No Witness But the Moon(28)
They bought the one that looked like an avocado. Sophia grumbled the whole way home.
“I thought Jimmy was going to help us,” said the child. “Did you two have a fight?”
“No. We just have some things we—need to work out.”
“That’s what you said when you and Daddy separated.” Sophia was nine going on nineteen. Her sense of the world was growing almost as fast as her limbs. Adele tried to ignore it. That was her default mode for everything: the emails and texts pouring in, the phone calls from friends and colleagues, the grilling she got from her ex this morning. If Vega could shut down all questions, then so could she.
“We’ll have fun decorating the tree together,” said Adele. “We’ll set it up in the living room and string it with popcorn. And maybe some cranberries.”
“Diablo will eat the popcorn and cranberries,” Sophia told her mother. She was probably right. This morning, Diablo had already turned one of Sophia’s favorite sneakers into an open-toed sandal and eaten through the lining on her bike helmet. Diablo’s owner had given Adele two toys for the dog to chew on. He hadn’t touched either since he’d arrived.
“We’ll just have to keep him away from the tree.”
When they got back home, Adele fetched a stepladder from the garage and climbed up to untie the ropes that secured the tree to the car.
“It’s so small,” complained Sophia.
It looked like a bloody great monster to Adele, especially when she tried to tip it off the roof of the car. She ended up with a broken fingernail, a patch of sticky pinesap on her favorite suede jacket, and a head full of pine needles. She was shaking the mess off her shoulders and hair when she heard a familiar voice call to her from the sidewalk.
“Would you like a hand?”
Dave Lindsey stood at the foot of Adele’s driveway with a backpack slung over one shoulder and his hands stuffed awkwardly in his jacket pockets. Though he lived in town and owned a real estate brokerage firm here, Adele couldn’t remember the chairman of the board of La Casa ever stopping by her house before.
This wasn’t a social visit.
Adele studied the tree at her feet. It was lying on its side like some hunter’s slaughtered deer carcass. “Sure. Thanks.”
Lindsey traveled the length of her driveway in three or four long strides. He had the slightly stooped shoulders and spider legs of a man who always got recruited for basketball as a kid whether he wanted to or not. He once confided in her that his shyness and size as a boy got him the nickname “Lurch,” after the ghoulish fictional butler in The Addams Family television show. Adele wished he hadn’t told her that. She could never see him now without thinking of the name.
Lindsey leaned over Adele’s tree, poked a leather-gloved hand through the branches, and yanked the balsam into an upright position. The tip didn’t even crest the underside of his chin.
“Is Santa growing his elves taller these days?” Adele quipped. “Or are you here to tell me I’m on the naughty list?” She wanted to keep the conversation light and playful. Sophia was still waiting impatiently on the front steps to get the tree into the house.
“We need to talk, Adele. And since you’re not returning emails or phone messages—”
“I wasn’t aware that my contract with La Casa required me to be on call twenty-four-seven.”
“There’s a fire blowing through this community. This is not the time to play hide-and-seek.”
“Mom! I’m cold,” said Sophia. “Can we take the tree in?”
Adele fished her keys out of her handbag and walked them over to the child. “Go inside. I’ll be there in a minute, lucero.” Bright star—her nickname for her daughter.
“But we were going to decorate the tree—”
“And we will!” She’d get this damn tree decorated today if it killed her.
Adele waited until the child had stomped off inside and she heard Diablo bark out a greeting. Then she turned back to Lindsey who was still holding the tree upright like some shield that could protect him from her wrath.
“Exactly how am I supposed to have this sort of conversation today? I have my daughter to take care of. She doesn’t know about any of this. Nor do I want her to. Her former babysitter is the daughter of the man who was shot.” Adele couldn’t bring herself to say, “the man Detective Vega shot.” She preferred to think of the shooting as some force of nature, spontaneous and ineluctable—not the willful actions of the man she loved.
Lindsey took a moment with Adele’s revelation. “Have you spoken to her yet?”
“I haven’t spoken to anybody. How can I? What would I say that wouldn’t cause somebody in my life a lot of pain?”
“I understand your predicament, Adele. I do,” said Lindsey softly. “But things are heating up. I’m not sure you realize just how much. Let me get your tree inside for you. Get Sophia settled in her bedroom or something for a little while. We need to talk.”
If anybody else had shown up on Adele’s front lawn this morning, she might have written it off as an overreaction. But Lindsey was no zealot. He’d started out a decade ago as a vocal opponent of an immigrant outreach center in Lake Holly, insisting at town meetings and demonstrations that such a place would encourage a greater influx of “lawbreakers” into the area, thereby weakening the economy, straining public services, and spurring white flight. He became a champion of La Casa when he discovered that the newcomers were hardworking people who kept downtown vacancy rates low and made it possible for small stores to flourish. He spoke softly, thought pragmatically, and shied away from political vitriol. If he was here this morning, it wasn’t over some vague notions of injustice. It was because of something very, very real.