“I LIKE YOUR BOYFRIEND, MOM.“ WE WERE ON THE WAY TO
Karen’s for the playdate.
“He’s not my boyfriend.” I never should have let Nick meet Molly. I had no right to involve her.
“Mom. He’s a boy, isn’t he? And he’s your friend. So he’s your boyfriend. Right?”
“If you put it that way. I guess he is.”
We were quiet for a few steps. “Is Nick coming back tonight?”
“No. Not tonight, Mollybear. Why? Do you want him to?”
She shook her head as if I were missing the point. “Mom. He’s your boyfriend, not mine. The thing is, do you want him to?”
She looked so serious, so like a tiny therapist, that even in my somber mood I had to laugh. She laughed, too. How was this almost six-year-old so smart? And how, with all the fear and alarm raging in our neighborhood, with me having just ended the shortest relationship of my life, were we able to laugh out loud half the way to Karen and Nicholas’s? I didn’t know. But we were and it felt good. A reprieve. A release of tensions.
Then, with half a block to go, she said, “Is it true about that killer, Mommy?”
The giggling stopped, shattering like a fallen icicle.
“What killer?”
“The man killing all the babysitters.”
“No. It’s not true.” It wasn’t technically a lie; he wasn’t killing all of them.
She shrugged. “Everybody says it is.”
“Well, it’s not.” Okay, so I was lying. But I had reasons. Besides, truth was like Jell-O. “Will he kill Angela?” “Of course not.” “But what if he does?” “He won’t.”
She was quiet for a few steps. “Mommy. Just pretend. If he does kill Angela, who’ll stay with me while you work? Will Nick?”
Nick again. She liked him. I remembered the pressure of his chest against mine. Damn. I shouldn’t have let him come into the house, much less stay the night. “Nothing’s going to happen to Angela.”
“But I’ve seen him watching her.”
“Who? Nick?” I slowed. A cloud of breath hung in front of her mouth.
“No. The killer.”
“How have you seen him?” Was she having nightmares? Fantasies? What was she talking about? “Just . . . I’ve seen him.” No way. “Where?”
“Um.” She thought awhile. “All over.”
I stopped walking and stooped to meet her eyes. “Molly, are you having bad dreams?”
“Tsk. I know the difference, Mommy. I’m not a baby.”
She seemed certain. I stood and we started walking again. “Well, tell me about him. How do you know it’s him?”
“I just know.”
“Okay. What does he look like?”
She shrugged. “I dunno. Big. He has a baseball hat.”
Okay. The killer had been seen “all over,” he looked “big,” and he wore “a baseball hat.” That’s what I got for interviewing a kindergartner. Her imagination was running amok; she was scared and had reason to be. I hadn’t paid enough attention to what she’d heard and overheard. She must be terrified. It was time to reassure her.
“Listen, Molly. You’re safe. Nobody’s going to hurt you. I won’t let them. And Nick’s a policeman. He and the other police are going to catch the bad guy.”
She looked convinced—but small and cold, shivering inside her hooded pink down jacket. I hugged her, and we held hands as we continued our walk. It must be wonderful to be six and still believe that there was order in the world, that grown-ups loved you and could pick you up in their arms and keep you safe, that they really had control over what happened in life.
Karen and Nicholas greeted us at the door, and the children ran off to play. It wasn’t until later, when Molly and Nicholas were decorating holiday cookies, that I understood the effectiveness of my reassurances.
“You know Angela?” she asked Nicholas.
“Course.” He smeared blue icing on a Santa cookie.
“She might be killed.” Molly spread colored sprinkles over a pink snowman.
“How do you know?” He took the sprinkles from her.
Karen put down her spatula and touched my arm, eavesdropping along with me. She still hoped Tamara was alive. She didn’t know about the finger I’d found or the bag of limbs that had been discovered a few blocks away.
“I’ve seen him. He sneaks around and watches her.” Molly knocked over the bottle of cinnamon candies. “Oops—uh-oh.” They began stuffing the spilled pieces into their mouths, giggling.
Karen whispered, “What’s she saying?”
“It’s anxiety,” I whispered back. “She’s imagining stuff.” She had to be. There was no other explanation.
Karen nodded and went back to taking cookies from the tray. “I love these.” Nicholas’s mouth was stuffed with candy. “Me, too.”
Karen’s eyes began to relax. “I guess it’s her way of coping,” she whispered. But we continued to eavesdrop on the children. “Where’d you see him?” “By my house.” “For real?” “Uh-huh.”
“Then what’s he look like?” “Like—just—scary.” “You’re making it up—” “I am not—I’ve seen him—”
“Nicholas,” Karen interrupted. Her eyes were disapproving. Alarmed. “Here’s a batch of stars. You haven’t done any stars yet.”
The conversation was halted, the topic changed. The rest of the afternoon, nobody mentioned Angela or a scary man or any of the missing nannies. But when we said good-bye and left with arms loaded with cookie tins, I knew what would linger there, so I avoided Karen’s eyes.