She couldn’t tell Morgan about this morning at work, before she left for Atlanta. Couldn’t tell him that Falon had cornered her in the storeroom of Rome Hardware as she was getting together the bills to do their books. He must have waited hidden behind the shelves of stock as she came in. She was standing at an open file drawer when he grabbed her from behind and backed her against the shelves, his voice a low whisper.
“Keep your mouth shut, I can hurt you bad.” His slimy tone sickened her. “You haven’t any man in your bed now, Becky.”
She came alive, kicking him and shouting. He slapped his hand over her mouth. She bit him so hard he grunted and slapped her again, harder. She yelled louder, so the clerks up front had to hear her. “Get out of here! Help! Help me!” When footsteps came pounding he slammed her against the wall, spun away, and was gone, vanishing between the shelves. She heard the back door open and scrape closed, heard the latch click.
The storeroom was empty, only her fear remained.
She had gotten through the confusion with the two clerks and the assistant manager who came running in, had fielded their questions, begged them not to call the police. She’d said she didn’t know who the man was. The Rome police would do nothing to help her, she couldn’t handle their patronization, and she didn’t want Falon’s added rage if she filed a report on him. When she’d mollified the staff, calmed them down, she’d hurried home to Caroline’s to change clothes, to head for Atlanta.
When she told Caroline what had happened, her mother said, “That settles it. You’ll have to move down to Anne’s.”
“But—”
“I talked with her this morning. She was—”
“She doesn’t want us, Mama.”
“Let’s say she was reluctant. She’ll get over it. You have to go, as soon as you can, at least until you find an apartment. As long as you’re here Falon won’t leave you alone, won’t leave Sammie alone.”
Caroline put her arm around Becky. “Anne will soften up once you’re settled in. Once she gets to know you better, and gets to know Sammie.”
Becky said nothing more. This plan would have to do for the moment.
“We can trade cars,” Caroline said, “I keep mine in the garage, he can’t see in there. I always drive the van. I’ll leave your car out, park it in different parts of the drive so he knows it’s being used.”
“It will take me a while to wrap up my accounts,” Becky said, “to give notice and pack a few things.” The thought of moving in with Anne unwanted wasn’t pleasant, she felt like a charity case.
“When you’re ready, we’ll pack the car at night and you can leave before dawn. You said Natalie and Falon sleep late?”
Becky nodded. “I think so, as much as I can tell from the street.” She’d driven by Natalie’s apartment several mornings, looking up at the windows. The curtains were never open until mid-morning, and twice when she drove by at midnight she’d seen the living room and kitchen lights burning. Maybe she could slip away before daylight without Falon knowing.
NOW SHE WATCHED the door into the visiting room open, repeatedly letting other prisoners through, but all were strangers. She watched openly as inmates, each with a black identification number stenciled on his shirt, were hugged and kissed and made over. She needed Morgan to comfort and hold her; and she couldn’t imagine how lost he felt, lost and alone. She didn’t want to think what his life was like within these high, cold walls.
She’d promised herself she’d tell him only hopeful things, that she’d make the move to Atlanta sound like exciting news: She’d be near the prison, she could come every visiting day. If she found a lawyer in Atlanta it would be easier to see him often. But she’d have to lie to him, tell him Anne had invited her. Of course he’d ask questions; he knew the cool relationship between Anne and Caroline. Maybe she could distract him with the four Atlanta attorneys she’d seen this week. She’d leave the best one for last, she thought, smiling.
When a guard ushered Morgan in, for an instant she didn’t recognize him: another reserved figure in prison blues, his eyes cast down, his face expressionless, his hands limp at his sides, his walk stilted as if every ounce of fight had been taken from him.
Or was this rage she was seeing? Confined, bottled-up rage? As if even the smallest movement might stir a violence of rebellion that he dare not unleash? She stood looking, then ran across the big room, flinging herself at him. They held each other close, Morgan’s face against hers, then kissing her neck, her hair, coming alive again. It was all right now, they were together.
Morgan held her away, searching her face. “I was afraid you’d bring Sammie. Does she know you’re here?”
“I didn’t tell her. She’s with Mama. I don’t think she’s ready to come but she would have insisted. She’s still so upset, I wanted to give her more time.”
Ever since Sammie had run from Falon into the bushes she had slept badly, had had nightmares that she wouldn’t talk about, and during most of the day was quiet and withdrawn. Only in the mornings did she seem easier. She would appear from the bedroom after Becky was up, relaxed and sunny and willing to smile. As if something about that last sleep strengthened her, as if her predawn dreams were happy ones. This morning Becky had heard her in her room talking to herself or maybe to her imaginary playmate. Whatever Sammie had found to comfort her was surely needed now.
Sitting on the couch, Morgan’s arm around Becky, comforted by their closeness, they didn’t talk for a long while. Becky wanted to know what it was like inside but she couldn’t ask. She prayed he wouldn’t ask how her work was going. She’d lost so many of her accounts that if she didn’t find a job in Atlanta she’d have to sell the house to hire a new attorney and to rid herself of the mortgage payments. Even some of her oldest bookkeeping jobs had gone sour, so many people believing Morgan guilty had turned against them. She’d lost more than half her customers, though the folks at the hardware had remained loyal. And business at the automotive shop was no better.
She told Morgan that her work and work at the shop were just fine. She hated lying to him. As natural and upbeat as she tried to be, no color returned to his face, no laughter to his eyes. He didn’t brighten when she told him about the four Atlanta lawyers, though he listened carefully, trying to assess each. She had so wanted to find a man she could have confidence in, someone sympathetic but capable and strong, who would give them hope.
“I think,” she said, “Quaker Lowe might be the man. He didn’t sit tapping his fingers on the desk or making lengthy notes on a legal pad as the others did. He focused on me, he really listened to me.”
Lowe was a florid, square-faced man, big and rangy. Wide hands, like a farmer, his suit and white shirt limp from the heat, an active-looking man who seemed out of place in his cramped office. But his blue eyes showed a keen intelligence and, deep down, an easy wit. From the moment she sat down facing him across his desk she had liked him. “He took in what I had to say, all the details of Falon’s setup. I told him about the witnesses, recalled as much of the testimony as I could.
“He said he was booked solid with court cases but he’d do his best to rearrange his schedule, said his assistant would handle some of the court work. He seemed . . . as if he wanted to help. I didn’t get that from the other three.
“He said that if he could take the case he’d come up to Rome within the week and go through the court records.” She laid her hand over Morgan’s. “He really listened, Morgan. He . . . I think he might really care about how you’ve been treated.”