“Ugh,” said Bunny. “Disgusting.”
She drove down to the center of town and edged her way into the traffic crawling around the square. She honked and slapped the steering wheel in frustration. “Jesus,” she said, “the businesses all move out, and you still can’t find a place to park.” She went around twice, stopping and starting and honking. An old man sitting on a bench yelled at her to lay off her horn. “It’s these hot-rodders that crowd things up,” she muttered. “They’ve got to show off their cars by driving around.”
“The square’s always been crowded,” I said.
“Yeah, but with people who have some reason to be here.”
She found a parking space, finally, in front of the courthouse. Just as we were getting out of the car, I saw a girl from my class, walking with two other girls I knew. I hopped back into the front seat and slouched down. “What’s the matter with you?” Bunny said.
“I don’t want to run into anyone.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she snapped. “Hold your head high. You haven’t done anything wrong.”
“I just don’t want to have to explain.”
The girls walked by in front of the car, too involved with themselves to notice Bunny and me.
“See?” said Bunny. “Nobody knows.”
She led me quickly across the green park that makes up the center of the square. People were out taking advantage of the tree shade, sitting on the benches or lounging in the grass. The bandshell was littered with hoods, who make it their special hang-out in the summer. A group of grade-school-age children was playing at the drinking fountain. As we passed the broad, black trunk of an elm, Bunny paused and pointed up at the sickly yellow leaves growing in sparse tufts in the upper branches. “Another dead tree,” she said.
Leaving the park and crossing the street, we went into the tallest building in town, the Katydid Hotel. People say it used to be grand, but now it’s mostly filled with offices. Since Chicago is only about two hours away by car, hardly anyone who’s passing through needs to stay overnight in Katydid anymore. A wide, worn staircase cuts into the lobby of the hotel, and we took that up to the second floor. Bunny led me down a narrow hallway to an office with a sign on the door, SIMON BEACH, ATTORNEY AT LAW. Inside was a waiting room with several people in it and a secretary at a desk.
“Well, hello, Bunny,” said the secretary. She was about Bunny’s age, with brown hair teased up above her head. “Was Mr. Beach expecting you?” She smiled in a smug way.
“No,” said Bunny tartly. She didn’t like that smile. “Just tell him I’m here to see him.”
“He’s with someone,” said the secretary. “I’ll have to wait until he’s between appointments.”
Bunny surveyed the waiting room and marched over to a red vinyl couch. The couch sank when she sat on it, and she had to wrestle her uniform to get it over her knees. I plopped down beside her.
The other people in the waiting room watched us obliquely, pretending not to stare. There was an old, white-haired man in worn, casual clothes, and a young couple with a girl about four. The room was plain and windowless, except for the smoky glass in the front door and in the door that led to the lawyer’s inner office.
Bunny closed her eyes and folded her arms across her chest. The old man and the family went back to the magazines they’d been reading, but after a few minutes, the little girl climbed down off her chair and walked over toward where we were sitting. She was wearing a fluffy pink dress and shiny, black Mary Janes. She stopped a few feet in front of us. She didn’t say anything, but she stared intensely at Bunny, examining everything about her. I saw the little girl’s lower lip tremble. She was entranced. She must have thought Bunny looked like someone from a storybook or a dream—someone too perfect and beautiful to be real. I smiled at her, but she didn’t notice me. Her face was set, half in wonder, half in fear. Finally, her mother looked up. “Susie!” she called out. The girl backed off, her eyes still on Bunny, then she turned and scooted away, throwing a long look back over her shoulder. Susie’s mother grabbed her and hissed something into her ear. The girl buried her face in her mother’s shoulder, but, every few minutes, she couldn’t resist peeking out at the wondrous figure across the room.
After half an hour, the door to the inner office opened, and Simon Beach came out, guiding a matronly woman by the arm. He stopped abruptly when he saw Bunny. “Hello, Mrs. Calhoun,” he said.
“It’s Bunny,” said Bunny grimly.
The lawyer glared at his secretary and then went back into his office and closed the door. The woman who’d been with him frowned and marched out. A few seconds later, something buzzed on the secretary’s desk, and she went into the inner office. When she came out, she told the family they could go in. She closed the door behind them and came over to Bunny and me.
“Mr. Beach won’t have time to see you today, Mrs. Calhoun,” she said.
Bunny didn’t move. The secretary displayed her smile again and went back to her desk. I leafed through some terribly boring lawyer magazines. Bunny smoked.
After about an hour, the family left, and we went through the same act. The secretary took the old man into the inner office, then told Bunny it was no use. Bunny just sat there, exhaling smoke. I didn’t know what she had in mind, but I’d seen her in one of these moods before, and I knew there was no use arguing with her or even asking what was going on.
Eventually, the old man left, too. The five o’clock whistle blew down at the KTD, and the secretary straightened her desk. She called goodbye to Mr. Beach, turned out the overhead light, and paused in front of us on the way out. “The door locks automatically, so you can just let yourselves out when you’re ready to go,” she said. She slapped us with that smile again as she left.
The waiting room was warm and filled with a dull, gray light. Clouds of Bunny’s cigarette smoke drifted gently above our heads. For a while, the place was so still I thought Mr. Beach might have left through the back. Finally, I saw a shadowy form moving behind the door to the inner office, and I could just make out a face pressed against the glass. Suddenly, the lawyer flung open the door and strode into the room. “Now, Bunny—”
“Liar! You filthy liar!” Bunny jumped to her feet. “You liar!” Her voice exploded with cracks and pops, she’d been holding it in so long.
Mr. Beach was across the room, but his arms shot up instinctively in defense. “Bunny, my God,” he said weakly. He glanced at me. “What’s this, your daughter? Let’s not involve her.”
Bunny stood with her head forward like an angry bull. “You promised,” she hissed. “You said any time.”
He looked miserably to me for help, then dropped his hands, shrugged, and ushered us into the inner office.
Bunny and I sat in chairs in front of his desk. A window looked down on Parker Street, where the army recruiter’s office is located in an odd little building made of corrugated pipe. In the heat, the recruiters had set up a card table outside, along the sidewalk. The table was covered with piles of brochures, each weighted down with a small stone. Two officers were sitting there alone, and the sidewalk was empty.
“This is Martha,” said Bunny. “She needs a lawyer.”
Mr. Beach smiled at me. “What happened? An accident.”
“This.” Bunny reached in her purse and brought out the paper she’d been given in court. She’d folded it into small squares, and the creases were already getting worn.
“This is a delinquency petition,” he said, after unfolding the paper and looking it over. “It says here she’s been behaving promiscuously.” His eyes shot over toward me.
“I can explain all that,” Bunny said. “But I want a lawyer to do it for me.”
“But this is juvenile court. They don’t use lawyers there.”
“Frankie Moon’s there.”
“He’s just the assistant county attorney. I mean the defendants, the children, don’t have lawyers.”
Bunny turned to me. “Well, that’s not fair,
is it, Martha?”
I shook my head.
“See?” said Bunny. “Martha wants a lawyer.”
“The only way you’ll get a lawyer in juvenile court is to hire your own,” said Mr. Beach.
Bunny stared at him. No one said anything for a few seconds. Mr. Beach swiveled gently, back and forth, in his chair. “Who was Tom’s lawyer, the last time, when he was in criminal court?” he asked.
“Lewis Atwood. I didn’t like him.”
“Was he assigned? Did the county pay for him?”
“I didn’t like him,” Bunny repeated.
The lawyer slapped his hand on his desk. “Bunny, I can’t take your case. I got a busy practice and I’m already overbooked.”
Bunny glowered.
“I’m expensive,” he said to me, shrugging. “Your mother can’t afford me.”
Bunny flicked her head in my direction. “Martha, will you leave us, please.”
I went out and sat down again on the couch in the waiting room. Mrs. Vernon was going to be worried, I knew. I’d already been gone two hours.
The sound of voices rose and fell in the inner office. I listened hard, but couldn’t make out what was being said. After a while, the voices got lighter and I heard an occasional laugh. Finally, Mr. Beach opened the door. He was holding a cigar, and smoke spilled out of the room behind him. “Do us a favor, wouldja, honey,” he said to me. “Run down to the Buffalo and get us a glass of ice.”
The Buffalo Tavern is on the first floor of the hotel, set off from the lobby by a pair of swinging doors. I’d never been inside, but I’d paused, once or twice, to peek through the crack between the doors. There was a long, curving bar, rows of bottles lined up in front of a huge mirror and bright-colored beer signs breaking the darkness. Men you’d never otherwise see around town were always going in and out.
I walked down to the lobby, then stood by the swinging doors for a few seconds before pushing on through. The room was bigger than I’d imagined. The bar swept off in a slow curve and disappeared in darkness, far at the other end. A few tables were scattered to the left, and, at one of them, someone was hunched over. There was a mop of tangled gray hair, beer bottles all around—whoever it was seemed to be in disarray, and I didn’t dare stare. To the right, on the wall above the mirror, someone had hung a buffalo’s head and decorated it with a giant pair of earmuffs. The buffalo’s blank, glass eyes looked down on the bar. Two men in suits were sitting on stools, talking to the bartender.
“It’s all numbers,” the first man was saying. He had a bald head and a crisp, efficient look. “They do it by numbers, and if the numbers don’t add up, that’s it.”
“Yeah,” said the second man. “There’s nothing we can do about it. We just listen to the numbers guys.”
“It’ll be real hard,” said the bartender. He had on a green knit shirt with a little palm tree over the pocket. “This town lives off that factory.”
“Hey, I know,” said the bald man. “I grew up in a factory town.”
In the back, suddenly, there was a clumping sound, followed by the crash of breaking glass. A bottle had been knocked to the floor.
“Christ,” said the bartender.
The two men in suits turned and gawked. The drinker slumped at the table straightened up groggily. I recognized Edith, an old woman I see around the square. In the summer, she likes to sit on a bench with her skirt pulled up and her stockings rolled down, getting a little sun on her knees.
“Jack, I shpilled it,” she mumbled.
“I heard,” said the bartender. “I’ll get it.”
“What’s she doing in here?” asked the bald man. He made a face.
Edith’s head rolled around her shoulders and she plucked absently at her gray curls.
“Look at her,” said the bald man. “She’s a mess.”
“She’s all right,” the bartender said. “She’s been sobering up for the last hour, just napping. She’ll go home and go to bed now.”
“No, I mean it,” the man insisted. “Why do you let her in? She’s disgusting.”
“Hey, cool off,” said his companion.
“Yeah,” said the bartender quietly. Lifting the flap to get out from behind the bar, he noticed me. “How long have you been there?” he asked irritably.
“Just now. I came for some ice. A glass of ice for Mr. Beach.”
“Ohhh,” he said, putting down the flap. He scooped ice out of a big, open tray and handed me the glass. “Ice for the little lady,” he said.
“The big lady!” said the bald man, leaning over to grin at me.
I thanked the bartender and hurried out.
Bunny and Mr. Beach stayed in the office for another hour or so. I could hear them laughing and the ice tinkling in their glasses. I considered using the secretary’s phone to call Mrs. Vernon, but I was afraid Bunny would hear me and get mad. While the room got darker, I just sat on the couch and waited, hoping Bunny knew what she was doing.
At last the door opened and they came out. Mr. Beach’s cigar was just an ugly stump, and he was holding it between his lips, though it wasn’t lit. Bunny was rummaging carelessly through her purse. She was blinky, the way she gets when she’s been drinking.
“Hello, Martha!” she said, too cheerfully.
I walked ahead of her into the hall. She stopped, still searching through her purse. Suddenly she tipped it, spilling her compact, some lipstick, a pencil, and—finally—the car keys onto the floor. “Aha!” she said, bending to sweep up everything. Mr. Beach patted her quickly on the bottom, while he winked at me.
“Come on, Bunny,” I urged, but my anxious tone only confused her and slowed her down.
“What a fussbudget,” she said, knowing I hated to be called that. “A fussbudget daughter.” She carefully packed up her purse and strutted out, dangling the keys around her finger.
“What did he say?” I asked, as we walked down the stairway.
“Oh, it’ll be all right,” she said. “He’s gonna work it out. It’ll be all right.”
“But what about the money? I thought he was expensive.”
“He owes me,” said Bunny.
Bright rays of the sun, surprising after the gloom of the waiting room, slanted across the square. The benches and lawns were almost deserted for dinnertime, though a handful of hoods was still lounging around the bandshell. I didn’t pay attention to them, but when we were getting into the car, Dwayne, the simple man, came up behind us, running in his awkward way, with his arms and legs flopping in different directions.
“Where’s your bicycle, Dwayne?” Bunny asked.
He stood in the street for a moment, huffing. Then he raised a bony arm and pointed at me. “Ho,” he said. “Ho, ho.” I knew what he meant even before a cackling sound drifted over from the bandshell.
“What?” said Bunny, sensing trouble. “What did you say?”
“Ho,” he said uncertainly. His arm dropped. “Ho.”
“He means, ‘whore,’ ” I said.
Bunny stared at me, unbelieving, and then picked up the distant cackle. She slammed the half-open car door and stomped over to Dwayne. His face went limp with terror. He backed off, but he couldn’t move quickly enough to escape Bunny. She put her finger at his throat, just above where his misbuttoned shirt opened onto a patch of pale skin.
“If you ever repeat that, I’ll never speak to you again,” Bunny snarled. “Never! Do you understand me?”
Dwayne nodded frantically. With the color washed out of his face, the dark stubble of his beard stood out. He’s so childlike that I’d never really noticed it before, and I wondered suddenly whether he could shave himself or whether someone had to do it for him.
“Never,” said Bunny.
“Nevva,” repeated Dwayne, in a high, tight voice. He turned and ran back toward the park. Not watching, he cut in front of a car. It honked and swerved sharply to avoid him. Frightened, Dwayne skittered off in a different direction, down the street and around the corner. The ca
ckling echoed behind him.
“Go home!” screamed Bunny in the direction of the bandshell. Then she climbed in the car and slammed the door again.
“It’s bad,” I said quietly.
“Silliness,” she said. Her eyes were shining. The effects of the drinking had burned off. “The lawyer will handle everything. Put it out of your mind.”
I told her I’d try my best to do that.
SEVEN
Bunny dropped me off in front of the Vernons’ house. Hurrying up the stone walk, I saw Mrs. Vernon’s head bob past the living room window. She’d been sitting, watching for my return. The door flew open when I reached the front steps.
“Lord, I was worried,” she said, hugging me hard. “I almost called the police.”
“We were at a lawyer’s,” I said. She kept hugging me. I didn’t know where to put my hands, so I just let them hang at my sides.
“A lawyer’s? Oh, Lord, I thought your mother had taken you and run away. I was afraid you were gone forever.”
Mr. Vernon had already eaten, but there was a place set for me at the dining room table. Mrs. Vernon set down a huge plate of stew, brimming with chunks of lamb and vegetables. I still wasn’t hungry, and with Mrs. Vernon watching every spoonful, I found it particularly hard to eat. That only made her fret more. “A young girl should have a big appetite,” she said. “It’s only old people like me who stop eating.”
After dinner, I escaped to Sissy’s room, but pretty soon Mrs. Vernon was at the door, asking if I wanted to join them in the parlor. I would have preferred to be alone, but, remembering Mrs. O’Brien’s warning about making progress, I followed Mrs. Vernon downstairs. Her husband was sitting in his chair, reading the Katydid Exponent and listening to the Cubs game on the radio. He looked at me for a second and something flickered over his face—a slight tightening of the muscles around his eyes that passed, apparently, for a greeting. Then he went back to the paper. I sat in a ladder-back chair beside the window. Mrs. Vernon took a pile of old Life magazines off a shelf and dropped them in my lap.
“Sissy used to love to look through Life,” she said. Then she sat down on the sofa and picked up her knitting.
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