Her dependence on them was, according to Norah, clinical. Polly had moved Norah in the middle of the school year for one husband, dragged her to church and made her get baptized for another. She’d changed careers, hair colors, and political parties in the name of whatever man she’d hitched herself to at the time. It made sense that Norah had grown up to see men as commodities to be traded, pawns to be moved around on her board, a means to an end. They were always, in her world, interchangeable. Accessories more than humans.
Polly’s voicemail came on, and Bess left a message, making her voice sound cheerful and upbeat. Bess didn’t hold the woman’s prior sins against her. Polly wasn’t her mother. And she was doing the right thing by offering to help in this hard time. It was the least she could do. “Hey, Polly,” she said. “I’ve made too much dinner and thought maybe I’d bring some over to you and Violet. Thought maybe that would be one less thing to worry about. Let me know if that sounds good!”
She put the phone down and peered out at the shed, willing Jason to step out of it now while she was home alone—Casey was off doing whatever with whomever, Nicole was at play practice (she hadn’t gotten the lead role in the fall musical and was hell on wheels to live with, so Bess preferred when she was gone these days), and Steve had a dinner with a client and wouldn’t be home till late. So she was home alone. Never mind that she’d put a whole chicken in the Crock-Pot that morning with carrots and potatoes and onions. The food smelled delicious, and there was no one there to eat it.
She wished Jason would show up. She’d feed him the meal she’d made, sit across the table and watch him eat, will herself not to give away how much she’d thought about that brief, chaste middle-of-the-night kiss. She’d all but convinced herself it had never happened. That she’d dreamed it just the same as she’d dreamed her daughters were in that body bag. She shuddered at the recollection, reached for the phone to text them both, just to make sure they were OK. As she grabbed her phone, it rang and she jumped. It was just Polly calling her back.
“Hi, Polly,” she said. “Guess you got my message.”
“Yes,” the older woman said. “Sorry I didn’t answer. I didn’t recognize the number, and I was afraid you were—”
“Afraid I was who?” Bess asked, curious.
“Oh, just afraid you were that damn detective. He keeps nosing around,” Polly said.
Bess heard the lie in her voice, but she said nothing. If she could talk to Norah, she would tell her that her mother was not with a man this time, nor had she mentioned one. Maybe, she’d say to Norah, your mom has changed.
“So you think you could use the meal?” she asked Polly.
“That would actually be a lifesaver. I’m about to head out to take Violet to visit her mother.” She paused, then added, “In the jail,” in case Bess was not clear on where Norah was.
“Wow, I’m surprised they’re allowing it. I thought she was on complete lockdown.”
“Yeah,” Polly said. “Technically she is. They’re acting like they’re doing this for Violet. Some good deed.” Polly sighed into the phone. “But to be honest, I think they’re allowing it because they want to listen in, see if Violet gets Norah to open up.”
Bess tried to imagine shy, reticent Violet entering a jail, facing her mother who’d lied to and betrayed her. Once, on one of their moms’ nights out, Bess had been complaining about her daughters. Nicole was morphing into a mouthy teen; Casey was demanding. The usual stuff. It had surprised her when Norah, who rarely said a negative word about Violet, joined in, admitting that her daughter was not what she’d expected. “I wanted a hell-raiser,” she’d said. “A ballbuster. Instead I got a shrinking Violet.” She’d laughed at her own joke, and Bess had felt sorry for Violet, a sweet child she’d always liked. Bess had a feeling Violet wouldn’t always be shrinking, and that Norah might not know what to do with her daughter when that day came.
“I called her attorney,” Polly continued, “just so I could tell Violet I’d asked, and he said he’d have to get some special permission but not to count on it. I told him I wasn’t counting on it at all, but the kid was asking and just to try his best. The next thing I knew he was calling back and telling me where to be and when.”
“Well, that’s good for Violet. Right? I mean I’m sure it’ll be good for her to be able to see Norah after all this time.”
Polly sighed. “I guess. I just feel like that damn detective’s got something up his sleeve. They got back to me way too fast.”
Bess thought about this. She’d met the detective twice, but she doubted he recalled the first time, when she’d dropped a meal at his missing brother’s home. The other time was when he’d come around to ask her questions. He’d done his homework and knew that she and Norah had once been best friends, but not anymore. He’d fished around, trying to find out if there might be more to the story of their breakup, but Bess had assured him that wasn’t the case. She’d told him that, looking back, she saw that their breakup had probably been Norah’s way of keeping Bess from finding out what she was up to. He’d said that that made sense.
She’d smiled warmly and sent him on his way, relieved he was gone. Cops made her nervous. Whether she drove past one and panicked that she was accidentally committing some traffic violation or stood on her porch and watched one leave her home, her heart pounded just the same. She’d stayed on her porch, watching until she was sure he’d driven away. She could see why Polly didn’t like him. He seemed to presume everyone was guilty. Which she guessed was true. Everyone was guilty of something. It didn’t take a detective to figure that out.
“I’m sure it will be fine,” she said.
Polly chuckled. “Well, I’m glad you’re sure.” There was a long pause, and Bess heard Polly sigh.
“Everything OK?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” Polly said, and in her voice Bess heard the long exhalation of the exhausted and confused. Bess was familiar with the feeling. “Violet’s outside talking to that boy who lives across the street? The good-looking one? Micah? I can’t remember his last name.”
Bess knew all too well who she was talking about. “Micah Berg,” she supplied.
“Should I be worried?” Polly asked. “She’s been spending a good bit of time with him.”
“Eh. Not gonna lie to you. There’s a little controversy around him. He was involved with a tragedy last spring,” Bess said. “His girlfriend died under mysterious circumstances, and he’s been accused of having something to do with it. The rumors still swirl. But there’ve been no charges made,” she was quick to add. She knew Micah’s parents, Bob and Jane Berg, as gentle, kind people. They didn’t deserve what had happened. The whole family had been swiftly ostracized, judged and condemned by the people they had once called friends.
“Do you think he really did do something to her?” Polly asked. Bess could hear the fear in her voice, that her granddaughter could be in harm’s way.
Bess pondered this for the briefest of moments. She’d heard Casey rail against Micah all last spring, blaming him for her friend’s death with no real evidence to go on. But Bess had also bumped into a sad, bewildered Jane in the grocery store this past summer. Jane Berg had had dark circles under her eyes, and she had looked remarkably thinner. Bess had coaxed the story out of her neighbor next to a display of Campbell’s soup. Jane had explained what they understood to have happened, not absolving her son, yet not vilifying him, either. Bess had gone home and told Casey that perhaps Micah had a legitimate side, one that deserved to be heard. Bess sympathized with the Bergs in a way that she could not readily explain.
“I think he’s a good kid,” she said to Polly now, believing it as she said it. “A kid who did something stupid, to be sure, but not malicious. He wouldn’t hurt someone on purpose.” She almost added, I don’t think, but decided not to. It would only plant doubt in Polly’s head. The poor woman had enough to worry about without adding to it.
“Why don’t I bring the dinner over about six
thirty?” Bess said, to change the subject. “We could talk more about it then. Think you’ll be back by six thirty?”
“Sure,” Polly said. “They’re only giving us thirty minutes with her, and you’d think they gave her the damn crown jewels when they allowed that.” Polly paused. “But if we hit traffic . . . maybe you could let yourself in? Do you know the code for the door?”
Bess pressed her lips together as tears pricked her eyes, surprising her. There had been a time when she’d just walk into Norah’s house and call out “It’s me!” without a second thought. She’d had that, then she’d lost it. She’d grieved it when it was gone. She’d thought she was way past grieving, but she wasn’t sure that was ever the case with grief. It was always lurking.
She ran the code she knew from way back when by Polly, and sure enough, it was the same. “So if you get there before me, just let yourself in. And then you can get on with your evening.”
“How about I bring a bottle of wine over and wait for you? Sounds like you might need it,” Bess said, on impulse. But as she said it, it felt like the right thing to do.
She could hear Polly smile in response. “That sounds perfect. I’ll see you when I get home.”
“I like the sound of that,” Bess said. Because she did.
Violet
Violet no longer needed Barney as an excuse to go over to Micah’s. She just walked across the street when she saw him outside, yelled his name over the sound of the basketball drumming against the cement. He looked up, saw her, and stilled the ball. When she got close, he put it down, using his foot to keep it from rolling away.
“Hey,” he said, and smiled. Even though they hadn’t found the list, he still seemed glad to see her. She told herself it was just because he was lonely, and beggars couldn’t be choosers. They were united in their outcast status, and it was as simple as that. Boys like him didn’t like girls like her. She thought again of what her grandmother had said, about the family legacy, about what it meant to be a Beaucatcher. The beau she most wanted to catch stood right in front of her.
She intended to ask her mother about the legacy as soon as she could. She wanted to know why Norah had never told her something so important. It was a family legacy, after all.
“I’m going to see my mom today,” she said to Micah. Though this didn’t really involve him, she needed to tell him. She found herself often thinking of things she wanted to tell him. Needed to tell him. It was amazing how fast it had become that way. Sometimes she thought his willingness to talk to her might not last. At any moment his friends could decide to forgive him, and he could be right back in the fold, forgetting all about her. If she revealed what she knew, it would happen for sure. So to care about him meant telling the truth, but to tell the truth was to lose someone she cared about. She didn’t like to think about this dilemma too long. It made her brain—and her heart—hurt.
His eyebrows shot up toward the brim of his ball cap. “Really?”
“Yeah,” she said. “It just got approved. So my grandmother said we should go before they change their minds.”
“How long’s it been since you’ve seen her?” Micah asked.
She acted like she had to think about the answer, but really she knew to the day, almost to the minute: eighteen days. For some reason she didn’t want to say that. “Almost three weeks,” she said.
“One summer I spent a month away from my parents, but that’s as long as I’ve ever gone,” he said. He looked at her sympathetically. She didn’t want his pity, so she changed the subject.
“I’m going to ask her, if I can. About the list.” She knew he was thinking about the list but would never ask. She was starting to be able to tell what he was thinking, which was nice, but also scary. She didn’t want to know him like that if she couldn’t keep him.
“You don’t have to do that,” he started to argue. He’d told her several times they should just drop it. But she couldn’t. Not if there was a chance she could help him. And not if there was a chance she could help her mom, too. Or instead. She hadn’t yet decided what to do about that dilemma, either. She hoped it wouldn’t come to that.
“My grandmother said not to get my hopes up about being able to talk to her much, or for very long. She said they’ll be monitoring every word she says.” She leaned forward and lowered her voice. “But I’ve been thinking of ways to talk in code.”
He laughed. “So you’re James Bond now?”
She raised her eyebrows. “You shouldn’t underestimate me.”
His smile softened to an amused grin. “You’re a funny girl, Violet Ramsey,” he said for the second time in their short relationship.
“Funny how?” she asked, feeling bold because she knew she was about to leave. Still, her heart picked up speed as she said it. She was learning that sometimes love felt more like standing on a cliff and looking over the edge than feeling safe in someone’s arms.
He cocked his head, considering his answer before he spoke. Across the street she heard her grandmother call her name, but she stood still.
He shook his head. “You’re just different. From other girls. From any I’ve known.”
She wanted so badly to ask, Different good or different bad? But her bravery had nearly run out, and her grandmother was waiting for her. So instead, with the last scrap of bravery she had, she supplied an answer to her own question.
“Some people say different is good,” she said, and started walking away.
“Is that so?” he called after her.
She turned around and shrugged, grinning. “Just what I’ve heard.”
He picked up the basketball, spun it around in his hands as he grinned at the ball instead of her. “I’ll take that under advisement,” he said.
She started walking away again, wondering if this was flirting, and if she was any good at it.
“Call me and tell me how it went?” he called out one more time. She hadn’t expected that.
She turned around, gave him the thumbs-up sign, and hurried across the street that had once been the division between their two houses, a gap so wide no one dared cross it. No one would’ve thought it possible, least of all her.
On the drive over to the jail, she and her grandmother remained quiet. It was not unusual for Violet to be quiet, but it was uncharacteristic of Polly. Violet took it as a bad sign that Polly wasn’t talking, which made her feel even more nervous about the visit. With each mile they traveled, the butterflies in her stomach sprouted more butterflies, and the swarm of them beat their wings inside her until Violet nearly felt nauseous.
The jail was all the way uptown—a long way from their house in the suburbs. As they drove, Violet tried to imagine her mother riding in the back of the police car all this way, her hands cuffed. It must’ve been uncomfortable, not to mention humiliating. Violet was glad she had not been home when her mother was arrested. She would not have liked to witness that. She probably would have cried, and she did not like to cry in front of other people. She especially wouldn’t have liked to cry in front of that horrible detective. She hoped he wasn’t there for this visit, but knowing him, he would be. Lurking around, looking at them suspiciously like he always did, and just generally being annoying.
Finally, Polly spoke up, and, though she would not admit it willingly, Violet was relieved. She’d come to count on her grandmother prattling on about something. Her voice had started to feel familiar, comfortable. Sometimes she worried about Polly going away when her mother came home. Violet would admit willingly that she would be very sad if that happened. When the time was right, she planned to tell her mother just that. Though she feared what her mother would say, Violet had some opinions of her own. The most important one her mother couldn’t argue with: Polly had been there for her when literally no one else had. The thought brought tears to her eyes, but she blinked them away.
“Cat got your tongue?” Polly asked.
Violet realized she’d missed something Polly had asked. Just because she liked the sound
of Polly’s voice did not mean she always listened to every word she said.
“Sorry,” Violet said, going with the truth, “I didn’t hear the question.”
Polly sighed like she was frustrated, then grinned to show that she wasn’t. “Off in the clouds, are you? Not paying your old grandmother a bit of attention. I bet you’re thinking about that boy across the street.”
“Micah?” Violet played dumb.
“As if there’s another boy across the street you spend all your time with.” If grandmothers said duh, Polly would’ve said it. “Yes. Micah. The cute one.”
“You think he’s cute?” Violet asked. She found herself wanting to talk about Micah. She’d not had anyone to talk about him with, longing to hash it all out like she would’ve if this had happened when she and Nicole were friends. But the truth was, if she and Nicole were friends, this probably wouldn’t have happened. Because she would’ve lived with Nicole while her mother was in jail. And then she never would’ve had occasion to talk to Micah Berg. She glanced over at Polly. Her grandmother never would’ve had to come to her house, either.
“Oh, he’s more than cute, Violet. He’s handsome. Movie-star handsome. He looks a little like Paul Newman. You know Paul Newman?” Violet shook her head. Polly glanced over at the movement and shrieked, her voice loud in the enclosed space. “You don’t know who Paul Newman is?”
Violet laughed at the outburst. “No,” she said.
Polly looked up toward the roof of the car. “Kids these days,” she said. “Well, you should look him up on your precious phone. Use the Google to find pictures of him, and you’ll find out what handsome really means. None of those girly men you see so much of nowadays.” Polly’s voice sounded wistful, like she was off in the clouds, too, thinking about Paul Newman.
Violet left her alone with her thoughts. They were getting close to the jail, the city skyline looming just ahead. Violet assumed they’d both be silent until they reached their destination. But then Polly spoke again. “He likes you, too, you know.”
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