"What reasons?"
"It's for the safety of the community. So we don't set off a panic."
Angus asked, "Don't you think they have a right to know?"
"Frankly, no." Machik stood up slowly. The mood in the room had changed, and Nat and Angus stood up as well. "I do have to get back to work. I'll talk to the warden and let you know."
"When is lockdown ending?" Angus asked. "I have a client with an appeal at the end of the week. I need to meet with him to file his papers."
"Unsure. Call before you come." Machik picked up his plate, his burger half eaten, and shook Nat's hand. "Again, I'm very sorry about what happened to you. I've enjoyed meeting you."
"It's mutual," Nat said, but her lying wasn't improving.
Chapter 15
It was Domestic Initiative Night, and Nat stood at the sink in her kitchen washing a bundle of floppy watercress, waiting for Hank. He'd called to see how she was, and she'd said she'd tell him over dinner, but he was running late. She poured chilled chardonnay into a thin crystal glass and slipped an audiobook into the CD player: Frank McCourt reading his memoir Teacher Man. She set the watercress in the strainer, took a sip of cool, tangy wine, and breathed a relaxed sigh as soon as McCourt began to speak, his charming Irish lilt reverberating like Gaelic music in the galley kitchen.
"Here they come. And I'm not ready. How could I be? I'm a new teacher and learning on the job"
Nat gathered wet watercress from the colander, put it in the salad spinner, slapped on the lid, and set it whirling. Each simple task carried her further from weeping widows and prison officials, from razorwire and stab wounds. The salad spun dry, and she took another sip of wine, eyeing the view outside the kitchen window. The cityscape under a curved moon, rocking in a black sky.
She took the dry watercress out of the spinner, arranged it on two white china plates, and scooped a perfect mound of lobster salad on top of each, light on the mayo, with chunky celery and fresh lemon.
She slid a wooden mill from the shelf and ground fresh pepper on each salad, releasing the pungent scent of the peppercorns and adding the finishing touch. She carried both salads to the table and assessed the setting with a food critics eye. Round cherry table. The tasteful glow of two ivory candles, smokeless. Real linen napkins, also ivory. Red chunks of lobster adding just the right boldness. The stage was Revelations About Scary Scratches.
She cleaned up the sink, put away the dishes, and wiped down the black granite countertops until they glistened darkly. She took a self-satisfied sip of chardonnay, finally feeling at peace in the quiet apartment, the atmosphere enhanced by the sensibility of a writer as fine as Frank McCourt. On the audiobook, he was managing to articulate her own thoughts about her profession, though he'd never met her. Which, of course, was the magic of books.
"Honey!" came a shout from the front door. It was Hank, at the top of his lungs.
"TURN ON THE TV! RIGHT NOW! IT'S IMPORTANT!" It was her brother Paul, even louder.
Paul's here? "What's going on?" Nat set down her wineglass, alarmed. Something must be on the news. Maybe about the prison. She crossed to the TV, a silver Samsung on the counter.
"IT'S GOING INTO DOUBLE OVERTIME!" Paul shouted, barreling toward her with Hank, and the three almost collided as the men thundered into the kitchen, racing to the TV.
Babe, where's the remote? Quick!" Hank hoisted his briefcase and gym bag onto the counter, knocking over her wineglass. It shattered upon impact, sending the chardonnay spilling onto the counter and over the side.
"Hank! Be careful." Nat grabbed a paper towel. "Oops. Sorry, sweetheart! Why is it so dark in here? Where's the clicker?"
"FORGET IT!" Paul stood at the TV, punching the Power button.
The sleek TV sprang to life, and a square of supersaturated hues glowed in the candlelit kitchen, flickering frantically as Paul kept hitting the channel changer on the cable box like a video game.
"Don't break the TV, Paul," Nat said, her tone big sister circa 1986, even to her. She pressed the paper towel into the spill, then reached for another to wipe the floor before the wine soaked between the boards.
"HE SHOOTS, HE SCORES!"
"All right!" Hank slapped Paul high five, as Nat rose with the wet towels and tossed them into the wastebasket. Shards of thin glass were strewn across the counter, glinting in the candlelight. She'd never get it all up in the dark.
"Don't cut yourself, guys." Nat flicked on the overheard lights, blinked against the brightness, and unrolled another towel.
"Sorry, sweetheart," Hank said, touching her shoulder. The TV set his profile aglow, his features flickering blue and red. "But this is the most incredible game ever."
Nat hit the Off button on the audiobook. "When will the game be over?
"TRAVELING! THAT'S TRAVELING, REF!" Paul pointed at the TV with the outrage of Emile Zola.
"And why is my crazy brother here? Hank?" Nat could see that Paul's cold was just fine.
"Pass, you turd!" Hank joined in, yelling at the TV. "Pass! God, he's such a hot dog!"
"PASS! NO, REF! WHERE'S THE FOUL, REF! WHAT ARE YA, STUPID?"
"Hank?" Nat raised her voice over the game. "Can you answer me?
"Sorry. Our meeting ran late. What's for dinner? We're starved! Hank's attention remained riveted on the TV. "Fade away! Yes!"
"We? Paul is staying for dinner?" Nat didn't worry overmuch about hurting her brother's feelings. His ego was congenitally bulletproof.
"If we feed him, he'll go," Hank answered, glued to the game.
"YES! THREE POINTER! WE'RE ON THE MOOOOOV-VVEEE!"
Nat poured herself a new glass of wine. She took a sip, mentally going to Plan B. She'd offer Paul some extra lobster salad, and then she and Hank could eat alone after he'd gone. At least Hank was hungry. Even in the bright light, the lobster salad looked delicious.
"I'd kill for a burger," Hank said to the TV, his eyes dancing across the basketball court.
"BURGERS WITH CHEESE! PICKLES! THE WORKS! YES!"
Nat blinked. "I made the perfect lobster salad."
"We had lobster for lunch, babe. " Hank threw his arms in the air. "Oh, come on, Iverson! You gotta make that shot!"
Lobster for lunch? "Who has lobster for lunch?"
"YES! WHAT A SHOT! C-WEB! SO SMOOTH! DIDJA SEE THAT? SWEET!"
"We took clients to the Palm."
"Why is Paul here?"
"We took one car. He's dropping me off. Do we have any burgers?"
Nat sighed inwardly. At the prison. Wanna go?
"Shoot, you lard ass!"
"A.I. WITH THE FADEAWAY! YES! I SWEAR, THIS IS GOIN' INTO DOUBLE OVERTIME!"
Nat went to the refrigerator for ground beef.
Later, after the Sixers beat the Celtics in triple overtime, and Paul and his mouth had finally gone home, Nat and Hank sat at the table, she behind a cup of Celestial Seasonings and he a bottle of Heineken.
She told him the lite version of the Buford story, then about Saunder's death his last words, and the visit to his widow. "That's terrible, babe." Hank eyed her, his brown eyes rich with sympathy, and his usual grin gone for good. "You could have been really hurt."
"I know."
"I mean, this Buford character, what if he had gotten out of control? You could have been killed."
Tell me about it. "Honestly, I feel as if that's almost behind me. What's in front of me is telling the wife."
Hank scratched his head, mussing his red-brown hair. "'It's under the floor'? What did he mean by that?"
"Maybe his will, or some money? I don't know, but I hope she'll understand when I tell her." Nat sipped her cooling tea. "I dread going out there again."
"Then why don't you just call? Tell her over the phone."
"I told her I'd go back."
"Women." Hank smiled and took a swig from the green bottle, then Nat filled him in about the visit to the prison and the press release, which was where they disagreed. Hank set down his bottle. "I don't think they need to put in the press release where the bodies were found."