The sour cherry surprise

“Hiya, Trooper Mitry. Call me Kimberly, okay? When I hear Mrs. Beckwith I think of that bitter old broad sitting up there in her parlor chugalugging that god-awful sherry.” Jen’s mother spoke with the folksy nasal bray that was characteristic to working class Hartford. She was a small woman, five-feet-four, tops. Riding a tiny bit low in the caboose but still plenty curvy-particularly in the boobage department. Kimberly had the look of someone who’d been tons of cute, cuddly fun when she was younger. A real cupcake. But the years and the extra pounds were starting to show in her face. Her cheeks had plumped up. Her chin was disappearing into a soft puddle of jowls. And her blue eyes looked out at Des with weariness and disappointment. “You have no idea how humiliating it was to get a call from that old hag at four in the morning ordering me home because my daughter’s been throwing a drunken sex orgy. Patricia already thinks I’m a terrible mother. Not to mention the slutsky of the century. She’d be thrilled if I just went poof so she could raise Jen herself. Well, screw her. I’m not going anywhere.”

Des nodded politely. Nothing but happy families here on Sour Cherry Lane.

“That woman gives me nonstop grief,” Kimberly rattled on. “I was never, ever good enough for her precious Johnny. Just a conniving piece of Polish ass after his money. So what if I graduated from Bod College? So what if my dad worked the line at Stanley in New Britain for thirty-two years? I married Johnny because I loved him.” She let out a bitter laugh as she reached for another handful of clothespins. “Some gold digger, hunh? Here I am in the lap of luxury trying to save twenty bucks a month on my electric bill by hanging this crap out to dry. I’m a single mother doing the best I can to scrape by. I spend fifty, sixty hours a week in the therapy room at Dr. Gardiner’s listening to those goddamned old ladies bitch, bitch, bitch about their sciatica and lumbago. I get one chance to go away for a couple of nights and have a teensy bit of fun with a nice guy and that old hag treats me like I’m out on the street selling my…” She halted, glancing at Des uneasily. “Sorry, I talk a blue streak when I’m nervous.”

“I don’t mean to make you nervous.”

“It’s the uniform, honey. Every time I see one I feel like I’m sixteen again myself-by which I mean sprawled in the backseat of Pauly Mondello’s Trans Am with my panties down around one ankle and a half-smoked joint in the ashtray.” She squinted at Des, her nose wrinkling. “Just so we’re clear here, did you take Jen into custody last night? Cite her for a violation or anything?”

Des shook her head. “Nothing will go on her record.”

Kimberly let out a sigh of relief. “Good, because my Jen has a chance to go to some very, very good colleges. The sky’s the limit for her. I stopped off at The Works on my way home and she told me everything about their… what do they call it, Rainbow Party? Believe me, that’ll never happen again. Well, it will. But not in my house it won’t. No more parties. Listen, when will you have the results from her blood test?”

“Not for at least a couple of weeks.”

“That long?”

“I’m afraid so. This is real life, not CSI: Dorset.”

“Well, I guarantee you it’ll turn up clean. Jen doesn’t drink or smoke dope. If she did she’d tell me. We’re best friends, and she’s never lied to me. I asked her straight up just now if she needs to go on birth control. She said no. Even sounded offended that I asked. But I had to, right? Honestly, she has very nice friends. The girls are jocks just like her. And the boys aren’t druggies.”

“I didn’t find any drugs,” Des confirmed. “But there was alcohol. And I need for you to know that you’re legally responsible for what goes on in your home-even if you’re not around. If one of those kids, say, got loaded here last night and then smashed into somebody on Old Shore Road, guess whose fault that would have been? Understand what I’m saying?”

Kimberly nodded her head, gulping.

“Fortunately, nobody got hurt. And we all learned a lesson. Believe me, I’m on your side. Just trying to make sure that good kids like Jen and her friends stay in one piece. Because at that age there is such a fine line between good and idiot.”

“No need to remind me. God, when I think back to some of the stuff I put my own folks through…” Kimberly smiled at Des faintly. “With Jen I count my blessings every day. She is a good kid. And it’s just us two. Well, two and half if you count Diana Taurasi Junior out there,” she added, cocking an ear to the steady thud of the basketball in the driveway out front.

“So you see a lot of Molly?”

“Are you kidding? She must have dinner with us four, five nights a week. Sleeps over in Jen’s room a lot, too. Especially when it rains. Poor thing’s really bothered by storms for some reason. Not that Jen minds. Molly’s like a kid sister to her.”

“Are you tight with the Procters?”