by Jim Nelson
The prisons were originally built and maintained by California, and their population consisted almost entirely of convicts sentenced by California courts. When the Free State of Jefferson separated, the compact gave the new state all of California's infrastructure and facilities within the new borderlines, including the prisons. Now California was demanding a return of the inmates there due to reports of prisoner malnutrition, unmaintained facilities, and poor treatment, including beatings.
The newspaper reported the Jefferson state governor called the prisoners California requested "the worst of the worst." He suspected they would receive lenient treatment, or even be released, if returned to California.
"Jefferson formed out of fundamental disagreements on how to organize and maintain a civil society," the governor said through a statement. "Immigration reform, sanctuary cities, Hanna Laws, decriminalization of prostitution—after enduring five decades of California's failed soft-on-crime approach, the Free State of Jefferson was formed as a return to normalcy. Punishment is rehabilitation."
Ruby knew her mother would not be named—why would she be?—but still felt compelled to scour the article multiple times for any mention of a Hanna or mothers held in Folsom prison. No inmates were named, though.
That night after the couple retired to bed, the house was almost entirely dark save for the moon sending yellow shafts into the sitting room. Ruby tiptoed to the ceramic ashtray beside the door to the garage. She carefully selected the key ring. The loose coins shifted. She was certain they were not loud enough to be heard upstairs, yet from the ceiling came rhythmic creaks crossing toward the stairs. Quickly she returned the keys to the ashtray and hurried on socked tiptoes back to her bedroom. She was halfway down the rear hall when a tall, lean figure in silhouette emerged from the laundry room.
"There you are," Dr. Abney said. "Just came down for a glass of milk."
"I—" Ruby half-turned and motioned back toward the kitchen. The dishwasher was churning and sloshing. "I can make it for you, Dr. Abney."
"Frank," he said as he approached her. "You know you can call me Frank." Ms. Abney-Rance did not care for first names in her presence, and so Ruby always addressed him by title.
Ruby stood stiffly on the carpeted hallway, anticipating what came next.
"Have I told you how much I appreciate you here?" He towered before her in shadow, eclipsing the moon through the high window. He leaned down and brought his lips to her right ear. "You are such a talented, beautiful young woman." His breath misted down the curve of her neck as fog would tumble down a hill. She could smell the mint of the specialty toothpaste they purchased at an organic grocery in town. "You should let your hair grow out." His nose was in her scalp. His fingers was in the licks of her hair falling beside her earlobes.
She stood shivering. She allowed him to glide his hands over her bust and hips. His arms were long enough to reach her thighs. She imagined he could manage to reach the back of her knees. His tentacles seemed capable of encompassing all of her. Two months in the household had taught her this script: The opening scene, the plot development, the twists, and the climax. His hands guided her to the laundry room. When he finished, the tentacles would retract and he would thank her and he would retreat up the stairs with a slight look of guilt on his face. As the door to the laundry room closed and locked with a schick, she reminded herself it would be over soon enough.
Eleven
The family arrived in a black-cherry Tesla with bicycles mounted on the trunk. A black Lincoln SUV pulled up behind it. The family piled out of the Tesla appearing as refreshed and well-rested as if emerging from a spa in terrycloth robes and slippers. From the Lincoln emerged an older man and woman. The man was their driver and the woman a German au pair named Bridget. They did not emerge from their vehicle with the same air of relaxation as the family they'd followed up from Orange County.
Over the past two months, Ruby had come to know the ease of the very wealthy. For most of her life, money was a low-key mania, a nagging mosquito buzzing in her ear asking when the next dollar would arrive. Even in her suburban youth, when her mother drew a steady paycheck and could afford to send her to a private school, her family did not possess the casual air of the Abneys. To live in the moment without an ounce of apprehension was enviable. What did money buy for them that was so unaffordable to everyone else? Where does one purchase peace of mind and high self-esteem?
The Abneys greeted one another with a kind of familial familiarity Ruby had not experienced since childhood. The driver in black suit sans tie began unloading the family's bags from the rear of the SUV. Ruby wordlessly approached and picked up two of them.
"I've got them." He spoke with the same humorlessness as his appearance.
The family's thirteen-year-old bridge daughter had indeed entered pons. Her belly protruding from under her bridge dress was no larger than Ruby's palm, but it was pronounced. She carried herself like no other bridge Ruby had met. She exhibited the same ease as the other Abneys, although she walked with a slight waddle and with her left wrist against the small of her back. Ruby was nearly a foot taller, yet the bridge managed to peer down at her all the same.
"Rochelle needs to lie down," the mother said to Ms. Abney-Rance.
"Ruby, take Rochelle to her bedroom."
Ruby nodded and offered a hand of support for Rochelle. The bridge refused as though mildly annoyed by the offer. Although she carried herself well, Ruby sensed her weariness from the long drive. She led her into the house and to the foot of the main staircase.
"I don't think I can manage," Rochelle said, peering up the steps. "Is there some place here I can rest?"
Ruby led Rochelle to the sitting room with the panoramic view of the Pacific. She had to use small steps to avoid getting too far ahead of the bridge. She helped the girl onto a divan and, at the girl's request, removed her shoes. Ruby found a blanket and spread it over Rochelle. Rochelle asked for a foot rest. Ruby removed a arm cushion from another couch and propped up Rochelle's swollen feet.
"I just need to close my eyes," and Rochelle closed her eyes.
Ruby retreated from the room shaking her head. She'd never witnessed a bridge daughter so pampered. Not even the television shows, the dramas about the ultra-rich and their backstabbing and power plays, depicted bridges like Rochelle. It was unseemly.
After unpacking and changing, the families moved to the patio and cabana to enjoy the warm afternoon. Under Ms. Abney-Rance's direction, Ruby had spent all morning preparing for their arrival. Now it was go time. She hurried out to the cabana platters of crudités, hummus, potato chips and dip, and crackers with a cheese board. The father of the children asked about biking trails along the beach. Awakened from her nap, Rochelle sat inside the cool cabana wearing an oversized floppy sun hat and sipping a chocolate milkshake. Dr. Abney had blended enough for everyone.
The son bobbed in the pool with the inflatable toys bobbing around him. He was watched over by his mother in a one-piece and the au pair in a more dowdy European bathing suit. Snacks served, Ruby began preparing a lunch of barbecue pork sandwiches, cold gazpacho soup, and fruit and garden salads. The youthful, attractive father left on his bike with a promise to return in time for lunch.
Dr. Abney came to the door between the kitchen and the pool patio. He leaned inside and asked Ruby, "Can you manage two more for lunch today?" In his other hand, he held his cell phone, a call in progress.
Ruby had been slathering organic mayonnaise on a checkerboard of ciabatta halves arrayed on the counter before her. Slightly overwhelmed, she looked down upon her quarter-completed work. Anxiety percolated within her. "That would be fine, Dr. Abney."
"Emeril?" he said into the phone. "Yeah, we can feed you and Mark. Uh-huh. Uh-huh. See you then." He pocketed the phone. "They'll be here in twenty minutes."
Ruby panicked. The brother was supposed to arrive the next day, and there had been no discussion of another guest. "I'm sorry," she said. "I don't have his room ready." The Abn
eys planned to drive down to Avila Beach after lunch to sun and shop. They would take an early seafood dinner on the pier there. Ruby planned to use that time to air out the third guest bedroom and prepare the bed and adjoining bathroom for his arrival the next day. Now her mind worked to think of how she could accommodate him as well as another guest. Sleeping in the sitting room seemed déclassé for the Abneys. None of the many couches in the house offered a hideaway bed, so far as Ruby knew.
Dr. Abney stepped into the kitchen. Ruby tensed. Through the windows, the entire family frolicked and relaxed, save for the husband who'd gone biking. Certainly Dr. Abney was not going to accost her here, in plain view of his family. He continued to approach, though.
"Emeril's driving back to Santa Barbara tonight," he said.
"And the other person?"
"Oh, he's not staying. I think Emeril booked him a hotel." He reached over and squeezed her shoulder. "You're doing fine." He grinned and returned to the patio.
Ruby redoubled her efforts to finish the lunch on time. She loved cooking as a child. She often made her mother and sister big dinners, happily. Ruby was so young, she was blind to how magical her cooking abilities must have seemed. To peer into a refrigerator and scan the goods in a pantry, assemble the bland, unappetizing ingredients in one's mind, and bring them all together into plates of hot food that made mouths water—abracadabra.
Years of living in state bridge homes had sapped much of her zeal for cooking. Once her skills were known, she was repeatedly assigned cooking duties on the job board. The meals she helped prepare in those bridge houses were large-scale affairs: oversized pots of spaghetti boiled limp or potatoes with bland sauces and flavorless green vegetables steamed to mush. Cooking requires passion. You can taste boredom in the kitchen. You can taste spitefulness in a meal.
A little over the promised twenty minutes later, two older men arrived, each in their own car. Frank's brother Emeril drove a cherry-red convertible Porsche Boxster with the soft top down. Emeril was the image of Frank Abney, although his dark hair had evaporated rather than turn Frank's premature silver. He also dressed looser. He emerged from the sports car wearing swim trunks and an aloha shirt unbuttoned to his sternum. He marched barefoot around the house as though he lived there, going through the refrigerator and opening kitchen drawers wantonly. He knew where the cold beer was kept and he knew where the good bottle opener was stashed.
The man driving the pale-yellow Ford was a short, stout fellow with black-rimmed glasses and distinct male-pattern baldness. The fluffy untrimmed auburn mustache over his thin lips hid the top half of his mouth when he spoke, which was not often. He wore a white button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows and a pair of ill-fitting black slacks. His tie was loose at his unbuttoned collar.
"Why don't you and the kids eat inside," Dr. Abney told his wife. A slight weariness tinged his question, as though hinting to her. "We'll eat in the cabana."
Emeril went about the pool and greeted his family. He hugged his daughter-in-law and waved off her protests about being dripping wet from the pool. He shook his grandson in the air and tossed him up and down to elicit squeals of delight. He put one hand on Rochelle's belly with a great smile. The mustached man, Mark, stood awkwardly off to the side watching. The au pair shepherded the children inside to clean up and change for lunch, which Ruby had laid out on the kitchen island as per Ms. Abney-Rance's direction. They would fix their own plates and take their meals to the dining room, which Ruby had hustled to set.
"Make the men's plates," Ms. Abney-Rance whispered into Ruby's ear. "Fill the champagne bucket with ice and beer. Take out a cold bottle of Chenin blanc as well."
Ruby entered the cabana with a tray balanced on her upright right arm. The three men were already at the cabana's table. Before each of them, Ruby placed a plate of sandwiches and salad and utensils wrapped in a cloth napkin. The rapport between Frank and Emeril had settled. They spoke in quiet, serious tones. Mark sat silent and stiff-backed, almost hiding behind his glasses and mustache.
"This Jefferson thing is out of control," Dr. Abney said. "Why is it so hard to understand? They didn't win the vote. It's not a state. They're still a part of California. Why doesn't anyone see that?"
"What's done is done," Emeril said.
"The state's being run by guns and the threat of force," Dr. Abney said. "It's inexcusable. We're a nation of laws—"
"Mark goes up to Jefferson twice a year." Emeril pointed across the table at the withdrawn third man. "Tell him what you've seen up there."
Mark adjusted his eyeglasses and stroked his mustache flat. "I only have a cabin in South Lake Tahoe." He spoke as though apologizing anyone would think him an authority on the subject of the Free State of Jefferson. He's not an Abney, Ruby reasoned. "I drive through El Dorado County every trip up. I go, oh, I don't know, four times a year."
"Are you stopped?" Dr. Abney said. "Do they stop you at the border?"
"Not until the last six months," Mark said. "Jefferson has grown more…locked down." He breathed out. "They won't let illegals in or out. Mexicans mostly. Hagars too."
"In or out," Dr. Abney said to Emeril. "It's goddamn East Germany, I tell you."
Ruby returned to the kitchen with the empty tray. She'd never heard a word of politics spoken in the household. Why the subject of Jefferson State would come up now, and why it was of any concern to the Abneys living hundreds of miles away, was puzzling. She wondered if it had anything to do with the prison story she'd read earlier that week.
The family was huddled at the kitchen island. The mother and the au pair helped the children prepare their plates. Through the sitting room's front window, Ruby spotted the driver on the porch, seated on a folding chair and hunched over his sandwich and fruit salad. His suit jacket was off and folded across his lap. He ate staring across the front yard with a distant expression, imagining himself in a better place or a better time, perhaps.
Ruby retrieved the champagne bucket from the wet bar in the sitting room. She filled it from the ice maker in the garage and returned to the kitchen for the beer. When she returned to the cabana, the men were still talking about Jefferson.
"He's lived up there since he was a baby," Emeril said. "We can't just transplant him from the mountains and drag him to the coast. He's just a kid."
"I wouldn't advise it either," Mark said meekly. "But I'm not a child psychologist," he added even more meekly.
"The Free State of Jefferson." Dr. Abney spoke each syllable with sarcasm. He reached for a bottle of beer before Ruby could set the bucket and stand down beside him. "What's this world come to."
"We can't change any of that," Emeril said. "What's important is—"
"It's not merely a matter of protecting him," Dr. Abney said to Mark. He was so worked up, he was retorting points made earlier in the conversation. "They've got roaming bands of vigilantes running around the state. Shoot first, ask questions later. If he's harmed while he's living up there, it will come back on the family." He stared at Emeril. "You know I'm right."
Emeril agreed. "The press will say we didn't protect our own. That we didn't do enough to keep him safe."
"'Our own,'" Dr. Abney said in the same mocking tone as before. "He's not 'our own.' Goddamn woman tries to turn her bridge daughters into Hagars and we're stuck cleaning up the mess—"
"What's that?" Mark asked.
"The boy's mother tried to have her bridges fixed," Emeril said, calmer than his brother. "One of them she succeeded at. The other gave birth at the border. She was going to jump into Mexico and get a doctor there to—"
Ruby hurried across the patio, her house flats slapping on the poolside concrete. She fumbled to uncork the Chenin blanc. Slow down, she told herself. Don't break the cork. She placed the opened bottle of wine and stemware on the tray with haste. At the cabana entrance, she slowed down to enter, appearing indifferent. She took extra time placing the bottle on the table and a stemmed glass before each man.
"
There was some kind of accident a few weeks ago," Emeril said. He shrugged while searching the bottles in the champagne bucket for a brewing style of his preference. "The father was shot."
"Shot?" Mark said. "How serious?"
"He lived," Dr. Abney said drily.
"Hunting accident," Emeril said. "Got himself shot by his buddy while they were hiking through the bush."
"That's horrible," Mark said, wide-eyed.
"Well, the father's not your concern." Dr. Abney spoke as though reminding Mark of some prior conversation Ruby was not privy to. "What we need from you is a clean bill of health on the boy. He'll be sixteen in a month. We need you to administer a basic physical and the standard blood tests and return with a report indicating he's perfectly healthy."
"This would be a huge help," Emeril told Mark. "We'd be in your debt. The Abney family would be in your debt."
Mark peered at the men as though cornered. Emeril's message to Mark had the undertones of a hint. A hint of what, Ruby could not ascertain.
"I'm perfectly happy to examine the boy," Mark said. "Assuming both he and the father agree to it, of course."
"If you get any resistance from the father, call and let us know," Emeril said. Again with the undertone.
"But you both know I'm required to file a full and honest report."
"No one's suggesting otherwise," Emeril said.
Dr. Abney added, "We're just saying, don't play up every little mole or scar you might find on him." Dr. Abney drank from his bottle of beer and belched under his breath. "I'd do it myself—"
"Frank can't do it," Emeril said to Mark. "You understand the conflict of interest, right?"
Mark swallowed and nodded and adjusted his thick-rimmed glasses. "Just so you understand me. I won't sign anything I'm not comfortable with."
Emeril and Frank leaned back, taking deep breaths. They glanced at each other, stared for a moment, and nodded.
"Then it's settled." Emeril reached for the bottle of wine. He poured himself a glass and filled the other two.
