by Dale, Lisa
Will rubbed his eyes. “I’m saying the word,” he said.
The envelope in Lauren’s hand had her name on it—handwritten letters in the thick black script of a felt pen. She stepped into Maisie’s house, into the rush of air-conditioning, and locked the door behind her. Arlen, she thought. He’d written to her. She set down her bag, then dropped herself onto Maisie’s butter-cream couch. Her heart was pounding now. She had a sense of time stopped—as if whatever she was about to read was going to change things, and until she read the letter, time would not go on.
She wedged her thumb into the envelope and tugged until it was open with a ragged edge. The note inside was written on an unlined index card. The words gave her pause.
What you did is unforgivable.
She stared blindly at the letters of the sentence. The words were blunt, so without mystery or the slightest bit of room for interpretation. Arlen was done with her. Will must have told him that she was leaving—and this was Arlen’s response. In some ways her errand to Richmond had been over before it had started. She let the note fall to her lap. A great wave of exhaustion came over her, mental and physical.
She’d once heard of a man, a detective in Arizona, who was known for his brutal, endless interrogations of suspects. If a colleague needed a confession, this man was sent in. He could get any suspect to break down. At his hand, three men were sentenced for murder based on their confessions. They spent years in jail.
Later—when it became clear that the men’s alibis checked out, that their DNA didn’t match what was found at the crime, that there was no possible way in the natural world that the four men could have committed the murder—the detective was questioned about his brutal tactics. Lauren had caught an interview with him replayed on a news program. The man was defensive and antagonistic, sitting in his gray suit behind his desk. Despite the clear indication that his life’s work had hinged on his talent for browbeating and coercion, that his ability to wring false confessions out of scared men would have made the Spanish Inquisition proud, he insisted he was without blame. I still believe they’re guilty, he said, again and again, with all the conviction of a man looking up at the sky and swearing it was night instead of day.
Now there was this note: What you did is unforgivable.
She wished she could assure Arlen. She wouldn’t forget. She wasn’t going to just go on with a life of denial, pretending his conviction had never happened, pretending that she was blameless. She wished she could tell him that—how her life, too, had forever been changed.
She did not get up from the chair in Maisie’s living room. She called her father.
“Dad?”
“What’s wrong, darling?”
She meant to say that she would be driving home late tonight. That she’d see him tomorrow after work. She meant to tell him to pass the word along to Jonah that she would see him soon. But when she spoke, other words were on her lips. “He won’t forgive me.”
She heard her father sigh. “I’m so sorry.”
She rarely allowed herself the luxury of sniveling, but now, she didn’t deny herself a few silent tears. They felt good and overdue.
“Come home now,” her father said. “Your mother and I miss you. Jonah misses you.”
“I miss you too. I just … ” She felt the words on the brink of slipping from her lips. And though she hated to appear pathetic before her father, she didn’t stop herself. “I wanted to make things right.”
“I know.”
“I hate that I disappointed everyone. That I disappointed myself.”
“Lauren, no one expects you to be perfect.”
She was quiet.
“You gave it your best shot, but Arlen wants to hold a grudge. And that’s his right. Maybe it’s time you just … let him.”
“Think so?”
“I do.” His voice was tender. “Come home now, sweetheart. There are amazing things waiting for you here.”
“Yes,” she said.
“It’s time to start fresh.”
“Start fresh?”
“Turn over a new leaf. Be there when the board votes tomorrow. You can only go forward; you can’t go back.”
“I guess you’re right.” She looked down at Arlen’s note—his neat handwriting. Her watch was ticking off the seconds. It was nearly six. “Tell Mom and Jonah I’ll see them soon.”
She said good-bye and hung up the phone. The early-evening light was coming in full and bright through the windows, the heat of a relentless day. She thought of the coming darkness, of leaving Richmond, and she waited to feel a release of tension. But still, the anxiety remained.
Lesson Fifteen: You can read love in a person’s body language. You can read respect. You can read disgust. And you can also read violence.
A person about to do something violent will often show the white lower halves of his eyes—head lowered, chin tipped down, the thickest part of the skull presented (think of a football player lining up against an opponent—a natural starting point for aggressive movement). If a person is considering doing something violent, nervous energy will be released, maybe with fidgeting, opening and closing the fists, shallow breathing, or shifting foot to foot. As the body is pumped full of chemicals to prepare for a fight, fine motor skills can become deficient, causing a person to fumble to close a button or even lift a drink. Knowing how to read the signs of aggression might be your best chance at getting away.
CHAPTER 15
Afterward, after Eula had called out his name and after he too had gone slack with exhaustion, Arlen wept with happiness, quietly and to himself. He buried his face in one of Eula’s pillows, into the smell of her detergent and sleep. If she noticed, she said nothing. She lay beside him, her hand stroking along his bare back, her breathing soft.
“You know when I missed you?” she said, not unhappily. “Other than the holidays? And when the drain in the bathroom clogged?”
He chuckled. “When?”
“Monday nights. Monday is always such a rough day—you have to drag yourself out of bed, go back to work, get in it with your coworkers. Monday nights I wished I could have come home and had somebody to talk to. To complain to. That’s when I missed you a lot.”
He turned over to face her. They’d pulled back the sheets, which were such a pale blue they were nearly white, and against the color, Eula’s skin was beautiful, dark and luminous. Arlen ran a hand along her arm and she inched closer. “Sorry.”
“Not your fault,” she said. “You’re here now.”
He smiled. At certain points in prison, when he was feeling his lowest, he thought: I’m never getting out. This is it. Every experience that could ever matter is a thing of the past. But then he would think of Eula, with hope in his heart, and he knew he couldn’t let himself go crazy or be broken. If he ever did get out, he wanted to keep some little pieces of himself still in their right order. For her.
“I’m glad you came to find me,” he said. “How’d you know where I was?”
Eula kissed his forehead before she answered. “A woman came to see me. That woman from the trial. Lauren something. She gave me your address.”
Anger flared briefly when Arlen heard Lauren’s name uttered in the intimate peace of Eula’s bedroom. But the emotions quickly died out, with one last pathetic puff of heat like a black and curling match. Lauren had found Eula for him. She’d convinced his ex-wife to see him. He thought: Oh, shit. In the warm light of evening, with the sun setting outside the window, and Eula looking more beautiful by the moment, it was difficult to stay mad.
He ran his gaze over Eula’s bare shoulders, her breasts. She had that look in her eye that said she was biting her tongue. And he knew what she wanted to say: that it was time for him to forgive, to put the past behind him. He felt her disapproval, but something else too. She wanted him to recover, to be well, even more than he wanted it. Hope like that … it could make a man see things in a different way.
“She’s not a bad person,” Eula said.
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“I know.”
“She wanted to do what was right.”
“Don’t we all,” he said. He sat up sleepily and rubbed his face.
“You think you’ll ever talk to her?”
He shrugged. He’d treated Lauren in a way he couldn’t be proud of. He’d driven her off, when it was so clear to him that Will had wanted her to stick around. Arlen supposed he’d wanted to keep her right where she was—because it had felt good to keep staying angry at her. To keep staying angry at something. But maybe it was time to release her—and himself, and Will, and Eula too.
“Well, I think you should see her,” Eula said.
Arlen turned to look at her, and he couldn’t help himself. He started laughing.
“What?” She sat up, holding the sheet to her chest. “What’s so funny?”
“Not two hours I’ve been in this house and already you’re nagging me.”
“And you think that’s funny?”
He kissed her. “Yes. Don’t stop.” He stood up. His pants were still hooked around one ankle and he wrestled them off. Eula watched him from the bed. “I’m gonna take a shower.”
“You know where it is,” she said.
He showed himself to the bathroom. He turned on the shower and stood for a long time under the hot water. When he got out, his skin was reddened and smelled of flowery soap. For the first time in a very long time, he felt clean.
Eula was wearing her bathrobe when he came out. She was sitting on the bed with her hands clasped in her lap. She stood as he walked toward her.
“Are you leaving?” she asked.
He clasped his belt buckle. “I got something I got to do.”
“Can I give you a lift?”
“No. I need to do some thinking. A bus ride will do me good.” Arlen picked up his shirt from the floor, pulled it over his head. When it was buttoned, she slipped his hand into hers.
“Arlen … will you come back?”
He smiled. “Wild dogs couldn’t keep me from seeing you again.”
“I mean, will you come back tonight? I’ve been sleeping alone for so long. It would be nice to have you next to me.”
“I promi—”
She put a hand to his lips. “Don’t promise. Don’t promise anything. Just come.”
He drew her toward him. They stood like that for long moments as the room turned faintly orange in the red-hot, setting sun.
To celebrate her birthday, Maisie had gathered her friends to go out for dinner at a steakhouse in Shockoe Bottom. The pub was old—leaded glass, dark wood floors, a high bar, low lighting. They ordered fat pints of brown beer, with steaks that faintly sighed in pleasure when cut with a knife. Lauren had bought her friend a little stone penguin for her collection. As the windows darkened to black and the restaurant began to feel like a bar, she smiled, limited herself to one beer before switching to coffee, and tried not to think too much about the time. And yet, she was anxious. Her trip home was sitting heavily on her chest. And her heart was acting up again. She would need to go back to the doctor when she got home.
Maisie sat beside her, sparkling with happiness. And though Lauren had arrived at the bar in a sullen mood, her spirits were lifted by her friend’s good cheer.
“Thanks for staying for this,” Maisie said. “I know you’ll have to drive home in the middle of the night.”
“It’s better that way. Less traffic.” Lauren took a sip of the hot coffee that she’d ordered to keep herself awake. “And besides, it’s not every year I get to be around on your birthday.”
“I understand if you have to leave soon. It’s a long drive back.”
Lauren picked up her friend’s hand, squeezed it. “You know, this week wasn’t what I thought it would be. I mean, I thought I’d be down here for less than twenty-four hours. But … it’s been nice. Staying with you.”
“Don’t make me get teary-eyed on my birthday,” Maisie said. She glanced around the table at her friends, who didn’t seem to notice that they were talking privately. Then she leaned a little closer to Lauren. “I still think you should reconsider going back. I mean, screw the promotion. Do you really want it anyway? Usually people get those kinds of promotions after they’ve already got married, sent their kids off to college, and settled down. You’re too young to have so much responsibility.”
“I admit the timing of it doesn’t feel right,” Lauren said. She pushed her hair behind her ears. “But … for my whole life I’ve been working for this. And for my whole life it felt right. I can’t throw away that much dedication for one week’s worth of doubt.”
“Can’t you?” Maisie asked. “What’s the worst that can happen if you decide you want something else?”
Lauren glanced at her watch. She wasn’t eager to get on the road, but the looming pressure was becoming too much to stand. “I should get going.”
Maisie nodded. Now she was teary-eyed, and Lauren felt her own eyes moisten as she hugged her friend. She and Maisie had always been close, but in recent years, as Lauren’s work had consumed more and more of her time, focus, and energy, it was nearly impossible to maintain such closeness. Lauren’s heart cried out now, wishing that she could take Maisie with her back to Albany, and knowing that her friend’s life was solidly and squarely here.
Lauren said good-bye to Maisie’s friends, then walked herself to the door. Outside, the street was busy. The sky was dimmer than normal thanks to a thick layer of low clouds. The streetlights were on and the shadows seemed darker and harder than they should have been at eight p.m. Lauren got her keys and headed to her car, trying to work through the motions, to follow blindly the path that she herself had created, the path that would take her directly back to the life she was supposed to lead.
Will sat in his kitchen, drinking alone at the table. It was an old table, sturdy as a tank but scratched here and there from use. He liked it that way because it had character. He leaned his elbows on it, hard, and peeled the label from the green bottle of his beer. He didn’t look up when he heard Scoot thumping down the stairs or when his brother came into the room.
“Well?” Will asked.
Scoot sat down across from him. He slouched in his chair and stretched one thick arm on the tabletop. “It’s bad. It’s pretty bad.”
Will snorted a little under his breath.
Scoot pointed. “Got one of those for me?”
“Help yourself,” Will said.
His brother stood and went to the fridge. When he returned he seemed a bit more relaxed. “Well, the good news is that you’ve got yourself a family of rednecks.”
“Not following.”
“Trucks,” he said. “We all got trucks. We can move stuff around in no time.”
Will smiled. He forced himself to sit up a little straighter. “Like pulling the Band-Aid off fast.”
Scoot took a drag of beer; he pulled back his lips in a grimace before he swallowed. “We don’t have to rush. You can go through some things. Figure out what you want to save.”
“If I do that, I’ll want to save all of it.”
“All right, then. Band-Aid-style, it is.”
Will spun his beer in a circle. “Thanks for coming over.”
“Naw.” Scoot looked out the window. “So what brought this on?”
“A lot of things.”
“A certain woman?”
“That too.” Will smiled.
“Sucks,” Scoot said. “Sorry it didn’t work out. You know I keep telling you I want you to meet this girl who works in the office … ”
“That’s okay,” Will said.
He knew he was being ridiculous. Overreacting. He’d known Lauren for only a handful of days—in person, anyway. And he’d spent most of his adult life hating her and making her into his archenemy for what she’d done to Arlen. There was no logical or mature reason for him to feel as low-down and saddened as he did by her leaving. But he felt what he felt. He missed her already. He missed what might have been.
“Anyway,
” Scoot said, “you must feel a little better. Knowing you’ll get your house back. Knowing it’s all out in the open. I mean, the worst is behind you now, right?”
Will drank the last swig of beer in the bottom of his bottle. He knew it was going to get harder before it got easier. But he also knew now that to hold on to all the things he’d amassed would hurt him more than letting them go. He could collect everything that came across his path, he could build up piles the size of Richmond’s flood walls, but it wouldn’t guarantee him anything. The thought wasn’t depressing; it was liberating. It meant he was free.
He stood up, tossed his bottle into the recycling bin. “Yeah. The worst is over,” he said.
As usual, Lauren couldn’t find parking. So she left her car in front of a fire hydrant with the hazard lights flashing, a few blocks away from Maisie’s house. She’d been halfway out of Richmond before she remembered: she’d left a file in Maisie’s spare bedroom. It was incredibly unlike her to be so forgetful, especially about work. In the back of her mind she was suspicious of herself: she’d forgotten the folder so she could not leave.
She walked down the dark sidewalk toward Maisie’s and, as usual when she walked alone at night, her senses were heightened, including her awareness of herself. Her heels clicked as she walked hard and fast down the cement walk; her heartbeat was a little high. The street was unusually dark and quiet, quiet enough that Maisie’s question posed earlier in the evening was echoing in her head: What’s the worst that can happen if you decide you want something else?
She walked faster. The worst that could happen, she thought, was that she would make the wrong choice—and then where would she be? How could a person spend her entire life knowing exactly what she wanted, only to second-guess herself because of a single, atypical week? She could go slowly and as planned into a future that was pretty much guaranteed—one in which she would get her promotion, her raise, and then perhaps everything else would fall in line. Or she could rush headlong into a future that had nothing guaranteed at all but might give her a shot at love, at a different kind of work, and a thousand other tempting but elusive things.