"Okay. I'll call your father to let him know where we are, so he doesn't worry if he calls or gets home before we do."
"He's going to be upset when he hears what happened at the hospital."
"That's all right. It's not your fault, Zipporah. I know you're thinking that, but none of this is your fault, understand?"
"Yes:" I said.
She flashed another smile and headed for the stairs.
I felt my legs soften, and I plopped down onto a kitchen chair and listened to her footsteps on the stairway. If she ever discovered Karen, she would be devastated by my withholding the truth. She would surely feel betrayed. It would never be the same between us. I was risking so much. I felt like running after her and crying, "Mama, please listen. Karen's in the attic, hiding. I had to help her. She is my best friend, and when you hear why she had to do what she did, you won't be angry."
Why not?
I should do that, I thought, and started to rise, but then another voice inside me asked, "What will your mother feel like after she learns it all, even now? She's been defending you. Your father's been defending you. It won't make that much difference, and you'll lose Karen forever. Besides, maybe you really will be accused of being an accomplice, especially after holding back information. That detective made, it very clear."
I stopped and sat again.
It's too late, I thought. I've got to go through with it and wait for Karen to leave on her own.
A short time later, as my mother and I were driving off, I looked up at the attic window. Karen would see us go and know she could go downstairs and get herself water and something to eat for dinner. I hoped and prayed she would leave no clues behind. Every minute of every day, I would feel like someone walking a tightrope, I thought.
I knew my mother expected that our drive together and our fun shopping would bring us both some desperately needed relaxation and divergence. I had to do my best to get her to believe it was happening. I've got to be more like Karen, I thought, and move smoothly from one emotion to the next. Concentrate on it, I ordered myself.
My father was home before we returned. Despite my mother's reassurances, it was obvious that he was upset about her incident in the hospital when he heard about it.
"I'm not going to put up with this," he declared. "You tell me if anyone makes even the slightest accusation."
I wasn't sure if he was directing that solely to my mother or
to both of us.
"People can be very nasty," my mother said. "What about the funeral, Michael? Are you going to be free to attend it with me?"
"I'll make myself free:" he said. "I'm taking the morning off, anyway. I have to get up to see Mom and explain why we didn't visit on Saturday. I'll get to the funeral right after that."
"When is it?" I asked.
"Tomorrow, eleven a.m.," my mother told me. "I'm sure there'll be people from other areas who are just too curious to stay home. What they expect they'll see, I don't know, but it's the first murder victim in a long time"
"Chief Keiser tells me that aside from a few suspicious hobo deaths during the summer, there have been none since the one that occurred in this house:'
"Allegedly occurred," my mother reminded him, and he laughed.
"Whoa. Who's the attorney in this family?"
They both smiled at me, worried that the talk of Harry Pearson's funeral would upset me even more.
"Lawyering is contagious," my mother said. I laughed at that, and everyone relaxed.
"What's for supper?" my father asked, and my mother went to prepare our dinner.
"Hey," she called from the kitchen. "You've been nibbling, Michael Stein."
"I have not," my father said.
My heart skipped a beat as he walked to the kitchen.
"Well, when I left this morning, this box of graham crackers wasn't opened."