The Babysitter Murders - By Janet Ruth Young Page 0,61
Sheepdogg—
You done good. You’re a good kid.
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In the morning Dani dresses in running clothes. She follows another runner to the Charles River, where she finds exercisers of all races, sizes, and ages, but mostly college students and yuppies. She knows she blends in with them, that with her short, dyed hair even the most rabid tabloid photographer would have trouble recognize her here. And in another year or two, if all goes well, she will be here, blending in. For now, she follows the flow of bikers and in-line skaters across lagoons and over footbridges, past the amphitheater and the tennis courts and the sailing pavilion. She follows two young women across the river to the Cambridge side, past the dome of MIT. She would worry about getting lost in the constantly shifting vistas except that everything is visible from the river, the skyscrapers and bridges and landmarks, and if you can’t get back one way you can always get back another.
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Malcolm has been spending too many hours on the news sites and the chat rooms. On his way home from school he thinks about, he savors, all the things he can do outdoors. He looks forward to doing some chores, working with his dad, and making his mom happy.
His father likes the phrase “manicured lawn.” Maybe today, Malcolm will do just that. He’ll go around the edges of the yard with a nail scissor and trim every unruly blade of grass. How much would his mom brag then?
He stops at the convenience store and buys two fountain sodas.
“Where’s Dad?” he says as he walks into the kitchen.
His mother is at the sink. “Out back,” she snaps.
He drops his books on the table. “What’s eating you?” he asks.
“I said he’s out back.”
“I got you a Mountain Dew with extra ice,” he says when he finds his father on the patio.
“I’m all set,” Michael says. On his knee is a bottle of Samuel Adams.
“Is that a beer, Dad?” Malcolm asks.
“No, it’s a portrait of an important historical figure, and I just happen to like holding it in my hand.”
All at once the yard seems too quiet. A butterfly lands on the JANET RUTH YOUNG
butterfly bush Malcolm planted. Malcolm’s dad hasn’t had a drink since last summer. They were making this a little paradise.
“How long has this been going on?” Malcolm asks.
“A few days.”
Malcolm looks back at the house. “Is that what’s got Mom upset?”
His dad doesn’t answer.
“I don’t get it, Dad. Why?”
Michael Pinto holds up a newspaper he saved, with Dani’s picture and the word Monster. “I guess I’m having trouble turning the page.”
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Shelley takes Meghan to the handball court, where she will teach her to play tennis. She’s surprised when Meghan doesn’t seem to be athletic. Shelley assumed that all people with nicely toned bodies have good coordination.
“Tell me about your town in Pennsylvania,” Shelley begins.
It’s a great time to talk because they’re hitting side by side against the backboard, not looking at each other.
“Hartswell. It’s about a hundred fifty miles from Philadelphia.
A lot of people were in dairy farming and just trying to make a living. My grandparents, for instance. Only a small core of people are interested in the arts or have any kind of ambition. Every day I dreamed of getting out of there. You wouldn’t believe how excited I was when we moved here and I was going to be close to a big city, with concerts and Broadway-type shows and everything. But anyway, when I met Sam I thought I had met a kindred spirit because he was a musician.”
Meghan swings at the air, then runs into the grass after the ball.
“I think you’re turning your arm,” Shelley says when Meghan gets back to her spot. “That’s why you keep missing.” She stops her own ball between her racket and her foot, then goes to Meghan’s side. “Can I show you?”
JANET RUTH YOUNG
“I think I’m getting it,” Meghan says. “I just need to keep practicing.”
Meghan’s wearing a sports bra, weensy shorts, and a pair of unserious sneakers. Shelley stands behind her and grasps her arm.
“Keep your elbow straight and hold this line right here. That way your racket can’t turn parallel to the ground. Shift your weight to your front foot. Hey, your skin smells like grapefruit.”
“That’s my citrus body wash,” Meghan says.
Shelley makes a decision. I’m not going to ask her the exact name of the body wash. I’m not going to ask whether it’s expensive and where she buys it.
I’m not going to