Driving out of the neighborhood, Kim tried to shake off her stress—not an easy task, despite the dress and the bracelet and the shoes. There was a lot to shake off. She’d plodded through the days that followed their descent into the world of criminal defense angry with the Wilkeses, furious with the television news stations and the way they’d framed the situation, sickened by the story that had run on the front page of Thursday morning’s Wake Weekly, and ready to shoot every reporter who’d called the house or the school or had called or texted Anthony. Even if Harlan Wilkes was the impetus, as Mariana Davis had suggested, why was so much being made of so little?
The worst, though, had been the cheerful TV reporter who had come to their house looking for Anthony on Monday afternoon while the vividly marked news truck sat provocatively at the curb. A skinny young man with gel-combed dark hair had come to the door and asked, “Hi, is Anthony home?” as if inviting him to come out and play.
He was home. Because of his suspension he was home and brooding. He texted Kim several times each day, venting, causing her to be, at turns, upset for him and upset with him. He needed to settle down and keep a positive outlook, not complain about William, or about Harlan Wilkes, or about the ravenous media and the salacious tale they were building from the slight information they had. The newspaper’s headline had read, RALEIGH MAN ARRESTED FOR PREYING ON PREP-SCHOOL GIRL.
Kim told the reporter, “Nope, he’s not here.”
“I’d like to talk to him about—”
“He’s not home, I said.”
The man eyed Anthony’s car, which was parked at the curb in front of the house, then said, “Are you his mother? Can I ask you a few questions?”
If Kim had possessed claws, she’d have slashed the reporter’s face. She forced herself to keep her voice calm and even. “No, you can’t.”
“No statement? People would like to know Anthony’s side of the story.”
“His side? They don’t even know—” She’d almost said Amelia’s name before remembering that her identity was protected because of her age. Not that this practice had to be observed by the accused’s mother, but Kim had no desire to complicate the situation by giving the Wilkeses another reason to despise Anthony. “They don’t even really know the girl’s side,” she said, “so it won’t matter much if they don’t know his, either.”
If she set an example of levelheadedness, there might yet be a chance (granted, a slim one) for the Wilkeses to relax their stance and for the kids to resume their relationship. They might all be able to one day look back on this week and if not laugh about it, at least smile ruefully and shake their heads. That, they might all say, was such a crazy situation, but all’s well that ends well!
Kim, with this in mind, told the reporter, “It’s really a misunderstanding. A mistake.”
“Is it?” the reporter asked eagerly, making Kim sorry she’d said anything. “Why is that? What happened?”
“Mariana Davis will be happy to answer your questions,” Kim had said. She closed the door and turned to find Anthony watching her from where he sat atop the stairs, his arms wrapped around himself, mouth clamped shut, angry wariness in his eyes.
Now she parked her car in a lot across from the restaurant, wishing she could relax, wishing Anthony’s appearance in court two days earlier had been the end of things. Instead, they’d shown up at nine, along with a great many other unfortunate citizens (some of whom were badly in need of a shower), and waited anxiously to see Mariana Davis. When she came in forty minutes later, one of a dozen lawyers milling about the room, having whispered consultations with clients and with one another, they’d watched her meet up with a dark-suited man near the judge’s bench, speak to him quietly while other defendants stood before the judge and were processed, and then she’d waved them to the exit. Outside the heavy double doors of courtroom 3-C, Ms. Davis said, “We’ve pushed the hearing back. He claims they don’t have their paperwork in order, but I think they’re buying time to wait for the results of the search and seizure.”
Search and seizure. Never, never would Kim have imagined that this term would attach itself to her life. And the words criminal defense—that this was the term for the service Mariana Davis was providing Anthony made Kim’s stomach turn far more than it did over parting with money that was intended to take them to France next summer, and to help Anthony pay for college. The term seemed wrong for a service that existed in support of another term, “presumed innocence.”
Though Anthony was not, in fact, innocent, not when it came to the letter of the law. As the attorney had explained, Anthony had provided the police with all the information the DA needed in order to convict him of the charge. When Kim had asked her if his statement was admissible, given that they hadn’t first read him his rights, Mariana Davis said, “The police can ask any question they like when investigating a complaint.” She’d looked at Anthony and said, “Never, ever say anything to the police unless you’re the one who called them.”
Their defense, then, was not to prove his innocence, but rather to persuade the assistant district attorney who’d been assigned to the case that the charge itself was, in this situation, misapplied and absurd.
Arriving at the restaurant, Kim went inside and spotted William sitting at the bar, laughing and talking to the bartender. She slipped off her sweater and hung it over her arm, and watched him for a moment. He had the ageless good looks of a man who’d once been a boy growing up at the beach. His short, blond hair, mussed a little, held the golden highlights of summer (he was, he’d told her, still a surfer). He wore a suede sport coat over a white open-necked dress shirt, and stylish new glasses that made him look smarter and sexier than the simple wire-framed pair he wore at school. He was her age, forty-nine, divorced five years earlier, no kids. He was good-hearted and clever and resourceful. Standing there in her plum silk dress, one hand twisting her bracelet, she wanted as much as anything she’d ever wanted before to have him, to be his.
He saw her then and waved her over, standing up and pushing his hands into his pockets as he watched her cross the room. The smart thing would be to run the other way, she thought, walking toward him anyway, as if her sense and sensibility were completely disconnected. She wanted no complications and no hesitations. But the course of love did never run smooth. It was sometimes catastrophic, in fact. He was, she confirmed to herself, worth the risk.
“Hey,” he said, putting his hand on her shoulder. “You look fantastic.”
What warmth infused her entire body with his touch! Ludicrous, she thought, then she said, “You’re looking pretty good yourself.”
They ordered drinks and talked, first, about the easy topics. The good weather the area had been having, the jazz trio, and the great charm of the bass as an instrument. Crab dip with artichokes, crab dip without. Not until they were each into their second glass of wine did William ask about Anthony.
He said, “Is he doing all right? The lawyer you hired, what’s her strategy?” Kim felt a thorn’s prick of irritation, of impatience. Not with William, whose concern she valued, but with Anthony, for the mess that had spilled over onto her life, and William’s. Anthony knew what sort of man Harlan Wilkes was; why hadn’t he thought about the potential consequences before sending Amelia the photos?
Kim said, “She’s aiming for complete dismissal. She asked Anthony to write up a detailed narrative for her, which he did, and she’s set him up with a psychologist who’ll assess his capacity for sexual deviancy—deviancy! As if half the teens in the world aren’t doing this kind of thing! I’m sorry”—she interrupted herself—“I told myself tonight wasn’t going to be about Anthony. He told me to make sure it wasn’t.”
“My fault. But look, if we don’t talk about it, it’ll just hover around us as ‘the thing we’re not talking about,’ don’t you think?”
Holding her wineglass up to the light, Kim swirled its contents, watching the garnet-red liquid slide along the sides of the glass. “I do, yes. So … we
’ll go back to the courthouse a week from Tuesday for his rescheduled ‘appearance,’ and the attorney will iron things out with the prosecutor then. We hope. I thought it was called a hearing, but I guess not. It’s funny, you think you know a lot about the court system—all those TV shows and books, right? But now that we have to navigate it, I feel like I’m swimming underwater in the dark.”
“I’ve done that,” William said. “It’s damn scary.”
Kim set her glass on the bar and turned toward him. “Thank you,” she said sincerely. Then, feeling the moment drawing out in a way that, if they’d been alone, might have led to a more personal expression of her appreciation, she fingered her bracelet and said, “The law, the statute they’ve charged him with, it’s intended for creepy, predatory old men and the like. Nasty guys who are trying to entice—though God knows how they could be enticing—or corrupt young girls. It’s not supposed to apply to kids like Anthony.”
“I agree—which is why it pains me to have anything to do with the anti-Anthony camp. The board’s viewpoint is that Ravenswood has an accused sexual predator among its ranks. I didn’t have any choice except to suspend him; parents expect me to protect their daughters.”
“Then you’d better suspend Cy D’Angelo and Mike Hartsfield—I think those two were born with leers on their faces. And I have no doubt that they’re in active pursuit of any girl who seems even remotely willing to entertain them.”
“Yes, well, those two have managed to not be caught doing anything against school policy, let alone against the law.”
Kim said, “He’s miserable, William. They took his computer, his camera, his iPod, his phone.… And he didn’t call me afterward. He sat at home, sulking.”
“So would I. What are they looking for?”
“The attorney thinks they want to see whether there are more girls involved—which is ridiculous.”
“So they won’t find anything, and that will help prove his case.”
“Maybe. But in the meantime, he’s almost entirely cut off from Amelia, he’s been publicly embarrassed, the other kids are having a field day trashing him, his boss doesn’t want him around. How can he deserve all that? The worst of it is that his arrest and the suspension will make NYU think twice about his admission, and if he can’t go there … William, that’s all he’s ever wanted.”
“I’ll give them a call on Monday and explain the situation, all right?”
“Will you? That would be great, thank you. Thank you,” she repeated, reaching for his hand.
He pressed her hand between his palms, then turned her hand palm-up and traced a line with his index finger. “Hard times, leading to renewal—it’s all right there.”
“Details, please.”
“For that I’m afraid I’ll need my crystal ball,” he said, releasing her hand with a squeeze. “I can say, though, that it’s good that the charge is relatively minor, and whatever the outcome, it’ll all be resolved soon.”
“I’ll drink to that.”
William raised his glass and touched it to hers. “And then …”
“Then?”
He smiled, a sultry sort of half smile that made her feel half her age and entirely female. “I don’t know,” he said, leaning close to her, then closer, and then brushing her lips lightly with his. “But by God, we’re going to figure it out.”
Anthony paced his room. They’d gone eleven days with no direct contact.
Eleven.
Miserable.
Days.
Eleven days that felt more like years, without hearing Amelia’s voice or seeing her or touching her or reading a text or an email from her. He was surprised he’d survived it.
Anxiety. Agitation. Mood swings. Insomnia. Depression. Nightmares. All explainable by his run-in with the law, true, but also symptoms of withdrawal—he’d done a report on addiction and withdrawal for Chemistry class. He was addicted to Amelia the way he was addicted to air. The only antidote was exposure.
The question was, did she still feel the same way about him? Suppose her parents had convinced her that the media version of him was his real self? Suppose she’d used these eleven days to reevaluate what she wanted in her life, to change her mind? He didn’t want to believe she would, or even could, stop loving him just because they were cut off from each other. God knew he was as crazy for her as ever. It was the separation, the blackout, that made his fears grow like mushrooms after a heavy rain. They defied logic, but then so did love. He tried to take comfort from that.
When the phone finally rang, he snatched it off his bed and answered, “Well?”
“I got it,” Cameron said.
“Eight o’clock?”
“Be there.”
15
RIDAY EVENING IN THE WILKES HOUSEHOLD MEANT MEATLOAF. Amelia had pushed her slice around her plate while giving better attention to the green beans, knowing that if she didn’t eat something, her parents would add that to the list of things she needed to do better, or differently, or to quit doing—like being argumentative with the tutor, a sour, demanding woman who had taught in public school before a car accident left her face partially disfigured. Apparently, the woman had tried to go back to work, but the students were so cruel that she’d filed for disability and began taking selective tutoring jobs instead. She’d told Amelia all of this in an accusatory tone, as if Amelia were to blame for all of it. Amelia didn’t deny the woman’s right to have a bad attitude, she simply wanted the woman to acknowledge that she, Amelia, had the right to one as well.
This was what Amelia had said to the counselor, in their second meeting on Wednesday afternoon. She’d said her attitude ranged from sad to disgusted to angry to despondent, which had sent the counselor into a long interrogation to determine whether Amelia was clinically depressed. Did she have thoughts of cutting herself, perhaps? Of vengeful suicide? Did she harbor any violent thoughts toward herself or her parents? “No,” Amelia had answered again and again. “No. I want my life back is all.”
After eating two bites of the meatloaf, she picked up her plate and carried it from the dining room to the kitchen, just as the phone rang. She grabbed it before either of her parents had time to react.
“Hello?”
From the dining room her father called, “That better not be Winter.”
“Hey, jailbird.” It was Cameron. “So they’re finally letting you answer the phone?”
“Not exactly, Cam,” Amelia said for her father’s benefit, and was surprised that hearing Cameron’s voice made her teary. She cleared her throat and sniffed. “I got lucky is all.”
“Bad lucky is what you got, but that is all about to change—at least a little bit. You’re not going anywhere, are you? Because I’m coming over, and I’m bringing … a surprise.”
“Well, we were talking about going to see a movie.” Her mother thought she needed to get out on a Friday night, to have some sense of normalcy—as if going to the movies with her parents was normal. “But I don’t have to go,” she said, “if you need me to, um, help. What is it?”
“They’re listening, aren’t they?”
“Uh-huh. We just finished dinner.” She could hear her mother collecting plates and silverware to carry into the kitchen.
“Okay, well, I’ve arranged for the delivery of some contraband,” Cameron said dramatically. “And I mean seriously forbidden stuff.”
Amelia’s heart leapt. The most forbidden thing she knew of was Anthony. She said, “What time?”
“I’ll be there in like twenty minutes, and then I’ll fill you in on the rest of the plan, okay?”
“Okay.”
“But listen, he’s had it pretty rough this past week,” Cameron said. “I don’t know what you’ve heard—”
“Nothing. Zilch. I have a tutor come for half the day, then we run errands and eat out and come home and I read a lot.”
It was, Amelia thought, a strange limbo. She spent a lot of her time—when had she ever had so much free time?—unintentio
nally doing nothing. She’d catch herself at it when she was supposed to be doing schoolwork or when she’d been sitting in a sunny alcove with a book in her lap. Her mind would wander, often to thoughts of Anthony, but to other things as well. Memories from her childhood. Questions about the future that she knew were pointless to ask, since her parents, too, seemed to be waylaid with her in this netherworld, as if they’d all been on a trail through ten-foot-high grass and had come to a clearing, only to turn and find that the grass had closed in all around them. There was no way of telling where the forward path lay, and they couldn’t go back the way they’d come, and so they were waiting for some sign, some event, to show them where to go next.
Cameron said, “Well, to begin with, his arrest made the news. TV and newspapers and online. Then Braddock suspended him because your dad called and had a total fit—said Anthony’s dangerous to all us innocent girls—as if anyone in the Upper School is innocent, right? Amber Hartfield, maybe, with her violin and all that acne. Anyhow, your dad told the news that, too. They quoted him as ‘the victim’s father’ without naming names. And oh, man, at school—”
“Oh my God,” Amelia said, horrified at her father’s actions. It was all she could do not to glare at him as he followed her mother into the kitchen. She turned away from them, going into the pantry as if she’d planned to get a Milk-Bone for Buttercup. “At school?” she prompted, needing to not think about her father just now, or what might she say to him in her anger? And then he’d send her to her room again and forbid Cameron’s visit. No Cameron equaled no Anthony.
“A lot of the kids are talking shit about Anthony, like they always knew he was a perv and they’re glad he’s in trouble, and some of the girls are saying he propositioned them, or they’re claiming to be the unnamed victim so they can get all the attention.”
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