Dream Things True (23 page)

Evan could feel an undercurrent of rage beginning to surge through his gut. He grasped onto the edges of the sofa and, without willing it, imagined what it might feel like to approach Uncle Buddy's favorite corner table at brunch tomorrow. He would ask the Sheriff whether stealing a boat was less of a crime than driving with a broken taillight, whether driving drunk and crashing into the side of a house was somehow more noble than crossing an invisible border to feed one's family. All of these stories his mom had laughed about over dinner—the stories of good ol' Buddy's crazy days—ran through his mind. Evan now understood them for what they were: hypocrisy.

 

 

Strangely, Alma was feeling hopeful. Sitting in Mrs. King's cozy, warm home, sipping a fresh cup of coffee, nibbling sweets—it all was almost enough to make her think that everything would work out. Alma looked at Evan, wanting to share her unlikely hope with him, wanting to hold his hand. The lines of his jaw were hard, and the muscles throbbed, pulling in taut ropes along his neck. His cheeks burned red, nothing like the endearing pink splotches that appeared when Evan was nervous or wanted her. His eyes were thin slits surrounded by lines of tension.

This was not a face of hope.

“Evan, are you okay?”

He turned to her but seemed to look past her.

“Let's just get to the rest of the plan,” he replied.

“Well, all right then,” Mrs. King said. “Part two: You, young man, are going to make a little visit to your Uncle Sexton.”

Alma's bright optimism began to fade. Sexton Prentiss had no intention of helping her dad and Ra
ú
l. Going to visit him would make things worse before they'd make things better.

“Mrs. King,” she asked, “I don't mean any disrespect, but do you think that's a good idea—for Evan to talk to his uncle?”

“Honestly, Alma,” Mrs. King replied, “I'm not sure what to think. But he's a powerful man, and if he wants to, he can make things happen.”

“It's worth a try,” Evan said. “He and Aunt Maggie went out to the lake after my party,”

“Lake Rabun?” Mrs. King asked.

“Yes, ma'am. We can go out tomorrow to talk to him.”

Alma was glad to see the hard lines soften on Evan's face, but she was far from glad to hear that he expected
her
to accompany him on a visit to the “catch and return” senator.

“Uh, by ‘we,' do you mean you and I?” she asked tentatively.

“Yeah, Alma. He
loves
you. Remember? He wants to clone you so that he can make a match for Whit.”

Mrs. King laughed a hearty laugh.

“I think we can put that into the past tense, Evan,” Alma said. “I'm pretty sure he doesn't want his son dating a
mojada
.” Both Evan and Mrs. King stared blankly. Alma translated. “A wetback. An illegal.”

“You mean an ‘undocumented immigrant,'” Evan said, grasping onto her knee. “Remember?”

Alma smiled and shook her head. “Yeah,” she said. “I remember.”

“So, it's settled. You two will make a drive out to Lake Rabun tomorrow,” Mrs. King said.

She walked toward an old-fashioned telephone table, complete with a real phone book and a bulky cordless phone that looked like it must be older than Alma.

“And so we come to part three. This is my part,” she said. “I'm gonna pick up this phone and call my son, Reginald. Little Reggie's a partner at one of those fancy law firms down in Atlanta, and you can be sure they've got somebody down there who can help your daddy and brother.”

She lifted the heavy black receiver and waved it into the air as she spoke. “Problem is, those people, they charge a king's ransom. You children wouldn't believe how much they get paid, just to talk to a person on the telephone.”

She shook her head as she dialed. “Don't you worry, though. I'm gonna tell my little Reggie that he better find you a lawyer, and a
good
one, without charging a penny.”

She disappeared through a doorway, phone cradled between her ear and shoulder.

“Lord knows those people can afford it,” she said as she closed the door behind her.

Alma looked at Evan to see whether he was as awed by this amazing good luck as she was. He smiled and shrugged. Then he pulled her into his chest and ran his hand slowly through her hair while they turned their attention back to the television, where the satellite now floated weightlessly beyond the atmosphere.

SEVENTEEN

Sins of the Father

Alma picked nervously at the mound of chicken salad on her plate. Her stomach was in knots, and she wasn't sure how she would manage another bite of the sweet, creamy concoction. She used her silver fork to stab a mayo-slathered pineapple and washed it down with a gulp of oversweetened iced tea.

Whit sat glowering next to her at the table. He didn't even pretend to eat. That left Alma, Evan, and his aunt Maggie and uncle Sexton to try to make conversation. Alma and the senator both seemed unable to meet the challenge, but Evan and Aunt Maggie were doing their best.

“Did you get a chance to talk with Emma Jane Watson at your party?” Evan's aunt asked.

“Yes, ma'am. She seems to like Suwanee.”

“And her mother told me that she'll be coming out this summer,” Mrs. Prentiss said.

Coming out?

Alma shot Whit a glance. He rolled his eyes and mouthed, “Debutantes.”

Alma catalogued the phrase in her mind, surprised to learn that there was another meaning for “coming out.”

“I'll ask your mother if she'd like to host a tea for Emma Jane in July. You know, her mother hosted a lovely party for Lucy and Annabeth when they came out.”

Whit leaned in to whisper in Alma's ear. “I'm still waiting for my party.”

Alma lifted her napkin to her mouth, stifling a giggle. Maybe she was wrong about Whit. Maybe he
was
sure about his identity.

It felt good to hold back a laugh, to get her mind off of the real reason they were here—even if only for a minute. On the drive to Lake Rabun, Evan had assured Alma that everyone knew why they were coming. So why were they having a polite meal filled with meaningless chitchat? Wasn't anyone going to get to the point?

Aunt Maggie's chair scraped lightly across the floor. She stood to clear the table, and Alma stood to help. They silently removed the china plates, crystal glasses, and heavy silver cutlery. This was not exactly what she had imagined for a casual Sunday lunch at a “cottage” on Lake Rabun. She was expecting maybe fried chicken and coleslaw on paper plates.

To get here, they drove along country roads, Southern style—the kind with dilapidated double-wide trailers and rusted-out trucks up on blocks in weedy yards. Eventually, the trailers gave way to stately homes that had to be about a hundred years old. Apparently these houses had been in families for generations. They all stood on rolling, manicured lawns, across a small lane from the lake. On the other side of the lane, each house had what Evan called boathouses, but what any normal person would describe as full-sized homes built on stilts over the lake.

Alma thought that she had seen over-the-top, but this was new. It was a tasteful, chicken-salad-on-china-plates, old-South opulence that would scoff at ostentation. Part of her longed to spend a summer afternoon curled up in one of these white Adirondack chairs, reading a good book beside the lake. Another part of her felt nauseated by this wealth-saturated beauty smack in the middle of poverty. Or maybe there was just too much mayonnaise in the chicken salad. Alma hated mayonnaise.

She returned from the kitchen to find that Evan and his uncle were no longer at the table. They were nowhere to be seen.

Aunt Maggie spoke to her, gently.

“Alma, dear, Evan and his uncle have gone into the library to talk. May I offer you some more iced tea?”

Anxiety rose in her chest. What would she do in this house without Evan?

“No, thank you,” she replied politely.

“There's no reason to keep Alma locked up here, Mother,” Whit announced. “Won't you allow me to show her the sights?” He spoke as if this were a cruel joke.

His mom shook her head vigorously, but he continued, speaking slowly, as if to a small child.

“Alma, darling, can you promise my mother that you will not permit me to ingest any, ahem, substances while we are on our little tour?”

Mrs. Prentiss's face went red.

“And that you will not permit me to enter Mr. Wilson's drugstore to purchase any cough syrups, et cetera?” He drew out the “et cetera.”

Alma realized that Whit was the one being held prisoner here.

Mrs. Prentiss looked directly at Alma and forced an everything-is-just-fine smile.

“As a matter of fact, I
do
need some Aleve. I just ran out and my tennis elbow is flaring up again. Alma, would you like to walk with Whit down to the drugstore?”

Alma nodded. “Sure,” she said.

“It does seem to have warmed up quite a bit from yesterday,” Mrs. Prentiss said. “Fresh air probably would do you both some good.”

At this, her first acknowledgement that anything was actually wrong with Alma, that any crisis at all had occurred in her life, Mrs. Prentiss reached into her purse, gave Alma a twenty-dollar bill, and walked away.

“Free at last,” Whit said. “Let's get out of here before she changes her mind.”

She and Whit rushed from the house. It was a nice day, sunny and cool but not biting cold as the day before, and the air felt good pumping through her lungs.

“So, you're under house arrest?” Alma asked.

They walked along the winding lane that hugged the shoreline.

“Yes. After my visit to the hospital Friday night, my parents decided that I need another twenty-eight-day vacation. Until that fun begins, I'm imprisoned here in socialite hell with my mother.”

“Rehab?”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“But you don't want to go?”

Whit stopped walking and whipped his head toward her, eyebrows raised.

“You've obviously never experienced the joys of the twenty-eight-day program.”

“No.”

“Well then, suffice it to say that no, I am not inclined to go back to rehab.”

Alma wondered how many times a seventeen-year-old kid could have been in rehab, but she thought it might be weird to ask.

“You know, Whit,” she said, “this little prison of yours isn't so shabby. You should see where my dad and brother are hanging out.”

“I heard about their situation,” Whit said. “What a debacle.” He shook his head. “Only in Gilbert County, Georgia—imbecile capital of the world.”

“Actually, it's happening all over the country, especially in the South,” Alma said. “Looks like Gilbert County's got some competition for that title.”

“And this, uh, strategy is intended to solve
what
problem, precisely?”

“The problem of people like me hanging out with people like you, I guess.”

“Ah, well, that makes perfect sense, then. They definitely should continue on course.”

His deadpan delivery was flawless.

Alma knew he was a mess, but she loved being with Whit. He was eccentric, sarcastic, and inclined to use big words. All of these traits, in her estimation, were assets.

“Wanna see the dam before we go on your little errand for my mother?” Whit asked.

“Sure,” Alma replied.

They turned off the lane and onto a gravel road. Whit pulled a beat-up pewter flask from his waistband, unscrewed it, and took a deep swig.

“Am I supposed to take that away from you?” Alma asked.

“Most certainly, yes.” Whit replied. “Do you want some?”

“No, thanks. I'm still getting over Friday night.”

“Me, too,” Whit said. “Thus the need for my friend here.”

He lifted the flask toward her, and she saw that it was engraved with “SWP III.”

“It has your initials?”

“Sexton Whitfield Prentiss the Third,” he said.

Who carried an engraved flask around? And what kind of name was Sexton Whitfield anyway? Alma marveled that the name had survived three generations, even without any discernible first name embedded anywhere in it.

“Was that like a Christmas present or something?” she asked.

“Yes, to myself, three years ago. Since then, it's been a constant companion.”

The gravel road ended at a narrow bridge. On one side of the bridge, sparkling waters filled the crevices between sloping mountains, forming Lake Rabun. On the other side stretched a void from which emerged the deafening roar of falling water.

“Mathis Dam,” Whit announced. “It feeds energy to the Terrora Power Plant.”

Whit took Alma's elbow and pulled her toward the dam.

“I've always liked that name,” he said. “I mean, Terrora power. There's something poetic about power and terror in the same name. You know?”

Then he led the way onto the narrow bridge that separated deep waters from nothingness.

 

 

Evan hadn't wanted to leave Alma alone out there, but when his uncle took his arm and sternly led him into the library, he didn't seem to have any choice.

“Evan, son,” he began once he had closed the door behind them, “I'm very disappointed in you. You've shown poor judgment bringing
her
into our home.”

So Alma had been right. Thirty-six hours and the revelation that his girlfriend was an “illegal” produced a complete reversal in his uncle's opinion of her. She was no longer the “great gal” who charmed him at the country club. She was “
her
.” And she was not welcome in his house.

Evan's uncle went to a mahogany table and lifted a glass decanter and poured himself a drink. Bourbon, probably.

His uncle stood and sipped, gazing out of the windows toward the lake, while Evan began describing all that he knew about the Garcia family's situation.