"It takes a village to raise a child..."
African proverb

Taking the Village
Chapter 1 (continued)

“Ah, Mom. Why'd you turn it off?”

“Hush. It's my cell phone ringing.”

With the radio muted, Libby heard clearly now the tune emitting from her bag. She fumbled for it, trying not to take her eyes from the road while she steered with one hand.

“Hello?”

“Libby?”

“Karen?”

“Yeah, it's me. Listen, Mark just faxed over some papers, and there's -”

“Karen, can I call you back? I'm in the car. With the girls. I hate driving and talking at the same time.”

“I gotcha, but the thing is, I've got a court appearance in a half an hour and I'm pretty sure you don't want to let this go.”

Oh, dear God, what now?

Karen continued, “You know October last year? Atkinson Bellows? You told me Mark was there in Seattle trying to negotiate with them? Well, I've been looking through these records - and I'm going to try to confirm with someone at Atkinson Bellows - but it looks like Mark sent Matt Lorton.”

“Who?”

“Matt Lorton. Tech chief. Look, Libby. I don't think it matters who - the point is, Mark wasn't in Seattle in October last year.”

Libby thought back. October was six months before Mark had left. Three months before the company had gone belly up. Seattle.

She glimpsed the girls in the rearview mirror. Hannah was busy bouncing her soccer ball from knee to knee, but Beth watched her, trying, she was sure, to read in her mother's face what was wrong.

Libby looked back to the road in time to brake as a red sports car cut into her lane too tightly.

“Idiot. Not you, Karen. Okay, so Seattle,” Libby began, too aware that Beth heard her as well. “I really wish we could talk about this later.”

“We can, but not 'til much later. Like I said, I have court and then I'm headed out of town to catch up with Larry and the kids until after Labor Day. They're already at the beach house. We can pick it up when I get back, but I'm sure Mark knows what's in these papers. He's probably already trying to cover some tracks. If we let it go…”

It was crazy that Karen, with whom Mark and she had spent a few long weekends at that same beach house, could be talking about Mark covering tracks. It didn't sound like him. But then, lying about a crucial business trip when their company had been in crisis - that didn't sound like Mark either.

“Are you sure Mark…are you sure it was only Matt?” Beth was looking out the window now, but her face showed she was still listening to every word.

“Libby, if you want, I can fax the stuff over to you so you can have a look-see, but if you give me the go-ahead right now, I can call over to Dick Townsend before I go and have him start looking into it right away.”

Dear God, I never thought I'd be giving instructions to my attorney to sic a private investigator on my husband. But it wasn't the first time Karen had given the PI a task in the past six months.

“Yeah. Yeah, okay. Do it.”

Libby stuffed the phone back into her purse and, again, she caught Beth's eye in the rearview mirror.

Just exercise those muscles, Libby told herself and tried to smile at her daughter. She was sure her eyes told a different story just the same.

* * * *

Damonte calculated in his head. Six steps, seven? It was hardly necessary. They'd made a science of it back in The Village, almost an art. How many steps, the measured pace, the studied nonchalance to get you across the street just enough, just in time, so the hood of the car maybe brushed the seat of your pants going by. A little something, just enough so if you felt like letting loose that day, you could turn on the guy driving and scream a little through the glass and smack the windshield with your open palm, then walk away shaking your head. Glance up at the guys checking the scene from the stoop and let them know, that dude was crazy, did you see that?

It was almost automatic, knowing when to step off the curb, like knowing how to dance, or make it good for your girl.

Damonte stepped one boot closer to the shoulder.

Contractor's truck with ladders rattling along its roof…dark green something foreign…slick red sports car zipping from the left lane to the right, then back again.

Boy played too many video games. Going to get himself killed driving like that.

Old orange Duster, half done-up with primer…baby blue station wagon…

The door to the port-a-john slapped shut, the smack sharp and loud over the buzz of the machines. Damonte didn't look back, but cursed in his mind, and gripped the weed-trimmer more tightly.

Another step.

Evers'd stop to talk to the guard. He was a friendly guy, you could count on that, but then he'd look up at the hazy sky, breathe in real big, feeling good now that he'd cleared his system some. And then he'd be sure to notice Damonte down there, three steps from the asphalt, trimming where things didn't really need to be trimmed.

Panel truck with its refrigeration unit a bump on top, fan swirling at top speed…black two-door with a spoiler.

Don't look anymore. There's no time. It never really mattered anyway, it had been just a game. He didn't feel any hesitation, like he'd been afraid he would. It was the only choice, after all.

Eggplant-colored minivan…

Damonte dropped the weed-trimmer, still rumbling, and took three steps.

* * * *

“Oh hell, I hate this song. Mom, can you change it?”

“I like it. Don't change it.”

Libby barely heard.

Seattle. That was right. October. The girls had been winding down their first high school soccer season. They'd been on junior varsity then, but played every game, and Hannah had even been called up to sub for a couple varsity games.

Mark had gone to Seattle to talk with the team at Atkinson Bellows because by October, things hadn't been as fabulous as they had seemed a few months before. They'd been so hot for the company back in the summer, the offer numbers so high, Libby's head had been spinning.

Then the audits, something screwy with the audits.

“Mom. Hello?” Hannah called.

Libby didn't answer, just punched the pre-sets on the radio until something heavy with bass pounded through the speakers.

“Next exit, Mom.” This from Beth, ever-watchful Beth, who was watching her now, surely noting the distraction in her mother's eyes through the mirror.

She moved the van to the right lane. She had to stop mulling things over, at least with the girls here. Beth worried twice as hard about everything since she didn't have all the details. It wasn't good for her.

Libby took a deep breath. It was all going to be okay in the long run, the counselor had reminded her. People usually didn't die of divorce.

“Mom?”

I mean, look at Jenny Mitchell, she'd been divorced for three years now and she had gone back to work, had just been promoted, in fact. And Tara Daniczech, she'd already remarried…

“Mom, that guy -”

…she'd found a man…

“Mom!”

A man in the road.

Libby stood on the brake.

A form in blue, brown head with a swath of bright red. An array of bright white teeth, smiling.

Starting to skid. Hannah screaming, Beth saying her name again and again, then the lurch of impact, and flipping, flipping.

The van tumbled onto the shoulder and rocked back against the embankment.

White teeth. Smiling white teeth. And a glint of gold.

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