He smiled. “Who would like to go first?”
Absolute quiet. Linc waited.
Anita rolled her eyes and tapped her foot, encased in three-inch mules. “Geez, Louise, do I have to start off everything?”
Joanie Jorgensen, who worked part-time at the bakery, raised her chin. “No, I’ll start. I’d like to talk about loneliness.” Her husband, Woody, had died two years ago in a fluke car accident, and since her kids were grown, she’d floundered. Plain but handsome, she dressed like Linc’s kindergarten teacher in prim dresses and thick-soled shoes.
Again, silence.
Linc finally spoke. “I have an idea to keep the discussion going. How about whoever speaks gets to pick the next person to suggest a topic?” He reached over and snagged the eraser from the board. Gently he tossed it to Joanie, who giggled when she caught it. “Shoot this to whomever you choose to go next.”
Finally one woman nodded, another agreed and at last he had consensus. Primly, Joanie threw the eraser to Patricia O’Brien, mother of six. She said, “Raising kids?” Plump, with a pretty heart-shaped face and warm blue eyes, Linc suspected she really wanted to talk about not having any more children. Demurely, she tossed the eraser to Anita, who caught it deftly.
“Growing old?” Anita put on the board. She fluffed her hair. “Not that it’s happening to me, mind you.” That brought smiles. At forty-something, Anita was pretty in a flashy way. Margo teased Linc that the divorcée was sweet on him.
Ona James, who helped her husband out at the hardware store he owned, and who had one of the two supportive spouses of this group, took the eraser from Anita and said, “Having money. Of your own.” Hmm, Linc hadn’t guessed that might be an issue with her. He watched the somewhat plain forty-year-old flush at his concerned look.
“How about getting along at work?” Barb said when she held the eraser. Again Linc was surprised. He thought she liked her part-time job at the drugstore. Her husband, friends with Ian James, also was supportive of this group, and seemingly of her. “Anything else?” Linc asked.
No response. Finally he said, “I guess that’s enough for now. Why don’t we—”
He heard the door to the fellowship hall open. From the entryway emerged a petite woman with brown hair scrubbed back in a tight knot; she wore an anxious look on her face.
Rosa DeMartino. “Sorry I’m late.” Unbuttoning a worn coat, she crossed shyly to the group.
“It’s fine, Rosa.” Linc gave her a warm smile. “We’re just glad you’re here.”
“Whatsamatter, sweetie. Oversleep?” Anita teased.
Everyone chuckled; they knew Rosa was the hardest worker in Glen Oaks, cleaning houses and doing other odd jobs around town when her husband was out of work. In his employed time, he wouldn’t let her work. Shaking her head, Rosa looked much older than her thirty-eight years.
Linc remained silent, trying not to be judgmental. But he could guess why she was late. Sam probably just left for the racetrack, which would be opening soon, and had recently called back its workers.
“It doesn’t matter, Rosa,” Linc said softly. “We’re just brainstorming ideas for the group to discuss in the future. Grab some coffee, take a look at what’s on the board and see if you have anything to add.”
Forgoing the coffee, she dropped down into a chair next to Barb and stared at the board. After a long look, she said, “Freedom. I’d like to talk about having some freedom.”
Chapter 7
*
ROLLING UP THE sleeves of his denim shirt, Tucker loped down the stairs to the first floor of Doc’s cottage, into the living room, which overlooked Glenora Lake.
And faced a ghost. Dressed in jeans and a black T-shirt which read, In my world you don’t exist, was the son who resembled his father so much it was hard to believe the boy wasn’t a figment of Tucker’s imagination. Had Doc forgotten to tell him something? Tucker was going to wring the old buzzard’s neck.
The kid stood by the trophies lining the bookcases on the side walls. Seething all over again at the display of their success—Tucker wanted no part of it—he watched Ron inspect him.
Tucker finally nodded. “Ron.”
Ron nodded back.
Doc, who was fishing something out of the drawer underneath the bookcases, straightened. “Here they are.”
Calling himself a mealy-mouthed coward, Tucker made a quick loop to the left and fled to the kitchen, pretending he wanted something to drink; he was really giving himself time to deal with the all-too-real specter in the living room.
He hadn’t expected this kind of…unease at confronting Ron Donovan, Tucker thought as he popped open a can of soda. The cold liquid wet his suddenly parched throat. The first few times he’d seen the kid, his discomfort had snuck up on him like a rookie driver trying to pass, but after a few contacts, he thought he’d be used to Ron’s resemblance to the man he’d killed.
Must be this was going to be his purgatory. Every one of those fifteen hours per week of community service would likely burn the fires of the damned right through Tucker’s soul.
Quit cowerin’ out here , he told himself disgustedly. Face your sins.
Crunching the aluminum can in his hand, he tossed it in the trash and ambled out into the living room, as if he were strollin’ along the riverbank. Doc had what Sports Illustrated called their “spectacular new car” plans spread out on the coffee table, and the kid sat next to him on the couch. Tucker circled around and stood behind them; he tried to concentrate on the blueprints, but instead, he stared down at the dark head and the gray one bent close together. Beth Donovan’s hair was lighter than Ron’s, more chestnut than raven. It curled real soft and pretty around her face and shoulders.
“See here,” Doc said in his perennially gruff voice. “This is one of the modifications we’re makin’.”
The kid nodded; he was either clueless about cars or he didn’t give a shit about Doc’s landmark designs.
Your son wants to race?
Yes, of course.
“Quaid thinks we can go even bigger and still fit the template. We’ll get thirty to forty more miles a gallon outta it.”
Ron said, “I seen Honda’s new design. They aren’t trying that.”
“Honda don’t know shit about stock-car design. When they entered the last…”
Tucker let Doc’s words fade off. He crossed to the triple glass doors of the room and stared out at the lake. March had stirred up the frigid water so it crashed on the shore like an angry fist pounding out its frustrations. Countless whitecaps were visible—big teeth that ate up the surface of the lake.
“Whatdaya think, Tuck?”
“Sorry, I wasn’t listenin’.”
“Young Ronny here agrees with you about the gas lines.”
“I didn’t…” The kid started to protest. He sounded horrified, as if agreeing with Tucker was tantamount to making a pact with the devil. Christ, was the entire six months going to be like this?
“You’re outvoted then, old man.”
Doc grumbled and handed the boy the plans. “Take these home and study them. Be familiar with the whole set by the next time you come.”
From his vantage point, Tucker could see Ron’s face lit with pleasure. “Is the car here yet?”
“In production as we speak,” Doc told him. “The chassis and roll cage’ll be delivered next week. We start puttin’ on the shocks, suspension, springs and wheels soon as we get it.”
Trying to join in, Tucker said, “Then it’s called a rolling chassis.”
Ron raised disgusted eyes to him. “I know that. I been around tracks all my life.”
Again Tucker turned his back on them. Danny Donovan’s apparition was bitter and surly and, fuck it, Tucker didn’t want to deal with him. He’d told Doc so.
Tough shit , the old man had said. It’s a done deal.
Doc was talking to him. “Tucker, we gotta set up this week’s schedule.”
Circling around, Tucker said glibly, “I’m not goin’ to an
y cotillions, Doc. My time is yours. Schedule the kid any time you want.” And just maybe Tucker could arrange to be absent.
Ron’s voice was noticeably less surly when he said, “I, um, go to jail on Saturday.”
“Hrrmph.” Doc studied the calendar. “How ’bout after school on Monday, Wednesday and Friday? We can get the hours in then.”
Ron nodded, mumbled something about meeting with a counselor first, then set times with Doc.
Tucker thought about Beth Donovan, and how she needed her son to work at the diner. In a moment of whimsy, he wondered if maybe he and the kid could trade places. Oh, sure, all he needed was to see those sad brown eyes full of forgiveness three times a week. It was hard enough trying to avoid her when she’d dropped Ron off here. Damn fool kid had a DUI and couldn’t drive for a while.
Doc peered closely at Ron. “You smoke, boy?”
“Huh?”
“Asked if you smoked.”
“Uh, yeah.”
Doc snorted. “Come on out in the garage with me. We’ll have a smoke before you go.” He looked pointedly at Tucker. “Can’t even have a goddamned cigar in my own livin’ room now that I got a houseguest.”
“You’ll die from it, yet, with that angina,” Tucker said.
“I’m too mean to die.” He shuffled toward the garage with Ron behind him. The boy banged the door shut without another word.
Tucker turned away and his gaze caught on the bookcases. He might be able to keep Doc from smoking around him—and by God he’d get him to quit if it was the last thing he did—but he couldn’t keep him from displaying their accolades like they were religious relics. Slowly, Tucker surveyed the showy mementos. Three Daytona 500 trophies. Three Winston Cups. Engraved plaques from big tracks like Darlington and Dover to the lesser wins in Pocono and Watkins Glen. A lifetime of achievements. And what did he have to show for it? No kids. No wife. No family to speak of. Just one lone man who was as ornery as a wounded bear most of the time. He wondered how Ron Donovan was going to deal with Doc. The kid was long on rebelliousness and short on patience.
Shrugging, Tucker returned to the glass doors, but his thoughts stuck with him like flypaper. Ron was going to jail. He hoped to God the weekend situation was better than most prisons. Tucker wondered how he could find out.
His mind immediately conjured up Ron’s mother again. How were those slender shoulders going to bear this newest trial? Resigned, and placid, she’d thanked him, for God’s sake. Her touch had been firm, and her scent—she’d smelled like magnolias—had wafted up to him.
Again, he wondered if he could do something for her. She’d refused the money he’d offered years ago. What the hell else could he do?
You can help her kid.
Damn, he wished he knew more about the jail thing. Then he remembered something. He crossed to the closet and ferreted out the jacket he’d worn to the Council meeting last Friday. In the pocket was Joe Murphy’s card.
We’ll need to stay in touch about this community service, if it goes down like this.
Tucker had tried to foist the card and the responsibility off on Doc—it had been his frigging idea after all—but Doc had dug in his heels and said Tucker’d have to deal with the agency.
Just another part of the punishment, he thought, heading toward the phone to call Murphy. Jesus Christ, how had he become a part of the Donovans’ lives?
*
LANCASTER CORRECTIONAL FACILITY loomed before them, a hulking brute of a building, made of stone that had weathered to an ominous gray. Out in the middle of nowhere, twenty miles to the north of Long Island and a half hour from Glen Oaks, it stood four stories tall and reminded Beth of a fortress. Ronny gasped as soon as it came into view. The dreary March Saturday morning was a fitting backdrop to the gloom that had settled into the van.
On her son’s left, in the backseat, Beth grasped his hand; on his right, Annie had linked her arm with his. From the front seat, next to Linc, Margo, who’d taken the train up from the city the night before, said, “It looks a lot better than Alcatraz, kid. I think you can handle it.” Beth recognized the traces of concern in her attempt to lighten the mood.
Linc reached over and squeezed her knee. He glanced in the rearview mirror. “We know you can handle it, don’t we, buddy?”
They’d all agreed Ronny needed some Scared Straight tactics, but they weren’t going to leave him hanging out to dry, either, with no adult support. They’d had too much of that kind of neglect themselves. Her son was frightened to death of this experience, and by God they were all going to help him through it.
They halted at an entrance booth, flashed the pass the jail had sent in a packet of instructions, and parked in the small lot. Beth slid out of the right side, and Ron followed her. He retrieved his belongings—he’d been told to bring a change of clothes, sleep-wear, towel and toiletries, a book, quarters for candy and soda, and any medication in its original containers. As he dragged the duffel bag out of the back, she was reminded of the little boy she’d dropped off at a week-long camp when he was seven. His chin had stuck out in false bravado just like now, and he’d faced her with the same dark, wary eyes. Though he was over six feet tall instead of four, and wore black jeans, a shirt reading It’s not a phase and black boots, he seemed as young and fearful as he had in his silly Camp Tomahawk T-shirt, denim shorts and navy blue sneakers. She’d cried on Margo’s shoulder all the way home that day.
When everyone had exited, Linc locked the car and put his arm around Ron; they walked to the entrance marked INMATES.
Inmates.
Oh God.
An armed guard buzzed them in. Painted a stark white with nothing on the walls, the reception area held a desk and a structure behind it that looked like a huge cage with wire baskets. A second uniformed guard, with a brush cut and a scar just below his ear, manned the area; his name tag read, T. WELLS, CORRECTION OFFICER. He scowled at them. The only other occupant of the room stood when they entered.
It was Joe Murphy.
“Joe?” Linc halted halfway to the desk.
Beth stopped, too, puzzled by Joe’s presence.
Annie froze.
Margo stepped back and slid an arm around Annie’s shoulder.
“What are you doing here?” Annie asked.
“I came to see if I could be any help.”
Before Annie could respond, Ron said, “Thanks.” He seemed relieved Joe was there.
Joe nodded to the officer. “You’ll have to surrender all your personal belongings, Ron—wallet, comb, et cetera.” He glanced at Beth, gave her a weak smile, then stepped forward and guided them both to the desk.
“Name,” the guard growled.
“Ron Donovan.” Ronny’s voice cracked, which it hadn’t done since he was thirteen. Beth’s stomach somersaulted. It all seemed surreal, as if the guard was an actor out of The Shawshank Redemption and the monstrous building was a stage facade.
“Empty your pockets, and put the stuff in here.” He handed Ron a basket. “You goin’ to Intake with him?” he asked Beth.
“Yes.
He faced Joe. “You his father?”
“I’m his social worker.”
The guard gave a clipped nod. “You goin’ in, too?”
Ron said, “Come, please. For Mom.”
Beth nodded, grateful beyond measure Joe had had the foresight to come out here. Though he was a far cry from the knight in shining armor Annie used to see him as, Beth welcomed his support today.
The guard asked Joe and Beth to give up their belongings, then buzzed again, and indicated a heavy steel door. “Through there,” was all he said.
Her knees like jelly, Beth turned to the door and took a step toward it but stumbled; Joe caught her arm.
“Easy,” he whispered out of earshot to Ron. “We’ll get through this.”
Leaning on him, she followed her son into the jail.
They entered a larger area with a battered desk and four chairs. Behind the desk sat a man in a s
evere navy suit. He was big and black and wore wire-rimmed glasses. His name tag read, J. BAILEY, INTAKE OFFICER. “Ronald Donovan?” he asked coldly.
Ron nodded.
“Mrs. Donovan?” Bailey’s voice held a trace of warmth as he extended his hand to her, shook it, and motioned them to sit. She noticed his wedding ring and wondered if he had any kids, wondered if he knew the agony of watching your child go through something so awful. He nodded to Joe. “Murphy.”
Before she could question their familiarity, Bailey turned to Ron. “I’ll outline for you and your mother what will happen this weekend, Donovan. Then you’ll be taken inside alone.” He faced Beth. “He’ll be safe here, Mrs. Donovan, but we won’t coddle him. This program is for men like Ron who are this close to prison.” He made an inch-size gesture with his thumb and index finger.
Men like Ron? But her son was a…Oh. Lord, he was man.
“You’re lucky to get in here.” Bailey focused on Ron with a glacial stare. “And you do one thing wrong, you’re out on your ear and we throw you into the system. You got that?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Every weekend until the end of May you’re ours at exactly eight A.M. on Saturday morning. For the first two weekends, you’ll stay in a cell till Sunday night at seven, when your mother can pick you up. You’ll be allowed out only for meals and breaks. This time is for you to think about what you’ve done and how lucky you are to be here. You’ll have no contact with inmates but meals.”
Ron nodded. So did Beth. At least he’d be safe.
“After those two weekends, you’ll work in a supervised program.” He picked up a folder. “Right now, we’re painting for the Lancaster County Housing Authority. You’ll start at nine A.M. on Saturday, work until seven at night. Meals will be provided. You’ll spend Sundays going to church, meeting with counselors and returning to the houses to paint for the afternoon.”
Ron nodded again, but he gripped the edge of the chair. Beth reached out and covered one of his hands. Though it was big and masculine, it trembled in hers.
“There are only two rules here. Do exactly as you’re told, and don’t get in any trouble. You don’t follow them, you’re out. Being assigned to Lancaster’s Weekend Program is a privilege, and if you blow it, you’re history.” He stood and checked the clock. “Time to go.”
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