Everything I said came out so much nonsense.
Exactly as I felt hearing the news. Barbra dead. Pammie mine. Nonsense. I couldn’t do this. I had to.
Nothing had changed, not in twenty years. In the motel window I saw my reflection cast faint against the landscape; I saw Arizona run right through me.
43.
Everything in the hearing room had clearly been ordered from a government catalogue. Avocado-colored chairs lined up in rows. The only nod to pomp was a gilded eagle perched on top of the flagpole, and even that could be found in any elementary school auditorium.
Pam was up front on the left beside your lawyer. She had on the same dress she’d worn to meet your mother. She filled it better now.
“Pammie’s off to the left,” I told Blue. He’d been quiet the whole ride over. “I’ll help you and Seshet.”
He shook his head. “I thought I’d stick with you.”
Pamela turned at his voice. A quick, sad smile.
“She put you up to this, didn’t she?”
“Pam knows this isn’t easy.”
“I don’t need babysitting.”
“It makes Pam happy,” said Blue.
I introduced myself to the prosecutor and he checked something off on his yellow pad. Blue and I sat. The hard chairs were a good sign; they couldn’t expect this to last long. The room filled. The temperature rose. I was in my black gabardine. It stuck to my skin. I envied Georg Ring’s widow, who wore something caramel-colored and silky.
The room had two doors. The wide double one I’d entered through and a narrow, knob-less one up front. It opened and the board filed in. Four men and one woman. She wore a pantsuit, which was much too casual, frankly vulgar, considering these proceedings. All around me people shifted. We didn’t know if we were meant to rise; it was like attending someone else’s church. I stood. Pam did too. It was as I had taught her: it’s seldom wrong to err on the side of respect.
The board members carried manila folders, slim ones, considering what was at stake. The chairman waved us down into our seats. He identified the case by name and number, outlined the proceedings, and kindly asked the observers for their respectful silence. He nodded to an officer I hadn’t noticed before. A door opened.
You came in with the guards like the five spots on a die.
You were older now.
Your scalp patched pink through gray.
You had that good Lusk skin, sesame marked but barely wrinkled.
Your hairline retreated in deep fjords.
You had entirely too much forehead.
One row in front of me, the widow hissed.
You smiled. Your eyes didn’t. Your teeth barely showed. Pale lips faded into pale skin.
They’d chained your hands before you. You moved like you wanted them there.
Next to everyone’s court wear, your jumpsuit looked like pajamas.
You blinked fast, like the light was too intense. Pam’s blue eyes, of course. “Those eyes,” I remembered Barbra’s voice. She was giddy. She’d just met you. “Those cheekbones, that chin he could use to cut things.”
You’d managed a good shave, considering you couldn’t be trusted with a razor.
You were weasel lean.
You hardly cast a shadow.
Clarence, you were not so tall as I remembered.
When the lawyers spoke—ours first, then yours—they referenced the manila files. The woman was the quickest to find the right pages. In another life Peter Kershaw could have been a newscaster. His voice was thunderous and reassuring and precise. He reminded the board: your record before these tragic events was unblemished. Everyone agreed you were a model prisoner. From the start you cooperated with the authorities in every particular.
The widow choked down the sort of noise I’d come to expect from Marjorie Lusk.
You showed true remorse, Kershaw said. You suffered, he said. Anyone could see you suffered deeply. It was right that you suffered, no one in the room would dispute that, but to take your life as punishment, because of a checklist of exacerbating criteria, because of the occupation of the unfortunate Officer Ring, because of a father’s instinct to keep his child near in a life gone hopelessly awry, that was arbitrary, that was vengeance, that was us at our worst.
We spoke in turns. There was no swearing in. Anybody could have been anybody. A young man in a suit had a letter Lawrence Ring’s father wrote while he was waiting to die in a local hospital. And will you tell Mr. Lusk from one dying man to another that my son he killed was a good man and that I’ll be seeing him on the other side when I get there. And if we see Mr. Lusk there even if I don’t think in my heart that we will, then I will try my best to forgive him, just like I’ve tried in my life. God forgives but I can’t find a way to forgive Mr. Lusk or to forget what he did. If God finds that a failing in me then He will understand it just comes from how I loved my son.
When the widow spoke, she gave her full name, which was Arceli Velasco Ring-Berzon. She raised her right hand, though there was no bible in sight. She turned from the board and she looked right at you. “My husband Georg was the ‘unfortunate Officer Ring.’” Arceli’s scare quotes looked like talons. “When you ran him down, you ran over my life.” There was none of that Gecko Canteen coolness, none of that hushed legal reverence. Tears came. An older man—husband number two—passed her a proper handkerchief. I’d only thought to bring a pocket pack of Kleenex. “I had three kids,” the widow said, “and I had no husband when they acted out.” Arceli drew a fat fan of photos from her purse. “Look at those kids. Look at the grandkids Georg never got to see.” She named them one by one. She cried so hard now it sounded like an accent. I wondered if she’d had any children with Berzon. If they’d even considered it. Her new husband stared at her, just stared. His hand went into his pocket, looking for another handkerchief or for anything that would actually help.
His wife turned from you, giving her salt-striped face to the board. “Remember that Georg Ring was a cop, so if I think of all the people he could have helped—the other officer with him? He left the force, after. So you think about the difference that makes, when you decide today, in terms of other people in this state. And think about the three themselves and the family and . . .” She sat. The squeak of chair on floor her only punctuation.
So it was my turn.
I’m sorry. I don’t have the composure. Please, I couldn’t speak now. Please, may I speak later?
They shouldn’t have allowed it. If this room was half what it should be they’d never. If this floor beneath me were marble. If the board wore robes. If those robes put their elbows on mahogany. Anything but their conference table. Any natural grain at all.
You looked right at me while the board considered my request. You mouthed four syllables. Mai sie Kel ler. And then you smiled again. You put your eyes in it. It gave you mump cheeks.
I almost stood then. I’d rehearsed the speech in my room. I’d been rehearsing it for decades.
I would’ve but you whispered to Kershaw. We’ll allow it, he said. He could use this. I heard it in his voice. See, he might say, I told you he’s cooperative. Or maybe, later. The hearing went out of order. My client didn’t get his full fair chance.
Again I almost stood.
But Pamela stood instead. She rose pale like the moon from behind Kershaw. Her new weight filled out some of the sharpness of her face. She was lovely. You saw it too. You looked and looked. Your head like a balloon straining its tether. The back of your neck was very red; I could see it from across the aisle. It couldn’t be sun. Laundry rash, perhaps. Nervous scratching.
Pam took a deep breath. Pain twisted across her face. Even though it was much too early, I thought: the baby. Bad luck to even think it. Worse still that something in me hoped.
But if anything would stall her. If anything would keep her mine.
“I’m, um, Pamela Claverie and this is my father.”
I had no way to stop this.
“I, uh
, I grew up more or less without him, which considering why we’re all here, um, that was probably the right thing.”
One, two, three ums. I counted. The only way to bear this.
“I was a happy kid. You should know that, and I want him to hear that about me. I have, um, only a few solid memories of my mom.” Four. “And I’m sorry for your loss, ma’am, but I never saw your husband.”
A stifled sound from Arceli Velasco Ring-Berzon.
“I never saw my mother’s, um, friend either. She kept me from all that. She was a good mom, and from what I remember my dad here did a good job too. After, um, uh, she died my aunt and uncle still let him send me letters. It’s probably important for me to say today that I hated getting them. My stomach would get all knotted every time I had to read one. I was a mess, scared he’d come and get me if I was ever bad. But I was safe with Lida—that’s my aunt—and Frank and I knew it, and they said I always would be. Didn’t matter. I was still scared. But I’m stubborn. That’s, um, another family trait. So when I was older I wrote him more, to force myself to face it. By then I was scared that I’d turn out like him as much as I was scared of him. But I’m not like him, not very. I can say that now because I got to know him. I can also say that if I could forget about what he did—which I don’t, and I want you to know that too—I’d actually like him. He cares about people. He has all these penpals. I know they sent you letters. He’s smart too. He’s always thinking and trying to learn things, even though it would be easier for him to, I don’t know, atrophy. And he’s funny. Not like strange, funny. He tells good jokes.”
Pam had a tissue in her hand. She tore it in half, then in half again.
“I’m twenty-four years old and I’m still scared every time I get a letter from him. Part of it’s that he’s my father and I know him and I’m afraid for him, but part of it’s that I’m scared to death this time I’ll really get him, that I’ll understand how a person can do what he did.”
You hadn’t moved since she started speaking.
I’d barely breathed.
“I’m sorry,” said Pam. “I’m trying to say this in a way that makes sense. I’m trying to be as clear as possible.”
Arceli Berzon was still sniffling. By now a bit of it had to be for show.
“I don’t get my father. I don’t get how he could do what he did. Even if he was hurting. I just don’t get it, and I hope that I never do. But we’re all people here and I’m sorry, but I don’t get how we can think of doing the same.
“You all can probably tell that I’m really, really pregnant. And except for getting to know my father this is the scariest thing I’ve ever done. I’m not looking forward to telling this little one about his grandfather.”
His?
“But what scares me even more is that I might have to tell him how everyone in this room did the same sort of thing, even though we had a chance to show we were so much better.
“I hope I don’t have to tell him.
“I hope that my father will be able to see this child.
“And I hope that I’ll be a good parent and that this child will grow up knowing I love him, even if he acts a way I don’t like or does a thing I can’t bring myself to understand. As for my father, well, I guess I want him to hear the same thing too.
“One more thing. As far as his trying to take me with him counts against my father and complicates the charge, please listen when I say that I wasn’t hungry or hurt or even frightened and that I know he meant no harm by doing it. Thank you.”
They told me it must be my turn now. If I was to speak at all.
I didn’t know till now Pamela was having a boy.
I stood. Blue put out a hand in case I wobbled.
You were too much a weakling to look at me.
Clarence, I didn’t wobble.
I licked my teeth. Smooth and straight and slick. I had spit enough for that.
Barbra laughed for two years solid when I wore braces. When it was her turn she lost her retainer twice. She told me you’d lost yours three times. I can’t imagine that went over well with Marjorie.
“I am Lida Stearl,” I said. “I used to be an orthodontist.”
Which was neither here nor there.
Silence. No one in this room cared a fig.
I licked my teeth again.
Barbra, Clarence, me, even Pam. All our teeth moved the same way. Slowly, I used to tell my patients, like continents. A silly analogy, I knew, every time I spoke it. No mouth has room for tectonic showiness. No quakes or buckles, nor cruel range upthrust. Teeth need constant, low grade aching, guiding them imperceptibly into place.
“I am Lida Stearl,” I began again. I had to concentrate. I had to do this right. “I am sixty-three years old. I’ve been waiting almost twenty years for this. For people to have to care about what I say.
“I should say first that I am not any good at speeches. I’ve got to stick to the simple truth.”
The whole room was listening. All I had to do was say it.
The truth, simply.
“And the truth is I loved my sister, Barbra.
“I love my niece over there, my Pam.
“I didn’t have children. Couldn’t. And so I didn’t expect to raise any. When Pamela came to us, my husband and I, we came up with a system. We called it ‘you pick, we pick, I pick.’ For if she acted up. The first time, she picked the punishment herself. The second, one of us would pick with her. Third, fourth, and so on, she got no say. I picked alone. Only it never got to that. Pammie—Pam, sorry, Pam—never pushed that far.
“I’ve been waiting a long time, waiting, which is only half a way to live a life, and here it turns out I don’t know the least thing about punishing.
“All I know is I loved my sister, Barbra. So much that I’ve done my best to fight back any memory that’s not a shining one of her. And fighting’s no way to keep what I can of her alive. My sister wasn’t . . .
“But that’s not why we’re here. She wouldn’t want me airing her business anyhow.
“I love Pamela. And I know this life of waiting and fighting, it can’t have been easy on her. I’m sorry for that. The living matter more than the dead. I know that’s not a law, but it should be. Either way, today we’re done waiting. And I want to be done fighting too. I love my niece, more than anybody, as much as these things can be measured. I know my sister loved her, and Clarence, Mr. Lusk, sorry, I guess he does too. So I think my sister would forgive me. If I say don’t do this. Don’t do this thing that would hurt Pam.”
I shut my eyes.
A sigh or so, but no wailing, no sharp intake of collective shock. Papers rustling.
I opened my eyes again. The widow stared at me like I was sludge. The wood-faced woman I gave Martin Dorsey to, his shovel face, his wet eyes on his graduation watch. I could remind the widow: Arceli, you wanted him to get his fair chance. But I didn’t care if she hated me. Barbra had known I was saving up for Martin’s watch. She offered to crack open her piggy bank. The widow should hate me. I deserved it after everything I had done.
You stood. You began to speak. Nothing I said had mattered. Before you got two sentences out the chairman loosened his tie and I knew how it would go.
44.
For the rest of my life any chop-splash, chop-splash would be Pamela wet and silent at the Touristay. Laps till dusk. She swam freestyle. Her stomach dragged deep like a rudder. Blue said she’d want space and went inside. I waited. My shadow grew longer on the pool bottom. Line up Pam’s laps and she just might get far enough away.
Every few laps she slowed enough to speak.
“Not good at speeches, Lida? Are you off your nut?”
Three laps.
“Every time you open your mouth it’s a little mini-speech.”
Six laps.
“Sorry. I don’t mean that.”
One lap.
“Thanks. For today.”
Two laps.
“I mean it.”
Five more la
ps.
“What are you standing here for?”
The next lap.
“Pamela?”
A lap later.
“Yeah?”
“I didn’t know you were having a boy.”
Eight laps.
“I don’t know. But I’ve decided. The moment Grandmom Lusk said it would be a girl.”
“That’s not how it works.”
“Please, Lida. Today’s exactly the day for you to tell me where babies come from.”
“Do you think we should have brought her here? Marjorie, I mean.”
One fast lap. I had no stopwatch but would guess it was good enough for back in high school.
“That woman? She’s mean. And she doesn’t know her hat from her heinie.”
I let her go a dozen laps. This spoon-sized pool. They weren’t a quarter the length of proper laps.
“We could’ve brought a letter,” I said. “Or written one and said it was from her. For Lawrence Ring they had a letter.”
“I didn’t know till just now we had a we.” Pam hung on to the pool’s tiled edge and let her legs float up.
“You should tell him we’ll look after her. He might want to know. Tomorrow. When you see him. Tell him she’ll be walking soon.”
Pamela began to swear then. She started her laps once more. An ugly word each time she touched wall, reliable as the widow dropping stitches.
I left her to her swimming. On the table in my room the phone blinked red. The message was from Kershaw. He’s agreed to see you tomorrow. 8:00 A.M.
I felt weary and grit-mouthed. I had to brush my teeth. Upper left quadrant. We the people of the United States. Lower left. We the people. I began to shake. The brush ping-ponged about my mouth. There’d be tomorrow to get through, and then tomorrow night, when none of us would sleep. Then there’d be the Arizona dawn, the desert hour when your guilt would pass with you from this world. They said it would take seven minutes, less time than it took to fry up an egg.
45.
Once again I was up at dawn. Your next-to-last sun lit up a desert that looked too soft a place to have you in it; mellow in the morning light, fake and dewy, watercolored. I pressed today’s execution suit. The oldest of the lot. I got into the skirt through the good grace of control-top hose. I put on my watch. Sometime today some medic would prescribe the drugs for your tomorrow. I put on earrings. Simple gold studs. Stemble forbade visitors in hoops and dangles, anything that could be grabbed, along with jewelry in any visible non-lobe hole. I still had a pair of little silver bells—Barbra’s favorites—squirreled away for Pam. But she never pierced anything. That lifelong fear of needles. Stemble allowed me just one ring. My solitaire was lovely but I set it aside. I thought of Frank. It was my plain gold band that sealed us.
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