"Right away, Mrs. Longchamp," he said. I hung up and sat down to wait, and while I did, I read some more. The girl in the story talked about her mother forgetting her birthday. That line was underlined, too. Her stepfather's rape of her began with him coming in to kiss her good night, but staying to fondle her under the blanket. Finally one night he slipped in beside her.
Still reading, I heard the door slam downstairs.
"Dawn!" Jimmy cried.
"Upstairs, Jimmy." He pounded up the steps and stopped in our doorway, out of breath from running all the way. "What's wrong?"
"It's Fern . . . it's this," I said, extending my arm, the magazine in my hand.
"Romance magazines?" He grimaced. "We always knew she read that stuff—"
"Look at the story and read the passages she underlined."
"Underlined?" He took the magazine from me and began to read. His face, red from his running, gradually turned more and more ashen. His dark eyes registered shock and grew cold with horror. "My God," he said, lowering the magazine, "she got it all out of here!"
"She's been living a romance magazine fantasy, and we believed her and accused those people of horrible, horrible things," I said.
"But why didn't Clayton Osborne put up more of a fight?" Jimmy wondered, "if it wasn't true?"
"He was probably afraid of what a scandal would do to his career, and he knew Fern wouldn't abandon her story.
"At the bottom of her closet," I continued, "there's a shoe box full of money, some of which I am positive is the missing petty cash."
Jimmy lowered himself into a chair and stared dumbly down at the floor, shaking his head.
"What are we going to do?" he muttered.
"We have to confront her, Jimmy. She has to know we realize everything she's done," I said.
"Do we send her back?" he asked.
There was no question in my mind that Jimmy would do whatever I told him now. A part of me wanted to rid us of this evil child, this problem that, I now realized, would take much of our energy and attention to correct. I would be forever worried about Fern's influence on Christie, too.
But Fern was Jimmy's sister, and something stronger in me rejected the idea of sending away family. I had seen and lived through too much of that myself.
"I don't think her going back to the Osbornes is the answer, Jimmy. They are obviously not as mean and as evil as Fern had painted them to be, but they are two people who are overwhelmed by her and unwilling, perhaps, to make the sacrifices of time and energy required to give her the love and attention she needs to overcome her nasty ways.
"No, she should stay, but stay under a different set of rules and circumstances," I concluded. Jimmy nodded. Then we heard the door open and close downstairs. The children were home. Christie ran for the kitchen, where Mrs. Boston had her milk and cookies waiting, but Fern began a slow ascent to her room. We waited until she reached the second-floor landing, and then we both stepped out to greet her. She looked up with surprise.
"Why is everyone home already?" she asked, her eyes narrowing suspiciously at me.
"We want to talk to you, Fern," I said firmly. "In your room."
"What? Why?" she countered.
"Now," I commanded, and she hurried along. We followed her in. She dropped her books on her bed and flopped back on it, folding her arms defiantly over her chest.
"So?" she said. "You're mad because I told Jimmy about you seeing Michael Sutton, I suppose."
"I'm mad about that, yes—mad because of the way you went about it—but that's not why we want to speak to you right now," I said.
She lifted her eyes with new interest.
"Then what is it?" she asked.
"This," I said, holding out the magazine. As soon as she realized what was in my hand, her face blanched and her eyes filled with fear. She tried to cover it with anger.
"You went snooping in my things?" she cried.