All Rise for the Honorable Perry T. Cook (14 page)

“Y
ou know that I'm sorry about the warden, right?” Zoey Samuels has buckled up and cut to the chase. “And you know it's not your fault, Perry?”

“Hmm . . . it's because of me. I know that's not the same thing as my fault.” I sit back and sigh.

The Bucking Blue Bookmobile waggles us back through Rising City. Zoey smiles a very soft smile. She looks toward the one small window in the rear of the truck. You can't really see anything out of it—not from where we sit—just a square patch of light sky. But Zoey doesn't take her eyes off it.

“I loved it,” she says. She means spending time at Blue River. “They were so . . . nice. I thought I might feel scared.” She admits it. “But then I wasn't.” Her smile does a funny little thing—turns downward at the corners. Her bottom lip quivers. Her chin tightens like a little nut. Zoey Samuels
puts up her hand to wipe away the tear that comes down her cheek. She won't look at me right now. She keeps her shining eyes on the square of light. A few more seconds and the soft smile returns.

I sit back and breathe out. I let my head sway with the rocking of the old bookmobile. I'm thinking about Warden Daugherty. I'm sick in my gut that she's actually suspended—all because she kept Mom and me together. I sort of love Miss Sashonna for finally spilling the beans. Mom said she was sorry for not telling me. She was waiting for the right time, but she admitted that she should've known it would never come. It would make plenty of sense for me to feel mad. But I don't have any mad in me; I just have this dull ache. I can't imagine Blue River without Warden Daugherty.

When we reach the library, everyone is waiting for us. Both VanLeer and Zoey's mom are standing on the curb right where the bookmobile gets parked. Our backpacks are sitting at their feet. She is calm. His arms are folded across his chest. His face is like a rock. Mr. Olsen is there, too, with his clipboard. He looks like a pale slice of cheese.

“Oh lordy!” says Mrs. Buckmueller. She limps and blinks while we push the cart. “What have we? A welcome committee?”

“Not exactly,” says Mr. VanLeer.

Mr. Olsen looks at Mrs. B. He clears his throat. “Turns out we've had a little miscommuniqué . . .”

“These children were
never
supposed to leave the
library . . .” VanLeer starts in and doesn't stop—even when Mrs. B and Mr. Olsen try to apologize. “You took two children off the premises without permission!” Mr. VanLeer says.

Meanwhile, Zoey has tucked herself under her mom's arm while I wait in place with both hands on the cart. Next we hear about protocol, responsibility, and the “terrible fright” this afternoon has given everyone. He finally takes a break.

Mrs. Buckmueller speaks. “Why, if I made a mistake, I am unreservedly sorry. The way I understood it, I was meant to take Perry and Zoey with me. I had two library volunteers for the afternoon. I will say, their efforts were laudable. You should be very proud. They made a world of difference at the—”

“You took them to a prison!” VanLeer exclaims. “Children don't go on field trips to prisons!” He points at Zoey. “Look! She's been crying!”

“Tom, it's fine. She's fine,” Zoey's mom says.

“I haven't been crying,” Zoey says. “Not bad crying. Really. I'm okay, Tom.” Her mom brushes her fingers under Zoey's chin. She touches the new braid.

“Pretty . . . ,” she whispers, and Zoey nods.

“I want to go back again,” she says right into her mom's face.

“Not possible,” says VanLeer with a firm shake of his head.

I look down at my own feet. Scuff a toe. I think about Mom. I want Tuesdays and Fridays. I want them so much. What's it to him?

I hear Zoey being calm and cool. She says, “Mrs. B really needs our help.”

“Splendid,” says Mrs. Buckmueller. “Thank you, darlings.” She takes over the cart, and with Mr. Olsen's help, starts up the ramp to the library.

I stand uselessly to one side. Mr. VanLeer is still shaking his head. Zoey's mom touches his arm.

“Look, all is well. Let's head home now,” she says.

“Perry has been home,” Zoey says. “This whole afternoon. You should have seen how happy they were to see him, Mom. They were even happy to see me.” She puzzles. “I don't know what I thought it would be like. Perry has told me some. There is a sad part . . . and some of the residents seemed to turn away. But Perry's friends . . . well . . . they felt like new friends that you could meet anywhere—”

“Oh great, we have a sympathizer,” Mr. VanLeer groans.

But Zoey's mom pulls her girl closer to her. “I think we have an empathizer.” She looks at her husband. Softly she asks him, “And what's wrong with that?”

“What's wrong with any of this?” I ask, and I am a little on the loud side. “Isn't the bookmobile arrangement perfect? For everyone?”

O
n Wednesday afternoon, I'm in the video room at the library with Zoey Samuels. “Is it the right wire?” she asks.

“Well, it fits in the camera and the other end is in the computer port. So, yes, I think so.” We're taking a stab in the dark. We signed up and we have this computer in the video room for thirty minutes. Then it'll be taken over by everybody-knows-who: Brian Morris and his friends. For now, we are tucked into the most private corner. Trouble is, neither Zoey nor I know what we're doing.

“All right. We're connected. See the icon for the movie maker program?” Zoey pushes me along. I click it. “Now let's see if it comes up,” she says.

And it does. Six little squares of Big Ed lay themselves down in a row on the screen. “Yes! These are the short video segments from his interview.”

“There you go! Now click one,” says Zoey. She jiggles my arm, and I tap the pad. There is bigger Big Ed—from my tiny camera screen to the computer screen.

“Wow,” I say. I've been scheming. Or imagining. I'd love to put the videos with the written story. Somehow. I'm picturing the Blue River Stories like mini documentaries. But I have no idea how to do any of that.

I click on the still shot of Big Ed to make it play. Zoey and I watch all six videos without speaking. Even though they are short, they tell the long, hard story. We hear Big Ed's raspy voice—the way he has to push out the awful words; we see the way his eyes look to a place far away. We see his fingers knot together in his lap.

“Oh my God, Perry . . . ,” Zoey says when the last video ends. She leans on one elbow and presses her face all out of shape with her hand. “H-he didn't even mean to hurt the kid and—”

“Who is that guy?”

Our heads snap around. Brian Morris is right behind us. His mouth hangs open. He's staring at the stopped shot of Big Ed. I wonder how long he's been there.

“Hey! Get out!” Zoey Samuels is on her feet. “This computer is ours for”—she checks the clock—“fifteen more minutes.”

Brian's chin juts toward the screen. “Who is that?” he presses. “Is he a prisoner?”

I wait. We are eyes on each other. He's asking questions
instead of making stuff up. “Well, we say ‘resident,'” I tell him. “But also, he's one of my best fr—”

“Perry! Stop!” Zoey says. She puts her arms over the screen. “And don't let him see.”

“I already saw,” Brian says. “That guy killed somebody, didn't he?”

“Buzz off, Brian!” Zoey snaps. “Perry, what are you doing?”

“What are you going to do with the video?” Brian presses.

I shrug my shoulders because I don't know. I stand up, reach for the wire, and pull it out of the port. I gather up my camera. I tell Brian, “You can have the computer. We're done.”

Zoey Samuels follows me out of the room. She's breathing fire at my neck. “Why would you even think to trust him?” she asks, and she goes on about it as we walk. “He could tell some messed-up version of Big Ed's story to all his lunch buddies . . .”

I turn around just before we get to the History Room. I tell her, “You could be right. But then again, people can change.”

O
n Thursday the VanLeer grown-ups go walking up and down the street after supper. They've been doing this a lot, especially this week. Zoey clues me in from the front window of the VanLeer house, where she holds the curtain back in one hand so she can see them. She says, “They call that having a discussion. I call it taking it to the streets. It's polite fighting.”

“That's nice,” I say. I don't mean to be funny, but Zoey laughs out loud. “I mean it's not the worst idea in the world, keeping it out there instead of inside the house where it makes everyone feel bad.”

“You say it like it sticks to the walls or something, Perry.” She drops the curtain and faces me. “They're going to let us do it,” she says. “We'll be on the Bucking Blue Bookmobile
tomorrow.” She pops her fist into her palm like it's a done deal. We've both been waiting for the answer. Tomorrow is Friday, so it has to come tonight.

Zoey and I unload the VanLeer dishwasher. While we stack dinner plates and salad bowls into the cupboards I do some good hard hoping. I tell Zoey, “I want them to find a
yes
for us out there in the street. They can bring that inside and stick it to the walls.”

Later, standing shoulder to shoulder with Mr. VanLeer, Zoey's mom gives us the news. “So, we're giving permission for the two of you to travel with Mrs. Buckmue—”

“Yes!” Zoey shrieks. She faces me. We slap ten.

Zoey's mom smiles hugely. Mr. VanLeer stays more serious. But I don't miss that there is a faint smile on his face too. He's watching us celebrate. He likes to see Zoey happy. Zoey throws her arms around her mom, then around Tom, crying, “Thank you!” Her stepdad cups his hand on her head, his fingers rest across the Blue River braid that has held up for two nights and two days.

I feel myself pull toward Zoey's mom. I think she almost reaches for me too. I could hug her, but I stop. I hold my own elbows. I smile and tell her, “Thank you. Thank you so much. This is going to mean a lot to my mom too.”

“Just don't forget, you have a purpose while you're there,” says Mr. VanLeer.

I still have my eyes on Zoey's mom. I know she went to bat for us. She is looking back at me with the same shiny-eyed
look that Zoey had coming home from Blue River on Tuesday. She made this happen. But Mr. VanLeer did not have to agree. Yet he did. So I face him and say it.

“Thank you very much.”

“You're welcome, Perry. I want good things for you. I do.” He gives me a nod. “And really, it's a good thing you'll get to go tomorrow.” He turns as if to get on with the evening. “That will make up for this Saturday.”

We all twist to look at him.

“Tom? What does that mean?” Mrs. Samuels asks.

“Oh, I have to drive clear up to Abie to pick up a case file box. Inconvenient as heck,” he says. “Sorry. A trip to Surprise is out of the question.”

“What? But I have to go to Blue River.” I hear myself blurt it. Then I think to myself, It's Mom's story! I need this! “Mr. VanLeer, I
have
to see my mom,” I say. “I have an interview to do.”

“Maybe get it done tomorrow, pal.”

“But my mom works. We won't have time.” I feel a hot knot in my chest.

“Tom . . . really?” Zoey's mom presses him.

“It's one of those impossible scheduling things.” He raises one hand helplessly in the air. “I can't go up there tomorrow. I have a full day in court. These quirky little towns are understaffed. I don't like working Saturdays, but you know the story . . .”

“Wait, wait,” Zoey's mom says. “No, I don't know, Tom.
We talked and talked.” She gestures toward the street, and I wonder if they'll be going back out there again. “You didn't say anything about Saturday.”

“Tom, Saturdays are your promise to Perry.” Zoey speaks up. She pats his arm. He looks down at her.

“I have to work, Zoey. I have responsibilities.”

“I'll take him,” Zoey's mom says.

“No, no. You have Zoey's dance class, clear in the opposite direction, Robyn.”

“I'll miss,” Zoey says.

“No.” Tom shakes his head. “Nobody has to miss anything. It'll be fine. It's just one week, and Perry will have had both Tuesday and Friday at the prison. That's plenty.” He says this firmly.

“Well, we'll have to see. We'll see,” Zoey's mom says. She's flustered and nodding her head a lot. “We'll see.” If I leave maybe she can stop repeating herself.

“Excuse me,” I say. I take huge strides, heels hitting the floor hard as I go down the hall and away from Thomas VanLeer.

In the closet I breathe and stare at my timeline. “What are your wins?” I ask myself. Tuesdays and Fridays. I take a pencil and circle them all the way along the wall, into the corner and out again. The Bucking Blue Bookmobile is a big win. But I'm furious about Saturday. If VanLeer can decide to skip one Saturday at Blue River, he can decide to skip more.

He doesn't get that this was the Saturday that Mom was going to tell me her story, or how long I've waited to know the whole thing. When VanLeer went on Desiree Riggs's show, he said he'd help me any way he can.

Canceling Saturday is nothing but a kick in the backside.

O
n Saturday, Mrs. Samuels comes to the rescue, and so does Zoey. The three of us load into the SUV and drive out to Zoey's dance studio so she can attend an earlier class. Afterward, we stop for egg and cheese biscuits at the farmers' market to eat on the way to Surprise. Zoey's mom grabs a head of broccoli too. (I think she saw me looking at it.) I thank her at least six times for this trip to Blue River.

She says, “This is fine, Perry. Truly. I promise that Zoey and I will not crowd you on this visit. But I'd like to meet your mom.”

They have brought books in a tote bag—things to do. When we get to Blue River, nobody has to make Zoey's mom play cards.

You are not supposed to curl up or put feet on the chairs in the common. (They're not that comfortable anyway.) But Mom does a sort of half curl. She gets one knee up where
she can hug it. It's her favorite way to sit, and usually no one calls her out on it.

“So, Mom, can you give me a Blue River mini-bio on yourself before we get to your story?” I've decided to take a short video of the first part of each interview as long as it's okay with each rez.

She looks at the camera. “Well, I'm Jessica Cook. I arrived here twelve years ago. I had just turned eighteen at the time. So I have spent my twenties here.” She dips her chin before she goes on. “Currently, I counsel other residents throughout their stays here, all in preparation for release. That's kind of ironic since I've never had the pleasure myself.” Mom looks right at the camera and flashes a saucy grin. She makes me laugh, and I know that part of the video is going to look bouncy. “You have to keep your eye on the end,” she says.

“I've had other jobs here. I was a greeter for several years. Before that I potted seedlings in the facility's greenhouse. I've done plenty of shifts in the laundry, and when I first got here I wrapped napkins around sporks in the kitchen. I still do mess duty, just like everyone else here.”

“Okay, great.” I set the camera down and pick up my notebook. It's a little strange to sit across from Mom. Even stranger to tell her, “Begin whenever you're ready. It's your story.”

There is a stretch of silence. I don't breathe. My pencil is ready. I feel Mom switch tone, but she speaks to me.

“Well, you know what I'm in for,” she says.

“I know what you've told me. You're in Blue River for two reasons. Because you told lies, and because your actions contributed to a death. I know you got manslaughter. Same as Big Ed,” I say.

“And you know what it means,” Mom says.

“Yeah. You didn't mean to kill, but you made a mistake that caused someone's death.”

“Yep. I sure did.”

“Who was it, Mom?”

“My father,” she says.

I feel my eyebrow hitch upward. My fingers are weak around the pencil now. Her father would be my grandfather. I have never heard this before. I lean forward. Mom looks past me—but just to the back of my chair, not way off like Big Ed did.

“I grew up in a household that didn't have a lot of warmth,” she says. Her mouth twists just a little. “Not that I ever wished either of my parents dead. I just wished they would love me—or love me differently than they did. I'm pretty sure my parents didn't plan me. I happen to know that an unexpected baby can be an incomparable joy.”

I smile, but I keep my pencil moving, scratching down key words.

“But at my house it was just the three of us, and it's weird, but I felt more managed than loved. For a long, long time, I did my best at all the things that seemed to matter to them. I got good grades—great grades, actually—and good thing,
because there was no room for flubbing up under that roof.” She rolls her eyes. “You'd get no love for that. I worked hard at school, and I competed hard on the swim team. I had to win so I wouldn't have to see them turn their backs on me at the end of a race. By the time I graduated high school, I had won a nice college scholarship, and I think we were all looking forward to having me out of their house.” Mom smiles just a little. “They had a rule, actually: out at eighteen.

“So one summer night we sat down to talk over some of my plans for the fall. I had changed those plans somewhat, and I was feeling assertive because it was
my
life and
my
scholarship. That didn't go over well. There was shouting and drinking—my father kept pouring one after the other. They were getting harder to talk to. Angry and exasperated. I was probably being a snot—I don't know.” Mom sighs. “But things got very ugly. Finally I'd had enough of the shouting, so I picked up to leave. And that's when my father gasped and clutched his chest. I'll never forget it. He looked at my mother and said, ‘Oh my god, Vivian, I'm in so much pain, I think I'm going to die.'

“We had to get him to the hospital. I was the one standing there with the keys in my hand. We got my father into the backseat. Mother got in with him, and we took off.”

I set the pencil down and wiggle my fingers. I pick up the camera. Watch Mom through the window.

“Everyone thinks driving will be easy out on the straightaways. We sped along. My father had gone silent, but my
mother kept calling into the front of the car—hollering—that we weren't going fast enough. Bad weather moved in—a good old Nebraska hailstorm. I couldn't see.” Mom shakes her head. “My God, I was trying so hard to help.” She lowers her eyes and bites her lip. “I made an awful mistake at an intersection, and that was it.” Her voice climbs up. “We crashed.”

The camera is off. I look at Mom, at her arms and legs and her head where she is tucking her fingers into her hair. I almost ask her, was she hurt all those years ago? But she squints and picks up her story again.

“The rest is kind of a messed-up blur, Perry. Flashing lights and stopped trucks, and feet slipping over hailstones and crushing them. I could see my parents in the backseat—neither one conscious.” Mom's eyes water up. “I tried to open the back car doors, but they were crumpled in. I couldn't budge them. Couldn't get into that bloody nest of a backseat.” Mom wipes her eyes with her fingertips.

“I remember that the police were kind. I sheltered in a blanket at the scene for what seemed like forever. A tow truck came . . .” Mom shakes her head like she is trying to recall. “The police put me in a cruiser. We followed the ambulance with both my parents inside to the hospital. While the nurses looked me over for injuries, I kept asking about my parents.” Mom waits a beat. “Finally, I learned that my father had died. My mother had a head injury—something that was taking a lot of stitches. I asked to see her, but the nurse just ducked her
chin and told me my mother was unavailable. A sad truth,” Mom says. She clears her throat.

“When the police asked, I told them yes, I was driving. Then they said there was an obvious odor of alcohol at the scene.” Mom shakes her head. She stares off for a few seconds. “The next hours were exhausting and confusing. The questions and the . . . pressure. I didn't know what to say. I felt like I'd dropped into somebody else's nightmare. They asked again and I told them again, I was driving. And finally, I told them that I had been drinking too. And then the next thing I know, I'm being arrested. My God, I was scared. I kept asking for my mother. I was told she would not come. At some point I realized that was her choice.

“I was alone and terrified. Bad advice was everywhere, but I didn't know enough to see that. Eventually, I pled guilty to the drunk driving charge. But then, because my father had died in the accident, there was the manslaughter charge too.” Mom cocks her head. “Didn't see that coming. But I had done what I had done, and I had confessed. And a confession is . . .”

“A conviction.” We say it together, though my own lips feel numb.

Mom is quiet, and I pick up the camera again. “Oddly,” she says, “I don't consider that my Blue River story. That part would be about earning a degree in social work from the inside and my work here. But I think the part you wanted to know is what got me in, and I don't blame you. Being
incarcerated is
not
something I would have chosen. But I found a new beginning here. I found out that life still goes forward even when you're inside.”

I think Mom is finished, but then she adds something. “I thought my sentencing was ferocious—I felt I'd been made an example of. But I still had no real regrets about the confession—not until I found out about you, Perry. When I realized that I had compromised two people's futures . . . well . . . you bet I was sorry. I had a new biggest fear in the world, and that was being separated from you. We made it a lot of years before that happened,” Mom says. She looks up at me and nods. “Coming here was a patch of good inside a blurry patch of bad.”