by Susan Rohrer
Clay lived in a fantasy world, far from the adult realities Joe faced. Clay was talented enough, Joe allowed, if you went for that kind of act. But when the rent would come due or worse yet, the taxes, Joe was the one Clay called upon, expecting to be bailed out yet again.
One more month of support and he’d hit it big, Clay would promise. He’d get discovered. Somehow, Clay remained quite convinced that his moment in the sun would come, that in some brilliant stroke of serendipity he’d be in the right place at exactly the right time. Someone who was somebody in the entertainment world would turn his attentions Clay’s way.
Joe sighed. Attention was Clay’s drug of choice. There was something about attracting the spotlight that seemed to lift his brother far above the contradictions of his life. Attention made Clay feel special, somehow worthy of positive notice. It muted the voice of accusation that plagued him offstage, when he was forced to be himself. Attention had been Clay’s consolation following what they rarely spoke of, if ever—those events that had defined him for decades. Joe never blamed Clay for what had happened to him as a boy. But enough already. It was time to man up. Past time, in fact.
Joe tried to force a swallow down his cotton-dry throat. Why hadn’t he brought a bottle of water? As a reporter, Joe was no stranger to these prison walls. Countless times, he’d been assigned to interview inmates, delving into the seamier side of life. That had been from the protected perch of the press. But this was not one of those occasions. This time it was up close. It was personal, disturbingly so. And despite the gulf between Joe and his brother, he wanted him there at his side.
Joe glanced sidelong. There was Lou. At least he had made it. Lou lumbered over, a press pass slapping against his barrel chest, his professional camera gear in tow.
Lou eyed Joe’s clean-shaven jaw, a wry grin curling. “So, you broke out a razor for the occasion.”
Joe rolled his eyes. “Yeah, credibility and all.”
Lou turned around, then back to Joe. “No sign of your brother, huh?”
Joe scanned the street one last time, then motioned Lou toward the gate. “I don’t know why I bother.”
Inside, Joe emptied his pockets into a plastic tub and stepped through the metal detector. How he loathed this process.
A uniformed guard meticulously checked Lou’s equipment by hand.
An older guard directed Joe to stand on a mat. “Right there. Feet shoulder-width apart.”
Joe tightened his jaw. He fixed his gaze into the distance for the requisite pat down. No matter that this was routine. No matter that the search was conducted in a completely professional manner. Somehow, it was still violating.
Every single time.
Get it over with, already.
Why it was that security had to be so tight on visitors rankled Joe. Where had the presumption of innocence gone for the truly blameless, or at least those who had never been caught?
It was the felons who deserved this sort of treatment. The convicted criminals were inside, after all. And the last thing Joe would ever do was lift a finger to abet an escape, let alone do anything to risk incarceration himself. But then again, Joe knew that his discomfort with being searched ran much deeper than the indignities of prison security.
This was not the place for a man like Joe.
Though Joe put little effort into his appearance, it was what it was. Something about the combination of his tall frame and dark features had a tendency to capture unwanted attention. There were unnerving glances to deflect, each time he passed through this facility. Cat calls, even.
No wonder he’d ground his molars all night. But he had to put up with it, when coming to the prison was required of him, or on days such as this when he required it of himself.
Tom Zoring sat before a parole board, looking far more aged than his seventy-one years. Slump-shouldered and bald on top but for a few wiry white wisps, the former Father looked far less powerful than Joe had remembered, even since his last failed attempt at parole. Zoring had grown old in this prison. Gone was the trust of serving as a parochial school priest. Zoring had lost everything, including his will to fight the judgment against him.
As far as Joe was concerned, Zoring deserved what he’d gotten. In fact, he deserved far more, what with the way he’d repeatedly denied his guilt all these years.
Joe scanned the faces of the victims and their families populating the gallery. There were a few usuals he recognized. No reason to hold anyone’s gaze. One by one they stood, watery-eyed, to protest Zoring’s parole. Clearly, these people cared to be heard. They’d made it a priority to be there, despite the difficulty of facing their abuser.
Why Clay wouldn’t show to add his outrage at the prospect of Zoring’s parole was beyond Joe—especially this time around—given Zoring’s well-publicized confession following the previous board’s refusal to release him.
As the star witness for the prosecution, Clay’s testimony had been pivotal in Zoring’s conviction. A statement today—that could have tipped the scales on the side of caution once again. Five minutes with Clay could convince anyone to consider the long-range impact of the heinous crime perpetrated against him.
In Clay’s absence, Joe could argue against parole from arm’s length, as forcefully as he could. But speaking as the brother of a victim lacked the teeth of a victim speaking for himself.
Lou nudged Joe as Zoring was asked to rise.
They were giving him a final statement, as if the louse deserved one.
The defrocked priest cleared his throat. Gone were the dulcet tones of the orator, the austere bearing of a spiritual leader. Though there was no escaping his ability to articulate himself, this time, Zoring looked almost contrite.
If Joe hadn’t known the man better, he might have been taken in by it. Instead, he scanned the faces of the parole board. They had to be able to see through this performance.
Zoring barely raised his eyes to speak. “I deeply regret the unspeakable crimes I have committed, the sacred trust that I have broken, the many young lives I’ve damaged so irreparably.”
Unconvinced, Joe turned to Lou, seated beside him. “I’m sure.”
The foreman bristled. “Mr. Hardisty, with due respect, you’ve had your chance to speak.”
“Well, I’m not the victim, now, am I?” Joe couldn’t help it. “No, my brother Clay, he isn’t here to speak for himself. That’s because he’s so beyond screwed up by this sorry excuse for a man, much less a priest.”
“For the last time, Mr. Hardisty, I’ll ask you to hold your peace.”
It was all so sickening. Joe shoved his steno pad at Lou and rose. There was no way he’d sit through this joke of a parole hearing any longer. Not when it was shaping up to become such a gross miscarriage of justice. Joe strode toward the exit, pointing at the foreman. “You let Zoring go, and I’m serious. The next kid he does is on your head.”
Laurel topped off a customer’s coffee at the counter of the downtown Blackberry Grille. She scooped up a nearby tip from a departed regular. Just a few quarters, but every bit helped. She stashed the coins into her uniform’s pocket. Given the flagging economy, it was surprising that people still ate out for breakfast, but Laurel was grateful that they did. What they left sure did help to supplement her meager base.
A bell at the door tingled as a young mother entered, her curly-headed toddler in tow. That was the way it should be. Children should be with their mothers. Laurel pulled a small, worn photograph from her pocket.
Grace.
Just the sight of that picture did wonders for Laurel’s flagging spirit. She filled her heart with the memories it evoked. There was the scent of Grace’s fresh washed hair. There was the sound of her musical laughter, the warmth of her unconditional embrace.
Without rival, Grace was the purest human love Laurel had ever known. When Frank’s affections had wandered, Grace had been the constant. She’d stood with her mother as tall as any child could. Sensitive and sweet-spirited, she had weathered t
he divorce with a maturity beyond her years. Even when full custody had been awarded to her father, little Grace had borne it bravely.
No one else had believed in Laurel, no one but Grace. The trust in those clear blue eyes of hers had confirmed it. Grace was depending on her. So, Laurel would never stop fighting for a reversal.
Worry darted across Laurel’s expression. Grace had soldiered through the long decision-making process as well as could be hoped, but so much time had elapsed since. Years had passed since Grace had been taken from her arms. As reluctant as Laurel was to admit it, even to herself, it had become plain. Grace’s strength was waning. Cracks were making their way into a heart more fragile than Frank seemed to realize.
The Grille’s head waitress, Belle, brushed by Laurel. An immigrant from Kenya, the African lilt to Belle’s voice set off her inviting disposition. Belle loaded a tub of dirty dishes onto a cart near the kitchen. “Where you off to in your mind, now, my friend? I see that look.”
“Nowhere.” Laurel pocketed Grace’s picture, her reverie broken. “Nowhere I can actually go.”
“Not today. Maybe someday. Is that right?”
“Someday, Belle.” A soft smile crossed Laurel’s face. She had to have faith. Her someday would come. But the longer Frank and Shana had Grace to themselves, the harder it was to believe it.
Once again, the memory of the vision of Frank plagued Laurel. It wasn’t her fault that he’d cut her off when she tried to warn him in the wee hours that morning. He ran so hot and cold with her about these things. Maybe in the light of day he’d be more receptive if she called back, for Grace’s sake, if nothing else. A chill ran through her. Though she’d never burden Grace with what she’d seen, how would it impact Grace if that dream actually came true?
Shana Fischer led seven year-old Grace into the councilman’s downtown office suite lobby. She straightened the crisply ironed cloth covering a picnic basket in her arms. Everything about being in Frank’s building felt good to her—the elegant tones, the upscale appointments, the handsome office furnishings—all redone to her specifications.
Grace tugged at her arm. “Do you think Daddy will be surprised?”
“Let’s hope so,” Shana said. “And let’s hope he didn’t have breakfast on the plane.”
Shana glanced around the space for Frank’s assistant, Rene Cox. Where was she? At two months pregnant, Rene wasn’t really showing yet, but maybe morning sickness was slowing her down. Shana sighed. Rene hadn’t even been trying and she’d gotten pregnant. Must be nice. Not that she could imagine Rene’s husband as a father. That Kevin, he was quite the piece of work.
Shana guided Grace toward Frank’s reception area. “Certainly is quiet here this morning. Isn’t it, Grace?”
The phone began to ring.
It was hardly a moment before Rene emerged. She tipped her head at Shana as she scuffed across the carpet with a mug of coffee. “You’re here early. Just got here myself.” She set her mug down on a coaster. “Don’t worry. Kevin made me swear up, down, and sideways—decaf only for the next seven months. Have to look out for the little one.”
Again, the phone rang. Assuming an air of professionalism, Rene rounded the mahogany desk. She punched the speakerphone button to answer. “Councilman Fischer’s office, Rene Cox speaking. How may I help you?”
A familiar voice sounded through the speaker. “Hi. Rene, it’s Laurel. For Frank.”
Shana’s expression tightened. She couldn’t help noticing how Grace lit up immediately.
“I’m sorry to bother you,” Laurel went on, “but I got my break and—”
“Sorry, Ms. Fischer. No sign yet.” Rene shot an apologetic grimace to Shana, then mimed a question: Should she take it off speaker?
Shana shook her head with a sigh. The morning had been going so well to this point. As much as Shana bristled at Laurel’s call, she wanted to hear exactly what was said.
For the most part, Shana prided herself on the way she was able to handle things with her husband’s ex-wife. She could cover her occasional insecurities. She reminded herself that the divorce was long final.
Clearly and publicly, Frank had chosen her over Laurel. Their marriage was well established. Shana recalled that triumph regularly, every time worry threatened, attempting to convince her otherwise. Of course, it didn’t make it any easier to see the way little Grace’s eyes shone at the sound of her mother’s voice.
“I haven’t heard from him this morning yet.” Rene checked her watch as she continued the call with Laurel. “He’s been away. His plane, it was scheduled to land half an hour ago, so we’re expecting him any minute.”
Shana wordlessly signaled her disapproval to Rene. The last thing she wanted was to have Rene give Laurel the impression that she was free to call back, or to pop in for that matter. There was no way she wanted to risk having a mentally unstable ex-wife horn in on the first meal the three of them would share after Frank’s early morning return, direct from out-of-town business.
Carefully, Shana maintained a cordial exterior. Inwardly she fumed. The timing was terrible. Even a short phone call with Laurel would change the tenor of their family reunion. The maternal relationship she’d worked so hard to establish with Grace would most assuredly be set back. It had taken time, but she was finally beginning to see hopeful signs. Grace was beginning to accept her as a stepmother. It had been hard-gained ground, territory she’d have to defend and cultivate.
It wasn’t entirely about Grace, though. On levels deeper than Shana dared to admit, it was about Frank. It was about the lingering hold Laurel had on him. As deluded and fanatical as Frank had claimed Laurel to be during the divorce proceedings, Shana couldn’t escape the fact that something in Frank still listened to Laurel’s far-flung imaginings. He’d brood for days over whatever new vision Laurel would put forth. She’d seen it in his eyes plenty of times.
Frank would wrestle with the question of what might actually come to pass after one of Laurel’s supposed prophecies. Frank would allow his ex-wife to slip into his consciousness, to preoccupy his thoughts. Shana vowed anew. She would not to allow that to happen again.
Another of Frank’s phone lines began to ring. Shana smiled at Rene. Finally, an opening. “Rene, why don’t you get that? I’ll take over the call with Laurel.”
Rene took Laurel off speaker, extended the receiver to Shana, then stepped to another phone.
Shana set the picnic basket down and took a measured breath. Things were civil between Shana and Laurel, almost too civil. It was the kind of icy ease that did little to mask what went unspoken between them, at least in Grace’s presence. But before Shana could take hold of the phone, little Grace extended an eager hand toward the receiver.
“Can I speak to Mommy?”
Shana mulled it over. She would take this opportunity to give Laurel a taste of their new family dynamic, through the open line.
Gently, Shana brushed a hand across Grace’s shoulders. “May I, Darling. Remember we’ve been working on that for school? And I’ll tell you what. Why don’t you go put our brunch in Daddy’s office so we can surprise him, okay? That’ll be fun. Think you can carry our goodies in there?”
Grace nodded eagerly. “I can carry it.”
Shana handed the picnic basket to Grace. “Good, then. You can talk to her after.”
“Okay.” Grace picked up the basket.
“Two hands, now.” Shana waved sweetly at Grace. Laurel could wait. Grace had easily agreed to the diversion. She padded toward the double doors of her father’s office.
Shana raised the receiver to her chin. There was no need to translate what allowing Grace to talk to her after meant for Laurel. It meant waiting for the regularly scheduled visitation hours that had been dictated by the court. Laurel would have to live within the law.
As Grace left earshot, Shana set her shoulders back. She would not be indiscreet, but any hint of an amiable tone wouldn’t serve her with Laurel. Her cadence took on a deliberate clip. “So
, Laurel. What is it this time?”
“Look, Shana, I…”
Shana blotted her lips. Laurel was already sputtering. Laurel had to know there was no way Shana was going to let her talk to Grace, much less have access to Frank.
“Shana, it’s just...” Laurel paused. “It’s just that I woke up early this morning and…you know how I…? Shana, I just had a bad feeling.”
Shana faced away from Rene. She lowered her lashes in stony silence.
Unbelievably, Laurel persisted. “Do you know for sure that he’s okay?”
Shana wasn’t about to lose her composure, certainly not in front of Rene, let alone her own stepdaughter. Instead, she affected an intentional calm. “Last time I checked, I was the current wife, Laurel. That means you can officially let go of Frank. And please—oh, please—drop the metaphysical theatrics.”
Shana glanced over her shoulder at Grace. Not so far away, Grace turned a polished brass knob and opened one side of her father’s imposing office door. Grace grinned back at Shana.
Playfully, Shana put a finger to her lips. Grace readily mimicked her, clearly enjoying their little secret, then toted the basket into the executive office.
Shana lifted the phone to her ear. “It’s not a good time, Laurel. Really, it isn’t. Perhaps another day.”
Grace’s scream pierced through the office suite. “Daddy…Daddy!”
“Shana, what’s wrong?” Obviously, Laurel had heard it, too.
Rene dashed toward Frank’s office. Shana turned, in shock. Grace wailed. With a sickening clunk, Shana dropped the receiver.
three
There was something about chomping on a crisp apple from the neighborhood open-air market that eased Joe back into the normal rhythms of what had become his life. A daily customer at the downtown street vendor, Joe perused an array of newspapers as he crunched into another bite.