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“Sissy went out on dates?”
“They only went to the movies. Sissy wanted to, and I couldn’t see any reason to say no.” Mrs. Vernon paused. “I think she had a crush on him.” The word “crush” was hard for her, she struggled saying it. “I don’t know why he stopped calling,” she continued. “But it’s been tough on him in the last year or so, what with his mother dying that slow death, and his father selling the farm. They live out at the Gardner place now, in the tenant house.”
“Oh.” I still could
n’t imagine Sissy and Elro together. What happened when she talked about Jesus?
“Sissy was disappointed when he stopped coming around. She didn’t let on, but a mother can tell.” Mrs. Vernon put the knife down and looked up. “Walter never liked that boy, though. He never said anything specific, but he used to grumble a lot—that’s Walter’s way. He just didn’t like the boy and was glad when it ended.”
“Did you ever ask him why? I mean, Mr. Vernon—did you ever ask him why he didn’t like Elro?”
“No, I figured he had his reasons.” She took a white glass bowl off a shelf and pushed the piles of chopped vegetables into it. “Some boys are men’s boys, and some boys are women’s boys,” Mrs. Vernon said. “And I figured that Elro must just have something that women notice.”
That some women notice, I thought. Very strange women.
SIX
At about three that afternoon, I heard Bunny pull up outside. She owned a blue 1948 Pontiac that made a rattling noise when it moved, as if a stone were loose inside a hubcap. Eddie Boggs once checked, though, and didn’t find any loose stones. “That car’s just got a death rattle,” he said. Anyway, I could hear it when Bunny was within half a block.
She parked at the curb and came up to the Vernons’ front stoop. She was wearing her waitress uniform, and her hair was carelessly pinned up. Mrs. Vernon opened the door, but Bunny wouldn’t come inside. Speaking through the screen door, she said she had to take me away for an hour or so to run errands. Mrs. Vernon was unsure—Bunny could certainly visit any time she wanted, but it wasn’t clear whether she could leave with me. Bunny was indignant. “Do I need permission to drive my own daughter down to the square?” she demanded. Reluctantly, Mrs. Vernon let me go.
“I can’t stand to set a foot in that house,” grumbled Bunny as we got into the car. “It always smells like toast.”
“Mrs. Vernon makes a lot of toast,” I said. “She even makes her sandwiches with toast at lunch.” I’d been rather impressed.
“Ugh,” said Bunny. “Disgusting.”
She drove down to the center of town and edged her way into the traffic crawling around the square. She honked and slapped the steering wheel in frustration. “Jesus,” she said, “the businesses all move out, and you still can’t find a place to park.” She went around twice, stopping and starting and honking. An old man sitting on a bench yelled at her to lay off her horn. “It’s these hot-rodders that crowd things up,” she muttered. “They’ve got to show off their cars by driving around.”
“The square’s always been crowded,” I said.
“Yeah, but with people who have some reason to be here.”
She found a parking space, finally, in front of the courthouse. Just as we were getting out of the car, I saw a girl from my class, walking with two other girls I knew. I hopped back into the front seat and slouched down. “What’s the matter with you?” Bunny said.
“I don’t want to run into anyone.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she snapped. “Hold your head high. You haven’t done anything wrong.”
“I just don’t want to have to explain.”
The girls walked by in front of the car, too involved with themselves to notice Bunny and me.
“See?” said Bunny. “Nobody knows.”
She led me quickly across the green park that makes up the center of the square. People were out taking advantage of the tree shade, sitting on the benches or lounging in the grass. The bandshell was littered with hoods, who make it their special hang-out in the summer. A group of grade-school-age children was playing at the drinking fountain. As we passed the broad, black trunk of an elm, Bunny paused and pointed up at the sickly yellow leaves growing in sparse tufts in the upper branches. “Another dead tree,” she said.
Leaving the park and crossing the street, we went into the tallest building in town, the Katydid Hotel. People say it used to be grand, but now it’s mostly filled with offices. Since Chicago is only about two hours away by car, hardly anyone who’s passing through needs to stay overnight in Katydid anymore. A wide, worn staircase cuts into the lobby of the hotel, and we took that up to the second floor. Bunny led me down a narrow hallway to an office with a sign on the door, SIMON BEACH, ATTORNEY AT LAW. Inside was a waiting room with several people in it and a secretary at a desk.
“Well, hello, Bunny,” said the secretary. She was about Bunny’s age, with brown hair teased up above her head. “Was Mr. Beach expecting you?” She smiled in a smug way.
“No,” said Bunny tartly. She didn’t like that smile. “Just tell him I’m here to see him.”
“He’s with someone,” said the secretary. “I’ll have to wait until he’s between appointments.”
Bunny surveyed the waiting room and marched over to a red vinyl couch. The couch sank when she sat on it, and she had to wrestle her uniform to get it over her knees. I plopped down beside her.
The other people in the waiting room watched us obliquely, pretending not to stare. There was an old, white-haired man in worn, casual clothes, and a young couple with a girl about four. The room was plain and windowless, except for the smoky glass in the front door and in the door that led to the lawyer’s inner office.
