Crossing Edmondson was easy, as it turned out, the Walk sign staying white their entire way across the broad, busy street. Alice knew they were breaking a rule, but it was exhilarating, a reminder of the new things that would come with leaving St. William and going to middle school. Her mother had promised she could wear makeup-well, lipstick-and get her hair cut at a salon, instead of trims in the kitchen. Even though school was a long way away, Alice began to think longingly of the trip to Office Depot to buy supplies. And clothes-she would need clothes if she wasn’t wearing a uniform every day.
Once safely across Edmondson, Alice had assumed they would walk west to the jagged leg of Nottingham, where they both lived. But Ronnie wanted to take what she called a shortcut, which was really more of a long cut-past the bigger houses, the ones that sat back on large green lawns with little yellow signs warning dogs and children to stay away because of the chemicals.
They were halfway down Hillside, the grandest of all the big-house streets, when Ronnie stopped. “Look,” she said.
It was a baby carriage, sun sparking off its silver handles, perched at the top of the stairs.
“The metal must be hot, sitting in the sun like that.”
She seemed to expect an answer, so Alice said: “And it’s too close to the stairs. It could tumble right down.”
“Just roll right down.”
“Unless the brake is on,” Alice pointed out.
“Even if the brake is on, that’s not right,” Ronnie said. “You’re not supposed to leave a baby like that.”
“Her mother is probably right inside.”
Ronnie grabbed Alice ’s elbow and gave it a wrenching pinch on the tip. Alice glanced at the bruise from an earlier pinch, remembered the clink of Maddy’s mother’s teeth as Ronnie’s fist struck her jaw. No, this was not a day to contradict Ronnie.
“Not even for a minute,” Ronnie said. “Anything could happen. Someone has to look after that baby.”
They crept up to the door. The screen was heavy metal mesh, so dense that it was hard to see much in the cool dark house beyond. But they heard nothing. No footsteps, no voices. Did you call out? Later, they would be asked that question so many times, in so many ways. Did you knock? Did you ring the bell? Sometimes Alice said yes, and sometimes she said no, and whatever she said was true at the moment she said it. In her mind, there were a dozen, hundred, thousand versions of that day. They called out. They rang the bell. They knocked. They tried the door and, finding it unlocked, marched inside and used the phone to call 911. The mother was so happy that she gave them twenty dollars and called the newspaper and the television stations, and they were the heroes on TV.
Most of the time, Alice was sure of two things-they knocked on the door, the screen door, with its mesh so tight and small that it was almost impossible to see anything in the shadowy house. It was a screen over the screen, an intricate metal design, like something on a castle. It ended in tall thin spikes, higher than their heads. They said: “Hello? Hello?” Maybe not very loudly, but they said it.
“This baby is alone,” Ronnie said. “We have to take care of this baby.”
“We’re too little to baby-sit,” said Alice, who had asked her mother about this at the beginning of summer, when she was trying to figure out a way to make enough money to buy her jellies and other things she wanted. “You have to be in high school.”
Ronnie shook her head.
“We have to take care of this baby.”
The baby in question was asleep, slumped sideways in her carriage, so her full cheeks were flat on one side, full and puffy on the other, like a water balloon whose weight had shifted. She wore a pink gingham jumper with matching pink socks, and a pink cap of the same gingham.
“Baby Gap,” Alice said. She loved Baby Gap.
“We have to take care of this baby.”
Later, alone with her mother and the woman with the spotted face-exquizits, Alice finally got Ronnie’s joke-they would ask her again and again just how Ronnie said this. WE have to take care of this baby. We have to TAKE CARE of this baby. We have to take care of THIS BABY. But Alice could not, in good faith, remember any emphasis. Eight words, requiring no more than five seconds to utter. We have to take care of this baby. We have to take care of this baby. We have to take care of this baby. Wehavetotakecareofthisbaby. They were being good, they were being helpful. People like children who are good and helpful. That’s what Alice kept explaining. They were trying to be good.
What did Ronnie tell her grown-ups-her parents, the handsome man with the shiny blond hair and the suit with the funny name? Seersucker, Alice ’s mom had said, looking at the blond man in the hallway. Seersucker. Alice knew, from her mother’s tone, that this was a good thing, as good as classic or vintage, even exquisite. What did Ronnie tell Mr. Seersucker, what did he believe when it was all over?
But that was the one thing that Alice never knew, never could know, and still did not know almost seven years later when she was released by the State of Maryland for her part in the death of Olivia Barnes.
Part I. The Usual Daily Accidents
Monday, April 6
1.
“Interesting,” the ophthalmologist said, rolling away from Cynthia Barnes in his wheeled chair, like a water bug skittering for cover when the lights went on in the middle of the night.
“Not exactly my favorite word in a doctor’s office.” Cynthia tried to sound lighthearted. The metal apparatus was cold and heavy on her face, and although it wasn’t literally attached, she couldn’t help feeling as if she were in a vise. Each flick of the doctor’s wrist-Better here? Or here? Here? Or here?-seemed to tighten the machine’s grip on her.
“Good interesting,” he said, rolling back to her. “Now, is it clearer with the first one or”-he flipped something, inserted something, she had never been sure what he was doing-“or this one.”
“Could I see those again?” She sounded tentative, even to her ears, which shamed her. Cynthia still remembered what she was like back when she was always sure about things.
“Absolutely. This one”-the letter O, bold but a little wavy around the edges, as if it were underwater-“or this one.” This O was not quite as bright, yet it was clearer.
“The second one?”
“There are no right answers here, Cynthia. An eye exam isn’t a test.” He chuckled at his own wit.
“The second one.”
“Good. Now is it better with this one or”-another flip-“this one.”