.”

A matter of time. It could take the rest of Dana’s life and make
little difference to her. Bailey was home, Bailey was safe, and noth ing else mattered. She wondered why she did not feel the need for
revenge expressed by almost everyone she spoke to. For a week the
letters in the newspaper had been about catching the perp and making him pay. She remembered that when she taught school she had
always liked the look of a clean white board on Monday mornings.
The blank surface and the morning faces of the children had encouraged her and suggested wonderful possibilities for the week ahead.
If Dana had spoken to the press, she would have said, “Leave us
alone. Let us get a fresh start on our life.”

Ten days after Bailey’s return St. Tom’s hosted a gala luncheon in
the undercroft following the Sunday service, where Lexy preached
eloquently about gratitude and grace and the choir sang Dana’s favorite hymn, the words, Joyful, joyful, we adore thee, God of glory,
Lord of love, ringing loud in the little old church. The Sunday
school had decorated the undercroft with pink and lime crepe
paper, balloons and streamers-Bailey Cabot’s signature colors.
Above a long table dressed in linen and crowded with dishes of
food, hugely enlarged photos of Bailey smiled down as people
loaded their plates with Konnie’s Mexican casserole and Mrs. Lindley’s
homemade peach pie. Others pressed in around the old oak upright
piano that served the Sunday school classes and sang along as Imogene-David said they had to include her in the celebrationplayed rousing hymns. I sing a song of the saints of God, patient and
brave and true. Dana tried to enjoy the occasion, but she was only
going through the motions, as if anesthetized. The undercroft
would always remind her of the Bailey Committee and three months
of desperate days.

The guests drank a champagne toast to Bailey and then one to
Dana and David and a third to the committee for its hard work.
Dana wondered if she was the only person at the party who remembered it was nothing the committee did that brought Bailey home. She had been returned for reasons none of them would ever understand, though everyone had a theory. Dana believed the kidnapper
felt remorse and shame and wanted to undo his crime.

“Where’s Jason?” she asked Beth. “He did so much for the committee, I want to thank him.”

Beth beamed with pride. “He’s working in the kitchen, didn’t
want to come out. He’d be so pleased if you went in and said something.”

“Of course I will.”

“He’s got a bit of a crush on you, I think.”

She found Jason and another boy on the edge of the parking lot
behind the kitchen. Three white vans nosed into the diagonal
spaces not twenty feet from him. Each had bumper stickers. She did
her best to ignore the alarm that clicked on in the pit of her stomach. David was right, she was becoming paranoid about white vans;
if she reported every one she saw to Gary, he would dismiss her as a
flake. Jason hid his cigarette behind his back when he saw her.

“I don’t care if you smoke, Jason,” she said. “I just want to thank
you so much for everything you did, all those flyers and posters. I
wish you’d come in and see Bailey.”

He bobbed his head, took his baseball cap off, smoothed his
hair, and put it on again. “Nah.”

A piece of cherry licorice dangled from the mouth of the boy beside him. He kicked Jason in the shin.

Jason said, “This is Bender.” Another gawky boy with bad skin
and baggy clothes. “He helped too.”

“Then why don’t you both come inside? My husband would like
to meet you both and thank you.”

“Not me,” Bender said.

Jason’s shoulders squirmed.

Their shyness touched Dana at the same time she found it mildly
irritating. “Shall I bring him out here, then?”

“We gotta go.” Jason’s cheeks were the color of the licorice vine.

“You’re sure?”

Jason dropped his cigarette and ground it under the toe of his
Dr. Martens.

“We’re cool,” Bender said.

As Dana turned to go back into the kitchen, Bender said, “Your
husband, when they get the guy, he gonna be his lawyer?”

Dana took a second to untangle Bender’s syntax. “No. That
would be called a conflict of interest.”

“But he’s that other guy’s lawyer, the one did the little girl.”

Did. The way Bender used the word freighted it with ugly meaning.

“David’s defending Frank Filmore because it’s his job. He’s a defense attorney. It’s nothing personal.”

Bender shoved the licorice deeper into his mouth. “I don’t get
how he can do that.”

Jason said, “You won’t tell my grandma I was smoking?”

“No, Jason,” she said, laying her hand against his cheek and ignoring Bender. “Not a word.”

That evening, as they moved through the house, closing it down
for the night, Dana told David about her conversation.

“What kind of a name is that? Bender?”

She shrugged. “Don’t ask me. He was a creep.”

“So’s Jason.”

“No, he’s not. He’s just gawky and awkward.” Dana twisted the
front-door lock. “Plus, Beth says he’s got a crush on me, which explains why he can barely put two words together when I’m around.”

She looked behind her. David had dropped onto the couch in the
dark living room. “Come to bed,” she said and held out her hand.

“God, I’m glad that thing’s over.” He patted the cushion beside
him. “I hope everyone’s just going to ignore us from now on. Let us
get back to ordinary.”

She sat next to him. “You seemed to be enjoying yourself.”

“Yeah, well, Bay wasn’t. If I’d let her, she’d of cut and run. You
notice how she sort of zones out?”

“It’ll pass,” Dana said.

They were silent for a few moments.

“Maybe Gary’s right. Maybe we should get her to talk to someone.

“Talk?”

“I mean someone who’d make her talk.”

“Hasn’t she suffered enough? You want to make it worse?”

The radio was on, tuned to a classical station. Bach, Dana
thought. Orderly music for a more orderly time.

“If I hadn’t taken the Filmore case it never would have happened.”

David was probably right, but she told him he wasn’t. It was
the same when he had a bad game. The quarterback’s wife never
mentioned the slow footwork, the wobbly passes or fumbled
snaps.

“It was my fault,” she said. “I shouldn’t have let her out of my
sight. She was too excited. I shouldn’t have trusted her alone.”

“When I was in law school Gracie and I used to talk about the
risks a defense attorney has to take. Back then it sounded kind of
exciting. When you’re young you don’t think about how everything
changes if you have a kid.”

“You do good work, David; you know you do. Think about that boy last year; he would have gone to prison for something he didn’t
do-“

“Shit, Dana, he was guilty.”

“Well, even so, it was his first offense. He didn’t deserve to go to
prison.”

“Youth Authority can be just as bad.”