All Rise for the Honorable Perry T. Cook (15 page)

J
essica Cook felt worn out on Saturday evening. She'd been determined to tell her boy an honest version of her story—but only one that both of them could afford. Every word had felt like a step onto a fragile stick above a tiger pit. Perry was earnest and trusting—open to believing the story. He'd been intensely focused with his little camera and his pencil. Afterward, he was respectful and loving, circling her with a hug that had gone deliciously long.

Perry was also smart. Jessica knew that her omissions were risky. She sighed as the microwave in the Block C kitchenette hummed and her bowl of broccoli went round and round. If he sensed gaps in her story, he could start filling them in with his own inventions . . .

Oh. Dear. She'd been so careful and now here came a flood of misgivings.

Well, if he has questions, he can ask them, she thought. She consoled herself as she pulled the steamy green florets out of the oven. She determined to swallow all her second thoughts along with them. The broccoli was a gift from one Robyn Samuels, who had blushed when she'd handed it over like a bouquet of flowers. “I was told this would be a big hit,” she had said.

The woman had dancing eyes, a broad smile, and intriguing speckles of pale paint on her hands and forearms. How confounding that she had that arrogant thorn Thomas VanLeer for a husband!

Robyn Samuels had something else: respect. Not the kind some visitors to Blue River put on like a costume when they walked through the doors. Jessica had well-honed radar when it came to knowing who was genuine. She had glimpsed the mother and daughter from across the common while she and Perry were decompressing from her telling. Robyn and Zoey had alternately read their own books and chatted with various residents. There had been an origami lesson with the little Rojas girls, and Gina had come through with her rattail comb (and alcohol wipes) to weave new hair braids all around.

Jessica remembered something that Perry had said after his first week living away from Blue River—something about Zoey's mom being on his side. Today seemed proof enough of that. The way Perry told it, he would not have
made it to Blue River with his camera and his pencil had she not stepped up. Yes. Robyn Samuels had warmth and compassion.

Now if only Jessica could get past the fact that Robyn also had Perry.

I
'm looking at my notes from Mom's interview. I'm turning all my jottings into sentences and paragraphs. Every so often, I play a video from my camera. Zoey is right beside me at the long desk in the VanLeer family room. She's doing math problems.

Mr. VanLeer goes in and out the door from the kitchen to the grill. Each little gust of chilly October air brings with it something that smells good. Mrs. Samuels comes in from the garage. I hear water running and know that she's cleaning her paintbrushes at the kitchen sink. They either don't know or they've forgotten that Zoey and I are right around the corner from the kitchen.

“There you are,” he says to her when he comes in again. “How's the paint project coming?”

“Great!” she sings. “Sorry to leave you to do all of dinner tonight. I really wanted to get that second coat on. It always
takes longer than I think it will.”

“Hmm . . . slow paint, slow food,” he says.

“Yes, both so artful!” They laugh. Then they kiss. I can hear it. Zoey is multiplying decimals. She doesn't pay much attention to their kisses anyway.

“I don't know what it is about little round dining tables,” Zoey's mom says. “It's not like we need another one here. But I couldn't resist bringing this ugly duckling in for a facelift. I'll find a good home for it.”

“Absolutely. Somebody's going to love that table . . .”

Both voices trail off. The door bangs and all is quiet. They must be out at the grill together.

I look down at my notebook and rest my cheeks on my hands. The problem I am having with the Blue River Stories is that I want the stories to come from the residents—like they are speaking. But then I start writing down what they told me and everything slips out of their voices. Then I watch a slice of video and I begin to transcribe it and I hear the person loud and clear again. I work this around in my head. Then I think again about how perfect my project would be as a documentary.

“Ack!” I say.

Zoey snickers. I sit back and shake my head like maybe I can wake up my brain cells. Then I pull out a new sheet of notebook paper to try again.

So, what about quotes? I think to myself. I decide to give it a try. The back door opens again.

“Robyn, he would've survived without one Saturday visit.” Thomas VanLeer is insistent—
and wrong
. I let my next breath fill my chest slowly. Zoey hums a low growl but doesn't look up from her equation.

“Survived, yes,” Zoey's mom says. “But listen to yourself, Tom. Isn't the idea here for him to do a whole lot more than
survive
? How about we help him
thrive
?” There was a little jar banging then and even some quiet cussing.

Zoey looks at me and whispers, “Ooooh . . .”

I whisper back, “Everything was fine until . . .” I point to my own chest with my finger. Zoey shrugs.

“He
is
thriving, Robyn.” Mr. VanLeer's voice is low in his throat—harder to hear. I catch something about the two trips a week in the bookmobile. Then he says it again. “He didn't need to go—”

“Yes! Yes he did—and he does!” Zoey's mom is loud and clear. I imagine her with one finger raised in the air between them. “I saw a different boy at Blue River. He was whole. I'm glad I took him, Tom. I'll take him again.”

“Then you're reneging on the particulars of our foster care plan,” he says.

“I call it taking a boy to see his mother.”

“I call it you supporting the nonconforming policies of that warden who kept the boy locked up there his whole life.”

“Oh, Tom! That's a stretch! He was
not
locked up. Look, we disagree about that, and you'll have to do what you think is right on that point. That's your job,” she says
flatly. “But—and I'm sure we'll disagree on this too—I have decided something else.” She pauses. “I want to get to know his mother.”

“Robyn, seriously?”

“Yes,” she tells him. “Don't get in my way.” She calls down the hall toward the bedrooms. “Zoey! Perry! Supper is on.”

O
n Saturday, we pull chairs together in our corner of the Blue River Common. No one has to make Mr. VanLeer play cards today. He has brought his own distraction—a fat folder full of papers. He's been dragging that to the VanLeer dinner table all week long. I'm glad when he sits down by himself to work in the common.

Miss Sashonna asked Mom to be her support person today. Miss Gina has helped her put on eye makeup. She looks at my camera and points. “You ready, Perry?” I try to keep the camera still while I nod yes. “Is that thing on?” I nod again. “You ready?”

“Yes!” I finally have to say it.

“Yeah, okay. I'm Sashonna Lee Lewis.” She starts off sounding like Desiree Riggs, her voice all buttercream. She
taps her long skinny fingers on her chest. “I got put in here about six months ago. I got a long time to go. I don't even want to talk about that.” She slips out of the Desiree voice quickly.

“So, I got put in here because of something I did for a stupid man—and it's not fair, what happened. Anyways, he was stupid, but I loved him. I was always doing what he wanted. And what he wanted to do was, he wanted to rob a bank. Just a little one. Because he owed a guy some money. I told Chaunce—that's his name—that his plan had a serious flaw in it.” Sashonna's finger wags in the air. “Like, if he wants
me
to drive the getaway car then he better teach me how first. So, he took me to a big parking lot just before we went to the bank.” She pretends she's holding on to a steering wheel. She sways. “There I am driving! I'm all, what's the big deal? This is easy! I got this!

“Chaunce wants to make sure I can drive real fast. I'm all, ‘I know where the gas pedal is! I'm no chicken! I punch my foot on that”—she stops to laugh—“and Chaunce's head goes slamming back in his seat and he's screaming like a little sister!” Sashonna cackles.

“Chaunce had me wait outside the bank, and he says, ‘Keep it running and make sure you keep all the windows open, baby! Got it?
Open
.' He gives me a big kiss before he goes into the bank. It's winter, so I'm sitting there like a Popsicle, poking at the radio, fiddling with the steering wheel.
Getting in some pretend driving practice.” She wiggles back and forth. “I am ready to do my job. Then I look up at the little mirror and see some car coming up behind me. Closer, and closer . . . and holy crow! It's the Po-Po!” She claps her hands on her cheeks.

“They slide right into the space behind me and then—they sit there! So now I don't know if those police are onto what Chaunce is doing. But I do know, I gotta call this whole thing off! Chaunce can't rob that bank—not while the police are sitting right outside. So I think I can stop it if I just roll up those windows. So I do. Then I crank the wheel, pull the car out onto the street real careful. Then Chaunce comes running out of the bank—and it's like he's got a bear up his backside. He throws that duffel and it smacks into the window. Falls on the sidewalk. He grabs it up again—swearing—banging on the window. ‘Open! Open it! Go, go, go!' So I'm pushing buttons and yanking that wheel trying to do everything Chaunce wants me to do. I get the window open and I think I'm doing good! So I push the gas pedal.

“Then the Po-Po puts on the blue-light special.” Sashonna whirls her fist and rolls her eyes. “So now I'm scared! We're in trouble. I gotta get us out of there. So I hit the gas—real hard. Only thing is, I don't have Chaunce! So here he comes running alongside the car. He gets that duffel in the window—finally. So that's good and I punch the gas again.

“I know I should slow down. But the police put on the
sirens, and I'm scared. So I put my foot right to the floor. Zoom! That's when Chaunce tries to pitch himself in through the back window. But he only gets the top of him in. His legs don't make it. I can't look back there because—hello-o-o—I'm busy driving. Somehow he gets dragged back out of the car again. I'm still trying to go, go, go, and I feel the rear end of the car go over some bump. Well guess what? That bump was Chaunce.

“I keep going down the street before I look and see him in the back mirror. He's hurt. Twisting in the road, gripping his legs. I slam on the brakes because that's not what you want to see when you love some guy—even a stupid one. Next thing I know a security guard from that little bank runs up and sticks a knife in the tire. Man! So now I am afraid to try to drive a car with a flat,
and
I didn't learn about going backward in my
one
driving lesson. I try anyway.
Fwump-fwump-fwump—BAM!
” Sashonna bangs her hands together. “I go smack into some flower truck that must have come up behind me. Now I'm a mess. All I want is to be with Chaunce—ask him what to do. So I get out of the car and run back to him where he's lying in the road.”

Miss Sashonna's eyes fill with water, and she pulls her knees up to her chest. She makes sounds like a kitten when it mews. Mom asks, “Sashonna? You okay?” She passes her a tissue.

“Anyways,” Sashonna says, “here come the police. They don't even care Chaunce is run over. They slap bracelets on
both of us. The only way I can tell that Chaunce is okay is he's swearing at me up and down.

“So he gets to go to the hospital to get his leg put in a cast. I get to go to jail and sit there. Can't believe that. I'm no bank robber! But I end up getting charged right along with him—and you know what else? I get more time than him!” She begins to count it off on her fingers. “They said I robbed the bank—so that's a federal crime. I got reckless endangerment with a motor vehicle, I drove without a license, no registration,
and
I left the scene of an accident when I ran back to Chaunce after I hit that flower truck.” She shakes her head and says, “It's not fair.”

Everything is quiet. Then Sashonna says, “Remember those questions—the ones you put in
Glamour
magazine, Perry? You asked me what's the best thing and what's the worst thing about being at Blue River.”

“I remember,” I say.

“Well, the worst thing is being in here with somebody else watching me and telling me what to do all day. I had enough of that on the outside. The best thing is Jessica—'cause she's been a good friend. Keeps me out of trouble. I like that—even though I know she doesn't like me so much.”

“But I do!” Mom grins. “You're like my annoying little sister!”

“Yeah? For real?”

“You bet.”

“Thanks for that.” Sashonna takes her tissue in the heel
of her hand and rubs her nose in a big upward sweep. “Sorry,” she says. “Sorry I got so much snot today. Oh my God! You didn't take pictures of that, did you, Perry?”

She laughs, and it makes all of us laugh too.

I
n the History Room Zoey is reading Mrs. DiCoco's story. (I've pulled it together from a quick Tuesday afternoon interview.) She wants to read them all. But I wonder if I should be offering to help her with her own Coming to Butler County project. I know a secret: Zoey Samuels has not started her assignment. I haven't asked her why. Days go by slowly for me while I am missing Mom. But time must be racing for Zoey. Our projects are due in a couple of weeks.

“Aww . . . this is sad,” she says. “Once you know the person, well, it makes you care. Can I see her videos too, Perry?” I pass the camera to her across the dark oak table. She holds it close, tilts her head while she watches the interview.

Outdoors a storm brings flashes of lightning and heavy drum rolls of thunder. The lamps in the History Room flicker under their green glass shades. The thunder builds until it is so loud that Zoey and I can hardly hear each other.
We take my notebook and camera and scrunch down side by side on the floor beneath the window.

“Mrs. DiCoco didn't tell about her trial,” Zoey says. She taps her pencil on the page.

“She always keeps her story short,” I say. “But also, she confessed. A confession is a conviction. So there was no trial.”

“It seems like . . . she shouldn't have to be in prison,” Zoey says with a scowl. “At least not for so long. Same for a lot of them. I mean . . . your mom? Big Ed? They made big mistakes once but would never do it again. They'd never do that
recivi-di-vis
—ack! What is it again?”

“Recidivism.” I say it between rumbles of thunder.

“Yeah, that.”

“Warden Daugherty calls it her goose egg,” I say. I make an
O
with my hands. “Her big beautiful zero, because Blue River has zero percent recidivism. She says it's proof that the place works the way it is supposed to.”

Zoey says, “You have a really good project, Perry. Telling the Blue River Stories . . . it's . . . important. The confessions get to me the most.” She puts her hand over her heart. “When I do bad stuff, it's really hard to admit it.”

“Yeah. But people want to be honorable. Own up, and start taking steps away from the bad thing . . .”

“And then there is Big Ed,” she says. “Did he really even commit a crime? He said he had no fight in him. What if he had tried to defend himself at a trial? What if someone else had defended him?”

We stop talking and listen to the thunder as the storm moves nearer. I think about Mom. She confessed. She didn't get a trial either. I think about how she looks in the viewer of the small camera—how I recognize her as Mom but how there is also something different about her in the videos. Maybe it's like Zoey just said; it's hard to admit a mistake.

Still, something bothers me, especially as I hear more Blue River Stories from other residents. I flip back through the notebook pages until I get to Mom's interview. It is supposed to be finished; it's all written out. But it feels like pieces are missing. I look at the first note I made before she even began talking. She always told me that she ended up at Blue River because she contributed to someone's death and she told lies. Her father died. I know that now. But . . . the lies? I keep reading. Searching.

“Where's the part about the lies?” I say it out loud.

“Perry? What did you say?” A loud boom interrupts. Zoey crouches. “Whoa!” she says. She presses her hands over her ears as louder cracks of thunder sound. The History Room walls shake.

My mind races. What did Mom lie about? Did she tell me? Is it somewhere here in her Blue River story?

There's a flash of lightning. The sky beyond takes an enormous breath—I swear I can feel it from inside the library walls.
Ka-ka-BOOM!
The crack of thunder is deafening. Seconds go by. Then huge raindrops splatter against the History Room windows. They come in a rhythm like
someone is throwing shovelfuls of cinders at the thick glass.

“So loud!” Zoey says, her hands still over her ears. I nod and close the notebook. I'll look at it again tonight.

When Zoey's mom meets us in the History Room, she says, “Tom called and begged us not to head home until this passes. I think he's right.” She glances out the window.

The rain is still pelting the library, pelting all of David City, and probably Surprise too. It's not hailstones today, but I think about Mom—how she said the balls of ice crushed under her feet the night of the accident. What if that storm had not come? Or what if they had not gotten in that car that night? I'm standing in the History Room trying to change history. Everybody knows you can't do that.

In the closet at the VanLeer house I read every word of Mom's Blue River story. I even read it backward. I watch the videos again. I find the place in the beginning where she says that she told lies. I search every note I have. I see this:

They asked again and I told them again, I was driving. And finally, I told them that I had been drinking too.

Told them
. But you can
tell
someone anything. You can tell them something that isn't true. I stand up straight in the VanLeer closet. I bump the warden's suitcase, and it tips. The little reading lamp and the travel clock hit the floor. My heart thumps. Am I wrong?

But why? Why would Mom tell them she had been drinking if she wasn't? Or driving if she wasn't? And if Mom wasn't the driver, who was? Her father? He was sick that night with his chest pains. Her mother? She said her parents were both in the backseat.

“Hey, Perry?” Zoey's mom taps on the door then pops her head in. “I heard a clunk,” she says. “Everything all right?” She looks past me and sees the suitcase and lamp. Then she gives me a long look. “Perry? You okay?” she asks.

“F-fine,” I tell her. My tongue will barely make words.

“Okay.” She turns slowly. “Are you sure?”

I nod. She goes away.

I have to get back to Blue River.

I have to ask Mom about the lies.