Gone With a Handsomer Man (13 page)

On the way back to the station wagon, she pushed hair out of her eyes. “You’re a good girl, Teeny. But you shouldn’t be around me. Something bad’s gonna happen. I just know it.”

“Let’s just go home,” I said. “Aunt Bluette can hide us on the farm.”

After a security guard chased us out of the lot, Mama stopped at Wal-Mart and went inside. She came back with someone’s pocketbook. We used the money to buy gas and french fries, and we headed to Georgia.

I perked up when signs for Bonaventure flashed by. “Are we going to see Aunt Bluette?” I asked.

“Mmm-hmm,” she said and pulled into the Dairy Queen.

“What if Donnie spots your car?”

“He won’t.” She handed me five dollars. “Run on in and get us two cones.”

I cracked open the door, and she grabbed my arm. Mascara ran down her cheeks.

“Mama, you’re crying,” I said.

“No, I’m not.” She wiped her face and smiled. “It’s just that I love you so much.”

I went inside and ordered the cones. I tried to keep an eye on her, but the windows were pasted up with giant posters of banana splits and Blizzards. The lady handed me the cones, and I told her to keep the change. I ran out. Mama’s car was gone. I walked around the building, holding the cones straight out so they wouldn’t drip on me. But I didn’t see her car anywhere.

I squatted beside the front door and watched customers go in and out. By the time I finished my cone, she still hadn’t come back. Her ice cream lost its shape and ran down my arm, spattering against the pavement. The manager came out and squatted beside me.

“Honey, is somebody picking you up?”

I nodded and looked away, struggling not to cry. Mama’s cone felt soft and spongy. Flies gathered around the puddles, twitching their legs.

“You from around here?” he asked.

“Used to be.”

“You got people here?”

“My aunt.” I wiped my eyes.

“What’s her name?”

“Bluette Templeton.”

“She own that peach farm?”

I nodded.

“I should’ve known,” he said. “You look like a Templeton. Give me the cone, honey, and we’ll go inside and call her.”

“I can’t. It’s for Mama,” I said. She was coming back. She wouldn’t drop me off without my medicine. The manager went back inside. A while later, a policeman showed up and drove me to Aunt Bluette’s. She stepped onto the porch, and I dove at her soft legs. Her hand slid down the back of my head.

“Where’s Ruby?” She squinted at the driveway.

“Gone.”

“You got a suitcase?” Two lines cut across her forehead. “Your medicines?”

I shook my head.

“She’ll come back,” Aunt Bluette said. “Just as soon as she thinks this through, she’ll be back.”

“No, she won’t.” It was the end of August, and she’d dumped me off just in time for school.

“Let’s call Dr. O’Malley and get your prescriptions,” Aunt Bluette said. “Then you and me’ll get her room ready. Run and find the feather duster. It’s in the pantry, same as always. I’ll be right behind you with the vacuum. Ruby’ll be delighted, won’t she?”

I rested on the curve of her voice. I’d forgotten how she broke that word into three parts, de-
LIGHT-
ed, with her voice screaking up in the middle. Mama had run off more times than I cared to remember. She’d always come back, but this time felt different.

While me and Aunt Bluette scrubbed baseboards and changed the sheets, we hummed “Bye Bye Blackbird.” Just like in the song, we packed up our woes. We made Mama’s bed and lit the porch light, but she didn’t show up. We never saw her again. She was gone for good.

seventeen

I awoke on the jail cot and listened to a metal cart squeak down the corridor. Breakfast was being served. I was starving, yet queasy. In a few hours, I would go before the judge. Coop had said this was a bail hearing. If the judge set it too high, or denied it, I’d come right back to this cell.

My eyes teared up a little and I wiped them on the sheet. Now wasn’t the time for a boo-hoo party. I sat up and pushed my hair out of my face. I didn’t have a comb but I didn’t want to go to court looking like a hedgehog.

I raked my fingers through the tangles and thought about Bing. I was guilty of mean thoughts, but I wasn’t capable of murder. I’d been set up. He hadn’t sent me a text message; the murderer had done it. Considering what had transpired between me and Bing, not to mention the restraining order, I could have easily ignored that message and found a cheap boarding house. Or I could’ve gone straight to Bonaventure. If I’d broken probation, at least I would’ve had an alibi—gas receipts stamped with the date and time. Eyewitnesses could have placed me in Georgia. And the real murderer couldn’t have gotten hold of my phone and sent a phony message to Natalie. Nobody would think I’d murdered Bing if I’d been miles and miles away, right? Instead, I’d turned up at a murder scene.

The cart stopped in front of my cell door. A matronly woman slid a tray under the metal gap. Breakfast smells rose up and my stomach rumbled. I crept over to the tray. I was surprised that prison food was so good. A pat of butter skated over fluffy white grits. Sausage patties were arranged around a mound of scrambled eggs. I lifted the biscuit—it was the fluffiest, lightest biscuit I ever saw—and took a greedy bite. Then, I set it down and reached for the plastic spoon. I was so caught up in tasting the sweet yet savory flavor of grits that I barely noticed when a bony hand inched through the bar toward my biscuit.

“Hey!” I cried. My spoon clattered against the tray. The hand grabbed my biscuit. Before it slipped back through the bars, I seized the woman’s wrist.

“That’s my biscuit,” I said.

“Like you need it, you big-leg girl.”

“Drop it,” I said.

“Make me.” She tried to squirm away, but I sank my teeth into her hand. I wasn’t just biting her, I was biting for world hunger, fall guys, injustice. I was biting on behalf of every child whose mama had left them at a Dairy Queen.

The inmate screeched and the biscuit hit my tray. She stepped back, sucking her hand. I felt so ashamed. I’d been in jail overnight and had already had a food fight. No telling what I’d do if I got a prison sentence. I lifted the biscuit, pushed it through the bars, and dropped it onto her tray.

The woman snatched the biscuit, then she scooted her tray away from the bars.

I thought she’d report me for attacking her, but she didn’t say a word when a lady officer brought me an outfit: a brown, pilgrimish dress with a white collar.

“Your lawyer brung it,” she said.

After I got dressed, the officer handcuffed me with a plastic twist tie. I shuffled into the corridor, toward a side door where other prisoners were lined up waiting for a bus.

When we reached the courthouse, I sat on the bench next to a woman who told me she’d been wrongfully accused of killing a rooster. She’d cooked her boyfriend’s prizewinning Rhode Island Red cock and was being charged with animal cruelty.

She grinned, showing a dark front tooth. “You and me’s a pair, ain’t we?”

While I waited for my name to be called, I rehearsed my speech to the judge.

“Quit muttering!” said the rooster killer. “You ain’t having your say. Neither am I. Our shitty lawyers is cutting deals, just like they’d slice a pie.”

“She’s right,” said the woman sitting on my other side. She had a half-moon scar under her left eye. “It’s a done deal. All you need to know is, stand when the sorry-assed judge comes in and stand when he leaves. When he asks you a question, say, ‘Yes, Your Honor’ or ‘No, Your Honor.’ The Honor part is real important. Judges eat it up. If you don’t say it, you’ll get slapped with contempt. That’s more jail time.”

“Thanks,” I said.

“Don’t mention it.”

“Templeton!” called a man in a uniform.

The twist-tie handcuffs stayed put as he led me into the courtroom. The seats were full and people stood along the back wall like they’d come to a free magic show. In a way, it was. Guilty people walked in, and if the stars were aligned, they vanished from society. But the innocent could disappear, too. Now you see me, now you freaking don’t.

A new judge sat behind the high wooden desk. He had a crew cut, John Lennon glasses, and sunburned cheeks. Sunlight fell through the tall windows and hit the empty jury box.

The officer led me down the aisle. Miss Dora sat in the third row. When she saw me, her eyes teared up. She lifted her handbag and mouthed what looked like
Bail
.

I followed the officer into the squared-off area behind a rail. Coop sat at a counsel table, writing on a yellow pad. An accordion folder stood open and papers jutted out. He greeted me with a nod.

Before I could speak, the bailiff cried, “CR-05-409. The State of South Carolina versus Templeton.”

I frowned. That sounded awful harsh—the whole state was against me?

The judge glanced at a paper, and his glasses slid down his nose. “We’re addressing bail?”

“Yes, Your Honor,” Coop said.

“Miss Templeton is being held in the detention center, correct?”

“Yes, Your Honor,” Coop said.

“Miss Templeton, you’re charged with trespassing and violating a restraining order. Do you understand these charges?”

“Yes, Your Honor,” I said in my most reverent, scared-of-burning-in-hell voice.

Coop talked about the South Carolina Constitution and how all people are entitled to bail except murderers. He asked the court to continue my unsupervised probation and to release me on my own recognizance.

At the other table, a man with short sandy hair stood up—I was pretty sure he was the DA. He said I was a flight risk, adding that on the day of my arrest, my car had been found packed with clothes. Coop argued that I was moving to another apartment, not another state. The judge told me to rise. “Miss Templeton, you will post $25,000 bond. You will surrender your passport to your attorney. I’m continuing unsupervised probation, but if you leave the state, you’ll lose bail and be put in jail. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Your Honor,” I said, even though I didn’t have a passport. I was worried about bail. $25,000 was a lot of money, and Miss Dora had brought a small pocketbook.

After the hearing, I followed Coop into the hall. A detention center deputy started to lead me away. “Wait, Coop?” I called over my shoulder. “They’re not taking me back to jail, right?”

“Just until the bail is posted and the paperwork goes through,” Coop said.

Miss Dora walked up and glared at the deputy. “Is the trial over? Is she cleared?”

The deputy shook his head. “No, ma’am. This was just the bail hearing, not a trial. That’s later.”

“Teeny is innocent,” Miss Dora said. “Y’all should look for the real criminal.”

She drew me into a hug, and I breathed in her rose-petal perfume. She pulled back and smiled at Coop. “I’m Dora Jackson. And you must be Mr. O’Malley?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“What was Teeny charged with?” she asked.

“Trespassing and violating an order of protection.”

“Why’d they put her in jail over a little thing like that?”

“Because she was on probation when she was arrested. The judge could have come down a lot harder.”

“Thank goodness he didn’t.” She lifted her pocketbook. “Where do I post bail?”

“You need to see the bail bondsman,” said the deputy.

Miss Dora turned to Coop. “You
are
awfully handsome. But I’m wondering if you’re the right lawyer for Teeny. I don’t understand why she had a bond hearing in the first place.”

“She was arrested on a warrant,” Coop said. “She had to go before the judge.”

“All that is just over my head.” Miss Dora patted my arm. “I’ll be gone all day—back-to-back appointments. If you need me, call.”

The officer started to lead me away, but Coop stopped him. “I’ll try to expedite the paperwork. Just go with the deputy. I’ll be right behind you, okay?”

“You better be, O’Malley,” I said.

eighteen

When I got back to the detention center, a female officer took me to a holding area. She removed my handcuffs and escorted me to a hall, where Coop was waiting.

“That was fast.” I smiled, then I frowned. “How can I do nothing and be in this much trouble?”

“Happens all the time.”

Police were milling about. Coop touched my elbow, and we stepped down a long corridor, through metal doors, into the parking lot. “Your car hasn’t been released,” he said. “Do you have a place to stay?”

“I have a key to the Spencer-Jackson House.”

“You don’t own the property, do you?”

“No. But Miss Dora said I could stay.”

“Has she given her written permission?” Coop asked.

“No, but I’m sure she’d be happy to.”

“Does she own the house?”

“It’s part of the Jackson estate.”

“I don’t like gray areas, Teeny. I’d just feel better if I had a signed document.”

“She won’t be home until later.” I leaned across the seat. “I couldn’t talk you into taking me to Bonaventure, could I?”

“You’d violate the terms of your parole. The police would go into a feeding frenzy, and the bondsman would send a bounty hunter after you.”

“I’m just kidding.”

“Well, I’m not kidding about the Spencer-Jackson House. You shouldn’t stay there without written permission.”

“Then drop me off at a safe, cheap hotel.”

“Could be a problem without reservations. You know how it is this time of year.”

“Right.” Tourist season was a bad time to be homeless in Charleston. On the other hand, he seemed to be making excuses. That excited me.

“I just live up the road a piece,” he said. “We’ll make some calls. See if we can’t find you a room.”

*   *   *

“Up the road a piece” turned out to be a gray clapboard house on Isle of Palms. It resembled a modern schoolhouse with tiny square windows, peaked dormers, and a wraparound deck. Built on pilings, the house seemed to float above the sea oats.

Coop steered onto the narrow, curved driveway. Through the dunes, I saw slashes of the Atlantic.

“Can you handle a stick shift?” He pointed at a gray ’69 Mustang in the carport. It was the same car he’d driven in high school.

I nodded.