Exposure

by Therese Fowler

  She pressed her forehead to his collarbone. Her arms were tight around his waist. “Let’s go,” she said, and he could feel the warmth of her breath through his shirt. “Tonight. Before my dad gets back. Once she tells him what I did here, I won’t even be able to breathe without him knowing it.”

  “Go? Where?”

  “Maybe New York? I have some money, and a friend who I bet will put us up for a while. I’ll pick you up at … eleven,” she said, pulling back and looking over at her mother, who still hadn’t made a move to separate them and was, it seemed, now looking away. Amelia said, “She’s always in bed by ten.”

  He watched his mother shift awkwardly and speak to his grandmother, who nodded. Despite their support of him, their generosity and willingness to see him through his ordeal, the idea of running away with Amelia, which he’d dismissed so easily that morning in the school parking lot a few weeks ago, now looked like the most sensible action possible amid the chaos their lives had become. Get away, get some relief, figure it all out then.

  “I’ll pick you up,” he said, already formulating a plan that would protect Amelia if they didn’t succeed.

  She looked up at him, eyes bright with hope but flecked with fear. “Can we really do this?”

  Could they do it? The odds weren’t in their favor—but that was true regardless, wasn’t it? A strange emotion, something like terror and joy combined, made him feel suddenly ravenous.

  “I will if you want to.”

  “The fact is, now we really don’t have anything to lose,” she said, determination replacing uncertainty.

  “What about our court dates? If we don’t show—”

  “We’ll figure it out. Maybe once we get out of here and get a chance to think straight, we’ll get some fresh ideas,” she said, echoing his own thoughts. “We aren’t jumping bail as long as we don’t miss our next appearances, right?”

  “Right.” He wasn’t as optimistic as she was, however. Hadn’t they all been looking for a solution all these weeks, and come up with nothing? He breathed out heavily. There were so many things to consider—but either way, it would be a lot better considering them with Amelia beside him. He said, “So, okay, let’s go, and see what happens.”

  Her answering smile was a reward in itself. “Pack warm clothes,” she said.

  He kissed her as if it was going to be the last time, reveling in it and at the same time hoping the display would offset any suspicions their mothers might have that he and Amelia would think they could do this again. Then he took her hands as she backed away slowly, reluctance radiating from her. Good, she’d understood that they needed to put on an act, the sad lovers parting for who knew how long, maybe forever. She turned toward her mother then, letting go, pausing, looking back at him over her shoulder, and then walking away slowly without looking back again. He watched Sheri Wilkes fight off showing any emotion, but sympathy shaped her mouth into a sad frown, and when Amelia was close, Sheri Wilkes extended a hand and touched Amelia’s bowed head.

  Hearing motion behind him, Anthony turned and saw his mother and grandmother near the bench. There were tears in both women’s eyes. “Oh, honey,” his mother said. She looked stricken.

  “Come on, let’s go find some lunch.” He checked his phone for the time: only twelve hours to go, twelve hours of acting like nothing had changed. He didn’t like deceiving his mother, but he would do it if it meant an end to living like outcasts. He would do anything if it meant Amelia might somehow go free.

  ACT III

  Virtue itself turns vice, being misapplied,

  And vice sometime’s by action dignified.

  —WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, ROMEO AND JULIET

  26

  ARLAN BOARDED THE RED-EYE OUT OF SAN FRANCISCO AT ten o’clock on Saturday night and found his seat in first class, happy enough with the results of his trip. He’d gone for the usual reasons—firsthand looks at everything the world’s automakers had going, including concept cars, hybrids, and limited editions. But his main goal this time was to get a look at a 1952 Nash-Healey roadster being offered by a guy who lived in Novato and was bringing the car down for prospective buyers to view. At $195,000 the Nash was an indulgence, sure. Harlan couldn’t justify it right now, what with the money he’d put out for Clem’s nightclub and for Amelia’s bail. He’d already planned to be here, though, so no harm in taking a look. With all that was going on at home, he felt like he deserved a little break, a day off to forget the stress and the news and the everyday grind. He hadn’t bid on the car—but neither had anyone else, so it might yet be that when his upside-down life righted itself, the car would still be available, waiting for him.

  The Moscone Center, where the show was still ongoing into next week, had been bustling with middle-aged men, Harlan included, along with a fair number of younger, single guys, and lots of families with small children who, just like in Harlan’s showrooms, insisted on touching every part of the cars they could reach. Reps stood by anxiously, waiting for each kid to move on so they could polish away the fingerprints. This would go on endlessly for the duration of the show, and it amused Harlan to see it in action. He empathized with the reps, but still, it was funny. He’d also had a good time watching a trio of women in short-shorts or hot pants or whatever they were calling the things these days, the garments that left very little—but just enough—to a man’s imagination—talk to a group of well-dressed guys standing next to a yellow Lamborghini. Prostitutes, he figured. Lonely and displaced as he felt, an island in the sea of attendees despite his having plenty to say and plenty of people to say it to, he didn’t go in for that mess. He didn’t, even though he could have, even though Sheri had been uninterested in getting together since that morning in the shower. Unlike some guys he could think of, some whose initials were the same as his girl’s, he had too much self-esteem to go about getting sex in any dishonorable way.

  “That’s right, I mean you, Anthony Winter,” he muttered, snapping open a copy of the Wall Street Journal.

  A flight attendant nearby asked, “Did you say something, sir?”

  Harlan smiled up at her. “I said you would save my life if you’d bring me a scotch while we wait for this puppy to load.”

  The plane lifted off on schedule, and for the five hours until he changed planes in D.C., Harlan tried his best to shut down his brain and get a little sleep. It would be almost ten in the morning when they got to Raleigh, and he had to go straight from the airport to a little chat he’d set up with a reporter. He hoped they’d put some makeup on him, do a little something about the bags he’d surely have under his eyes. But then again, he thought, maybe it’d play better if he looked like the wreck he was.

  ———

  Harlan had scheduled this first on-camera defensive interview for Sunday at eleven, in response to five different reporters’ messages requesting some comment, some response to the outcome of Anthony Winter’s court appearance. Did he have an opinion? How did he think this would affect Amelia’s case? Was Winter’s refusal to plead on the first charge, one of them asked, a declaration of war?

  Harlan liked that question, and so he’d decided he would see this reporter, a sharp young guy from the Fox affiliate, in person. The others he’d spoken with briefly by phone. He had no qualms about taking advantage of the media’s interest in his reaction—which he knew full well had little to do with him and everything to do with manufacturing controversy—so word would get out even faster that Amelia was nothing like she was being portrayed in the news.

  The TV crew arrived to set up at Wilkes Rolls/Bentley moments after Harlan got there himself. His flight had gotten in fifteen minutes early and still he’d had to hustle from the airport. Usually, he’d call Sheri to let her know he was in, but this time he’d told a white lie, said he was coming on a later flight because he hadn’t told her about the interview and didn’t want to hear from her about anything, not until after the interview was done. He wasn’t happy that he felt this way. This business with Ame
lia was doing nothing for his marriage—which was all the more reason to strike fast and hot, and if need be, apologize later.

  The news folks had asked to come to the house—makes it all more personable, the producer said—but Harlan hadn’t fallen for that line. What they really wanted was access to his daughter, and that just was not going to happen. So he was having them set up in the showroom in front of a trio of the finest cars any manufacturer had to offer outside of Italy. Inside of Italy, for that matter, with the exception of Lamborghini. Harlan would love to sell those, too—the profit margin was ridiculous, but so was the insurance, and there weren’t enough buyers in the area right now to justify the investment. Behind Harlan were a Rolls Phantom convertible, a Rolls Ghost, and a Bentley Continental—a million-dollar display of class and power, and if he knew anything about people, it was that they associated those things with authority. Whatever he said in this interview would be taken as gospel. Amelia’s arraignment next week would then most likely turn into a dismissal of all charges against her, because there was no way Liles would want to swim against that tide.

  The producer said, “Mr. Wilkes, thanks again for agreeing to do this. What we’re going to do is have you seated right here, and Bobby will sit here next to you. He’ll ask you a few questions, and since we aren’t doing this live, you feel free to answer at length. All right?”

  “You bet,” Harlan said. His phone began ringing. He checked the display: Sheri. He pressed a button to ignore the call. “Sorry about that.”

  “No problem. We’ll get you set up with a mic, a little powder so you’re not shiny on tape, we’ll do a sound check, and then we’ll shoot it.”

  “Sure thing,” Harlan said, just as his phone went again. Sheri. “That’s my wife; I better take it. Pardon me, I’ll be right back.”

  He walked off toward the showroom doors as he answered, “Hey hon, I just got in, I was going to call you in a few.”

  “So she’s not with you,” Sheri said. “I thought maybe, if you’d gotten in early …”

  Harlan stopped walking. “Tell me the dog is missing.”

  “I let her sleep in while I went to church,” Sheri went on as if she hadn’t heard him, “so I didn’t go upstairs until a minute ago. She was so moody last night. I wanted to give her time to get over it.”

  “Get over what?”

  “I’ve checked the whole house and the cottage. Her car’s here.”

  “Maybe … maybe she went running.”

  “We should have gotten her a new phone,” Sheri said.

  “She’s just gone running, I’ll put money on it. Took advantage of you not being in the house and went for a run.” If he kept saying it, he might make it true. “I’ll be home shortly, all right? Call me when she comes in.”

  As sure as he was that he’d called it right, he spent the entire interview distracted by the possibility that he was wrong, a nagging doubt that he preferred not to acknowledge, but which wouldn’t leave his mind. When they wrapped things up a half hour later and he still hadn’t heard back from Sheri, the doubt pushed itself to a place where he couldn’t ignore it anymore. He thanked the reporter and the crew, told them to go someplace nice and have lunch on him, then got into his truck and drove home, hoping that the discomfort in his gut had everything to do with hunger and not what he would find when he got there.

  27

  IM READ THE NOTE AND SANK INTO A KITCHEN CHAIR. SHE smoothed the paper on the tabletop, a nice sheet of paper from the box of linen stationery she’d gotten from a student last Christmas, then read it again. Mexico, he said. Mexico. Why would they—? How would they—? What in God’s name were they thinking?

  She pushed her straggly hair back from her face and read the note yet again, hoping the words would somehow be different, would rearrange themselves into something that made sense.

  Dear Mom,

  This is going to be a shock, and I’m sorry for that. You don’t deserve more trouble than I’ve already caused you. If there were any other way for Amelia and me to be together … There isn’t, though, so I’m taking her to Mexico. I’m broke but I made sure she has money, so don’t worry about that.

  You know as well as I do that I don’t have anything left to lose if I stay. Whatever I’ll owe you, I’ll find a way to pay back one way or another.

  I still don’t accept that I’ve done anything wrong, but until everyone else sees it that way, this is how it’s got to be.

  It might take a while for us to get to where I can be in touch with you. I promise, though, that I’ll be careful and make safe choices and I’ll contact you as soon as I can. You’re the greatest mom ever and I love you.

  —Anthony

  “I can’t believe you did this,” she said, shaking her head. She stared at the paper. The words did not change.

  “Pay me back?!” she said. “In what, pesos earned picking avocados?” She laughed, a delirious, disbelieving laugh, at the absurdity. She could lose every dime she had to her name, and he thought that his promise to somehow find a way to repay her was going to make it all right?

  This could not be happening. This could not be her life.

  He could not do this to her.

  How would any lawyer, any judge, any thinking person now imagine he was anything but hell-bound guilty as charged? How could he just run off and leave her to deal with his mess?

  He gets Amelia, he gets free, and she gets nothing, loses everything. No job, no money, no William. Oh, wait, she thought: I get all the shame and embarrassment and blame.

  She never should have permitted him to date Amelia. If she’d gone to the Wilkeses right from the start, they’d have shut it all down and none of this would be happening. Or maybe they wouldn’t have shut the kids down, and so none of this would be happening.

  None of this should be happening.

  “Damn him!” she said, but the curse and the anger behind it, the black wish that she’d ignored that washstand all those years ago, felt dangerous, like a pit of hot bubbling tar she might step into at her own ruin. He was her child. How could she wish him away?

  It took awhile, but when no answers came to her and the earth hadn’t cracked open and swallowed her up (though she’d wished it mightily), Kim calmed down to the point of not blaming Anthony for everything, and blamed, too, the wine. Last night, she’d taken a bottle and a book to her room and, as the evening went on, had two glasses and then poured a third, knowing better, and drank it, too, and went to sleep a little after ten o’clock with Anthony brooding in his room, as had become his habit. She didn’t think anything of it. He was in a bad mood, and no wonder, after his too-short visit with Amelia at the flea market. She was in a bad mood, on his behalf and hers. She’d had the wine and gone to sleep and slept hard, oblivious to his note-writing, to his taking Amelia and leaving, for Christ’s sake, for Mexico.

  She blamed herself.

  Though Kim knew later that it hadn’t mattered a bit that she waited two hours before she picked up the phone and called Amelia’s parents, she felt terrible about it at the time. She’d showered and dressed and paced while trying to decide whether Amelia had also left a note, which, if so, would relieve her of the obligation to call—as if by obsessing over the question she’d come up with the answer. When she’d tried and failed to reach Anthony, and when the answer failed to present itself (no surprise), she’d swallowed her embarrassment (her son who’d sent the photos; her son who’d disobeyed his mother, Amelia’s parents, and the court in order to see Amelia the day before) so that she could do the right thing, and called.

  “This is Kim Winter,” she said. “I wondered if you’ve heard from Amelia.”

  “Ms. Winter, oh. I … I was hoping you knew something. My husband, he’s on his way home—he’s been out of town.… I’m supposing she got fed up with us and has gone someplace with Anthony.”

  “Yes, that’s why I called. She did go with him, to Mexico.”

  “I’m sorry? I thought you said Mexico.”

>   “Yes. Yes, I did, you heard it right. He left a note—last night I guess. I was asleep. I had no idea. They … they want to be together, and they think this was the only way.”

  In the hours that followed, Kim would repeat this countless times, to various police officers and detectives, to the lawyer, to William (who returned this call, apologetic and supportive), to her mother, to Rose Ellen, to reporters. Disloyal as it felt, she hoped getting the news out would help bring the kids in before they actually did make it to Mexico, an act that would only heap misery on all of them.

  She would discuss the note, read it, and ultimately surrender it to the authorities as evidence. She would, when the waves subsided later, battle waves of anger and fear directed at Anthony, would panic at the thought of him getting caught, then panic at the thought of him, of them, escaping successfully.

  She wasn’t prepared for the return of the police officers that evening with a warrant for her arrest.

  “On what charges?” she demanded, sounding like a hysterical movie-of-the-week actress.

  “Ma’am, if you’ll just proceed peaceably, you’ll get all your answers downtown.”

  As she was placed in the cruiser, taken to the jail, fingerprinted, searched, photographed, demeaned, left in a cell to protest, silently, her “contributing to the delinquency of a minor” and “failure to report abuse”—abuse!—charges until her mother came the next morning to bail her out—after she’d been fitted with an electronic “house arrest” ankle cuff, which the magistrate allowed in the hope that Anthony would contact her and she’d lead them to him—Kim understood better and better the forces that had pushed Anthony and Amelia to run. She focused on this so that the over-worn wish that he and Amelia had just kept their clothes on would not distract her from the matters at hand.