25
HE SATURDAY MORNING BEFORE THANKSGIVING COULD HAVE been mistaken for a day in June if not for the palette of fall colors gracing the trees. Sunshine, a sky so clear and blue that Kim’s Ithaca friends would cry with envy, the scents of roasting corn and grill-cooked beef coming from vendors’ metal huts—it all added up to a perfect morning at the Raleigh Flea Market, where she strolled alongside her mother wearing shorts and sandals and sunglasses, wishing she could be strolling along with William at her side, holding her hand. How long had it been since she’d had that comfort from a man, that ease? Not that it would solve any of her troubles, no, but having a partner, someone whose interests were vested in yours, made the difficult bearable. Her mother was wonderful—Kim was grateful for her company and support. A mother, though, filled a different role. An important, even crucial role, but different. She supposed Anthony, steadfast in his devotion to Amelia, must be feeling the same way.
Kim wished, too, that it truly was June and that none of the issues that were keeping her and William and Anthony and Amelia apart this morning had ever happened—or that it was next June, and the issues were long resolved. She loved the sunshine, the warmth, but it felt artificial, like a July visit to an open-all-year Christmas decoration store.
Anthony trailed the women, more involved in a text conversation taking place on the cellphone Cameron had given him than with Kim and his grandmother. This gift of phones, which she had resisted at first but then, after arguing with Anthony, given in to, made her anxious—for all the kids. And for Liz McGuiness as well—wasn’t she worried about the consequences she might face for getting involved this way? Maybe she was, and had done it anyway—in which case Kim admired her, truth be told, and felt ashamed of her own hesitancy to do anything that went against the court’s instruction or the lawyer’s advice. She should call Mrs. McGuiness, she knew she should.… Call and tell her to cut off the service before more trouble came along (and weren’t they all trouble magnets these days?). She knew she should call, and yet she put it off because she was too softhearted, reluctant to deny the kids this one small joy. Maybe this afternoon she would talk to Anthony about it, reiterate to him the risk that Cameron’s mother was taking, and then make the call.
Her mother said, “You’re obsessing, aren’t you?”
“What? Oh, sorry, Mom.”
“I know that look. I remember when Dad gave you that big glossy Monet book when you were, what, ten?”
Kim recalled the birthday. They’d gotten dressed up—Kim in her first bra, making her feel so grown-up—and gone out to dinner. “Twelve, I think.”
“Twelve, then. You studied every page, every painting, as if you had to memorize the entire book before you went blind or something.”
“Do you know he lived to be eighty-six? And his birthday just passed.”
Her mother smiled. “He’s a lot like you, you know.”
“Monet?”
“Anthony. I can only imagine how you would have been if cellphones and texting existed when you were his age.”
Anthony caught up to them and said, “Sorry. Cameron wants me to look for knock-off Coach bags. Think they have any here?”
Before Kim could answer, she heard the phone buzzing again.
Kim had long grown accustomed to his frequent texting, though it had been so odd at first. He’d be texting while listening to music and doing his homework and recording songs onto a CD. How did he keep his mind on so many things at once?
When he’d gotten his first cellphone, she’d had strict rules about its use. No calls or texts during meals. No phone use at all when visiting with her friends or her parents. No texting at the movies—not that she and Anthony went to movies together terribly often even then, when he was fifteen. She had not, in the early days of his having his own phone, allowed him to keep it in his room overnight. Most of those rules remained in place as he got older, but keeping the phone overnight was one that fell away once he’d gotten his driver’s license, and a job. He swore he was getting enough sleep, and his grades didn’t suffer—in fact his grades at Ravenswood were better than they’d been before.
Even after he’d come home from auditions all starry-eyed about Amelia that night a year ago, she’d trusted him to make good choices. And he had, mostly. He didn’t use drugs. He was an exemplary student. He did athletics, he read, he wrote, he didn’t spend all his time in front of the TV or computer, he did theatre, he volunteered at Habitat, he worked part-time. He didn’t smoke. He didn’t drink, as far as she’d been able to discern. He might have been sexually active before his arrest, but Amelia wasn’t pregnant by him, and neither was anyone else. No, he wasn’t perfect. He left his dishes around the house, he had to be forced to clean his bathroom, he was sometimes stubborn and liked to debate her about rules now and then. He insisted that when he was in college he was going to track down Santos and show him how far he’d come, show how little the abandonment mattered (when, of course, he’d be showing just the opposite)—but she couldn’t blame him for that. She didn’t really blame him for giving in to his natural, built-in urges, either; if only he hadn’t done it so modernly.
There were few remaining dictated rules in their house these days. Rather, they lived with a cooperative understanding of what was expected and appropriate. He was eighteen now. By law, a full adult. He could vote, he could be drafted, if things came to that, he could sign his own contracts if he made any, he could marry without her consent. Until his arrest—arrests, rather—she’d felt good about the job she’d done raising him on her own. Had she done it all wrong, all these years? Was she doing it all wrong now?
Her mother pointed ahead of them, at a table stacked with boxes of record albums. “I’m going to see if I can’t find some of the big bands in there.”
“Grandma, I told you, I can get you anything on CD—or we could move you up to an iPod. You already have a computer, so it’d be easy for you to get any music you want.”
“I know, and you’re right. It just isn’t the same, though. There’s more to music than the music.”
They let her walk ahead to the table, Anthony responding to another text. Despite what he’d said, Kim was sure he was texting Amelia. That was the purpose of his having the phone. She knew this, and knew that if he was caught, it would be considered a violation of his bail terms—and Amelia’s. His bail would be revoked, and he’d go to jail until the felony case was resolved. She knew she should intervene for so many reasons, and still she couldn’t bring herself to do it. Who else but the Wilkeses would catch Amelia?—and they wouldn’t be able to report Anthony without also compromising her. She was worrying too much. Obsessing, as her mother had said. She needed to relax.
“So how is she?” Kim asked him, trying to sound casual.
He looked up. “You just saw her yesterday.”
“Come on.”
Anthony held the phone out and said, “This? I told you, I’m talking to Cameron.”
“It’s okay, I’m not going to report you.”
He offered her the phone. “See for yourself.”
Her first instinct was to decline, to believe him. Then she reached for it, watching his face for any tic, any change, a sign that he’d been bluffing. There was nothing. He let go of the phone and said, “B-R-B,” then walked off to join his grandmother.
Kim watched him go. Clearly, he’d known she was testing him, and now, standing here beneath the broad arms of one of the biggest live oak trees she’d ever seen, she was embarrassed and a little ashamed. Hadn’t he always been honest with her? Maybe he wasn’t blatantly forthcoming about what went on between him and Amelia, but what son would volunteer all that information to his mother? And besides, relationships were supposed to be private matters, not escapades lived out in front of others. He was in almost every way an adult; she tried hard to respect his privacy.
She hadn’t asked for intimate details, but if she had, he very likely would have answered judiciously but honestly. As if to prov
e this to herself, she pressed a button on the cellphone to light its display, then another to look at the text message log. Cameron’s name filled the display.
“Kim, come see this,” her mother called, waving her over to the table.
She held up an album and, as Kim joined them, handed it over, saying, “Barry Manilow’s Greatest Hits, 1978. I told Anthony how you wore out your copy. She was sixteen,” her mother told Anthony. “You know how it is.”
Kim held out the cellphone and he accepted it. “Yep,” he said, “I do.”
Anthony didn’t enjoy deceiving his mother, and wouldn’t be doing it if he had a real choice. As resigned as she was about his getting the phone from Cameron, and as reluctantly tolerant as she would probably be if she had seen Amelia’s name on the phone’s display just now, he couldn’t afford to take any chances.
He, his mother, and his grandmother went from the record albums to an assortment of antique furniture vendors to, now, a big booth displaying Indian dresses and tunics and tapestries. When he was sure both of the women were well occupied, his mother trying on ponchos and his grandmother sorting through scarves, he said, “You know, this stuff’s nice, but it isn’t really my style. I’m going to go grab a Coke or something, okay?”
“Oh, all right, honey. I … I guess I’ll call you, when we’re done.”
He left the booth, forcing himself not to hurry. What was about to happen had to look accidental to anyone who might observe it, an absolute fluke. Happenstance. Fate. Lots of people came out to the flea market on weekend mornings. There were great bargains to be had, and pens of energetic puppies awaiting adoption, and roasted corn on a stick. No gun-and-knife show today, but then, that only made the meeting more plausible. Few women turned out on their own when the place was crowded with hunters and collectors and macho types who wanted to lay their hands on semiautomatic weapons. You never knew when you were going to need to overthrow the government.
He passed families towing preschoolers in red wagons, parents pushing strollers loaded down with bags and babies. Ahead of him, a young couple walked hand in hand as if doing so was the most ordinary thing in the world. He watched them enviously. Why them and not him? Had they been smarter or purer than he and Amelia? Or were they just luckier? Had they done the same things he and Amelia had done, but not been caught at it? Had they done it but nobody cared? Were they lucky enough to fall in love after high school, when their parents’ opinions, even if negative, were toothless? Or maybe they were lucky enough to have parents who approved. He could imagine such a thing; his mother was one. For what little good it did.
He passed a display of iron tools, rust-coated and strewn about on tables and on the pavement inside the vendor’s square of display space. He passed a booth stocked with “designer” sunglasses, two pair for fifteen dollars. He passed an ATM machine, and a patch of wide lawn where a group of young Latina mothers sat together while their children raced around them, yelling in Spanish and laughing and tumbling on the grass. And then he saw her.
She sat on a bench in front of the Dorton Arena, facing the towering concrete waterfall feature, a huge rectangular block with water pouring down both sides into a round fountain pool. The spray coming off the waterfall made her appear as if she sat beneath a rainbow like a girl in an Irish tale. He saw her from the side in perfect profile, hair pulled back, smooth neck and arms and legs exposed to his hungry gaze. Famished gaze, more like. He stopped so he could simply look at her for a minute. She was an oasis, a gem, a haven, a salve for his wounds. She was every metaphor for beauty and desire and comfort that he might think of, and even then he wouldn’t be able to adequately describe what seeing her did for his heart. Did to his heart. Amelia.
She turned then, as if she’d heard him. Her pensive expression disappeared and a grateful smile replaced it. Anthony could hear the thump of his heart as he closed the distance between them. He could hear the rushing of the waterfall, children yelling, a deep man’s voice with a heavy drawl instructing a large, tattooed woman to get him some boiled peanuts and a beer, if she could find one. And then he heard music, Amelia’s voice saying, “Well, imagine seeing you here.”
He wanted to pull her up from the bench and wrap her in his arms, hold her against his chest, let her hear how his heart pounded and feel if hers did, too. What he did was sit down beside her and laugh, though the sound came out with an odd sort of gulp, as if what it really wanted to be was a sob.
He said, “Yeah, wow. What a weird coincidence.”
“I had to escape into the bathroom twice to text. My mom acts like I’m a preschooler who’s going to wander off if I’m not within a foot of her. Of course now she’s worried that I’m not feeling well.”
“God, I’m glad to see you.”
She beamed at him, and he beamed at her, and for the two of them, the world stopped for a moment in recognition of a rare and wonderful thing. “ ‘No sooner knew the reason,’ ” he quoted, “ ‘but they sought the remedy.’ ”
She reached for his hands and grasped them in her cool fingers, which he then surrounded with his own warmer ones. Her hands seemed more delicate than before. She seemed more delicate. Paler and less substantial, except for her eyes—they were larger than ever, and as filled with longing and regret as his must be. He should have made sure she protected the photos more securely, buried them someplace deep in her computer files where no one could happen across them. Where they’d be tough to find even for someone who was looking purposefully. He’d been so certain of their rightness that he hadn’t been thinking about the risk. He and Amelia belonged together. They had their future together cinched with a golden thread. What, they’d thought, could go wrong?
They were stupid in love.
She said, “We owe Cameron so much.”
“We do.”
“It’s crazy, isn’t it, all this mess?”
“And endless.”
“And pointless,” she said.
“Hard to think it’s going to get any better.”
She studied a hangnail—her fingernails were so raw-looking, he noticed, chewed down, sore—then she picked at it, saying, “What if … What if it gets worse?”
He’d hoped that their meeting here today would be a completely upbeat experience for her, that somehow they’d avoid talking about the situation. Not a realistic hope, obviously. Both of their existences had been consumed by the Typhon-like multiheaded monster that was the ironically named Justice System, leaving them little to discuss that wasn’t related to court dates, lawyers, and their forced separation.
“I want to say ‘I don’t see how it could,’ but I do see how it could.”
“Have you thought of what it’s like to be a registered sex offender?” Amelia said. “People think you’ve snatched toddlers from playgrounds and done awful things to them. Do you remember that movie, Little Children? They’d think you’re like that poor man—the creepy one the ex-cop was out to get. And me, they’d see me as a sick, sex-crazed slut looking for action wherever she could find it. Cameron says sex offenders aren’t allowed to use any social media, ever. No matter what. Apparently everyone convicted of a sex crime is a creeper who finds victims on My Space and Facebook.”
He laid one arm across the back of the bench, and with his other hand he stroked the smooth skin from her knee to where her shorts ended at the upper part of her thigh. She had skin like pale rose petals. “I remember the film,” he said. “That’s why I didn’t plead out. The deal they offered was a mandatory sex addiction counseling program, four hundred hours of community service, and offender registration for five years—like they were doing me a favor by not making it more. You can’t ever get away from that record. That’s why I’m going to have to take my chances in court. If I caved to that offer, imagine what they’d want for the felonies.”
“Yesterday, before my dad left, he said my lawyer’s concerned I might have to go to trial—but that he’s not going to let it come to that. As if it’s up to him,” she said,
shaking her head. “He thinks he runs the universe. He can’t understand how the DA could charge me when I’m obviously a victim. He’s … He’s just so sure he’s right.”
Anthony reached for her hand and twined her fingers with his. “I’m sorry. I hate that this is happening to you.”
“And to you! God.” She tilted her head, looking up at the top of the fountain. “I can hardly believe it’s real.”
“How long do you have?” he asked.
She sat up straighter and scanned the area around them, then became very still. “Not long,” she said.
He followed her gaze to a spot maybe fifty yards away, where Sheri Wilkes stood, mouth slightly open, staring at them. He said, “Do you think she’s been watching us?”
“I don’t know.” Amelia looked at him again. “She’s just standing there like she doesn’t know what to do. I hate this,” she said fiercely. “Anthony, I don’t want to do this anymore. I want our life back. I want our plans. Did I tell you I got a letter from Duke saying they ‘could not consider admitting me at this time’?”
“You weren’t going there anyway,” he said.
“It won’t be any different with NYU.”
“No,” he admitted, “it probably won’t.”
His phone rang: it was his mother. He answered, saying, “I’ll call you right back, okay?”
“Sure,” his mother said, then, “Oh, never mind, there you—”
He saw her, walking toward him with his grandmother, at the same time she saw him. Then she looked past him and stopped still. “Damn,” he said, pocketing his phone. “She sees your mom. I hope this doesn’t get ugly.”
“My mom won’t say anything, she’d never make a scene—but I better go,” Amelia said, standing. He stood too, keeping a wary eye on their mothers, who hadn’t moved from their spots. She said, “I thought something like this might happen,” her voice thickening, “but it was worth it, to get to see you.”
He put his arms around her and held her against him. “I don’t want to let you leave. There has to be a way out of this. People can’t really be this stupid, can they?” He pulled back so he could look at her, and laughed mirthlessly as he said, “Listen to me—it’s like I’m in denial. I sound like your dad, don’t I?”
Exposure Page 27