“Ambidextrous?” Evon said.
“Right. So, for example, when they started playing tennis in high school, they used to shift the racquet, hitting forehands from both sides, but the coach put a stop to that. Paul played righty and Cass played lefty. They were both strong singles players, but at doubles no one could beat them, because basically they knew exactly what the other one was thinking on the court. They were state champions two years running. That was a big deal around here. Guys from a city school winning against all these suburban kids from country clubs? There were articles about them in the Tribune. And there was this one great story.” Georgia fell back, smiling at the recollection.
“They were once in one of these home-and-home tournaments, Friday and Saturday, against a high school from Greenwood County, and when Cass finished his singles match the second day, the kid came after him with his racket. He was screaming, ‘I didn’t mind losing to you yesterday, but coming back and beating me left-handed today, that’s just being an asshole.’”
The three of them all laughed hard. But even amid the levity, Evon could see Tim had reabsorbed some of his anxious aspect.
“But Cass, he did wear a big ring on his right hand, didn’t he?” Tim asked.
“Oh yeah,” she said. “It was one of those Easton College class rings that Paul and him both bought when they graduated.”
Tim nodded, but his lips kept folding into his mouth. Evon realized he was wondering how they’d pinned a right-handed murder on a lefty.
Evon drank down some of her water, preparing to leave. They both thanked Georgia heartily for her time.
“The lawyers may want to talk to you,” Evon said. As had happened before, Georgia’s mood shifted sharply in reaction to her.
“The hell they will,” she answered. “This isn’t going to become my new profession. Tim called. I agreed to speak to him out of respect, and he said you were his boss and had to come, so I said fine to that, too. But I’m not repeating everything forty times to a bunch of lawyers so they can pick it apart. And I’m certainly not talking to any reporters. They just write what they want you to have said. This here, today, that’s the end of this for me.”
Tim took over again, smoothing her feathers.
“Well, no one knows anything for sure right now,” Tim said. “This could all blow over in a couple of weeks. But if they go to court, it’s hard to imagine you’re not gonna get dragged in a little. You were Paul’s girlfriend. There wasn’t anybody else who’d know more about him then. You have to realize you’re important.”
Tim was good, Evon thought. She had never really laid aside her native awkwardness with strangers. But Tim knew intuitively what would soothe Georgia. ‘You’re important.’
She was not fully convinced. “Still,” she said.
They were all silent a second.
“Can I suggest something?” Tim said. “Why don’t I just get out my camera? It’s in my overcoat and it takes video, too. And I’ll record you responding to a few questions. And that will be that. At least on our side. If somebody else sends you a subpoena, then you can deal with that, but you won’t have to answer about the same things for now. Just tell the lawyers or reporters, whoever it is, you aren’t saying anything else.”
Georgia considered this. “Can I say this how I want?”
“Course,” Tim answered.
“And am I going to end up in another one of Hal’s commercials, all over the TV?”
Evon had no idea how Tim could soften that. When she’d told Hal Tim might have dug up a witness against Paul, he’d danced around his office and immediately called the ad agency. But Tim didn’t try.
“Probably,” he said. “That’s what I’d guess.”
Georgia looked around the dim living room for a second, as if she were taking account of her life. Then she nodded. Tim had Georgia figured. Paul had left her behind and blasted into the firmament. But she’d been the woman with him then. It wasn’t wrong if the spotlight fell on her for a second.
Georgia did two takes, the second less halting.
My name is Yiorgia Lazopoulos Cleon. I’m making this statement voluntarily, and I understand it might be on TV. I was Paul Gianis’s girlfriend in September 1982 and had been for a long time. I was with him at our church’s annual picnic the day Dita Kronon was murdered, and I do remember that Paul had words with Dita that afternoon. Paul hated Dita because he felt like she was trying to tear his family apart. I also recall that even after Cass pled guilty, Paul told me Cass was innocent. I still talk to Paul every once in a while and I’ve voted for him. I’d have a hard time believing Paul did something this awful, but I guess you never know for sure with people.
Georgia had added the last line on the second go-through. Evon, who was far from artsy, had learned enough from Heather that she could envision the way the director would present this, a tight shot, grainy, as Georgia spoke, all the worry and reluctance swimming through her face, even as the truth struggled to the surface. It was going to be strong.
Tim and she had just started moving toward the door when Georgia’s father came thumping into the room. He appeared intent on the TV, to which he pointed with his cane in clear instruction. Georgia told him it would be a minute. The old priest looked a wreck. He wore sweatpants and a Chicago Bears T-shirt on which a long soup stain was visible. His hair was wild, and his full gray beard looked equally untamed. The frames on his heavy Harry Caray glasses might have been thirty years old. Behind them, his black eyes seemed quick and uncomprehending. Nonetheless, Tim greeted Father Nik with just the barest bow.
“Father, bless,” he said, and the old man instinctively responded by raising his right hand with his thumb and first two fingers upward and making the sign of the cross, forehead to navel and then right shoulder to left. Tim reintroduced himself.
“You might recall, Father, you buried our little Kate.” Standing behind her dad, Georgia tensed and shook her head sharply, indicating that those kinds of inquiries were unwise. But the old man had enough sense left to say something appropriate.
“Oh yes,” he said, in his heavy accent. “Trejedy. Terr’ble trejedy.”
“It was,” said Tim. “Maria was never the same. None of us were.”
The old man turned back to his daughter, asking a question in Greek.
“No, Dad, they know you’re retired.”
Georgia looked at Evon and Tim with an impish smile. “He thinks you want him to perform your wedding. Dad, they just had some questions about Paul Gianis and Cass.”
The old man responded once more in Greek.
“No, Dad. It was Paul you saw on the TV. Cass is still in prison.” Her tone was patient but also exhausted. She recognized the pointlessness of explaining. She added another word or two in Greek, perhaps just repeating herself, but something about her answer inflamed him. The old man was instantly furious. He turned pink as a geranium, spit flying as he began to scream. His rage filled the house. He somehow was steadier on his feet in this state, and gestured widely with one hand. Every now and then Evon heard the word “Paulos” as Georgia tried to calm him.
Tim and she had their coats on and were out the door quickly.
7
It was a gray day, with a low, woolly sky and little light. Evon and Tim stood out on the walk for a second, trying to regather themselves after Father Nik’s sudden fury.
“That wasn’t pretty,” Evon said.
“No. He’s got something missing, you can see that.”
They reached the car. Tim got the door open and turned to put his backside down first. Until Evon saw him move so stiffly, she hadn’t really remembered Tim was as old as he was.