Even So

by Lauren B. Davis

  Where would she go from here? Maybe New York City. A person could get reasonably lost there. Or was it too obvious? Would there be a warrant out for her arrest one day soon? Maybe she’d go south, work on a travelling carnival, one of those ones that set up in parking lots and agricultural fairs and paid you in cash and didn’t ask questions. Or there was Alaska. A person could surely get lost in all that wilderness.

  Offshore, something bobbed up in the water. A harbour seal, its doglike eyes so curious and soft. A selkie, maybe, come to lure her, come to play, come to save her.

  There was always the possibility of swimming away from land. Swimming until you couldn’t see shore. No one would even see her slipping into the water. A plan? It felt just as plausible and sensible as dreaming of running a Ferris wheel at the Iowa State Fair. She watched the seal until it disappeared under the surface again. She waited to see if it would resurface, but it seemed to have moved on. She inched down on the rocks, so her foot touched the water. She couldn’t walk in. She’d have to jump.

  She looked up. Yes, there was the seal again. Just for a moment and then gone. Florida? Alaska? Iowa? Davy Jones’s locker?

  More damn tears. She prayed, knowing it was a fucking cliché, but she prayed anyway. Take it. Take the whole damn thing. I can’t do it. I can’t go through another day like this. I can’t do it. I can’t. Take it take it take it take it. She had no name for whatever, whomever, she prayed to. She had no form for it. She had only the abyss, the void, the darkness.

  After some moments she felt her chest loosen ever so slightly, as though a belt had been undone, or a rope untied. It occurred to her she could, in fact, die without dying. She shook her head. What a ridiculous, sappy, religious concept, she thought, embarrassed at the idea, even as her breathing slowed. Resurrection? Really? How absurd.

  Or was it? What was she saying? She imagined a cicada scraping out of an old husk, a snake sloughing off its tired old skin.

  Suddenly, she was thinking of her mother. Really? My mother? Now? She remembered being at the beach when she was perhaps eight or nine. A sun-bright, eye-dazzling day. She and her mother were walking when they came across a sharp, hard pinkish thing on the sand, gritty and broken.

  “A dead crab,” said Angela.

  “Is it, though?” Her mother had turned it over and looked inside. “I’ll tell you about crabs.” Angela’s mother was like that. She knew things other people didn’t, odd informational scraps of flotsam and jetsam.

  “Crabs are crustaceans,” she said.

  “Crustaceans,” Angela repeated.

  “Right. So are lobsters and shrimps. They have a hard shell called an exoskeleton or a carapace.”

  “Carapace. I like that word.”

  “Me, too. This means they wear their skeleton outside their body.”

  “Yuck,” said Angela.

  Her mother laughed, and the light caught the silver of her dangling earrings and made it look for a moment as though she had stars on her ears. “Think of it like a suit of armor, like in King Arthur, the ones the knights wore. Except that crabs keep growing and so they need a new suit of armor when they outgrow the old one. So, every now and again they start to grow a new soft carapace under the old one. The old shell splits and cracks open —”

  “Does it hurt?”

  “Huh. I don’t know. Probably not. But maybe. But I’m sure it’s not comfortable, only necessary. Anyway, when that happens the crab climbs out and drinks a whole lot of water so that it gets all plump before the new carapace sets hard. Then it can grow into the new shell until it has to repeat things all over again. So, see, inside this carapace,” she held out the shell to Angela, who wiped her hands off on her tummy before taking it, because it seemed like a fragile, almost holy thing now, “there’s nothing at all. If it was a dead crab, you’d see bits of it, but there’s nothing at all here, so this is just an old suit of clothes.”

  “Can we take it home?”

  “Sure, I guess.” Angela’s mother put it in the pouch she wore slung over her shoulder, in which she put their found things, shells and stones and whatnots.

  They walked some more, and then Angela asked, “Isn’t it dangerous for the crab, when he doesn’t have a hard shell, when he’s all soft like that?”

  “It is a scary time,” said her mother. “Good thinking. It has no protection then and so it needs to hide away under a rock or coral, so nothing comes along and tries to eat it. But it doesn’t have a choice if it’s to live.”

  Cicadas. Snakes. Crabs. Shedding old skin. Well, thanks, Mom.

  What was stopping her from doing the same?

  Nothing.

  She made a little noise that sounded almost like a laugh. Nothing. Exactly what she had. A big mountain of nothing at all. And that nothingness became a clean thing, a sheet washed of blood, a countertop swept of crumbs, a sky without clouds, a sea without waves, blue and pure as crystal. She felt as though she’d lived her whole life in small spaces, in apartments and towns and tree-cluttered gardens, and now, all of a sudden, in a lightning flash, a ripped-away veil, a sudden blast, it was all gone, and she let herself drift into the nothingness. She let it carry her, for it was a thing, this nothingness, it was solid in some metaphysical way. No thing. What would save her? No thing. Nothing. Everything. A kind of eerie freedom, in which all things were unfamiliar and uncharted.

  Sister Eileen

  The room Detective Danberg had ushered her into was small and grey and windowless. Eileen sat on a metal chair with her back to the wall, facing the detective across a small desk as he sat with his back to the door. He was a restless man, fidgeting. One minute he leaned back on his chair, balancing it on the two back legs, and the next he plunked forward, elbows on the desk, neck jutting toward her. He picked up his pen and clicked it over and over. He drummed it on the table. He scratched his head. Moved his shoulders around and cracked his neck.

  Eileen sat still, with her hands in her lap. She understood the detective’s display was intended to annoy her, to make her ill at ease, and it did. Although the half-smile she kept on her face betrayed little sign of her discomfort, she very much wanted to tell him to cut it out, to sit up straight, to be still.

  “So,” he said, not for the first time, “what are we gonna do here, Sister?”

  She remained passive, which she suspected annoyed him as much as he annoyed her. She didn’t necessarily wish to annoy him, but short of saying things she had no intention of saying, she didn’t know how to stop. “We’ve been here for over two hours, Detective. Do you think much will change if we talk for another two?”

  “What I wonder —” he put the forefinger of his left hand in the middle of the manila folder in front of him, and spun it around with his other hand “— is what it is you’re hiding. I mean, we’ve got two possibilities, right?”

  “You’ve mentioned that. Several times.”

  He flattened his hand on the folder and it stopped spinning. He opened it and tapped at the page with his pen. “But I guess we should go over it again. Now, where were you the night of the accident?”

  She sighed. “At home, with the other Sisters who live with me.”

  “Yup, yup, yup, and they were all home, right … Sister Ruth, Sister Caroline, Sister Anne?”

  “They were.”

  “That’s cozy.” He played his index fingers like drumsticks on the edge of the desk. “Okay, so let’s say, just for the moment, that I believe you.”

  “That would be nice. I am not the lying sort.”

  “Why? Because you’re a nun? Listen, Sister, I know plenty of religious people who lie, don’t you? I mean, come on, all those priests and little kids? You can’t tell me you people don’t lie like dogs in front of a warm fire.”

  “Are you speaking from personal experience?”

  He glared. “No. I’m not.”

  “Are we here to talk about church scandals? Because if so, you might be surprised to find you and I are more like-minded than not.”
>
  “That would be something. Yup. But no, maybe we’ll save that for another time. Like I was saying, let’s say I believe that you and your roommates were all tucked in for the evening. So, it wasn’t you, or them, who ran George Clarence down and left him in the street like a piece of trash.” He folded his hands and rested them on his not-insubstantial middle. “But you know who did it, don’t you? Oh, yes, I think you do.” He leaned in now. “Come on, Sister, where’s your sense of justice? That poor guy. Lost a leg. In a goddamn wheelchair. A wheelchair. Somebody hit him. A guy in a wheelchair.”

  “We’ve been over and over this, Detective, and I am aware of George’s circumstances.”

  “Yup. You’ve been taking pretty good care of him and his sister, haven’t you?”

  “We do what we can.”

  “And it costs some, too, doesn’t it? Well, doesn’t it? Where’d you get the money from?”

  “People donate to us, in order that we might help others.”

  “Yup. But in this particular case, who gave you money for George Clarence?”

  And this is where things got tricky. Phrasing was important. She did not lie, after all. “I’m not always aware where specific money comes from.”

  “You aware in this case?”

  “I’m not able to say.”

  He puffed out his cheeks and held his nose, as though from a bad smell. “You see, that’s just the sort of non-answer that makes me awfully suspicious, Sister. You’re not able to say. You could, but you won’t, is more like it, and I bet you keep records, so I could, I guess, go to all the trouble of getting a warrant to look at the books I’m sure you keep down at that Pantry place and all that. Charitable donations earmarked for Mr. Clarence donated by … who? You know, like you see on the television — a bunch of guys in full gear stomping through the Pantry, opening drawers, letting people see us. I don’t suppose that would be good for your, what do you call them, your clients’ sense of safety, would it?”

  “An anonymous donor is just that. You wouldn’t find anything useful to your case.” She would not say that, should such a thing happen, it was likely their clients’ sympathy would be fully with the Sisters and not with the men and women in blue. She sighed and used the gesture as a distraction as she stole a glance at her watch. It was after four. Enough. “Are you holding me? Or am I free to go?”

  “I’ll ask directly, Sister. Do you, or do you not, know who is responsible?”

  “And I will answer you as best I can. Responsibility is a vast term and there may be any number of people responsible.”

  Bam! The detective slammed his palm on the table, and she jumped.

  “Stop dicking around. You know who’s responsible and you’re damn well gonna tell me. You Catholics, always half-truthing and dodging responsibility for the crap that happens under your watch. Well, I’m not going to have it, you understand? What the hell is wrong with you? That poor man — you don’t give a shit about him. So pious, but what’s that good for? He still gets no justice, right?”

  It was difficult for Eileen not to point out the number of times the police department had failed the very man for whom the detective now feigned such concern. Three times over the years George had fallen out of his chair on ice or uneven sidewalks and the police had never come to help. Once he had lain in the cold for almost an hour before someone driving by stopped to help him. Or perhaps she should remind him of the times — twice — he had been stopped and frisked, with the police assuming he was dealing drugs hidden somewhere on his chair simply because he occasionally liked to hang out on the corner and chat. Poor man? Yes, indeed.

  Of course, she said none of this. Detective Danberg was as damaged a man as any other, and surely there was a wound down there that had never been properly healed. She tried to picture him as a boy, one who had been wronged in some way, a boy before all the layers of anger and cynicism grew over his heart.

  She put Christ between them and tried to speak to Him instead.

  Just as she was about to speak of justice for everyone involved, even this angry policeman, the door opened and a female officer with thickly painted-on eyebrows asked him to come outside for a moment. He shot her a look of something very close to disgust, snapped, “Stay,” and left Eileen alone.

  It was surprising how fast her heart was beating. Christ or no Christ, no one enjoyed being interrogated by the police. She knew she could leave. She was not under arrest, but he had told her to stay. It was difficult not to be obedient to such a command. What must it be like for young people who had been taught to mistrust the police entirely to sit alone in small rooms like this? Well, now she knew, at least a little of the helplessness and the humiliation it entailed. The way things were going, she might well learn more.

  She closed her eyes and prayed.

  After a while the door opened. It was the female officer.

  “You can go,” she said.

  “The detective said I should stay.”

  “Well, now he says you should go.” She shrugged, arched one of those rather alarming brows, and gestured with her hand that Eileen should get up.

  The hall was brightly lit and through a window in the wall she saw uniformed men and women hunched over desks, busy with paperwork and phones. Farther along was a steel bench to which a young man she didn’t know was shackled. He didn’t return her smile.

  They were right at the exit door when she saw Angela. She was being ushered by the detective to a counter, next to which hung a height chart — a backdrop for photos. She looked frighteningly thin next to the policeman. Her hair, which looked wet, was pulled back in a ponytail and she wore a sweatshirt, pants, and running shoes. If she’d come with a purse, she didn’t have it now. Oh, wait, the detective was carrying it, making him look like a reluctant husband on a shopping trip.

  Eileen’s heart flipped, as if she had just jumped into the cold, cold sea. “Angela,” she called. “Angela.”

  Angela turned, looking for her, but the policewoman was ushering her, with a hand on her shoulder, out the door into the reception area. Eileen couldn’t tell if Angela had seen her or not.

  “That woman,” she said, “may I see her? May I talk to her?”

  “You know her?”

  “I do.”

  The woman smirked. “Huh, so Danberg was right.” She snorted. “You people are something. You could be charged with impeding an investigation, you know.”

  “May I talk with her?”

  “She’ll get a phone call after processing. If she wants to talk to you, she’ll call.”

  THE CALL CAME THAT EVENING just before seven. Eileen sat in the living room with Caroline, Ruth, and Anne.

  “Sister Eileen. It’s me.”

  She nodded, her hand held up, letting the other women know who it was. Ruth bowed her head in prayer, Anne nodded smiled a little. Caroline looked heavenward with her hands, palms, together at her lips. Since Angela had turned herself in, Eileen felt able to share the outline of events with her housemates.

  “Oh, Angela. Tell me what’s happening.”

  “I’m being charged with third-degree something or other. Knowingly leaving the scene of an accident causing serious bodily harm. I think. Whatever. I’ll stay here tonight, and then be transferred to Mercer County Jail until I’m arraigned, or preliminary arraignment, I think.”

  Her voice sounded tired, and small, but was steady.

  “Do you know when that will be?”

  “I’m not sure. Maybe tomorrow.”

  “What made you do this?”

  “Sister Eileen, you’ve done so much. You stood by me. I just wanted to thank you. I’m okay. I’m kind of surprised, but I am. I’m sorry I put you through all this. Really sorry.”

  “You sound calm.”

  “I feel calm. Or I guess it’s calm. Numb, you know. Really, really tired. I’m going to jail. I told them everything. Even about drinking, so I guess they’ll charge me with that, too. I’ll find out at the preliminary hearing, or whatever.
”

  “Do you have a lawyer? They did say you need a lawyer, didn’t they?”

  “I don’t want one.”

  This surprised Eileen. To be accountable was one thing … “Are you sure that’s wise?”

  “Wise? I don’t know. I’m going to plead guilty. I already confessed and everything.”

  “I see. This is quite a turnaround.”

  “I’ll tell you the story of a crab one day. But I don’t have much time. Could I ask you a favour?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Will you call Philip and tell him what’s happened? There’s stuff I’ve been thinking about, insurance and so forth. He’s going to have to be involved, I’m afraid, legally. I don’t know …”

  “Take it one step at a time.” Eileen realized her cheeks were wet. “I can’t tell you how amazed I am, watching you come home to yourself. Things will unfold.”

  “Will they? Well, I don’t know. Even if —”

  There was some noise in the background.

  “I have to go. Maybe you’ll be in court?”

  “I’ll be there.”

  “Thanks.”

  And then she was gone.

  Eileen explained things, and Anne came over to the couch, sat next to Eileen, and hugged her. “That’s the God we know,” she said, and the other women agreed. Caroline, who had a rather dumbfounded look on her face, said, “Wow. That’s kind of a miracle.” And then she stood and went to get Eileen a cup of tea.

  Eileen said, “I wondered about that girl, but I think she’s going to make a fine nun after all.”

  Sister Eileen

  The visitors were herded into a concrete-block room. Tables with round-seated stools attached to them were bolted to the floor. A wall of meshed windows let in a little light, but not much, since it looked out onto another wall. A play area in the back of the room boasted a small bookcase, some old colouring and storybooks and a stained, purple carpet. Three vending machines stood against the wall. Soft drinks. Chips. Chocolate bars and candy. Guards assigned visitors seats at different tables, the empty places a testament to loss and hope in equal measure. It was quiet in the room. Tension was a slithery thing in the corners, creeping up walls. Eileen realized every muscle in her back was stiff, and her hands were clutched so tight the knuckles were white.