What We're Writing: HID FROM OUR EYES

JULIA SPENCER-FLEMING: Still working on HID FROM OUR EYES, which, I'm afraid is going to be my "What We're Writing" update for the next few months. Today is a scene set in 1972, where a young Russ Van Alstyne is being interviewed by the then-chief of police, Jack Liddle. I'm thinking the setting is a little vague; in rewrite, I'll probably add in a few physical details to nail it down to the time and place.

One of the things I like to do is sketch out relationships very lightly. If there's any part of my writing that's show-not-tell, its in the emotions of and the dynamic between  characters. Tell me what you see in the meeting between the chief and Russ's mother (and let me know if I'm tipping my hand too much!)

There was a quick rap, but before Jack could say anything, the door burst open. Harlene looked frazzled. It was only eight-thirty, and she had already chewed the lipstick off her bottom lip. “Chief, Mrs. Van Alstyne is here. She's demanding to see her son.” Her voice dropped, as if Russell couldn't hear her if she whispered. “One of the men at the impound garage is her cousin, and he called her. I didn't know what to do.” 

 

The boy stood. “Sit down, Russell. You're not going anywhere yet.” Jack stood up. “I'll talk with Mrs. Van Alstyne.”

She was waiting for him at the front desk. “Where is he? What has he done? Is he hurt?” Her dark hair was in loose, unruly curls and she was drowning in a fisherman's sweater that must have been her late husband's. Beneath her skirt, her feet were thrust into unlaced boots. 

 

“Come into my office, Margy.” He ushered her down the hall, not actually touching her back. “Russell's okay. I'm not sure what he's done, but I don't think he's hurt anybody.”

“You don't think--?” She turned back to him. She clutched at his arm, hard, then let go instantly.

Jack closed the door behind them. “A young woman's died. He found her body on the road when he was coming home from Saratoga.”

Margy stared. “You can't imagine Russell had anything to do with that.”

“Based on what he's told me so far, no. I don't. We'll have to check out the places he's said he'd been to to firm up his alibi.”

Margy looked up at him. “He was drinking.”

Jack nodded. “He was drinking.”

Margy had the clear, fair skin of the Cossayuharie farm girl she had been, the kind of complexion that showed her every emotion. He watched as her cheeks flushed with a dull red color. “God damn it!”

He blinked. Margy Campbell Van Alstyne never swore.

“I'm sorry.” She pressed her hands against her cheeks. “I just – I'm so afraid he'll fall into a bottle. His body's home, but his head is still back in Viet Nam. He has no idea what to do with his life now he's out of the Army. And he certainly doesn't want to listen to me. I'm a middle-aged mother who's lived in the North Country her whole life, and he's spent the last two years shooting people in Southeast Asia. We have nothing in common anymore.”

“Really.” Jack leaned against his desk. “Seems to me you know all about fighting a war you can't win.”

Her cupid's-bow mouth curved into a sad smile. “You'd think watching his father drink himself to death would have taught him something, wouldn't you?”

“Some things can't be taught. You just have to learn them through experience.” Jack pushed himself away from the desk. “I'm going to release him to your custody. He needs to stay here in Miller's Kill until we've cleared him.”

“You can't actually require him to stay unless he's been charged and is out on bail.” Now she sounded more like the tart apple he was used to.

“You left out 'peacenik' and 'jailhouse lawyer' from your self-description,” he said.

She smiled a genuine smile.

“That's why I'm telling you. I trust you more'n a bail bondsman, anyway.” He opened the door for her.

“This girl.” Margy paused. “Her death is an accident. Right?”

Jack gave himself a moment to stand close, his arm holding the door in a simulation of an embrace. “No,” he said. “I don't think it was an accident. I think someone killed her. And I'm worried – I'm afraid – that whoever he is, he won't stop with her.”

And for those of you who were following along two weeks ago with my all-graduation-all-the-time blogging, here's a snap from the Big Day!

L to R: Youngest, The Boy, The Smithie, her Girlfriend, me and Ross, overlooking the Smith College Quad.