Rosalind (23 page)

If they found the sheriff, there would undoubtedly be more than just a visit from one policeman. Would he float? He hadn't thought to weight down the body. He was new at this. But
his mistakes were unforgivable. This was not the way leaders acted. Leaders made decisions and saw those decisions through. He half-assed the entire thing. He knew damn well that bodies floated; mistake number one. He knew damn well to take his suit out of the cab before dumping the truck into the quarry; mistake number two.

Just a setback, he thought. He'd casually ask Susan why the policeman was there. No big deal.

But he had made mistakes. Unforgivable. Leaders don't make mistakes; followers do. And when they do, a leader steps up and either admonishes them or grants them forgiveness—just another lesson learned. But there was no one to grant him that forgiveness, at least not in this room. No, his better angels were up there, behind the blue sky and the clouds. They slept in black space, and he knew there would be no forgiveness.

To be great, one must lead, and if he couldn't lead others he must at least be
able to lead himself. He had led himself to two mistakes. The stars wouldn’t be forgiving anyone today; they'd be too busy laughing.

He peeked out of the window and saw Susan get into her car. If the truck or the sheriff had been found, Susan would stop at
Regional Tire to question him. If not, she would drive home and do whatever the hell it was she did every day while he was here, building empires one tire at a time.

Her mind raced, but she did her best to put the pieces into a box in the back of her brain and take care of this one task. John had never done anything to lose her trust or her love. She was
simply in the middle of the show, and the clues just didn't add up. But she didn't have to succumb to paranoia. No, she was a strong and vibrant woman with status and her husband was a respected businessman. Just go to the dry cleaners, Susan. Get your answers and then get home.

But what was she looking for? Oil? That would be expected if John broke down. But if his suit was ruined, and he took it to the cleaners, what was he wearing? Did he walk naked all the way back from the junkyard? Blood? Why would she look for blood? John had sliced his hand open the night before. He was also wearing different clothes. If she found blood, who's blood would it be?

Susan locked the office and got in the car. She looked through the windshield but she didn't see anything in front of her. Should she have just walked down and ask John? What would she ask him?

She drove to the dry cleaners and went inside. Gene Beck stood behind the counter, writing something on a piece of paper and pulling the strands of greasy hair from one side of his scalp across the shiny dome
to the other side. He looked up and greeted Susan with a silent smile.

"Afternoon, Mrs. Byrd," he said.

"Hi Gene," she replied.

"I never get tired of that,
" Gene said and smiled.

She looked at him blankly.

"Never mind. What can I do for ya?"

"Oh, I just needed to look through the pockets of my husband's suit before you clean it. He thinks he left his wallet in there."

"Suit, huh? I wasn't here this morning until eleven. Maybe Beatrice checked it in for him. Back is really acting up these days. Not sure what's wrong with me. In the winter it does fine but in the warmer months, it's on fire. I always thought it would be the reverse." His voice trailed off as he disappeared behind the racks and racks of hanging clothes. A few minutes later he emerged with empty hands.

"Nothing checked in under Mr. Byrd," he said.

"Well, he might have been running late. He took the truck to the junkyard this morning pretty early. It broke down and he had to walk back to town. Would Beatrice remember?"

"She would, but she isn't here. Went to
see her sister in Hampton. You say it was this morning?"

"Yes."

"I see. We have a rack that's separated by the days of the week. There's nothing even checked in for today," he said.

"Could she have put it in the wrong day?"

"She's done it before, but I checked on both sides of today's. We didn't have anything come in yesterday either. Oh I tell ya, it's a temperamental business, dry cleaning. One day you get a slew of every kind of clothing and some days you sit at the counter doing crossword puzzles. I guess it averages out."

"Thank you
."

She
left the cleaners and got back in the car. She stared out the windshield. She wanted to cry but she didn't. She slammed the car into drive and went home.

Rosalind was sleeping when Susan got home. When the door slammed open, she jerked and sat up
. The muscles in her back cramped and a bolt of pain shot through her feet up to her belly. She was having a dream. It was about—

Susan
slammed her purse onto the table. It spilled onto the floor but she ignored it and went into the kitchen. Rosalind crept across the living room floor to the purse and started putting the contents back in it. She came to a folded piece of paper and stopped. The clinking sounds of glass and a few grunts from Susan came from the kitchen. She knew that reading someone else's mail or papers was wrong, but looking at it she only saw a few lines through the back of it.

She opened it and read it.

i
hate her why won't she just have the baby and go away…

Hated who?
she thought.
Baby?

She
was having a baby. Maybe she meant—

But why would Susan hate her? The dream—

She remembered the dream. She was staying at Nancy's house. It was the night the man broke in. She had let him do his business. But he whispered something to her. He said he would kill her if he told. She did tell. And then there was a voice on the phone—

It was him. He had found out that she told
? She wadded the paper up and put it in the purse along with the last of its contents. She set it on the table.

Susan came out of the kitchen with a copper colored drink in a glass of ice. It looked like tea to Rosalind, but she had never seen Susan sip at tea like that. Almost as if it were too hot.

"What were you doing in my purse?" asked Susan. she glared at Rosalind.

"It fell on the ground. I put everything back in it," she replied.

"Oh, well aren't you just Darla Do-Right?" she snapped. Susan brushed by Rosalind as she made her way to the living room.

"I'm sorry," Rosalind said.

"You're always sorry, Rosalind. Just—" she started but then stopped. Susan sat down on the couch and sighed then spoke again, "stop being sorry all the time."

Rosalind went into the living room and sat in the chair next to the couch. She looked down at the floor then said softly, "
I don't want to die. I don't want Maggie to die."

"What
the hell are you talking about?" Susan asked, already feeling the effects of the drink.

"
The man who broke in at Nancy's house…I recognized his voice. He called before you left. I heard him say
I'm gonna kill you
. It's 'cause I told you about the time he climbed on me. I shouldn't have told no one. He said if I told someone, he'd kill me."

"Called before I left? Was I in the house? Did I hear it? And why didn't you say anything?"

"You was here. I handed you the phone."

"Rosalind,
you're being foolish. That was Mr. Byrd on the phone. Maybe this wasn't a good idea, bringing you here. I just have all these questions now and people aren't acting the way they usually do. Everyone's on eggshells when it comes to
Rosalind
. I go to the doctor to find out I can't have any more children, and what does he do? He asks about
Rosalind
. Joe goes missing, and it's probably because of you. I can't take this anymore."

Susan downed the drink and went back into the kitchen to get another. Rosalind just sat in the chair and waited for her to return. She had had worse tongue lashings
, but never from someone who, on the surface, acted like they cared about her.

Susan
sat back down on the couch, downing half of the new drink in one swallow.

"Why the hell would you think Mr. Byrd was gonna kill you? After all he's done for you?"

Rosalind shook her head and looked at the floor.

"
Let me guess,
you're sorry.
" Rosalind had never seen Susan like this and she was becoming frightened, but the thought of being killed by the man that raped her was even more frightening.

"He sounded the same as the man who did this to me."

"Now wait just a second, you little whore. My husband would never ever conceive of doing something like that. You have the nerve to sit on my couch, eat my food, and then tell me my husband raped you? Is that what you're saying to me? Right now? In my own house? Is that what you're saying?" yelled Susan. Rosalind stood up to go to her room, but Susan jumped up and pushed her back down in the chair. "After all we've done for you, you accuse my husband of—"

Susan fell to the ground and started crying. It turned into a heavy sob. Rosalind, not knowing what to do, reached down and put her hand on Susan's head expecting it to be swatted away. But Susan didn't reject her affection. Instead, she reached up and took Rosalind's hand in her own and pulled her down to the floor. Rosalind
eased herself to her knees. "I'm sorry," she said.

Through sobs and tears, Susan replied, "Stop being sorry. My life is ruined. I'm at the end of the show. John smoked Marlboros. There's blood in the barn. Sheriff Hanes is missing. Jessica Peterson is missing and she's your age. Where's his suit? Where is it, Rosalind? How does a man lose a suit?" Rosalind just looked at her. She didn't know the answers to any of Susan's questions. Susan pushed herself to her knees and looked at Rosalind's stomach. She reached her hand out and rubbed it. "
It's his, isn't it? Oh my God, I'm blind as a bat."

"
I can't wait to meet her," said Rosalind. "Her name is Maggie."

Susan nodded and stared at her stomach.
"Maggie is a pretty name," said Susan. She sniffed up the snot and rose to her feet. She looked around at the walls and the pictures; the shelves next to the television and the knickknacks that populated each one of them; the empty basinet by the window. And then she looked down at Rosalind. Everything had been fine till she came along, but she wondered about the missing girl Jessica and how she fit into the picture. She went missing a county over, but John had been going out at night more frequently since Rosalind had lived there. Was there a connection? If he did have a taste for younger girls (and she put on her big girl pants to pursue this train of thought), did Rosalind become something of an eyesore when she started showing? It was just another clue that seemed to fit into the already tied knot that was growing bigger by the minute. Jessica was missing. Jessica was dead.

"
Let's go to the cellar," Susan said.

John looked out of the window again, but Susan's car never returned to the office. It was five after five. He had sent the workers home at 4:30. Dreading going home, he sat in his chair with a magazine opened in front of him. He hadn't even looked at it.

He put the magazine down and closed the shop. He still didn't have a ride home, but it was only a few miles home. He walked past the diner. A few people were inside eating at the booths and one was eating at the counter. It was the man in the police uniform. He whipped his gaze front side to avoid making eye contact and kept walking.

An hour later
he reached his driveway. The car was parked in its usual spot.

Everything's fine,
he told himself.
You made some mistakes, partner, but we forgive you. At the very worst, you have one mistake left to take care of and she's just a few more feet away.

He didn't know if
the stars were talking about Susan or Rosalind. Rosalind was a problem. She was carrying his child, but there was no way to prove it, and you can't make something stick to the
Rubber Man
.

He had done the county a service and taken her in, saving the sheriff's reputation to say the least. He chuckled to himself as he twisted the knob on the door.

Sheriff's reputation. A lot of good that's doing him now.

He walked in the house and to his surprise, Susan was on the couch, flipping through a J.C. Penney catalog.

"Hello there," he said.

"Oh honey, I'm sorry. I should have picked you up. I forgot you finally got rid of that
rust bucket," she said. He detected a hint of sarcasm in her voice but he dismissed it. He had to be careful. If he started questioning her behavior, he'd be cooked. He never questioned her behavior. Why start now?

"Not that long of a walk, I suppose."

She looked back at the catalog, licked her right index finger and then pulled back another page. He walked into the kitchen and grabbed the bottle of scotch from the top cabinet. He noticed that half of it was gone. He shrugged it off and poured himself a glass.