Betty shrugs. ‘It’s my house, Diane. And anyway, Mother and Dad are at the club, Leola is almost certainly asleep in front of the television, and Bobby is on a Boy Scout camping trip. But let’s go to the guesthouse. It will probably make us all more comfortable.’
She swishes ahead of us, her brown curls bobbing. Betty Howell sounds more grown-up than any girl I know.
We follow her like baby ducklings around the long, rectangular pool, dodging the lawn chairs, and head for a small white structure at the back of the yard. It’s unlocked, because I suppose people in River Oaks are so wealthy that even the burglars are too impressed to steal from them.
Betty’s guesthouse is more nicely decorated than my real house, and I sink into a soft forest-green sectional in the living room next to Diane, suddenly shy about my faded jeans and thrift-store blouse and cardigan. Betty takes her place in a chair nearest me and crosses her legs at her ankles. She takes a breath.
‘Diane,’ she says, and something in Betty’s voice – up until now so calm and grown-up – shifts a bit. ‘It’s … nice to see you …’ She coughs and glances at the carpet. Her voice trails off, uncertain of where to go. I look at Diane, remembering what she told me about Betty’s parents not letting her come visit after she came back from Dallas. About Betty being the only one kind enough to at least make a phone call.
Betty and I were best friends.
‘It’s all right, Betty,’ Diane says, her voice firm but cut with sadness. ‘Although I suppose you could have said hello to me that night at Winkler’s instead of just staring at me.’
Betty flushes, appearing unsettled for the first time since we arrived.
‘Well,’ she says, ‘I did try to make Vickie and Sharon leave you alone. I’m … sorry they didn’t.’ Then she composes herself, regains her earlier smoothness and sophistication, and looks back up at Diane. And at last, it’s like she realizes I’m there, too.
‘I’m sorry,’ she says, ‘but I didn’t catch your name? I’m Betty Howell, but I’m sure Diane has told you that.’
‘I’m Evie Barnes,’ I say, doubtful this girl will help us with anything.
‘It’s nice to meet you, Evie,’ Betty says, but her eyes are back on Diane, like she’s studying a complicated math problem. I can tell she’s taking Diane in, maybe trying to visualize Diane’s belly as it was a few months ago. Maybe trying to remember what it was like when she and Diane were best friends. Before the world got turned upside down.
‘Evie, do you have a smoke?’ Diane asks, breaking the uncomfortable silence at last, and I slip out my pack from my shirt pocket, glad to have something to do with my nervous hands. Betty watches with surprise, then excuses herself briefly to find an ashtray.
‘I don’t remember you smoking, Diane,’ says Betty as Diane lights a Salem.
‘I’m guessing you don’t remember a lot of things, Betty,’ Diane answers, and I’m surprised at how sharp the words are coming from her mouth. Almost immediately she shakes her head, apologizes. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘It’s all right,’ Betty answers, dropping her gaze, her cheeks reddening. ‘I deserve it, I guess.’
There’s a shift in the mood. Betty’s polished sophistication is suddenly smudged. And I feel uncomfortable, like I shouldn’t be here. Not when there’s clearly so much history between Betty and Diane that it would take ages to sort it all out. I try to imagine the two of them before Diane was sent away. What sorts of things did they do for fun? Swipe stuff from Woolworth’s? Cut class? Paint each other’s eyes thick with dark makeup?
I doubt it.
But it’s obvious there is so much left unsaid. So many memories. I feel like a spy in plain sight.
‘Listen, Betty, I’m going to get right to the point of why we’re here,’ says Diane. She stares out through gauzy white window curtains at the Howells’ pool, ponders what she’s about to unveil. ‘What I’m about to say you may not believe. But it’s true, and Evie will tell you it’s true. And … we need your help.’ She connects with Betty’s gaze, and when she speaks again, her voice is deadly serious. ‘Betty, I’m begging you to help us.’
My heart thuds. So much depends on whether this rich girl decides to be nice to us. To me, a girl I’m sure she sees as trash.
Betty’s eyes widen, frightened and confused. ‘All right, Diane,’ she manages. ‘I’m listening.’
So Diane begins to carefully tell her story – our story – pausing a few times to take a drag of her cigarette or gauge Betty’s reaction, which is one of total shock. As Diane explains what happened at Winkler’s, what she did to Preston Fowler, how Johnny wasn’t to blame, Betty’s eyes track from Diane to me, her gaze silently questioning us.
Tell me this isn’t true.
I hope Betty realizes my steady gaze is my own echo of Diane’s words.
Please believe us, Betty.
When Diane finishes her story, including our plans to run away from Houston and hide until everything is sorted out, she removes the confession from her pocketbook, unfolds it carefully, and hands it to Betty, who takes it with a trembling hand. Her eyes scan Diane’s words. My own eyes skim over the words I added at the bottom of the letter only an hour or so ago, a reminder of what I’m willing to risk in order to do the only thing that seems right. Even now, with our future so uncertain, I don’t regret them.
Betty looks up, her mouth open.
‘If you could give that to your father,’ Diane says. ‘If you could get him to believe what Evie and I wrote, because it is the truth … maybe then they would let Johnny go.’
Something snaps in Betty. She shuts her mouth, tosses the letter on the small table in front of us.
‘Johnny,’ she says. ‘It was always about and for Johnny.’ She crosses her arms tight in front of her and scowls, like a little girl about to throw a fit. I sit up, anticipating a fight. My stomach drops. She isn’t going to help us.
‘Betty, you know I loved him,’ Diane protests, wounded. ‘You know I love him.’
Betty’s eyes narrow, and she turns her face toward her former best friend. ‘All that boy brought you is heartache. Can’t you see that, Diane? Oh, if only you hadn’t been so foolish …’
Diane gasps at Betty’s words, then stabs her cigarette out angrily in the small silver ashtray on the table, her auburn hair swaying with each stab. ‘Foolish!’ she shouts, her voice matching her expression in its intensity of disbelief. ‘Betty, how could you? How could you be so mean? You didn’t even come and see me when I … when I left.’
Suddenly Betty’s eyes are wet with tears, and her face is flushed bright red. When she speaks, her voice shakes, then breaks in pain. ‘But, Diane … you left me, too,’ she says. ‘You did! We were best friends, and then all you cared about was Johnny. It was like I didn’t exist! Mother and Dad had one of their awful fights, and where were you? With Johnny. Mother told me I was too pudgy and would never find the right sort of boy, and where were you? With Johnny! Even when the president was killed, when everyone was crying and scared and it felt like the world was ending, you were with him. It was like I didn’t even matter to you anymore.’