A Summons to New Orleans (19 page)

Nora said, “And you’re absolutely certain there’s no validity to it?”

“No,” he said, “of course I can’t be certain. But what do you think?”

“I don’t know,” Nora said. “I wasn’t there.”

“But how about all that stuff she said to Simone? That was awful.”

“I had the strange feeling that she wasn’t really accusing. She was just raising possibilities.”

“The woman was raped.”

“She lied about some of the circumstances. She said so.”

“Does it change the fact that she was raped?”

“No, of course not. But do Poppy’s accusations change the fact that she was abused?”

“Look, I’m glad the judge is dead. But still . . .”

“The sun is very hot,” Nora said. “Should we get out of it?”

“Yes, probably.”

They started walking back to the hotel. Nora noticed a strange smile on Adam’s lips. She questioned it, and he shrugged and said, “Oh, I was just thinking of how little this all matters in the scheme of things.”

“What scheme is that?”

“The big one, where we’re just two people from history who won’t be here for very long. I have to give Poppy credit. She understands that part. The main thing about Poppy is that she is exhausting to live with. Because whether or not she is really in touch with the truth, she truly believes she is. And that is the scariest kind of person.”

“It’s easier to believe we have no control?”

Adam shrugged and stuffed his hands inside his pockets. “For evolutionary reasons, we choose the easiest path. The easiest path for Poppy is to believe in God. Okay, fine, I say, but you don’t have to force that path on others.”

Nora said, “What if Poppy is right?”

“You mean about God?”

Nora nodded, hoping he wouldn’t think she was losing her mind.

“I don’t think that matters. Poppy found what she needed to find in order to stay alive. We should all be so lucky.”

Nora said nothing to this. After a moment, Adam said, “Why she needs other people to believe it is another question. That suggests doubt, doesn’t it? I mean, if you’re secure in your belief, it doesn’t matter what other people think.”

Nora had no answer ready for this. She stared at the ground, at the plastic cups and other festive debris collecting in the gutter, and finally she said, “I don’t believe in belief.”

She felt exposed, putting a thought into the air which didn’t really belong to her, but one she had borrowed from Leo. An idea which, in fact, he had borrowed from someone else. But all ideas were borrowed, she realized. Centuries of
speculation, handed down, entrusted to those who were willing to speak them aloud. From Christ to Kierkegaard to Einstein, these ideas were never any stronger than the people who chose to espouse them.

They moved through the haunted streets, still infected with the laughter and the conversation of tourists who had long since surrendered to the heat, imprinted by the crimes that had occurred in ancient houses and dark alleys. The ghosts of this city were real, Nora thought. Careless hurt, misspent energy, fragmented ideas, abandoned beliefs, scattered all around them, accumulating like trash. Or buried and forgotten, like treasure.

13

T
here was another thunderstorm in the night, less severe, one that seemed to rattle in the distance like a truck on the highway. Nora found it vaguely soothing, and it kept her half-awake all night, a gentle reminder that her time here was passing, was almost over, and soon she would go back to her life, back to where she could figure things out. But she couldn’t do it now, not in the middle of the night in New Orleans, with the conclusion of a trial awaiting her. It was pleasant, being freed of the obligation of having to figure things out. She felt justified in putting off all the major dilemmas of her life, like what to do about her errant husband, her psychotic mother, her estranged kids. At one point she actually thought about those invitations she was supposed to finish. They were still in her briefcase, untouched, and she knew she
was going to be in big trouble for neglecting them. They were due in a week, and she would use every bit of that time finishing them. She liked to finish early; it made her customers feel secure. But then she thought,
What difference does it make?
If the calligraphy wasn’t perfect, how would the world be different? Who would really suffer? If these people thought that the writing on the envelope was an important part of the marriage process, was there really much hope for them? Her job was fatuous and deceitful. She hated it. She wanted to write books. Why was she wasting her life?

Nora eventually managed to push away these thoughts and concentrate again on the trial. Her curiosity was piqued. She felt she might learn something there, although in reality she knew there was going to be no new information. She was going to sit and listen to the closing arguments, each side summarizing the things they had already said. And then they would wait for the verdict. That would be something like a play-off game. She knew about play-off games, because Michael dabbled in a number of different sports. He was not terribly good, but he liked winning to an almost obsessive degree, and so she found herself hoping his hopes—harder than he hoped them, probably—and she felt his disappointment much more deeply than he ever could. There always was disappointment, too, as the teams Michael joined seemed to be the weakest. He wasn’t interested in basketball, though his junior high had won the regional title. Football scared him, and his school also made a decent showing there. He preferred soccer, where they were routinely humiliated, and tennis, where even though his teammates often won, Michael usually struggled and floundered and lost, although sometimes he panted and prayed his way to a victory. Rooting for Michael was always a matter of living on the absolute, exhausting edge of failure.

Had she been responsible for this? Had she raised someone who could not win, who did not embrace winning as a concept?

As disconcerting as that thought was, she was strangely at ease with it, and viewed it with the detached interest that Poppy seemed to view Simone’s rape case with: no conclusions, just possibilities.

She woke up feeling refreshed. The air was sweet and cool, something she knew without stepping outside. She took a shower and washed and dried her hair. She put on an outfit she hadn’t expected to wear in New Orleans—a white linen sundress and a coffee-colored sweater. She had brought it on the off chance that they would have an exciting night on the town and she would want to feel feminine and attractive. She liked the combination because it looked like a
caffè latte.
She knew she should probably dress in a more somber fashion, but why? If she had to sit through this harrowing event, she should at least like the way she looked.

But, then, she didn’t think the last day of the trial would be harrowing. She thought it might be exciting. She was ashamed of that thought, but she entertained it anyway. She decided it would be her secret.

She had breakfast with her friends in the courtyard, and she noticed Adam staring at her and smiling at her. She wondered if he were trying to make a connection with her, because of the talk they had the day before. Or maybe he just liked the way she looked. She recognized a warm feeling toward him. He seemed to provide an anchor of logic and sanity to this whole affair. He didn’t look at his wife much. Poppy was dressed in black, as usual, her hair neatly pushed back behind a hair band, every strand in place. Her makeup was carefully applied, making her look austere. The only hint of color on her was her lipstick, a deep Chianti shade. Nora wondered
why the only part of her body Poppy was willing to draw attention to was her mouth.

Simone was wearing a navy pantsuit, sleek, like something an advertising executive might wear. She had her black hair pulled into a twist at the back of her head. She ate very little and smoked incessantly. Nora wanted to do or say something that might reassure her, but she had no idea what that might be, so she stayed silent, concentrating instead on her scone. They talked about the weather. They talked about where to eat dinner that night. They talked about the coffee, which was dark and rich and delicious. And then it was time to go.

They took a cab to the courthouse, and Margaret met them on the steps. She was wearing a gray suit, a skirt that hit above her knees, thick flesh-colored stockings and pumps. She dressed like someone who had no idea how women really dressed, as if it were all a foreign concept to her. Nora was conscious of Margaret looking at her clothes, as if she found them either appealing or frightening.

“Well, we’re almost in the home stretch,” Margaret said, as they followed her down the long hallway to the courtroom. “I have to tell you now that rape trials are the most unpredictable. I have no idea how it’s going to go. I feel we have made our case, but it’s up to the jury, and we can only pray that they haven’t turned against us. Generally, juries want to convict. But in rape cases, there is a lot of gray area.”

“If we lose, then it’s over?” Simone asked.

“Well, yeah. But let’s not think that way.”

Poppy, Adam and Simone followed Margaret into the courtroom, but Nora found herself hesitating. She said, “I think I want to stay out in the hallway for a while.”

“Sure,” Margaret said. “We’ll come get you for closing arguments.”

When she went back into the open, empty hallway, Nora
felt nervous. She wasn’t sure why she wanted to be alone. She knew she wanted to think, to take some deep breaths, to gather her strength. But why? Even Simone was ready to face the outcome of the trial. She decided not to question her hesitation. There was always a reason for things like this.

She sat on a bench in the hallway and stared at the marble floor. Soon, she imagined, she would be in a courtroom like this with her husband, getting a divorce. It was strange, she thought, the way so many important life decisions were handed on to a cast of strangers, a bunch of detached, uninterested people in a courtroom. What could a judge know about her circumstances? What could a jury understand about what happened to Simone? To really understand her plight, you had to know her, to know that she wouldn’t put herself through this ordeal if it weren’t necessary.

A person would have to be crazy to volunteer for this kind of attention.

Crazy. Like Poppy. Was she really crazy? And what was with the dead child story? Suddenly, with a jolt, she recalled Leo asking if Poppy had told her about the baby. “What baby?” she had asked, and immediately Leo acted as if he had misstated something.

While she was thinking about these things, a middle-aged black woman approached her and smiled. She was carrying a sleeping child, a little boy about four years old. She put the boy down carefully on the bench. He never stirred, just fell right into a sleeping position.

Nora smiled at her, and the woman smiled back.

The woman said, “Funny how when you a child, you can sleep anywhere.”

“Yes, it’s an enviable trait,” Nora said.

“I used to be like that once.”

“I think we all did.”

“You got a cigarette?” the woman asked. She had a sweet, round face, and big, apologetic eyes.

Nora said, “No, I don’t. But I don’t think you can smoke in here anyway.”

“Oh, that’s right. They done all but stopped smoking everywhere.”

“Yes, they have.”

“What difference do it make if I want to smoke? Do the state of Louisiana have any cause to care about that?”

“It’s a complicated question,” Nora said, though she generally embraced the notion of banning cigarette smoking. It did seem fairly creepy, though, that people couldn’t even smoke in bars anymore. Instead they all clumped together outside the front door of various establishments. The new laws had not changed habits; they had changed only the location of the habits.

“You in this trial?” the woman asked, nodding her head at the door of Section D, Judge Louis LaSalle’s courtroom.

“I’ve seen some of it, yes.”

The woman shook her head and said, “I don’t know why this girl has it in her head to punish my Quentin. I ain’t saying he hasn’t seen his share of trouble. But to rape somebody, well. I raised him better than that.”

“Oh,” Nora said, suddenly feeling short of breath. In a heartbeat, she recognized this woman; she had been there all along, sitting behind them. She was Quentin’s mother.

“I come to the jail on the night he was arrested, and he said to me, ‘Mama, I swear, I did not do this thing.’”

“I see.”

“He always told me the truth, always, his whole life.”

“Well, maybe he doesn’t understand . . .” Nora stopped, uncertain of how she wanted to complete that sentence. Maybe he didn’t understand that forcing sex on a woman,
even though she seemed eager and willing earlier, was still a bad thing.

The woman said, “That girl, she got the devil in her. I swear, I look at her and I see a meanness in her eyes. Like she want to do something bad to my boy. She knows him. She done talk to him, and then she turn around and say he raped her? What’s that about? You don’t want nothing to do with a man, you don’t talk to him.”

“Well, talking is one thing,” Nora said, and found she was unable to finish the sentence.

“Maybe she flirted,” the mother suggested. “And Quentin took it the wrong way. He always been a handsome boy, and he used to getting attention. She give him a signal, I reckon, then he took it wrong. That ain’t rape. Least, it wasn’t called that in my day.”

The little boy stirred in his sleep. She reached over and touched his brow, and he settled down.

Nora said, “I think it’s only fair to tell you, I’m friends with the woman who was raped.”

“Yes, I know. I seen you sitting next to her. But, then, too, I looked in your eyes, and I knew you was good. I knew you were running things over in your mind.”

“But I’m not. I believe my friend.”

The black woman eyed her suspiciously and then asked, “How old are you?”

“Thirty-seven.”

“Me, too. I had Quentin when I was fourteen. His daddy was no-count trash. But I still told myself, I’m going to raise this boy right. And I did. How he ended up in this place is a big mystery.”

“Maybe he really did it.”

“No, ma’am,” the woman said, shaking her head. “You go through this life without knowing much, but one thing you
do know is your child. Now, I know he capable of robbing some gas station for the money, but my Quentin never had to force no woman, white or black, to do anything.”

Margaret appeared at the door of the courtroom and said, “Nora, we’re ready to go.”

Nora felt embarrassed. In fact, she felt caught, fraternizing with the enemy. The way Margaret was looking at her did nothing to dispel that fear.

Nora stood. She turned to the black woman and said, “Well, it’s time.”

“Yes, I guess so.”

“We’ll have all the answers soon,” Nora said.

“Well,” the woman said, standing, stretching, “we’ll have some answers. We don’t know if they are
the
answers. We won’t ever know that.”

Nora was happy to get away from her and into the courtroom, where her friends sat in the front row, waiting.

She slid into the booth next to Simone. No one looked at her. She thought of Quentin’s mother, out there with the child, who had to be her grandchild. Or maybe not. She was so young. It was hard to imagine what she was going through. Quentin sat up straight and tall at his table, as if he expected to be treated with respect.

Next to her, Simone slumped in preparation. Next to her was Poppy, and on the other side of Poppy was Adam.

Margaret asked permission, then approached the jury. She made a cogent argument on her client’s behalf. Simone had come to town on business, had trusted a stranger and was violently attacked by him. Why would her client lie? She had no reason to. They’d all seen the photos, the dress, the evidence. Why didn’t Simone Gray scream? Because she couldn’t. Because she knew she would be killed if she tried to ask for help. Nora let herself glance at Quentin while this argument
evolved. He stared straight ahead, and smiled slightly, as if he were thinking of something else.

“You’ve heard the testimony of the doctor, the three police officers, the night clerk at the hotel. If you don’t believe our story, if you believe theirs, then you have to believe that all these strangers have conspired against the defendant. These people who didn’t know each other at all, for some reason they all got together and ganged up on this poor, innocent victim. Or you can decide that maybe the one person who isn’t telling the truth is the defendant. The one who has the biggest reason to lie.

“Simone Gray was raped,” Margaret said. “That is why she is here, that is why she has gone through the trauma of the charges and the trial, and this is why the jury must convict.” The evidence, Margaret said, was overwhelming. For the sake of their own children, for the sake of New Orleans and a civilized way of life, they should convict.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I feel certain you will return a guilty verdict. Let this man know that he has not fooled you.”

Quentin’s lawyer then stepped up and made his argument, saying that Nora had had consensual sex with this man in the bathroom. That she had grown embarrassed by her impulse and decided to call it rape, even though it was just plain old consensual sex. Simone listened to all this, leaning forward, chin propped on a fist.