by Lisa Jackson
“Such a shame,” she said as they walked through the main doors.
Outside, clouds were gathering, and what had promised to be a warmer day was now turning colder. Once in the car, Nikki adjusted the heat as she drove her aunt home.
“It’s difficult,” Penelope admitted as she stared out the passenger-side window. Biting the corner of her lip, she managed to shear off a flake of rose-colored lipstick. “He was such a dashing man, you know. Brilliant. That’s what really got to me way back when. He could have had any girl on campus, and he chose me.” She slid a glance toward Nikki, her mouth turning down at the corners, but then she visibly straightened her spine, the seat belt tightening around her shoulders. “Well, a lot has changed since those idealistic days when I was an undergraduate and he was a law student with his future stretching before him.” She looked through the windshield again, gazing into a distance only she could see.
Nikki, still mulling over her uncle’s warning, didn’t know what to say. She and Penelope hadn’t ever been close, and they had grown more distant with the deaths of Hollis and Elton. While Uncle Alex had embraced Nikki and her siblings, Aunty-Pen had found it too painful, a reminder of what she, as a mother, had lost.
And Aunty-Pen had another cross to bear: the persistent rumor that Uncle Alex had been involved with his notorious, beautiful client Blondell O’Henry. The stink of that gossip had never left Alexander McBaine, and along with his courtroom defeat, his rising star had fizzled. Soon thereafter the first signs of early-stage Alzheimer’s began to manifest themselves.
Before Blondell, Penelope Hilton McBaine had thought she would rise with her husband as he moved ever upward into the political arena. She’d even had her eye on the governor’s mansion.
“Hogwash,” Charlene had muttered upon hearing Aunty-Pen’s ambitions. “What a pipe dream! That could never happen with his clientele!” She’d never liked Uncle Alex and detested the fact that he would “stoop so low” as to represent the likes of Blondell O’Henry. “This has nothing to do with the law,” she’d confided to Nikki once after having come from a luncheon at the country club and, smelling slightly of gin and cigarettes, picked her daughter up after school. “It’s all about fame and money, let me tell you!” With a sly glance at Nikki in the passenger seat, she’d confided, “He has a thing for her, you know.” Then, as she’d concentrated on slowing for an amber light, she added more sourly, “All the men in this town do.”
“Oh, come on, Mom.”
“Trust me on this one. It’s just that Alex has the balls to do something about it.”
“You think he’s involved with Amity’s mom?”
“I’m just saying no good will come of his taking her case. Mark my words!” The light changed and the conversation ended, but Nikki had never forgotten her mother’s comments that day.
Now, as she drove home twenty years later, Nikki sneaked a glance at her aunt, sitting ramrod straight, and noted the firm, unhappy set of her jaw, the fist balled in her lap. She couldn’t help but wonder just how much truth there had been in her mother’s bitter prediction. Certainly a lot of pain had ensued.
And, she knew, it wasn’t over yet.
The city was rising before them, rolling acres of lowland giving way to a sprawling suburbia, houses with yards lining the streets. Around the periphery of the town she drove until she returned to the old manor on Canterbury Lane where Alexander had brought his wife thirty-odd years earlier. The lots here were large, the grounds well tended, shade trees and hedgerows protecting each owner’s privacy.
Nikki remembered the times she’d spent here, sharing secrets with Hollis in her oh-so-pink bedroom, keeping mum about Elton’s fascination with a variety of drugs, most notably weed and ecstasy, and driving out to the farm outside Savannah where Aunty-Pen had kept her horses; after college, she’d continued to ride and insisted Hollis do the same.
“I’m not really into it,” Hollis, who was fair and looked very much like her mother, had admitted to Nikki.
It had been a warm summer day, and Nikki remembered it clearly because her cousin had said, “Why don’t you drive?” even though Nikki wasn’t old enough and didn’t have her license.
“For real?”
“Sure. You drive all the time with your folks, don’t you?”
“But I only have a permit.”
Hollis’s blue eyes had twinkled with a naughty devilment as she’d scooped her keys from her purse and whispered, “I won’t tell, if you don’t.”
“But Dad would kill me if—”
“If he found out? Well, he won’t,” Hollis said. “We all have our secrets, don’t we? Including my mother.” With a smirk she added, “I just found out I might have a half sibling somewhere. How about that? Can you believe that Mother actually did it with some boy while in high school and got herself knocked up?” Hollis had giggled at the thought. “It’s so rich!”
“You’re sure about this?”
“Oh, yeah. I overheard my aunt on the phone the other day.”
“What happened to the baby?”
“I don’t know if she even had it. Just that she was preggers. And I always thought that if I had a half sibling somewhere it would be from my dad.”
“What are you talking about?” Nikki had felt embarrassed and uncomfortable.
“He was hot when he was younger. Still is, I guess, but it’s weird to say about your dad.”
“Sick.”
“Enough about my twisted family, with all our skeletons neatly tucked away in their closets,” she said with a shrug. Then, eyes gleaming, she asked, “Aren’t you friends with Amity O’Henry? You know her, right, she’s in my class?” Hollis’s lips had stretched into a smile that hovered between pleased and something else, something almost wicked.
“Yeah. I like her.”
“She’s trouble, Nikki.”
“How would you know?” Hollis ran with the popular crowd, the cheerleaders and dance-team members and prom princesses. Amity didn’t. Nor did Nikki, at least not at that time.
“I hear things.” Hollis’s already arched eyebrow had raised in that “I’ve got a secret” manner that had always gotten under Nikki’s skin.
“What things?”
“Elton and his friends have all . . . you know.”
“No, I don’t.” She didn’t like the tone in Hollis’s voice. So much like Aunty-Pen’s.
“Well, if they need a blow job, they can just call Amity and she’ll oblige.”
“What!” Nikki couldn’t believe it. “That’s dumb! Stupid older boys bragging about something they only wish they could do! Sick, Hollis!”
“Oh, Nikki, grow up, would you?” Hollis had rolled her eyes. “It’s not that big of a deal except that Amity isn’t very selective, if you know what I mean. She’s just like her mother.”
“That’s crap.” Nikki had heard the rumors about Blondell, of course, but had chosen to ignore them.
“Do you want to drive or not?” Hollis asked, annoyed.
“Yes.” Nikki snagged the keys before her cousin could change her mind. Within minutes she was behind the wheel of Hollis’s cool Camaro, driving to the stables where Aunty-Pen kept her horses, on property owned by Nikki’s father, thousands of acres of lush Georgia farmland surrounding a large lake. There was the old family farmhouse that had stood for centuries, built long before the Civil War, and far away on the other side of the lake, a small cabin still stood, a cabin where an unthinkable act would occur and Amity O’Henry would lose her life, though no one knew it then.
That day with Hollis was warm for autumn, sunlight dappling the ground where it pierced the canopy of live oak branches that shaded the road.
Hollis’s head was bent forward; she was busily French braiding her streaked hair. “Me riding horses makes her happy, and so I do it so she’s not always on my case. I have to placate her so she doesn’t always stick her nose into my business. The way she acts, you’d think I was five instead of sixteen.”
�
��I love riding,” Nikki had enthused, and she’d meant it. She’d been one of those “horsey girls” in grade school and still loved hanging out in the stables with the animals. Of course, lately her interest in boys had cut into the hours she’d spent riding, but she still adored the animals and rode whenever she got the chance. She’d never really understood her cousin’s apathy toward the beautiful mares and geldings that Aunty-Pen loved so much. But then there were lots of things about Hollis she didn’t get. Like allowing her to drive the car. No way would Nikki ever be so generous if, and when, she got her own set of wheels.
“I know. You’ve always been into anything to do with horses. Not me.” Shrugging, Hollis had added, “I’ve got better things to do.” She’d glanced through the bug-spattered windshield. “Hey! Watch out! The turnoff ’s just around the next bend in the road.” Her words had been a little muted as she was holding a rubber band between her teeth.
“What better things?” Braking as she rounded the long curve in the road, Nikki gave wide berth to a couple of boys riding bikes while balancing fishing poles. In baseball caps, they were laughing and talking, seemingly unaware they were sharing the road with anyone as they pedaled along the asphalt, smack dab in the middle of Nikki’s lane.
“Idiots!” Nikki had muttered under her breath and saw in the rearview mirror the kid with the backward turned baseball cap flip her off. Great.
“What would I do besides riding?” Hollis mused, double-checking that her blond braid was perfect in the mirror on the visor. “Anything . Waterskiing, or tennis, or hiking, or dancing, or getting a pedicure, for God’s sake.” She’d laughed, that soft trill that still lingered in Nikki’s mind. Hollis then glanced in the passenger’s mirror to survey her work and, apparently satisfied, snapped the band into place. “Any-damned-thing.”
That had been the end of their conversation as Nikki had seen the gravel lane leading to the farm where Aunty-Pen’s horses were stabled. She turned onto twin ruts where dry grass and weeds scraped the undercarriage of Hollis’s car.
“You know what?” Hollis said then, a funny little grin stretching her lips. “Why don’t you ask your friend Amity to come out and ride sometime?”
“I thought you said she was trouble.”
“I know, but maybe I like trouble.” Hollis had leaned back in her seat to stare out the window at the lush grass of the fields that butted up to the lake. Almost under her breath she’d added, “Being with Amity could be a lot of fun.”
Now, reliving her conversation with Hollis, Nikki saw it in a whole new light, without the naïveté of her youth. Still, she experienced a deep and oh-so-familiar pang of emptiness when she thought of the older cousin she’d adored and the friend she’d lost not long afterward.
They had gone riding with Amity, but only once, because less than three months after that warm autumn day, Hollis and Elton were in the horrid crash that took both their lives. A sudden winter storm had swept through the South, snow falling, ice sheeting the roads, temperatures low enough to endanger the peach trees.
As Nikki understood it, her uncle was supposed to pick up Hollis from a friend’s home, but he’d been busy and had tossed the keys to his son with a warning of “Be careful” and, when his wife had worried about the weather, had cast off her concerns. “He could use some experience in the snow. For the love of God, Pen, you can’t mother-hen them forever.”
Aunty-Pen had never let him forget those chilling words because of the tragedy that had ensued. Elton had gone straight to Hollis’s friend’s home, making it to her house without much trouble. But the storm took a turn for the worse in the two hours he spent there, and on the return trip they hit a patch of ice that sent the car skidding out of control and into a telephone pole. Hollis, who was not wearing her seat belt, had been flung through the windshield, her neck had been broken, and she had been pronounced DOA at the hospital. Trapped in the car until the EMTs and the jaws of life could free him, Elton had sustained life-threatening injuries. In the Atlanta hospital, he’d lingered a few days, unresponsive, his injuries so acute that he couldn’t survive without life support. Though Aunty-Pen had pleaded with the doctors and her husband to keep him alive, in the end, after a harrowing week during which she was told that Elton was “brain-dead,” the hard decision had been made.
Her aunt and uncle had buried both their children two days before Christmas. Aunty-Pen, though she professed to love him with all her heart and had stayed with him all these years, couldn’t truly forgive her grieving, guilt-riddled husband.
Nikki remembered standing at the grave sites, fresh earth turned, coffins gleaming as winter sunlight played wickedly upon the thawing ice and snow. From somewhere in the distance, the sound of a Christmas carol had whispered hollowly through the pines surrounding the cemetery.
“God rest ye merry gentlemen, let nothing you dismay . . .”
Too late, Nikki had thought at the time. Far too late.
December 5th
Second Interview
She’s desperate.
A young reporter scrabbling for a story.
And not just a newspaper account. Oh, no, Nikki Gillette wants more than a quick recap. She demands details, deep secrets, all the juicy details for a book, no less. As if that were possible.
From my side of the prison glass of the “private” booth where I sit on an uncomfortable stool, I hold the receiver to my ear and try not to think about the germs lurking thereon or the dozens of other inmates who have used this very phone while their loved ones came to make the guilt-riddled journey to talk for a few minutes.
The guard is close behind me, my ankles shackled, even my hands rendered somewhat immobile with handcuffs that clink as I shift the receiver against my ear.
Yes, I’m one of Georgia’s most notorious criminals, or so they all think, but they don’t have the facts. Only I know what really happened in that lonely cabin twenty years ago.
I smell dirt and dust, and the air is filled with the despair of those whose fate is sealed. Mine is not. Soon, I’m certain, I’ll walk outside again, a free woman, soaking up the sun’s warm rays, hearing the soft sigh of the wind as it rustles the leaves of live oak and peach trees, smelling the sweet scents of magnolia and jasmine. I’ll drink mint juleps and laugh again . . . I’m sure I’ll laugh again. Won’t I?
No, no, I mustn’t even question. I won’t be here long. Because, of course, the truth will set me free—a quaint saying but one that’s oh so true.
For now, in this disgusting sty of a prison, with the smell of disinfectant unable to cover the odors of body fluids and filth, I hold my head high and ignore the guard whose job it is to make certain I don’t flee, or fly into a rage, or hurt myself or the others huddled in their little spaces and whispering on their phones.
As if!
Now, looking at Nikki Gillette, the reporter, watching her facial expressions, I can almost see the wheels turning in her overly imaginative mind. This—my story—would be the key to her fame and fortune.
All because she thinks she knows me.
Because she believes she has an insider’s view of what makes me tick.
What a joke!
I don’t so much as smile. I’m able to force myself not to respond, to play my part, as I have always done. It doesn’t matter how deeply she probes or how outrageous her questions, I can keep up the facade. Haven’t I held my secrets close and maintained this mask for twenty years? Why would I rip it off now and tell all that I know?
For her? For her story? Not a snowball’s chance in Satan’s hell.
She’s speaking into the phone now, trying to get to me as I inwardly recoil at the smudged glass, the tight quarters, the others who are locked inside this hellhole, all of whom stare at me with a jaundiced eye. Women who have no hope, common criminals who have no reason to live. I’m not one of them, and they know it, sense that I’m different. I do nothing to change their minds. Let them think what they want.
I know the truth.
&n
bsp; I know exactly what I did.
And what I didn’t do.
“Look,” Reporter Nikki is saying, trying not to sound annoyed or desperate or needy, “so you don’t like the questions I’ve asked of you. I get it. Really. You know I do. You know me, know that I’ll tell the truth, your side of the story.”
She’s almost pleading now, her eyes, through the thick pane, beseeching.
“You need to let the world know why you maintain that you’re innocent of such heinous crimes. You’ve let the horror of that night define who you are.”
I can’t argue that simple fact, so I don’t. Just retain my stoic manner, as I have since the tragedy. Conjuring up the sweet faces of my children twists my soul and darkens my heart, but I feign innocence, because that’s what one is to do. It was my duty to protect them and I failed.
I feel crestfallen and know that I’ve allowed a bit of emotion to show in my eyes, so I force my chin up as I hold onto the phone’s heavy receiver. I refuse to let this woman, and the world, see my pain, so I will not flinch, not even at her most probing and personal questions. Nor will I allow my eyebrows to knit in frustration or thought, and I will keep my mouth a beautiful half-smile that won’t betray the coldness I feel in my soul. With some effort, I force my gaze to remain steady, so that she won’t see as much as a shadow pass behind my eyes. She thinks of me as callous and doubts my motives. As they all do.
But I will not crack.
Never.
“So why won’t you talk to me?” Nikki asks again. “Is it to protect yourself? To maintain your innocence?”
I just stare back at her.
“Come on!” She’s frustrated now. “If you don’t explain what happened, the world will think that you’re a cold-blooded killer. Is that what you want? How you want to be remembered? You can talk to me! I was close to your daughter!”
She stares hard, and I fear my eyes might give me away, that a tiny dilation of my pupils will indicate that she’s getting to me, that she will know that I hear her and understand her pleas.
I concentrate on my breathing, taking in air slowly and letting it out evenly, keeping my heart from racing and my skin from flushing. It’s something I learned to do as a child. To escape the pain of the world, to keep him from gaining the satisfaction of the knowledge that he’d gotten to me, that he’d broken through the icy facade I’d developed.
