“Here,” he would say. “Try this.”
And she would try this, and she would giggle and say, “Oh, no, not me” or “Oh, maybe . . . someday.” If it was something fancy. Something fancy from Mommy, before she left. Before she died? No . . . she didn’t die, Shauna. She left. She left because of you.
Her mom, before she left, had a menagerie of looks, from sophisticated to prim to downright slutty Too many clothes for that little closet. Too many clothes for that little house. Guess that’s why she left.
Her mom, Shauna’s mom, was from Niagara Falls. The good part. The part up above the falls with long stretches of houses and even longer stretches of lawn. Why she’d ever married Troy Boggs was beyond anyone, including her, which is why, one day, looking around at the pale lead house, which could’ve used a coat of paint, and almost could’ve been the home sweet home she thought she’d been looking for, she simply made a calculation. It was a math problem. What times what makes me stay? Versus . . . what times what makes me go? What is my opportunity cost? Of course, there’s the girl. Well, I can’t take her with me now, can I? Then I really wouldn’t have a chance.
(What kind of fella’s gonna grab up a pretty lady and a kid? I’ll tell you what kind. A loser. That’s what kind.)
No, Shauna’s mother had no intention of landing herself a loser. Another one, anyway. Once was enough. Although. Troy had been cute, sexy in a sinister sort of way. She liked the way he fucked her at least. That was one thing he could do. About the only one.
A math problem. Yes, there were some unknowns. Some variables. But still . . . that’s what variables were for, wasn’t it? The unknown. It was inevitable, really. The minute she’d walked down the aisle, she knew it. Not having her family there. And that tuxedo!
No, Troy Boggs was not the end of the line for her. She’d made a mistake. That’s all. Wrong answer. Nothing that couldn’t be fixed. And she did fix it. She did. How easy. Easy as putting one delicate foot in front of the other and making her way, tippy-toe tippy-toe, out the door and nevermore.
“Here,” Troy Boggs said to his daughter. “Try this.”
And this was a dress Shauna Boggs dare not try on. Are you kidding?
“No,” she said, pleading. “I can’t.”
Seeing in her eyes that scared little girl he wanted to protect punch kill fuck, he grabbed her closer, tucked into his arm. “It’s okay, honey. Daddy’s here. Daddy wants you to.”
And so there she goes, little Shauna, out the door and some crumpling and crinkling until, finally, there she emerges from the closet, what a sweet little thing, what a delicate little thing, what a warm, white thing to sink your teeth into.
There she is, little Miss Shauna Boggs, the plump little brunette Michigan beauty standing there, fumbling, not proud or pretty, fumbling silly pig . . . in her mother’s oh-so-sophisticated wispy white wedding dress.
She’d left it behind. That bitch. She’d left it behind just as she’d left Shauna behind and she’d left Troy behind. Trash. Trash Boggs. That’s a better name for you.
But he’ll show the bitch, that la-di-da bitch from Niagara fucking Falls, he’ll show her ’cause Troy Boggs gets the last laugh here ’cause Troy Trash Boggs gets the last laugh now by lifting up his daughter’s skirt, your daughter’s skirt, in your oh-so-pretty wispy white dress.
Detective Samuel Barnett had had enough of these goddamn interviews. Every two seconds it seemed that black stick was in front of him, asking him questions, that glass circle with cameraman attached, asking now more questions, questions about his questions. Interviews about his interviews.
Already he’d had the family, the church, the classmates, the Green Mill Inn staff, the hotel guests, some union guys, the entire chapel choir and now, this, finally, inevitably, the best friend.
Walking down that gray slit of a path, that patch of a lawn, to that paint-peeled farmhouse, he was dreading the interaction. He’d left all interaction with his own girls to his wife, years ago. Lady stuff. He didn’t know how to, nor did he want to know how to, talk to young girls. Just leave them be. Somehow, he thought, that was all you could do.
He hadn’t expected the little girl to answer anyway. Even his knock was unwilling. Too bad for him, his knuckles made it to the door, the door concurred and opened.
Dammit. But no. Not out loud.
Keep it professional.
She is tiny like Beth. She is Beth’s age. She is shaking somehow.
“Excuse me, Miss, I am looking for Shauna Boggs . . . is that you?”
Silence.
“Yessir.”
“Well, okay, then. My name’s Detective Barnett. I’d like to ask you some questions, if you don’t mind.”
“DA-AD!”
The screen door can fly at you if you’re not used to getting it slammed in your face. Step back. Step back. Easy there. Take things slow. The girl’s probably traumatized.
Troy Boggs. Yes, I know him. Just like I knew it was you, Shauna. It’s okay. I know your mama left. Everyone in town knows that dirge. Poor thing.
“It’s okay, Miss Boggs . . . Shauna…I’m just here to ask a few quick things. Won’t take a minute.”
The way Troy Boggs shades his way into sight, you’d think he was there all along, just idling. Like the light changed and there he was.
“Sir.”
“Yes, sir. Mr. Boggs. Sorry to bother you. I just have to ask a few questions. Routine. About the . . . incident. I’d like to ask your daughter. If that’s all right with you.”
Quiet house. Empty house. No-mom house.
“Officer, we’d be happy to help. Anything. I just wish I had something more to offer you, something to drink maybe? Some saltines maybe?”
Open the screen door goes and now the little cluster moves inside. It’s a pale-yellow kitchen, what could be the sweetest of kitchens, but not anymore.
It’s a card table in the middle and some metal chairs, one plastic. Troy Boggs dusts off the head chair for the officer, sits down his daughter and takes a seat beside her, concerned.
“Shauna, do you remember the last time you saw Beth Krause?”
Silence.
That little brunette sure knows how to stare at the ground.
“Approximately?”
“Yes. I saw her on her way to work. She was coming back from practice at St. John’s. I tried to get into that choir but, I guess I didn’t have the voice, so . . . ”
“So, she was coming back from choir practice, back from St. John’s Presbyterian?”
“Yessir.”
“Do you remember where, exactly?”
“On Spring Street, past the Farmer Jack.”
“Okay, good. That’s good, Shauna.”
It was funny looking at this girl. What was she . . . eighteen, nineteen, twenty, maybe twenty-one? It was like she was locked in time. Strange. You would never take her for more than fifteen. Even her gestures were childlike. Flinching. Samuel thought about his two middle-school girls bounding down the stairs, buzzing, stampeding toward their dinner, snickering, talking about God-knows-what. But this girl. This girl made of glass. A reed ready to snap.
And poor Troy. There next to her, troubled. A tear in his eye. You could tell he was shook up, too. Well,