by Nancy Rue
I turned to the bailiff.
“Do you swear to tell the truth?” he said.
The truth. That was what they were waiting for.
“I absolutely do,” I said to them.
“Miss Chamberlain,” Kade said.
His face was still like porridge, and his voice was a half step higher than it should have been. I wasn’t sure it was me he was seeing.
“You can call me Allison,” I said.
Kade stared for a second, until a smile came into his eyes. “Allison,” he said. He took a breath. “Can you tell us what happens when you hear from God?”
“I can try,” I said, “but it isn’t going to make any sense.”
Kade’s wince was almost imperceptible. Making sense was evidently just what he wanted me to do.
“It isn’t like we have deep conversations,” I said. “Sometimes I get a Nudge—like someone is physically poking me to get my attention. Sometimes I hear a voice—not exactly hear it, I sense it—I know the words.”
The poor kid was blanching again.
“And sometimes,” I went on, “it’s a feeling—a strong feeling—okay, it’s pain. How can I tell you—something happens that gets God in the gut, and it gets me in the gut too.”
If Kade had another question in mind, it was now lost in the panic I saw in his eyes.
Thank you, God. How could I wax so eloquent in front of a crowd of strangers, and yet sound like an imbecile when I was fighting for the one person I couldn’t live without? Kade looked so miserable, my heart broke for both of us, as India would have said, in twenty-five places.
“Your Honor,” someone said.
“Yes, Mr. Ellington.”
Chief rolled himself out from behind the table. “May I ask a few questions, as advisory counsel?”
“Please do.” Judge Atwell looked at Kade. “Do you mind, Mr. Capelli?”
“Not at all” was a marvelous cover for “If you fix this, Chief, I will give you my firstborn child.”
Chief parked his chair just a few feet from me and drilled his eyes into me.
“Miss Chamberlain, can you prove that God is speaking to you?”
“No,” I said. “I can’t.”
The courtroom rustled. Mr. Quillon stared at the back of Chief’s head as if I wasn’t the only one whose sanity was in question.
“You can’t even take a stab at it?” Chief said.
I stared at him too. Whose side was he on?
And then I saw the lines crinkling around his eyes.
Work with me here, they said.
You got it, mine said.
“Look,” I said out loud, “the burden of proof doesn’t rest on me. I’m just a witness for God, not his attorney.”
“All right, so if you yourself can’t even prove it’s God you’re hearing and feeling and being Nudged by, how do you know it’s God?”
“Because if it weren’t God, believe me I wouldn’t be doing what I’m doing. I couldn’t have cared less about the plight of the poor until God sent me down to West King Street on a Harley. I didn’t sign up to do any of it. This prophecy thing was not my idea.”
“So you’re convinced,” Chief said. “Now convince us. Prophesy for us right now.”
“I can’t do it on demand. Not someone else’s, anyway. It isn’t like I’m getting this constant influx of news from above. It’s not some divine version of CNN. The messages I get from God are sudden and they’re intermittent. They come when God needs them, not when I think I need them. They’re extraordinary. They’re irregular. Why wouldn’t someone think I was crazy? You would be crazy not to think I was crazy.” I moved to the edge of the chair. “But what I think is crazy is seeing all that is sick about our society. About this town. And ignoring it, thinking it’ll all go away if we pretend it isn’t there or blaming the sickness on the people it’s happening to. That is what’s crazy, and that is what God won’t let me do.”
“What if you did ignore it?” Chief said. “Would God strike you down?”
“He wouldn’t have to,” I said. “I would just go back to being the shriveled sack of nothing I was before.” I was almost off the chair now. I had to hold on to its arms to keep from getting to my feet. “I don’t go into some mysterious realm. The pain I feel is very real. It orients me to the cruelty and the evil that exists right here in this city, and it forces me say, ‘Look at this! Let’s do something about it!’”
Chief folded his arms. With his leg extended, he looked like he was sitting in a chaise lounge, enjoying himself immensely.
“You know, Miss Chamberlain, a crazy person doesn’t usually know she’s crazy. Have you ever considered the fact that you might be deluding yourself into thinking you can really change anything?”
He waited, eyes drilling again, telling me, This is it, Classic. Take your shot.
“False prophets and crazy people prophesy out of their own minds,” I said. “I prophecy from God’s.”
It was out now. I’d said it in a court of law, where I had vowed to tell the truth, where if I tried to take it back, I would be thrown in jail. I couldn’t take it back. I wouldn’t take it back.
Even if it meant I might lose my son.
“Any questions, Mr. Quillon?” Judge Atwell said.
Mr. Quillon stood up and beamed at him. “No, Your Honor. I think Mr. Ellington has done my job for me.”
“Thank you, Miss Chamberlain.”
I returned to the table, where Kade sat like a rod, his professional veneer barely covering the defeat in his shoulders.
It’s all right, I wanted to whisper to him. I guess I just didn’t want you to have to make me hang myself.
The courtroom held its collective breath as Judge Atwell looked up from his endless pause.
“I know that you would like to have my decision before we adjourn,” he said, “… But I can’t do that in good conscience, not without more serious contemplation.… And I have another concern.”
Something worse than that the adopting applicant is a crazy lady? I studied Clyde Quillon, but his face was quizzical.
“According to young Desmond … He has not spent any significant time with his aunt since he was a small child.”
If you could call dropping him off puking at clinic significant.
“I think it’s important that we remedy that … Ms. Rodriguez?”
Vickie stood up a few rows back.
“Please arrange for Desmond and Ms. Sanborn to spend a few hours in each other’s company this weekend.”
Both Kade and Chief pinned my arms to the table.
“Certainly, Your Honor,” Vickie said. “And I request that the time be personally supervised by me.”
“That would be my recommendation, yes. We will reconvene at nine a.m. on Monday. You will have my ruling then.” Judge Atwell lifted his gavel, left another endless ellipsis, and swept his eyes over the room. “Have a happy Easter,” he said.
As soon as the judge turned to exit, Vickie was on me before I had a chance to stand up and scream, “Are you serious?”
“Don’t worry,” she said. “I will be there the entire time.”
“He’s going to throw a fit.”
“Good. I’ll love reporting that to the judge.”
“Excuse me—Ms. Rodriguez?”
At least Quillon didn’t call her Señorita this time.
“Ms. Sanborn would like to be involved in the arrangements.”
I craned my neck to see around him. Priscilla didn’t look like she would like to do anything. In fact, she seemed rather put out. I hoped Vickie would put that in her report too.
“Actually, Mr. Quillon,” Vickie said, “I will be making those arrangements. Desmond and I will meet Ms. Sanborn for supper at six o’clock.”
She glanced at me, and I nodded. “I’ll call her and let her know where.”
Quillon sniffed. “You don’t have that planned too? You seem to have no trouble making decisions for everyone.”
“That decision is left up to Desmond,” Vickie said. “Again, I will call Ms. Sanborn with a location.”
There was definitely something to be said for being an ice queen. Vickie gave Quillon a stare so chilly, I thought I saw him shiver before he walked away.
I shivered too. If God felt this kind of fear when he was about to lose one of his children, then I truly did feel what God felt.
I had never been more sure of it.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
I had been to Chief’s place only a few times before that night, and then just to drop Desmond off for an afternoon of basketball on TV or some other completely boy thing. Desmond always referred to it as their man cave, but it was far from cave-like. Set on a slight rise overlooking Matanzas Bay, it was all windows on the water side, and its inside walls were a vast cream-colored mat for a few well-placed pieces of thoughtful art. A Georgia O’Keeffe print. A Celtic knot of twisted copper. A sepia-toned photograph of a lone Harley rider, leaning into a far-off turn. Chief always said it wasn’t homey like my place on Palm Row. But that evening Palm Row felt nothing like home, and so at Chief’s invitation, Hank and I went there to come down from the day.
Although how much further down I could go, I wasn’t sure. Despite Hank’s chicken alfredo and Chief’s selection of Coltrane for background and both of their assurances that my testimony had not blown my chances, I was headed for a pit I couldn’t stay out of unless I paced Chief’s floor without stopping.
“What if she tries to kidnap him?” I said.
Hank gave a grunt. “Right under George and Lewis’s noses. I have a life-sized picture of that happening. I have to say, I love that Desmond picked the Monk’s Vineyard for this little rendezvous. ”
“I’m serious. For all we know they could be on a plane for Gaborone right now.”
“Vickie Rodriguez is with them,” Chief said.
“Have you met the woman? Priscilla could take her out and keep moving.”
“She’s not so tough. One little”—Hank flicked her index finger off of her thumb—“and that glass case she’s in would implode.” She seated herself on the floor in front of the coffee table. “My theory is Priscilla’s reinvented herself into whatever she thinks is the complete opposite of where she came from. Trouble is she’s working from the outside in, so she hasn’t even touched what’s really going on with her.”
“I can’t get a feel for what that is,” I said. “The only time she gave me anything at all was when she was talking about the AIDS orphans. I think that was real. But I don’t sense pain in her, and that’s what scares me.” I threw my hands up. “Listen to me: If a person’s angst isn’t sending me into labor, I think she’s messed up.” I picked up my pace past the desk where Chief sat, files stacked around his laptop.
“You’re going to need sustenance if you hope to wear a dent in that tile, Allison,” Hank said. “Eat. Both of you. What—did I cook this for myself?”
Chief didn’t look up.
Hank grunted. “Am I talking to myself?”
I paused at the coffee table but ignored the pasta-filled fork she pointed at me.
“Where’s Kade?” I said. “He took off out of there this afternoon, with no explanation about this anonymous donor.”
“He said he had to go follow up,” Chief said. “I asked Bonner to see what he could find out from Dexter Taylor.” He picked up the reading glasses I seldom saw him wear. “I assume you’re all right with me doing that?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?” I said.
Uh, because that honkin’ huge wedge we drove between us is still there? You think that could be it?
“What are you doing over there anyway, Chief?” Hank said. “It’s Friday night and you’re shuffling papers.”
“Got a lot to catch up on. I had my secretary print out some e-mails, little things I was handling before the accident. I can only remember about half of—”
He peered through the glasses at a slip of paper, and I saw his eyes startle.
“What?” I said.
“License plate I must’ve asked a buddy of mine to run … Mercury Sable registered to—”
“That’s the car Priscilla was driving,” I said, “when she was stalking us.”
“This says it’s registered to a rental company.”
The hair stood up on my arm. “It isn’t Hertz, is it?”
“No. Reliable Rentals. Small private company, it looks like.” Chief clicked the keys on the laptop.
“It would have to be a rental,” Hank said, “unless she brought it over on a ship from Capetown. Has it struck anybody else that for somebody who says she basically works pro bono, she has a lot of cash to throw around? Did I tell you Joe and I saw her at O. C.’s the other night? Of course, Quillon was with her—”
“Whoa.”
“What ‘whoa’?” I said.
Chief smeared his hand across his mouth. “It is a private company. Subsidiary of Chamberlain Enterprises.”
Hank tugged at my pant leg. “Don’t go postal, Al. Anybody can probably rent from them, and Priscilla does like the best.”
“No,” Chief said, “their cars are not available to the public. They can be rented by employees of CE only. They probably keep it as a separate company because … Forget that.” Chief took off the glasses and looked up at me. “This doesn’t necessarily mean that Troy Irwin is somehow involved in this.”
“Why would he be?” Hank said.
I closed my eyes and I was on my porch, thinking I saw something real pass through Troy Irwin’s eyes. I can call Clyde Quillon off. I can make the whole thing disappear. All I want in return is San Luis Street.
“He is involved,” I said.
Chief gnawed at his earpiece and watched me. “Not everything that smells fishy comes out of Troy Irwin’s pond.”
“This did. He offered to get the adoption suit dropped if I would step back and let him buy up the whole street.” I jerked as the last piece slammed into place. “I guarantee you he’s behind this donation of the second house. I know it with everything that’s in me.”
“All right,” Chief said. He was using his “do not blow, Allison” voice. “Like I said, I’ve got Bonner on it.”
“I don’t care if the Sisters and I have to camp out in tents in the middle of the freakin’ street,” I said. “We find out he’s connected with this in any way and it is off.”
“Kade did say there were no strings attached.”
“Oh, come on, Chief. You know as well as I do wherever Troy’s involved, there are strings attached. He’s the dadgum St. Augustine puppeteer.”
“Not this time.”
I didn’t know how Kade had managed to get to the entrance from the foyer without us hearing him, but he had obviously heard us. His face was devoid of color again, only this time, I didn’t feel sorry for him.
“It’s him, isn’t it, Kade?” I said. “You made a deal with Troy Irwin. He’s the anonymous donor.”
“Listen—”
“No, you listen. How could you be in my presence for five minutes and not know I—will—not—take—anything … anything … from that man? Or his company? Or his foundation? How did you miss that?”
“I didn’t miss it. I just used it.”
“Then go unuse it.” I dragged my hand through my hair all the way from my hairline to the back of my neck. “I don’t believe you did this.”
“You have to let me do this for you,” Kade said. “I know I screwed things up in court today and if it hadn’t been for Chief—”
“So you want to make up for it by making a
deal with the devil?”
“He’s giving you the house!”
“He never gives anybody anything unless there’s something in it for him. You don’t know this man, son.”
“Okay, fine.” Kade’s hands went up between us, but I could still see his face, wringing itself out. “I’ll go make it right. But I’m telling you the same thing Desmond said in court.”
“What?”
“Don’t call me son.”
He was out the door before any of us could find a breath.
“Somebody cuss for me,” I said. “I just completely blew that. But what was he thinking?”
“Let him calm down, Classic,” Chief said. “Then we’ll find out.”
“Unh-uh,” I said. I snatched up my helmet from the couch. “I’m going to find out now.”
“Al,” Hank said.
“What?”
“Don’t get on that bike strung out like this.”
I looked at Chief, but he didn’t add that it was his bike I was getting on. His eyes understood.
“I’ll calm down,” I said. “But I just need to go set this straight.”
“How will you even know where to find him?” Hank said.
I pretended not to hear her as I went out the front door. I would have had to lie, and so far I’d managed not to do that. I’d just said I was going to go set it straight. I just didn’t say with whom.
St. George Street was in high Friday-night gear when I elbowed my way through the rudderless crowd of spring breakers, trying to get to the Vineyard. Across the street, a sax player juiced up the coeds spilling from the Irish pub, and a beefy frat boy with his shirt half off crowed like a rooster on the shoulders of a skinny kid who was too drunk to know he was going to wake up the next day with hairline fractures of L1 and L3.
If I hadn’t been so bent on taking Priscilla’s head off, I would have found an entire stand-up routine in the image of her and Vickie Rodriguez ordering appetizers on Lewis and Clark’s porch with Sigma Nus bellowing below. But it’s hard to find anything amusing when your stomach is splitting open.
I stepped onto the sidewalk in front of the Marble Slab Creamery two doors up and sat down on the far end of a bench occupied on the other end by a passed-out freshman. I couldn’t storm into the Vineyard with my teeth bared. Desmond was there, for one thing, and for another, I had to catch Priscilla off guard. With the full armor she wore at all times, that was going to require all the concentration I could pull together.