“You shouldn’t joke around about this kind of stuff,” he said to Harriet.
“I am not joking. I am in deadly earnest,” said Harriet loftily. Not for the first time, Pemberton thought how different she was from Robin, so different you could hardly believe they were related. Maybe it was partly the dark hair that made her seem so serious, but unlike Robin she had a ponderous quality about her: poker-faced and pompous, never laughing. There was a whimsical flutter of Robin’s ghost about Allison (who, now she was in high school, was starting to get a nice little walk on her; she had turned Pem’s head on the street the other day without his realizing who she was) but Harriet was not sweet or whimsical by any stretch of the imagination. Harriet was a trip.
“I think you’ve been reading too much Nancy Drew, sweetie,” he said to her. “All that stuff happened before Hely was even born.” He practiced a golf swing with an invisible club. “There used to be three or four trains that stopped here every day, and you had a lot more tramps over around the railroad tracks.”
“Maybe whoever did it is still around.”
“If that’s true, why haven’t they caught him?”
“Did anything seem odd before it happened?”
Pem snorted derisively. “What, you mean like spooky?”
“No, just strange.”
“Look, this wasn’t like in the movies. Nobody saw some big pervert or creep hanging around and just forgot to mention it.” He sighed. At school, for years afterward, the favorite game at recess was to re-enact Robin’s murder: a game which—passed down, and mutated over the years—was still popular at the elementary school. But in the playground version, the killer was caught and punished. Children gathered in a circle by the swing-set, raining death blows upon the invisible villain who lay prostrate in their midst.
“For a while there,” he said aloud, “some kind of cop or preacher came to talk to us every day. Kids at school used to brag about knowing who did it, or even that they did it themselves. Just to get attention.”
Harriet was gazing at him intently.
“Kids do that. Danny Ratliff—geez. He used to brag all the time about stuff he never did, like shooting people in the kneecaps and throwing rattlesnakes in old ladies’ cars. You wouldn’t believe some of the crazy stuff I’ve heard him say at the pool hall.…” Pemberton paused. He had known Danny Ratliff since childhood: weak and swaggering, throwing his arms around, full of empty boasts and threats. But though the picture was clear enough in his own mind, he wasn’t sure how to convey it to Harriet.
“He—Danny’s just nuts,” he said.
“Where can I find this Danny?”
“Whoa. You don’t want to mess around with Danny Ratliff. He just got out of prison.”
“What for?”
“Knife fight or something. Can’t remember. Every single one of the Ratliffs has been in the penitentiary for armed robbery or killing somebody except the baby, the little retarded guy. And Hely told me he beat the shit out of Mr. Dial the other day.”
Harriet was appalled. “That’s not true. Curtis didn’t lay a finger on him.”
Pemberton chortled. “I’m sorry to hear that. I never saw anybody needed to get the shit beat out of them as bad as Mr. Dial.”
“You never did tell me where I can find this Danny.”
Pemberton sighed. “Look, Harriet,” he said. “Danny Ratliff is, like, my age. All that with Robin happened back when we were in the fourth grade.”
“Maybe it was a kid who did it. Maybe that’s how come they never caught him.”
“Look, I don’t see why you think you’re such a genius, figuring this out when nobody else could.”
“You say he goes to the Pool Hall?”
“Yes, and the Black Door Tavern. But I’m telling you, Harriet, he didn’t have anything to do with it and even if he did you better leave him alone. There’s a bunch of those brothers and they’re all kind of crazy.”
“Crazy?”
“Not like that. I mean … one of them is a preacher—you’ve probably seen him, he stands around on the highway yelling about the Atonement and shit. And the big brother, Farish, was in the mental hospital down at Whitfield for a while.”
“What for?”
“Because he got hit in the head with a shovel or something. I can’t remember. Every single one of them is getting arrested all the time. For stealing cars,” he added, when he saw how Harriet was looking at him. “Breaking into houses. Nothing like what you’re talking about. If they’d had anything to do with Robin the cops would have beat it out of them years ago.”
He picked up Harriet’s check, which was still lying on the counter. “All right, kiddo? This is for you and Allison, too?”
“Yes.”
“Where is she?”
“At home.”
“What’s she doing?” Pem said, leaning forward on his elbows.
“Watching Dark Shadows.”
“Reckon she’ll be coming to the pool any this summer?”
“If she wants to.”
“Does she have a boyfriend?”
“Boys call her on the phone.”
“Oh, yeah?” said Pemberton. “Like who?”
“She doesn’t like to talk to them.”
“Why is that?”
“Don’t know.”
“Reckon if I called her sometime, she’d talk to me?”
Abruptly, Harriet said: “Guess what I’m going to do this summer?”
“Huh?”
“I’m going to swim the length of the pool underwater.”
Pemberton—who was growing a little tired of her—rolled his eyes. “What’s next?” he said. “Cover of Rolling Stone?”
“I know I can do it. I held my breath for almost two minutes last night.”
“Forget it, sweetie,” said Pemberton, who did not believe a word of this. “You’ll drown. I’ll have to fish you out of the pool.”
————
Harriet spent the afternoon reading on the front porch. Ida was washing clothes, as she always did on Monday afternoons; her mother and sister were asleep. She was nearing the end of King Solomon’s Mines when Allison, barefoot and yawning, tottered outside, in a flowery dress that looked like it belonged to their mother. With a sigh, she lay down on the pillowed porch swing and pushed herself with the tip of her big toe to set herself rocking.
Immediately, Harriet put down the book and went to sit by her sister.
“Did you have any dreams during your nap?” she asked.
“I don’t remember.”
“If you don’t remember, then maybe you did.”
Allison didn’t answer. Harriet counted to fifteen and then—more slowly this time—politely repeated what she had just said.
“I didn’t have any dreams.”
“I thought you said you didn’t remember.”
“I don’t.”
“Hey,” said a nasal little voice bravely from the sidewalk.
Allison raised herself up on her elbows. Harriet—extremely annoyed at the interruption—turned and saw Lasharon Odum, the grimy little girl whom Mrs. Fawcett had pointed out earlier at the library. She was gripping the wrist of a little white-haired creature of indeterminate sex, in a stained shirt that did not quite cover its stomach, and a baby in plastic diapers was straddled on her opposite hip. Like little wild animals, afraid to come too close, they stood back and watched with flat eyes that glowed eerie and silvery in their sunburnt faces.
“Well, hello there,” said Allison, standing up and moving cautiously down the steps to greet them. Shy as Allison was, she liked children—white or black, and the smaller the better. Often she struck up conversations with the dirty ragamuffins who wandered up from the shacks by the river, though Ida Rhew had forbidden her to do this. “You not going to think they so cute when you come down with the lice or the ringworm,” she said.