Allegedly

by Tiffany D. Jackson

“I know,” I mumble. I think about that all the time. Alyssa-ing over everything that could have been.

  She doesn’t say nothing. Just sits there like one of the old folks in the nursing home, daydreaming about memories. Feels strange, having her here, but nice at the same time. It’s never been just the two of us, even when I wanted it to be. I wish she would hug me, squeeze me tight like she used to. But I know she won’t. Still, I’m happy being in the same room with her. The rest of the world feels invisible, like we are the only two people left on the planet. I hold back a smile, because it doesn’t seem right to smile since she is so unhappy.

  Please don’t be mad at me, Mrs. Richardson. Please. I’m so sorry.

  “So what’s this business about wanting to dig up Alyssa?”

  I blink.

  “I don’t know anything about that,” I say. “Is that what they want to do?”

  She smirks.

  “Well, you’re the one running this show, Mary Bell. What do you want to do?”

  Mary Bell. I haven’t been called that in years. Feels so familiar, so good. But there’s not a bit of warmth or humor in her voice. She is as cold as ice pops.

  “I don’t know. I guess I just want to keep my baby.”

  Mrs. Richardson freezes like a picture, smoke swirling around her head, eyes locked on me. Then she snorts.

  “You . . . want to keep your baby?” she says, as if it was the dumbest thing anyone has ever said. She puts her cigarette out on the heel of her sneaker and yanks on her coat. I jump to my feet.

  Wait, what is she doing? Is she leaving me?

  She mumbles and curses, my name coming up. I don’t know what to do or say to make her stay.

  Please! Don’t go!

  “YOU want to keep YOUR baby!” she screams. “Well, isn’t that rich? We have something in common.”

  She walks out, leaving the house feeling haunted.

  chapter twelve

  “What number we at?” Winters says next to me, yawning big.

  “D049,” I say.

  I’m D101.

  He groans and rubs his eyes some more.

  “Of all the damn days, you pick the busiest.”

  After trying twice to get an ID on my own, the DMV reported it to the state, which reported it to my parole officer. I guess he got in trouble or something, because early this morning he barged into the house, screaming “Get your damn coat! You’re coming with me.”

  My heart dropped and I just knew I was heading back to baby jail, wondering how I could throw myself out of the moving car without hurting Bean. But once we were in his truck he screamed, “Why didn’t you just tell Ms. Stein you needed a damn ID!”

  It always surprises me how stupid he thinks I am. Like he really thinks I didn’t try to ask her first and she kept saying no. Last thing I wanted to do was bring more attention to myself by getting Winters in trouble.

  “Wish you would’ve just told me what you wanted to do in the first damn place,” he says from his seat, looking up at the ticket counters. The line wrapped around twice.

  “I told you, you just didn’t want to listen,” I mumble.

  Winters glares at me.

  “Well, ain’t you the talkative one all of a sudden. Now we up here, on CHRISTMAS EVE, like I don’t have shit else to do. I still gotta find my wife something. I’m not sleeping on the sofa like last year ’cause of you girls, I’ll tell you that!”

  I sigh. D061.

  “She’s gonna leave me one of these days,” he says. “Months I go with peace from you, Addison. Months, and then all of this!”

  Peace? Has he been to our house?

  “Kelly is trying to kill me,” I blurt out.

  He laughs.

  “Well, I wonder why? Couldn’t be that pot of boiling water you threw in her face, right?”

  Of course he wouldn’t believe me. No one ever does.

  “Yeah, I heard about it,” he chuckles. “I thought you was one of the good ones Addison. Should’ve known better. And what in the hell do you need a license for so damn badly? Where you think you driving to and with what car?”

  His story is just that, a story. Nothing about it makes sense. But since he never believes me anyways, I don’t try to argue. Instead, I tell him the truth.

  “I need an ID because I’m taking the SATs. I want to go to college and get my degree.”

  Winters falls silent, in a state of shock. His mouth drops, about to say something, but instead he blows out air and keeps quiet.

  D084.

  “Addison, I’m not trying to keep you from your dreams or nothing,” Winters says in a lower voice. “Believe me, I’m all for higher education. But . . . getting into college . . . college ain’t for everyone. It’s hard, hard work. And a lot of money. Now I think it’s great you’re trying and all, but . . . well, hell, I don’t know, Addison. Maybe you shouldn’t be getting your hopes all up and stuff.”

  Words of encouragement from my parole officer, that is what I can always count on. I don’t say nothing. I turn away, wishing I didn’t wish Ted was here instead.

  “Actually, you know what, I take that back,” he says. “Because out of everyone, I think you’d be the one to do it. Shit, you’ve come this far.”

  Winters sort of smiles, like he’s proud or something.

  “I don’t think there’s a girl in your house right now who would even know where to start. Some of them don’t even know their ass from their head half the time. But you’re different, Addison. I saw that from the very first day. Which makes me wonder . . .”

  His last sentence falls dead, eyes conflicted. I’m sure it’s not common for a parole officer to think one of their parolees is actually innocent. But there is a huge question mark floating above his head like a comic bubble I’ve seen in the paper.

  Maybe I should tell him . . .

  “I hear you . . . um . . . got a lawyer and stuff to open your case back up.”

  I hold his gaze, trying to burn the truth through his eyes and he fidgets. He is uncomfortable around me. Always has been.

  “Now, I’ve read your case files cover to cover,” he says cautiously. “And in every testimony you were either silent as the grave or couldn’t remember a thing. Think they call it ‘post-traumatic stress.’ They talk to you about that?”

  I shift away from him.

  “Addison, people know you didn’t mean to kill that baby. They know you got . . . problems. But you can’t come back, years later, with a whole new story.”

  “It’s not a story.”

  “You were so young. No way you could remember what really happened.”

  That’s where him and everyone else are wrong. Because I remember every single detail that happened that night.

  Interview with Anonymous #3, Inmate at Bedford Hills Correctional Facility

  Yo, it’s mad easy to get little niggas to do your dirty work. We do it all the time, son! All you gotta do is give a kid a buck, give him a piece, and tell him who to pop. Done, easy. And if that little nigga gets caught, he ain’t gonna do no real time. Maybe a year or two in juvie, but that ain’t nothing. Better than a real nigga doing a quarter to life. Everyone knows kids get off stupid easy. Kids can get away with murder for real.

  Ms. Cora lives in a brownstone in Bed-Stuy, one bus and a train ride away. It isn’t as fancy as the ones I’d seen with Ted in Fort Greene, but it’s decorated real nice on the outside. The windows are framed with white lights and garland, and the door has one of those Christmas wreaths with a big red bow like I’ve seen in picture books. I stand at the bottom of the stoop, staring up at the door, ten minutes early.

  Maybe I should wait. She didn’t have to invite me to her party. It was really nice of her and I don’t want to be a pain in the ass, but it’s freezing. I can’t feel my fingers and my hoodie feels like a thin sheet. At least my neck is warm, because of the scarf Ms. Claire gave me. The rest of my body is a block of ice.

  New Girl gave me the present I’m wearing. A long-sleeved ma
ternity dress, green as broccoli. It was on my bed when I got out of the shower, all wrapped up in red tissue paper with a card that said, “To my BEST Friend.” I feel guilty. I didn’t get her anything.

  “I thought I recognized yuh,” a woman’s voice says behind me.

  Oh God! From the book!

  That’s how people know me. The baby killer, the child murderer. I turn around, expecting someone to spit in my face, but it is much worse.

  Ms. Claire stands there smiling, flanked by two small girls dressed in red peacoats, white tights, and black patent leather shoes.

  “Happy Christmas! How yuh?”

  I’m outside my lawyer’s house and about to run away because I’m a baby killer and don’t want you to know. That’s how I am doing.

  Her daughters stare up at me, all small and innocent, nothing like I was. Ms. Claire looks so warm, dressed in a gray wool coat, the color of a summer rain cloud with four big black buttons.

  “Yuh live here? Dis nice!”

  I back away, my legs stiff from the cold. She sucks her teeth.

  “Gyal, you’re always so quiet! Why yuh look at me so? Meh not gonna hurt yuh. It’s Christmas! And yuh . . .”

  The door opens behind us and Ms. Cora steps out on the stoop.

  “Mary! You made it!”

  She runs down the stairs in a cream sweater dress and tall brown boots, hair flowing like black water in the breeze. I’ve never seen it down before; I had no idea it was so long. I look at Ms. Claire, frowning at this beauty queen running down after me. What do I say to her? How do I make her go away? She can’t know. She’ll never speak to me again.

  “I was afraid you wouldn’t come.” She tries to hug me and I let her. She smiles at Ms. Claire.

  “Um, hello,” she says.

  They glance at me, waiting for introductions. And all I want to do is run away. Ms. Claire sucks her teeth again and holds out her hand.

  “Hello, I’m Claire, Mary’s SAT tutor.”

  Ms. Cora lights up, nodding at me proudly, before shaking her hand.

  “Nice to meet you! I’m Cora, Mary’s . . . um, counselor.”

  Ms. Claire raises an eyebrow.

  “I see. Well, we were heading to church and bumped into Ms. Mary ’ere. Just saying hello.”

  “Oh, well, I’ll give you a moment,” Ms. Cora says and nods at me. “Nice meeting you! Mary, just come on in when you’re ready.”

  She smiles and heads up the stairs. Ms. Claire turns to her daughters.

  “Go wait in di car. Don’t touch nuthin’!”

  The girls skip off and climb into a car parked on the corner. They seem so fun and playful. Something I never was as a child. Ms. Claire stares at me with this knowing look.

  “So . . . yuh okay?”

  “Um, yeah. I . . . ummm . . .”

  She holds up a hand.

  “Yuh business. Meh not interfering.”

  The frosted winds bite at my ears and my chattering teeth nip at my tongue. She looks at her scarf, wrapped around my neck like a noose. I can’t tell if she wants it back, but I know I don’t want to give it to her.

  “Test in two weeks. Yuh ready?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Well, don’t be rude to dem people and have di gyal waiting on yuh,” she says. “And what have I tell yuh about coming out di house without proper clothes! Chuh!”

  She takes off her beautiful gray coat with the black buttons and wraps it around my shoulders, still holding some of her warmth.

  “D’there. Better, right? Now, meh see yuh next week. Lata.”

  She rubs her arms and walks down to the car, without giving me the chance to say thank you.

  The house is a warm stove, busy and loud, full of people that look like Ms. Cora. In a houseful of Indians, I look like the black sheep.

  Kids are playing under a huge Christmas tree. I mean, this tree could be the big, big tree in Rockefeller Center. And it’s real too; makes the whole house smell like sweet syrup. It’s been years since I’ve seen a real Christmas tree, or even a fake one. They don’t bother with Christmas stuff in baby jail.

  “Hey, everyone, this is Mary!” Ms. Cora says, and the party waves at me. I try to smile back but it feels funny on my face.

  “Mary, are you hungry?”

  I don’t think it mattered if I was hungry or not because Ms. Cora’s family wasted no time loading up my plate with all types of funny-looking food. Curry chicken, rice and peas, fried plantains, shark, macaroni pie. When I was done with my second plate, they gave me something called roti. I ate everything, all of it delicious. I’ve never had so much food in my entire life. Bean was very happy.

  The family danced to reggae music, drinking rum punch, talking in their funny accents. I huddle next to the tree with some eggnog and a slice of black cake, rubbing the pine needles between my fingers, the sap sticky like cement glue. The last Christmas tree I ever touched was Alyssa’s. That’s what Mrs. Richardson called it, Alyssa’s Christmas tree. She let me help decorate it with big sparkly red and gold bulbs. The last bulb was one she made special with Alyssa’s name on it and the words “Baby’s First Christmas.”

  Ms. Cora makes her way over to the tree, grabbing a giant blue gift bag with a big white Santa Claus face on the front.

  “Happy Christmas,” she says and places it on my lap. It’s heavy, like a bagful of laundry, a month’s worth. Another present I don’t deserve.

  “I can’t take this.”

  She sits next to me.

  “You haven’t even opened it!”

  “I didn’t get you anything.”

  “Don’t worry about it. You as a client is better than any gift. It’s nothing too fancy.”

  I really wish she hadn’t done this. I set the bag on the floor and remove the tissue paper. It’s clothes, all folded up neat like stacks of bricks. I take out the first layer, a simple navy blue long-sleeved dress. It looks almost too big for me.

  “My cousin Cheryl had a baby two months ago and she had all these maternity clothes she doesn’t need anymore. She’s about your size, so I had them dry-cleaned. Good as new.”

  My eyes ache like I want to cry. I don’t though.

  “You really believe me. Don’t you?”

  She laughs.

  “Of course I do!”

  “Why?”

  She smiles, as if she was expecting me to ask this all along.

  “First year of law school, second semester, Criminal Law,” she says. “I’m one of a hundred students in the room. The beginning of every class, our professor would read a headline and we would all discuss and debate it. Your trial came up. He read the facts of the case, the manner it was all handled, and then he agreed with the outcome. So did ninety-nine percent of the class. But not me. I raised my hand and challenged my professor, who happened to also be the dean of the school. Someone should have told me, never cross the man who can make or break you.

  “He made my entire law school life hell. No one wanted to associate with a blackballed student. But we were being taught to uphold the law, and founding principles state that everyone is entitled to a fair and balanced trial. So how could they offer a plea without a thorough investigation in your case? There were so many holes and possibilities in the story, and so many disgusting people who wanted you, a child, dead. It just made no sense.

  “Even though most of the case and verdict was kept confidential, I cut out every newspaper and magazine article I could find, saved every website. Every term paper I wrote was about you. Some of the adjunct professors noticed my passion for your case and I built a reputation. Both good and bad. But it helped land me a job right out of school. You were a highlight of my law education. It was no accident that you called me. It was fate.”

  She blinks back tears and smiles. I don’t know whether to feel guilty or grateful. I stare down in the bag of my much-needed new wardrobe. Is Ms. Cora an answer to my prayers? I stopped praying so long ago that I can’t even remember what I asked for.


  “Mary, what are you thinking?”

  Mary, Mary, pretty little lamb . . . what are you thinking up in there.

  “I’m thinking that I’m scared.”

  “Of what? Losing your baby?”

  “No. Yeah, but . . . I’m scared of everything. Scared of all this we’re doing . . . of what it’s gonna do. What’s gonna happen to me?”

  Ms. Cora’s face turns real serious.

  “Mary, you’re not scared. You’re brave. It takes a brave girl to stand up and come clean. You calling me was brave. You standing up to your mother, really brave. You trying to go to school, fearless. All you’ve got to do now is tell the truth.”

  I swallow a lump in the back of my throat. The truth? I don’t even know what that is anymore. I’ve been living a lie for so long.

  “Thanks, Ms. Cora. No matter what happens, thank you.”

  She looks a little nervous, but smiles.

  “We’re going to win. And when we do, you’ll get to keep your baby. And you’ll have a whole new world in front of you. Which reminds me!”

  She wraps her arm around my shoulders.

  “SAT tutor? Why didn’t you tell me? I had no idea you were interested in going to college. What made you decide?”

  The twinkling tree lights bring me back to Alyssa’s living room. I can almost smell the sugar cookies in the oven, the baby powder, and pinecones. Mrs. Richardson, singing along to the Christmas carols on the radio. Me, sweating in my itchy red sweater and wool stockings, holding Alyssa under the tree, between the presents and toys, reading ’Twas the Night Before Christmas. Mrs. Richardson took a picture of us. I was smiling extra hard because I wanted it to be perfect. Wonder if she still has that picture.

  “Someone told me when you go to college, your life gets better. And you can escape what you were before and find who you’re supposed to be,” I say.

  Ms. Cora nods and smiles.

  “Whoever told you that knew what they were talking about.”

  I don’t mention that that someone was Alyssa’s mother.

  chapter thirteen

  Excerpt from The Alyssa Richardson Story by David Simmons (pg. 213)

  But no one was more devastated by the ruling than Mr. Richardson, Alyssa’s father.