She started walking toward home, but when she got to Viewcrest, instead of turning into her yard, she kept going, past the historical society museum toward Water’s Edge.
At the door to the cottage, she finally stopped long enough to think about what she was doing.
She didn’t want to tell Vivi Ann about Noah’s quest for DNA testing if she didn’t have to.
But that seed of doubt was back, and she had to eradicate it.
She knocked; Noah almost immediately answered.
“Hey, Aunt Winona,” he said. “Did you read the article?”
Vivi Ann’s voice came from the kitchen. “Who is it, Noah?”
“Aunt Winona,” he yelled back.
Winona leaned toward him, whispered, “I need to know which arm Dallas had his tattoo on.”
“I don’t have a clue.”
Vivi Ann came into the living room. “Hey, Win. This is a nice surprise. You want some tea?”
“Sure.” She followed her sister into the small, cozy living room of the cottage. Gone were the dingy pine wooden walls; in their place, everything was white—the walls, the peaked ceiling, the trim. Twin sets of small-paned French doors looked out over the back deck and the horse pastures below. The overstuffed furniture was upholstered in country French fabrics of marigold and Wedgwood blue.
What now? Noah mouthed.
Winona shrugged. Ask her.
Me?
Vivi Ann brought her a cup of tea. Winona sipped it while her sister built a fire in the river-rock hearth.
Noah cleared his throat. “Hey, Mom. I’ve been thinking about something.”
“That sounds ominous.”
“What do you think about tattoos?”
Vivi Ann backed away from the fireplace and turned around. “I think everyone knows that I’m not anti-tattoo . . . for adults.”
“What if I wanted to get one?”
“I’d say the law is that you can get a tattoo at eighteen.”
“Sixteen, with a parent’s consent.”
“I see. And did you turn sixteen without my knowledge?”
“I’m just thinking ahead.”
“Really?”
“If I did get a tattoo, I’d want it where dad has his. Which arm was that?”
Vivi Ann looked suspicious. “You’ve never mentioned your father’s tattoo before.”
“Which arm was it on?”
“Why do you want to know?”
“See, Aunt Winona?” He walked out of the living room, muttering something about the Spanish Inquisition and slamming his bedroom door.
“What the hell was that about?” Vivi Ann asked.
“Where was Dallas’s tattoo?” Winona asked quietly.
“His left bicep. Why?”
“You’d better start talking,” Vivi Ann said a moment later. The sudden silence felt weighted. Dangerous. “What’s this about Dallas?”
“It’s about Noah, really. He came to my office a week ago, said he wanted to hire me.”
“He’s in legal trouble?”
“That’s what I thought. It’s why I took his case. But . . .”
“But what?”
“It turns out he was interested in his father.”
Vivi Ann nodded. “He’s been obsessed with Dallas lately. Why did he need you to find out that tattoo thing? I would have told him if he’d asked. Or is he afraid to ask me? Is that it? It is, isn’t it? He thinks I don’t want to tell him anything about Dallas.”
“He wants me to petition the court for a new DNA test. The methods are better now. But we both know Dallas won’t agree to it,” Winona added quickly.
It was like getting smacked in the chest when you weren’t expecting it. Vivi Ann stood up slowly, unable to quite look at her sister. It took everything she had inside of her not to run. “I need to go talk to Noah. You should leave.”
“We’re okay, aren’t we?” Winona asked, rising.
“Sure.”
They both knew it was a lie, and a necessary one. Their reconciliation had always demanded a certain fiction, a tacit pretense that Dallas hadn’t really come between them. Now, of course, he was back, between them as clearly as if he’d been standing in the room.
Without saying more, she headed toward Noah’s bedroom. At his door, she knocked hard a couple of times. There was no answer, so she went inside.
He was sitting on his bed, with his knees drawn up to his chest and his eyes closed, rocking out to some music on his iPod. She couldn’t see the headphones hidden within his ears, but she could hear the tinny echo of music played much too loudly.
She went over and tapped him on the shoulder.
He reacted like a startled horse, shying away from her hand, but she could tell by the wary look in his eyes that he’d expected her. He pulled the earbuds out and tossed the tiny silver player on his bed.
She went to the end of his bed and sat down opposite him, leaning back against the footboard. “You could have come to me with this, you know.”
“How?”
“You just walk up to me and say, ‘Mom, I have something I need to do.’ ”
It was a long moment before he looked at her and said, “Most kids remember their moms reading them to sleep. I remember running to get you toilet paper and crawling up into your lap to wipe your eyes. I thought I was bad, that it was my fault. It was Aunt Aurora who told me that my daddy had broken your heart and that I needed to be strong for you. I was six years old when she told me that.”
“Oh, Noah.” Vivi Ann had blocked out so much of that time; it was what she’d ultimately had to do: forget and go on. “I never knew you and Aurora even talked like that.”
“She was the one I went to when I had questions. She was the only one who’d tell me the truth. You acted like he was dead.”
“I had to,” was all she could say.
“But he’s not dead.”
“No, he’s not.”
“And I have a right to try and help him.”
Vivi Ann almost smiled. Usually she saw Dallas in Noah; just now, she saw herself. “I know how you feel, believe me. I should have seen it coming and helped you. I’m sorry.”
“You won’t stop Aunt Winona?”
The question was like an undercurrent in calm water; it came suddenly and sucked her under until she could hardly breathe. It had almost killed her, the hope necessary to do battle with the justice system. She’d believed in the law at the beginning. But if she tried again, failed again, she was certain she’d drown. “I won’t stop you. But . . . I don’t want you to get your hopes up. Disappointment can be toxic if you aren’t careful. And your dad . . . might not agree to the test.”
“So you do think he did it.”
Vivi Ann looked at her son, hating the heartbreak that was stalking him. Quietly, she said, “Dallas trusts the courts even less than I do, and he’s even more afraid of hope. His whole life the system let him down. That’s one of the reasons he might say no.”
They both knew what the other reason was.
“It’ll be over then, won’t it?” Noah said.
If there was one truth Vivi Ann knew to her bones, it was that loss, like love, had a beginning but no real end. “Yes,” she lied, “I guess it will be.”
Chapter Twenty-four
On the long drive to the prison, Winona rehearsed what she would say to Dallas. I’m here on behalf of your son. You do remember—Idiot. Don’t bait him, she admonished herself.
I’m here on behalf of your son. He wants to petition the courts to test the DNA found at the crime scene. Surely, if you weren’t there that night, you’ll want to do the same thing.
She glanced down at her watch when she pulled up to the prison. It was one forty-five. If everything went well, she would be back at Mark’s house in time for dinner.
She drove up to the guard tower and gave her name into the speaker beside her window. While waiting for approval, she looked out over the forbidding gray stone, chain-link fence, and razor-wire worl
d of the prison. She could see the armed guard in the tower, and as she drove through the gates and into the parking area, she couldn’t suppress a shudder of apprehension. The gate clanged shut behind her.
She forced a straightness into her spine, surprised by how frightening it was to simply visit here. How had Vivi Ann done it every Saturday for years?
She entered the administration building and was immediately struck by the noise. Although there weren’t a lot of people around, the walls vibrated with sound. The place seemed at once both eerily empty and bizarrely crowded.
At the desk, she signed in, got an ID badge, stowed her purse and coat in the locker room, and went through the metal detector.
“Usually lawyers request a private meeting with their clients,” the guard commented as he led her down the corridor. The echoing din grew louder. “You new?”
“This meeting won’t take that long.”
At last he came to a door and opened it.
Winona walked slowly into the room, feeling acutely conspicuous in her expensive wool pantsuit. Taking an empty seat, she stared through the fingerprint-smudged Plexiglas, afraid to touch anything. She could hear snippets of conversation going on around her, but nothing was really distinct. All up and down the row, people were pressing hands to the fake glass, trying impossibly to connect, to touch.
Finally the door opened and Dallas was there, in his baggy orange jumpsuit and his worn flip-flops. His hair was longer now, well past his shoulders, and his face had hollowed out. The darkness of his skin had paled somewhat; still, there was a frightening intensity about him, a barely checked energy that made her think he could come through this flimsy Plexiglas barrier and grab her by the throat.
He picked up the phone, said, “Is Vivi Ann okay?”
“She’s fine.”
“Noah?”
She heard the emotion in his voice; saw a vulnerability in his gray eyes. “Noah’s fine. In fact, he’s the reason I’m here. Sit down.”
“Say something worth sitting down for.”
“I’m here on behalf of your son. He wants to petition the court—”
Dallas threw down the receiver so hard it cracked against the Plexiglas. Then he turned and walked away. The guard opened the door for him, and without looking back, he disappeared into the buzzing, thudding growl of prison life.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Winona muttered. She sat there a long time, staring at the smudged glass, waiting for him to return.
Finally, a woman came up to her, touched her shoulder, and asked if she was waiting to see a prisoner.
“I guess not,” she said, scooting her chair back.
When Aunt Winona got home from the prison, I was waiting for her on her front step. It was raining hard and I was totally soaked, but I didn’t care. I saw her drive up and get out of her car and walk up the path.
She was by the dorky mermaid fountain when she saw me standing there in the rain.
I’m sorry she said.
I asked what he said, what excuses he gave, and Aunt Winona said he wouldn’t even talk to her about it. She said, I told him what you wanted and he just got up and walked out.
It made me want to scream or cry or punch someone, but I knew what a waste all of that was. So I thanked her for trying and walked home.
By the time I got to our house, the rain was falling so hard I sucked in water when I breathed. I opened the front door and saw my mom. She was sitting on the coffee table, trying to look cool, but I could tell that she was worried. She got up and came toward me, saying something about my wet clothes.
All I got out was the word Dad and like a total zero, I started to cry.
She hugged me and said It’s okay a bunch of times like she used to, but I know It’s a lie. I miss my dad, I said, even tho I don’t know who in the hell he is. Even tho he’s a murderer.
He’s more than that, Mom said. She told me to remember that she’d loved him and he’d loved me.
I told her I would but it was bullshit. I’m not gonna remember that he used to love me. That’s exactly what I’m gonna try to forget.
October was a month of gray days, cool nights, and thready, inconstant rain. The shorter days were busy for Winona as she prepared for the coming election.
From the outside looking in, anyone who was casually watching Winona would surely have seen nothing out of the ordinary. She was at her desk answering phone calls and seeing clients by eight o’clock in the morning. At lunch, more often than not, she could be found at the diner or at the Waves, treating some influential town citizen to a working lunch. After work, as the darkness fell, she tended to sit in her bed, watching her reality TV shows and mailing out promotional items. Her crisp linen envelopes read: Go with a Winner! Vote Winona Grey this November.
All of that, combined with church, the monthly family supper, and her dates with Mark, filled her time. She couldn’t remember when she’d been so busy or so happy. Individually and collectively she loved all of the things that commanded her time and attention. She and Mark had finally gone public with their romance in late September, and since then everyone seemed certain that it was only a matter of time before a wedding took place. Even Winona was beginning to hope. They weren’t head over heels in love, it was true, but she was old enough to recognize the reality of life. Besides, she’d truly loved a man already in her life, and look at the mistakes she’d made in the name of that unreliable emotion. It was better to play it safe. Thinking this, she often found herself at the magazine aisle in King’s Market, flipping through the latest Brides magazine.
The only fly in this beautiful, intricate web was Dallas.
It stuck in her craw that he wouldn’t see her, wouldn’t even listen to her. Both Vivi Ann and Noah had dropped the whole thing when Winona told them of Dallas’s reaction. Vivi Ann had sighed and said sadly, “That’s that, then.” Even Noah had accepted it, muttering thanks as he walked away.
But Winona couldn’t let it go. She went to the prison once a week—always on Saturday. Hour after empty hour, she sat in that molded plastic chair in front of the dirty Plexiglas. Week after week, Dallas didn’t show.
Each time she left the prison, Winona berated herself for her poor judgment and vowed not to return, and every week she broke that promise.
She couldn’t pinpoint the source of her obsession. Perhaps it was the mysterious tattoo (surely Vivi Ann was mistaken and it was on his right bicep; nothing else seemed truly possible), or the way Noah had smiled when she agreed to take this ridiculous case, or the way Dallas had asked about Vivi Ann and his son. Or maybe it was what Vivi Ann hadn’t said and should have: I asked you to help him twelve years ago.
Whatever it was, she knew that she couldn’t let go of this until he gave her an answer. That was all she needed, just a simple, No way, Win. A DNA test doesn’t make much sense to me. You know why.
She’d imagined that exact answer from him so many times that sometimes she woke up from a restless night thinking he’d actually said it to her.
“Okay,” she said aloud, “it’s time to do something else.” She glanced at the clock. It was 4:20 on Thursday afternoon. Mark would be here in ninety minutes to take her out to dinner and to a movie. She got out a piece of her special Winona Elizabeth Grey, Esquire, stationery. Beneath her imprinted name, she began to write.
Dear Dallas:
You win. I have no doubt that you could continue this little game of ours forever. Surely you cannot believe that I would attempt to see you again after all these years on a lark. Obviously I have business of a serious nature to discuss with you. That being said, I will only put forth so much effort. You are—as you no doubt intend—making me feel like a fool. It is in both of our interests—and certainly your son’s as well—that you accept my invitation to talk. I will be there Wednesday during the 4–6 visiting hours for your cell block. It will be my final attempt to see or speak to you.
Sincerely,
Winona Grey
She folded up
the letter, sealed it in an envelope, stamped it, and carried it immediately out to the blue mail drop on the corner.
She was done now. It was in Dallas’s hands.
On Wednesday, Winona carefully packed up her desk, put everything away, and went out to tell Lisa that she’d be gone for the rest of the day. “If anyone calls, I’m in a meeting. Take a message and I’ll call back first thing in the morning. And before you leave tonight, will you water the plants in the sunroom? They’re looking a little wilted.”
“Sure.”
Winona went to her car and drove out of town.
It lightened something in her, this thought that it would finally end today. She had just recently realized how much Noah’s request had been weighing her down. Now, though, she would be out from under its pressure. Whatever sin she may have committed by omission at the first trial, she’d atoned for it in the past six weeks. Six times—seven, including today—she’d driven to the prison, waited for a man who never showed, and gone home. Each sojourn took up at least six hours of her time.
By now she knew many of the faces along the way and she smiled and made small talk as she checked in. It had all become so routine that when the officer handed her her name tag and said, “A private meeting, huh? That’s new,” she was too shocked to answer.
“Here you go. This is one of the lawyers’ visiting rooms.”
Winona nodded and went inside. It was a small room, with a big, scarred wooden table and several chairs scattered about. The walls were an ugly brown; the paint was worn through to show the concrete beneath. A uniformed guard stood in the corner, staring straight ahead, his hands clasped behind his back. Under his watchful eye, she took a seat at the table.
The door opened and Dallas hobbled in, his wrists and ankles shackled, his head bowed forward as he moved.
He sat down across from her, thumping his shackled wrists on the table between them. “What does my son want?”