A Certain Slant of Light (42 page)

  
"Maybe it'll do you good," Mitch grumbled. "See what it's
like in there."

  
A guard approached them, and Mitch clutched a fistful of
James's shirt as if he were planning on dragging him into the
meeting room by force to face his father. James put his arm
around Mitch's waist and, as he spread his hand on his brother's
back, Mitch relaxed. The guard led them down the corridor, and
I saw Mitch cup his brother's head in his big hand as they turned
the corner of the hall and disappeared.

  
I was about to quietly take a seat and pretend to read a magazine, when someone spoke to me.

  
"Jenny?"

  
I looked over to find a tall policeman with a gold mustache
standing in the lobby, holding a folder. He looked familiar. He
frowned at me, but the next moment he was grinning, sliding the
folder under one arm.

  
"What're you doing here?" he asked, looming over me.

  
"My friend's father—" I started, but I didn't know how much
to say.

  
"Where are your parents?"

  
"I came with my friend," I told him.

  
"Why aren't you in school?"

  
I opened my mouth, to say, what? That I'd been taken out of
school because I'd been having sex with the English teacher?

  
His expression cooled. His name tag said Redman—the po
liceman from the church picnic, the one who had done Dan a favor—he'd gone through channels, copied phone records, proved that I had called Mr. Brown at home. "Wait here," he ordered.

  
I might've run, but I was waiting for James. I watched Officer
Redman lean in toward the man at the front desk, exchange a
few words with him, borrow his phone. I didn't hear all that was
said, but he did laugh out loud when he said into the receiver,
"Better look again. I think she woke up."

  
I felt my mouth go dry when he hung up and strolled over to
me, as kind as the doctor who is about to tell you how long you
have to live.

"I'll drive you home."

The shoulder strap of Officer Redman's patrol car smelled like to
bacco and peppermint. He let me sit in the front seat, but I still
felt like a criminal. I sat holding the strap with both hands. He was calm and never asked me whom I had been visiting at the
prison. In Jenny's driveway, he opened my door for me like a
suitor. Cathy was standing in the doorway, Dan on the porch.
Officer Redman gently cupped my elbow as we walked up the
steps. I couldn't look in their eyes, so I kept my gaze on my feet. Cathy held my arm hard as she brought me into the living room.
She didn't offer to run me a bath or give me a pill. I sat and she
paced until Dan finished a quiet conversation with the officer
outside.

  
"I don't know what you're thinking," Cathy said aloud, though
she didn't actually seem to be talking to me. Dan stood still as a
pulpit, but Cathy moved like a caged thing.

  
"It's like I don't know you," she said.

  
"Who were you with?" Dan asked.

  
"A friend from school," I told him, my voice sounding paper-
thin. "A friend whose father is in jail."

  
"You are not going back to that school," said Cathy. "And I'm
not sending her to that private school." Cathy said this to Dan
rather than me. "The drugs are even worse there." He gave her a
scowl, and she was pacing again, holding herself around the mid
dle as if keeping her insides from spilling. "I'm keeping her
home."

  
This turned my blood cold. "No school?" My voice buzzed,
ready to tear.

  
"I'll homeschool you," said Cathy. "Dwayne and Dotty did that for their son."

  
"Cathleen." Again it was not just her name, but a warning.

  
She shot him a hard look. "Do you even care what that man
did to her?"

  
Dan's jaw stiffened. Cathy looked sorry, shook out her hands,
and then folded her arms so hard you could almost hear it.

  
"I just can't stand you lying to me," she said, and although she
looked at me now, I saw Dan shift as if ready to answer her.

  
"I'm sorry," I said.

  
"Are you?" She stared me down, and I wished there were an
other way of keeping Mr. Brown out of the struggle, but I could
n't think of one.

  
"I'll tell you the truth now," I said. "I'm ready."

  
Cathy looked ill, as if afraid of what she might hear.

  
"The boy I was with today is the boy I've been seeing. His
name's Billy Blake."

  
Dan's expression was sage, but Cathy only frowned.

  
"You can pull me out of that school if you want to," I said, "but it would be wrong to accuse Mr. Brown. Please don't hurt
him."

  
As soon as the words were out, I felt that the last phrase was a mistake. They narrowed their gaze on me.

  
"We'll look into it," said Dan.

  
Cathy straightened her hair and wiped her palms on her skirt.
"I'm not letting you out of my sight. You're coming with me to
women's group."

For two hours Cathy had me cut melon, peel peaches, wash
dishes. She chose me a white knit sweater and skirt, which I put
on without a word.

  
We drove to a house that looked almost exactly like Dan and
Cathy's, me holding a bowl of fruit salad on my lap. Jenny's face
was reflected in the plastic wrap, pale and warped in a way I
thought Jenny would've liked to photograph. A flock of women,
all about Cathy's age, wearing neat slacks, sweaters with tiny
pearl buttons, large wedding rings, small flat shoes, and all talk
ing and shuffling dishes, told me I was welcome and they wished
more of the youth group girls would attend. The house was as
tidy as Cathy's but had the constant hum of an aquarium pump. I
was given the seat across the room from the tank. It was as big as
a bathtub, lit from within, and held a dozen fish that circled the
blue endlessly. I was given a plate of food, a tiny lace napkin for
my knee, and a glass of lemonade.

  
A thin woman with short black hair who reminded me of a
ballerina said grace and started to lead a discussion. Time man
agement was the topic, but they digressed. My stomach was
empty, but the smell of food made me feel sick. Even sipping the
lemonade made me queasy. I stared straight ahead at the fish tank and let the sleek, leaf-shaped creatures hypnotize me. It
looked nice and peaceful in there. But maybe it would seem dif
ferent from the inside.

  
"I'm so sorry," a voice was cooing. "How's your mom?"

  
"She'll get through it," a redheaded woman answered.

  
There was something else in the air, another scent that wasn't
food. It was flowers. Then I noticed a bowl of white blossoms on the coffee table.

  
"We're going out for the funeral on Saturday."

  
I watched the fish go round and round.

  
"Who's this they're talking about?" someone asked.

  
"Elaine's father went home to heaven," Cathy told her.

  
"No, he went to the great void," the ballerina corrected. "He wasn't a Christian."

  
Cathy looked sympathetic, and the redhead looked uncom
fortable. I watched her as she almost spilled her plate of melon balls and tuna hot dish.

  
"Well," said someone, "that's a shame. Didn't they have a
chaplain at the hospital?"

  
"He couldn't have declared," said the ballerina. "He was in
a coma."

  
I turned to Cathy. "What are they saying, that her father went
to hell?"

  
Obviously shocked, Cathy whispered, "He didn't accept the
Lord into his heart before he died." It was as if she would be em
barrassed for anyone to hear me having to ask such basic ques
tions. What kind of mother would they think she was?

  
"How do you know?" I asked Cathy. She just stared at me.
The ballerina was watching us now from across the room. "How
do you know he didn't have God in his heart before he died?"
Now every eye was on me, and there was only the sound of the
aquarium bubbling. "Why does he have to say anything out
loud?" I wanted to know. "Someone has to hear it?"

  
"I don't think you understand," said the ballerina.

  
"I don't think so either," I said. "Why does anyone other than
God have to hear him say it?"

  
"It's a moot point," said the ballerina. "He was brain dead."

  
My heart was pumping at a gallop. I dropped my plate of food
so abruptly on the coffee table, two melon balls popped up and
rolled around the centerpiece like lolling eyeballs. A roomful of
forks stopped in midair. Cathy grabbed my arm.

  
"Are you saying that God can't speak to someone who's uncon
scious?" I asked.

  
This sent a wave of disturbed whispers through the room. I shook Cathy's grip from me and glanced around at them, dis
gusted. As my eyes scanned over the coffee table, I noticed that the flowers were fake—formed from silk and plastic.