Pleasantville

by Attica Locke

  “You had no right to do that to her!”

  “She’s fifteen years old, Ellie! She needs her mother, not me.” Which was the wrong thing to say to his daughter. He wants to take it back immediately, to say it with more grace, all of it, every word that’s come out of his mouth since her mother died. He takes a step toward her, but she backs away, tears pooling. If there’s an emotional place past devastation, he’s looking at it right now. More than hurt, she looks stunned. “Don’t touch me,” she says, fleeing. He follows, calling her name as he hears her bedroom door slam. He puts a hand on the door, but can’t bring himself to barge in on her. It’s a line he feels he can’t cross.

  “Get dressed, we’re leaving in ten minutes.”

  “I’m not going anywhere with you.”

  “Then don’t do it for me, okay?” he says. “Don’t do it for me.”

  Twenty minutes later, she emerges wearing a dark olive green dress.

  She asks Ben, and not her dad, to help with the buttons, which tiptoe up the back of the silk bodice. It’s the dress she wore to her mother’s funeral, the only nice one she has. In silence, the three of them line up and go out the back door, Jay careful to set the alarm before they go. Outside, Ellie climbs into the backseat of the Land Cruiser, leaving Ben up front with his dad. This early, it’s still cool in the car, and Jay can see his breath all the way until they get to the 610 Freeway. He takes it north, heading toward the neighborhood of Pleasantville.

  Lonnie is waiting outside the church.

  Along with reporters from every TV station in the city, including Univision and the UHF channels, standing under umbrellas to block the rising sun, running through their lines ahead of the cameras starting to roll.

  “Cool,” Ben says, seeing the media hubbub.

  “Shut up, Ben.”

  “What?”

  Ellie kicks the back of his seat. “Someone died.”

  “Oh,” he says, because he will never again hear those words and not know what they mean, the thorny path some family’s about to start down. He looks at his dad, next to him in the driver’s seat. “Is this the funeral?” he asks, sudden nerves showing. He’d had a terrible time at his mother’s service.

  “No,” Jay says. “Just folks looking to gather. It’s Sunday, son.”

  He pulls into the grass-and-gravel parking lot across the street from the Pleasantville Methodist Church, Pastor Morehead’s house of worship. Along the cracked concrete at the curb, there are campaign signs, bent and softened by yesterday’s rain, a cockeyed line of red-white-and-blue, waving like parade drunks at passersby. HATHORNE FOR HOUSTON! A WOLCOTT WIN IS A WIN FOR YOU! LEWIS ACTON MEANS ACTION FOR HOUSTON! Jay squeezes the Land Cruiser between a Ford and a white Pontiac, cutting the engine. The second he steps out of his car, buttoning his suit jacket, he hears the music, pouring through the open doors of the white clapboard church. The hymn is a knee buckler, “What a Friend We Have in Jesus,” daring God to say something about the organist’s secular, twelve-bar take on it. But blues is the only color for this solemn morning. Jay nods to the sisters in the parking lot. Decked out in feathered hats, decorated with plumes of purple and gold, bands of rose and coral, they walk quickly, making sure to get a seat for the ten o’clock service, their only chance to hear Pastor Morehead’s sermon. Young and unmarried, he does not have children of his own, but he had coached the other two girls who’d been killed, in intramural girls’ basketball and track, had held the hands of their grieving parents. Jay crosses Tilgham, meeting Lonnie at the edge of the church’s lawn. She sucks down the last of a Parliament, then grinds the spent cigarette against the heel of her shoe. She’s wearing a black pantsuit, too big through the shoulders. “Hey,” she says, following Jay and the kids up the church’s walk, whispering, “The boyfriend, he’s got no alibi, by the way.”

  Jay sends Ellie and her brother ahead.

  “Sit wherever you can,” he says.

  “There’s no accounting for him Tuesday night,” Lonnie tells him, the two of them standing in the doorway to the church. “He skipped dinner in the dorm and his roommate didn’t see him until the following afternoon. And get this, the boyfriend, name of Kenny Ester, he had an eight A.M. statistics class Wednesday morning, but he never showed.”

  “You talked to the school?”

  “The roommate. I bought him dinner.”

  “It would be something to look at those pager records again. Any sense from the roommate whether Kenny was in contact with Alicia on Tuesday?”

  Lonnie shakes her head. “He’d never heard of her. Apparently, Kenny never mentioned word one about a girlfriend, let alone one that was missing the better part of a week.” She raises an eyebrow as they enter the packed church.

  The air inside Pleasantville Methodist is thick and warm, tinted amber by the rows of stained glass windows on both sides of the church, the sun pouring in from the east, spinning a mélange of colors into gold. Folks are waving hand fans, Johnson’s Funeral Home advertising on one side, a grim promotion on this morning in particular. Jay and Lonnie take the two remaining seats in the back-left pew, sliding in beside Ben and Ellie, who are squished against the congregants on the other side. It smells of hair lotion in here, Love’s Baby Soft, and aftershave, all of it together making Jay wish he had one of those hand fans himself. He feels his armpits grow damp. He has to reach over and touch Ben’s leg to keep his son from fidgeting. After the opening prayer, Morehead, in his deep blue robe, the edges trimmed in gold braid, looks out across his congregation. “I think by now some of you have heard the news about Alicia Nowell.” There are a few gasps in the sanctuary, cries of Oh, no. “The young woman, her body was found early this morning along the railroad tracks behind Demaree Lane, just a block from here.” Here, his voice breaks, a wave of something unexpected washing over him, choking his words. He pauses, trying to gather himself. A few of the women in the church hold up their hands in support. That’s okay, they say. Take your time. Morehead nods his gratitude for the encouragement of his church family. “I’d like to call up one of our own now, a man raised in Pleasantville, a good, god-fearing man, who telephoned me first thing this morning asking if he could say a few words to his people. For you are his people,” he says, nodding at the chorus of amen that follows. “Let’s welcome Brother Axel Hathorne to Pleasantville Methodist.” He steps aside, ceding the pulpit to Axel, who rises from the front-right pew, Jay’s view of which is obscured by the hats of the women in the congregation. Axel, four inches taller than Morehead, towers over the plain white pulpit. He is a gentle giant, utter humility written in his hunkered stance. “I spoke with Maxine and Mitchell Robicheaux earlier this morning,” he starts, his voice dry and slow. “Beyond the pain this brings to their family, I also know this stirs up old wounds for the people of Pleasantville, in particular the families of Deanne Duchon and Tina Wells.” He nods toward the girls’ families in the front row. Jay can’t quite see them from here, but he does see the four Hathorne sisters, Ola, Delia, Camille, and Gwen, well-kept women in their fifties, all as striking as their mother, Vivian, seated beside them. Jay is surprised Sam isn’t here. Or Neal. Axel, in the same suit he wore to last night’s debate, lowers his head solemnly, looking at the families. “I want to make the same promise to you that I made to Alicia Nowell’s parents this morning. Whether I’m in city hall or not, whether I have to camp out in Chief Tobin’s office, I will find who did this to your daughters,” he says before stepping down.

  After Councilwoman Johnetta Paul has a turn at the pulpit, dabbing her eyes throughout a tone-deaf declaration of commitment to the people of her district, shamelessly working in a few key phrases from her stump speech, Jay slips out of the church for a quiet moment on his own. He wants to see it for himself, the place where Alicia Nowell was found. He walks west on Tilgham, crossing Demaree to walk through a patch of tall grass and weeds, the thick strip of untended land between the neighborhood proper and the railroad tracks. There are four stakes in the ground, stru
ng with yellow police tape meant to secure the scene from pedestrian traffic. Standing in waist-high weeds, Jay wonders why she was left here and not in the field where the other two girls were discovered. He can hear the church music playing. He can see the back of Pleasantville Methodist, the staff parking lot with a row of Fords and the Sunday school van. The hymn washes over the whole scene. Jay finds it easier to talk to god out here than inside any church. Away from the heavy robes and stiff pews, it’s just him and blue sky. He strings together a few words for Alicia Nowell, a prayer whispered to the wind.

  At the close of service, Jay meets Lonnie and the kids in front of the church, where a crowd has gathered under a cloud of hickory smoke. An enterprising neighbor has set up a barrel pit in the bed of his pickup truck and is selling hot links and brisket. There’s a line forming, men loosening their ties and women dabbing their foreheads with eyelet handkerchiefs. It must have jumped fifteen degrees since the day started, a warm one for November, even in Houston. Ben asks his dad for a few dollars. Jay pulls a ten from his wallet, telling Ben to get something for his sister too. “I’m not hungry,” Ellie says. Pastor Morehead, composed now, comes down the church steps to greet his parishioners. He goes out of his way to say hello to Jay, who introduces him to Lonnie and Ellie. “You a ballplayer?” he says to Ellie, asking about school, her grades, then asking Lonnie where she worships. Jay waits until he’s moved on to say to Lonnie, “You should see what else you can pull on the original suspect.”

  “Hollis?”

  Jay nods. “He’s not at Sterling anymore, and he’s moved around in the last few months. I just wonder if there’s some clue in your old files as to where he might be. Relatives, previous employers, something. Maybe if you get a chance tomorrow, you could comb through your notes, see if anything jumps out.”

  “Maybe,” she says, sounding stiff, distant. Jay turns to her. “I’ve got a job interview tomorrow.” She shrugs, rolling her eyes to take the sting off it.

  “At a paper?”

  “At a restaurant.”

  And then, because she can’t bear the look on his face, the concern inching toward pity, she says, “I figure I can sling drinks at night, still try to write some during the day. I’m not giving up or anything, I’ll have you know. I’m not.”

  Jay nods absently, but is distracted by a distressing sight: his dissatisfied client, Jelly Lopez, with his wife and four-year-old daughter, Maya, walking through the crowd with a man Jay doesn’t recognize. He’s Mexican, like Jelly, with a Pat Riley slick-back and a very nice M Penner suit. They’re with a few of Pleasantville’s newest residents: Bill Rodriguez, Arturo Vega, and Patricia Rios, all clients of Jay’s too. He watches as they make their way through the Sunday crowd, using the moment of community solidarity to press an agenda, crossing religious lines to make their pitch. They’re shaking hands with their neighbors, making introductions, “Pat Riley” smiling covetously at everyone he meets. Ricardo Aguilar. Jay would put money on it.

  He’s about to confront the man when Johnetta Paul, likewise making the rounds, stops him. “Jay Porter,” she says, dabbing at her hairline with a pink handkerchief, an act, he thinks. He has never ever seen her sweat. “I don’t believe I’ve seen you at any of my fund-raising events this season.”

  “You don’t need my money, Johnetta.”

  “Ha,” she says, laughing at the very thought.

  “Besides, I don’t live in your district, remember?”

  “Neither does he,” she says, nodding across the church lawn toward Ricardo Aguilar. “But he understands the value of spreading a little goodwill around.”

  “Buying his way into your heart, I’m sure.”

  “Buying his way in,” she says, as if this were obvious. “He knows how to play the game, unlike you, Jay. Whatever happens going forward, I want you to know I’ve always had the utmost respect for you. But I can’t afford to ignore the concerns or interests of Mr. Lopez, Mr. Rodriguez, and their faction, not with the numbers the way they’re going. Pleasantville isn’t always going to look like this,” she says, gesturing to the hot links and hair grease, Bobby “Blue” Bland playing on somebody’s car radio, black folks as far as the eye can see. “You’d do well to take that into consideration,” she says, before moving on through the crowd, shaking hands, maneuvering her way to the front of the barbecue line.

  Lonnie rolls her eyes. “Is she for real?”

  “Dad.”

  It’s Ellie, tapping him on the shoulder.

  She’s pointing toward Tilgham Street, where the Hathornes’ black Cadillac is parked. Vivian and her eldest daughter, Ola, slide into the rear as Axel climbs into the front. Frankie, the Hathornes’ driver, is coming up the church walk toward Jay. He pulls off his hat, wipes a film of sweat from his freckled brow, and speaks, so softly that Jay has to ask him to repeat himself. “Sam wants you to take a ride with us to the house. Says it’s urgent.” Frankie’s eyes dart left and right, looking at the crowd, the pastor nearby. “He said to come get you right away.”

  “What’s this about?”

  “I’m just saying what he told me to say, sir.”

  “I’ve got my kids here.”

  “I can take them,” Lonnie says, as Ben arrives holding a hot link wrapped in a slice of white bread in each of his small hands. “I mean, if you need it.”

  Jay looks at Ben, then Ellie. “You guys okay?”

  Ellie nods, and Lonnie puts an arm around Ben.

  Jay turns to Frankie. “I’ll follow you.”

  The ride is just a few short blocks.

  He parks his Land Cruiser behind the Cadillac, right in front of Sam Hathorne’s house. Axel’s out of the car first. As he makes his way up the front walk, he doesn’t look at Jay. Vivian and Ola decline to exit the car, and Frankie remains behind the wheel, letting the Cadillac’s engine idle softly.

  Jay lingers in his car, hesitating for a few seconds, a bad feeling in his gut. Finally, he climbs out, heading for the house. Inside, he finds Sam and Axel in the living room, Sam with his back to the door, standing by the bar, pouring himself a drink. “Absolutely not,” he’s saying to his son. “You stay as far the hell away from this as possible, for as long as possible. Wolcott gave us a head start with the press. She swears she had nothing to do with it, has promised to recuse herself from any supervision of the case.” He’s still wearing his hat and his overcoat.

  “What’s going on?” Jay says.

  Sam throws back the scotch. “Neal’s been arrested.”

  “I still think I should go down there,” Axel says.

  “Arrested for what?”

  “Obstruction.”

  “The Nowell girl?”

  “They think he knows more than he’s saying.”

  “He’s in custody?”

  “Downtown.”

  “They picked him up at his house, six o’clock this morning, not even an hour after the girl was found,” Axel says. “No way this isn’t Wolcott’s doing.”

  “I wouldn’t have thought she’d go this low,” Sam says.

  “Then it’s Parker.”

  “Either way, he’s in trouble.”

  “They’re holding him?” Jay asks, slightly incredulous.

  Sam pours another drink.

  “Slow down, Dad.”

  “He’ll bail out today,” Sam says. “They’ll arraign him tomorrow.”

  He throws back the drink, setting the tumbler on the bar top. With his back still partially turned, he pauses in silence, taking a moment that only he knows the meaning of, staring at family photographs along the wall, his grown kids. Jay has never seen him so retiring, so waylaid by an emotion Jay can name only as dread. Sam turns to look at him, lifting his gray fedora to perfect its position on the slim pompadour on his head. “I appreciate what you did for Neal the other day. But he needs a lawyer now more than ever.”

  Jay looks between the two men, both of whom are staring back at him, waiting for him to do the simple arithmetic of why he’s bee
n summoned here.

  They can’t be serious, he thinks.

  “He needs a criminal defense lawyer,” he says.

  “What he needs is someone to get him through the next thirty-six hours,” Sam says. “Wolcott swore she gave us a head start, no leaks to the press, but–”

  “We have no reason to trust her.”

  “And, one way or another, by tomorrow, the paper will have the story.”

  “If not sooner,” Axel says. “I can’t see any reason why she and Parker would fabricate a charge and then not call the goddamned newspaper themselves.”

  “We don’t know they did that, Axe.”

  “The woman has a whole prosecutor’s office at her disposal. And twenty-six days before the runoff, my campaign manager and nephew gets arrested for withholding evidence in the investigation into what is now a murder in the very neighborhood where her opponent was raised. It’s front-page news.”

  Axel is pacing, fuming.

  “We don’t think the charges are of any substance,” Sam says calmly. “We just want to get out ahead of the story, protect Neal, and also protect the campaign, of course. But the clock is already running on this thing.”

  “Where’s Marcie, your press aide?”

  “You’re the only one we’ve told,” Axel says.

  “Me?”

  “We need you to do us this favor.”

  “People like you, Jay,” Sam says. “They trust you, think you’re a man who’s always on the right side of things. Neal walks into a courtroom tomorrow, you at his side, and it sends a message to the city that a man, a good man, a man Pleasantville has chosen to honor and to protect their interests, is standing by Neal. It sends a message that a whole community is standing by the Hathornes, a message to Wolcott in particular, making her question her tactics, how far she wants to push things, what with a voting bloc at play.”

  “You want to use me as a prop?”

  “I want you to do me a favor.”

  “It’s thirty-six hours,” Axel says. “They’re never going to take this to trial. They might even drop the charges before this goes to court, after squeezing a few front-page stories out of it. I’m fairly certain this will all blow over tomorrow.”