Chapter 8: The Honest Hour

The caseworker listened to Mrs. Tandy for ten full minutes with her pen not moving.

It was eight o'clock Monday morning, in an office with a fern and a box of tissues nobody had touched.

Mrs. Tandy gave her whole account, including the lemon bars.

When she finished, the caseworker folded her hands.

"Thank you," she said. "That took courage."

"So you believe me," Mrs. Tandy said.

"I believe you were asked. I can't prove who asked, and a grandmother who worries is not a crime."

"She sent a policeman to a five-year-old's house," I said.

"Someone did. Nobody has told me it was her."

"I'm telling you."

"I know." She almost sounded sorry. "What I need is something that isn't one adult's word against another's."

"Like what?"

"Like what Birdie says, in her own words, without anyone leading her."

She looked at me, a long look.

"Including you, Mrs. Kimball. Especially you."

So I knew what I had to do, and it was the one thing I'd promised myself I would never do.

I had to ask my daughter what she wanted, and then keep my mouth shut.

At ten o'clock I sat in Inez's backyard on a plastic chair, with Birdie in the grass.

Inez stood behind the kitchen window, watching.

I could see her pearls through the glass.

"Hi, baby," I said.

"Hi, Mom. Did you bring a cookie?"

"No. Did you?"

Birdie reached into the pocket of her unicorn pajamas and gave me a crumbled butter cookie in a napkin.

"It's for you," she said. "For being honest. You haven't said anything honest yet."

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