The Name of the Star - Maureen Johnson [120]
Just after four, I saw two very familiar figures in the doorway. I knew they would come eventually. What I didn’t know was what to say to them. Their version of reality and mine had diverged. There was formal handshaking with my parents, then they came to the bedside and smiled slightly fearful smiles—the kind of look you give when you have absolutely no idea what to say.
“How do you feel?” Jazza asked.
“Itchy,” I said. “Kind of high.”
“Could be worse,” Jerome said, trying to smile.
My parents must have realized that my friends needed a minute to say whatever it was they wanted to say. They offered teas and coffees all around and excused themselves. Even after they were gone, the awkward silence reigned for a few moments.
“I need to apologize,” Jazza finally said. “Please let me.”
“For what?” I asked.
“For . . . well . . . it’s just . . . I didn’t . . . Well, I believed you, but . . .”
She collected herself and started again.
“The night of the murder, when you said you saw someone and I didn’t. For a while I thought you made it up, even when the police were around you last night. All along you were a witness—and then he came after you. I’m sorry. I’ll never . . . I’m sorry . . .”
For a second, I was tempted—I just wanted to spill the entire thing, start to end. But no. Mr. Thorpe was right. I couldn’t do that, ever.
“It’s okay,” I said. “I would have thought the same thing about me.”
“Classes are still canceled,” Jerome said. “But we were stuck there until they chased the news people away. It’s a circus. Wexford, site of the final Ripper attack . . .”
“Charlotte,” I said suddenly. “I forgot Charlotte. Is she okay?”
“Yes,” Jerome said. “She needed some stitches.”
“She’s acting like she was as hurt as you,” Jazza said in disgust.
Charlotte had been beaten over the head with a lamp by an invisible man. I was prepared to give her a pass.
“You’re famous,” Jerome said. “When you get back . . .”
Something in my expression made him stop.
“You’re not, are you?” he asked. “They’re taking you out of school, aren’t they?”
“Is Bristol nice?” I asked them.
Jerome exhaled in relief.
“It’s better than Louisiana,” he said. “That’s what I thought you were going to say. Bristol is reachable by train.”
Jazza had remained quiet through all of this. She took my hand, and she didn’t have to say a word. I knew exactly what she was thinking. It wouldn’t be the same, but I was safe. We were all safe. We’d survived the Ripper, all of us, and whatever happened now could be dealt with.
“There’s just one thing I wish,” Jazza said after a moment. “I wish I could have seen her get hit with that lamp.”
38
SO MY UNCLE WILL HAS THESE EIGHT FREEZERS UP IN his spare bedroom. It took a lot of effort to get those freezers up the steps, and I think he had to reinforce the floor. He keeps them filled with every kind of provision you can imagine. One is filled with meat. Another with vegetables and frozen dinners. I know one has things like milk and butter and yogurt. I think he even has frozen peanut butter in plastic jars, and frozen dried beans, and frozen batteries because he read somewhere that freezing them makes them last longer.
I don’t know if you’re supposed to freeze things like peanut butter and batteries, and I know for certain that I don’t want to drink three-year-old frozen milk, but I know why he does it. He does it because he’s lived through a dozen or more major hurricanes. His house was destroyed in Hurricane Katrina. He barely made it out alive. He escaped out of one of the windows in an inflatable raft and was picked up in a helicopter. He lost his dog in the flooding. So he moved closer to the rest of us and bought a little house and filled it with freezers.
Of course, when hurricanes come, the power goes out, and what he’ll probably have are eight freezers filled with rapidly decaying old food, but that’s not the point. I don