All Rise for the Honorable Perry T. Cook (16 page)

O
n Saturday, Mr. VanLeer is still hovering after we are through the Blue River bottleneck. I look over the heads and shoulders of other visitors. A flash of bright pink catches my eye, like an exotic bird has flown into the common. I hear a jingle then a voice. “Hi, Perry.” I raise my hand in return but I'm confused. It's Miss Jenrik from the school cafeteria, her pink hair in a tail and a pink motorcycle helmet tucked under her arm. She breezes by, all feathers and rings, and takes a seat across from a man with sad, sunken eyes. It's Mr. Wendell. He's the new intake. Not so new anymore.

Mom is waving from our corner of the common. I'm hesitating. VanLeer is sticking to my heels like a gooey piece of gum. I need to give him the slip, and I haven't been quick enough.

About fifteen feet from me, Cici Rojas is doing that thing
where she goes and stands on the linoleum by the vending machines with her arms folded across her chest. She swings her body and calls to Mr. Rojas, “You can't get me when I'm over here.” He can't. Residents have to stay on the carpet during busy Saturday visits.

Mrs. Rojas scolds her daughter, “Cici! Respect your papa!”

Used to be I would go talk Cici off the linoleum. I was a Blue River helper. Used to be I could deliver cookies to Miss Jenrik and Mr. Wendell. Now I am shuffling through the common, trying to get to the resident I have come to see,
and
I can feel Mr. Thomas VanLeer's fingertips pressing into my back.

“Perry, my man!” Mr. Halsey slides in and greets me, palm up for some skin. I step forward and give it. He pretends to bounce a ball through his legs then weaves between Mr. VanLeer and me. I do a weave of my own and turn to put VanLeer behind me. I look Mr. Halsey in the eye and whisper, “Can you keep six?”

He bobs his head in a big slow
yes
. He spins back toward VanLeer and shoots his invisible basketball. He claps a hand on VanLeer's shoulder and tells him, “Man, have I got a new game for you.”

“No, no. Thanks. I'm all set today.” VanLeer is ready with his excuse. “I'm going to move along here and sit in on Perry's visit with his mo—”

“Naw, naw! You beat me solid last time. A gentleman lets
his opponent try again.” Mr. Halsey jabs his pointer finger at the floor. “That's sportsmanship. That is how it is done,
sir
!” Mr. Halsey hooks VanLeer with one arm and reaches back to ruffle my hair with the other. Then he takes him away.

I miss Mr. Halsey. We are supposed to play that game in the yard before the weather turns cold. Before he gets gated out. “Two real dudes with a real ball,” he has said. “You and me.” But there has been no time for the game. No time to sit still for Miss Gina and her scissors. Most of all, I miss Big Ed—especially our Monday night suppers. I look around the common. I want to come back home to
stay
. But I have a strange feeling about Blue River now. It feels like something less than home. I don't know how that happened.

Mom eyes me as I walk up to her. I realize that I'm the one who forgets to launch for the swing-around. Or maybe it is both of us.

“Perry.” She bends to speak to me. “What's up?” We have an awkward hug. “Is he being difficult?” She stands straight and sets her hands on her hips in a make-my-day sort of way. “Do I need to have words with Mr. VanLeer?”

“No.” I shake my head. I have got to get the lump out of my throat.

My mom, the Blue River U-Hauler, pulls our chairs close together. “What's the matter, Perry?”

I hold up my notebook and wag it at her. “Your story,” I say.

“Okay . . .” Mom nods slowly. I feel heat in my cheeks. “Will you let me read what you wrote?”

I hand over the notebook, and she bows her head to read. This takes minutes that feel like hours. I sit and bump the toes of my sneakers together. She finishes and tells me, “Nice job.”

I ask her, “Did I get anything wrong?”

“You might be missing a comma or two.” She smiles. “But the story is right.”

“It doesn't seem right,” I say. “I get the part about the death. I know that was your father.”

“Yes.”

“But you also said that you told lies. And I can't find a place in all my notes or videos where you say what the lies were.”

“Right.”

“Right? Mom! That's so bad! It's . . . it's like you tricked me!”

“I can see why you say that.” Her eyes pool up. “But really, I didn't. Everything I told you is true.”

“But there is more. Isn't there?” I say. Mom gives me a sorry look, and I know I'm right. “Is this one of those times when I have to respect your Blue River privacy?” I'm afraid she will say yes. My knees begin to jiggle. A lot. Mom reaches and puts her hands on them, holds them steady.

“Not entirely,” she says.

“Okay. Then I'm asking. What were the lies?”

“I will tell you that.” Mom draws a breath. “I lied to the police and the court.” I watch her swallow. “The truth is, I was
not
driving the car. And I had
not
been drinking.”

“But Mom! That was your whole confession!”

“Yes, it was,” she says, and she doesn't even blink.

P
oor Perry. He looked like a fish hanging in midair after a daring leap from the pond. Or maybe it was she who'd turned his pond upside down and spilled it. Either way, Jessica wanted to surround him with water again, give him back everything she could that was familiar. But he'd asked that question, and she'd given him the answer. He caught his breath and asked another.

“Who was driving?”

For this, Jessica would do no more than shake her head. Sweat dampened the folds of her chambray shirt, and she began to peel a curl of skin from her own thumb.

“Were they drunk? Was anybody drunk?” He wanted his answers.

“Perry, this is the part I won't tell you.”

“You
can't
do that,” Perry said. He was on his feet—angry and maybe even panicky.

“I can do it, Perry. I'm a mom, and this is one of the things moms do. I've told you as much as I can.”

“No. No! You're using that voice you use when you have to tell someone that they can't have something they want. Like when you tell a rez that a rule is a rule and there is no discussion.” She watched him take two hurried breaths. “It's that eraser voice. You can't do that—not when it's us!”

This was a seldom seen version of her boy: offended and cutting free from his Blue River upbringing by way of this outburst. It was probably as good as it was awful, Jessica thought. If Thomas VanLeer continued to stand in the way of her release, she needed her boy to have some fight in him. But it broke her heart to see Perry's beautiful face wincing in confusion. When he cooled, would he remember that she loved him more than anything in this whole world? She swallowed, and it hurt like a throat full of toothpicks and bird feathers.

“I would never erase us, Perry,” she said. “But you are right. There is no discussion. I confessed—years ago. I had my reasons. There is no point in looking back.”

O
n the way home from Blue River I press my forehead on the window and stare out at the grassy flats. The hug my mom pressed into me is still here like a strap around my chest and shoulders. I didn't want it. I struggled with her. But I think she put it there on purpose. Does she know that I feel like I'm
gone
—like I'm not made of whatever Perry Cook was made of before?

Up front, Mr. VanLeer listens to a radio show where adults tell political jokes. He laughs with the voices. I keep watching the fields.

A new thought climbs right up on top of me and sinks its claws in. For the first time in my life, I think that Mom should
not
be in the Blue River Co-ed Correctional Facility. I don't think she committed a crime—or at least not
the one she's in for—not manslaughter.

But if Mom shouldn't be there, where should she be? Where should I be?

How can I not look back when the truth could change history?

Out the window I see the yellow chest and black bib of a western meadowlark perched on the fence post. His long beak is open—probably singing. My head makes up the words:

We were just kidding you, Perry! Just kidding that your mom is a convict! We were just kidding about your whole life!

That.
That's what feels so bad. My eyes burn. The fields begin to blur into stripes and patches. Then huge sobs come up. I keep them silent, force them back, and it makes my jaw ache. I slide down into my jacket until only my eyes stick out of my collar. I do not want Mr. VanLeer to hear me choking. I have to get it together before we get back to Rising City.

When we pull up, we meet Zoey's mom at the open mouth of the VanLeer garage. She puts up her hands as if to say stop. She has four chairs lined up on the concrete floor. There are curled sheets of used sandpaper everywhere.

When I slide out of the SUV, I think my legs might not catch me, but they do. Mr. VanLeer kisses Zoey's mom. They stand shoulder to shoulder while she asks me about my visit. “How's Jessica—how's your mom today?”

“She's okay,” I say. I can't really look her in the eye.

“I tried to join Perry while he was with his mom today,”
VanLeer says. “It would be nice to get to know her better.” He sighs loudly. “But I was invited into a card game instead.” I feel his stare, but that's small potatoes to me today.

“What are you sanding?” Dumb. It's so obvious, but Zoey's mom answers me anyway.

“Random chairs,” she says. She and Mr. VanLeer laugh. “I hope they will look less random when I paint them all the same color. I'm thinking duck-egg blue.”

“I like to sand,” I say.

“Yeah? For real?”

I nod. “I used to spend Saturday mornings in the wood shop with Big Ed.”

“Well, pull up a chair—ha-ha—and be my guest!” She laughs, and I wish I could laugh back.

Sanding is the perfect thing to do with the rest of this day. I stay hidden under a dust mask. I let my ears fill with the sound of the swishing and scuffing of the sandpaper. I sand and sand because a chair has lots of parts. I rub all the paint layers away down to the wood below. It's like Mom's story, I think. It's like all the Blue River Stories, the way you dig backward to find the beginning.

“Wow!” Zoey's mom startles me. “That looks ready for some primer and a new coat of paint. How about a break, Perry? Aren't you hungry?”

I stand back from the chair. “Not so much,” I say. My stomach is quivery like the rest of me. “Can I start another chair?”

“Are you all right, Perry?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay. Start another one, if you really want to. I'm going to wash up and make you a sandwich. Just a half. Sound good?”

“Sure,” I say. I guess I will have to try to eat that.

Zoey's mom pauses in the garage. “Perry, if there is anything I can do to help you, you will ask, won't you? It's okay to ask for help.”

I nod. But there is nothing she can do. While I work on the next chair I think about that. I want help for Mom. I need someone to look at her story—really look. I only know of one person who might be able to do that.

Thing is, all he's ever done for Mom so far is make a lot of trouble.

A
ll day Sunday, I just want to get back to Mom. It's hard to know what I know about her confession. The rezzes at Blue River talk about rising up, they also talk about reconciling with themselves. Mom has done that. But I haven't. I hate the badness between us. I know that I was yelling at her. Now I have to wait for Tuesday when the Bucking Blue Bookmobile will take me back to Blue River before we can talk again.

On Sunday night there is trouble in the VanLeer house. Zoey Samuels has a toothache. She makes it almost through supper, but then she is moaning. “Something's wrong,” she says, and her jaw hangs. She leaves the table and goes to sit on the family room couch. She calls, “Mom, it really hurts. It's throbbing.”

“Ugh. I'm so sorry,” her mom says. “We'll get you through the night, and I'll call the dentist first thing in the morning.” Zoey's mom gives her two pills and water to wash them down. Then she gives her a wet tea bag to bite on. I run down the hall to her bedroom and bring the pillow from her bed.

Mr. VanLeer sits beside Zoey. He's doing some stupid Stepdad Tom stuff. He's flapping his tie at Zoey and talking like a cartoon character. She squirms away from him and buries her face in the pillows.

“Are you kidding me?” The muffled version of Zoey groans. “This tooth is killing, and you're bugging me.” She reaches one arm backward to swat him away.

“Oh dear,” he says. “Robyn, this really isn't good.” Mr. VanLeer strokes Zoey's arm. He tells her he's sorry.

“I just want to go to bed,” Zoey says. She cups her face in her hand. “I want to sleep. Mom, what if I can't sleep?”

“Then you'll rest. Come on, let's see if we can get you comfortable . . .” They head down the hall together toward Zoey's room.

That leaves me with Thomas VanLeer.

“What do you say we tackle the dishes?” he asks. So we do that. I clear. He rinses and loads the VanLeer dishwasher. I take the damp cloth and wipe down the table. When I turn around I see that Mr. VanLeer has been watching me.

“You've been rather pensive today,” he tells me. “Do you know what I mean by that?”

“Yeah. You mean you see me thinking about stuff.”

“Exactly.”

“There's a lot to think about.”

“Perry, that sounds so heavy. You—you're young! You shouldn't have any worries. Why don't you tell me what's on your mind? Maybe I can worry about it instead.” He faces me and waits.

“Well, for one thing, I've been thinking about what you said—that you'd help me any way you can.” VanLeer looks back at me blankly. “You said it when you were interviewed on
Counting on Butler County
with Desiree Riggs.”

“Oh. Right.” He blinks. He rolls his shoulders like he's got a bug on his back. “And I will,” he says.

“You know I'm writing stories for my assignment, right?”

“Yes, you're interviewing the prison . . . er . . . residents.”

I hesitate. “I think there is something wrong with one of the stories.”

“Well, why is that? Do you mean that you think you've uncovered something?” He leans at me, and I think he wants to hear something sinister. “Which story, Perry? Whose story?”

“My mom's,” I tell him. He moves as if I have pushed a button on him—the squirm button.

“Perry, I know that you want to believe that your mom is innocent. That's perfectly natural. And I wish it were so. But it's not. Now, you know why she's incarcerated, don't you?”

“I know the charge was manslaughter.”

“Exactly. I know that must be hard. I wish you never had
to know anything about her crime.”

“Well, it used to be that I didn't need to know. But now it's keeping us apart. I need to find out everything I can. So, I know you have a lot of files in your office . . .” It's almost impossible to say the next thing. But I have got to do this. “I wondered if you can get my mom's file.”

“I have her case file already, Perry.”

“You what?” I am about to fall like a post.

He begins to explain. “See, it's my job to review her file before her parole date, and make a recommendation to the parole board. That's what I was doing when I uncovered your situation. You being raised at that prison.”

I narrow my eyes. “But I thought . . . and Zoey thought . . . that you started looking after you heard that I lived there.”

“I had asked for many files, Perry. Your mother's was one of them. I was pointed to it by what Zoey said.”

“Well, if you want to know, living at Blue River was fine with me.”

He smiles a little. “Well, it might have seemed fine, but it wasn't right,” he says. “I wouldn't try to make you understand that, Perry, because that's the stuff we grown-ups have to sort out.”

“Are you still looking at it? At her case or file or whatever?”

“I am.”

“You'll do it in time for her parole hearing?”

“Your mom doesn't have a date,” he says. “Her application
for parole is pending. That means it hasn't been accepted, Perry.”

I'm staring at him, and he's staring at me. Then I know.
This
is why Mom was so low just before I left Blue River. It wasn't just that VanLeer was taking me out of there. This is why she never carries her New Start folder with her anymore. Mom knows she isn't getting out so soon. She didn't want to tell me. My insides begin to shake. I look around the spaces inside the VanLeer kitchen. How long, then? How long will I be here? How long away from Mom?

“You . . . ,” I say to VanLeer, “you handed her a down letter. Didn't you?” I close my eyes for a second, but it makes me dizzy.

“I'm familiar with the term. It's what they say on the inside. But that's used more when it comes from the parole board at a hearing.” VanLeer speaks slowly and evenly. “This—what I've done—is a request for formal postponement of the parole hearing to allow time for an investigation. So a little different.”

“But it means she stays. She serves more time,” I say. I've seen it happen to other residents. Not often.

“It's a postponement.” He says it again. His tone is cool and easy.

I want to run from his house. But I make myself stay, and I ask him, “When does her parole hearing get put back on the timeline?” I can hardly pull in a breath. I'm trying to hide it from VanLeer.

“That hasn't been decided,” he says. His eyes shift away from me now. “I have to get through her case. It's complicated by many factors, Perry.”

“But it's all because I was living at Blue River, isn't it? That's the part you care about. You got the warden suspended too, didn't you?”

“Perry, it wouldn't be right for me to tell you more. The adults are taking care of it,” he says. He steps toward me. I step back. “I promise,” he says, “my goal is to help you.”