Family Law

by Gin Phillips

  The current in the pool shifted, and the frog drifted back in my direction.

  “Princess Diana?” I said. “Anyway, Mom told me not to go over to Lucia’s house anymore, and she also told Lucia to stay away from me.”

  These were not sentences I had said to anyone else.

  “Why?” he asked.

  “There was a shooting,” I said.

  “You were there when it happened?” he said. “At her house?”

  “You know about it?”

  “Yeah. Everybody knows about it. Somebody shoots up a lawyer’s house and drives away? It’s the sort of thing other lawyers find worth talking about.”

  “She sent me some Easter earrings today.”

  Grant let his head fall back, and he stared at the sky for long enough that I thought my earrings comment must have been either incredibly boring or somehow offensive. After a few breaths, though, he slapped his hands against the concrete and jumped to his feet, water sloshing over the side of the pool.

  “Let’s go,” he said.

  “What?”

  “Let’s go hear your friend. You get your dress back on, and we’ll drive downtown and check it out. Maybe we can catch the end of it. You can surprise her. Come on. Spur of the moment.”

  It took me several long seconds to move. When I did, I only lifted my legs from the water and curled them under me. I looked over at my house again, so close, and Mom had told me countless times that if someone tried to grab you and pull you into a car, fight with everything you had because once you were in the car your chances of surviving dropped by half.

  I looked up at him, and the lights were blinking faster against the wall, like maybe there was a short in the strand.

  “Are you serious?” I asked.

  “Completely,” he said. “You’ve got a dress. You’re barely damp. I’ll throw on something decent. Your mom never has to know. Unless, I don’t know—you’d rather go back home and curl up on the couch next to her? Have a little nap and watch some Lawrence Welk?”

  I thought of my mother making her way over the cobblestones, opening the gate, and looking across our driveway at the empty pool. She would panic, surely. I felt the pull of her, but I didn’t want to feel it.

  I thought of Lucia.

  Watch this.

  “In your car?” I asked, standing.

  “Are you saying you want to drive?” he asked. “Here I was thinking I was being gentlemanly. Come on. You got me thinking with your talk about plane tickets. It’s been ages since I’ve done something fun and stupid and unplanned.”

  I picked up my dress and pulled it over my head. I ran my fingers through my hair.

  “This sounds fun to you?” I asked. “An awards dinner for someone you hardly know?”

  “You’d be surprised at what I think is fun,” he said. “Here’s your shoes.”

  I jogged toward him, ignoring the voice in my head telling me not to run at the pool. As I slid on my flip-flops, Grant opened the kitchen door. A moth jounced off the glass and slipped inside.

  “So are we doing this?” he asked. “Or are you escaping back to your couch?”

  “We’re doing it,” I said.

  He took off through his kitchen, not quite running but close to it. I’d caught some of his excitement. I liked this pace. No thinking, only gliding from one step to the next. I locked the door behind me as I stepped into the kitchen, which was still dark, lit only by the lamp next to the sofa.

  Lucia, I thought. She would be surprised—pleased?—to have me appear at a lawyerly banquet, out of nowhere, and she’d surely recognize Grant, so maybe she would say hello to him, and then she’d see me standing there, too, and she would smile. I’d tell her the story of how Grant and I headed off in the middle of the night, and Lucia would laugh up at the ceiling, and I had not seen her do that for so long.

  “Come on,” Grant said, coming back to the kitchen, a suit jacket and a tie draped over his arm. He was buttoning up a white shirt, and I didn’t mind the chest hair so much this time.

  I couldn’t quite keep up with him as we cut through his front yard. He climbed in the driver’s side of his red VW Bug and stretched across to unlock my side. It was only once I was inside that I felt the discomfort inching back. The car was small, his knee was maybe three inches from mine, and if he took a corner too sharp, my shoulder would bump against his. I could smell chlorine, which was probably some combination of both of us. It made the space feel more claustrophobic, like indoor pools and locker rooms. As Grant backed out of the driveway, I lifted the lock of my door up and down, making sure I could unlock it.

  It didn’t take long to reach downtown at that time of night. We were out of our neighborhood in a couple of minutes, and soon we were in Old Cloverdale, which you could recognize by the size of the mansions and the tree branches that stretched over the road and met in the middle, blocking out the sky in places.

  “The McNally House,” Grant said. “It’s at the McNally House. I always forget whether that’s on Court or Perry or Hull. Or even on Gilmer? I still confuse them after all these years. They all look the same.”

  “My school is on South Court,” I said.

  He pulled up to a stop sign. “That doesn’t help me a whole lot. Unless the McNally House happens to be next to your school?”

  “Sorry,” I said.

  “Let’s try Perry,” he said, making the turn. “We’re looking for a three-story colonial. White with columns. Very Gone with the Wind.”

  “All of these look like Gone with the Wind,” I said and kept my face to the window, enjoying, as always, the gas lanterns and the stone fountains, the never-ending porches and the gazebos and the Julietish balconies. The Governor’s Mansion. And then we were deep into the part of downtown that felt like a foreign country, the one-way streets turning into a maze. The mansions had evaporated by the time we crossed under I-85, replaced by apartments and tiny brick churches and stores with bars on the windows. We stopped at a red light, and I watched a black man walk down the street, unsteady. The light changed to green. In another block we passed a couple of skinny white men, baseball caps pulled down, laughing so loud I could hear them as we passed. A hardware store had the glass knocked out of a window.

  Next to me, Grant had gone quiet. He was frowning at the road as he slowed at yet another light.

  “Is this right?” I asked.

  “No,” he said, as the light turned green. “I’ve gone too far. And the one-way streets make this such a pain in the ass. Which way, now, let’s see—Adams won’t go through. Oh, damn it, Adams did go. It’s Washington that’s only headed west. Okay, let’s see. We’ll turn here on Dexter and then we’ll head back up on McDonough—or maybe Hull?”

  It seemed like his sense of direction must be even worse than mine—we’d wound up in the worst part of downtown, nowhere near anything that looked like Tara. We passed a building that had clearly burned and never been repaired, a world away from marble columns. Surely Grant had known that he’d made a mistake long before I said anything. He was nervous, I thought.

  “Do you mind driving at night?” I asked.

  He’d managed the turn onto Hull, so we were at least headed back into the right neighborhood. He aimed a quick look at me.

  “No,” he said. “Not at all.”

  “Some people have trouble seeing in the dark,” I said. “Because of the reflections and everything. Mom won’t drive at night.”

  “I’m not your mother, Rachel.”

  He made a right turn and then, a few seconds later, a left turn. I didn’t see a street sign at either turn, and nothing looked familiar. Aunt Molly’s house couldn’t have been too far away—maybe even walkable—although she didn’t live around the mansions. I knew I had to be close to my high school, but I had no idea how I would get there. We hadn’t passed another car in several minutes.r />
  “Do you know where we are?” I asked.

  “I have a general idea,” he said. “But I’m still working on how we get to the McNally House from here.”

  With a jab of his foot and a swirl of the stick shift, he slowed down and pulled over to the curb on the one-way street. It was even darker here—we were in a gap between streetlights, and the branches overhead blocked the slice of moon. I pressed my face against the window, looking for a street name. My foot kicked an empty Coke bottle on the floorboard.

  “What street are we on?” I asked.

  “Not sure,” he said. “Just give me a minute. I’m trying to orient myself.”

  He leaned to the right, peering up through the windshield, although there was nothing to see. His hand landed on the edge of my seat, and if he stretched his fingers out, he would touch my thigh.

  “Maybe I am a little jittery,” he said. “The truth is that I haven’t driven a whole lot around this part of town at night. Let me think—how would I get to Gilmer from here?”

  “The McNally House is on Gilmer?” I said.

  “Yeah. At about Gilmer and Felder, I think. We just have to figure out where we are now.”

  He turned to me, one hand still on my seat and the other hand on the steering wheel. The chlorine smell was stronger than it had been. I could only see the outline of his face, and I thought of old games of hide-and-seek in closets, the breath of a friend on my face, the smell of root beer Dum-Dums.

  I could hear his slacks as he shifted on his seat.

  “You remembered?” I asked.

  “What?” he said.

  “You said you didn’t know which street the McNally House was on.”

  “Did I?” he said. “Maybe I’m more tired than I realized. Maybe I shouldn’t be driving. Lord, I am sick of work. Work and sleep, work and sleep. That’s all there is. But, yeah, it’s definitely on Gilmer near Felder.”

  Although my back was against the door—the handle jamming into my spine—he was still only inches away. We sat. I faced the windshield, but I could feel him watching me. Felder Avenue. I knew Felder. I turned off Felder on the way to school.

  “You don’t like being a lawyer?” I said.

  “Oh, Rachel,” he said, and he wasn’t touching the steering wheel or the gear shift or any reasonable part of the car. His hands were free.

  “Should we go home?” I said.

  I spotted a flash of yellow ahead, a light hanging above the street. It could be the left turn I usually made going to school. If I was right, this street was South Court. My school would be a few blocks ahead on the right.

  Mr. Cleary hadn’t answered me. He put his hand on the back of my seat, and I could feel his fingers brush my hair. It could have been an accident. A car drove past, and I caught a quick glimpse of his face, familiar in the headlights. Eyes still blue and tired. No fangs or claws.

  I didn’t know him at all.

  Maybe he was just an exhausted guy who was lost and confused and lonely, and if I asked, he would move his hands away from my hair and turn around and take me home. Or maybe he was a different kind of guy entirely.

  His hand in my hair again, stroking this time.

  Be careful, said my mother’s voice.

  Watch this, said Lucia’s.

  I listened to both of them. I grabbed at the handle and opened my door just as the red taillights from the passing car vanished.

  “I’m going to walk,” I said.

  “What?” said Mr. Cleary, his hand landing in the empty space where I’d been sitting. “What are you talking about? Get back in the car, Rachel. We’re in the middle of downtown. It’s not safe.”

  I slammed the door behind me and darted to the sidewalk, a chunk of worn concrete moving under my foot. I started running, and I wished I was wearing something other than flip-flops. It couldn’t be rocket science to find a street sign. I’d know soon enough if this was South Court, and if it was, Felder Avenue would be just ahead at the flashing light, and that should take me to Gilmer, and even if it didn’t, I could get to Molly’s from my high school, and the thing that mattered more than any of that was to get away from Grant Cleary.

  I looked behind me and saw that he’d turned off the headlights. He opened his door, jumping onto the curb at the same time.

  “I can’t just leave you wandering around down here,” he called. “You know that!”

  When I realized that he was running, too, I picked up speed. My toe caught on an edge of raised sidewalk, and I stumbled, landing hard on one knee. My palms burned against the concrete as I shoved myself up.

  “Rachel!” he called. “I’ll take you home. Get back in the car!”

  I could hear his feet hitting the pavement. It would be embarrassing, wouldn’t it, if I was wrong about him? I did not think of embarrassment. I looked ahead. I could feel wetness on my hurt knee, but it was easy to ignore. I let my feet slam the concrete, and soon I couldn’t hear him anymore. I took my first left turn, under a massive tree that was splitting the sidewalk, and I thought he might not see me change directions. The moon was hanging over the houses, and roaches zagged across the concrete, blacker than black. Soon it didn’t feel like running: I was diving into the dark with both feet, and the shadows flew up around me.

  Lucia

  I.

  The waiters and waitresses were clearing the round tables by the time Lucia, Evan, and her parents were able to step through the side door of the McNally House after her speech. A line of cars wound through the parking lot, bottlenecked at the single exit. Her mother carried a centerpiece—daisies and nasturtiums—which the emcee had encouraged guests to take home.

  “You just did so well,” Caroline said. “You never seemed the least bit nervous in front of all those people.”

  “Thanks,” said Lucia.

  It had barely been a speech at all. She’d thanked everyone, and she’d quoted Proverbs—To do righteousness and justice is more acceptable to the Lord than sacrifice—because it never hurt to lead with the Bible. She’d made some well-polished comments about how not only had women been robbed over the years—robbed of property, of education, of possibilities—but the state and the country had been robbed, too, of all that women could have taught and created and discovered. She talked of mothers and daughters and of what came next.

  “Those green beans with almonds,” said Caroline. “So delicious. The chocolate cake was a little dry, but the icing was good.”

  “I liked the cake,” Evan said, his hand on Lucia’s back.

  “They had someone introduce the woman who introduced you,” her father said. “Is that usually how they do it? If they’d have cut all those introducers, we’d have gotten out of here an hour earlier.”

  Lucia tugged at her silk skirt, which was long enough that it kept snagging in the straps of her high heels. Her father had tilted his forehead against hers as she hugged him hello tonight, asking her if she had the gun in her purse. I hate to think of you defenseless, he’d said, and he’d run a hand over her hair like he used to do to their Lhasa Apso. She liked being with her parents after a public event, when she was still, at least partially, the stage version of herself. That Lucia had endless patience and humor.

  “I think they wanted to let as many people as possible participate,” she told him.

  “Mission accomplished,” her father said. “Y’all up here on the left?”

  “Yeah, we’re right there,” Evan said. “Where are you?”

  “On the street,” Oliver said, pointing. “We thought they might charge in the lot.”

  Lucia hoped her father would be safe driving back this late. He didn’t drive much at night anymore. Behind them a line of men and women in white shirts and black pants carried trays covered with foil and boxes loaded full of wine bottles. The caterers followed one another, antlike, emptying their arms into the back o
f a white van and then heading back inside for more.

  “I thought the black woman who introduced you was very attractive,” said her mother, jingling her topaz tennis bracelet. “Don’t you think? And you looked so pretty up there, too. You know, I remember that there’s a rush to it. Being on stage.”

  “When have you ever been on stage?” asked Lucia.

  Her mother laughed her saloon girl’s laugh. Her lipstick had worn off, and she looked younger in the moonlight. “Fifth-grade spelling bee. I thought I’d wet my pants I was so scared. I made it to the final three, and when I walked off the stage, I tripped and landed with my face in Gabriel Anthony’s neck and he smelled like cheese. But after it was done, it was like all that nervousness came to a boil and turned kind of good. Is that what you feel like?”

  “I feel the good part onstage, too,” Lucia said. “Not just after. You never told me you were in a spelling bee.”

  “I liked spelling. And Gabriel Anthony, until I smelled him.” Her mother stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, reaching over to touch Lucia’s thumb. “You’ve got a burn there. Did you use aloe?”

  “Did you?” Lucia asked, halting next to her.

  Even in the dim light, she could see the fresh mark on her mother’s wrist. Likely another brush against the oven rack.

  They were a family of reckless cooks.

  Her grandmother would have enjoyed tonight. She’d have worried over her wardrobe, flat refused to go shopping, and ultimately would have felt deeply satisfied to get more wear out of one of her two party dresses: the ancient navy polka dot or the beaded lavender. They’d buried her in the lavender, and Lucia had worked equations as she gripped the metal casket. Her grandmother was born in 1892. Lucia’s own children, when she had them, should live past 2050; her grandchildren might live until 2100, and if she told them of tractors and milk cows and burned-off eyebrows and the flirting soldier who crushed a favorite hat on the train to Birmingham—if she got the stories right—then Ingrid Alma Bledsoe, a woman who never left the state of Alabama and never wore a pair of pants, would stay alive for more than two centuries.