No One in the World (11 page)

The woman stopped in front of the windows. “Breathtaking,” she said. “Northeast view. Lake Michigan, and you can even see Evanston from here. It would be a shame to lose it, huh?”

“What did you say?” Austen was startled to hear those words come from the woman's mouth.

Sissy turned to face Austen. “That is why these rooms are bare, right? You're selling off all your furniture to pay the mortgage.”

“I don't know what you're talking about. I'm buying all new furniture for—”

“Miss Greer, we need to be honest with each other if we're going to work together.”

“Lady, I don't know who you are and what you're selling, but ain't nobody said nothing about us working together.”

“I'm Sissy Winslow,” Sissy said, walking back over to Austen, her hand extended, as though she had not already introduced herself. “President and CEO of Winslow Hair Care Products, and what I'm selling you is your life back. Would you like me to tell you more, or would you rather I leave?”

As Austen lay in bed, she found that she was no longer in the mood to pleasure herself. It had been spoiled by that arrogant woman who recited Austen's life story like she had written it.

She set the vibrator down on the nightstand and grabbed the folder Miss Winslow had given her. Inside were clippings from newspapers and
magazines, with headlines that read, “Cobi Aiden Winslow to clerk for Illinois State Supreme Court Justice” and “Cobi Winslow Named Editor of
The Harvard Law Review
” and “Mr. Winslow Joins Cook County State's Attorney's Office.”

There were pictures.
This Cobi guy
is
handsome,
Austen thought as she browsed the pages again. But she still couldn't believe what this Sissy Winslow was asking of her.

“I should've kicked you the hell out of my place the second after I heard what you were offering.”

“But you didn't, because you need it. Isn't that correct?”

“Get out,” Austen said. “I'm not some high-priced prostitute.” She walked toward the door, preparing to put Sissy out.

“I don't understand the correlation,” Sissy said. “There would be no sex. As I said, my brother is gay.”

“The answer is still no,” Austen said, grabbing the doorknob and pulling the door open.

“Stop.”

Austen halted, her hand still on the knob.

“I've done my research, as you can tell, and I like you. I think you'll be good for Cobi. I'm prepared to sweeten the—”

“Not interested, Miss Winslow.”

“You've been in this beautiful home for four years now,” Sissy said, looking around as if in awe of its elegance. “The bank plans to foreclose on it in four days. In all honesty, it's no longer even yours. Do what I ask you and we'll buy it for you.”

Austen slowly pulled her hand away from the doorknob, considering the benefits of all that Miss Winslow was offering. “I don't know.”

“That's better than no. It's progress,” Sissy said, turning toward the door. “Take a day, think about it, then call me and arrange for a meeting with me and my brother.” Sissy held out a gold-colored business card. “You have one day, Miss Greer, or the offer is off the table.”

As she lay in bed, the newspaper and magazine clippings spread out before her, she had no idea of what decision she'd make. With a frustrated swoop of her arm, Austen brushed the clippings and the folder to the carpet below, reached over, and clicked off the lamp.

O
ne leather wallet,” the corrections officer, a broad-shouldered, shaved-head man said, passing Eric his wallet into an opening in the mesh fencing that separated him from the inventory room. The wallet had been taken away from Eric when he was arrested three years ago.

“One wristwatch.”

Eric picked up the watch and fastened it around his wrist. It had stopped working.

“You're done,” the corrections officer said. “Go that way for fingerprinting.”

In the clothes that he had been arrested in, Eric walked down a long corridor with dirty walls toward the fingerprinting room.

A large woman wearing a white lab coat took Eric's forefinger and pressed it into a pad saturated with ink, then rolled it over a piece of cardboard.

“Ya'll fingerprinted me when I came in here three years ago,” Eric said. “Why we got to do this again?”

The big woman performed the same action with another of Eric's fingers, looked up at him through thick glasses, and said, “Because we need to make sure we're releasing the same man we locked up.”

“How am I not gonna be the same man?”

The woman opened her mouth to answer the question, when Eric said, “Just finish. I'll do whatever to get out of here.”

But as Eric wiped his fingers free of ink with the moist napkin she gave him, he wondered what good getting out of there would really do him.

He knew it would never happen, but he could barely sleep last night for hoping that Jess would show up, or at least call to say that she had reconsidered that petition to take his parental rights away. He dreamt she would tell him she was happy he was getting out, and she and Maya would be there to receive him, or at home when he showed up. No call came.

After fingerprinting, Eric was directed to continue down the same corridor. It was the one he was brought into three years ago, cuffed and shackled after he had been convicted.

Back then, he knew exactly what his immediate future would hold. Now, walking down this same hallway in the opposite direction, he had no clue what the next hour would bring.

The evening sun was brighter than Eric had expected when another muscle-bound corrections officer walked Eric outside and toward the front gate of Joliet State Prison.

Eric walked in silence, his laundry bag over his shoulder, his empty wallet in his back pocket, his broken watch on his wrist.

When he and the officer approached the front gate, it was as Eric expected—no one there on the other side to meet him. The street was quiet. Not a single car passing by.

Eric turned to the CO, saw himself in the big man's mirrored sunglasses. He looked for something to say, but all he could come up with was, “'Preciate it.”

“No problem,” the officer said. “We'll be seeing you back here real soon, I'm sure.” He cracked a sarcastic smile, then raised an arm high in the air, triggering the locks on the gate.

The mechanical gate lurched, then rolled slowly open to one side, and Eric stepped out.

No money in his pocket, no destination planned, Eric turned right and started walking.

After two minutes, he stopped. It made no sense to walk any further, not knowing where he was going. That moment it all hit him. He
was alone. And even though he had always been that way, from the day his mother dropped him off at that adoption agency, at least there was someone, or some entity—the government, at the very least—who felt responsible for him. After that, there had been girlfriends, or friends he could rely on, but now there was no one.

Eric felt his knees tremble. What would he do? What was he going to do? No answer came to mind. Just when he thought about lowering himself to the ground and simply giving up, Eric heard a car horn honk behind him.

He turned, startled to see a large, black Mercedes idling at the corner.

Eric couldn't believe it. It was just like Blac said. There behind the wheel, the spitting image of himself, sat his brother Cobi.

Eric walked over to the passenger door. When the window finished powering down, he leaned into the cabin of the car.

“You honking at me?” Eric said, afraid to smile just yet.

“Yeah,” Cobi said. He was wearing a suit and tie, like an Eric from an opposite universe. “Sorry I'm late. That Dan Ryan traffic can be a mofo.”

A
fter ringing the doorbell, Austen stood on the porch of her mother's house—the house she had grown up in.

When the door opened, Austen's mother, a short woman with skin the color of toasted wheat, opened her arms for a hug. She wore a flower print housecoat over her blouse and slacks.

Austen gave her mother a hug. “How you been, Mommy?”

“I could've been kidnapped and held for ransom, for all you know, since you never come to see me,” Angela said, kissing Austen's cheek.

“I was here just last week, Mommy.”

“I can never see my baby enough,” Angela said, play pinching Austen's cheek. “I was making some tea. We can take it out back on the deck. It's a nice evening.”

Outside, Austen's mother sipped from one of her old porcelain teacups, the matching saucer balanced on her lap. She stared up at the sky as if she didn't have a care in the world. Setting her cup back on the saucer, Angela said, “Not that I don't love to see my daughter every opportunity I get, but what brings you here? I wasn't expecting to see you for another few days.”

“Oh, I just wanted to tell you that the mortgage has been paid.”

“You didn't have to come all the way over here for that. You could've called, like you normally do when you pay it.”

Years ago, Austen's mother's house had been paid for. When Austen needed money to rebuild her late father's business and was unable to get a bank loan, her mother gladly offered to refinance the mortgage on the house.

Austen vehemently objected.

Angela said, “With the money, do you think you'll be able to make your father's business better than it was?”

“Yes.”

“Will the business provide a good living for you?”

“Most definitely.”

“Then we're getting you that money.”

Austen was able to keep only two of the promises. The business was successful, and it did provide well for her, but soon Austen would not be able to pay back the money. That meant that the mortgage on her mother's home would go unpaid, and her mother, who was retired and only drew Social Security, would lose her home. Austen could not let that happen.

“Austen, are you okay?” Angela said, pulling Austen out of her thoughts.

“Yeah, Mommy, I'm good.”

“No. There's something wrong. This whole recession and housing thing . . . you okay with money? You don't need—”

“No, no. Everything is fine,” Austen lied. “Actually business is much better than you would think. I really came by to give you some news.”

“What news, baby?”

Austen sighed and tried her best to pass her smile off as a sincere one. “I'm getting married, Mommy.”

I
took Eric to one of my favorite steakhouses in Chicago and ordered the ten-ounce filet, with sautéed spinach and garlic mashed potatoes.

When the tall, dreamy-eyed waiter turned to Eric and said, “And you, sir?” Eric seemed uncertain. He stared at the menu as though it was a tough school exam, and then ordered a cheeseburger and fries.

“Hold on,” I said to the waiter, turning to Eric. “Are you sure that's what you want? Why don't you get a steak, or lobster, or both?”

Eric gave another puzzled look at the menu, then back up at me. “That would be okay?”

“Sure. Order whatever you want. This is your first meal out of pri—” I caught and corrected myself, afraid of embarrassing Eric in front of the waiter. “Your first meal back in town.”

Eric smiled a little at my mistake. “I . . . I don't know what's good. Can you order for me?”

“I was hoping you'd say that.” I happily looked up to the waiter. “He'll have the ten-ounce filet, medium well, the lobster tail, the potatoes au gratin, and grilled asparagus.” I turned to Eric. “Would you like beer or wine?”

“Beer.”

“And a Stella, please.”

The waiter took our menus and disappeared.

“Wow, you really know your food,” Eric said.

“One of my favorite things, along with Broadway shows, great music, and good wine.”

We were silent for a moment; both of us, I imagine, were looking for something to say. I looked up at him, and as with every other time, I was mildly startled to see a spitting image of me. It was truly eerie just how much we looked alike.

The waiter brought us bread and butter, which mercifully gave me fuel for conversation.

“This is some of the best warm bread you'll ever taste,” I said, sliding it over to Eric.

He took a couple of pieces and started to butter one. He held it up to his mouth, about to take a bite, but before he did, he said, “It wasn't the traffic that made you late, was it? You weren't sure you still wanted to pick me up. Same reason you didn't come yesterday.”

Before my mother had passed, she always said I was very intuitive. “You're a mind reader,” she would always tell me. I obviously shared that gift with my twin brother. I pondered whether I wanted to be truthful with him.

“No, Eric. It really was the traffic. You saw all the cars on the way out here. That's what I was stuck in.” I lied, not sure why. “And yesterday I had trial. Couldn't get away.”

“So, were you able to get that info I asked you for?”

“I had to pull some strings, but yes, I did. That was for the mother of your daughter, right?”

“Yeah,” Eric said, looking as though he didn't like having to confirm who the number was for.

“I guess there would be nothing wrong with you calling her.”

“Wouldn't matter if it was. I need to find out why she's tryin' to take my rights away. So do you have it or what?” Eric said.

“I do. But I'm going to need something in return.”

“What?”

“I asked you before why you were in prison. You said you'd tell me later. I need that to be now.”

“Why is that important?”

“Because we're brothers, and if we're going to try—”

“Try?”

“If we're going to do this, we can't be keeping secrets.”