Free Those Bones Are Not My Child by Toni Cade Bambara Page A

pressuring city hall.”
    His remarks seemed to tire him out, and Zala could think of nothing else to ask. But then he was the professional, he should have been questioning
her
, pressing her to think of some thing, some person, some place she’d overlooked. Maybe there was nothing to be alarmed about. He was a cop; he should know. If there was something to the murder stories, wouldn’t Maynard be on the news, mobilizing the city? Leave it to Paulette to come up with something scary. Zala glanced over at Paulette’s empty driveway. She wished she’d come back and lend some support. Paulette would know how to take charge of the situation.
    “You could use some yard lights around back, Mrs. Spencer. Just you and the kids here by yourselves?”
    She nodded. And when he shoved his hat back to run his arm across his forehead, she knew he wouldn’t leave it at that. He asked, “No man in the house?” just the way the Griers had, not butting in, but genuinely concerned. “Then who tells you what to do?”: Mr. Grier had sounded sincerely worried about her welfare.
    “A dog wouldn’t be bad,” Hall said, scuffing up dirt from her garden. “We’ve got a German shepherd, but a Doberman would be best. Keep a gun for protection?” He spoke quietly and seemed to know she wouldn’t answer, not that it was a big thing. Most people kept guns in their cars, one in their houses, and it wasn’t unusual to feel guns on a person out dancing.
    “People have to take precautions,” he went on. “A .33 or a .38, I think.” He turned and looked at her. “Maybe a .32—you’re small-framed.”
    He continued sizing her up. And Zala wondered if he’d now indicate what particular sort of man went with the preferred dog, the recommended gun, and her small frame. But he turned his attention back to the plot, tamping the top layer down as though testing how packed the dirt was. He shifted his weight onto his back leg suddenly, keeping his body well away from the tamping foot. He had her believing the earth would split open any minute and yank him down into its mudcaked maw.
    “Must be difficult raising three kids on your own. Particularly twoboys. And one’s a teenager too.” He puffed up his cheeks and blew out. “Adolescents can be rough.” He shone the light on the shovel.
    “He’s a good kid,” she said, feebly. “He’s just twelve, not a teenager yet. He doesn’t give me a rough time. Not at all.”
    “Problem is, you can’t monitor them every second. They can be running with a bad crowd and you wouldn’t know.” He pulled a tomato stake free from the pile stacked and ready to mark rows for the vegetables.
    “I screen his friends,” she said, watching him slide his thumb over one end of the stick, testing its point. “He belongs to a singing group. Nice bunch of boys,” she said, repeating what she’d already told them.
    “That’s good, because like I said, these narcotics dealers get young kids to do their dirty work. And drugs are big business. They’d kill a kid in a minute to keep the others in line.” He hefted the stick, measuring its weight. “I assume you have a curfew for the boy. Who punishes him when he violates his curfew?”
    “Well, I ground him.”
    “Uh-hunh.” He sounded doubtful about something. With the stick, he moved her tools around in the toolbox. “Is your husband strict with the children? Does he whip them?”
    “No, no.” She felt uneasy, him bent over studying each tool and her not knowing what was going on in his mind. The ball of twine tumbled out of the box. Even to her, it looked suspicious: too thick for the width of the stakes, just right for tying someone up.
    “Yeah,” he said tiredly, dragging the word out. “Don’t think these drug pushers don’t use their own children, either.”
    “Are you saying that’s what happened? To the missing children, I mean?”
    She felt a little easier when he made a shrug with his mouth. But at the same time he kept turning