by Susan Gloss
“Remember when she reached up and touched your arm?” he asked. “She couldn’t even see us, we were probably just shadows and light. But she knew we were there.”
Seeing Josh finally go through the pictures, Nell felt grateful, for the hundredth time, that the photographer, Dana, had been there. That she had not let her grief and her fear of reopening the wounds of losing her own son stop her from taking the pictures. And it occurred to Nell all of a sudden—she was surprised she hadn’t realized it before—that what Dana had done for her and Josh was similar to what Annie had done for Caroline, and for all the dying people she’d photographed when she was in New York. Annie, too, had stepped past her own emotions and hesitations in order to record something that she thought was important.
Nell looked down at the screen, where Josh had paused on a black-and-white photo of their daughter. In the picture, the baby’s lips were pursed and slightly parted, as if waiting for a kiss.
“We should print this one out and frame it,” he said.
“I’d like that,” Nell said.
Josh touched the screen with a finger, as if touching their daughter’s cheek.
“Do you think she knew we loved her?” Josh asked.
Nell shook her head. “I know she knew.”
Josh looked so vulnerable just then that Nell took a risk and followed her instinct to kiss him. She knew he very well might inch away from her. It had been a long time since they’d been close, either emotionally or physically, and Nell guessed that at least a part of him was still angry about the debt and the lies. But, in this moment at least, she felt more drawn to Josh than she ever had, because of all they’d been through together.
Nell put her hands on either side of her husband’s face, feeling the soft prickle of his beard beneath her fingers. She pressed her lips to his, gently at first, as if to ask, is this okay? Or maybe, are we okay?
He wrapped her in his arms and kissed her back, saying yes without saying yes.
That night, Josh stopped sleeping in the office and moved back into the bedroom.
Chapter Twenty-seven
Annie
PIECE: Bill Curry, Giant Jack bookends. Chrome-coated cast iron. Purchased in 1967.
I met with the assistant DA today,” Josh said. “And I’ve got some good news.”
He and Annie were sitting inside the office at the Colony, which Nell had offered to let them use for their meeting.
“It’s about damn time,” Annie said. Then, realizing that her comment may have sounded harsh, she added, “I didn’t mean that as a reflection on you. Just on everything that’s happened.”
“It’s okay, I get it.” Josh pulled some papers out of a file folder. “So here’s the deal: the DA’s office is willing to amend the charge of ‘possession with intent to deliver’ to ‘keeping a drug house,’ which is still a felony, but a less serious one. You’d have to plead guilty to the amended charge, and then the DA would recommend that the court withhold sentence and give you probation only. No jail time unless you violate the terms of your probation.”
Annie didn’t say anything. Josh had been so patient over the last several weeks of interviews, filings, and hearings. After he helped her out on the day of her arrest, Annie had planned to find a different lawyer. It wasn’t that she didn’t like Josh—she did, actually, and more importantly, she trusted him. But it felt like too much to ask him to take on her entire case. When she started looking around for someone else to represent her, she realized quickly that she couldn’t afford the retainers and hourly rates quoted by the private attorneys she contacted. Yet, when she applied for appointment of a public defender, her application was denied because her monthly stipend, room, and board at the Colony bumped her just above the eligibility threshold. Her friends back at the ACLU in the city couldn’t help her, either. They only took on New York cases. So, despite Annie’s best efforts to the contrary, Josh was stuck with her. And now she was going to act against his advice.
She took a deep breath and crossed her arms. “I can’t do it.”
“Is it the idea of admitting guilt? Because if that doesn’t sit right with you, you could always plead ‘no contest.’ It would have the same effect as a guilty plea, but you wouldn’t actually have to say the word ‘guilty.’”
“It’s not the word ‘guilty’ I’m worried about,” Annie said. “It’s the words ‘drug house.’”
Josh nodded. “Look, I know it sounds bad, but it’s a much less serious charge than what you’re facing now, and carries a lesser penalty.”
“But it’s going to reflect really poorly on the Colony, don’t you think?” Annie asked.
Josh got up and started pacing the room. Annie had noticed it was a habit of his when he was thinking. “If it would make you feel better, you could talk to Nell about it and make sure she’s on board with the idea of the plea,” he said. “I think she will be.”
“Yeah, but the drug dealing charge reflects only on me. If I plead to ‘keeping a drug house,’ I’m afraid it will look bad for everyone who lives here. Because this isn’t just a house.” Annie waved her hand toward the office door and the rest of the mansion on the other side of it. She looked around the room at all of the lovely books and art prints and antiques. Then she pictured Betsy, the woman who had owned this house and carefully curated everything in it, right down to the artists who now lived here. Annie felt like she had done enough damage already, and didn’t want to do anything that might further jeopardize the Colony and Betsy’s vision for it.
As for Annie’s own vision, she felt like she’d been blinded. She’d been so consumed with her project, so obsessed with making a statement that would launch her back into relevancy, that she hadn’t fully anticipated the risks inherent in what she was doing.
She remembered, on the night she called 911, watching as one of the paramedics injected Caroline’s unresponsive body with a shot.
“Naloxone,” the paramedic had said when Annie asked what it was. “It can reverse the effects of an overdose, if administered in time. You should consider having it around if you hang out with addicts.”
Annie had since found out that she could have gotten the lifesaving medication without a prescription. In hindsight, she deeply regretted that she had not thought to get a naloxone kit as a precaution as soon as she placed her Craigslist ad. But she’d underestimated the foe—addiction—that she and Caroline were up against.
“I know it’s a lot to digest,” Josh said. “But all the terms are written out here if you want to take some time to review them.” He pushed the papers toward Annie.
Annie’s thoughts returned from the land of “what ifs” and “should haves” to the present.
“Did the DA say anything about getting back my camera?” she asked.
“The State’s going to hold onto it until the case is resolved,” Josh said. “As far as they’re concerned, what’s on that film is evidence, not art.”
Annie sighed. “Can’t they amend the charge to just plain old drug possession? That’s also a misdemeanor, and I would be willing to plead to that.”
Josh shook his head. “They can’t charge you with simple possession because of the Good Samaritan law,” he reminded her. “You’re immune to prosecution for drug possession, since you’re the person who called 911. But you’re not immune to the felony drug dealing charge.”
“I wasn’t selling drugs, though,” Annie said.
“I know. The prosecution could argue, though, that you were getting something of value in exchange for the pot. You were getting the rights to take people’s pictures and use them in your art. And that could be seen as a sale. But it doesn’t matter anyway, because they don’t even need to prove there was a sale, or any intent of a sale. ‘Deliver’ doesn’t have to mean ‘sell.’ Under the law, it’s enough even if you just give drugs to someone.”
“What happens if I don’t plead?”
“Then we go to trial on both felony charges,” Josh said. “And maybe we can con
vince a jury that the State’s evidence isn’t enough to convict you. But there’s a good chance it could go the other way, too. That’s the gamble that anyone takes if they go to trial.”
Annie glanced toward the shelves on either side of the fireplace. Two oversized silver jacks were holding up a row of leather-bound books, acting as bookends. Annie remembered playing the game as a child, bouncing the ball and scooping up a handful of little metal game pieces. She remembered the sharp, cold feel of the jacks in her hand. What a strange game for children, she thought. They’d learn soon enough about the world’s hard edges.
“Can’t I just plead to the drug dealing charge?” Annie asked.
“You could . . . I can see if the DA is amenable to making a deal on that charge. But it’s not going to be as good of a deal as what’s on the table right now. You’d almost certainly get some jail time.”
“I can survive some jail time,” Annie said. “Honestly, the thing that bothers me the most about having a felony conviction is the idea of not being able to vote. Every eligible citizen with a vagina needs to vote these days.”
“Your voting rights would be restored once you’ve served your sentence.”
“Okay, then,” Annie said. “I’ll do it. I’ll enter a plea for the drug dealing charge, assuming you negotiate the jail time down as low as you’re able. I just want to get this over with.”
Josh sighed. “If that’s what you really want to do, I’m sure we can make it happen. But first give me a couple of days to go over the record again. If it’s okay with you, I’m going to have my law students take a look, too, and do some research. Just to have some other eyes and brains on the case.”
“Sure. The more brains the better. Thank you.”
After Josh left, Annie went outside to clear her head and walk around the stone path that wove through the sculpture garden. The beds and mounds were black and loamy, finally free of their snowy shrouds. The air smelled sweet and verdant, but did little to lift the sadness that weighed heavily on Annie’s chest. Because no matter what she pled to, no matter what sentence she served, she could not bring Caroline back.
To occupy her hands and, hopefully, her thoughts, Annie knelt on the ground and pulled a few weeds that had begun to crop up in the flower beds. When she’d cleared one bed, she moved on to the next. It felt cathartic, rooting out the dandelion sprouts and creeping Charlie vines, to make way for the perennials Betsy had planted over the years.
When she’d finished weeding, Annie’s hands were covered in mud. She went inside to wash them, and nearly ran into Odin carrying a chair.
“Rearranging some furniture?” Annie asked.
“Kind of,” he said. “Talk to Nell.”
Annie washed her hands in the kitchen, then went into the dining room, where Nell was lining up dishes and glassware on the table.
Annie sat down on one of the few chairs that remained in the room. “Either we’re moving, you’ve gotten a spring cleaning bug, or we’re having a party no one told me about,” she said.
Nell looked up. “I guess you could call it a party. I’m getting things ready for the Gallery Night we’ve planned for Friday, to raise money for your defense.”
Annie put a hand to her chest. She couldn’t believe they were going to so much trouble for her. If anything, Nell and the others should have been angry with her, for disrupting the Colony and potentially risking its reputation. Instead, they were trying to help her.
“I’m flattered,” Annie said. “But if all goes as planned, pretty soon I won’t have a case anymore, so there won’t be any need to raise money for it.” She nodded toward the office. “That’s what Josh and I were talking about in there. I think I’m going to agree to a plea deal.”
“What will you plead to?”
“Possession with intent to deliver.”
Nell frowned. “But you’re not a drug dealer.”
Annie gave Nell a small, grateful smile. “I’m glad you know that.”
Nell set a silver serving dish down on the table. “Of course. None of us think that. We think the charges against you have been trumped up because the DA’s office is making a public effort to crack down on opioids. They need to hold someone accountable for Caroline’s overdose, and since they can’t pinpoint where she got the heroin from, you’re getting scapegoated. Not for the heroin, of course. But the other drug charges at least make it seem like law enforcement is doing something.”
“Well, hopefully all of this will be in the past soon,” Annie said. “So, while I’m flattered that you want to do a fund-raiser for me, you really don’t need to go to the trouble.”
“Well, it’s not just for you,” Nell said. “One of Betsy’s directives was that every group of residents hold a collective show at least once. I mentioned it early on when you guys first got here, but the goal sort of got swallowed up with everything else going on. So, with the Gallery Night, we can accomplish that goal and also help you at the same time.”
Annie crossed her arms on her chest. “I won’t accept the money. But what if we found a different cause to give the proceeds to? I’ve been thinking a lot about how there’s so much I didn’t know about what Caroline was going through. We could raise money for a nonprofit that does research on addiction or provides support services to people in recovery.”
“I like that idea,” Nell said. “Odin and Paige have already provided me with some pieces to show, but it won’t truly be a collaborative show unless we have work from all three of you. Do you have anything you could contribute?”
Annie shook her head. “The cops confiscated my film when they took the camera. I had been planning to develop the photos all together. I’d gotten permission from one of the instructors at the technical college to use the darkroom there to do it. But now . . .”
“What about paintings or other types of work that you’ve done in the past?”
“Everything’s in storage in New York. I suppose I could contact a friend to get a few things out of storage, but it would probably cost a lot to ship them here properly.” Annie paused when she saw Nell pick up a towel and start polishing spots off wineglasses. “I can help you with that,” she said. “Let me go get a rag.”
Annie went to the kitchen and opened up the drawer where they usually kept the kitchen rags. It was empty. She went down to the basement, where she had thrown a load of laundry into the dryer earlier and forgotten about it. But as soon as she went downstairs, she forgot all about the towels and the wash because she remembered something else.
There were some photos she’d developed but never shown. She just needed to find them.
Chapter Twenty-eight
Betsy
PIECE: Silk throw-pillow cover made from Chinese brocade.
Cindy opened the drapes in the bedroom, and Betsy blinked in the summer sunlight streaming in. She’d already been awake for nearly an hour, but didn’t have the strength to get out of bed on her own. Lately she’d been waiting for the arrival of Cindy, the hospice nurse who cared for her in the mornings, before attempting to go to the bathroom or get dressed, if she even got dressed. Many days she didn’t.
“How are you feeling today, Mrs. Barrett?” Cindy asked.
Betsy cleared her throat and sat up. “You know the phrase ‘I feel like a million bucks’?”
“Sure.” Cindy gave her a funny look.
“Well, I feel like about five bucks. Maybe four fifty.”
Cindy laughed. “You know, we can reschedule today’s interview if you’re not feeling up to it.”
“Absolutely not. The night nurse brought up the idea of moving to the hospice inpatient facility again.” Betsy sighed. “And I think she’s right about that. She said they can administer around-the-clock care there, plus better pain management. Which sounds good to me.” She rubbed her side, which radiated pain from where she knew, from her most recent doctor’s appointment, the tumors had spread. It was hard to pinpoint, though, where the pain was coming from. She hurt all over.
“Perhaps we can do the interview up here, then?” Cindy suggested.
“No way. There will be pictures.”
“I could tidy up the room a bit.”
Betsy looked at the crumpled tissues on the nightstand, the clutter of jars and tubes and pill canisters. No matter how many creams and balms she applied to her lips and skin, they still felt dry as desert sand. And no matter how many medications she took, she knew she was not getting better.
“I’ve put so much thought, time, and money into my sculpture garden over the years,” Betsy said. “I want to sit outside. And if that means you have to throw me down the stairs to get me there, so be it.”
Cindy gave her a conciliatory look. “Well, then I guess we’d better get you dressed.” She went to the closet and brought back the outfit Betsy had chosen—a slub silk suit in the palest shade of ice blue.
Betsy didn’t like needing help to go to the bathroom and get dressed, but there was no way around it. She could barely even get up from the bed without having to grab the night table for balance. By some miracle, though, Cindy managed to help Betsy into the suit, with its zippers and hooks and buttons. She applied makeup to her face, bringing color to her pale cheeks and lips, and brushed the gray-blond wig that Betsy had special-ordered as soon as her hair began to fall out from radiation.
“Think of how much more time I’m going to have on my hands, now that I don’t have to get my hair colored every eight weeks,” Betsy had said when the wig arrived in the mail. Little did she know that the time she gained was quickly filled up with chemotherapy and doctors’ appointments.
Then, after Betsy chose to stop radiation treatment, she finally recouped her free time. But “free” was a misnomer, because she spent almost all of it in bed. Betsy had never been good at being idle, though, so even when she was bedridden she made the most of her time, writing down ideas for the artist-in-residency program she’d be leaving as her legacy. When pain and fatigue prevented her from writing her own notes, she dictated them to Cindy or one of the nursing assistants on duty. Betsy also had them read reviews aloud to her, of art exhibits she’d never see and performances she’d never attend. Somehow it gave her comfort to know that creative expression would continue in this world long after she’d left it.