Exposure

by Therese Fowler

  At home, Anthony headed straight upstairs. “I gotta change clothes … and I need to call Eric,” he said.

  “Sure, but listen—”

  He paused on the stairs and leaned over the banister to look at her. “Yeah?”

  “It might be wise to hedge a little on why you weren’t at work. Food poisoning would be a good excuse for being unable to call.”

  “I don’t see what the big deal is—I didn’t do anything wrong, so why not talk about it?”

  “Honey, I know you see it that way … and I’m sure Eric and a lot of other people would, too. But—”

  “But I’m supposed to worry about what closed-minded, uptight people will think of me if they hear? You’re the one who’s always saying we have to fight ignorance.”

  “And we do. We do. This, though—you have a lot at stake right now. You need recommendations and references for scholarship applications, so why give people a reason to decline?”

  “Anybody who knows me—”

  “Why take the chance?” she insisted, feeling like a hypocrite. How different her ideology had become now that her own son’s future was on the line. She said, “We have to weigh cost and benefit.”

  “Fine,” he said. “I get it. But it’s complete bullshit.”

  “I’m going to call Amelia’s parents. Maybe … I don’t know, they probably reacted without thinking. Maybe we can undo this and, well, handle the whole situation like grown-ups. I mean, if you two are truly serious about your plans—”

  “We are. You know we are.”

  “Then the Wilkeses deserve the opportunity to get on board, don’t you think?” As she said the words, she couldn’t fail to note the irony that only now was she spouting this high-minded ideal, when it would have been far better for all of them if she’d taken this position in the first place. She should have insisted that they not go behind the Wilkeses backs. How ironic that only now, when her one and only son, her only child, was facing trouble, was she questioning whether keeping the kids’ secret had been the right choice. Thinking this, she felt small.

  Anthony came back down a few stairs. “If we thought they would get on board, we’d have told them right away. You see how they are.”

  “They had a shock, honey—and I’m not taking sides, saying this. It’s a fact. Finding pictures like that isn’t an ideal way to learn about some boy’s relationship with their daughter. Give them a chance. I’m sure they’ll be more rational now that some time has passed.”

  “Oh really? Then why isn’t she answering her phone? I know why, and so do you.”

  “Be patient. Parents can be slow about these kinds of things.”

  “Hers are glacial about everything.” He took the jail paperwork from his pocket and said, “I’m gonna go see how screwed I am,” then went off to his room, presumably to research the offense online.

  Kim put up water for chamomile tea and sat down at the kitchen table, where she’d been grading French assignments before Anthony’s call. What to say to Amelia’s parents? They’d met—twice now—which should make things a little easier. Though maybe not, since they clearly elected not to contact her when the storm blew in. And, she supposed, it wasn’t as though the kids were six-year-olds who, during a playdate, had broken a lamp or something and then hidden the evidence. Amelia, their baby, had photographs of a naked young man—had them on purpose, had asked to have them. If Amelia’s parents were as conservative and protective as they appeared to be, and as uninformed as the kids (and she, Kim) had intended to keep them, she could hardly expect their reaction to have been any different than it was.

  There, good. She’d reasoned her way into their point of view, which would make talking with them easier. Thank God she’d had a lot of practice at this kind of thing—dealing with unhappy parents—over the years.

  With her mug of tea at hand, Kim looked up Amelia’s parents’ contact info and dialed their home number. As prepared as she thought she was, her heart was behaving otherwise. There was a difference in making such a call as this one in the role of mother, rather than teacher, whether her brain wanted to think so or not.

  A man’s gruff voice said, “Wilkes residence.”

  “Hello. I’m calling for Mr. or Mrs. Wilkes. This is Kim Winter.”

  She heard a snort, then, “Guess you know about the trouble your boy’s got into.”

  His tone rankled her. “That’s why I’m calling, yes. Is this a good time to talk?”

  “Not unless you’re calling to say he’s been locked up or you’ve had him castrated.”

  “Mr. Wilkes, I know you’re angry,” she said, struggling to maintain her “teacher voice” despite his hostility, “but really, that’s not called for.”

  “I’ll tell you what’s not called for: your son putting perverted ideas into my daughter’s head the way he’s done. I don’t know what sorts of standards you single-mom types have, but good families teach their sons to respect a young lady, not corrupt her—prey on her like … like she’s some common little whore who’d welcome that kind of thing.” His voice cracked as he spoke. He cleared his throat, then added, “Don’t think William Braddock isn’t goin’ to hear about this. ’Fact, I’m fixin’ to call him right now.”

  Kim opened her mouth to reply and heard the dial tone buzzing in her ear. She dialed him back and got his voice mail. He really was calling William. She tried William’s phone, and that call went straight to voice mail as well.

  “Shit,” she said, imagining what Harlan Wilkes must be telling him. The man was crazy. He hadn’t even given her a chance to speak. She tried his number again. Again, she got no answer.

  Without giving in to the anger and self-doubt she knew would swamp her if she thought too much about what had just happened, she looked up Sheri Wilkes’s cell number, and dialed it.

  “Hello?” a woman said, in the soft, Southern tones Kim recognized as Amelia’s mother’s.

  “Mrs. Wilkes, this is Kim Winter. Maybe you heard, I just tried speaking with your husband—”

  “Would you mind holding just one minute?”

  “Oh, all right, sure.”

  Kim waited, counting backwards from ten and breathing deeply as she did it. Sheri Wilkes returned at three, saying, “Thank you so much. I’m sorry to keep you waiting. I needed to find a quiet place to talk.”

  “I understand. So then, did you hear the conversation?”

  “As a matter of fact, yes, I did, and let me apologize for my husband. He isn’t really himself just now.”

  “I understand,” Kim said again, an overstatement. His anger and dismay, yes. His behavior, no. She continued, “As I told Anthony, this must be very surprising and stressful for you and Mr. Wilkes. But I’d hoped we could have a conversation about it, all of us, maybe, and … and I hope set things right.”

  There was a short pause, and then Sheri Wilkes said, “Ms. Winter, if there was a way … I came home after Harlan had already contacted the authorities. To be plain with you, I thought he might have jumped the gun—though let me stress that I’m not happy about this either, not a bit.”

  “Of course not. When our children keep secrets—”

  “But he has his reasons, which I support.”

  Kim bit back the reply she’d have liked to give, a remark about thinking for oneself, and said instead, “Why don’t we all sit down tomorrow sometime and talk about all of this. The kids can explain their plans, and—”

  “Plans?”

  “Well, what they intend, for after graduation—”

  “Ms. Winter, even if I was inclined, you don’t know my husband. As far as he’s concerned, your son is … well, let me just say it would be best”—and she stressed best in a way that Kim knew meant required—“for your son not to have any contact with our daughter in the future.”

  “Have you talked to Amelia about any of this? You do know that she and Anthony are, well, they’re in love.” Her embarrassed laugh came out sounding more like a hiccup. “I know they’re young,
but when you see them together—”

  “How long have you known about this?” Sheri Wilkes said.

  Oh hell, Kim thought, bringing her hand to her mouth. “Mrs. Wilkes, my son and I, we’re very close. I raised him on my own; my ex-husband has never been involved. We talk about everything that affects him. And I’m sorry I didn’t … I’m sorry you didn’t know about them before now. But the fact of the matter is that regardless of how you or I or your husband feels about it all, they’re a pair of very mature, very determined young adults who are planning a future together. I think we should try to respect that.”

  Sheri Wilkes sighed. “That may all be as you say. My husband, though, is of the view that your son has had … undue influence over Amelia. She hasn’t had much experience with boys.”

  So far as you know, Kim thought, not ungenerously. She said, “With due respect, he’s mistaken. Anthony is not that kind of person.”

  “I’m sorry, Ms. Winter. I’m sure it will be hard for him but, really, it’d be best if you tell him to stay away from Amelia. Her father has already made it clear to her that she won’t be seeing him again. Thank you so much for your call.”

  So that was it? Kim dropped her phone onto the table, stunned at how these people had shut her down so quickly, with almost no consideration at all.

  She’d hardly had time to breathe the deep, calming breath she’d learned in yoga, when her phone rang. William. Kim picked up the phone, her thumb moving automatically to the TALK button, while her brain protested the spinning ride she’d been thrown onto. Stop now, I want to get off. But it was only just beginning.

  Tuesday morning, Kim modified Sheri Wilkes’s message before passing it on to Anthony. “Amelia won’t be able to see you for a while,” she told him, standing in his bedroom doorway at ten after six.

  Anthony rolled over and looked up from his bed. His dark expression said what she knew he wouldn’t articulate, at least to her (Fuck that), so she tacked on a warning. “You’ll earn a lot more respect by being cooperative, you know. Her father’s a little hotheaded. Let him cool down.” Then she broke the worst of the news. “I spoke to Mr. Braddock last night—Harlan Wilkes called him—and Amelia’s going to be out of school for a while.”

  Anthony sat up, alarmed. “What?”

  “I don’t know the details.”

  “They can’t take her out of school,” he said. “That’ll screw up everything!”

  “Anthony. Let it be for now. Let’s focus on you and this court business. I’ll be calling some lawyers today to see what you’re supposed to do.”

  “I’m supposed to meet Amelia in the parking lot before class. And then I’m supposed to eat lunch with her. We’re supposed to sit together in English, and talk about a book that illuminates the bullshit teens have to deal with.” He was nearly spitting the words.

  “Get dressed,” Kim said. “You’ll be late.”

  He grabbed a T-shirt from a chair-back and pulled it on. Calming down, he said, “Just so you know, I looked up the charge. It’s a misdemeanor, which is good, but apparently it’s the worst kind.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Probably not jail time, since this is my first arrest.”

  Kim considered the words jail and arrest and how out of context they were, coming from him. She really hadn’t had enough caffeine for any of this. She said, “Well, that’s something, I guess. But we won’t let it come to that anyway, if we can help it. We’ll get it all straightened out.”

  Anthony, though he looked at her skeptically, didn’t reply.

  9

  MELIA’S ALARM, A GENTLE EASTERN CHIME, BEGAN ROUSING her at five-fifteen. In the predawn darkness, before wakeful recollection took hold, she lay beneath her smooth sheets and the lightweight, down-filled comforter the housekeeper laid on her bed spring and fall, smiling at the remnants of a dream. She’d been onstage with Anthony, footlights shining upon them, warming them the way sunshine would.… He was holding her against him, telling her something important about flowers, and snow. She tried to keep hold of the dream … it faded, though, as the alarm sang on and her memory of last night’s troubles filled the space the dream had occupied.

  She pushed her feet out the side of the covers, letting the room’s cool air in, then swung her legs over the bedside and got up. In the bathroom, she pulled her hair into a thick ponytail and put her contacts in. Then she began the other part of her morning routine, the part she had begun originally at age five and been officially excused from three years ago, but which she continued on her own, as insurance against the stutter’s returning like a cancer that chemotherapy had missed.

  She began with a low, breathy sort of warm-up song, choosing, today, a C scale. She heard her speech pathologist’s voice coaching her, Long A sound, and she sang, “aaayyyy,” long O, “ohhhhhh,” long E, “eeeeee,” long I, “ahyhe,” long U sound, “you-u-u-u.” Again. She went through her litany twice more, then began the consonants exercise: “Bat, pat, dot, tot, kit, git. Bit, pit, dock, talk, kale, gale.” Though it all came easily now, the shadow of the affliction cast a pall that, so far, refused to leave her for long.

  Usually she’d go online to check the weather before heading out for her run; usually, she had a smartphone. Today, she opened the window to gauge the temperature, then got dressed in running pants, sports bra, tank top, and a long-sleeved shirt. She tucked her pewter charm on its leather string into her tank top and then, shoes in hand, left her room, heading for the main stairway, and was surprised to see lights burning in the wide front hall and then, as she went down the broad, winding staircase, lights on in the living room and conservatory, too—where her parents were seated, already showered and dressed, and with a platter of ham biscuits waiting on the coffee table in front of them.

  They looked up as Amelia came into the doorway. Their faces were calm, placid even. Her mother held a mug in both hands and was blowing into it to cool its contents. Steam leapt up and around her mother’s properly made-up face, done with the most flattering foundation color, the softest pale powder, the finest eyeliner, mascara, and the most modest touch of blush in the slight caverns of her cheeks. Rosy lipstick complemented her silk sweater, and her manicured nails matched both. She was so pretty, so pulled-together, so perfect. So careful.

  Her mother’s family, the Kerrs, were furniture makers who’d opened a factory in High Point shortly after the Civil War. They weren’t wealthy in the way that so many people were these days; furniture-building made a man a living, not a fortune, her grandfather was known to say. They lived well, which was to say that the kids were always dressed right for the weather, always had hot suppers, didn’t have to work in the factory, and mostly didn’t die from the diseases that used to be prevalent: polio, measles, diphtheria. The Kerrs were as sturdy, upright, and high quality as the ladderback chairs they made. Her grandfather prided himself on his broad-mindedness: if you worked hard and did right, it didn’t matter who your people were or where you’d gotten your start. To him, Amelia’s father was a hero, one who had apparently rescued her mother from the lonely single life she’d been leading. “She’s lucky you’d have her,” her grandfather sometimes said, patting her father on the back.

  That lucky woman was the one sitting here now. Amelia preferred the mother she sometimes found on Saturday mornings lounging in the sunroom with the News & Observer spread about on the floor around her green toile-covered chaise. The robed, tousled, relaxed-looking woman who knew she had no immediate task ahead of her, no audience, no impending appearance at a Women’s Club function or Ravenswood fund-raiser or Helping Hand Mission activity or church coffee-service. Somewhere behind the perfect makeup and silk sweater and camel-colored wool slacks that Amelia saw before her was that Saturday mother, the woman Amelia wished to know better. Because even on Saturdays, her mother was careful with her words, measured, as if she, too, had once fought off a stutter—though Amelia knew that wasn’t the case.

  Her father clapped his hands once and sto
od up.

  “ ’Mornin’, Ladybug.”

  “What’s going on?” Amelia asked, holding her running shoes to her chest as if they were a shield.

  “Momma made us some breakfast, wasn’t that good of her? We thought we’d have a bite to eat together and talk some. Last night … well, I was upset, plain and simple. Thought maybe we’d try this again.”

  “Let me get you some juice,” her mother said, standing.

  “No thanks. I really need to get going so I’m not late for school.”

  “Couldn’t you skip the run this morning?” her father asked. He looked so hopeful and apologetic that she softened toward him. Maybe he’d reconsidered his actions and was going to clear Anthony after all.

  “I’ll shorten it,” she said.

  Her mother walked past her and paused for the slightest beat, laying her hand on Amelia’s shoulder as she passed. “I’ll get your juice,” she said.

  Amelia set her shoes on the rug and sat down in the upholstered chair nearest the piano, a Steinway Parlor Grand that their housekeeper kept polished as though her life depended on guests being able to see their reflection in the glossy black surface. Her father sat with his elbows on his knees and his hands clasped in front of him, the way he often did while watching football. She waited for him to say something, but he was apparently waiting for her mother’s return.

  “Here we go,” her mother said, handing her a glass of orange juice. Then she took a small china plate and set a biscuit on it, and passed it to Amelia’s father.

  “Thanks, hon,” he said. “These sure do look good.”

  “Amelia?”

  “No, Momma, I’m not hungry, thanks.”

  Her mother’s smile was pained. Amelia’s throat tightened. They did so much for her, and she’d let them down, disrespected them by going behind their backs. Even now, they didn’t know how bad it was, how she’d hidden so much more from them than photographs.