Pacific Avenue

  “Maybe it wouldn’t have cleared him,” Mom suggested softly.

  “Of course it would, honey.” Dad sounded wobbly and old. “There was no need at all for an autopsy, Sam. I’m sure he didn’t do it. He’ll be all right.”

  I couldn’t believe what I’d done. I’d thrown away Richard’s only chance. I backed down the hallway to my room and closed the door without a sound.

  I hid in there until the next morning, when I had to come out for the funeral. It was at Mom and Dad’s church. Episcopal. No one knew Jamie had been baptized Catholic, and I didn’t say. I figured that if there was a God, he couldn’t care one way or the other.

  Francine hadn’t packed my jeans—they wouldn’t have done for Jamie’s funeral anyway, but the only dresses I had were my maternity clothes. Francine had picked the smallest one, but it flopped around my empty body and made me feel like crying. The Motleys were clothed as dark as nuns, all except Thu, who wore a white ao dai. She looked almost like a bride, and I saw Mom glaring. I wanted to tell Mom that white is the color of mourning in Vietnam, that she was wrong and ignorant. Anyway, if Thu wore white, what did Mom care?

  My arms felt empty without Jamie.

  It was a small service. None of my parents’ friends were there, not even Aunt Ruth and Uncle Joseph. That’s what Mom wanted—for no one to know. Mom sat at one end of the pew, and I hid behind the Motleys at the other. Sharon and Sam joined us, and Dad had the middle part all to himself, close to no one.

  Father Davis kept his head down, as if he was trying not to notice anything. Maybe he doesn’t remember me.

  I still couldn’t take in what was happening, still felt numb and padded. But Father Davis’s words pummeled me—when he said, “Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil,” they nearly got through. I had to make the padding around me even thicker. I hardly heard at all when he said, “The sun shall not smite thee by day, nor the moon by night.” You’re not supposed to make a fuss at an Episcopal funeral.

  I didn’t make a fuss.

  At the cemetery, they had us leave before they lowered the little coffin. I don’t know why anyone would think that might help.

  When the service was over, I took Eddie aside.

  “Let’s go home, Eddie. I don’t want to be here anymore.”

  “Your dad asked us all to lunch, doll.”

  “Please, Eddie? I want to go home.” In Sharon’s direction I mouthed, “I’ll call you,” and she nodded.

  Eddie went and spoke to Mom for a minute, then came back and led me to his car. He didn’t ask why I wanted to leave. I looked out my window, watched the city stutter off to its end as we drove out the Airline Highway. Finally, only weathered wood barns remained, standing silver-gray in patchy brown weeds. Undrained ditches lined the road—mosquito hawks and Jesus bugs darted and swooped along their still greenness. In the wind of the traffic, the paper peeling from the billboards waved hello, good-bye.

  * * *

  I stayed at Francine’s again when I got home. Sharon didn’t wait for me to call her—she was on the phone right after breakfast the next morning.

  “Are you okay?” she asked.

  “Not really,” I said. “How are things there?”

  “Mom had a cow about you taking off yesterday,” she said.

  “Mom has so many cows, she could go into the cattle business.”

  “Do you care?”

  “About her snit? No. What did Dad say?”

  “Nothing. When we got home, he went out in the garden and started tying tomato vines. Mom kept yelling at him that he was ruining his suit, but he didn’t come in. He didn’t even answer.”

  I imagined Dad getting mud and manure and green tomato-vine stains on his white shirt.

  “Kathy?”

  “Yes?”

  “Well, nothing. You didn’t say anything, so I wondered if you were still there.”

  “Yes, I am. I am still. Definitely. Still. Here.” It struck me as funny suddenly, that Sharon would wonder that. I started to giggle uncontrollably, then stopped with a little sob.

  “Kathy, I don’t like the way you sound. I’m taking off work and going down there. I’ll be there as soon as I can get away.”

  “You don’t need to do that.”

  “Yes, I do. I’m going. Right now, I need to talk to Francine, okay?”

  “Okay.” I got Francine. Then I went and lay down. I woke again to Francine shaking one of my shoulders.

  “Richard’s on the line,” she said.

  I wasn’t sure if it was the same day as when I lay down. Maybe it was tomorrow. It didn’t matter. I got out of bed and stumbled to the phone.

  “Richard?”

  “Hi, Kathy.” He sounded cautious. I wondered if people listened in on jail phones. Probably they did.

  “Hi,” I managed.

  “I’ve been calling and calling. Why are you at Francine’s?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “What time is it?”

  “Three in the afternoon, more or less. Why? Did you just wake up?”

  “Sort of. When are you coming home?”

  He drew a deep breath. “I don’t know. The way it sounds, maybe in about ten years.”

  “But you didn’t do anything!”

  Or did you?

  “I don’t know,” he repeated. “They say there’s evidence. I don’t want to talk about it, do you mind?”

  Suddenly I was wide awake and burning with anger. “Yes, I do. I mind a lot. I just got back from Jamie’s funeral, and now you say you might be getting a ten-year sentence, and you don’t know what you’ve done. I want to talk about it.”

  The dial tone sounded in my ear. It didn’t tell me anything I didn’t already know. I went back to bed.

  Sharon came the next day. I mostly slept for the next couple of weeks, but she took care of everything. She bought groceries and cooked, cleaned the house, and woke me up when the Motleys came to visit. At least one of them did come every day, usually bringing food. Thu took my laundry home and did it with hers. The last night of Sharon’s visit, they had a potluck out on the patio table, and Sharon helped me take a shower and wash my hair. She fished out a pair of my jeans that hadn’t fit since before Jamie. They did now.

  Everyone hugged me. They all brought food, the dishes covered so bugs wouldn’t get in. I had made a big pitcher of iced tea, and I started by pouring everyone a tall glass. Francine raided the mint by the back fence and rinsed it off to stick in the glasses.

  We passed the dishes, a true Motley dinner of Creole, American, and Vietnamese food. Once again we sat around the table. Like a Motley family reunion, except that Richard was gone.

  “How’s Sam?” asked Eddie.

  “He’s fine,” said Sharon. “I think we’re going to get married sooner than we thought. We decided we don’t want a big wedding.”

  “To Sam and Sharon—happiness and long life!” Eddie raised his tea glass, and the others did too.

  “And then we really are moving down here. Any suggestions on neighborhoods?”

  They debated Gretna, Algiers, and New Orleans. I was glad it all felt so normal, because I was tired of people treating me like I was sick. No one mentioned Richard, but the circle of chairs wasn’t closed—the space between Martin and Francine was a little bigger than any of the others. No one can decide whether he’s one of us anymore.

  After dinner, Sharon and I wrapped up the last of the food and put it away. She tidied the refrigerator, throwing out some withered shallots and sponging the shelves. It was like all the other times we’d worked together in one of our kitchens, or in Mom’s.

  “Why’d you and Sam decide not to wait?” I asked.

  Sharon went on arranging things in the refrigerator. “Sam and Mom aren’t getting along these days. Dad either, for that matter.”

  I was confused. “Sam and Dad, or Mom and Dad?”

  “Both. There was a real scene, the night before the funeral.”

 
“I know.”

  “You know?” She looked up sharply.

  “I was headed down the hallway when Mom made that crack about a closed-casket funeral.”

  “Oh, no. You heard?” Sharon closed the refrigerator with a thunk and sat beside me at the table.

  “Yeah. Then all the stuff Sam said about the autopsy. It was all my fault we didn’t have one.”

  Sharon’s face was sad as she reached and touched my arm. “No, it wasn’t,” she said. “You didn’t know.”

  I didn’t know anything. “And now Richard’s in jail.”

  She shook her head. “Sam thinks Dad should have said something. How could you have known there should have been an autopsy?”

  “I should have known.”

  “Sam was really stunned by what Mom said. Did you know she felt that way?”

  “She wasn’t ever that direct before,” I said. “But I knew all along. Look how she never came to see Jamie. Look at Uncle Joseph. I guess they were more alike than we realized.”

  “Anyway,” said Sharon, “Sam’s too upset with them for us to go through a big family wedding. And Dad feels guilty as hell about Richard, and I think he’s trying to feel better by lashing out at Mom about being a racist. Not that that’s unfair.” She rubbed her eyes with the heels of her hands. “I’m sorry you heard what she said.”

  “It doesn’t matter. She had a million ways of letting me know.”

  “All those headaches,” Sharon agreed. “Whenever she had to deal with Richard or Jamie, it was headache time again.”

  “Why didn’t we pick it up from her?”

  “The racism? Dad, probably. He has all those ideals, and she never dared to say stuff like that in front of him. Not until that night, anyway.”

  I shrugged. “He didn’t live up to the ideals in the end, though, did he?” Dad’s trying to protect me, and he’s willing to sacrifice Richard to do it. Does the color of Richard’s skin make it any easier for him?

  Sharon left the next morning. When I went back to work, I found that Thu and Martin had hired a couple of students to rehearse for the coming Christmas production. I was surprised I still had a job, but they introduced me to the new people as if nothing had changed.

  Thu brought the teacups, and we sat down to discuss the new production. The company was learning a script about two children who go on a magical journey one Christmas Eve.

  “I’d like you to specialize in scenery and effects now,” Martin said. “And helping Thu make puppets. We’re thinking of expanding to two troupes—that’s why we’re training apprentices like Dave and Nancy here.”

  He nodded in the students’ direction. “And we need a permanent stage manager, so I’m hoping you’ll take that on.” He didn’t mention Richard. He’s keeping things flexible so he can hire Richard back or do without him, depending on what happens.

  Depending on what happens. . . . Everything depended now on what happened to Richard. But every time I talked to him, he sounded fainter, less like anyone I knew. He had a lawyer, someone from the public defender’s office. The lawyer had made a motion to drop the charges, but it had been denied. It looked like Richard was going to trial.

  When he phoned to tell me that, I felt my heart squeezed like a sponge. “Do you think you’ll get a fair trial?” A black man. A white woman. Baby dies. Murder. . . . Good lord, a Jefferson Parish jury. No autopsy. All my fault.

  “I don’t know.” His voice was empty. He didn’t sound like he gave a damn.

  I knew he’d hang up on me again if I didn’t change the subject. “What’s your lawyer like?” I asked.

  “Well, I’m not sure he’s that interested, but maybe we’ll work something out.”

  Why does he sound so guilty whenever he talks about it?

  Why can’t I ask him straight out?

  Well, that would sound fine, wouldn’t it? What would I say? “Gee, Richard, I’ve been wondering—did you kill Jamie?” Great. That would be great.

  All my fault.

  “I have to go, Richard.” I can’t take any more of this. I can’t think about it anymore.

  But I couldn’t think about anything else. I saw picture after picture of my Richard—Richard who couldn’t be guilty. Richard, sitting on the bed in his Chimes Street apartment, back propped against the wall, reading about forgiveness.

  I was sure he hadn’t hurt Jamie—until the little whisper started in my head. He was always strange. Even when I first met him, he wasn’t on speaking terms with his family. Richard crawling out from under the Thanksgiving table. Jumping out of his chair the day of the quarrel, scaring Dad.

  He never hurt anyone. He had problems and we quarreled, but he never raised his hand. Not once.

  He didn’t want Jamie, remember? “You don’t have to keep it.” Not the first time he killed anyone, either. “I sure aimed a howitzer at places where people lived and fired it. What do you think happened at the other end, Kathy?” Baby killer, that’s what they call them.

  No. Not Richard. I built a wall against the voice with pictures of Richard changing Jamie, feeding Jamie, telling her stories. Richard, walking with me and Jamie, glittering with puppet snow. Richard, the last day at the zoo, digging in the pockets of his jeans for a tissue so she could blow her nose.

  The whisper came through the wall. Richard’s an actor. You heard him that night he didn’t know you were listening—“I’m trapped. I can’t get out.” That’s what he really felt all along.

  I made myself remember Richard setting his box of puppets on the floor, wrapping me in his arms and his love. Richard, the idealist, wanting to help other veterans. Richard and the puppets, working for peace.

  Is that what you call peace? Days of cold silence? Screaming nightmares? Even if he didn’t do it on purpose, he could have sleepwalked—could have killed her in some crazy dream.

  No. He never sleepwalked.

  Maybe he smothered her. Maybe she was keeping him awake and he just couldn’t stand it. She was getting sick—like the time he’d gone to sleep in the Volkswagen.

  No, not like that time. There was a big difference. This time, she wasn’t crying. I would have heard if she was.

  Maybe she wasn’t keeping him awake. He still might have sleepwalked. He was strong enough—he could kill a baby easily.

  Not without her making a fuss. I would have woken up. There was no way I wouldn’t have woken up. I always had, as soon as she cried.

  The whisper was gone, and I knew I’d found the answer. Richard couldn’t have done it. But no one was going to ask me. I had to tell them anyway. I called the lawyer.

  “Public defender’s office,” said a nasal female voice with an Irish Channel accent.

  “Hello? Can I speak to Michael Heard?”

  “May I ask who’s calling?”

  “My name is Kathy Woodbridge. I’m calling about Richard Johnson.”

  “I’ll see if Mr. Heard is available.”

  I waited a long time. “He’s in a meeting. May I take a message?” Bored, indifferent tone. I heard gum pop.

  I left my phone number. The lawyer didn’t call me back. Over the next week, I tried over and over, hoping that someone else would answer the phone. But it was always the same girl. She had enough phone messages from me to paper the office, if she was writing them down at all.

  I had to talk to someone. I combed my hair and trailed up the street to Martin’s house. He and the boys were gone, but Thu let me in with a smile and put the teakettle on.

  “Richard won’t say anything about what happened,” I said when we’d both settled on the couch. “I don’t know what to think.”

  “You think he did something?” Thu asked, her voice shocked.

  “I did. I mean, I wondered. Because he never said he didn’t. But I thought about it, and he couldn’t have. There’s no way I could have slept through something like that.”

  “But why isn’t he saying that to the police?”

  “I’m not sure he’s not. But he sounds more
like he’s guilty every time he talks about it. He can’t be, but he won’t say he’s not. All he says is that he doesn’t know. And back then . . . when it happened . . . I should have asked for an autopsy. Then they would have had to let Richard go.”

  “And now no one will ever know.” Thu sounded bleak.

  “That’s about it.” We watched the steam rise off the tea. “Except, the longer he stays in jail, the more he’s giving in,” I added.

  “Kathy,” said Thu after a moment, “I want to tell you something I never told anyone. Promise me you’ll never tell. Not even Martin.”

  I nodded. What could she say to me that she hadn’t said to Martin?

  “When we were hiding under the stage during the siege, well, Martin wasn’t conscious. I’d creep out to . . . go to the bathroom, but . . . I’m sure you know what I mean . . . he couldn’t. I tried to keep him clean, but there was a smell. Even in the cold weather, you could tell people were in the building somewhere.”

  Thu bit her lower lip and looked away. “So one morning, when I was out of our hiding place, I took my own . . . excrement . . . and I wrote VC slogans all over the walls with it. That way, the soldiers wouldn’t look any farther, if you see what I mean.”

  Thu was red-faced. I wondered why she was saying this. And then I realized. She’s telling me to do anything I can to defend the person I love. Like she did. Like Savitri did.

  I had to get Richard out of jail. He couldn’t have hurt Jamie, but the longer he stayed there, the more they were all convincing him he had. He had to get free and think, figure out what happened. And I had to tell Richard I knew he was innocent.

  Even if he didn’t want Dad to bail him out, I could pay his bail with my own money. What money?—I don’t have a thousand dollars. But if I sell the Volkswagen, I can get it. He can’t be mad if it’s not Dad’s money. Why didn’t I think of it weeks ago?

  I set my teacup down with a crash. “Thank you, Thu. I have to go. Right now. I’m sorry. I’ll be back. Thank you for telling me, and I’ll never say anything to anyone.”

  Selling the car took longer than I expected, but I came home in a taxi with enough money for Richard’s bail. I gloated over that money. I could help Richard. The autopsy wouldn’t matter.