I stay in my room until I hear Rita leave the house. The lingering toxic aroma of cheap perfume tells me she has a date and won’t be back until morning.
Part of me wants to pray, to talk to God the way Jeremy does. Wouldn’t God know who killed Coach, if he’s keeping an eye on everybody? So I ask-not out loud but inside my head, the way Jer does it: God, who did it? Who really murdered Coach Johnson?
Nothing.
Okay. I’m not so sure how this works anymore.
For a minute, my mind is a blank. Then, slowly, I remember a cozy night years ago. Jeremy and I are sitting on his bed, and I’m reading from a kids’ book of fairy tales. Only I’m too little to read the words, so I’m just telling the stories and Jeremy’s filling in the parts I forget. He could talk then. We look so normal, both of us in snowflake pj’s. This could be the best memory I have of childhood. Of Jeremy.
This is the Jer I want back home. I can’t let them take him away. Not to prison. Not to a mental hospital. Home. Jeremy belongs at home, with me. I’m all he has. I have to find out who really killed Coach.
Unsure where to start, I go to my closet to search for something to write on. A shoe box tumbles from the top shelf, and sea glass rains down on my head. I sit on the floor and put back each piece-a pale green chip from an old railroad insulator, a red piece from a railroad lantern, a chunk of orange carnival glass T.J. said came from one of Lake Erie’s famed shipwrecks. Each piece is smooth from over a hundred years of being knocked about in the waves.
I put the box back and keep hunting through the closet until I find a notebook without much writing in it. It was my American history notebook, and I gave up taking notes after the midterm, when all the questions came directly from the book. I still got a B-minus. I tear out my history notes, leaving paper pieces like tiny teeth on the left side of each page.
I settle onto my bed with the notebook. At the top of the first page, I write: SUSPECTS. The blank paper staring at me is almost enough to make me shut the notebook and throw it back into my closet. But then I see Jeremy at the defense table, wringing his hands and looking up at the ceiling as if he could read the outcome of the trial there.
A vagrant. That’s my first suspect, listed on the pale blue line of notebook paper. I don’t want the murderer to be anyone I know. Why couldn’t some crazy homeless guy have been sleeping in the barn when Coach walked in and surprised him? Maybe the man didn’t even know what he was doing until it was too late.
The police said nobody had seen an unknown person hanging around the barn, but maybe they were wrong. When I asked Raymond about the possibility of a stranger being the murderer, he told me the police had ruled it out because Jeremy’s fingerprints were the only ones on the bat. Supposedly, the police canvassed the area for transients anyway and came up empty. In Grain, Ohio, a person who doesn’t belong gets spotted fast and turned over for gossip before the sun sets.
I move on. I want a long list of suspects, especially since the prosecution has a short list. A list of one-my brother.
The Panthers. Any boy on the team could have murdered Coach. They all knew where Jeremy parked his bat. They knew where Coach would be that early on a game day, especially that game day. Why aren’t they suspects? A little voice in my head answers: Because they weren’t spotted running from the scene of the crime with the murder weapon. I ignore the voice and write down as many names as I can remember: Austin-first baseman, a freshman Tyler-catcher, new to the team, nice to Jeremy Greg-second base, good hitter, quiet Kid on 3rd who yells at umpires-has a temper David and Manny-outfielders
I can’t come up with the rest of the team, and I want to know their last names, especially the third baseman with a temper. What I need is a team roster. I know that Coach used to post a game roster on the park bulletin board on game day, but I think he passed them out to the team too.
I search for an old team roster in Jer’s room but come up empty. Frustrated, I drop to the floor and lean against Jeremy’s bed. Leaving space in my notebook for other players’ names, I move on with my suspect list:
Caroline Johnson. Coach’s wife has to be my number one suspect. She used to teach at the high school with Coach. T.J. had her for one class and hated her, the only teacher he never got along with, as far as I know. Married people have a bottomless pit of motives to kill each other. Money, for one. No money, for another. Since they never had kids, Caroline would get everything if Coach died. I have no idea what “everything” is. I do know that the stable was really Caroline’s. Coach had an office there, but he only started getting involved with the horses after she got sick.
Jealousy-that’s another good marriage motive. Maybe Coach had an affair? I’m not sure I’d blame him after seeing the way she yelled at him that day at the game. Or maybe Caroline had an affair and Coach found out about it?
Or anger. I’ve seen her temper in action.
It was a little over a year ago, back before she got really sick. Coach called a practice before a Saturday home game. I don’t remember which team we were playing. Jeremy and I were the first ones to get there. Jer was laying out bats and balls when Coach drove up. I don’t think he saw us, because the minute he stepped out of his car, his wife drove up in her car. I could hear her screaming at him before she even shut off her engine.
“You think you can get away from me that easily?” she shouted.
“Caroline, please.” Coach was harder to hear because he was trying to calm her down. It wasn’t working.
“I’m the one who’s sick! Me! I’m the one with cancer! I won’t stand for it!”
Coach said something else I couldn’t make out.
Then she exploded. “No! I hate this entire business! And I hate you! I’m not putting up with this. You’re going to be sorry you were ever born!” Or something like that. She climbed back into her car and roared off. Coach had to jump out of the way or she’d have run him over.
Through the whole quarrel, Jeremy kept setting out the baseball equipment. I never knew if he’d heard the yelling or not.
And me? I acted like I hadn’t heard a word. It’s what I do-I smooth things over. I put the whole incident out of my mind… until now.
I never found out what Coach and his wife had been arguing about that day. But I heard what I heard, and I saw what I saw-Caroline Johnson’s rage.
Maybe Caroline Johnson didn’t plan to murder her husband. Maybe she just lost her temper and snapped. One lucky, or unlucky, blow.
Rita’s voice in my head is laughing, mocking me.
I don’t think the police ever investigated Caroline Johnson because she’s supposedly an invalid, confined to her bed and all, or maybe to a wheelchair. But what if she’s faking?
On the suspect page by her name, I write: Caroline… a fake?… money problems?… affair?
The phone rings. I figure it’s T.J., apologizing for being so weird about the cookies at his house. Maybe I can ask him to fill in the names of the Panther players and tell me more about Caroline Johnson as a teacher. “Hello?” I flip on the living room lamp.
A muffled voice says something I can’t make out. It’s not T.J.
“Excuse me? Who is this?”
I hear breathing. Definitely breathing. Somebody’s there. “Hello?”
Static hits the line, then a click. And the dial tone buzzes.
I hang up. Probably a wrong number. Or a prank. When Jeremy was first arrested, we got some pretty nasty phone calls.
I try to get back into my list of suspects and motives, but it’s no use. A headache is starting at the back of my neck, creeping up like electric fingers climbing the back of my skull. I close my eyes and hear branches scratching the roof.
The phone rings again. I jump, like an idiot, then pick up after the second ring. “Hello?”
No answer. I think I hear breathing again. The line is clear as ice.
“Hey, if this is some kind of sick joke, it’s not funny.” I hang up, hard.
The house is too dark, so I walk from room to room, turning on all the lights. I’m never scared in the house by myself. I’ve stayed home alone more nights than I can count. And usually, I really like it.
But tonight feels different. I wish Jeremy were here.
The phone rings again, and my heart jumps like it’s been shocked with heart paddles. We don’t have an answering machine, so the phone keeps ringing and ringing and ringing.
Finally, I can’t stand it any longer. I grab the receiver. “What? What do you want?”
A second of silence passes, and then a voice: “I’m watching you. Leave it alone.” I think that’s what he-or she-says. The voice is so muffled and faint that I’m not sure of the words.
“What did you say?” I demand.
Click. And nobody’s there.