I’m relieved, but I can’t remember what’s supposed to come next. “Um… could you hold on just a minute, please?” I thumb through the note cards I’ve made up until I get to the right one. “Okay. Got it.”
Raymond leans up and whispers, “Talk to the jury, Hope.”
“Right.” I step closer to the jurors and begin at the beginning. “That morning of June eleventh, Coach Johnson got up early. It was a cloudy morning, but nobody expected rain. He walked to the ballpark, like he did every game day, so he could post the team roster for the day’s game.” My mind flashes me a picture-not of Coach or the ballpark, but of the roster again, the one I saw in Coach’s office, the one with Chase Wells crossed out and T. J. Bowers written in. I make myself keep going. “Then he went to the barn to do chores. He might have started mucking stalls before Jeremy arrived, just to help him out. We’ll never know that.”
I go back to the defense table because I need the right jar. “I think that brings us to this next jar. The date is the morning of the murder, and the time is seven-ten a.m.” I take the jar over to the jury box and walk it along the rail while each juror leans forward and studies the date, written with black marker on the bottom of the jar. Juror Number Three pulls her glasses out of her purse and puts them on. Juror Number Eight waves me away as soon as I get to him.
“Seven-ten in the morning,” I repeat. “That means the air in this jar was collected by Jeremy a few minutes after Rita got to the barn. Remember how Rita was so sure she got there at seven minutes after seven? Seven-oh-seven.”
I study the lid of this jar that I think may have held grape jelly once. “I haven’t opened this jar before,” I tell the jury. “But I’m going to do it right now.” I twist the lid in one turn and pick out the label from the underside of the lid. My heart is jumping in my chest, making my hands shake. I can barely unfold the jagged paper. I read: A fortress of gray clouds as I walk to the barn on game day. My heart stops thundering. I try not to show how relieved I am, but I shoot up a Jeremy-style prayer of thanks.
“We know that Jeremy got up really early too because he always did. He couldn’t wait to put on his Panther uniform. Jer loved game day. He was so excited about the game that he must have stopped to write this note and collect air on his walk to the barn.
“Jeremy makes it to the barn and parks his bat, like always, and maybe his batting gloves-we don’t know for sure. He starts to look for Coach, but he hears voices. Arguing. Screaming-at least Rita was. Maybe he’d seen Rita’s car, and maybe he hadn’t. It doesn’t matter. He walks toward the shouting, but Jeremy hates arguing, so he stops, maybe hides.
“And that’s when Jeremy hears something he never thought he’d hear. His own mother shouts, ‘Jeremy is your son! You better pay up.’ Or something like that. Those words would ring in Jeremy’s ears. Your son. Jeremy is your son. Coach’s son! Can you imagine what went through Jeremy’s mind? He had a father, the best father in the whole world. Coach was already the best man in Jeremy’s world. Now he had a father who was kind and good to him, who loved him.”
I can’t look at Jeremy. I won’t look at Jeremy. He’ll make me stop. Or he’ll cry, and I’ll want to stop.
“So what does Jeremy do next? He does not want to hear his parents argue. He wants to let those words play in his head: Jeremy is your son. So he races out of the barn, grabbing his pack with his jars in it-he has to record this day, this moment of all moments. He stumbles to the pasture, and there’s old Sugar. He’s ridden her bareback with the halter a dozen times before. So he jumps on that old pinto and rides. Beside himself with joy, he circles the pasture on Sugar-people saw him. Pretty soon, the old horse slows down and goes back to grazing, with Jeremy on her back.
“Maybe that’s when Jer gets off the horse. Maybe he rolls in the grass, or twirls in the pasture, or dances a jig-who knows? Having a dad feels too good to be true.”
I walk back to the defense table and take up the next jar, a honey jar, dimpled on the sides. “This is a day that Jeremy Long… Jeremy Johnson… never wants to forget. His world has changed in one moment. He has a dad. A daddy. And he already loves John Johnson. So he takes out this honey jar from his backpack. He writes the date on the bottom of the jar with his special pen that writes on glass, the pen he always carries with him. And he writes the time, 7:44 a.m.”
I walk the jar over to the jury, showing them the flat bottom with the date and time in black calligraphy. “Can’t you see him, waving the jar high above his head and snapping on the lid, capturing the glorious air on the day he found out he had a father, a kind and loving father?”
I pop open the jar. I’m dizzy, woozy with the air in this jar, or the lack of it in the courtroom. I wish I’d read the note first. I unfold the note and read it to the jury. “It says, Air on my first Father’s Day. ” Tears try to squeeze up my throat. My mouth fills with them, and I have to swallow so hard it hurts.
I go back to the table and trade jars, choosing the next one in line. I’ve already read the time written on the bottom of this one. “This next jar is labeled only three minutes later, three minutes after the last jar filled with air of a special ‘Father’s Day.’ ” I show the date and time to the jury. “I think there was too much joy in Jeremy for only one jar. So he had to use another.” I’m pretty sure this note will be filled with more hallelujahs about having a dad, but I open it anyway. The courtroom has gone quiet, not even a cough. I read the note out loud: Chase runs toward the sun on my Father’s Day.
I stare at the slip of paper in my hand, Jeremy’s tight calligraphy still dancing on the paper. I read it again, to myself this time.
But Chase didn’t run that day.
I don’t understand. I try to catch Chase’s attention, but his head is down. My stomach cramps. Tiny claws pinch my insides. How could Jeremy have seen Chase if he didn’t run that day? Chase said he didn’t run on game days.
“Hope,” Raymond whispers, loud enough for me to hear, “open the last jar.”
I don’t move.
“You want me to do it?” Raymond asks, reaching for it. When I don’t answer, he picks up the jar and stands. Numb, I watch as he turns the jar upside down and faces the jury. “This jar is dated the same day, June eleventh, the day of the murder. The time written on the bottom is 8:01.” Raymond turns to me, frowning. “That’s right before Mrs. McCray came into the barn and found John Johnson dead.” Slowly, he rolls the jar in his hands until it’s right side up. He walks toward the jury, his hand on the lid of the final jar.
I can’t let him do it. I run after him. “No! Don’t!” Grabbing the jar from his hands, I beg him. “Please? Please, Raymond. I’ll read it.”
He nods and sits back down.
I hold the jar gently, the glass cool in my hand. At last, I turn to my brother. I’m still afraid he’ll shout at me with his eyes, scream for me to stop. But he’s not even looking at me. Instead, he’s gazing up, smiling, taking deep breaths of the air I’ve released into the courtroom, his father’s air. He closes his eyes and inhales so long I half expect him to float away.
I move in closer to the jury and hold up the jar so the jurors can see the lid, the dark red dried in the ridges of the rim. “You can see this is blood that-”
Keller objects, and the judge sustains.
But I know they’ve seen it, the blood. “Jeremy has been happier than he’s ever been in his life. A father. A loving father. With that air tucked away in his jars, he goes back to the barn. We may never know what he planned to do. Maybe he’d just watch John Johnson in a new light from now on. Maybe he’d hug his father and draw him pictures to tape to his refrigerator. Maybe my brother would have spoken, called him Daddy.
“But Jeremy never gets the chance. Instead, when he walks into the barn, he doesn’t see his father. He searches the stalls for him. Then Jer spots him, his father, lying in a muddy red pool of sawdust and blood. Does he scream? Does he cry? Whatever else he does, he runs to his father and kneels beside him. The blood soaks into his uniform. He hugs this man who has been his father for less than an hour. Hugs and rocks him.