“Outside my office?” My voice is far away like the distant splash of a pebble thrown down an old well. I’m hearing things too—I must be.
“Sort of,” he says. “At the tree. The hanging tree.”
I’m halfway there, Sebastian tagging behind before I realize. Nobody’s ever called it that before. Not that I remember anyway. Nobody but me.
CHAPTER
ELEVEN
Butch
January 14, 2017
Saturday
Butch Calder goes to the library. It sounds like the name of a corny kids’ book. But in the last four and a half months, I’ve spent more time in the library than the first forty years combined. I did most of my degree sitting on my bunk, watching my cellie guzzle pruno and tattoo himself. I warned him not to ink his girl’s name on his face. But you can’t fix stupid. I should know. Still, Linda with a heart for the i smack dab above your eyebrow is a hard lesson to learn.
And before prison? The only productive thing Young Butch ever did in a library was rounding third base in the stacks. With her. Gwendolyn Shaw. Dammit. I let myself think her name again. It’s that dream that’s got me all mixed-up today. That and Evie and my missing roommate. He must’ve reappeared sometime during the night—I’d lain awake for at least thirty minutes waiting—but I didn’t hear him till the morning, snoring like a chain saw. Me, I couldn’t even attempt breakfast with this gnawing in my gut. I grabbed a banana and caught the bus before most of the house was awake.
Libraries are different now. They’re all modern and fancy and lit up inside. No more atmosphere, that’s for sure. And the public ones don’t open till noon. That’s why I’m here—Horizon University. Because even on a Saturday, they open at 8 a.m. sharp. I choose the computer in the back, take a seat, and plug in the user ID and password from the kid I’d bribed out front. No one’s watching, but I pretend I’m job hunting anyway. Just in case Agent McElroy tailed me. After last night, I’m definitely on his radar and not in a good way. “I understand your wanting to help and all, but watch yourself, Calder.” His exact words.
I pull out my list, the one with Companies that Hire Ex-Cons printed in big letters at the top. I’ve already scratched through five of them. Then, I type her name into the search bar. Evelyn Allcott Maddox. I don’t know what I’m looking for. Scratch that. I won’t find what I’m looking for. Closure. Forgiveness. Absolution. You can buy a grilled-cheese sandwich with the face of the Virgin Mary, Britney Spears’ chewed-up bubblegum. Hell, you can probably buy a goddamn vital organ. But some things—the ones that really matter—you can’t find online.
My finger hovers over ENTER. Why did I never do this before? I tap the button. 503 results. I read the first one without breathing. It’s worse than I thought, knowing this much. And that’s why you never did it before, jackleg.
OBITUARIES
Jared Dean Maddox passed away at his home in Oakland, California, on December 28, 2014, at the age of 32. A Bay Area native, Jared graduated with honors from Stanford University and served as Director of Marketing at MDX Global, the San Francisco-based management consulting and strategy firm. He was preceded in death by his father, William “Bill” Maddox. Jared is lovingly remembered by his wife of five years, Evelyn, and his mother, Margaret, both of Oakland.
It doesn’t get any better. There’s the post-wedding announcement, picture and all (apparently, they’d eloped to Cancun) without a single mention of Evie’s parents. Just the proud Mama and Papa Bear Maddox of MDX Global flanking the happy couple outside of city hall when they made it official. It’s only a photo, but Evie’s smile looks forced, as fake as Margaret’s ample chest. I know what it’s like to stand next to money. She has that look.
“You’re not good enough for me, Butch. You’ll never be good enough.” I hear it as plain and clear as if Gwen is over my shoulder, and I spin around expecting to see her there. Blonde and long-legged and perfect and smacking watermelon bubblegum. She always smelled like too-sweet watermelon. Tasted like it too.
“Jesus Christ.” I mutter it under my breath, but it’s so church-mouse quiet in that library, I feel like everybody can hear me. I wait for a beat—surely, they’re about to kick me out—then turn back to the screen for the pièce de résistance, no less than twenty hits for Dr. Evelyn Maddox, sex offender treatment provider.
“Sex offender.” I don’t realize I’ve said it out loud until the mousy girl at the desk across from me tosses her books into her bag and hightails it for the exit, looking scared out of her wits.
“Sorry,” I call after her. I guess the real world’s not so different, because you can’t say that word in prison either. Unless you want to wind up on the wrong end of a shank. I figure I’m on borrowed time, so I jot down Evie’s office address fast and prepare for a hasty exit. But there’s something sticking in my craw, and I just can’t shake it. I have to check or it’s gonna bug me all day.
Thanks to the vocational computer class I took in the joint, I know exactly what to do. Even though I’m pretty sure this is not what they had in mind by functional technology skills. I type her address into a maps application and wait for the answer. The one I already know in some dank and unspoken place within me.
Yep. Evie’s office is near my Chicken and Waffles, but that’s not all. It’s right across from the spot where I left her twenty-three years ago.
****
I’m a zombie, a dead man walking as I plod away from the bus stop toward the halfway house. A single thought beats like a black heart inside my head. I wish I could take it back. Of course it’s not the first time I’ve thought it, but it feels new again. Freshly colored with a punch that knocks the wind right out of me. Like it just happened. I wish I could take it back. But what exactly? Where would I begin?
A dog snarls from the cover of a fence, and I feel myself come alive again, pulse quickening. I check behind and around me. Nobody lurking, but I’ve missed the turnoff for home. My feet are setting a course to Evie’s office, to that godforsaken tree, though I won’t admit it to myself. Up ahead, I can see the building, and I stop cold. It’s two stories, nondescript. The sort of building you wouldn’t notice, wouldn’t remember, even if you passed it a hundred times. But there’s something going on. And it’s bad. I duck behind the nearest tree, my knees wobbling a little. I didn’t do anything wrong. Still, I feel the need to remind myself. They don’t bring out this many cop cars and the yellow tape for anything less than murder. And then there’s the van—Alameda County Coroner.
I peek out from my hiding place, desperate to get a look at the tree, convinced I’ll see Evie up there. That I’ve wandered into a wormhole. That I’ll relive it all again. Instead, I find my reflection in the nearest car window. I’m relieved at the sight of my face, the strength of my jaw, the salt-and-pepper stubble, the crinkles around my eyes. Old Butch.
“If you could change things, where would you start?” A psych doctor had asked me that once, years ago, and I’d pretended not to know. I probably shrugged in that aw-shucks-ma’am way I had back then. Truth is, I know it to the day, to the hour, to the minute, to the second. I also know there’s no going back. What’s done is done.
Butch
April 29, 1994
Fourteen days before I killed her
I bought a car. But not just any car. My first car. The car every guy dreams about. A 1971 Plymouth Barracuda convertible. Hemi engine. Ebony black. And damn, I looked wicked in it. Top down, hair blowing in the wind, I would’ve given Clint Eastwood a run for his money. I drove it off the lot of Emeryville Classics at exactly 3:15 p.m. The dash clock told me so. Who knows why some things just stick in your mind? But I’m pretty certain there’s only one reason I remember: Girls. Lots of them—tan skin, bared in sandals and sundresses—getting out of Berkeley High at 3:30. Just enough time for me to cruise by in my new ride. I couldn’t have planned it better if I tried. Which, let’s be honest, I had
.
I hit the freeway doing ninety-five, revving the engine every chance I got. A guy in a minivan flipped me off when I rode his ass and screeched around him because he didn’t get out of my way fast enough. But I didn’t care. Didn’t he know I had someplace to be? I felt good. Damn good. Like Fourth of July fireworks exploding in my brain. Like a home run over center field, bases loaded. That good. And free. So free.
I’d spent the last six months in juvie on a commercial burglary, and I needed to make up for lost time. For Young Butch that meant drinking like a fish, smoking like a chimney, and sucking face with as many hot girls as possible. Or trying to. And spending the blood money, of course. Now that I’d turned eighteen it was all mine. Three-hundred-thousand big ones. That’s how much Y-Trax Trucking figured they owed me for Mom, Pop, and my little brother, Jesse. Even with my splurge on the ’Cuda, I still had a cool hundred thousand left, and damn if it wasn’t already burning a hole in my pocket.
When I took the exit toward Berkeley and slowed to a crawl on the MLK, I turned on the radio—KISS—and cranked it up, half-belting the lyrics, half-watching everybody watch me. “I wanna rock and roll all night…and party every day…I wanna . . .” And let me tell you, I was a sight to behold. By the time the end-of-day bell sounded, I was parked half a block from the school, and that shrill little ring thrilled me to my core.
The double doors opened, and out they came. Tall ones, short ones, blondes and brunettes. A feast for my senses and my raging hormones. I checked myself in the mirror, smoothed my shaggy blond hair, and grinned. In this car—my car—I felt unstoppable. It was almost unfair. Like shooting fish in a barrel. Straight off, I spotted a cute redhead, giggling with her friends. She kept glancing back at me over her freckled shoulder with a shy smile.
“Hey,” I said, pulling up alongside her, idling, when her friends walked on without her.
“Nice ride.”
I shrugged like it meant nothing to me. “You wanna go for a spin?”
Her cheeks pinked, and I was already counting my chickens, imagining my hands on her tight body. “I can’t,” she said. “I’ve got a boyfriend.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Are you accusing me of lying? That’s rude. Who do you think you are?” She put her hand on her hip and frowned. “His name is Jason, and he plays football, and he has a car too. I’m waiting for him.”
“I’m just sayin’. I don’t see a ring on your finger, so…what’s the harm in a ride, huh? I’ll bet he doesn’t have a whip like mine.”
“Did you steal it?”
“Now who’s being rude? Hell no, I didn’t steal it. Do you wanna go for a ride or not?” I sounded pissed. But I got the feeling this little snob was about to burst my balloon, and I didn’t like it one bit. All the fireworks fizzled, leaving ash and embers crackling in my chest.
When she didn’t answer, I tried again. “What’s your name?”
“I’ve gotta go.” She turned back toward the school, and I shifted into reverse and followed.
“You won’t even tell me your name?”
Hell, she wouldn’t even look at me. “Please, leave me alone.”
“What if I guess it? Will you tell me then? Is it—”
“I’m going to get the principal. He’ll call the cops.” Cops. She might as well have doused me with ice water.
“Bitch.” The car lurched forward as I threw it in drive, leaving a trail of rubber behind me.
Next stop, UC Berkeley. College girls wouldn’t be so damn uptight. I drove three blocks, steaming, before I caught my reflection in a building as I passed and let out a whistle. Worth every penny, I thought, feeling revived. I shouldn’t have even bothered with those prissy high school brats. They had curfews and rules and parents to contend with. What I needed was a woman.
And that’s when I saw her. Yellow dress the color of lemonade, swirling around her thighs. Honey-blonde hair and legs for days. She sat on a guitar case, chin in her hands, crying. I slammed the brakes, and she flinched. Way to play it cool, Calder.
“You okay?” I called to her.
She wiped her eyes with the hem of her dress and gave me a curious once over. “Not really. I’m late for practice.”
“You play that thing?” She nodded at me, her lips hinting at a smile. Jesus. Her lips. “Me too. I play.” I would’ve said anything to get her in my car.
“My dad forgot to pick me up again, and I thought I’d walk. But then…” She slipped off her sandal, broken strap dangling. “This happened. My favorite shoes too.”
“I can see why. They’re great shoes. Not exactly my style, but…” She actually laughed. And it was the best sound I’d ever heard. “I’m Butch, by the way, but my friends call me Calder.” Like I had friends.
Her eyes lit up. Even from here, I could see they were blue. The color of a robin’s egg. “Hey, Calder, could you…”
“Could I what?”
“This is going to sound weird. But could you maybe give me a ride?”
“Uh, well…I’m kind of in a hurry, but…is it far?” Please let it be far.
“UC Berkeley. Not far at all. And I’m Gwendolyn, but my friends call me Gwen.” I imagined she had throngs of them. I wanted to be her friend.
I reached over and popped the door handle, inviting her, and she slid into the passenger seat like she belonged there. Like she’d been riding shotgun with me her whole life. “So you play the viola, huh?” I heard the singsong in her voice. Definitely flirting.
“I thought it was a guitar. What the heck is a viola?”
“Don’t worry. Everybody mixes them up. It’s a string instrument too. Just a bit bigger than a violin. It’s like the violin’s big brother.” I nodded, even though I knew jack about string instruments. “How long have you played the guitar?” she asked.
Me and my big mouth. “A couple years.” One hand on the wheel, I pretended to strum with the other. “Electric guitar,” I added, because it sounded like something that might make her want to have sex with me.
“Like Slash from Guns n’ Roses?”
“Exactly.” How cool could this girl possibly be?
“Is this your car?” she asked, grinning. “It’s a classic.” That cool.
“I bought it today. It’s mine.”
A small crease formed between her brows, and I worried I messed it up. I’d said the wrong thing. “How old are you?”
“Just turned eighteen. You?”
“Seventeen.” So she was a high school girl after all. But nothing like the others. In a crowd of dull pebbles, she sparkled. “I’m a senior at Berkeley High. What about you?”
“Graduated early.” I left out the GED in juvie part.
She reached into her purse, pulled out a pack of watermelon bubblegum, and unwrapped one small, pink square. Keep your eyes on the road, Calder. But that was impossible. She opened her mouth, and the gum disappeared inside. “Do you work or…never mind, I’m just being nosy.”
“If you’re wondering about the car, my parents are filthy rich. It was a graduation present,” I joked, but she didn’t crack a smile.
“Sounds like something mine would do. They’re always trying to buy me with stuff. I know I sound like a spoiled snot, but don’t you ever just get tired of it? I mean, this is like the tenth time this year my dad forgot about me. Literally, just forgot I existed for an entire afternoon. And every time, he says the same old stuff—I got so busy on this call or in that meeting, blah, blah, blah. It makes me feel…oh my gosh, I’m so sorry. I’m just rambling.” She points up ahead, then hides her adorable face in her hands. “You can let me off there. I don’t know what got into me. I guess it’s nice to feel like somebody understands.”
I stopped the car by the sidewalk and said the first prayers I’d uttered in about ten years. Please God, let me see her again. I’ll be good. I’ll be a goddam
n choir boy. “I don’t mind. You can ramble with me anytime, Gwen. It was nice to meet you. Beyond nice.”
She cracked the door and climbed out without a word, still smacking her bubblegum. The air around me shifted, and I felt cold in the middle of spring, like somebody just stripped off my blanket. Then she lifted her viola from the backseat and sighed. “Aren’t you going to ask for my number?”
Butch
April 30, 1994
Thirteen days before I killed her
A lie is like a cat. A feral cat. Like the ones Mom used to feed table scraps outside of our apartment in Richmond. You might think you’ve got it under control, that you know exactly what it will do next, but when you least expect it, it will unsheathe its claws and scratch you right in the face. And it’s your own fault for thinking it could ever be something other than what it was. A bald-faced lie.
Last night, I called Gwen. I’d meant to play hard to get, but who was I kidding? I wanted to be gotten. Listening to her smile—I could tell she was smiling—I had no choice. I kept feeding the lie I told her, and it kept getting bigger and hungrier and wilder. Just like one of those cats.
“What’re you doin’ tomorrow? Do you wanna do something—together?” I’d barely taken a breath. Cool your jets, dude.
“I can’t. I’ve got this thing.”
“A thing? Sounds mysterious.”
“Trust me. You wouldn’t be into it.” If she was involved, I was definitely into it.
“Try me.”
“It’s for school. For citizenship class. We have to volunteer. I’ve been helping out at a children’s home in El Cerrito. Port in a Storm—that’s what they call it. It’s just for a few hours on the weekends.”
“A children’s home.”
“Yeah, that’s where they send kids who don’t have anybody to take care of them.” Kids like me. But she can’t know that. To her, I’m Butch Calder, son of the filthy-rich Calders.
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