to live in this place ever since I was a kid,” he says, suddenly breezy. “Back when my family used to come up from the city in the summers. I thought that one day when I was old enough I’d move here and live on that lake in my own little place forever.”
“I see. But what—”
“Just one of those cheap, rickety-as-all-get-outsort of vacation cottages. You know the ones? Nothing much at all. It’s always a little embarrassing, isn’t it? The things you wish for when you’re young.”
“I wonder if we could—”
“And then comes the real world. Flattening everything in its path, handing out the just deserts. So I end up living alone in a bachelor apartment in the ghost town down the road, teaching literature to students who can’t read the back of a hockey card. This is what happens to children’s dreams, Mr. Crane.”
“That’s too bad, Thom. It really is. But for the time being I’m just wondering about you and the girls and the lake.”
“The girls.”
“That’s right. Did you take them up there that Thursday?”
“They always talked about it.”
“Going for a drive?”
“About the lake.” He sweeps his knuckles over his lips. “They liked stories.”
“That’s fine. But what I’m looking for here is a sequence of events starting, oh I don’t know, say, from the beginning , and going to the end . To your drive to the lake, if there was a drive to the lake.”
“A regular water rat, that’s what my mother called me. I was such a good swimmer.”
“How about the girls? Were they good swimmers too?”
He presses his lips together so tightly they disappear altogether except for the bloodless white crease they leave halfway between nose and chin.
“There’s not much…”
“Not what? ”
“…not much I can say without…”
Then the tears again, a splashing torrent that falls onto his face but affects no other part of his body. No shaking shoulders or trembling lips. It’s as though they arrive on their own for reasons that are either unknown to him or so well known he has ceased to supplement them with any other expression.
“Please, Mr. Tripp,” I say, pushing back the impatience rising in my voice. “It’s apparent that you’re under a great deal of stress. But frankly so am I, and you’re not helping very much. If I’m to act for you, there are some things I need to know. At the moment, I don’t have much: girls went missing on Thursday, May the twelfth; a fruitless search over the course of the following weeks; warrant issued for your apartment and car a couple weeks later which yielded cut-out catalog pictures of girls in pajamas on your bedroom wall, muddy pants in the laundry hamper, muddy shoes at the door and a few bloodstains in the backseat. Two months later you’re under arrest. There’s an outline of a story there, and certainly a whole number of potential inferences , but I think it needs some fleshing out, so to speak. Don’t you?”
Sarcasm may not be the best approach under the circumstances, but the truth is I’m finding Tripp more recalcitrant than the usual. Clients are rarely forthcoming at first and even more rarely articulate, but if this guy’s la-la-land routine is as intentional as I suspect it is I have to let him know I’m not convinced. So I sit for a time with pen poised over notepad and wait. Count to thirty in my headand wait some more, although I lower my eyes for the next thirty because I have the feeling that if I got into a staring match with this guy I’d lose. And in the end he wins anyway.
“O.K., Thom. Let’s try just yes or no. Did you drive the girls anywhere that Thursday?”
“It’s not me you want to ask.”
“There’s nobody else to ask, is there?”
“They always told me what to do.”
“And they told you to drive them to Lake St. Christopher, is that it? They wanted to go?”
“I don’t know what they wanted. I just…”
“Just took them there?”
“Always talking about it. ‘What
“I see. But what—”
“Just one of those cheap, rickety-as-all-get-outsort of vacation cottages. You know the ones? Nothing much at all. It’s always a little embarrassing, isn’t it? The things you wish for when you’re young.”
“I wonder if we could—”
“And then comes the real world. Flattening everything in its path, handing out the just deserts. So I end up living alone in a bachelor apartment in the ghost town down the road, teaching literature to students who can’t read the back of a hockey card. This is what happens to children’s dreams, Mr. Crane.”
“That’s too bad, Thom. It really is. But for the time being I’m just wondering about you and the girls and the lake.”
“The girls.”
“That’s right. Did you take them up there that Thursday?”
“They always talked about it.”
“Going for a drive?”
“About the lake.” He sweeps his knuckles over his lips. “They liked stories.”
“That’s fine. But what I’m looking for here is a sequence of events starting, oh I don’t know, say, from the beginning , and going to the end . To your drive to the lake, if there was a drive to the lake.”
“A regular water rat, that’s what my mother called me. I was such a good swimmer.”
“How about the girls? Were they good swimmers too?”
He presses his lips together so tightly they disappear altogether except for the bloodless white crease they leave halfway between nose and chin.
“There’s not much…”
“Not what? ”
“…not much I can say without…”
Then the tears again, a splashing torrent that falls onto his face but affects no other part of his body. No shaking shoulders or trembling lips. It’s as though they arrive on their own for reasons that are either unknown to him or so well known he has ceased to supplement them with any other expression.
“Please, Mr. Tripp,” I say, pushing back the impatience rising in my voice. “It’s apparent that you’re under a great deal of stress. But frankly so am I, and you’re not helping very much. If I’m to act for you, there are some things I need to know. At the moment, I don’t have much: girls went missing on Thursday, May the twelfth; a fruitless search over the course of the following weeks; warrant issued for your apartment and car a couple weeks later which yielded cut-out catalog pictures of girls in pajamas on your bedroom wall, muddy pants in the laundry hamper, muddy shoes at the door and a few bloodstains in the backseat. Two months later you’re under arrest. There’s an outline of a story there, and certainly a whole number of potential inferences , but I think it needs some fleshing out, so to speak. Don’t you?”
Sarcasm may not be the best approach under the circumstances, but the truth is I’m finding Tripp more recalcitrant than the usual. Clients are rarely forthcoming at first and even more rarely articulate, but if this guy’s la-la-land routine is as intentional as I suspect it is I have to let him know I’m not convinced. So I sit for a time with pen poised over notepad and wait. Count to thirty in my headand wait some more, although I lower my eyes for the next thirty because I have the feeling that if I got into a staring match with this guy I’d lose. And in the end he wins anyway.
“O.K., Thom. Let’s try just yes or no. Did you drive the girls anywhere that Thursday?”
“It’s not me you want to ask.”
“There’s nobody else to ask, is there?”
“They always told me what to do.”
“And they told you to drive them to Lake St. Christopher, is that it? They wanted to go?”
“I don’t know what they wanted. I just…”
“Just took them there?”
“Always talking about it. ‘What
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