by Celia Aaron
I blinked, not knowing how to process the idea of a paper bag being used to judge someone as worthy or unworthy. “I don’t even know what to say to that. I mean, I know people can be awful. But to hear you talk about it takes me somewhere entirely new.”
“Empathy’s a bitch, right?”
“No kidding.” I smiled at the easy way he defused any awkward moments, like he went out of his way to put me at ease. “Wait, you got me off course. You were saying about you being a tough kid?”
I was trying to joke with him, but his face turned serious again. Fail.
“Like I said, there were whippings and such. I never let them whip Helen. Never. Mama Reed would decide that Helen wasn’t minding or wasn’t doing right, and she’d try and give her a whipping. Helen would find me and jump in my lap or hide behind me. I’d take her lashes instead. My skin was thick by that time. I mean, I was a bad kid, really. I ran the streets, stayed out late, did whatever the hell I felt like doing.”
He pointed the index finger that was wrapped around his cup at me. “I was the one all you rich white people in the suburbs feared. I let my anger rule me. I was mad at the world, mad at my parents for choosing the pipe instead of me, mad at living in the projects, mad that the sun rose in the East. You name it, I was mad about it. Understand?”
I didn’t. Not really, but I nodded. I needed him to continue, to tell me what his life was like. I hoped it got better. I hoped it had a happy ending. Something—maybe my own experience—told me that things were never that easy, no matter what side of the city you came from.
“Helen, though, she was different. She had a spark. There was something in her. Something I can’t really describe. Have you ever met someone you just knew was special? Sort of effervescent, I guess would be the word?”
I looked at him hard. The kitchen had fallen away as his words poured out. It was just Jack and me—and his past, floating around us like a ghost. “I certainly have.”
“She was just that. I can still see her. About this high.” He held his hand out to demonstrate. “She always kept her hair in these thick braids with barrettes at the ends. Little plastic ones in all different colors. I’d find them in my tiny bed sometimes, jammed up against my spine or stabbing me in the leg.” There was that dazzling smile again.
“One day, she’d heard from one of our foster brothers—none of us were really related, not even Helen and me—that I’d gotten into a fight the day before with one of the other project boys. She sat me down on the curb outside our house.” He shook his head. “It wasn’t really a house. It was just a dull brick apartment, stuck together with a bunch of other equally sad ones. Anyway, she sat me down and gave me her serious face.”
I’d seen them only from a distance, the dilapidated projects out along the interstates near the industrial areas or the airport. I’d never gotten close enough to see the people who lived in them. I sort of hoped no one did.
Jack paused and took a deeper breath, as if trying to calm himself. “Helen told me that if I kept on, if I didn’t change my ways, I would end up just like my parents, or worse. Can you imagine? A little pipsqueak telling me, a teenage boy, my business. She didn’t give up. She told me how we were going to get out of Lowood. How we were going to live together in college. I laughed at her. I was never going to college. She persisted. She told me I would major in some sort of business, and she would major in books because she liked to read. She painted this beautiful picture for me with her words, you know?” He swiped at his eyes lightly and then laughed. “She even said we would give each other away when we got married.”
“She seems like a very thorough little girl.” I smiled with him, his joy in her memory warming me right along with him.
“Oh, she was, she was. Your Adele reminds me of her. Helen was hopeful. Free. She saw the best in people. Even in me.”
His smile faded, his happy memory ebbing. I realized he’d only referred to Helen in the past tense. I reached across the table, an almost involuntary movement, and he took my hand. “What happened to her?”
He shook his head, as if willing the tears away, or maybe trying to avoid the tide of grief that I could already hear drowning his recollection. It didn’t work, as a drop slid slowly down his cheek. I wanted to reach out and wipe it away, right along with his pain. “She-she was killed. Her body was found in a ditch not half a mile from our apartment. She was half-naked. She’d been…”
“Oh, God, Jack, I’m so sorry.” Tears welled in my eyes. But this wasn’t time for my grief. This was his. I could tell he carried it with him, locked inside his now sorrowful eyes.
His voice hardened. “The cops came, but they didn’t really care about some gutter rat from Lowood who got killed. One less for them to worry about.”
He gripped my hand harder. “I didn’t let it go. I couldn’t think of anything else but what had happened to her. About making whoever did it, pay. I went kind of crazy then. I had just turned fifteen. I was big for my age. I talked to everyone, beat whoever I had to—basically did the cops’ job for them. I ran on rage. I didn’t sleep. I didn’t eat. It took some time, but I found out who did it.”
“What did you do?” My voice was small, barely a whisper.
He met my eyes. “I sent him to hell.” The hardness in his voice echoed in the tight line of his jaw, the tension in his body.
My hand flew to my face, covering my mouth. I could feel my cheeks going cold, the blood draining as I immediately sobered. “God, Jack.”
“It was our foster father, Papa Reed. I confronted him. He started crying. Kept saying he was sorry, so sorry. He got on his knees, begged me not to do it. He talked and talked. I actually thought about letting him go, turning him over to the cops. But then he said her name. That piece of shit dared to say her name. I snapped. I shot him. Killed him with one shot to the chest.”
He let go of my hand, but held my gaze. “That’s why I had a late start to college. I was in prison until I was twenty-one.”
CHAPTER NINE
EDEN
“PRISON FOR MURDER, FAIRFAX!” I yelled into my phone the next morning.
“Ms. Rochest—”
“He came to my house,” I hissed. “He met Adele! You hired an ex-convict. An ex-convict! And not just that, I-I…” I trailed off. What was I going to say? I masturbated in front of him and constantly fantasize about fucking him? Oh my God.
“Calm down, calm down.”
“I can’t calm down!”
He sighed. “I hate to do this to you Ms. Rochester, I really do, but—”
“You hate to hire ex-cons?”
“No, I hate to tell you that you’re acting like your mother.”
I slumped down on my bed. No, I’m not. ‘That’s ridiculous.”
“You are, Ms. Rochester. You’re acting like Georgiana. I remember when we were kids, she would get all in a huff just like you’re doing right now. And she still does it. Remember, at the last Christmas get-together, she did the same thing when she saw Kinsey had a nose ring?”
I buried my face in my duvet. He was right. Mother did lose her mind and shriek about how Christmas was ruined just because my teenage cousin had a “facial mutilation favored by peasants.”
“There’s a big difference between a nose ring and a criminal record, Fairfax.”
“What now, Ms. Rochester? I couldn’t quite catch that.”
I rolled onto my back and repeated myself.
“He doesn’t actually have a record. It was a juvenile offense, so it’s not in any records anywhere. He got a fresh start. That’s what he’s supposed to get. And, yes, a nose ring is different than a prison record. But there’s a lot more to Jack than that.” He was silent for a few beats. “And I suspect you know that for yourself. He’s taken a shine to you, and I don’t think it’s one-sided.”
There was a knock at my door. “Mom, you okay in there?”
“Yeah, baby, just working. I’ll be down for breakfast in a minute.”
“Bette
r hurry. You know how Gramma gets when you’re late.”
How would Gramma get if she knew I was canoodling with a murderer?
“Listen here.” Fairfax didn’t seem worried in the slightest. “You go and see Jack’s godmother, okay? Go talk to her; see what she has to say about Jack. If you’re still in a Georgiana-style tizzy”—I winced at that—“then you can cut bait, get rid of him, whatever you want.”
I kicked my feet into the side of the mattress like Adele did whenever she got frustrated. The problem was that I didn’t want to get rid of him. I just wanted him not to be a murderer.
“Wait a minute. How do you even know Ms. Temple?”
There was some throat clearing on the other end of the line. “I knew her when we were younger. And she, uh, well you know I’m a widower these past ten years, and it gets kind of lonely. I think you take my meaning.”
I rolled my eyes. “Okay, enough said.”
“Right. Well, she’s a real fine woman. As good as they come. You’ll see. We aren’t exclusive or anything. Anyway, I’ll call her and tell her you’ll be visiting with her today. Let’s say at noon for lunch. She’s a great cook.”
“I don’t know, Fairfax.”
“I do know, young lady! Listen to me for once. Just go on over there and have a nice sit-down with her. Get the whole story before making up your mind. Don’t be Georgi—”
“Don’t say it! I get it, I get it. Jeez.” How many times did I have to tell myself, and others, that I was not my mother?
“Good.”
Fairfax gave me the address, and we hung up.
I figured it couldn’t hurt to take his advice and hear Ms. Temple out. After all, I wanted Jack to stay. When he’d asked me if I’d ever met someone who spoke to me on some deeper level, I knew right away I had, and it was him.
Instead of going downstairs, I sank back into my pillows. Jack’s face—his earnest eyes and stoic expression—was there every time I closed my eyes. I couldn’t seem to square how I felt about him with what he’d told me the night before. Is that what he kept caged up inside? A killer?
I banished the word from my thoughts. I knew Jack had acted out of his love for Helen, and I couldn’t judge him too harshly for it. Still, even though I understood why he’d done it, I couldn’t let him into my professional or personal life unless I had something more concrete to go on than just my feelings for him. I couldn’t just think of myself in this. I had Adele to worry about, though she was already smitten with the handsome, well-read stranger who had “the bluest eyes.”
Ms. Temple’s house was a classic 1950s brick cottage with two dormer windows along the roofline; unassuming and welcoming. A large magnolia tree presided over the front yard, its falling leaves making a chaotic, leathery carpet along the lawn. A rose trellis was trained over the front door, the last flowers of the summer now faded and withered. The air was cool, only a slight chill floating along the breeze, though fall was well under way.
I stowed my sunglasses and rang the bell. After a few moments, the door swung open to reveal a lovely older woman. Her hair was black, except for a shock of gray that streamed from her side part. Her dark eyes were striking against her fair skin. I judged her to be in her early sixties.
“You are pretty as a picture! You look so much like your mother. Come in, come in.” She ushered me inside and bade me follow her.
She knows Mother?
“Thanks for having me, Ms. Temple, I—”
“Oh, shush now. Don’t be like Jack. He won’t call me anything except for Ms. Temple. Makes me feel as old as the hills. Please call me Maria. All my friends do.”
“Okay, Maria.”
“And you are welcome here any time, though I realize the Rochester home is just a wee bit grander than Casa de Temple.”
She was cheeky. I could already tell I was going to like her. Wait a second; she’d been to my house? She whipped around a corner before I could question her further.
Though small, the house was tastefully decorated with fine antiques and canvases. Some of the paintings caught my eye with their melancholy shades or the use of brush strokes to create movement. She was quite a collector, it seemed.
A delicious aroma flavored the air.
“Please, have a seat.” She motioned to a dining table surrounded by ladderback chairs. She had already laid two place settings for us. I took the proffered seat as she bustled about, setting cornbread, roasted vegetables, and a pot roast onto the table.
“Can I help?”
“Oh, no, no. Guests in my house don’t do any of the cooking, cleaning, or serving.” She smiled, the lines next to her mouth and eyes showing that she did so often.
She was warm, motherly. If a woman like this had no problems with Jack, then how could I?
Once she’d poured our tumblers full of sweet tea, she took her seat across from me. “Please, dig in.”
The smells were mouth-watering, so I didn’t hesitate to follow her instructions. I had never been much of a cook, but I could eat with the best of them. The first bite of pot roast was heaven, rosemary and basil flavoring the meat to perfection. Fairfax hadn’t been lying when he said the woman knew how to cook.
We ate in silence for a while, interrupted only by the sounds of knives and forks and the distant whir of a lawn mower.
“This is delicious, Maria.”
“Thank you.”
I’d stuffed myself as if I hadn’t eaten in days. I’d skipped breakfast, too nervous to even look at food. Somehow, Maria put me at ease enough to go cavewoman on the feast she’d prepared. I wondered how she knew my mother. Mother had never mentioned a Maria or a Ms. Temple.
I was about to ask her when she placed her knife and fork along the sides of her plate and met my eyes. “So you want to know about Jack?”
I took a large swallow of sweet tea. “Yes, I do.”
“How about we sit out on the sun porch.”
“Can I help clean up?”
She swatted her hand at me. “Oh, the dishes will be here when we get back. At least, in my experience, they always are. They can wait a bit.” She grabbed both our teas and led me toward the back of the house, her dark hair swinging down her back. She wore a maxi skirt and a tank top with a cardigan, perfect fall attire in the South.
We entered a room with a glass ceiling and many windows. Maria clearly had a green thumb—plants lined the walls of the room, and I spotted a little winter garden out in the yard. At the far back of her property was a carriage house with an apartment above it.
We sat on her sofa, sinking into the feathered cushions as the sunlight poured into the room, making it pleasantly warm. A painting hung opposite us, blocking the light from one of the windows. It seemed out of place, as if it were brand new. Art appreciation was never my thing, but I could tell this piece was special.
It was the sea, but not. Yellow light played along the top of the water as the sun rose in the background, but beneath the waves and the foamy surf was darkness, darker than such shallow water could ever be. It was as if the sun’s brightness wasn’t allowed to reach the depths.
I realized Maria was watching me study the painting. Her dark eyes were attentive, intelligent.
“This is beautiful. What a great room. And you seem to have a knack for gardening. My thumb is a shade of herbicide.”
She laughed at my lame joke, which made me like her more. “Thank you. I tend to let the plants get a little too wild sometimes, but then again, sometimes that’s what they need.” She surveyed the indoor garden. “To get out of hand a bit so I can trim them into a more pleasing form, one that helps them grow stronger.”
“Is that what you did with Jack?”
She tapped the side of her nose with her forefinger and nodded. “Smart cookie. But not exactly. Jack is like the trunk of the tree. I can work with branches, trim them, bend them, steer them, but the trunk isn’t quite as easily guided. No, Jack had to decide for himself which way he wanted to grow.”
“And whi
ch way was that?”
“Straight—and—narrow.” She punctuated each word with pride. “But not at first. When he first came to the detention center where I volunteered, he’d already spent six months in Elmore County. That’s where the worst of the worst state criminals go. He didn’t have an easy time of it, especially being so young.”
I’d heard about Elmore, about the state and federal investigations of alleged inmate fights set up by the wardens and guards. It was a brutal place.
“So, when he came to me, he had no trust left in him. It had been beaten out of him, you see?”
I nodded. Her words were making some of my worst fears come to life. Maybe Jack had been conning me this whole time. But could he con a woman like Maria Temple? One look into her sharp eyes affirmed that such a thing wasn’t possible.
“I ran a volunteer program where former educators like myself would work with the juvenile inmates to give them an education—so they could get out of the system for good. Jack, though, he didn’t want my help, told me he didn’t need it. He didn’t care about getting his GED or getting an education. He just wanted to get out of the facility. No plan, no future. He was so stubborn.” She laughed and shook her head. “So stubborn that I began to doubt I’d ever get him to open up. And he was angry. So many emotions bubbled inside him and erupted on the surface like an over-active volcano. But I came to understand the emotions—all negative—came from a place of hurt, more than anything else. If that makes sense?”
“It does I think. He told me about what happened to Helen.” I’d hugged Adele extra hard when I’d gotten home the night before. Then I’d lain awake, wishing I could protect her from the world, hoping that what I was doing was enough to keep her safe. I never knew Helen, but her death haunted me.
“That wonderful little girl was his anchor, his world. After what happened to her and then what he did to reconcile it, well, he didn’t see his life as having value. He was a lost cause by the time I began seeing him.”