We pulled into downtown Trenton, and right away we found a parking space on the street; but before getting out of the car, we arranged ourselves as best we could. We were sure to run into the same old photographers and reporters on the courthouse steps, and despite the fact that we claimed not to care, we still couldn’t help wanting to look our best. If Leonard had taught us anything about life, it was to always make an effort, because you never know.
Only Uncle Mike seemed unconcerned with his appearance; he just stood on the curb staring up at the clear blue sky and letting the wind make a mess of his hair. He looked wild-eyed and nervous and ashen. But then what could you expect from a person who was being haunted by a ghost?
“You all right?” I asked him.
“Just thinking.”
He ran his hand over his face and pulled at his features, as if he were desperately trying to change how he felt by rearranging his expression. Then he added, “Maybe Leonard was trying to tell us something. And I’ve been thinking maybe I know what it is.”
“Really?” I said. “What?”
“I think maybe he doesn’t want me to talk today.”
It had almost been too easy.
“You know,” I said to Uncle Mike, “you might be right.”
Then he turned toward me, placed his hand on my shoulder, and said, “It’s you who oughta speak for him, Pheebs. You’re the one oughta get up and say what Leonard wants. You know what it is, don’t you? He told you, didn’t he? You know.”
“What’s going on with you two?” Mom called out from where she was standing.
“Nothing,” Uncle Mike and I said at the same time.
“Well, then come on. Let’s get this over with.”
Once we were inside the courthouse, I surrendered to the usual grind of metal detectors and grumpy guards. As usual, I wished that I was anywhere but where I was—standing in my stocking feet on the cool linoleum flooring in a New Jersey courthouse.
“You’re clear,” the guard said.
When I sat down in one of the metal chairs to put my shoes back on, Uncle Mike was beside me lacing up his boots. I could feel him looking at me.
“So you’re gonna do the talking, right?” he whispered.
“No prob,” I said. And that was that. A deal had been struck.
twenty-two
THE COURTROOM WAS packed, and in anticipation of a sentence that would determine someone’s life or death, the reporters were crammed up against the doors.
Mom glared at the courtroom sketchers as we entered and then shook out her hair so they would be sure to notice her new hairstyle. We were called to order; Judge Gamble entered and began the sentencing phase of the trial. Right off the bat she asked our family if we wanted to step forward and speak on behalf of Leonard. We all rose, and though I was the one who had agreed to speak, I looked toward Uncle Mike and nodded at him as though it were time for him to say something or forever hold his peace. I know it was cowardly of me, but being in that courtroom again—standing before the same jury and facing Ms. Fassett-Holt—made me realize that my plea for Travis’s life might seem like the desperation of a spurned girlfriend trying to make good. Uncle Mike looked over at me as if he might lose his lunch right there in front of everyone. I shot him a don’t-look-at-me look. He unfurled his prepared speech, but clearly he was lost. He managed to swallow hard, ask for a drink of water, and then, after a couple of sips, clear his throat. I thought he might actually manage a few words; but just as he opened his mouth to speak, Deirdre took pity on him, lightly touched his arm, and stepped forward.
“Your Honor, if it’s all right, I’d like to speak for my family. But, um, if there’s no objection, I’d like to say it directly to Travis. I mean, if that’s all right?”
Judge Gamble looked around the room, took the temperature of everyone present, and then indicated with a quick nod that it was fine. She gave her gavel a single bang to quiet the rustles and whispers. Deirdre then turned her body to face Travis, who was sitting at the defense table. She addressed him directly.
“Hey, Travis.”
He looked up, startled by the sudden attention. It seemed that for the first time since the trial began, he actually looked like a human being; and maybe that was because for the first time since the trial began, someone was speaking directly to him instead of just about him. It was kind of genius, and I think everyone took notice. Suddenly he was just Travis Lembeck, some kid Deirdre had gone to school with, someone you could pass on the street and say “hey” to. But then, as if the pressure of being ordinary was too much for him, Travis turned and looked away.
“Look, I don’t know how to do this, so…” Deirdre fussed with her hair and let out a nervous little laugh. She was wearing a gray sweater hoodie and a black pleated skirt. She was actually wearing knee socks, her Adidas running shoes, and though she didn’t really have enough hair to warrant it, a headband. It was as if she had dressed to please just about everyone in the courtroom. On top of all that, her nerves had added a deep and sudden blush to her cheeks. She looked stunning. “Anyway, I just wanted to say that I don’t think anyone in this courtroom can excuse or pardon you for what you’ve done. No one in the world can do that. I guess maybe that’s God’s business. And really, for us, for my family, no punishment on earth could ever make up for the loss of Leonard Pelkey. You know that, right?”
Travis didn’t respond. In fact, he wasn’t looking at her, not even close. He’d fixed his gaze across the room where the wall and the ceiling joined; he was squinting hard as if desperate to read a message that had been written there for him in invisible ink. Unfazed, Deirdre continued.
“And y’know, as much as I hate to admit it, if that’s true … I mean, if it’s true that no one can pardon you, then I guess it’s also true that no one has the right to condemn you to death either.”
She paused here to yank up one of her socks, but really, I suspected her of pausing for dramatic effect. In either case, she accomplished both and then went on.
“Honestly? My whole family, I think we all wanted to see you die a slow and painful death. I mean, at first. We were that angry. But even Uncle Mike here, who’s been dead set against you, has kind of come ’round to another way of thinking in the past couple of weeks.” Uncle Mike snapped his head around at that and looked at Deirdre with an expression that said, Who me? “We all realize that maybe it’d be better if you were forced to live.” Mouths dropped open at this. “I mean, because that way, you’ll be forced to wrestle with your own conscience every single day for the rest of your life.” Murmurs of astonishment came from the crowd and a knock from the gavel. “But my one big hope, Travis? Our hope is that in that struggle, your conscience’ll beat the crap out of you every time. Some people complain that this kind of thinking allows killers to, literally, get away with murder. They say stuff like, ‘A killer has no conscience to wrestle with.’ And until recently maybe I was thinking that, too. But then, you want to know what made me change my mind?”
Once again, Travis didn’t respond. He just sat there staring off into space. Deirdre waited for him to at least look over at her. He didn’t.
“Travis? I said, you want to know what made me change my mind?”
More waiting as we all sat there watching Travis, knowing that he knew we were watching him. It was so painful, I thought the clock on the wall was going to explode into a million pieces. You could hear the pencils against papers as the courtroom sketchers made a mess of Deirdre’s beautiful face. The court stenographer stopped working her tiny machine. We all waited. But Deirdre wasn’t about to say another word until Travis made a move; and it was clear that he’d made up his mind to not make a move.
Judge Gamble opened her mouth to say something, perhaps to demand a response from him; but before a bubble of sound could form in her throat, Travis turned toward Deirdre and was saying in his most defiant voice ever, “What?”
Hearing Travis speak was a shock. And I think not just for me, but also for every
one. For the first time since this whole thing began, he was a participant in his own trial. That one word was enough to satisfy Deirdre and allow her to go on.
“My sister. Phoebe. It turns out she was kind of in love with you.”
Here she turned and looked over at me. Just her expression was enough of an apology for dragging me into it all over again. I could tell she was genuinely sorry to say my name aloud in court. But there it was. Meanwhile, I wished I could be anywhere else in the world but where I was. My mouth was as dry and dusty as a bag of Cheetos puffs, my shoulders had hunched and tightened, and even my hair was feeling the pressure of being stared at by strangers. To make matters worse, big gobs of shafty sunlight were streaming in the window like God had nothing better to do than make special effects.
“Sorry, Pheebs. But…”
Despite the fact that my face had probably turned a shade of beet and my body temperature was about ten thousand degrees above normal, I was cool with everything she’d said so far, and I’d live with anything she was about to say. For the first time in years, I actually felt like Deirdre and I were sisters again. But more than just blood bonded us together; it was the fact that now both she and I had been through something—again—that had left us irrevocably changed. I nodded so she could see in my eyes that she was my hero, she’d always been, would always be. She nodded back and then turned her attention to Travis.
“And I figured if someone as good and kind and smart as my kid sister could find something to love in a loser like you, then maybe there’s something in you worth saving. Okay, so maybe most people can’t see it, or don’t want to see it, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t there. Some spark, some, I dunno, some goodness or whatever that’s buried deep. At first, I couldn’t figure out why Phoebe could see it when no one else could. I mean, she fought tooth and nail for your life. You should know that. But then after this morning here in court, I dunno, everything suddenly added up, because I saw it was love. What else could explain it? And maybe that’s why she’s able to see the good in other people, too, why she was the first to make friends with Leonard when he came to live with us. Sure, she may’ve wanted to kill Leonard. We all did every once in a while. He could get on your nerves. But make no mistake—Phoebe loved Leonard. She loved him, and because of that, she was able to see what everyone else couldn’t. Same with you, Travis. You might not’ve deserved her love, but you got it anyway. That’s just the way it works.”
She came to a full stop here and appeared to be chewing the inside of her cheek. This was one of the oldest tricks in her book. I knew it from our childhood. Chewing her cheek was what she’d always done to keep herself from crying. I figured she was probably thinking about Dad. No matter what had happened between them, he was her father, always had been, always would be. And even though he didn’t deserve her love, she loved him anyway. That’s just the way it worked.
Finally she cleared her throat and started up again. But as she did, it was obvious that she wasn’t just talking to Travis anymore; she’d turned her attention toward the whole room.
“Over the past few weeks, our house’s seen some pretty lively debate about all this. But it was basically the same fight over and over. There was a lot of talk about justice and an eye for an eye and all that shit—sorry, Your Honor—and there was plenty of hate in the room. My sister, she kept arguing for more love, really. More mercy. And finally, I think for me it all came down to which side of the argument I was on—the hate side or the love side. I didn’t mean to make a big soapbox speech here today, I just wanted to say that in the argument, y’know, between hate and love, it’s really up to each one of us. In our hearts or wherever. Each of us has to take a stand every single day and say which side we’re on. And I dunno for sure, but maybe the whole purpose of evil in this world is to get people who aren’t really good and who aren’t really bad to stand up and, y’know, be better. Maybe without evil, the just people of the world who happen to be just going along, living their lives, and minding their own business—like the Hertle family, for example—maybe without evil, they’d never find the courage to come forward and do the right thing.”
She paused here and looked down at her running shoes, but I knew her so well. Her attention was so clearly on the room. She seemed to be aware of the effect she was having on the crowd, on the jury, on me and, yes, even on Travis. Who could blame her if she wanted to savor it for a moment before moving on to the next thing? But she’d said enough, and like any great performer who knows how to accurately take the pulse of the audience, she knew it was time to wrap it up.
“I guess that’s all.” Then a thought occurred to her. “Oh. Except, one more thing. I’m really sorry Leonard isn’t here with us. He would’ve loved all the theatrics. He would’ve had plenty to say about it all. He was like that. Mouthy. But since he couldn’t be here, I figured it was up to me to speak up.”
She then turned to face the ladies and gentlemen of the jury.
“Look. All I’m saying is this: When you’re back there deciding whether Travis Lembeck should live or die, all you have to do is think about it in your hearts—and choose between hate and love.”
* * *
When we finally left the courthouse that day and walked out into the late-afternoon sunlight, I noticed that everyone was leaning in, trying to get a good look at us. The usual gaggle of reporters and photographers was there, all of them tripping over themselves and tipping their mikes and cameras toward me or Deirdre or Mom while at the same time nagging us for a comment or attention. But there were also ordinary folks who had attended the trial and were now waiting for a glimpse of us. A woman with everyday hair was wearing a raincoat over her sweats and running shoes and yelling, “There she is! The girlfriend.” A guy in a leather bomber jacket, cheap jeans, and a gold chain around his neck was calling out Deirdre’s name like she was supposed to know him. A tangle of high school girls who looked like me two years ago, which is to say innocent and with coordinated outfits, kept jumping up to see me over the heads of other people. “I saw her!” one of the girls said to the others. “I saw her!” But I couldn’t tell whether they were referring to me, Deirdre, or Carol Silva-Hernandez, the newswoman from NEWS 5.
Of course, several of Mom’s customers were there as well; they stood in a row with their arms interlocked and their faces set. I’d never seen them look so determined, so serious. It took me a minute to realize that they had positioned themselves between the heaving crowd and us. They were standing nearby, moving along with us, and quietly protecting us from the crush of thrill seekers and rubberneckers until we were down the stairs and in the clear.
“You’ll be okay from here,” Mrs. Liggeria said to my mother. “You get into any trouble, you got my cell, right?”
Mom nodded and thanked them all, said she’d see them all back at the salon. I tried to thank them as well, but Deirdre took hold of my arm and pulled me along. I looked back, and I could see the women standing there—Mrs. Liggeria, Mrs. Kavanaugh, Mrs. Mixner, Mrs. Trabucco, Mrs. Landis, Mrs. Grig—all of them staring after us as we moved along. When I lifted my arm to wave them good-bye, I felt like a stranger, not only to them, but also to myself.
twenty-three
ON A BRIGHT afternoon in the spring of my senior year, I came home from school to find an actual letter waiting for me in our mailbox. We rarely ever got snail mail, so a letter with a handwritten name and address was something I would notice. We got birthday cards, of course; the occasional postcards from one of Mom’s regulars announcing the weather conditions in Tampa or the fact that her eczema had unexpectedly cleared up; and sometimes a customer who remembered me for giving her a good set and perm sent me a Christmas greeting with a five-dollar bill enclosed. But mostly my family’s daily post (as Jane Austen might have said) was made up of bills and advertisements. As soon as Electra hooked me up to my computer and connected me to the Internet, I was busy night and day receiving e-mails, checking my Facebook account, and messaging people I’d met
online. The only reason I bothered to flip through the mail each day was because I hadn’t yet heard that I was accepted at any of the three colleges to which I had applied.
The letter was addressed to me in shaky handwriting that I didn’t immediately recognize. But even before I opened it, I knew it was from Travis. Who else would be writing me from a state prison? I stood there in the hallway, weighing the envelope, examining the postage, and wondering where I should go to open it.
There was a time not that long ago when I would’ve clutched the letter to my heart, taken the stairs two at a time, thrown myself down on Deirdre’s bedspread, and forced her to open and read it because I was too excited. Together we would have examined the boy’s penmanship, speculated what his dotted i’s revealed, discussed what was written between the lines, and devised a suitable response. Travis would’ve become one of our projects, like butterfly collecting or candle making, projects that we took up with relish only to realize a month later that we had abandoned it for the next thing.
Deirdre and I used to tell each other everything. We were, after all, sisters; we had lived together under the same roof with the same set of parents, shared the same hairbrush, and showered with the same bar of soap. But so much had happened to us over the past few years, and so much of what had happened had happened to us separately, that we had quietly mislaid our common language. Following the trial and her amazing eleventh-hour performance, she and I had begun to once again live in the same universe; but it was a universe that was still new to both of us, and we were taking it slowly. Also, Deirdre graduated Roberson’s Beauty School and then started a new job answering the phones and booking appointments at a salon over in Asbury Park called P.S. Love Your Hair. She was working full-time, and the job had become her life. She was never home. After all that had happened, she was eager to get on with things and appear as normal as possible. And who could blame her for wanting that?
Absolute Brightness Page 25