What Comes After

by Joanne Tompkins

  She’d had her fill of state benevolence when she was ten. Sure, she had needed help back then. She would admit that. Her mother had been gone a week when a lady knocked at the apartment door late at night. Evangeline didn’t answer at first, but the lady kept shouting, claiming to know something about her mom.

  Evangeline hesitated. She had tried to bring her mother back on her own. She had put on her shirts and slept in her bed, attempted to conjure her by breathing in her scent. She’d drunk all the milk, scraped clean the peanut butter, and finished off the cereal. But her hunger hadn’t yielded her mother up either. So when the lady knocked again, when she said she was from the state and could get Evangeline something to eat, bring her somewhere safe, she had held her breath and opened the door.

  While her mother detoxed off heroin, Evangeline spent six months in foster care, crying in her room’s small closet. And her mom did manage to get out clean. Well, except for a new addiction to Jesus, which didn’t seem to concern the state. Evangeline fell for Jesus too at first, the way he gazed at you with those all-loving eyes, promising eternal life.

  Turns out, there are only so many times you can pray for a small toy or shoes that fit or a mother who comes home every night, only so many times your prayers can go unanswered before you figure you’ve been duped. It was these things—foster care, her mother, the betrayals of Jesus then and now—that Evangeline had longed to share with Jonah, to whisper into the dark of his cab, his heart beating against her ear. She had wanted it with an intensity she couldn’t explain, a ragged-edged yearning to be rid of secrets she had, until then, gone out of her way to protect.

  But there was no Jonah, and her mother was gone. All she had now was the man and the dog, and she sure as hell wasn’t going to let the guy with the jaw send her away with a few bureaucratic forms.

  * * *

  —

  THOUGH THE CLASSROOMS WERE DARK, the front doors were unlocked and light shone from the main office. A tiny woman dressed in a suit emerged from the vice principal’s office. Evangeline, who’d been peeking in, stepped back into the dark of the hall. The woman poked around the front desk, then returned to her office. Evangeline slipped in and made her way to the principal’s open door.

  He was writing at his desk, his back to her. When he heard the soft click of the door, he swung around. It took a moment for him to recognize her, and when he did, all the blood drained from his face. She’d never seen anything like it—a stopper pulled from a sink. Her own face likely blanched too. She hadn’t been a hundred percent sure until now. She’d spent the past two months trying to forget the day she’d met him, and on Monday she’d seen him mostly from the side.

  It was interesting watching him, how he shifted his face around as if trying to get the blood to refill. She should have expected what he did next. If she’d had more time to consider all the possible scenarios before she raced, heart pounding, to school, she would have been more prepared.

  The man set down his pen, smiled a genuine-seeming smile, and said, “You must be the new girl. The one Mr. Balch told me about. I’m glad you stopped by. Anything I can do to help you settle in?”

  It almost worked, this crazy-making turn. He looked different with the tie, the big office, the table between them. Evangeline went over what she remembered from Bremerton: the man behind the wheel leaning over to open the passenger door, let her in. The afternoon sun, hanging low behind her, had lit a battle-ax of a jaw, made dark-blue eyes glow. How many men could have a jaw like that? And those eyes?

  “Yeah,” she said, “you could help me ‘settle in’ by getting off Isaac’s back about those stupid forms.”

  He lowered his gaze, considering, then looked back up. “The state wants to protect—”

  “That’s total bullshit and you know it!”

  He studied her, getting his bearings. “I can see you’re distressed,” he said, using that adult tone of fake concern. “But these aren’t my rules. The superintendent is very strict—”

  “Listen!” She stopped, gulped, slowed herself. Seeing him now, really looking, she wasn’t sure anymore. Maybe this man’s eyes were brown. It was hard to tell in this light. And this guy had a mole on his cheek, not huge or hairy, just a regular mole, but still, she would remember that, right? She picked her words carefully, wondering if any would catch.

  “The superintendent’s pretty strict? This strict thing, is it just about paperwork or does he take an interest in other aspects of his students’ well-being? Because, see, I’m thinking he probably does.”

  Principal Thibodeau stood then, took a step as if to come toward her, but she glared at him and he stopped. “I’m sorry,” he said. “My secretary told me, but could you remind me of your name again?”

  “Evangeline,” she said. “Evangeline McKensey.” And that made her the angriest of all, the way he did that, made her complicit in pretending they had never met, forcing her to wonder if she was nothing more than a new girl whose name had been collected by the staff.

  “Well, Evangeline. I’m glad you’re here at Port Furlong High, glad you’ve got Mr. Balch looking out for you. It can be a little rough coming in with classes already under way, so please let us know if there’s anything we can do to help. Vice Principal Marsten is the person to see with any academic concerns.”

  With that, he sat down again, turned away from her, and started typing. Evangeline refused to move, just stood staring at his back. After a minute, he said without turning around, “Is there anything else I can do for you?”

  Evangeline was shaking now, afraid to speak for fear of crying. She turned, walked out the door, retreated to the nearest restroom.

  Later, when thinking back on the morning, she pictured the vice principal walking through, and the image of a prescription bottle rose in her mind—hydroxy-something-or-other. She wondered if Vice Principal Marsten had a mother named Dorothy and if her mother had any trouble with her heart the day her meds went missing.

  26

  Evangeline’s dread of state involvement struck me as extreme. I wondered if she was hiding from an abusive relative or guardian, someone she worried would be notified by the state. Or maybe there were warrants out for her arrest. The girl was clearly a petty thief. But it was likely simpler than that. She’d probably been in foster care and wasn’t planning on going back.

  I decided to track Peter down after my final class, but when the noon bell rang, he was waiting at my classroom door. “Grab your lunch,” he said. “I’m hoping you’ll take a walk with me.”

  It was one of those rare October days, cool and cloudless, leaves flashing bright as jewels. Peter led me off campus, chatting about nothing more weighted than his youngest child’s talent for toddler gymnastics. “I’m know I’m biased, but even the instructor said she’s never seen a three-year-old with balance like that.”

  In a nearby pocket park, we settled on a bench facing a small patch of grass. At the far end, a metal sculpture spun in the breeze. I couldn’t take my eyes off it, the way it kept blurring into different shapes. We ate in silence. We could do that. Sit quietly. Peter was my only non-Quaker friend who could. That day though, my mind was anything but still. I finished my sandwich and said, “Was there something in particular you wanted to talk about?”

  “Not really,” Peter said. “It’s just been months since we had any relaxed time together. By some miracle, my calendar was clear. And this weather. I know you love to be out when it’s like this.”

  We were sitting side by side, talking as if to the sunlit park. “I thought this might be about Evangeline,” I said.

  “Only if that’s on your mind.”

  Of course she’d been on my mind. I had decided to tell Peter about her pregnancy. He already knew the most damning part, that she’d lied about the boys. I needed to convert Evangeline in his mind from a girl likely tied to a murder to someone more akin to family. I’d convinced myself
the revelation wouldn’t be a breach of her privacy. Wasn’t Peter, as principal, a type of guardian?

  “She is, as a matter of fact,” I said. “When you told me about seeing her yesterday, I didn’t handle it very well—”

  “No. No,” he said, cutting me off. “I’m the one who messed up. I don’t know what came over me. How crazy that I’d believe some new memory over the one at the time. It was Derek I saw. I’m sure of it. It’s just that we all had this narrative going that a girl must have been involved. I can only imagine how upsetting this has been for you.” He dug out an oatmeal cookie and handed it to me. “It’s yours.”

  I thanked him and took a bite, more to give myself time to think than anything else.

  “To be honest,” he said, “that’s the reason I wanted to talk with you. To tell you I was wrong. That I’m sorry.”

  Though I take no pride in admitting it, with this surprising shift, Evangeline’s right to privacy took on renewed importance, and I decided to let Peter continue to believe she had no connection to the boys.

  I checked my watch. “We’d better head back.”

  We deposited our trash and started out. As we crossed onto the street, I said, “There is one other thing.”

  “Sure.”

  “The DSHS forms.”

  “What about them?”

  “She’s pretty upset at the thought of notifying the state. I have a feeling she came from an abusive situation. I worry she’s been hurt. She could be hiding from someone dangerous.”

  Peter kept walking, then said, “This is pretty important to you? This issue with DSHS?”

  “It is.”

  He nodded, his lips twisting as if debating with himself. “Here’s a thought,” he said. “I have a longtime friend in Nevada. Maggie Jensen. I’ve talked about her before. Her daughter just moved out. She happened to call last night, mentioned she was thinking of fostering again. I couldn’t imagine anyone better. If the girl’s not here, there’d be no forms to fill out.”

  “But what about Nevada’s forms? She’d face all the same issues there. And Evangeline doesn’t need a place to live.”

  “Doesn’t she?”

  “She can stay with me. Besides, Nevada? Why so far away?”

  “No reason other than my friend happens to live there. It may not solve all her problems, but if she’s in danger here, wouldn’t she be safer out of state?”

  I couldn’t argue with his logic, not without telling him of her pregnancy, so I said only, “I’ll talk to her, though I’m pretty sure she’d rather stay here.”

  “Okay,” Peter said lightly. “It’s only an option. I was just thinking a girl her age . . . she might be more comfortable with a woman.”

  I understood the subtext. It looked bad for a middle-aged man, a teacher no less, to take in an adolescent girl. But Peter knew that popular opinion, if used as an argument, would only make me more intractable.

  “Wise counsel,” I said. “All things to consider.”

  Peter stopped and faced me. “You’re not even going to talk to her about it, are you?”

  “No,” I said. He had always seen me clearly. “I’m not. I’m not going to shunt her off like someone else’s problem to be solved. And you know she’d hear it that way. If I started talking about Maggie in Nevada, I’d just be one more adult abandoning her, making promises she has no reason to believe. One more adult saying she isn’t wanted where she is, how she is. Maybe we haven’t been together long, maybe she’s not attached to me, but she is to Rufus. And even that, having a dog that loves her . . .” I turned away, afraid of the pressure in my throat.

  After a moment, Peter said softly, “Okay. I hear you.”

  We resumed walking in silence, the sun turning edges sharp, the wings of birds slicing the air. A block from campus, we’d yet to resolve the issue of the forms. I was about to raise the topic when Peter said, “I’ve heard there’s been a problem at DSHS lately.”

  “What kind of problem?”

  “Lots of data falling through the cracks. Forms are filled out, everything by the book, yet somehow the information never makes it into the system. A lot of complaints about that. Apparently it happens more than you’d think.”

  We’d almost reached the front doors. I turned to him. “You’re a good man, Peter.”

  He held my eye. “Just remember that, okay? Remember that if I’m ever held to account.”

  27

  That afternoon, I told Evangeline she wouldn’t have to worry about the state. She bit her lip, then burst out laughing. “Shit can have its upside!” She flung her happiness at Rufus, giving him an exuberant hug.

  A half hour later, as I was pulling chicken out of the fridge, she shooed me away, said she would cook “something amazing” in celebration. “I don’t suppose you saved any of those capers from yesterday?”

  I laughed. In a day, I’d gone from a fucking bastard to a man deserving a special meal. “Not a chance,” I said. “You got them to cook for me?”

  She blushed. “Just chicken piccata. It’s not that hard. It’ll be okay with lemon and Parmesan. We have butter, right?”

  I nodded, the word “we” blooming in my chest.

  * * *

  —

  I’M NOT SURE WHY I REFUSED TO LET THINGS BE. At least for that one night, at least for the dinner she’d stolen ingredients to prepare for me. I’d have to talk to her about the stealing. Even that would have been a better topic than the one I chose.

  I had finished my second helping of chicken and once again exclaimed that it was delicious, a true marvel. Evangeline’s face was lit with the delight of having pleased me when I said, “Tell me about Jonah.”

  She coughed, and I could see her mind scrambling for a story. She swallowed and wiped her mouth with a napkin. “Jonah? The Jonah?”

  I nodded.

  “Wasn’t he your son’s friend? Your neighbor? What could I possibly know?” She spoke not to me but to the remnants of chicken on her plate that she pushed around with a fork.

  Had she not seen his bracelet on the table? “I recognized Jonah’s bracelet. And Peter—Principal Thibodeau—saw you get out of his truck shortly before the murder.” I chose not to mention Peter’s recanting.

  She looked startled but collected herself, her expression turning to cool interest. “Yeah? Did he say that at the time? I heard everyone was pretty hell-bent on finding ‘persons of interest.’”

  “The baby. Is it Jonah’s?”

  She wiped her hands on the napkin, slowly, deliberately, and said, “My sex life isn’t exactly your business.”

  I managed to sit there, my heart pounding, the confusion and anger and grief from the prior night rearing up, more powerful for a day of denial. Why such a rage gathered now, why it battered the cage bars of my ribs, set everything to rattling, I didn’t understand. I jerked upright, my chair crashing back. Rufus lunged at me, howling as if I were the danger. “No!” I shouted. He sat in reflex, but the muscles of his forehead and the bulk of his haunches remained tense as he kept a fierce gaze on me.

  Fury poured into my legs, paced me about the room.

  “Why don’t you just say it?” Evangeline shouted. “You want me gone and I’ll go. I won’t ask one more lousy thing of you. Then who is or isn’t the father of my baby will be of no concern to you.”

  I wheeled to face her. “Unless it’s Daniel’s. Unless it’s my grandchild. Then it is my concern, don’t you think?”

  She smiled, a mean-edged iciness lighting her face. “That so?” she said. “Grandparents have legal rights here? Grandparents can order parents around? Because it seems to me, whoever the daddy is, that daddy isn’t here, and as I’m pretty clearly the mama, I get to call the shots.”

  I sat and steadied my breath. This cool control was an aspect of Evangeline I hadn’t seen, though it didn’t surprise me. How el
se had she survived on her own?

  “Are you saying I am a grandparent?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “No. You didn’t.”

  She pushed back from the table and stood as if to leave.

  “I want you to stay.”

  She’d set her mouth in a tight, cruel line. It faltered, then hardened again. “Let me get this straight. You think this may be the baby of your son’s killer, and you want me here?”

  “I don’t know what I think. But I do know that whatever happened isn’t that baby’s fault.”

  She remained standing as if willing to be persuaded, her mouth and eyes softening, and though I’d said all that mattered, I started rambling as people do when they’re at a loss. “I know that baby deserves a warm home and good nutrition and doctor checkups. I know you’d do anything for that baby, Evangeline. I see that in you.”

  She lowered herself, picked up her fork, and took the last bite of chicken. “Okay, I’ll stay for the baby, I guess.” Her tone was weary, as if having a warm bed and ample food were a sacrifice only love for her child would allow her to bear.

  “We’ll get it worked out,” I said. “You and I. We’ll figure it out.”

  We finished our dinner peaceably, and Evangeline insisted on washing up.

  “But you cooked,” I said. “You know the deal. Whoever cooks, the other one cleans.”

  “I feel like it, okay?”

  This felt like an apology, so I said, “That’s nice of you. Thanks.”

  I set about clearing the table as she filled a dishpan full of hot, sudsy water and begun scrubbing the sauté pan. That’s when the beast reared again, this time in the guise of fake indifference. “It doesn’t matter who the father is,” I said. “Not to the baby it doesn’t, at least not for now. And if the father can’t be around, I’m glad it doesn’t matter to you either.”

  “I never said that!” she snapped, pulling her hands from the water, wiping them on her jeans as if readying for battle.