Oliver frowned. “He was driving?”
“Yes, he was driving.” My voice sounded bitter. “And he drove too fast. About sixty miles per hour in a thirty-five-mile-per-hour zone. He went right through a stop sign at this intersection, and he crashed into a car. We nearly killed the girl who was driving it. She was in a coma for two months and now she’s paralyzed from the waist down. For life.” I looked over at him. “For ever and ever,” I added quietly.
Oliver’s frown was deep and troubled. “What about you and the boyfriend?” he asked. “Were you hurt? And why did you go to prison if he was driving?” Was he suspicious of my story? Who could blame him?
“We were completely okay,” I said. “Physically, anyway.” I thought of the inconsequential scar on my forehead beneath my bangs, then looked down at my hands where they rested in tight fists on my thighs. “But Trey—my boyfriend—ran off. He wanted me to say I was the driver.”
“What the hell?”
“I was an idiot.” I looked up at him. “I was so wasted, Oliver. I knew he was afraid of losing his scholarship to Georgetown Law. And I loved him. And I wasn’t thinking clearly and … it made sense to me in that crazy moment. I could protect him. Protect his future. I thought it was our future. Together. It didn’t seem like such a big deal. So I let the police think I was driving.” I shut my eyes, the miserable scene coming back to me again. “I got out of the car to try to help the driver—the girl—but I was so messed up, I didn’t know what to do. I was screaming my lungs out. Shouting for help. The girl—her name is Emily—she was crunched up against the horn and it was blowing in a steady stream. This horrible sound.”
“You didn’t tell the police your boyfriend had been driving?”
I shook my head. “I thought I was being a good girlfriend. I would have done anything for him. I never in a million years thought I’d end up in prison. When I finally told the truth about what happened, no one believed me. They talked to Trey and he had a friend lie for him. His friend said he was with him at the time of the accident.”
“What a prick.”
“Yes,” I agreed. “What a prick.”
“So nothing happened to him?
“Nothing. He’s in law school now. At least, I suppose he is. I’ve had no contact with him.”
Oliver rubbed his temple. There was such kindness in his face. I wished he’d say something.
“I have nightmares,” I added.
“I bet you do.”
“The whole time I was in prison, I blocked out thoughts of the girl we hurt.”
“You keep saying ‘we.’”
“I blame myself almost as much as I blame him.”
“You didn’t leave the scene.”
I said nothing. Looked down at my hands.
“Have you had any contact with the girl?”
“No. Though … I’ve tried looking her up online, but if she has any social media stuff she’s hidden it.” I looked up at him. “I think about her all the time,” I said. “I worry about her. I hope somehow she’s found some peace.”
He stared at me, his beautiful blue eyes so serious behind his glasses. So pained.
“And how about Morgan?” he asked.
I looked at him, perplexed. “How about Morgan?”
“How are you doing with finding some peace?”
I shook my head. “Not so well,” I said. “I’m…” I searched for the right word. “I’m ashamed of who I was.”
“‘Was’ is the definitive word in that sentence, Morgan.” He nodded toward the mural. “And I think you’re the perfect person to work on this mural,” he said, with a small smile.
“You do? Why?”
“You and Anna,” he said. “I think it’s safe to say that, for whatever reason, she had her own share of nightmares. I know you already care about her, don’t you?”
I nodded. He was right. I did.
“I have the feeling that if anyone is going to do right by her,” he said, “it’s you.”
Chapter 32
ANNA
January 24, 1940
Jesse was lying to her. She’d wanted to believe him when he said he had all those extra periods at school and that was why he was able to spend so much time in the warehouse, coming a couple of hours earlier than Peter each day. She’d wanted it to be the truth. But she’d received a letter from Mrs. Furman, his art teacher, the day before, telling her that Jesse was failing every subject except art. He’s skipping most of his classes, Mrs. Furman wrote. Perhaps I made a mistake, sending him to work with you.
Anna read and reread the short letter, her heart sinking. Yesterday, Jesse’s eyes had been bloodshot from lack of sleep because he’d stayed up late to devour the latest library book she’d brought him.
“I want to learn everythin’,” he’d told her when he arrived in the warehouse. He’d set the heavy book on the Old Masters down on one of the warehouse tables, his hand resting on top of it as if he could soak up everything in its pages through his skin.
She’d been delighted as usual by his enthusiasm. “Which of the artists were you most drawn to?” she’d asked.
“I got a favorite,” he said. “That Vermer fella.”
“Vermeer.” She corrected him with a smile. “And which Vermeer do you like best?” She fully expected him to pick nearly everyone’s favorite, The Girl with the Pearl Earring, but he surprised her.
“I like that Geographer one,” he said. “I like how the light is comin’ through the window with all them little panes.” He glanced down at the book. “I looked at it for a hour last night,” he said. “I wanna know how to paint like that.”
She was surprised to feel tears burn her eyes. The Geographer, with its complex composition and intriguing use of light, was one of her favorite Vermeers as well, and the fact that Jesse saw the beauty in the painting both touched and pained her. He needed a chance to learn all there was to learn about his craft. How he was ever going to get that chance, she didn’t know. Now, with the arrival of Mrs. Furman’s letter, she knew his chances were slimmer than ever.
When Jesse arrived at the warehouse early that afternoon, Anna was ready for him. He was grinning, sketch pad in hand, anxious to show her a portrait he was working on, and she felt almost guilty for putting a damper on his excitement.
“I heard from Mrs. Furman,” she said, before he had a chance to open the cover of the sketch pad, and she watched his smile fade.
He looked away from her, then lowered himself to the chair by his easel in a silent slump, sketch pad askew on his lap.
“I know you’re neglecting your other subjects and responsibilities, Jesse.” She stood above him, arms folded, voice stern. She felt like an old schoolmarm. “It’s so important that you keep up with your schoolwork. I don’t want you to help me here if it’s interfering with your regular studies.” This was not quite the truth. Yes, she wanted him to do well, but she would miss his help—she’d miss him—if he no longer came to the warehouse each day. She would miss his passion.
“Don’ care ’bout school,” he muttered, then raised his gaze to her. “I’m gonna drop out and I’ll jest help you here ever’ day.”
“Oh, no you won’t,” she said, lowering her arms to her sides. “You can’t drop out. You have too much promise, Jesse. You need to finish high school and graduate and then go to college where you can study art.” Even as she said the words, she knew what she was describing was a pipe dream. First, according to Mrs. Furman, his grades in all his other subjects would never get him into college. Second, he surely came from a poor family. How could they afford to send him away to school? Third, where could a colored boy go to study art?
Jesse said nothing, just sat there staring at the unopened sketchbook on his knees.
“I’d like to come by your house and speak to your parents about this,” Anna said. His parents needed to know that their son was shirking his responsibilities at school and that, if he’d only apply himself, he might have a future in art. “Wh
en would be a good time for me to stop by?”
She expected the proposal to alarm him, but it had the opposite effect. He lifted his face to hers with a grin. “Mama wants to meet you, actu’lly,” he said. “She said to ask you to come to Sunday dinner, but I didn’t think you’d wanna do that so I didn’t say nothin’.”
She was surprised. “Well, then, that’s perfect,” she said after a moment. “Please tell your mother thank you, and I’d be delighted to come.”
Chapter 33
MORGAN
July 10, 2018
I stared at the scarred section of the mural near the lumberjack’s cheek, uncertain what color Anna Dale had intended to paint the forested background in that area. The paint was horribly abraded in the trees, and there were hundreds of places just like it throughout the mural. Thousands, probably. Places where I’d have to guess. To rely on my best judgment. The realization made me anxious. I didn’t know what I was doing, and I didn’t want to bother Oliver before every single brushstroke I had to make.
He was still working near me in the foyer and I was glad, and not just because I still needed his guidance. I liked his calm, quiet company. Crates of artwork for the gallery arrived daily now, and he’d carefully open each one, peel back layer after layer of protective padding, and check the contents over with a fine-tooth comb while making notes about it on the clipboard he carried around with him. Then he’d package the painting up again to take it to the temperature-controlled storage building where he was keeping the work until the gallery was ready. The elaborate security system was now in place and it wouldn’t be long before the display rooms were painted, the humidification system up and running, and the rooms ready to be filled with art.
When he wasn’t dealing with the art, Oliver was busy writing the wall texts that would go beside each piece. I knew he was particularly stewing over what he’d write for Anna’s mural. What could you say about a puzzle that had no answers?
Just like the blank spot near the lumberjack’s cheek. I stared at it a while longer as though the answer might magically come to me. Finally I gave in and turned to Oliver.
“I can’t figure out what should go here,” I said.
Without a word, he set down the box he was opening, stood up, and joined me in front of the mural. He chewed his lip as he appraised the abraded area. Then he pointed to another spot in the lumberjack’s section of the mural.
“Look at the way she treated similar areas,” he said. “That’ll help you figure out what she intended.”
I studied the way Anna had used color to bring out the depth of the forest. She really had been a staggeringly good artist. “She always goes dark,” I said. “She always goes for red. That deep blackish red, wherever she can. Even here in the trees.”
“That ‘dried-blood’ red.” Oliver smirked. “Her signature color.”
I elbowed him, laughing. “Exactly,” I said.
I expected him to walk back to his folding table, but he stood still, and I felt his gaze on me. I turned to look at him, breathing in that enticing leathery scent he seemed to carry with him.
“You have such a good eye, Morgan,” he said. “Trust yourself a bit more.”
He did return to his worktable then, and I began mixing paint, but my mind was still on him. I thought I was sort of falling in love with him. He seemed so much older than me, and so different. Bob Dylan? Really? But where I’d seen a nerdiness in him only a few weeks ago, I now saw an intelligence. Where I’d seen a straight-arrow rule follower, now I saw a maturity I wished I could emulate. And where I saw the smooth, slightly pink skin of his cheeks … well, there were moments when I wanted to press my lips against that skin, just to see what it would feel like. The thought sent a surprising jolt to the pit of my stomach, and I returned my attention to my work, smiling to myself as I carefully brushed Anna’s “signature color” into the trees.
It was dark by the time I walked home that evening. I felt no fear walking through Edenton’s downtown at night. The town seemed idyllic to me, a charming water-bound haven that was easing the hypervigilance that had been my companion in prison. I no longer looked over my shoulder as I walked. I no longer tightened my fists when I was out in the open, ready to defend myself.
Lisa’s car was gone when I reached the house. I took a bath in the walk-in bathtub that had been installed for Jesse, then headed for the sunroom. In the hall, I passed a small framed medallion I had never truly noticed before. I stopped to look at it, gasping when I realized what it was. The National Medal of Arts. I knew Jesse had been awarded the medal at some time, but it never occurred to me that the actual bronze medallion was here, just a few yards from where I slept each night. I read the inscription on the plaque beneath it.
Presented by President Barack Obama to Jesse Jameson Williams on this day, August 5, 2012
Oh my God. August 5? Was this the reason Jesse wanted the gallery to open on that date? To commemorate his receiving the National Medal of Arts? If that was the case, the medal was more important to him than it appeared to be, hanging in the hallway here between the sunroom and bathroom. We needed to move it to the gallery.
We.
I stunned myself as the pronoun passed through my mind. We. Not they. The gallery was no longer simply my job. My mere ticket out of prison. It had become more to me than that.
Carefully, I lifted the framed medallion from the wall and carried it into the kitchen. I propped it up against the fruit bowl on the island, then wrote a note for Lisa. Check out the date! We need to hang it in the gallery.
Then, with a smile on my face, I went to bed.
Chapter 34
ANNA
January 28, 1940
Following the directions Jesse had given her, Anna drove into the countryside, imagining what her afternoon with the Williams family would be like. Sunday dinner would be at three o’clock because they apparently spent the entire morning and early afternoon at church. Anna hoped they didn’t ask her about her own churchgoing habits—or lack thereof. She felt nervous about this visit. What right did she have to tell a mother and father how they should handle their son?
She expected that they would be very poor, like so many colored families. She pictured their farm on a small plot of land. Perhaps they were sharecroppers and their home little more than a rundown shack. She needed to prepare herself to feel even more like a fish out of water than she already did in Edenton.
As soon as she pulled into the long driveway of the white, two-story farmhouse, she knew her expectations had been wrong. She had faulty preconceived notions about people, just like everyone else, she thought. She had prejudgments. She had prejudices.
The house was not huge by any means, but it was not a shack, either. On either side of it stretched fields, fallow now for the winter. A truck and a wagon were parked on one side of the house, a dusty black sedan on the other. She stopped her Ford in the driveway and dogs appeared from nowhere to greet her as she got out of the car. Four of them clustered around her, barking, tails wagging. They seemed friendly enough and she held out her hand for them to sniff. Jesse came out of the house, screen door slapping closed behind him, and told the dogs to “hush.”
“Dinner’s near ready,” he said in greeting. “Come on inside.”
She followed him up the steps to the front porch. This close, Anna could see that the house needed painting and some of the railings on the porch were splintering, but she would have to say that Jesse’s house was in no worse shape than Miss Myrtle’s for having gone through some rough economic years.
The front door led almost immediately into the kitchen, where three women bustled around the stove and the counters, and the air seemed thick with cooking smells both savory and pungent. Anna’s mouth instantly watered.
One of the women worked over a frying pan filled with something that popped and sizzled on the stove. She lifted her head in Anna’s direction with a half smile. “I’m Jesse’s mama, ma’am,” she said. Anna was surprised by the wom
an’s light skin and silky black hair tucked behind her ears in waves. The woman could probably pass for white if she chose to. She was definitely Jesse’s mother, though, no doubt about it. Her eyes were like his: round, dark, and beautiful. “We about to put dinner on the table,” she said. “Glad you could join us. Jesse, you git washed up now.”
“Yes, Mama,” Jesse said, and he disappeared from the kitchen.
“Thank you for inviting me.” Anna felt awkward standing there empty-handed while the three women worked. One of them set down the knife she was using, wiped her hands on her apron, and took a few steps toward her.
“I’m Jesse’s aunt Jewel,” she said. She was a pretty woman with skin the same rich shade as Jesse’s, almond-shaped eyes, and coarse hair smoothed back into a bun. The woman’s smile struck Anna as serene, as though nothing in the world could fluster her, and she liked her instantly. “Jesse’s told us about what y’all are working on,” Aunt Jewel continued. “It’s all he talks about these days. And he loves those books you got for him to borrow.” Aunt Jewel looked at the third woman in the kitchen who was whipping something in a large beige crock. “Dodie?” she prompted. “Say hello to our guest?”
The woman stilled her hands and looked up from the bowl, and Anna saw that she was really a girl, no more than eighteen or nineteen. She had a boxy build, a narrow dark face, and an expression that was either tired or bored.
“Hey,” the girl said.
“Hi, Dodie,” Anna said, but Dodie had already returned her attention to her task.
“Jesse’s sister,” Aunt Jewel said.
“Ah,” Anna said.
“We’re ready.” Jesse’s mother lifted a platter of fried chicken from the counter and walked past Anna into the next room.
Big Lies in a Small Town (ARC) Page 19