T.J. turns to me, his bushy eyebrows raised. I shake my head. I just want to get home and be by myself. “Just let me out at the intersection.” He points to West Elm, his street.
Chase pulls over, and T.J. climbs out, thanking our driver two more times, then leaning into the back before shutting the door. “I’ll call you about tomorrow.”
I nod. “Thanks, T.J.” Amazing how much thanksgiving is going on in this car.
In dead silence, with me still in the backseat, Chase drives through town and turns onto my block. I should feel embarrassed by the house we’re renting. It’s pretty awful. But I guess I’m past being embarrassed. Having a brother on trial for murder will do that to you.
“Uh-oh.” Chase takes his foot off the gas.
“What?” I look up to see a blue van with WTSN on the side. It’s parked in front of my house.
6
I don’t say anything, but I’m grateful when Chase drives past my house. I slump down in the backseat as he passes the minicrowd hanging out on our front lawn. “Stay down,” he commands.
After they arrested Jer, it was like this for a week or two, but they’ve mostly left Rita and me alone since then. “If you let me off at the next block, I can circle back and go in through the kitchen.”
Chase stops where I tell him to, and I get out. “Thanks, Chase,” I say through the window. Only I mean it this time. Maybe he’s not Jeremy’s and my enemy just because his dad is. I suppose I’m the last person who ought to judge a kid by his parent.
He nods and drives off. I watch his car until it turns the corner-I’m not sure why I do that. Then I hightail it through Old Man Galloway’s yard and backtrack to my house.
I guess I haven’t walked through our backyard in a while-that, or Jack Beanstalk sprinkled seeds out here last night. Some of the weeds are almost as tall as I am. I pick up the beer cans, empty potato chip bags, and candy wrappers on my way through, then dump everything into the smelly trash bin by the back door.
The second I step inside, I’m smothered by a blanket of humidity. The after-rain freshness hasn’t touched this house, where a musty onion smell hangs in the air. It takes a few seconds for my nostril cells to die so that I can breathe again.
Heavy metal blares from the bedroom radio, and canned laughter cackles from the TV in the living room, where lights and shadows battle.
I make it as far as the hallway when Rita steps out of her bedroom. She’s wearing a denim skirt that’s too tight and too short, but I’d never say so to her face. Her red checkered shirt is unbuttoned for maximum display. There’s never been the slightest question of where I got my own cleavage. Other than that, we don’t look a thing alike. We’re about the same height, five six, but I don’t think Rita has ever been thin like me. Her eyes are big and brown. Her hair is bleached blond now, frizzy and overpermed, but she’s a natural brunette. The dark roots have grown a couple of inches out from her scalp. I can tell she’s heading off to waitress at the Colonial Cafe because she’s caught up her hair in a rhinestone clip-a safety pin snapped around a haystack.
She squints up the hall at me. “Where the devil have you been?” In other families, like T.J.’s, mothers greet their kids with “Hi, honey. How was your day?” This is Rita’s version.
“I’ve been in court.” Suddenly I’m dying of thirst. I head back to the kitchen.
“I know that,” she snaps, following me.
“And you didn’t drive me home, so-”
“I know that too. What I want to know is why that TV van is parked out front. What did you say in that courtroom?”
“I said Jeremy was crazy. Isn’t that what you wanted me to say?” I open the fridge. Nothing to drink but beer and out-of-date milk.
“You better have said that.” She checks her watch. “Raymond called and wants you at his place at seven.”
I step back so I can see the pear-shaped kitchen clock that hangs above the toaster. It’s six-fifteen. The sooner I get out of this prep-school skirt and blouse, the better. I need my jeans. I head for my room, which is just off the living room. Jeremy’s bedroom separates Rita’s and mine. “Can you drop me off on your way to work?” I ask.
“No. I’m leaving now. I was supposed to be there at six. I hate this shift.” She says this like it’s my fault she’s working tonight. It probably is. If I didn’t have to get coached by Raymond, Rita would likely make me work for her.
Coached by Raymond. I don’t even want to think the word coached. Suddenly a picture pops into my head of Coach Johnson straightening Jeremy’s Panther hat before a game, as if my brother would be stepping up to the batter’s box and had to look just right. Jeremy’s tongue is hanging out, like a puppy that’s been patted on the head.
I shake my head to get rid of that image. As if my brain is an Etch A Sketch, the tiny gray crystals of Jeremy and Coach together break up and slide down. But they’re both still on my mind.
Rita hasn’t left yet. I trail back to the living room, where she’s reapplying dark red lipstick, making a fish face in the mirror. “Rita,” I ask, leaning on the back of the sofa, “what was he like?”
“Who?”
We’re six feet apart, a body’s length. Coach was about six feet tall. “Coach Johnson. What was he like?”
She shoves a pack of cigarettes into her purse. “You saw him more than I did.”
“But you and Coach went to high school together, right? What was he like then?”
Still not looking at me, she stands on one foot and slaps a two-inch-heeled sandal onto her other foot. “He was like every high school boy-girl-crazy. And not a one of them knew what to do with a girl when they got one.” She sticks her other foot into a sandal and stares at her red-tipped toes. “Jay Jay wasn’t quite like the rest, though. He was all right.”
This is a lot for Rita to say about any male. I try to imagine both of them at my age, but I can’t see it.
“It was a long time ago.” She grabs her purse off the back of the chair and opens the front door. “The TV van’s gone.” I can’t tell if she’s disappointed or relieved. She takes our umbrella and closes the door behind her.
By the time I grab a sandwich and change into jeans, I have to leave for Raymond’s. I know where his house is, even though I’ve never been inside. All of our other meetings with Raymond have been at our house, or in his tiny law office on Main, next to the Subway shop.
Since Rita took the umbrella, I have to hope the rain holds off for now, and that Raymond can drive me home when we’re done. The shortest route is straight up Main Street, but I don’t take that. Instead, I circle the back lot behind the IGA and go across the street to the thrift store, behind the post office, through the bank drive-through to the sidewalk by St. Stephen’s Catholic Church, then across the damp grass of the practice field behind the high school, where Ann, who used to be kind of a friend at school, told me couples go to make out.
From here, it’s about a ten-minute walk. It gives me time to think. And to plan. Since day one, Raymond and Rita have gone with the insanity plea for Jeremy. I went along because it scared me to think about what would happen to Jeremy if the jury found him guilty. Raymond’s lined up doctors to talk about what’s wrong with Jer, and I’m supposed to help with the “human side.” But I hated telling those stories in court. My brother isn’t insane. He’s innocent.
So far, the rain is holding off, sticking to the air like it’s afraid to hit earth. A girl younger than me is mowing her lawn with a push mower. She’s wearing a tank top and shorts and listening to her iPod. When she looks up and sees me, she wheels the mower around and cuts a strip through her lawn all the way to her front porch.
Seconds later, a car pulls beside me. The driver gawks like I’m a traffic accident, then drives away. At the next intersection, an Amish buggy crosses. I close my eyes and listen to the clip-clop of the horse’s hooves on pavement, the squeaky jiggle of the buggy. I’d trade places with any of the four kids piled into the back of the buggy, or the mother driving. I could disappear into the black dress and white bonnet, the sensible shoes, and the sensible family.