A Hole in the Universe - Mary McGarry Morris [143]
“I don’t know,” her mother groaned, doubling over. “Jesus, I’m gonna be sick again.”
The younger cop continued trying to pin Jada down about Gordon and the groceries. She couldn’t remember. She wasn’t sure. Her own stomach was heaving. She had to go to the bathroom.
Maybe it had to be this way. Besides, Jukas was nothing but a mean old bitch. Even the cops didn’t seem to care all that much. So no matter what, life would just go on like always. The cops were gone, leaving behind the sweet, limy scent of their aftershave, the same as Uncle Bob’s. The smell reminded her of a long ride to the zoo once with her aunt and uncle. It had been Uncle Bob’s first time there, too. When the baby was old enough, she’d take it to the zoo. She’d get a carriage and take it for long walks. Her mother had probably never been to the zoo either. She’d take her, too. There was so much she’d do for them, her mother and the baby both.
Her mother crawled into bed. She couldn’t stop crying. Jada stroked her sweaty back. “It’s okay, it’s okay, Ma.”
“I’m scared. I’m so scared, I don’t know what to do.”
“Don’t be scared, Ma. I’m going to take care of you. I promise. Everything’s going to be all right.”
“He knows,” her mother moaned. “I could tell the way he was looking at me.”
“No, he was looking at you like, ‘Well, it couldn’ta been her, not all sick and pregnant like the way she is.’ ”
Her mother rose up on one wobbly elbow. “Yeah, that’s right. I’m not that strong.”
“Yeah, so see, Ma. It’s a good thing you’re having a baby,” she said, her voice racing to the manic pitch her mother hated, but she couldn’t help it because this time she knew things were finally going to get better. “So you gotta eat good food cuz you wanna have a healthy baby, right? Right, Ma?”
Her mother sagged back down. She pulled the pillow over her head, begging Jada to leave her alone, but Jada was too happy to care. The choice was simple, her mother and the baby, or the old bitch.
CHAPTER 22
“Why? Why do that to an old lady?” the detective muttered again.
What could Gordon say? What was the motive for any heinous act? He had only known his own, fear and cowardice, and here it was again, tire tracks in the lawn, the confusion of voices, another question while he was still answering the first one. The facts flashed on and off in his brain. The truth was in the details, but they kept twisting the details around. Why hadn’t he just gone in the unlocked back door? He’d told them twice, he hadn’t known it was unlocked until they told him. If he was so concerned about her, why hadn’t he tried the key? Why was his hand bandaged? Why did he put the money through the mail slot? He’d already told them. Here—he gave them the receipt. The time on the slip seemed of most interest to them. Where were the groceries, then? He showed them the bags on his counter. Where’s the juice and milk? the detective asked, checking the contents against the receipt. He explained why he’d had to throw them out. A detective in surgical gloves fished the empty containers from his trash. So he had drunk them first. Actually, no, he had poured them down the drain.
So these were his groceries, then. No, they were hers. Why would he make up something like that? Maybe to create a reason for being in her house. But he hadn’t, he hadn’t gone inside. People had seen him over there. Only because he kept checking to see if she was home yet, but that was all. The detective’s apology was abrupt and insincere. It wasn’t that he didn’t believe Gordon, he said. Tough questions were part of the job. Of course. Yes, he understood. But of course did not. He understood nothing.
In the days that followed, Gordon had little appetite. He could feel his flesh tightening around him. His breath came slower. And as he grew more watchful, quieter, there were moments when his sense of hearing was so acute that the tremble of leaves and branches creaking in the wind was almost painful. A pipe clanged and he jumped. He opened the newspaper and cringed with the rustle. The