water, as an extra layer of protection. Her father-- gull-white hair over a rare-meat complexion-- had taken the early Friday train to be there to answer the door and eyeball this agent of the FBI.
Frawley glanced at his Olympus Pearlcorder on the bookshelf near the head of the rocker. The handheld tape recorder had been a gift from his mother on the day of his graduation from Quantico, and every Christmas since, along with the sweater or turtleneck or pants from L.L. Bean-- one year she mailed him bongo drums-- she included a four-pack of Panasonic MC-60 blank microcassettes, For your stocking!
It clicked over, the tiny spools reversing, thirty minutes gone by. Claire sat with her legs tucked beneath her, arms folded, hands lost inside the cuffs. Her eggshell sweatpants announced BOSTON COLLEGE in a maroon and gold banner down one leg, her loose, green sweatshirt whispering BayBanks over her breast. It looked like a sick-day outfit, though her hair was brushed and smelled faintly of vanilla, and her face was scrubbed.
"My mother doesn't want me to work at the bank anymore. She doesn't want me to leave the house anymore. Last night, after three or so vodka tonics, she informed me that she had always known something bad was going to happen to me. Oh, and my father? He wants me to get a gun permit. Says a cop friend told him pepper spray is useless, only good on scrambled eggs. It's like, I'm watching them take care of me. Like the thirty-year-old me has gone back in time but is still a child in their eyes. And the scary thing? Sometimes I like it. Sometimes, God help me, I want it." She shuddered. "By the way, they don't believe me either."
"Don't believe what? Who either?"
"About nothing happening to me out there. My mother treats me like the ghost of her daughter, back from the dead. And my father's all ' Brrrhrrrhrrr, business as usual, let's rent a movie...' "
Frawley's first impulse always was to counsel. He reminded himself that he wasn't there to help or to heal, he was there to learn. "Why do you think I don't believe you?"
"Everyone handling me like I'm porcelain. If people want me to be fragile, watch out, because I can be very fragile, no problemo." She threw up her handless cuffs in surrender. "So stupid, getting into that van. Right? Like a six-year-old on a pink bike, pulled into a van, and not even screaming or kicking. Such a victim ."
"I thought you had no choice."
"I could have struggled," she argued. "I could have let them, I don't know, shoot me instead."
"Or ended up like your assistant manager."
She shook her head, wanting to relax but emotionally unable.
Frawley said, "I went out to visit Mr. Bearns. He said you haven't been by yet."
She nodded at the floor. "I know. I need to go."
"What's holding you up?"
She shrugged hard inside the baglike sweatshirt, avoiding the answer. "We're trained to help robbers," she said. "You know that, right? To actually help the criminals, and not to resist. Even to repeat their commands back to them, so they know that we're following their orders to the letter ."
"To put the bandit at ease. To get him out of the bank more quickly, away from customers, away from yourself."
"Fine, okay, but-- helping the thief? Like, rolling over for him? You don't think that's a little whacked?"
"The vast majority of bank theft is drug addicts looking to score. Their desperation, their fear of being sick, makes them unpredictable."
"But everything is like, Do what the robber says . Like-- Don't give him dye packs if he tells you not to . Hello? So why do we have them? And-- Be courteous. What other business do they say that in? 'Thank you, bank robber, have a nice day.' "
Through the side window, Frawley watched two boys tossing around a tennis ball a few backyards away, making showtime catches on a late Friday afternoon. "Speaking
Frawley glanced at his Olympus Pearlcorder on the bookshelf near the head of the rocker. The handheld tape recorder had been a gift from his mother on the day of his graduation from Quantico, and every Christmas since, along with the sweater or turtleneck or pants from L.L. Bean-- one year she mailed him bongo drums-- she included a four-pack of Panasonic MC-60 blank microcassettes, For your stocking!
It clicked over, the tiny spools reversing, thirty minutes gone by. Claire sat with her legs tucked beneath her, arms folded, hands lost inside the cuffs. Her eggshell sweatpants announced BOSTON COLLEGE in a maroon and gold banner down one leg, her loose, green sweatshirt whispering BayBanks over her breast. It looked like a sick-day outfit, though her hair was brushed and smelled faintly of vanilla, and her face was scrubbed.
"My mother doesn't want me to work at the bank anymore. She doesn't want me to leave the house anymore. Last night, after three or so vodka tonics, she informed me that she had always known something bad was going to happen to me. Oh, and my father? He wants me to get a gun permit. Says a cop friend told him pepper spray is useless, only good on scrambled eggs. It's like, I'm watching them take care of me. Like the thirty-year-old me has gone back in time but is still a child in their eyes. And the scary thing? Sometimes I like it. Sometimes, God help me, I want it." She shuddered. "By the way, they don't believe me either."
"Don't believe what? Who either?"
"About nothing happening to me out there. My mother treats me like the ghost of her daughter, back from the dead. And my father's all ' Brrrhrrrhrrr, business as usual, let's rent a movie...' "
Frawley's first impulse always was to counsel. He reminded himself that he wasn't there to help or to heal, he was there to learn. "Why do you think I don't believe you?"
"Everyone handling me like I'm porcelain. If people want me to be fragile, watch out, because I can be very fragile, no problemo." She threw up her handless cuffs in surrender. "So stupid, getting into that van. Right? Like a six-year-old on a pink bike, pulled into a van, and not even screaming or kicking. Such a victim ."
"I thought you had no choice."
"I could have struggled," she argued. "I could have let them, I don't know, shoot me instead."
"Or ended up like your assistant manager."
She shook her head, wanting to relax but emotionally unable.
Frawley said, "I went out to visit Mr. Bearns. He said you haven't been by yet."
She nodded at the floor. "I know. I need to go."
"What's holding you up?"
She shrugged hard inside the baglike sweatshirt, avoiding the answer. "We're trained to help robbers," she said. "You know that, right? To actually help the criminals, and not to resist. Even to repeat their commands back to them, so they know that we're following their orders to the letter ."
"To put the bandit at ease. To get him out of the bank more quickly, away from customers, away from yourself."
"Fine, okay, but-- helping the thief? Like, rolling over for him? You don't think that's a little whacked?"
"The vast majority of bank theft is drug addicts looking to score. Their desperation, their fear of being sick, makes them unpredictable."
"But everything is like, Do what the robber says . Like-- Don't give him dye packs if he tells you not to . Hello? So why do we have them? And-- Be courteous. What other business do they say that in? 'Thank you, bank robber, have a nice day.' "
Through the side window, Frawley watched two boys tossing around a tennis ball a few backyards away, making showtime catches on a late Friday afternoon. "Speaking
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