Wild Horses

A novel, based on a true story

by Rebecca A.

 

Chapter Fifteen.

I woke up because of the knocking at the door. I wasn't sure what had woken me up, at first, until I heard it again about fifteen seconds later. I got up and went to the door, still groggy from sleeping during the day and the Valium that was probably still in my system.

It was Pris. Her eyes lit up when she saw me and she swept into the room and hugged me fiercely. "I came as soon as I got the call from Brett," she said. We separated after another minute of hugging, and she looked at me. "How's Steve?"

"I uh, met with his lawyer this morning. He says he's okay, considering. They won't let him have visitors right now..." It felt so good to see Pris, but my emotions came to the surface again, and I became aware that I had tears running down my face. Pris wiped my eyes, and took me over to sit on the bed, and held me again until I stopped crying. I was cross with myself for being such a crybaby, but I felt much better afterward.

Pris told me she had initially gone straight to the hospital, but they had told her I had been discharged, and so she had rung Elroy, hoping I might have called him, and he had told her where to find me. I wondered why Brett and the others hadn't thought to check back at the motel too. Maybe they were all still too freaked out by what had happened.

"First thing," Pris said as she surveyed the motel room disapprovingly, "We're gonna get the hell out of this dump."

I reminded her that I didn't have any money, but she dismissed my objections. "We'll take care of that later. Get your stuff, and let's check out, okay?"

We gathered up my bag, and Steve's duffel, and carried them outside. It was dusk, and the temperature had just begun to drop, and I felt momentarily disoriented, as though everything that had gone on before had been a dream. I noticed that Pris had borrowed Julia's little yellow MG. Pris smiled at me. "I wasn't sure if my car would make it. She doesn't know yet. She and Pete are down in Jackson. I don't think she'll mind, in the circumstances." We slung the bag in the trunk and Pris settled up the motel bill in the office, and then we drove further into Atlanta to find somewhere else to stay. "I know people here in Atlanta, Emma. Everything will be fine."

Being in Julia's car with the top down was pleasant in the evening air, although I had to get Pris to stop after a block so I could tie my hair back. I tucked the long ponytail down behind me so it wouldn't whip around in the wind as we drove. After about twenty minutes in the car Pris pulled off the freeway and we came to some beautiful, tree-lined streets with huge, expensive-looking houses and lavish gardens. Pris guided the little car past mansions and Mercedes. I had never seen so much money on display in my life. Every blade of grass was perfectly in place, every car polished, every house pristine. Pris swung the car into the cobbled semicircular driveway of an enormous white neo-Georgian mansion and shut off the engine.

I looked at Pris expectantly. What were we doing here?

"This," she announced with a smile, "is my Daddy's place."

I was taken aback. Pris never talked much about her father. I knew that her parents were separated, and I knew that her father had remarried, but Pris never gave any sign that her family had money, and the house in front of us suggested that its owners had a great deal of money indeed.

Pris seemed almost able to read my thoughts. "Momma was Daddy's first wife," she said as she opened the door of the car and stepped out. "Cindy is number two. I get along great with Daddy, but Cindy and I have never seen eye to eye, so I don't visit all that much."

I got out of the car too, and felt underdressed just standing on the driveway. The house was only two storeys high, but as we had driven up I had noticed that it went back a very long way. A formal porch stood out from the front of the building, shielding the elaborate double doors at the main entrance from the elements. Bronze gryphons guarded the side of the porch as we went up the steps to the door, and a strange statue of a bulldog clad in a red and white football shirt sat beside the front doors. It looked cheesy and out of place amongst the grandeur of the rest of the house.

Pris rang the doorbell and we waited. She must have sensed my nervousness because she reached for my hand and gave it a quick squeeze before the door opened. The man who held it was a giant, at least 6'4" tall and maybe 220lbs but still trim despite his age, which I guessed to be around fifty. His eyes settled on me first, but then quickly moved on to Pris, and his face broke out in a broad grin.

"Hi Daddy," Pris said, and he gathered her into his arms. They hugged for a few moments before he released her. "Daddy, this is my friend Emma. Emma, this is my father, Daniel Arsenault."

"Yes, yes," he said, still beaming. He had a deep, mellifluous voice which oozed charm without being in the slightest way sleazy, and a certain grace in his movements that suggested he might have been an athlete some years ago. Despite his age he remained a very good looking man. "Very pleased to meet you, Emma. Delighted."

He stood aside and ushered us into the entrance hall. The inside of the house was everything the outside suggested, and my feeling that I was in a foreign country was increased. I knew my mother had only ever imagined such luxury. Although I had no way of knowing whether the paintings on the wall were expensive or the antiques authentic, the decor seemed like it had been meticulously planned down to the tiniest detail, and I thought to myself as we walked through that it looked more like pictures of museums I had seen than a house people lived in, and utterly at contrast with Mr. Arsenault's warmth. He led us through the building, past room after room decorated in heavy period style until we came to a much less formal room near the rear of the house. It was enormous, extending right across the back of one wing of the house, and seemed bright, cheerful almost, after the heavy period furnishings at the font of the house. There were four enormous wicker chairs with deep, soft green cushions at one end of the room and a large home entertainment system and bar at the other. French doors opened from it to a terrace paved in some kind of stone. Through the doors I could glimpse a very large pool below.

Mr. Arsenault gestured to the chairs. "Why don't you girls have a seat and a drink and I'll see if I can rustle up Cindy."

I noticed a faint trace of disapproval cross Pris's face when he said that. She sat down awkwardly. Part of her awkwardness might have had to do with the chairs, which swallowed us up when we sat, but mostly I think it was the mention of Cindy's name. Her father evidently noticed her tension because he walked around behind her and put his hands on her shoulder. "It's so good to have you here, my dear. You have no idea how happy it makes me to see you." He looked over toward me. "And it's a rare honor to have you here too, Emma. We so seldom get to see Priscilla, and she hasn't brought a friend with her for... I can't remember how long it's been."

"Thanks, Daddy," Pris said. "Emma has been..." She paused, evidently thinking better of telling her father about Steve and me. "We were wondering if we could stay here for the night?"

"But of course!" He exclaimed. "I'll be offended if you don't stay at least three or four. We'll make up your room. And a guest room for Emma. You should have called to let us know earlier, or I'd have had it organized."

"I did call, Daddy. I spoke to Cindy."

"Ah..." There was an awkward pause, and then he shook his head as though he wanted to clear a thought from it that way. "Well, I'm sure she was meaning to tell me." He took his hands from Pris's shoulders and walked to the other end of the room. "What can I get you to drink?"

"Whiskey," Pris said, and turned to me. "Emma?"

I had bad memories of whiskey from the time in the car after Travis was shot, so I shook my head. "Something non-alcoholic if that's okay. Coke, maybe?"

"There ain't nothing else in Atlanta," Mr Arsenault smiled. He began pouring the drinks and made small talk with Pris about her progress at college. After a few minutes he set the drinks down on the coffee table and excused himself from the room.

"Your Dad seems pretty cool," I said to Pris.

"He is, isn't he," Pris said. "I'd like to see more of him, but..." Her voice trailed off.

I waved my hand to indicate our surroundings. "You didn't tell me he was rich, though. I thought Julia was the one with all the money."

Pris looked slightly uncomfortable. "Oh, I guess, you know, Daddy would give me pretty much anything I asked for, if I asked. But I mostly grew up with Momma, and she... Well, we never wanted for anything, Momma saw to that, but she didn't really approve of Daddy spending too much money on me... I think maybe she was afraid he was going to try to buy my affections or something stupid like that. Daddy and Momma had a pretty strained relationship for a long time, you know?"

I nodded. "So, you used to live here?"

"No, Daddy bought this place after he and Cindy got married four years ago. He used to live a few blocks away on Valley Road." She sipped at her drink. "I see Daddy about once every year, and he spends a lot of money on me, and that makes Momma angry, and... Anyway, I don't really need that much money, not the way Julia does. She's so into clothes and stuff. Daddy pays my share of the rent in our apartment, and anything else I ask for. He wanted to buy me a new car, but I don't like to upset Momma too much."

Pris went on to describe her parents marriage break up. I was surprised that she seemed so calm about it, because it sounded very much as though Mr. Arsenault had been at fault in having an affair with another woman, and after a few minutes listening to her story I said so.

"No. Not really, Emma. I think when people... when my Dad was looking for someone else, it was maybe because Momma was being... " She left the last part of the sentence unsaid and changed tack. "I love my Momma, but she's no angel either." She looked very sad, and I thought about hugging her, but getting up out of the enormous tub chairs would have been awkward. In any case we were interrupted by Mr. Arsenault and Cindy.

Where to begin to describe Cindy? I think I described Julia as beautiful, and Pris was no slouch in the looks department either. But Cindy was astonishing, every guy's wet dream. Lightly tanned skin, an avalanche of golden blonde hair, plump sensual lips and a body she made sure to show off in a sleek azure silk shirt and white linen pants. Her legs looked like they made up most of her body. As we were introduced I thought to myself that she couldn't have been more than 5 years older than Pris. Twenty-six, tops. Daniel Arsenault had his hand behind her back, almost as though he had needed to guide her toward us.

I noticed Cindy's eyes pass over Pris and then settle on me, and I could see in them a calculation of my worth, of my place in the order of her world. I was immediately sure I was found wanting in some way.

Mr. Arsenault introduced us and Cindy enquired politely about Pris's health and studies. Her voice was every bit as impressive as her looks, a soft contralto with a musical lilt that suggested many years at expensive schools in foreign lands. Although she hadn't said anything to indicate her sharpness of mind she *talked* as though she was speaking about important things, and although I knew Pris was uncomfortable with her I was impressed with Cindy's reserves of charm and grace. As Mr. Arsenault made her a drink she turned her attention to me. "Where are you from, Emma?"

"Chicago, ma'am," I said. Inside myself I was conducting a dialogue with my heart, trying to work out why this woman was having such an entrancing effect on me. I wasn't sexually aroused or anything like that, but it was quite a novel experience to meet such a flawless beauty, and I was spellbound by her. I wondered if it was because I was really a guy that she had that effect on me, but it couldn't have been that. I didn't really want to sleep with Cindy, I just wanted to be near her. I almost felt guilty about my feelings since Pris clearly didn't like her, but Cindy was a hard person to really dislike if you were looking directly at her.

"Chicago? Mmmm. I'm afraid I don't know all that many people from Chicago. Unless you know the Edson's?"

"No, ma'am. I don't think you'd be all that likely to know the people I grew up with." That was sure as heck true. I couldn't even begin to think about a woman like Cindy in the old neighborhood. She'd have started a riot. But then she probably couldn't even conceive of such a place herself.

"No, I suppose I wouldn't," She said quietly, but it didn't seem like it was a putdown. She turned to Mr. Arsenault. "Dan, I think it's a little late for Etta to make dinner for all four of us. Why don't we head out for something to eat?"

I looked across at Pris. Even though I had slept for several hours in the afternoon I was still exhausted, and I thought Pris must be tired from the long drive too. She caught my eye and took the hint. "Cindy, we're a little worn out. Why don't you and Daddy eat and I'll whip up something for Emma and me."

"I think Etta would sooner kill you than let you into her kitchen while she's cooking," Cindy said, and Mr. Arsenault smiled.

"No, really," Pris said. "We have had a very trying few days."

"Even I only get in there on her day off," Cindy smiled. "It will be safer for all of us if we eat out. Besides, I'm sure your father would like to celebrate your visit. But we don't need to go anywhere too fancy. Right, Dan?" Mr. Arsenault seemed happy to go along with whatever she suggested. "Perhaps both of you would like to freshen up first. Dan, can you make the reservations?"

Pris showed me to the room I would be sleeping in that night. It was upstairs at the rear of the house, above the living room we had just been in, and it looked as though no-one had ever stepped foot in it before. The room was huge, almost as big as the entire apartment I had grown up in, and had its own antique desk at one side. The bed was preposterously large, and I flopped down on it with a huge sigh, then wondered immediately if that was rude in a household like this. "Pris?"

"Yes? Pris was peering through the curtains to look down at the terrace and pool below.

"I uh... You will tell me, won't you, if I do anything that isn't... you know... correct manners and everything?"

She turned to look at me and smiled. "Oh, don't let Cindy get to you. Just because she went to some Swiss Finishing School doesn't mean her shit don't stink."

I smiled. "I know, but, well, you know..." I got up and walked over to her so I wasn't talking so loudly. "I haven't had a lot of experience with stuff. I don't want to offend your Dad."

"I don't think you could be offensive if you tried, Emma," Pris said. "Just be yourself." She opened the door to the private bathroom I could use.

"I get my own bathroom?" I asked. I still couldn't get used to the opulence of the house. The bathroom was lined in marble, with an enormous tub and separate shower. There was a big fluffy white robe hanging near the door.

"Why don't you have a shower and get changed for dinner," Pris said.

"What should I wear?" I thought, terrified. Heaven only knew where rich people ate "nothing fancy."

"Anything you want," Pris said. "Emma, just be yourself. Please?"

***

Ninety minutes later we were sitting in a small Italian restaurant. I was wearing my green dress, and feeling as though I was slightly overdressed. Everyone else looked more casual, although Cindy's blouse and skirt were obviously expensive. I had let Mr. Arsenault order for me, since I had no idea of what most of the dishes on the menu were. "You've never been to Italy, Emma?" Cindy said.

"I'm afraid I've never been out of the country," I said.

"Now Cindy," Mr Arsenault chided her gently. "Not everyone Emma's age has had the benefits of foreign study." Cindy seemed genuinely appalled that anyone could have had such a deprived childhood. That I hadn't seen Florence was bad enough, but not to have been to Europe at all! She seemed quite perplexed. I briefly considered explaining the culture of Cabrini Green to her -- it would easily have been the most foreign place she'd encountered -- but I held my tongue.

The meal was a kind of education itself. I had never tasted such wonderful flavors before. For an appetizer Mr. Arsenault had ordered me something called orichiette pesto, and I was struck dumb by the extraordinary taste of the sauce. Pris explained that it was made with an herb called basil. I had eaten enough just with the appetizer, but then the entree came, chicken cooked with thin strips of lemon rind and something that seemed a little bit like bacon. "Pancetta," Mr Arsenault told me. "Unsmoked pork. With sage. I hope you like it."

The food was sublime, but it was everything I could do to eat all of it. I was still unsettled, I guess, from the events of the previous day. Mr Arsenault insisted that I should try some wine with the food, and I had two glasses of white wine, enough to make me slightly light-headed. As we got to desert, which was a smooth creamy substance called zabaglione, Mr. Arsenault politely probed me about my interests, and then Cindy was full of questions about my schooling that initially panicked me, but fortunately Pris was more alert than I was and deflected their queries with only minimal assistance from me. Mr. Arsenault seemed to take an unconscious cue from Pris and turned the discussion into a series of amusing anecdotes about politics in Georgia. I gathered from his comments that he considered himself an outsider, set apart from many of the other prominent businessmen in Atlanta. "I was born in Canada, Emma," he explained. "Acadian stock, I'm afraid, which doesn't go well with some of the society people here. How's the song go? Acadian driftwood, gypsy tailwind --"

"-- They call my home, the land of snow," I finished. Rick had been a big fan of The Band's music, and we had heard their new album 'Northern Lights, Southern Cross' a lot while we were on the road.

Mr. Arsenault seemed surprised that I knew the song. "I thought everyone your age was into, you know, Punk Rock..."

"No safety pins where I grew up, I guess," I said. Mr. Arsenault smiled.

"Emma plays in a band, Daddy," Pris said.

"I used to," I said glumly.

"Really?" Cindy chimed in. "How interesting. What instrument do you play, Emma?"

"I sing," I said. "And I can play a little guitar. Our band seems to be kind of breaking apart, though."

"I'm sure we'd love to hear you sing sometime, Emma," Mr. Arsenault said.

"Well, you know," I said. "I kind of need the band behind me to perform." The line of conversation had started me thinking about the band, and Steve, and my mind was suddenly filled with all the turmoil of the past 24 hours again.

"Emma's very modest," Pris said.

"Cindy plays the piano," Mr. Arsenault said.

"I know quite a few musicians," Cindy mused. I could see Pris roll her eyes, but Cindy evidently missed it. Mr Arsenault signaled for the check. "My father has a little place in the Bahamas," Cindy continued, "and a few musicians have stayed there from time to time."

I think I was lost in my thoughts, and I didn't properly acknowledge her. Being ignored was probably a novel experience for Cindy, so she pressed on. "In fact I believe it was Keith Richards who stayed there last."

Keith Richards. The name hung there in my head a few moments. Cindy had met Keith Richards. What would Steve do to meet Keith Richards? What would Steve say to him? Would they play guitar together, swap hints on difficult riffs, discuss Lightnin' Hopkins and Robert Johnson? Or would they just shoot up together?

I managed to make polite noises and Cindy regaled us with tales of wild times at her father's house in Grand Cayman while Mr Arsenault paid with a credit card. Cindy was still talking when we got into the car, and Pris patted my arm sympathetically. I don't think she knew what was going through my head, but I was beginning to understand why she wasn't totally crazy about Cindy.

It was only 10.00pm by the time we returned to the house, but Pris and I pled tiredness and retreated upstairs to our respective rooms. I showered again before bed. No matter how often I washed it seemed like I still felt somehow oddly contaminated by the events of the previous night, covered in a thin film of fear and despair. At least the warmth of the water relaxed me.

I came back into the bedroom to find that someone, I suspected Pris, had laid out a cream-colored nightgown for me on the bed. I wasn't sure what kind of fabric it was made of, but it looked beautiful and felt softer than I'd ever imagined possible. I undid the robe and tried it on. It fell right to my feet, sweeping silkily over all the curves of my body. I was turning to look at myself in the mirror at the far side of the room when there was a knock on the door and Pris poked her head around it.

"Wow. I thought that would look good on you," she said, stepping into the room. "I didn't think it would look *that* good. Daddy bought it for me when I was thirteen, and I grew out of it in, gee, about a month I think."

"Your father bought you something *this* sexy?" I asked, plucking at the fabric where it flared out over my hips.

"I was pretty much a tomboy," Pris admitted. "I think it was a last ditch attempt to try to make me a more suitable daughter." She shrugged. "It looks great on you, anyway."

"Thanks," I said.

"Anyway," she said, "I just wanted to make sure you were okay, you know, before I went to bed."

"Thanks, Pris." I walked over to her and hugged her, and after a moment or two of that I remembered the time we had hugged and kissed back in Oxford. Pris sure felt good to hold. She led me over to the bed and peeled back the covers and I momentarily wondered what her intentions were, but then she guided me down into the bed and pulled the covers up and kissed me goodnight on the forehead. "Sweet dreams, Emma. Things will be okay. I'll make sure, alright?"

I thought back to Carlos Gonzales, who had made me the same promise, thousands of miles away and over a year ago. He had kept his promise. I didn't know how Pris could make everything okay, but I appreciated the words and I smiled as she turned out the light and closed the door. I was asleep within moments.

***

I woke late, around 9.00am, and lay in bed awhile going over things in my head. Eventually, after about forty minutes, I got sick of that and raised myself to go to the bathroom. After a gorgeously long shower I dried my hair and put on jeans and a white blouse and went downstairs. No-one else seemed to be around, and I stood at the window at the base of the stairs for a while, looking into the back garden at the birds hopping over the lawn. After about ten minutes I heard a door close somewhere, and then a few minutes later the sounds of someone busying themselves in the kitchen. I padded over to the kitchen door and peered in.

The kitchen matched the rest of the house, oversized and lavishly fitted. The stove looked like it could have cooked for a small town, with three ovens and ten burners. There was a pantry cupboard open at one side of the long bench beside the oven, and windows above the sink that looked out onto the yard at the east side of the house, where sun was streaming in.

"Mornin'," a voice called out. I couldn't see where it came from for a moment until a small colored woman straightened up from beneath the island bench near the stove. She was a plump but attractive looking woman with a charming smile. I'd estimated she was about fifty. "You'd be Miz Amma, I'd be guessin'," she said.

"Good morning. Emma. Yes. You must be Etta."

"That ah am, Amma. Come in, child, you ain't gonna get any coffee standin' out there in the hallway." Etta pulled a cup from a hook on the wall at the end of the bench and poured coffee from a half-filled glass pot under the coffee maker. Coffee splashed from the spout of the machine onto the hotplate below and she wiped it quickly with a cloth.

I walked in and sat at one of the stools beside the island bench, and Etta handed me the coffee. "Cream is in the refrigerator. You's old enough to fetch that for y'self," she said.

"Thanks." I sipped on the coffee as Emma pulled things from the refrigerator and the pantry. The coffee was strong, but pleasantly sweet even without sugar. I learned later that Mr. Arsenault was something of a connoisseur, and very particular about the beans Etta used. The kitchen was spotlessly clean, and seemed well organized, but she bustled around the kitchen in a manner that suggested she used much more energy for every task than was necessary, and after five minutes or so I reflected that she was making me tired just watching her. "Can I help with anything?" I asked.

"Lord no!" Etta replied. "Mr. Dan be sure ahm not doin' ma job if he sees you helpin'." I remembered Cindy's comment the previous night about Etta not letting anyone else cook in 'her' kitchen and reflected that she was probably being disingenuous about Mr. Arsenault's putative disfavor, but I let the thought go without saying anything. My question must have indicated to Etta that I was interested in conversation, however, because she seized upon our discussion as an excuse to ask me a series of questions about myself. They were mostly similar to the ones Cindy had fired at me the night before, but I was more alert that morning and managed to answer most of them without distorting the truth too much. While she was interrogating me she began cooking, and the smell of bacon began to blend with the odor of coffee in the room. I realized I was hungry in a way I hadn't been for days, even though I had eaten more the night before than I had ever eaten at one sitting in my life. When she set the ham and eggs in front of me I almost leapt at them.

"How long you and Miz Prizla plannin' to stay?" She asked after a few moments watching me, in a way that almost suggested I had passed some test of admission.

"I don't know," I admitted.

"You's the first friend Miz Prizla's we's had stay," I nodded. "Mus' be a good friend," she continued.

I didn't understand, and I shrugged. "I guess so. I like Pris. She's a lot of fun."

"Sure is nice to see her again, anyways."

We heard the sound of the back door closing and Mr Arsenault appeared in the doorway to the kitchen a few moments later, dressed for jogging and sweating profusely. "Morning Emma, Etta."

"Morning Mr. Dan," Etta said cheerfully. My mouth was full of bacon and eggs so I waved a hello, and he smiled.

"Sleep well?" I nodded, and tried to chew my food faster, and he laughed. "Don't hurry. I'm going to shower and come back down for breakfast later."

While Mr. Arsenault was showering I decided to plug Etta for information on herself. She'd been with Mr Arsenault since his first marriage, almost since Pris was born. "Bin with him through two marriages and four houses," she smiled. She had no children of her own, and had never been married. When our conversation turned to Cindy she was very discreet but I got the feeling that their relationship wasn't perfect.

Eventually Mr. Arsenault came back downstairs and sat on the stool beside me. "I see you're an early morning person," he smiled.

"Not as early as you, apparently. I'm impressed. Do you run every morning?"

"You inspired me to start again."

"I did?"

"Last night, when we were talking about music. I remembered the last time I listened to that song, and that started me to thinking about the way things were a few years ago. I was fitter then, for one thing."

"Uh huh. You look like you're in pretty good shape now," I said. He did, too, but maybe that wasn't the right thing to say. He looked away for a moment as though he was embarrassed. Etta broke the moment by putting some breakfast down in front of him, and refilling my coffee.

"I want to thank you." Mr Arsenault said after a few moments.

"What for?" I asked.

"For bringing Priscilla home."

"Ah, she brought me, Mr. Arsenault."

"Nonsense. She doesn't come here if she can avoid it." He fell silent for a moment, and I drank some coffee. I didn't think there was anything I could say about that, since to judge by Pris's statements to me it was true.

"Well, I want to thank you anyway, Emma. You're very welcome in this house at any time. If there's anything you need, just say the word."

"Thank you, Mr Arsenault."

"Please call me Dan. You're making me feel old." He sipped his coffee. "Have you ever been to Atlanta before, Emma?"

"No, no. I haven't traveled very much at all," I admitted.

"Don't let Cindy make you feel bad about that," he smiled. "You will. Would you like to take a drive today to see a few of the sights?"

"That would be lovely," I said. "But first, uh... I need to make a phone call to someone, and depending on ..." How could I explain to Mr. Arsenault about what had happened to Steve, and that what I most needed was to find a way to see him?

But Mr. Arsenault didn't pry. "Yes, yes, of course," he said. "You can use the phone in my study if you'd like some privacy." I must have looked blank, because he motioned in the direction of the hallway. "Just inside the front door."

I nodded, and slipped off my chair and padded up the hallway. Mr Arsenault's study was over decorated, like everything else in the house. It was dominated by a huge antique desk, with a large green leather chair behind it. I eased myself into the chair carefully and extracted the piece of paper with David Breslin's number on it from the pocket of my jeans.

Our call was uneventful. David couldn't tell me anything new beside the fact that he'd spoken to Steve, who was doing okay and asking after me, and to Brett and Bo, who were back in Abbeville and Tupelo respectively. I asked him when I would be allowed to see Steve, and he said he didn't know yet, but that he would call me as soon as he did because Steve was very anxious to see me. I told him that I was staying at the Arsenault's, and gave him the number. I hoped Mr Arsenault didn't mind.

When I went back to the kitchen Pris was eating breakfast and having an animated conversation with her father about the forthcoming Presidential elections. I didn't know much about Politics myself so I sat and watched and listened. I could see they both enjoyed sparring with one another in a friendly way. After a few minutes they reached a laughing kind of truce after Pris made a joke about President Carter. Mr Arsenault told Pris he had offered to take me sightseeing, and so the two of them spent another few minutes discussing the high points of Atlanta to show me.

We spent the rest of the day sightseeing, with a stop at a small cafe in Buckhead for lunch. In the afternoon after we had visited most of the main attractions Mr Arsenault drove further out of town to the North-east until we came to an airport, then drove right up to a hangar and ushered us out of the car and inside to a small twin-engined airplane.

"I thought a small aerial tour might be a nice way to round off the day," he said with a smile.

There was a small step on the wing, which was slightly too high for me to get to, so Mr. Arsenault had to help me up. I clambered on board, followed by Pris and Cindy, and Mr Arsenault walked around the plane a few times and then climbed in and sat in the pilot's seat. After a few minutes of testing and checking things we taxied along to the runway, and a few minutes later were aloft and heading back toward downtown Atlanta.

I had never been in an airplane before. At first I was going to play it cool and try to act nonchalant, but it was too exciting, and when, after a few minutes, Pris looked at me and said "Emma, you are grinning fit to bust!" I confessed that I had always wanted to fly but this was my first time. Everyone made a huge fuss about it and I could see that Mr Arsenault felt pleased he had been the first person to introduce me to flying.

We turned and headed back Northeast and out over Stone Mountain, and Mr Arsenault climbed higher to avoid some cloud. We scythed through the white tufts and into the blue, clear air, and my heart lifted with the airplane, soaring, whirling.

That evening we had dinner in the house, and I was treated to some of Etta's specialties, which were truly delicious. Mr. Arsenault opened a bottle of red wine from his cellar, and we toasted to my first time in the air. He and Pris joked together about her childhood and some of his passing flirtations with Est and other self-improvement fads. It was easy to see that Pris was enjoying seeing him again, and he was beaming. Even Cindy seemed more relaxed. At one point during dinner the discussion turned to new advances in treating diseases, and then healthy eating and I think I startled all of them with my knowledge of anatomy and medicine, most of it gained from my reading at Brand. "Why Emma, you're a regular expert,' Cindy said.

As I went to bed that night I almost felt guilty about having had such a lovely day while Steve was locked in a cell somewhere, but the day had been so pleasant, and my mind was slightly addled from the wine, and instead I fell asleep and slept undisturbed through the night.

At 9.00am the next morning a call came from Julia. She sounded almost hysterical on the phone. She had stayed at Pete's the previous night after they got back from Jackson, and come home early that morning to find Pris's note. It took a while for me to calm her down, and I slowly told her what happened. Pris came to another extension and joined in, and together we talked to Julia gently until everything that could be said was out. Julia announced she would fly to Atlanta immediately, but I asked her to wait until I had had a chance to see Steve, in case there was anything from Oxford that he would need. I promised to call her as soon as I heard more.

After Pris and I hung up we talked briefly in her bedroom. Pris had said that she would need to return to college soon for the start of her senior year, and it had occurred to me while we were talking with Julia that Steve's trial could take some time. "I can't go back to Oxford, Pris. I'm going to have to get a job here and look for a place of my own." Pris nodded, but didn't say anything. "I wonder if I can get a job."

"That's silly, Emma. Why wouldn't you be able to get a job if you want one?"

Oops. I had been thinking about my ID, and whether it was good enough for me to prove my age to an employer. Then there was the social security number problem. I'd forgotten that Pris wouldn't know why I mightn't have a social security number.

"Ah, I don't know. I guess, you know, I've just never worked much before, except at Elroy's..."

She didn't seem to think anything of it, and I excused myself and went into my own room to think. Maybe I should say mope. I was feeling sorry for myself, but then I started thinking about Steve, and I realized that my own troubles paled beside his. I was still lying on the bed an hour later, when someone knocked at the door. "Come in," I called out.

It was Pris. She stuck her head in the doorway as though she was looking to see whether it was safe, and then came in clutching an old guitar. "Thought Steve might like this," she said. "It's kind of old, and it might need some new strings, but..."

I sat up and took the guitar from her eagerly. It was a battered old Ibanez, but I couldn't see anything wrong with it just from looking. I strummed it and realized it would need tuning. I looked up at Pris, who was still standing next to the bed.

"It's Daddy's," she said. "He doesn't play it any more, and I thought maybe..."

"Thanks, Pris." I stood up and gave her a hug.

She really was a great friend. As we stood there together with my head pressed against her breasts I started to tear up just thinking about how lucky I was to have such a good friend. When we separated she noticed my watery eyes. "What's wrong, Emma?" I told her how I felt and she smiled and sat me back down on the bed. "Don't you go getting too sentimental on me. You're such a sweetie, honey. So..." she indicated the guitar with her eyes. "Is it alright?"

"It needs a tune, and yes, some new strings, but thank you. I'll take it in to Steve first chance I get if that's okay."

"Of course it is."

I began to try to tune the guitar. If Steve had been with us it would have been easy -- he could tell if a string was even a little off just by plucking it on its own. Elroy said he had 'perfect pitch'. Me, I had to do it the hard way, and even then I wasn't completely sure I'd done it right. But eventually I got it to sound halfway decent, and then Pris pressured me to sing something. So I started out on a song I knew she liked which was easy to strum, the old Byrds arrangement of 'Turn, Turn, Turn." It didn't sound as good as it had when Steve had played it once on the Gibson, and I messed up a few of the changes anyway, but the singing actually helped me relax, and Pris began to sing along too. She had a nice voice, deeper than mine and slightly raspy, and it made for some interesting harmonies. I played another three songs and we both sang along to them before I broke two strings in an enthusiastic rendition of 'American Girl', the song Steve and I had first sung to the band.

Pris and I went shopping for some new strings, and stopped off in a record store to browse as well. We wasted most of the afternoon strolling around the stores window shopping, the way we had back in Oxford, and returned home just before dinner. We put in a call to Julia. She still seemed incredibly agitated, but we tried hard to convince her that it was best for her to stay in Oxford until we knew more.

Over dinner Cindy dropped more names and Pris rolled her eyes and even Mr Arsenault looked embarrassed once or twice, but I nodded politely and Cindy seemed to relax by the time dessert arrived. After dinner Pris and I sang a few more songs up in my room, and hit our respective beds early after a reassuring bedtime hug.

Tuesday morning came and there was still no word from David Breslin about when I could get to see Steve. He had promised to call as soon as he heard about visiting privileges, and I thought that he had called and perhaps not left a message, so I called him. His office said he was out and wouldn't be back until the afternoon, so I amused myself by practicing guitar again while Pris tried to catch up on some study. I hoped the noise didn't bother her. Later I went down to the kitchen and hung out with Etta, who grudgingly agreed to let me help prepare the evening meal. Although she put up a fearsome display of being territorial about her kitchen, she was a real softie at heart and I learned a lot from her about cooking. At least the activity helped me take my mind off things and relieve the tension I could feel in my body. Again the afternoon slipped by without any news from the lawyer.

Once again the evening meal was a lot of fun, even though I still didn't feel completely relaxed or entirely healthy. Everyone else seemed in good form, though. I understood that Pris didn't always feel all that comfortable with Cindy, but some days Cindy was more relaxed and less -- well, up herself -- and everything in the household flowed smoothly. Although the Arsenault household was hardly a typical one I found myself wondering whether most families got to enjoy each other's company the way they did. My experiences with my own father had never prepared me for the kind of warmth that Dan was able to generate with people, and he and Pris radiated such affection for one another that it was lovely to bask in the reflected glow from both of them. They kidded one another, and Cindy, and me, and I kidded Pris back a few times. After dinner we all sat together for another hour or two, talking about all manner of subjects from cooking to philosophy. I enjoyed the evening so much, especially listening to Dan and his wealth of knowledge on so many subjects, and by the time I went to bed my head was spinning pleasantly from the buzz of a little wine and a lot of wonderful ideas.

The following morning I made yet another call to David Breslin. The receptionist in his office kept me on hold for a very long time, and for some reason that made me worried that something about Steve's case might have gone wrong, but when Breslin answered he seemed unfussed, and apologized for keeping me waiting so long. He told me I would be allowed to see Steve at the prison the next day, after he had been arraigned for trial in the morning. He was going to plead not guilty.

Pris offered to drive me over to the prison, and I accepted gratefully.

The outside of the prison looked much as I'd expected; bland institutional architecture, maybe ten years old at most. Pris looked it over with apprehension. For a moment I almost wondered why, until I realized that most people hadn't had my experience of Brand and thought of these places as the pit of hell. Which is what they are, but I knew what to expect because of my experience, and Pris had only ever seen these places on TV. She opted to wait in the car while I went in. "Is that okay, Emma? I thought maybe you and Steve would like some time together, alone."

I kissed her and got out of the car. She was such a good person.

I stood outside the pit of hell. I'm inclined to think that if there is a hell, it's like prison. Bland, featureless, gray, creepy. I think flames and all that would be too dynamic, too interesting, to be truly hellish. Walking into the prison was bad enough. The doors, walls, the florescent lighting all brought back vivid memories of Brand, and when I followed the string of other women into the visitor's room I noticed that even the chairs seemed the same. There was a long window across one end of the room which separated us from where the prisoners would be, and the chairs were spaced along it about five feet apart. There were twenty or more other women and a handful of men all waiting with me, and a tall guard reading from a clipboard began to call out each visitor's name and a number that corresponded to numbers on the backs of the chairs at the window. I had given my name and Steve's name to a guard when I first entered the prison, and as I stood looking at this window he read my name. I was still mildly freaked out from the atmosphere of the prison, and was off in my thoughts about Brand, and Steve, so at first I didn't hear the guard call me, but a few moments later I realized that all the other women were seated at the window and the guards were all looking at me strangely. "You're here for Hammond, right?" the tall guard said, and I nodded. "Four," he said, indicating an empty chair. I scurried across to it and sat down. The glass in front of me was thick -- I could see at the joints that it was at actually a couple of sheets of glass joined together. Beside me was a telephone handset, and I could see on the other side of the glass there was a corresponding handset for the prisoners.

A few moments later they let the prisoners into the area on the far side of the glass. Steve's eyes lit up as soon as he saw me, but the guard at the door on his side wouldn't let him sit immediately. He didn't look too bad, really. There was a large bruise on the left side of his face above the cheekbone, and his hair looked like it needed a wash, but his eyes looked clearer than the last time I saw him, and his gaze was unwavering. Our eyes stayed locked as the guard let several other prisoners past him to seats further along the row, and then Steve walked over to the chair and sat opposite me and lifted the phone receiver to his head.

"Hi Em." His voice through the headset sounded clipped and mechanical. I wondered whether the receivers were tapped.

"Steve..." I had prepared myself for this moment and had promised myself I wouldn't cry, but I could feel myself choking up. Our eyes were still locked together, and as I looked into them I got myself back together. He didn't seem afraid. There was even a small sparkle in his eye.

"I screwed up, huh," he said quietly.

"Yeah. Yeah, I guess."

"What happened?"

He lifted his free arm in a shrug. "I dunno, Em. I was kind of out of it, you know?" I nodded, and he went on. "I'm really, you know, sorry."

"It's okay."

"Well, no it's not, y'know. I screwed up."

I nodded at his bruise. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, pretty much."

"The cops?"

"Yeah. This is from the fight with the guy who got shot. I got hit a few times when the other guys first arrested me, and beat up pretty bad Friday night in the cell, but they're kind of careful how they do it, y'know, so's they don't leave too many marks." He indicated the bruise on his cheek. "This one's an embarrassment to them. Since I've been in here it's been okay."

"How was the arraignment?"

Steve described the procedure, and told me the trial was still twelve weeks away. "My lawyer says that's good, because it will give him time to build a good case." He didn't sound especially convincing.

"They know about Brand."

"Yeah, they know all about me," he said. Then he mouthed *but not about you*. I nodded.

"I was worried for you," I said quietly.

"Yeah, well I was worried for *you*."

We stayed silent for a few moments, just looking at one another. I wanted so badly to be able to *feel* him, to be able to hold him and feel his arms around me. I put my hand up to the glass, and he matched it with his hand on the other side, spreading his fingers so that they traced along mine, although of course his hand was much bigger than mine. Despite my promises to myself I started to cry.

"Hey, hey, Em..."

"Steve. Steve..." I tried to bring myself under control, but once I'd started crying it didn't seem like I could stop. "You know I don't think I can be without you..."

"Em, now you just stop that."

"What?"

"That kind of talk. I won't have it. You have to be strong for me, okay?" I couldn't feel it, but I could see the pressure his hand was exerting on the glass, where it overlapped mine. His eyes were clear and his voice was low and firm. "I can't live in here unless you're strong for me. If I think you're giving up on me, outside, I'm not going to be able to keep it together inside."

He made me promise him I would take care of myself, and do what I could to help David Breslin. Then he waited until I stopped crying until he said anything more. It was blackmail, but it worked on me, and I managed to bring myself under control. I told him what Breslin had said to me, and what I'd told Breslin. "I didn't know if I should tell him about my childhood," I said.

Steve thought a moment. "You don't have anything to hide, Emma," he said, in a way that made me think he was saying it more for the benefit of anyone else listening than for me. But it told me what I needed to know. Breslin didn't know about me, and as far as Steve was concerned he didn't need to.

Steve seemed very pleased to learn that I was staying with Pris's family. "She's a nice girl, Em. I know Julia thinks the world of her."

"I think the world of her, too," I said. I described the house, and Pris's dad and Cindy, and Steve seemed to get a kick out of hearing about all that. I tried to change the subject back to him, and to what things were like for him inside, but he didn't want to discuss that at all and kept deflecting things back to what was happening outside.

"You hear from Brett?"

"No." I admitted. "Not a word."

I could see that this hurt him. I told him about seeing them in the hospital, and then going back to the motel to find them gone, and this seemed to make him angry. "I can't believe they just left you on your own," he said.

"At least Brett called Pris," I said.

"Yeah, at *least*," Steve said sneeringly. "Man, I can't believe it."

I noticed the guard at the door check his watch and then begin to move toward Steve, and realized our time together was coming to an end. "Is there anything you need?" I asked Steve.

"I haven't got this place worked out very well yet, Em. Maybe wait a few days until I work out what I'll be able to take care of."

His remark hung in my head later after the guard tapped him on the shoulder and ushered him away. I remembered what my first few days at Brand had been like, how difficult it had been to know what was safe and what was taboo. Steve was much smarter than me at figuring out the politics of the yard, but I knew that there would be some kind of test of him in the next day or so, if it hadn't happened already. At Brand Steve had been an old hand, but here in Atlanta he was young, and ill-prepared. I shuddered as I stood up and walked toward the door of the visitor's room.

David Breslin had told me that I'd only be allowed to visit three times a week at most, on Mondays, Thursdays and Saturdays, and that even then I might have trouble getting access depending on what was going on in the prison. There was some kind of dispute between management and the guards that meant that visits were restricted for the time being. When he first mentioned it to me I felt like it was yet another strike against Steve, but as I walked out of the prison I felt strangely relieved that I wouldn't be back for a few days. Don't get me wrong, I loved Steve and I desperately wanted to see him, but going inside the jail was hard.

Outside at the car I gave Pris a brief rundown of Steve's situation. I could see she understood that it had been a difficult session for me, and she didn't ask too many questions as we drove back to her father's house in Julia's MG. As we stopped at some traffic lights Pris leaned across and fished for some tissues from the glove compartment. "Here," she said. "You look like a raccoon." When I looked at her uncomprehendingly she made a motion with her fingers around one of her eyes. "Your mascara," she said. I suddenly realized what the problem was and dabbed away the sooty black mess from my eyes.

Once we were back at the house I excused myself and went to my room. I stripped off as soon as I was inside, and headed for the shower to wash off the lingering smell of the prison that seemed to have stuck to my skin. I felt a little better afterward, and went downstairs to find Pris in the kitchen with Etta, talking about old times. I didn't say much, just sat on a stool and listened to the two of them laugh and joke.

The phone rang, and Etta answered and passed it over the kitchen counter to me. I was surprised, because I wasn't expecting any calls. It was David Breslin, calling to ask me to meet with him again later in the week so we could go over testimony.

As I hung up Pris turned to me. "Emma, I think we should tell Daddy about Steve. Maybe there's something he can help with."

"I suppose I'll have to explain eventually, Pris, but..."

We continued to discuss the problem, and it wasn't until several minutes had gone by that I realized that Etta was hanging on every word we spoke. "Uh, Etta, sorry... We're just ah, talking about my boyfriend. He's in a lot of trouble."

I told Etta the story, as briefly as I could, leaving out any mention of my own past and how I had met Steve. Etta listened, and chimed in with supportive comments when they seemed called for. When I finished with an account of our trip to the jail that day I suddenly broke down and cried again, and she came to my side and put her hand on my shoulder while Pris took my hand across the kitchen bench. "Y'all's a good woman standin' by him, Amma," Etta said. "Miz Prizla's right, though. You's needs tell Mr Dan to get anythin' done 'bout it."

Pris and I put in another call to Julia before dinner, but we got her machine. I left a brief message telling her that Steve seemed to be in pretty good spirits, and asked her to call back when she got in.

My body was doing weird things to me again. My right eyelid kept twitching every 30 seconds or so. There wasn't anything I could do about it. And I felt tired, but I also felt very restless. I tried taking a series of deep breaths to calm myself, the way Steve had shown me a couple of times before we'd gone on stage together, but that didn't seem to help a lot. To top it all off I had a little pain in the corner of my lip, which felt like maybe there was a coldsore about to come through. I wondered if anyone would care if I went to bed and stayed there.

I was depressed, although I didn't put a name to what I was feeling at the time. But depression colors everything a weird shade of hopeless, and I felt like everything was getting too much for me. Winston Churchill used to call his depression 'the black dog'. When I read that a few years later I understood exactly what he meant. I felt it, back in those months after Steve's arrest, although I didn't recognize the leash I had in my hand until it was too late to do anything with it. That's the trouble with depression -- it doesn't feel as though you *can* do anything.

Fortunately dinner that evening was a quiet affair. Mr Arsenault worked late, so it was just Cindy, Pris and me at the table, and although Cindy talked quite a bit she seemed to be on some kind of autopilot that didn't need corresponding conversation from either Pris or myself. When dinner was over she excused herself and went upstairs, and Pris and I watched a video on Mr. Arsenault's Betamax. Around eleven I went to bed too. Pris stayed up, saying she needed to talk to her Dad when he came home from work. I fell asleep almost immediately, but it was an uneasy sleep, punctuated with strange dreams of Steve and I, imprisoned together in the visiting room of the jail.

 

***

 

 

Chapter Sixteen

Next morning, Friday, I woke early and showered and dressed before going downstairs. Mr. Arsenault was still in his running clothes at the kitchen table reading the morning paper while Etta prepared his breakfast. His face brightened as soon as he looked up and saw me entering the kitchen.

"Emma. You look lovely this morning."

I looked down at the clothes I had chosen that day -- a simple blue v-necked top and a black skirt -- and then back up at him questioningly. The coldsore seemed to be held at bay, but I still felt tense and very unlovely indeed. Dan just smiled at me. I flushed, embarrassed, mumbled a good morning, and sat down. Etta set his breakfast before him as he poured me a glass of orange juice from the pitcher on the table. He set his paper aside and took a mouthful of his breakfast.

"Mmmm. Etta. Just great." It seemed like he was in an exceptionally good mood. He took several more mouthfuls, and I glanced at the paper to see if there was anything in it about Steve's case. Not on the page that was open on the table, at least.

"Priscilla tells me you might be looking to stay in Atlanta a while, Emma." Mr Arsenault said between mouthfuls of breakfast.

"Uh, yes sir. I have some, uh..." My voice trailed off. I still didn't know how to broach the subject of Steve. I could see Etta making a face at me to urge me to open up to him, and I avoided her gaze.

"Well, you know you are welcome to stay here with us, for as long as you like, even when Priscilla goes back to Mississippi," Mr Arsenault said.

"Thank you, sir, but I couldn't impose." I wondered as I said it where I was going to live, and how I was going to support myself.

"Oh, you wouldn't be imposing, Emma. We have all this room... It's nice to have some kids in the house, to tell you the truth." He smiled. "Sorry, I forget that at your age it's probably not such a great thing to be called a 'kid'. Anyway, my offer stands."

"Thank you, sir. It's very generous, but --"

"No buts, that's settled then. You stay here. But call me Dan, for goodness' sake, you're making me feel like I'm at work. Yesterday it was 'Mr Arsenault', today it's 'sir'!"

"Thank you, Dan. I'll look for a place of my own as soon as I can --"

"Speaking of work, Priscilla mentioned you might need some."

"Huh?' I was momentarily taken aback. "I'm sorry?"

"She said you were looking for work. I suppose that makes sense if you're going to stay here in Atlanta. I don't know your family circumstances, Emma. Do they help support you in Oxford?"

I was struck dumb. I had no idea what to say to him about my family, or my past. When I didn't say anything he looked worried. "Heavens, I sound like Cindy, prying into your life like that. I'm sorry, Emma. I guess I've been bossing people around at work too much lately." He smiled again. "I just closed a really big deal with Japan last night, and I'm still a little hyped up about it. My apologies."

"You don't need to apologize," I said. Etta laid some breakfast in front of me. "I, uh, I'm extremely grateful to you for your hospitality."

"That doesn't mean I have the right to demand information from you. I'm sorry to intrude."

"I, uh, I don't have a family, Dan. My parents are dead. So you weren't prying into our finances."

"Well, I'm sorry to hear that, Emma."

I shrugged, and took a mouthful of egg. "It's okay," I said when I had swallowed. "It was a while back."

"In the circumstances, then, I insist that you stay with us while you're here in Atlanta."

"Thank you, sir."

"Dan. Dan."

"Sorry." I giggled. He was a pretty imposing guy, even though he was friendly. He was the kind of guy you automatically called sir.

"About work, then," he continued. "What was your major at UMiss?"

"Oh. What has Priscilla told you?"

"Not much, aside from that you are roommates, and you want to stay in Atlanta, and you need a job." He paused. "And that she thinks the world of you."

I looked over at Etta. She nodded to me, as if to say 'go on'. So I took a deep breath, and I told Mr Arsenault about my life in Oxford as a singer and sometime cleaner at Elroy's, and then about the band in general, and about Steve in particular, and then, after another deep breath and a reassuring look from Etta, about the shooting a few nights earlier. When I got to the part about the shooting he sucked his breath in slightly, but he didn't say anything. I let it all spill out and when I was finished I sat at the table with my head bowed, waiting for condemnation.

"You love him, Emma?"

"Yes, sir. Yes, Dan."

"It doesn't sound good."

"No, I guess not."

"I'll have a talk to his lawyer, if that will help."

"I don't know, sir. Dan. I mean, I don't know what anyone can do."

"We'll see. I might be able to help out, you never know. So, about the other things -- are you telling me you never finished high school?"

"That's right, sir. Dan."

He smiled. "Dan. Just Dan. I must say I'm surprised. You certainly seem well educated. Where did you learn all that medical stuff?"

I shrugged. "I guess I like to read."

"Mmmm. Well, you know you should finish school some time, Emma. There's a lot of southern girls think they can get by on just their looks, and lord knows you're pretty enough, but it'd be a terrible waste." He sighed, and I wondered why. "In the meantime, though, there's the question of work. What kind of work were you planning on getting?"

"Um, cleaning. Or maybe waitressing or something," I said. "I'm not really qualified for anything else, I guess."

"I'm going down to the office in about an hour. I'll have a talk to some friends. I think we might be able to find some things need doing that you'd be qualified for without too much trouble."

"Really? Uh, sir. Dan. Um..."

"Yes, Emma?"

"Why are you being so nice to me?"

"For heaven's sake, girl. What ever has happened to you to give you such a bleak view of yourself?" He shook his head. "I'm going to go upstairs and shower. Enough of this foolishness."

He stood up and carried his plate over to the sink. As he turned back to head for the door he stopped and looked me in the eyes and said quietly, "Emma. You don't get anywhere in this world by running yourself down. When people are pleased to see you, pleased to be with you, it's not polite to call into question their reasons for being friendly."

I nodded. It seemed like reasonable advice. I've kept it close to my heart ever since, for those moments when I've been plagued with self-doubt and fear that I haven't been worthy of my friends. It hasn't ever totally banished those feelings, but it's stopped me from making a fool of myself a few times.

After Dan had gone upstairs I looked over at Etta, who smiled and nodded at me. "He likes you a lot, girl. You gon' be alright."

Pris came downstairs a few moments later and groggily stumbled around to the table. "Up too late," she grumbled.

"You okay?"

"Yeah. I sat up waiting for Daddy."

"Yes, I know. We had a talk this morning."

"Oh, good," Pris said as Etta set down some coffee in front of her. She took a sip and brightened. "Did he say anything about working?"

"He's going to talk to someone."

"Good! I knew things would work out."

I admonished her for trying to influence her father that way, but Pris would have none of it. She seemed quite pleased with herself. Then I told her that I had been very open with her father so far as the situation with Steve was concerned, and she seemed pleased about that, too. I protested that I was imposing too deeply on her family, who I hardly knew, but this seemed to make her even happier. Frustrated, I gave up trying to argue with her, and when Cindy came downstairs for breakfast as well we dropped the conversation and turned to discussing Cindy's plans for a forthcoming surprise party at the house to celebrate Dan's Birthday. We were interrupted about ten minutes into that discussion by a knock on the door. Etta answered it and returned to tell us that "some people from Oxford are here lookin' for Miz Prizla and Miz Amma."

***

Even though the Arsenault's kitchen was enormous it seemed suddenly crowded as Elroy, Julia, Bo and Maggie greeted Pris and I, and Dan stood in the doorway looking somewhat nonplussed. I was overcome with emotion to see them all, and after hugging each of them fiercely I found I had to sit down. Pris admonished Julia for coming when she had promised to stay in Oxford, but Elroy made excuses for her. "It's my fault," he said. "After Emma hung up on me the other night I got myself kinda worked up, and when I finally got in touch with Julia and she told me where you were I knew I had to come see you both and make sure you were okay. All this talk of lawyers and such --"

I was so pleased to see Julia and Elroy, but I was pleased to see Bo and Maggie, too. It had really hurt when the band had fled Atlanta without warning me. The fact that they'd returned didn't make that hurt go away completely, but it meant a lot to me that they had come back. Bo whispered "It's good to see you" to me when I hugged him. That was about as demonstrative as Bo ever usually got.

Cindy had to go to a meeting of some charity committee she was on, and Dan had to go to work, but before he left he gave Etta instructions for taking care of the new arrivals. Elroy wouldn't hear of staying at the house, and Bo and Maggie were also insistent that they'd prefer to stay in a motel, but Julia needed a room, and everyone was glad of the offer of coffee and a shower after driving all night from Mississippi. Elroy, Maggie and Bo dispersed to the bathrooms and Julia, Pris and I sat around the kitchen table catching up. Mostly Julia wanted to hear news of Steve, and there wasn't much more we could tell her than we'd said on the phone the day before, though of course she hadn't received that message since she was on the road. She seemed agitated to learn that we couldn't visit the jail that day because of the guards' dispute, but there wasn't anything we could do about that so it didn't seem worth brooding about too much.

After discussing Steve for a while Julia dropped her bombshell. "Can you guys keep a secret?" Pris looked at her like she was insulted by the question, and she protested. "No, really. I mean, really keep a secret. At least for a few weeks. I've only told Pete so far..."

"Well, what is it?" Pris demanded.

"I'm pregnant," she said. It was about the last thing I expected to come out of her mouth. In the circumstances, that is.

It was big news, and Pris and I sat there slightly open mouthed. Julia was only 20. Pete was older, but not by much. She seemed very happy about it, though, so I ventured a response. "That's great, Julia. When did you find out?"

"Yesterday. I went back to the doctor in the morning. I had an idea before that, but I wasn't sure."

I leant over and gave her a hug, and then Pris did the same. "You're not showing at all," Pris said.

"I'm only just gone three months."

"You really didn't know? You didn't say anything before I left..." Pris said.

"No morning sickness at all. Must be born to it," Julia said, still smiling. "I can't wait to tell Steve he's going to be an uncle."

There were about a thousand things I wanted to ask Julia, but I couldn't figure out how to say them politely. How was she going to finish college, if she had a baby? Were she and Pete going to get married, or was that against Pete's principles? Had they planned this? I couldn't believe a girl as smart as Julia would get pregnant by accident. I mean, I know those kinds of accidents happen, even to smart people, but the fact that she was pleased seemed to suggest that she had planned the pregnancy. Why now?

But Elroy came back in at that moment, so we all changed the subject. Once again I had to explain how Steve was, and what the lawyer had said, and that the general outlook was pretty gloomy. Elroy nodded, and asked a couple of questions, and then gave me a lecture for hanging up on him that time I had called from the motel, and I looked sheepish and nodded and apologized.

Maggie and Bo came back downstairs, and after we'd all brought each other totally up to date about what had happened since I'd last seen them, and Bo and Maggie had apologized again and again for leaving with the others, Pris offered to show everyone around town. "That'd be great," Maggie said. "We didn't get a lot of time to look around the last time we were here. Sorry 'bout that, Emma."

They had driven from Mississippi in Elroy's big old barge of a Cadillac, and we could probably have all piled in it and driven around, but I was very tired after all the emotion of the morning, and five people in the car seemed like enough, so I begged off the tour. "I already got the grand tour. You guys let me relax." I could see that Elroy wasn't all that happy about leaving me on my own, but I was very insistent. By the time I had bundled them all out of the house it was after lunch, and I was exhausted. The tic in my eye was going berserk, and my head was spinning from all the questions and conversation and from Julia's news. I was pleased to have a chance to lie down.

Later that night we all went out for dinner, and then to see a band at a bar in Buckhead. It was pretty weird to be in a bar for the first time since the shooting. Bo knew the bass player, and afterward we went back to his house with two of the other guys from the band and had a few drinks. All night I could see Elroy watching me solicitously, like he was afraid I was going to break or something. In fact everyone except Pris seemed to be treating me like I was incredibly fragile. I suppose they thought the whole thing with Steve was weighing heavily on me, but mostly I was okay. A couple of times in the bar I got morose, especially while watching the lead guitarist play, but the band was okay and mostly I was caught up in the music, and in conversations with Elroy and Maggie between sets.

It was only when I was cleaning my face before bed that I really missed Steve. Then I really felt the weight of the evening fall heavily on me and wished he could be there.

 

***

 

 

Chapter Seventeen.

That Saturday morning was as hectic as any weekday at the Arsenaults'. Cindy had some friends around for an early morning game of tennis, and Dan had a contractor around to talk about building something at the bottom of the property. Julia was up before me, and we spent most of breakfast watching all the activity from the terrace. By the time Pris joined us I had managed to ask all the questions I'd had from the day before, evidently without offending her. Yes, the baby was very much wanted, although surprisingly it wasn't entirely planned. "These things happen, Emma. I'm glad, but it's not exactly the timing I would choose." I hugged her again and told her I was very happy for her.

That afternoon Elroy came by with Bo and Maggie, and all of us except Pris made the trek out to the prison to see Steve. Bo and Maggie spent little more than a minute or so with him, mostly apologizing I think, but Elroy spent a little longer and I cut my time with him short so that Julia could get some privacy with him and have a longer talk. Both she and I cried, and I knew that Steve would be cross with both of us for that, but there wasn't much I could do about all the emotions I felt whenever I saw him behind that glass. At least he got a kick out of Elroy and Bo and Maggie visiting -- I know it meant a lot to him, even if he didn't say so directly. Even though he was in good spirits, just being in that visiting room -- seeing him behind the glass -- was depressing. We were all very subdued when we returned to the Arsenault's, and Julia excused herself and went to lie down. That night we went out to see another band, but everyone seemed to have the visit on their mind and no-one wanted to stay out late.

Sunday morning Dan was out playing golf, and Cindy took Pris and me aside to discuss his forthcoming birthday with us again. As we talked through her plans for what was going to be a very big party I marveled at her poise and confidence, but I also reflected that she seemed less tense and 'up herself' as Pris sometimes said. I had noticed during the week that she and Pris had been getting on better, and she seemed to laugh a lot while we joked about the plans for the party. She was definitely much more relaxed than she had been when I had first arrived at the Arsenaults', and much more likeable.

Cindy asked me whether Pris and I could take charge of the entertainment. She had made some arrangements herself but they had either fallen through or she had decided they were unsatisfactory -- I wasn't sure, and she didn't elaborate. "I wanted to ask you, Emma, whether perhaps you could sing? I know that Dan thinks the world of you, and he has heard you sing around the house. He's too embarrassed to ask you to sing directly, but I think he'd be really pleased if you did." I wondered what on earth would be appropriate for a gathering of people as old as Dan, but I put the thought behind me and agreed. The Arsenault's had been so generous, it was the least I could do. When Cindy told me the budget I could spend on entertainment I almost died, and I idly joked about hiring the Rolling Stones to play the party. I could see she was about to tell me she could ring Mick or Keith, so I made it clear I was joking. Actually it probably wasn't that much money -- it just seemed like an incredible amount to someone like me. We had been earning less than a tenth of it at our most popular gigs on the road.

Cindy asked Pris to take care of tracking down a couple of old friends of Dan's who hadn't RSVP'd. Cindy didn't know them, but Pris remembered a couple from her childhood. The party was only two weeks away, so it was short notice to track people down, but Cindy had sent out most of the invitations months ago so it really only amounted to rounding up the stragglers, as she put it.

After we finished planning the party I excused myself and went upstairs for a while. I was still feeling tired, and the euphoria of seeing Julia and the others was beginning to wear off, while the reality of the two visits to see Steve had set in.

Just after lunch Elroy called up again and asked me to go for a walk with him. After he arrived at the Arsenaults' we strolled the leafy avenues of Buckhead. It was a pleasant day, hot but not oppressively so, and the trees provided enough shelter from the sun that I didn't feel like my skin was going to flake off under its rays. Elroy was quiet for the first few minutes. To break the silence I made a couple of comments about the houses we walked past, but he didn't respond immediately. After we'd walked about a half-mile he drew his breath, as though he'd come to some conclusion, and I looked across to see the expression on his face. He seemed serious, but not solemn, but there was something in his eyes that reminded me of the time I had hugged him in his office in the bar, a few weeks earlier. It was only a few weeks earlier. It seemed like a lifetime ago.

"I was very upset when you hung up on me, Emma."

"I'm sorry, Elroy. I said that the other night."

"I know. It's just that... I felt powerless, and it's not a feeling I like... I've been powerless a couple of times in my life when things have gone wrong, and up until now they've been times that have haunted me."

"I'm sorry."

"I know. I'm sorry too. I don't mean to rub it in. Emma... how long have we known one another?"

"I don't know, Elroy. It seems like... about six months?"

"I guess so. Well... I've grown very fond of you, m'dear. More than you know." He chuckled. "No, don't look at me like that, or they'll have me locked up." I was relieved to hear his laugh -- this was more like the old Elroy. "No, Emma, I've grown to love you... but like I loved Juliet."

I swallowed, and stopped walking. His laugh had masked something much more serious. Juliet was Elroy's daughter. The one who had been killed in the accident. Elroy turned to face me, and I reached across and took his hand. "Elroy..."

"I know it's selfish of me, Emma. But the one thing I regret most about Juliet's death is that I never gave her all the love I wanted to... I never looked out for her the way I should have. Over the past few months we've seen quite a lot of one another, and you've..." Here he looked over my shoulder, trying to keep his emotions in check by focusing on the middle distance as I'd seen Steve do a few times. "You've meant a great deal to me, just by being around, by having so much life in you.

"It's very selfish of me, Emma, but I don't think I can deal with it again if you make me feel that powerless and useless again. I'm an old man now, but it's nice to feel... useful. And wanted. And while we were in Tupelo I thought that... maybe... maybe I was useful, helping you and Steve out --"

"Oh, Elroy, you were. But more than useful --"

"-- Well, the other night just drove me insane. I don't know if Julia told you, but I pretty much made her tell me where you were. I think she thought I was some kind of crazy man, which is why she wanted to come along --"

"-- No. I think she really needed to see Steve --"

"Yes, that too. Anyway -- just shoot me before I make an old fool of myself, Emma. I know things are very tough for you right now. But I needed to come say this to you: whatever you need, whatever I can do, I will be there for you. I don't have Juliet any more, and you don't have your parents. I know it's not the same thing, but if it makes up for anything at all, you know I'll always be there for you. Just don't ever shut me out like that again."

We hugged each other for at least a minute, then separated and walked on. After a while, when the mood had eased slightly, Elroy asked me a couple of questions about how I was coping living at the Arsenault's, and I answered truthfully that it wasn't difficult, although I wasn't terribly comfortable with staying once Pris returned to Oxford.

"You have to stay here?"

"I do, Elroy. As long as Steve's here."

"That could be a very long time, Emma."

"I don't plan on staying with the Arsenault's forever."

"I know that. But -- what will you do?"

"I don't know that... not at all. I'll get a job, I guess."

"You love him, Emma?"

"I do, Elroy."

"I can give you some money --"

"No. Thank you. But I feel bad enough staying at the Arsenault's. I don't want to be dependent on anyone else as well."

"Don't think of it that way. Think of it as me feeling useful."

At that moment I wanted to scream. I loved Elroy, I loved that he cared so much about me. But I didn't care for myself. Here I was, living a lie. I was sure that if Elroy knew about my past he would distance himself from me immediately. He seemed to think of me as a kind of surrogate daughter, and I wasn't even a girl. Not really, It was getting harder and harder to think of myself as anything else, but I knew that I wasn't really as good as all the other women I knew. I was a freak, a half-ling, an object of strangeness and otherness. I didn't deserve his love, or his concern. Only Steve had made me feel really wanted, really worthwhile, and now all that was... broken. I wondered whether Steve would have taken up heroin if I had been better able to satisfy him..."

"Emma?"

"Mmmm? Sorry, Elroy. I guess I've just got a lot on my mind." Now I really felt like shit. Elroy had just poured out his soul to me, and all I'd been able to say was that I had a lot on my mind. Elroy deserved better. I didn't deserve his trust, or Dan's, or Pris's. None of them knew the truth about me. Only Steve knew. And Julia. I wondered why Julia put up with me.

We walked along a little further, saying little to one another. I was deep into a rut of depression, and although I knew that I wasn't thinking especially logically that didn't seem to matter as much as my feelings of worthlessness. The more Elroy told me he cared about me, the less I felt I was worthy of his care.

We stopped outside the gates to a huge estate. Through the gates and the trees I could see an elaborate building which looked much too large to be a house. "Country Club", Elroy said, answering the question I hadn't asked. I looked at the building again, but it was set too far back from the road to see much. As we were standing there an expensive-looking sports car with the top down and two gorgeous-looking men in it swept past us into the driveway and on toward the main building. The two guys looked like they had never had a stressed day in their lives, and I momentarily felt bitter about them and all the troubles I had.

"Could be worse, Emma," Elroy said. "Could be like those guys."

"Huh?" I said, unsure of what he meant.

"Carole Bayer Sager," Elroy almost spat. I must have looked at him blankly. Then I realized he was talking about the music that had blared from the car as it went by us. "Wouldn't you rather be dead than listen to Carole Bayer Sager? I mean, the Porsche is nice, but if you have to listen to Carole Bayer Sager then clearly you need help. Might as well be dead."

I laughed. Elroy was quite serious, which is what made it funny.

As we walked back to the house I changed the subject away from Steve and I and back to music. I asked Elroy for advice about booking a band to play Dan's party, and he said he'd give me a couple of numbers to call. He got very enthusiastic about the whole thing, and I could see that the concept of usefulness really was something he relished. I wondered if it would be okay with Cindy if I invited him to come back for the party -- he sure would be a big help, if he could spare the time away from Tupelo. When I told him that Cindy had asked if I would also sing he got a huge grin on his face, and I could tell that I'd got him onto thinking about the event in a big way.

When we got back to the house Dan was home again, and in an effusive mood. Apparently he had won the golf game. He and Elroy retired downstairs to shoot some pool, and when we next saw them a few hours later it was as though they had been friends for years.

Late that afternoon Elroy, Bo, Maggie and I headed back to the bar where Steve had shot the cop. The owner of the place still had some of our stuff, and although nobody was very keen to re-live the events of that horrible night I knew that Bo and Maggie weren't so well off that they could afford to lose instruments and leather jackets. Denis, the guy who ran the place, was pretty nice towards us considering all the shit that must have gone down around him that night and all the bad publicity that place must have had as a result. He'd made sure that our stuff had been secured in a storeroom near his office. I think Elroy might have slipped him a little cash as a way of saying thanks, but I didn't see it so I'm not sure.

On our way out of the place we passed the door to the room we'd been standing in when we heard the shots. I must have looked kind of strange, I guess, because I felt Elroy's hand in the middle of my back, steadying me, and Maggie took my hand as we walked by.

Elroy, Bo and Maggie all had plans to head back to Mississippi on the Monday, so Sunday night we all went out again, this time to a small pizza place that Pris recommended. I was still pretty down, and I think Elroy and Pris went out of their way to cheer me up. At the end of the evening Elroy gave me a hug and made me promise to keep in touch with him. "I'll come back in a couple of weeks," he said. "But I don't want none of this abrupt phone call business."

We said our goodbyes on the street outside the pizza place, and then Julia and Pris and I got into the car and drove home in silence.

The next few days were relatively uneventful. On Monday afternoon Julia and I went out to the prison to see Steve, and once again he seemed to be in pretty good spirits -- he was much better than me. We both got to spend twenty minutes each with him, which didn't seem like much but was much better than the Saturday.

It was wonderful to spend time with Julia again. Even though it had only been a couple of weeks since I'd seen her, I had been spending so much time with her in Oxford that I really had missed her while I'd been on the road. I was amazed at how well she was taking the whole situation with Steve -- at first I thought, uncharitably, that maybe she was more relaxed about it than I was because she had gotten used to Steve being in jail for all those years he was at Brand, but I became aware that she was quite distressed by the situation, but better at dealing with it than I was. She was the kind of woman who liked to have everything under control and organized, even if she didn't feel especially under control herself. I was glad to have her around.

Most days Cindy seemed to be out of the house doing things while Dan was at work, so Pris and Julia and I had the house pretty much to ourselves. Etta would chase us out of the kitchen if we hung around there too long, so a lot of the time we sat out on the patio, me in the shade and Pris sunning herself. The days were hot, but it was a relatively mild summer for Atlanta. On the Tuesday Pris suggested we go swimming, and I panicked slightly, but Julia came to my rescue by saying she hadn't bought a swimsuit either. She could probably have fitted into one of Cindy's, but she said she didn't feel comfortable about that.

That meant a shopping expedition to buy new swimsuits for Julia and me. At first I was petrified. I hadn't worn a swimsuit since I was about twelve, and -- well, things had changed, to say the least. I was absolutely sure that people would notice the thing that made me different from other girls. So I tried making excuses about being broke, but unfortunately that didn't wash with either of the girls since they both offered to pay. Then I tried to make excuses about not being able to swim, which wasn't untrue. Pris offered to teach me. "It's about time you learned," she said. "And you'll never get a better chance. Besides, you don't have to actually swim, you just have to get into the water and cool down. It's all settled, then. I'm going inside to get my keys and purse. I'll meet you out front in five minutes. We can take Daddy's other car again so we can all fit."

Although she seemed just as determined to see me in a suit, I could tell that Julia understood my paranoia, because while Pris was inside getting her purse she clasped my hand and said "It's okay, honey. A little bit of tape will take care of what's bothering you. Go ask Etta whether there's a first aid kit in the house."

Etta seemed mildly alarmed at my request, but when I assured her I wasn't bleeding she seemed to be reassured. I asked Pris to wait a moment, and disappeared upstairs into my bathroom. I think that first time I must have used about a foot of tape, such was my paranoia about being exposed for what I was, but after I had pulled up my panties again there didn't seem to be any evidence of a problem. I smiled at Julia as we walked out to the car, and she gave my hand a little squeeze. I think Pris was slightly confused by us, but she didn't press either of us for details.

Tape or not, shopping for swimsuits was mildly terrifying. They all looked so... insubstantial. I had long ago gotten used to feeling exposed in halter tops and short skirts, and I had become very comfortable walking around in lingerie in front of Steve, but I had never even contemplated the idea of wearing a bikini. I tried to look through the racks of one-piece suits, but Pris would have none of it. She bundled me into the changing rooms in a succession of bikinis. At least she gave me the opportunity to change in private. At first I was too scared to come out of the room to show anyone, and I tried on three suits before she asked me how the first one looked. "Not so good," I called out.

Pris knocked on the side of the change cubicle. I finished pulling on the third bikini top and pulled the curtain aside just a fraction. She smiled. "That looks great," she said.

"I don't know. I think I look fat." I did, too. My flesh seemed to spill out of the top of the bra, and my hips seemed even bigger in the bikini briefs than they did when I was naked. Plus there was my skin. I looked so incredibly pale, except for a few freckles on my shoulders. I swear I could almost see my veins under my skin in the places that hadn't seen any sun at all. All that white skin made me look even fatter. At least that was what I thought.

"Honey, you're such a tiny thing. How could you think you looked fat?. Still, if you don't like that one..." She disappeared for a moment, and then returned carrying a hangar with something on it. "Emma, you would look fantastic in this," she said, holding up a bikini that seemed to consist of tiny little green triangles held together with even tinier green strings.

I pulled the curtain closed and tried to work out which bits of string tied to which. I got the bottoms on easily, but the top was difficult because it was a halter style. The hardest thing about tying the string was that my hair kept getting tangled in it. I wished I had bought something with me so I could tie it up.

Julia stuck her head around the curtain. "You okay?" she said, as I wrestled with the string of a bikini top that tied around my head. "Here, let me help." She came in to the changing room and I turned and offered her my back. I held my hair up and Julia tied it without any trouble at all. Then she thrust the curtain aside so that Pris could see. "Ta da!"

"Wow," Pris said. "That's the one, Emma. I wish I looked so trim."

I looked at myself in the mirror in the back of the changing cubicle. I still thought I looked fat, but Julia and Pris both thought it looked great. The salesgirl, who until now had paid us almost no attention, also chimed in with praise.

I tried to look at myself objectively, but it was no good. I thought I looked terrible, and everyone else thought I looked wonderful. Apropos of nothing another woman in the store chimed in with a positive opinion too.

"That's it. I'm buying it for you," Pris said. "If you want a different one you're going to have to pay for it yourself.'

"That's a dirty trick," I said. "You know I don't have any money."

"The dirtiest," Pris said. "Don't worry, Emma. You look beautiful."

It was Julia who got to buy the one piece. "We mothers-to-be have to look more modest," she joked, although it was still impossible to see any sign of the pregnancy. She looked incredibly sexy in the swimsuit. Even today I think one piece suits look better than bikinis. Sometimes less flesh is much more sexy.

Pris paid for my suit, and we spent some more time browsing around the stores. Then we headed home. It was still only early afternoon when we got back, and so we were soon all changed into our suits. I tied my hair up behind my head and gingerly explored the water at the shallow end. I had never really spent much time in water before apart from two family expeditions when I was a little kid, when I paddled in the shallows of Lake Superior. At first I just hung off the ladder in the pool, but then Pris coaxed me out into the water, teaching me to dogpaddle, and then to tread water, and then to float on my back. It felt kind of ... intimate, the way she held me around my waist to support me.

We lazed around the pool for the rest of the day. Pris and Julia seemed relatively unconcerned by the sun, but I knew better and slathered myself with sunblock for most of the day. I thought back to the days I used to sun myself in the yard at Brand, and marveled at the luxury that surrounded me at the Arsenault's. It was almost like those memories belonged to someone else, even though they were only a year old.

I discovered that evening that there was a penalty involved in using tape to hide my sex. Getting the tape off was excruciatingly painful. Over the next couple of days we continued to use the pool, and fortunately I got much better at using the tape. Eventually I could tape myself without attaching the tape to hairy parts of me, and once I had mastered that I began to tape myself every day, regardless of whether we were swimming or not. It felt good not to have to worry about casual discovery.

More days went by, and Julia and I went out to the prison as often as we were allowed. David Breslin called in a favor from someone and I was finally allowed to give Steve the Ibanez, and Julia gave Steve a picture of my in my bikini, which he said was the best thing he'd ever been given. I was cross with Julia and pleased at the same time.

The hardest thing about seeing Steve was the glass between us. We could put our hands up to it but there wasn't anything we could do to actually touch one another.

About three weeks after I had arrived at the Arsenault's I was helping Etta clear up after dinner on a Tuesday night, when the doorbell rang. Cindy got the door, and I could hear her talking to someone. A couple of moments later Dan appeared in the kitchen and asked me if I'd mind having a talk with him in his study. I was slightly alarmed as we walked down the hallway together. What could be so serious that it required this much privacy? Dan usually discussed things openly over the breakfast table. When we got into his study he ushered me inside. I was surprised to see David Breslin and another older man in the study too.

Dan closed the door, and introduced me to the older man. "Emma, this is Bob Douglas, a good friend of mine. David you already know." He indicated that I should sit down. I did, feeling nervous. Dan had been so good to me. Maybe he had found out about me... maybe...

"We need to talk to you about Steve, Emma," he said as he sat down in a chair a few feet away.

"Yes?"

"He did shoot that policeman, didn't he?" Dan asked.

When I hesitated for a moment David Breslin held up his hand to reassure me. "Don't worry, nothing you say to us can be used against him, it's hearsay."

"I'm only asking," Dan continued, "because I've done some asking around about his chances, but I need you to talk to me honestly about what you know before I go any further. I can promise me that whatever you say to us will stay within this room."

"Um, the truth is, sir, I don't really know. I didn't see anything."

"But he must have said something to you."

"If you want to know what I think, then yes, I think he did. He hasn't denied it. I don't think he denied it to the police, did he?"

"He was smart enough not to say anything to the police," David said.

"Oh. That's good, I guess."

"Well, yes, it is and it isn't," Dan said. "Look, Emma, I won't beat around the bush. I asked my friend Bob to talk to David about the case. I hope you don't mind. Bob and I have known one another for years, and he's one of the top defense lawyers in the country. He has discussed Steve's case with David, and this afternoon he called me to tell me what he thought. Bob?"

"I won't get your hopes up, Emma. It's not good." I could see that David Breslin looked slightly embarrassed when he said this, and had difficulty meeting my eyes.

Even though I knew, right from the time I heard the policeman say 'Your friend just shot a cop', that Steve was finished, I hadn't let the idea percolate to the top of my brain. I think I'd deliberately denied the reality of the situation to myself, as a means of dealing with it. Even at those moments I was most depressed I hadn't contemplated the idea that Steve would be in jail forever.

I didn't say anything, which seemed to make all the men uncomfortable. Bob Douglas broke the silence. "Dan asked me for an opinion, Emma, and I'm happy to give it. Dan was asking me with a view to having me take Steve's case, so I've discussed it thoroughly with David, and I met with Steven this afternoon. I will be happy to take it on, with Steve's approval. But before I talked to him again I thought it prudent to talk to Dan, and to you, about the likely outcome. Steven was especially concerned that I talk to you. Mounting a proper defense will not be cheap," here he glanced at Dan, "and I must say that the outcome is unlikely to be what you might hope."

"What do you mean?" I said in a small voice.

"I don't see a defense that will allow us to secure Steven's freedom, Emma. I think we can try bargaining for a lesser sentence, but the prosecutor is seeking the maximum penalty. It's unlikely they'll even try for a plea bargain unless we push the issue. They feel very confident of a conviction."

"I thought he pleaded not guilty," I said, my voice still quavering. That nervous tic in my eye had returned.

"Yes," David said. "But that was a tactic to give us time. You always plead not guilty if you're sure the case is going to trial. I know the D.A. wants a show trial so he can look like a law and order hero."

"We may be able to secure a lesser sentence if we agree to change his plea to guilty," Bob continued.

"And that means Steve will spend how long in jail?" My voice seemed very far away. It was almost as though it belonged to someone else.

"I expect they will want life, Emma," Bob said gently. That might mean he can get out in fifteen years if he's lucky."

"Although with his record as a juvenile it may be more like twenty," David said.

"Twenty years. Can't you do something?"

"I'm prepared to mount a strong defense in court, Emma," Bob said. "Dan has agreed to pay for my services. But I have an obligation to advise him of the likely outcome. Since Dan tells me he is doing this for you, that means advising you, too."

I looked at Dan. Once again I felt unworthy. If these people knew the truth about me they would never agree to help Steve. I had to keep hiding my past from everyone so that Steve could have some chance of freedom. And yet, I couldn't let Dan spend his money without knowing that I wasn't worthy of his kindness.

"If we offer them a guilty plea it won't cost much, Emma," Dan said. "Bob will take over the case and make the deal, and it will mean a lesser sentence."

"Life? Life is a lesser sentence?"

"It is in this state," David said grimly. "We should be very grateful that Steve is white, Emma, or there would be no chance of even going for the plea."

"In the event that you and Steven decline my services, David here will continue to represent him," Bob said. But I think you'll find that his advice is likely to be similar to mine."

David nodded. "I've talked it over with Steve, Emma. You should talk it over with him too."

"If Steve wants to fight this the whole way, Emma, I can afford it," Dan said. "But I thought we should discuss it openly first, so that we know going in what our options are."

"I have to talk to Steve first," I said. "And what about Julia? This affects her as much as me --"

"Steven asked us to discuss it with you first," Bob said.

"Before I can say anything. Dan, I honestly don't think we can take your money --"

"--Nonsense," Dan interrupted. "We can discuss this later, Emma, after you've talked with Steve. This is a man's life we're talking about. Money can come later."

"Speaking of discussing it with Steve," Bob said, "one thing that may make life easier for you is better access. I can arrange it so that you are affiliated with the case. I can get you paralegal status. That should get you better access to Steve, without having to go through the regular visitors' channels."

I no longer felt unworthy and guilty. I felt empty. I had no idea what the proper responses to Bob and David and Dan should be. I could tell that I was going through the motions, nodding my head and answering questions at the right times, but I was doing it all on autopilot. The denial that had kept me going through the past few weeks was gone, and in its place was a yawning chasm of hopelessness that was paralyzing me. What was the point to any of this if Steve was going to spend twenty years in prison?

 

(continued)

 

Distribution: Feel free to archive or otherwise distribute, provided it (and this preamble) is unedited and no fee is charged for access. This story may not be distributed from any site that charges money, is members-only, or uses that ridiculous "adult check" thing (or any similar system).

All rights reserved by the author, who can be contacted at rebecca7@cotse.com

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