Woman in Red (18 page)

“I’m serious,” said Alice, realizing as she spoke that she meant it.

“Yeah, and how you gonna pay me? You said yourself, you broke.”

“All right, I can’t pay you much. But as soon as the money starts coming in, I can give you a share of the take.”

“I ain’t too good at arithmetic, but even I knows what zero out of zero come to.”

“Look at it this way, we have nowhere to go but up.”

There was a long silence at the other end. Just as Alice was beginning to think they’d been disconnected, Calpernia cut loose with another one of her hot-wired laughs. “Oh, hell. What do I got to lose?”

For a moment Alice wasn’t sure she’d heard right. “You mean you’ll do it?”

“I didn’t say that.” Calpernia was at once her old prickly, imperious self. “It ain’t like I got no prospects of my own. Only one reason to do this that I can think of, and that’s to save yo’ skinny white ass. You don’t know squat ’bout running no restaurant.”

“Neither do you,” Alice pointed out.

“That ain’t the point. I been around. I know shit.”

Alice laughed. “Well, I won’t argue that.”

“Long as you know you ain’t my boss,” Calpernia grumbled.

“Agreed.”

“All right then. Now that we got that straight, when do I start?”

They talked for a few more minutes, making tentative plans, until Calpernia’s bus pulled into the station. As she hung up, Alice recalled her first introduction to the force of nature known as Calpernia King. It was in her first week at Pine River and Calpernia had approached her in the yard, tailed by her posse, a huge, hulking presence, as black as the asphalt over which her broad shadow was cast. Her head a swirling mass of braided hair extensions, the tiny beads woven into them rattling like dice as she’d leaned into Alice’s face, the whites of her eyes amid all that blackness seeming to jump out at Alice.

“Yo, white girl,” she’d drawled. “What you in for, holding up a Mister Softee truck?” She’d eyed Alice with a disdain reserved for someone so far beneath her, it was a wonder she was even speaking to her. One of the women in her posse, a skinny black girl with bad teeth and tracks on her arms, had snorted in derision, as if trying to curry favor, and Calpernia had swung around to glare at her, demanding, “What you laughing at, bitch?”

Alice had said nothing; she’d just walked away.

That had set the tone for the next few months. Calpernia in her face, Alice doing her best to ignore it whenever she could. Until one day, after they’d been working alongside each other in the laundry for several weeks, somebody had said something that had struck Alice as funny and she’d
started to laugh. She’d laughed herself silly, doubled over, tears streaming down her cheeks, until the CO on duty that day, a tough old lesbian named Rusty, had given her a look that meant she’d better get down to business or else. The trouble was, Alice couldn’t seem to stop. Rusty had been on her way over, wearing a menacing look that spelled trouble, when all at once Calpernia had walloped Alice on the back, then grabbed her arm and squeezed it hard until the laughter died. She’d called over to Rusty, “Don’t you worry bout her. She a’ight now.”

After that, according to the unspoken code of prison relations, she and Calpernia were friends. As they got to know each other, Alice learned that the ’tude, as it was referred to among the black inmates, was merely a front and Calpernia’s reputation largely the product of her own invention, a means to ensure respect and a minimum of harassment. If she was in for attempted murder, it had only come after years of abuse at her live-in boyfriend’s hands, the final straw being when she’d found him messing with her then fourteen-year-old daughter. She’d waited until he was passed out drunk, then beaten him bloody with a tire iron, breaking nearly every bone in his body and leaving him blind in one eye. The boyfriend had pressed charges, denying all her allegations of abuse, and she’d had the further bad luck of being tried by an eager beaver young prosecutor looking to make his bones. Her court-appointed lawyer had attempted to persuade him to go with the lesser charge of aggravated assault, but Calpernia had stubbornly refused. In the end, she’d gotten eight to ten, same as Alice.

Now it occurred to Alice that not everyone would see Calpernia as she’d come to: a person you could count on to
always have your back, who for all her rough edges had a kind of nobility to her. In this mostly white, middle-class community, she would blend in about as well as a pimpedout Cadillac in a parking lot full of SUVs. But if anyone could handle it, Calpernia could. And at least Alice would have company if she went down in flames.

Denise came over later in the week to help out. Together they spackled the holes in the walls and ceiling where Alice had taken down the nautical prints and fishing net with its hundred-year-old catch, after which they spent the day painting the kitchen and dining area. When they were finally done, they stood back to admire their handiwork. “I think we’ve earned ourselves a cold beer, don’t you?” said Denise, idly scratching at a spot of dried paint on her nose. “Man, I don’t know when I’ve worked this hard.”

Alice fetched a Coors from the fridge for Denise and a Diet Coke for herself. Denise commented when Alice returned, “I forgot. You can’t drink.” She grimaced in sympathy. But Alice found her sister’s making mention of the fact that she was a parolee encouraging. It meant the stigma had worn off somewhat, in Denise’s mind.

Denise pulled chairs out from under the plastic tarp covering them. They were sipping their drinks, gossiping about old times, Denise with her feet propped on the rungs of Alice’s chair, when the bell over the door jingled and Gary walked in. “Hey, ladies.” He stopped to look around, giving a low whistle. “Wow. That’s some job you did. I don’t know when I’ve seen this place look so good.”

“Yeah, you can hardly smell the grease,” Denise said. “I swear I used to break out just walking into this place. You could practically see the fat globules in the air.”

“Old Cap’n, though, he made a mean fish-and-chips,” Gary recalled fondly. He gave Alice a long, considering look. “You sure you know what you’re doing? No disrespect, but you haven’t exactly had much experience running a restaurant. It takes more than a fresh coat of paint.”

Alice wondered if his concern was that of a caring brother-in-law . . . or if he was hoping she’d fail. Gary was a hard one to read. He smiled a lot and said all the right things, but his eyes didn’t always back them up: they were the eyes of someone looking out at you through a Polarized window. And there was no doubt his life would be easier if she were to slink away in defeat, forced to look for work on the mainland, thus removing a source of embarrassment from his otherwise orderly existence.

“I guess I’ll just have to figure it out as I go along,” she said, with a shrug. “You want a beer?”

“I’ll have to take a rain check on that. I’m still on duty.” He was wearing his khaki uniform, gun in its holster on his hip and his two-way clipped to his shirtfront. He turned his attention to Denise. “By the way, Taylor wanted me to remind you she has that thing at Scout hall tonight.”

“What thing?”

“Beats me. I figured you’d know.”

“Omigod.” Denise abruptly sat up, clapping a hand over her mouth. “I completely forgot. I was supposed to bake cupcakes.” She sighed, wearing the guilty, harassed look that seemed the sole province of motherhood. “I suppose I could pick some up at the store.” She spoke as though it would be a sacrilege somehow.

“Why don’t I whip up a batch?” Alice volunteered. “It won’t take long, and it’s the least I can do after all your hard work.”

“You’re sure it’s not too much trouble?” Denise eyed her with naked gratitude.

“No trouble at all,” Alice assured her. “Anyway, it’s time I took this baby for a test drive.” She gestured toward the newly rebuilt Hobart. “If I can’t manage cupcakes, I’m
really
in trouble.”

“All right then. I’ll leave you girls to it,” said Gary, with a tip of his hat. “You need anything, let me know. I have a meeting in town, but I’d be happy to stop at the store afterward.”

“What meeting is that?” Denise wanted to know.

Gary turned away, as if to inspect the paint job, but not before Alice had seen the furtive look that crossed his face. “Just routine stuff,” he replied with what seemed studied nonchalance. “I shouldn’t be too long.”

“Thanks, but I think I have everything I need,” Alice told him, wondering what he was keeping from his wife.

“Okay then, I’m off.” He dropped a kiss on Denise’s cheek and headed for the door, his leather holster creaking and his boots leaving tracks in the film of plaster dust that covered the floor.

Denise sat there, shaking her head. “I can’t believe I forgot.”

“You mean you’re not Supermom?” Alice teased.

Denise refused to be jollied out of her conviction that she was the world’s worst mother. “What’s happening to me? I used to be so organized,” she groaned.

Alice suggested gently, “Maybe you’re taking on too much.”

“It’s not just that. It’s this damned development.” Denise abruptly stood up, pacing back and forth in agitation. “I get the feeling that no matter what we do, they’re always one
step ahead of us. That’s how it works around here. It’s all about who you know and which strings to pull. I can’t prove it, but I just know they have the whole thing wired.”

“So why fight it?” Alice asked.

Denise whirled around, her face flushed and errant wisps of hair sticking out from under the bandana knotted around over her head. “I’ll tell you why. It’s not just because it’s the last truly wild place on the island. It’s because to give in would be like giving up. Look at you. What happened with you was awful, sure, but at least you took a stand. You didn’t just roll over and die.”

“It would have been better if I had. Look at what it cost me,” Alice turned toward the window. The sun had come out, sparkling on grass that was still wet from the rain that had fallen earlier in the day. It was little things like that, the things other people took for granted—a view out a window not covered in steel mesh, a slice of blue sky, a leaf trembling on a branch—that stood as reminders of how much that single, irretrievable act had cost her.

“I’m sorry. That came out wrong. I didn’t mean—” Denise broke off, and Alice turned to find her wearing a woebegone look.

“I know you didn’t mean anything by it.” Alice got up and went over to put her arms around her sister. “And it’s not wrong to fight for what you believe in. I’d be right there beside you if I didn’t have my own battles.” She drew back to look at Denise. “So where does it stand now?”

“The court ruling should come down any day.”

“And if it doesn’t go your way?”

“I can promise you this much, we won’t take it lying down,” vowed Denise, with fire in her eye. “We’ll chain ourselves to the trees if we have to.”

“That could get uncomfortable, especially this time of year. Unless you plan on wearing a slicker and thermal underwear,” Alice said, hoping to lighten the mood a bit. Her sister’s concern was warranted, but she tended toward the extreme. There was only one right way, as far as Denise was concerned:
her
way.

Denise got the message and, with a sigh, she plopped back into her chair. “Let’s talk about something else, okay? This is only going to depress me.”

“All right then,” Alice said. “On a more mundane subject, which will it be? White or chocolate?”

Her sister stared at her blankly for a moment before it sank in that Alice was talking about the cupcakes. “White. That way I won’t be tempted to eat as many.” Denise had always had a weakness for chocolate. “Just remember to save some for Gary, for when he gets home. Poor guy.” She shook her head. “It’s not enough he’s on patrol all day, he has to contend with all that stupid bureaucracy. You think teachers have it bad, try being a cop.”

The mayor’s office, situated on the second floor of the municipal building, had a view of the more gracious prewar courthouse across the street, where at the moment a storm was brewing. From where he sat, at his desk facing the window, Owen White saw no immediate cause for concern. The sidewalk in front of the courthouse, still damp from the rain that had fallen earlier in the day, was clotted with more fallen leaves than people. But already a small crowd of activists had gathered and soon there would be swarms of them: tree huggers like Gary Elkin’s wife, all shaking their fists and railing against the court ruling of which Owen, privy to certain inside information, already knew would go his way. Small-minded people who lacked the vision to see past their own noses and who sought to turn this island into some sort of time capsule. Why, if they’d been running the show in his father’s day, Owen thought, there would
be
no Grays Island as they knew it. The quaint waterfront downtown that drew in flocks of tourists each summer would still
be a mucky tidal flat and the properties that fetched such handsome sums today a useless sprawl of farms and orchards.