Dream Things True (22 page)

Alma had to smile. He had a point.

“Good to know you're still a
machista
prick,” she replied, teasing. “Stay safe.”

“I love you, Alma.”

The line went dead.

Why had he said that? Why had he told her, with soft vulnerability in his voice, that he loved her? He never said things like that. Never. Hot tears burned her eyes and slid down her frozen cheeks, and she collapsed onto her knees.

Alma barely registered the rattling noise coming from behind, but she did hear the loud thud that followed. Without thinking, she turned to look. An elderly black woman stood next to her garbage can, holding a bulging bag.

She gazed at Alma curiously.

“Are you lost, sweetheart? Can I help you?”

Alma replied, wiping the tears from her eyes, “No, ma'am. I'm not lost. I'm just, uh, wandering around.”

The woman continued to look at her curiously as she dropped the bag into the can.

“I mean,” Alma stuttered, trying to make sense, “I used to live over there, in the apartments. Uh, this is my hometown.”

She heard the words come from her mouth, the acknowledgement that this place—whose cops had just trapped and jailed her own father and brother—was her only real hometown. It was more than Alma could handle. Her breath came hard and fast, her shoulders hunched and a dry sob emerged.

She started to run, and she didn't stop until she was standing in front of Mrs. King's house, where she collapsed on the front stoop.

The door flew open and Mrs. King stood towering over her in a plush blue bathrobe.

“What in heaven's name?”

“I'm sorry,” she heard herself mutter. “I just need…”

“Come on in this house right now. You'll catch your death o' cold out here.”

She reached out and took Alma's freezing hand, and tugged her into the house. Alma was crying so hard that she could barely breathe. She thought she might suffocate from the pain of it. Her back pressed against the wall, and she slid to the floor.

“I'll be right back,” Mrs. King said. “You just stay put.”

Mrs. King walked into her kitchen and came back with a mug. She sat next to Alma on the floor, so close that Alma smelled her Ivory-soap scent. She hoped Mrs. King didn't smell the beer that must be oozing through her own pores. Mrs. King carefully placed a steaming mug of black coffee on her knees. Alma lifted the coffee to her nose and took in its soothing, bitter scent.

“Now, I see you have a cell phone there in your hand.” Mrs. King said, with soft kindness in her voice. “I'm going to take that phone from you, and then I'm going to call your father, you hear?”

“You can't,” Alma choked out, and then she released another long sob.

“All right, Alma. Then you just tell me who should I call.”

She didn't want to admit it, but she was deeply relieved that someone else was taking over—that another person was telling her what to do with her mess of a self. She felt the urge to nestle into the soft blue quilted gown wrapped around Mrs. King and stay there until it all was over. Instead, she placed her phone on Mrs. King's lap. Between the sobs that had surged through her, she squeaked out one word.

“Evan.”

Mrs. King held the phone up. Evan's face was framed in the screen. He was smiling and looking away in the photo. The light caught his auburn hair and skirted the edge of his chin.

“And I'm gonna go on and guess that he's the reason you've been avoiding me?”

Alma looked up and released a low noise she barely recognized.

“My, my.” Mrs. King shook her head slowly. Then she looked directly into Alma's eyes. “You ab-so-lute-ly sure about this? Wouldn't you rather I call your family?”

Alma just looked into her eyes, pleading.

Mrs. King pressed a button and lifted the phone to her ear.

 

 

Evan knew he had to go to her. She was waiting, worried. He had to tell her what he knew. But he was paralyzed, sitting in the parking lot of the county jail, his forehead pressed against his steering wheel.

His phone rang.

“Alma?”

“No, young man. Your lady friend is here on my sofa and she has asked me to call you.”

“Is she OK? I mean, is she hurt?”

“Well, Mr. Roland, I'm not sure I can answer that question. I'm thinking
you
might have the answer for me.”

This angry voice sounded stern and accusing, but also strangely familiar.

“I
do
intend to ask you to come for her, but before I do that, you and I need to get one thing clear, Evan Prentiss Roland. This is Mrs. Bernice King. I've known you since you were a boy. I know your family. And I promise you, young man, that if you don't do right by this beautiful child, I'm going let your momma and anyone else I can get a hold of in on your little secret.”

The recognition settled on him now. Evan had no idea what little secret she was talking about, but he knew exactly who she was.

“Mrs. King? Is that
you
? From Hines Middle School?”

“Why, yes, child. Of course it's
me
,” she replied, with a scolding tone.

“And you're with Alma?” The whole thing was baffling. What was Alma doing with his middle school counselor?

“I believe we've covered this, Mr. Roland.”

An image of Mrs. King came to Evan's mind. Evan was a freshman in high school, and his mom had sent him over to Whit's house to pick up a box of party invitations. As always, Evan went right in without knocking. Uncle Sexton and Aunt Maggie argued by the stairwell. Whit sat crying on the living room sofa, and Mrs. King sat beside him, gently rubbing his back. Evan had never seen Whit cry. He'd never seen his aunt and uncle fight. He couldn't believe they would do all of this in front of the middle school counselor. The Prentisses were a very private family.

“I'm sorry, Mrs. King,” Evan said, “but why is Alma with
you
?”

“Well, if you need to know, Alma and I go way back. She was working with me to apply for scholarships—until she met
you
.”

Evan remembered dropping her off to meet with a counselor at the Krispy Kreme many months earlier, but Alma never talked about her.

“Mrs. King, is Alma OK?” he asked. “Is she hurt?”

“Child, you
know
she's not OK. Just go on and answer me this: Is Alma in a motherly way?”

It took a moment for the question to sink in, but when it did, Evan remembered all that had happened the night before.

“No, ma'am. Alma isn't pregnant.”

He smiled, and it felt good. At least this was one worry they didn't have today.

He heard a soft “mmm-hmm” on the other end of the line.

“Mrs. King?” he asked, trying to express in his voice the genuine respect that he had for this woman. “Would you please tell me where you are so that I can come for her?”

“Against my better judgment, I can. But you'll need to make me a promise.”

“What's that?” Evan asked.

“You'll be sure to make right
what
ever or
who
ever has made such a mess of this young woman.”

Through his swirling confusion, he heard himself make a promise he had no idea how to keep.

“I will. I promise.”

SIXTEEN

Satellite

Evan eased his car to the curb, unable to draw his attention away from Alma. She was waiting for him on the stoop, her face wet and blotchy and her body wrapped in a dull wool blanket. Mrs. King stood bent on the stoop, urging Alma to stand. Evan walked toward them. He knelt at Alma's feet and took her face in his hands. He only wondered briefly what Mrs. King would think. Then he pressed his lips to Alma's eyes, her cheeks, her mouth. He felt her lips warm against his, and the wind chimes that hung from the porch made a faint tinkling sound. Evan let himself imagine that the two of them were being transported, together, to some other place and time. But cold, hard concrete pressed against his knees, anchoring him now in this place.

“We'll be going on back inside now,” Mrs. King announced. “Or the neighbors will get to talkin'.”

Evan lifted Alma to her feet and guided her gently through the door into a warm room that smelled of Pine-Sol. He led her to an old-fashioned sofa, with pretty pink upholstery and deep wood trim. She leaned against him, seeming barely able to balance on her feet. She let him support her weight almost completely as they landed on the firm cushions.

Mrs. King wandered off to the kitchen. Evan and Alma sat silently, their bodies intertwined, staring at the screen of an incongruously large flat-screen television. The sound was turned down too low to hear, but news images of an unmanned satellite careening through space flashed across the screen.

Mrs. King returned and carefully rested a plate of thick-sliced banana bread on the table. She handed Evan a glass of milk.

“I'm brewin' more coffee,” she said. She eased her body into a wing-backed chair.

On the television screen, the image shifted to reveal the blue-green earth, shrinking as the satellite hurtled toward some distant planet.

Everything in this small shotgun-style house seemed too large—the television, the furniture, the rugs—too grand for the modest space. Evan peered through the kitchen door to see a small, fully updated kitchen, with bright tile floors and thick wood countertops. The house was neat and orderly, freshly painted and scrubbed clean. He wondered if this was how all of the houses in this part of town looked on the inside. Though he'd never admit it, he had always imagined these houses shabby and sagging.

Evan sat forward and took a piece of banana bread from the plate. He swallowed it in two large bites. He hadn't realized how hungry he was, and the bread tasted delicious and warm. He followed with a second piece, and then a third, washing them down with long, deep gulps from the glass of milk. Finishing the milk, he rested the glass on the table and paused, realizing that Alma and Mrs. King were staring at him, incredulous.

“You'll have to excuse Evan's manners, Mrs. King. I guess you'd say he has a healthy appetite,” Alma said with a smile. A smile he was relieved to see.

Evan wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Your banana bread is delicious, Mrs. King.

“Thank you, Evan,” Mrs. King said.

What do you put in it?” he asked.

“I'll never tell. But we're not here to swap recipes, are we?”

Evan shrugged and took another gulp of milk.

“Alma has filled me in on her family's terrible predicament,” Mrs. King said. “I
know
you two will be relieved to hear that I have a plan.”

“Well, that's real kind of you, Mrs. King,” Evan said, “but I think I need to tell Alma about what happened at the jail.” He clenched his teeth, absently ran his hand through his still-uncombed hair, and continued, “Uh, the ‘predicament,' as you call it, is worse than it seems.”

“You don't have to explain,” Alma said. “I know. I know they're going to be sent to the detention center. I know ICE is involved.”

Evan replied, “You know? How?”

“I've been paying attention, and it's already happening in a couple of other counties around here—the roadblocks, people going to jail for practically no reason and then not being allowed to post bail.”

She paused and looked down at their intertwined hands.

“I should have known Gilbert County would be next.”

“Lord have mercy on us,” Mrs. King said. “Sounds to me like Sheriff Bull Connor come to town.”

She looked at them both and continued, “You
do
know who he was—Bull Connor?”

“Yes, ma'am,” Evan said. “He was a sheriff in Alabama.”

“In Birmingham,” Alma said, “back in the civil rights days.”

Mrs. King started to walk toward the kitchen, but then turned around and continued.

“Alma telling me her story, well, it sure reminds me of those days—the bad ol' days, as my daddy called them.”

Mrs. King chuckled while Alma nodded her head vigorously. Evan sat perfectly still. For the first time in his life, he was feeling more than a little uncomfortable in his white skin.

“Enough about that,” Mrs. King said, returning from the kitchen with a fresh pot of coffee. “Let's talk about this plan of mine. It has three parts, just like our Lord's Holy Trinity. Three's
always
a good number for starting out.”

She looked to them as if they might have a response.

“Yes, ma'am,” Evan said tentatively.

“Part one: We all three will get down on our knees and pray. Now, I'll be headin' to that little church over there.” She pointed out her front window, toward a white clapboard building with a tall steeple that stood catty-corner from the house.

“First Iconium Baptist Church. And you two children can be sure I'll tell everyone gathered there tomorrow about what I heard from you. Won't be the first time we gathered ourselves together and called on God to let justice roll down like waters and righteousness like a mighty stream.”

Evan had no idea how talking about rolling waters and mighty streams would help. He hoped the next stages of the plan would be a little more practical.

“Now, how about you two?” She seemed to be speaking to them both, but she looked directly at Evan.

“I know your momma and daddy must still take you to that fancy Methodist church downtown?”

“Yes, ma'am, First Methodist,” Evan replied. He couldn't begin to imagine going to his staid and proper church and sharing what he had learned today.

Alma, on the other hand, felt certain that all fifteen hundred members of her church, Santa Cruz, would, without a doubt, be praying about this tomorrow. Alma and Mrs. King, it seemed, shared an entirely unreasonable expectation that going to church and praying had anything at all to do with fixing this problem.