Cutwork by Monica Ferris Page B

territory—unlike the German shepherd, which was bred to interact with people—and that its indifference to people made it a dangerous animal, much more savage in its attacks on an intruder, or what it considered an intruder. People who loved the aerodynamic lines of the Doberman nevertheless wouldn’t buy one because of its reputation for ferocity. So breeders responded with selective breeding that produced a warm and friendly personality with the same sleek silhouette.
    In Betsy’s mother’s day, human babies were thought to be very different from animals. They even had a term for it— tabula rasa, the blank slate—meaning a baby was a creature on which any personality might be written. It was during those dark times that a child who turned out autistic, homosexual, criminal, cowardly, a pedophile, or even just lazy was thought to be the product of bad mothering. Betsy’s mother hadn’t believed it. Her best friend, she said, had a lazy son who even in utero was so lumpish she had twice gone to the doctor, certain the child had died in her womb. Betsy’s mother had pointed to Betsy and her sister as examples of two very different girls who had been raised in very similar surroundings by the same two parents.
    But people were very adaptable, Betsy thought. Just look at the variation in culture around the world. Personality, she was sure, might be colored or channeled by environment; but the environment had a person’s innate character to deal with, which produced different results with different characters. A television program had pointed out recently that almost all serial killers were sociopaths, which is a personality defect that makes its victims unable to empathize. On the other hand, a person born with that defect normally didn’t turn into a serial killer unless he also survived a sickeningly cruel upbringing. Was sociopathy itself a genetic defect, inheritable? Because sociopaths made terrible parents.
    Mickey’s parents weren’t sociopaths. He had a mother who disliked, maybe feared, men and taught her two daughters to be the same way. He had a father who couldn’t manage to be there for his son. But Mickey had a personality that couldn’t compensate for that, and so he was the kind of child who began behaving inappropriately at age twelve.
    Betsy’s mouth twisted. What a word, “inappropriate”! Like a lot of euphemisms, it was imprecise; but this one was wildly so. Especially considering the long list of Mickey’s sins, as detailed by his parents. Yelling at his sisters was inappropriate. Smoking in the school lavatory was inappropriate. Getting tattooed was inappropriate. Shoplifting, stealing bicycles, punching a classmate’s front teeth out, running away from home—once as far as Kansas City—all inappropriate. That description made them seem all equally bad behaviors.
    But had Mickey escalated his bad behavior all the way to the top, to murder? Mickey was an angry boy, a troubled and troublesome boy. An unlikable boy. And the evidence seemed convincing—even his mother was sure he’d been in the park. But stir in the facts that the parents were also unlikable, his sisters aggravating snots—Betsy didn’t need this. Maybe she should just back off, say she didn’t have time for this investigation. She felt a rush of relief at the thought. She wasn’t a professional, assigned to cases. She could pick and choose.
    But there had been that little glimpse, hadn’t there? That brief look at a terrified child grabbing at hope when someone had offered to believe he was innocent.
    But that mere glimpse wasn’t evidence, or not evidence enough. Mickey had every reason to be afraid, and to hope desperately for someone to believe he wasn’t guilty. Betsy needed more than that.
    Well, Mickey had pointed out that the money found in his room wasn’t the same amount as the money stolen from the victim. His explanation of where it had come from was lame, but that might be because it was the