Sleeper (Jenny)

Sleeper (Jenny)

Trina didn't know what she had seen, that day. The events of that day
merged seamlessly with the rest of her ordinary middle-class childhood -
barely remembered, and certainly not remembered in any detail. Just one
of series of ordinary days, part of an ordinary childhood in an ordinary
street, somewhere in an ordinary suburb of a middle-sized city.

She remembered dropping her apple.

The big old oak tree in the woods was a favourite place, but you had to
be careful to hold tightly to whatever you carried up there.

Earlier experiences had taught her to take a bag with her, swinging off
her shoulder on a leather strap, banging inconveniently as she climbed,
a nuisance, but a necessary nuisance if hunger was not to drive her out
of her eyrie long before she otherwise would have left.

But she was eating the apple this day, so it wasn't in the bag.

It was in her hand when she heard the voices, and peered through the
branches at the people below.

It was hard to see, and it took her a while to find the right vantage point.

The man had thinning hair, and he combed it over - she remembered
wondering why he did that. She had asked her mother, but the response
was sufficiently unsatisfying that memory had failed to record it.

The girl was wearing the uniform of the local high school, dark blue
skirt, white shirt. Her hair was dark blonde.

Trina watched through the branches, catching glimpses here and there,
hearing the voices without really understanding the conversation, but
understanding all too well the tone. The hushed voices, the giggles, the
pauses to scan the surroundings - all these subconscious clues of
deception grabbed her attention and held her riveted, even though she
couldn't make sense of what she was seeing.

Until she dropped her apple.

Helplessly, she watched it bounce - once, twice, three times - against
branches, praying it would divert its course far enough that she would
escape detection.

The noises from below stopped as the apple hit the ground with a sodden
thump.

There was a breathless pause, and the man said "what was that?"

"Nothin'," said the girl, without straightening up to look around.
"Hurry up an' finish, now, I've got to get 'ome."

The man's head turned, this way and that, the bald patch rotating
between the branches. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, it
started its back-and-forth motion, and the noises resumed.

Trina stayed perfectly still until they had finished, and walked off in
separate directions. She waited a long time more, just to be sure,
before climbing down.

It was fifteen years later when she realised what she had seen. The
morning paper, the headlines, pictures of the church minister and the
three women accusing him of molesting them when they were schoolgirls.

Funny, thought Trina, frozen in place, staring at the front page. You'd
think he'd have given up on the comb-over by now. There's almost nothing
left to comb ...