hurried on down the hallway.
The child, alone and hesitant, stood looking longingly after him, hoping he'd relent and let her accompany him. He didn't. Down the hall and well out of sight, a door slammed shut, giving voice to James Rothman's final answer. Dejected, Jennifer turned her back to the closed door and surveyed the long dining room with its empty tables and chairs.
Uncertain of my reception with her, I waved tentatively across the deserted tables. As soon as she saw me, her desolate elfin features brightened. In a day of sudden upheaval, I was someone vaguely familiar, someone she recognized. After all, I had been her brother's roommate.
Dubiously, she waved back.
"Would you like to come sit here with me?" I called.
Jennifer Rothman had come to Ironwood Ranch the previous week as part of her brother's family week experience. In my book, she was the proverbial sweet-tempered petunia trapped in an onion patch full of schmucks. She was a beautiful child—fair-skinned with straight long blonde hair and deep blue eyes. When Joey had initially introduced us, I fully expected her to be a brat. After all, chronic phoniness seemed to run in the family.
Her half-brother was an out-and-out jackass. Jennifer's parents, unrepentant yuppies, showed up at every group session dressed in matching sets of Fila sweats. Daddy was a loud, obnoxious blowhard—Joey came by his boorishness honestly—and Marsha, his stepmother, moved in a cloud of resentment that belied the skin-deep show of marital harmony suggested by their matching outfits. I figured Jennifer would make it four for four.
But she fooled me. Jennifer Rothman turned out to be well-behaved and cheerful to a fault. Wide-eyed and innocent, she faced the world with an unfailingly sunny disposition—a latter-day Pollyanna. Her only apparent defect was what I regarded as an incredibly misplaced case of hero worship which she lavished on her no-good half-brother. During family week she had spent every free moment dogging Joey's footsteps like some adoring but ignored puppy, waiting patiently for him to pay her the slightest bit of attention or to toss her the smallest morsel of kindness.
That's how I had gotten to know her. She would come down to the cabin at mealtimes and hang around while Joey finished showering and dressing so she could have the dubious honor of escorting him back up to the dining room. He had carelessly accepted her unstinting devotion, shrugging it off as though it was no more than his just due, all the while making jokes about it behind her back. His callousness toward the child had made my blood boil.
Now, nodding wordlessly, Jennifer Rothman threaded her way through the scattered tables and chairs, stumbling toward me while her cornflower eyes brimmed with tears. I half expected her to throw herself into my arms and fall sobbing against my chest. Instead, she checked herself a few feet away.
She stopped short and with well-bred reticence climbed up onto the far end of the couch where I was sitting, discreetly distancing herself from me. Someone had drilled impeccable manners into Jennifer Rothman. Daintily she crossed her legs at the ankle and then smoothed the skirt of her plaid pinafore before she looked up at me and spoke.
"Joey's dead," she observed quietly, glancing at me surreptitiously under tear-dampened eyelashes, curious to see how I would receive the shocking news.
"I know," I replied.
"Somebody already told you?"
I nodded.
"Daddy had to come get me from school," she continued. "He's talking with a detective right now. He says for me to wait here until Mother comes to get me."
"Your daddy's right," I said. "It's much better for you to wait out here."
I was grateful James Rothman had shown at least that much sensitivity. Seven-year-old children should never be subjected to the gruesome details of homicide investigations, particularly an investigation into the death of someone they love.
A long, uncomfortable silence followed.
The child, alone and hesitant, stood looking longingly after him, hoping he'd relent and let her accompany him. He didn't. Down the hall and well out of sight, a door slammed shut, giving voice to James Rothman's final answer. Dejected, Jennifer turned her back to the closed door and surveyed the long dining room with its empty tables and chairs.
Uncertain of my reception with her, I waved tentatively across the deserted tables. As soon as she saw me, her desolate elfin features brightened. In a day of sudden upheaval, I was someone vaguely familiar, someone she recognized. After all, I had been her brother's roommate.
Dubiously, she waved back.
"Would you like to come sit here with me?" I called.
Jennifer Rothman had come to Ironwood Ranch the previous week as part of her brother's family week experience. In my book, she was the proverbial sweet-tempered petunia trapped in an onion patch full of schmucks. She was a beautiful child—fair-skinned with straight long blonde hair and deep blue eyes. When Joey had initially introduced us, I fully expected her to be a brat. After all, chronic phoniness seemed to run in the family.
Her half-brother was an out-and-out jackass. Jennifer's parents, unrepentant yuppies, showed up at every group session dressed in matching sets of Fila sweats. Daddy was a loud, obnoxious blowhard—Joey came by his boorishness honestly—and Marsha, his stepmother, moved in a cloud of resentment that belied the skin-deep show of marital harmony suggested by their matching outfits. I figured Jennifer would make it four for four.
But she fooled me. Jennifer Rothman turned out to be well-behaved and cheerful to a fault. Wide-eyed and innocent, she faced the world with an unfailingly sunny disposition—a latter-day Pollyanna. Her only apparent defect was what I regarded as an incredibly misplaced case of hero worship which she lavished on her no-good half-brother. During family week she had spent every free moment dogging Joey's footsteps like some adoring but ignored puppy, waiting patiently for him to pay her the slightest bit of attention or to toss her the smallest morsel of kindness.
That's how I had gotten to know her. She would come down to the cabin at mealtimes and hang around while Joey finished showering and dressing so she could have the dubious honor of escorting him back up to the dining room. He had carelessly accepted her unstinting devotion, shrugging it off as though it was no more than his just due, all the while making jokes about it behind her back. His callousness toward the child had made my blood boil.
Now, nodding wordlessly, Jennifer Rothman threaded her way through the scattered tables and chairs, stumbling toward me while her cornflower eyes brimmed with tears. I half expected her to throw herself into my arms and fall sobbing against my chest. Instead, she checked herself a few feet away.
She stopped short and with well-bred reticence climbed up onto the far end of the couch where I was sitting, discreetly distancing herself from me. Someone had drilled impeccable manners into Jennifer Rothman. Daintily she crossed her legs at the ankle and then smoothed the skirt of her plaid pinafore before she looked up at me and spoke.
"Joey's dead," she observed quietly, glancing at me surreptitiously under tear-dampened eyelashes, curious to see how I would receive the shocking news.
"I know," I replied.
"Somebody already told you?"
I nodded.
"Daddy had to come get me from school," she continued. "He's talking with a detective right now. He says for me to wait here until Mother comes to get me."
"Your daddy's right," I said. "It's much better for you to wait out here."
I was grateful James Rothman had shown at least that much sensitivity. Seven-year-old children should never be subjected to the gruesome details of homicide investigations, particularly an investigation into the death of someone they love.
A long, uncomfortable silence followed.
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