Chesapeake Tide

by Jeanette Baker

  He should have retired. Others his age had. There were few lawyers in Maryland or Virginia who worked beyond the age of sixty-five. If he’d listened to Nola Ruth he wouldn’t be sitting here now watching a mere child make her case against a woman older than he was who’d acted on her conscience and done society a favor.

  The bailiff addressed the courtroom. “Please rise. Court is in session. Judge Quentin Wentworth presiding.”

  Cole sighed, stood and helped Drusilla to her feet.

  “What have you to say for yourself, Mrs. Washington?” the judge asked.

  “Nuthin’ much, suh. I ain’ to blame for that chile’s mizry.”

  “What about the bruises on the infant’s neck?”

  “I don’ know nuthin’ ’bout those.”

  The judge frowned. “Are the parents here?”

  Cole stood. “Yes, Your Honor.” He acknowledged a young black couple in the last row. The woman looked tired and confused. She clung tightly to her husband’s hand.

  “Are they pressing charges?”

  “No, Your Honor,” Cole assured him. “They have the utmost respect for Ms. Washington’s midwifery, as does Dr. Balieu.” He looked across the aisle at the assistant district attorney. “He is ready to be called as a witness.”

  “That won’t be necessary.” The mention of a respected friend and family doctor reassured the judge as Cole knew it would. Martin Balieu would never countenance murder, no matter what the circumstances.

  The judge stood. “I’ll read the transcripts in my office and render my decision. Court dismissed until tomorrow. Cole, if I could have a moment with you in my chambers.”

  Cole frowned. Now what? He rubbed the back of his neck and watched the courtroom empty. Picking up the envelope that contained his copy of the newly submitted pictorial evidence and several sworn statements, he said goodbye to Drusilla and her granddaughter, assuring them he would call later in the day. Then he walked back through the courtroom and down the hall into Judge Quentin Wentworth’s chambers. He smiled at the secretary. “Mornin’, Norma Rae.”

  “Good morning, Cole.” She gestured toward the door. “Go right in. He’s expecting you. I’ll bring y’all some iced tea in a minute.”

  Immediately, Cole felt better. Quentin was old school. He wouldn’t suffer a bright new administrative assistant who refused to bring him coffee.

  Wentworth, a red-faced man vain enough to part his hair on the side of his head and comb it over his balding dome, sat behind his desk. The shades were drawn and a fan hummed from the far corner. “C’mon in, Cole, and sit down.” He pulled out a bottle of Jack Daniel’s. “Care for a drink?”

  Cole sat down and stretched his legs. “I wouldn’t say no.”

  “You like it neat, if I remember.”

  Cole nodded.

  “Don’t worry about the Washington case,” Wentworth said. He poured two glasses half full and set one in front of Cole. “I’m declaring the charges dropped.”

  Cole’s eyebrows rose. “Why?”

  “I would have thought it was obvious.”

  “Not to me.”

  ‘‘It’s a high-profile case and not the kind we need to make the papers.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “How many anglers do you think we’ll see if something like this gets out? How many small businesses will be ruined? Who’ll want to buy fruit and vegetables from our farms and orchards?”

  “What has that got to do with Drusilla Washington murdering a deformed baby?”

  “C’mon, Cole. No one could tell where the deformities ended and the strangling began. Doc Balieu hasn’t seen anything like it in all his years of practice. That’s good enough for me.”

  Cole thought of Libba. “Maybe we need the exposure.”

  “Now I’m the one who doesn’t understand.”

  “Maybe we should make this so big every environmental expert and every newspaper in the States sends someone here. For God’s sake, Quentin, we live here. Our children and grandchildren live here. What if we’re being poisoned?”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “Is it? You put everything together, same as I did.”

  “Now, Cole, this isn’t one of your human rights violation cases. This is too damn dangerous for you to be terrifying people when it could amount to nothing.”

  “Wouldn’t you rather be sure?”

  “I am sure, Cole.”

  Cole Delacourte finished his drink and stood. “Thanks for the refreshment, Quentin. I’ll be in touch.”

  “I’m dropping the case, Cole.”

  Cole nodded. “Mrs. Washington and her granddaughter will be relieved. I’ll tell them right away.”

  He left the courtroom and walked down the tree-lined street to a renovated old brick building set back beneath shady poplars. He greeted the woman at the front desk and proceeded directly to his office. He sat down in his chair and sighed. In the old days, before Lily retired, there would have been ham and cheese on rye and a fresh cup of coffee on his desk. His new secretary was a different breed entirely. She’d frozen him silent the first time he’d asked her to order up a sandwich. That wasn’t her job, she’d informed him. Maybe it wasn’t. The funny thing was, more often than not, he’d ordered sandwiches for Lily when she stayed late. Poured her coffee, too. Yes, times had changed.

  Settling back into his chair, he pulled out the pictures, trying to focus. He frowned, searched his pockets for his reading glasses and put them on.

  The film was color, thirty-five millimeter, newly developed by the district attorney’s office and sent over for his perusal. It was the first time he’d seen the pictures. Cole’s eyes widened. Good God! He blinked, stared and blinked again. Just before his face paled and his stomach began to twist, there was the strangest feeling in his chest. Could this really be a human child? Had the attractive, dark-skinned woman sitting in the back of his courtyard actually given birth to this... this creature? Bile rose in his throat. He swallowed, reached for his water glass, only to find it empty. Hastily pushing back his chair he ran for the bathroom and heaved up the remains of his stomach. Shaking, he turned on the faucet and splashed cold water over his forehead and cheeks. Weakness washed over him. His legs buckled. He sat down on the toilet seat and dried his face.

  Cole Delacourte had seen nearly every abomination there was to see in his three decades serving the public, but this one was different. This one involved a child whose mother had given birth less than two miles from his own front door. Terrifying thoughts flickered through his mind: the red globular masses on the baby’s chest and abdomen, the high incidence of leukemia, the mutated crabs Libba Jane was so worried about. It could be coincidental, of course. Quentin could be right. There was no telling where a family of sharecroppers had been or whether the crabs were directly affected by something in the local waters. It could just as likely have been pesticides dumped into the bay much farther north where the farmers polluted the Susquehanna.

  Chloe looked around the crowded lunchroom at the sea of unfamiliar faces hunched over trays at the long, banquet-style tables. It wasn’t much different than it was at home, she thought, watching the cliques gather and settle in, trade jibes, conversation and gossip as they wolfed down whatever they could in the thirty minutes allotted for the noon break. Skylar Taft and her group of girls were in the center of the action. Already acknowledged as queen of the in-crowd, she held court at one of the noisier tables.

  Tess caught Chloe’s eye and beckoned to her. Chloe pretended not to see her. While she wouldn’t have minded trading impressions of the morning with Tess, she couldn’t stomach Skylar for lunch. She glanced around the room, her eyes lingering occasionally on a straight, dark-haired head, and then moving on when she saw that it wasn’t Bailey. Where was he? He’d told her he might not make the first day, but she hadn’t believed him. No one missed the first day of school.

  Someone jostled her from behind. Tess’s exasperated voice sounded above the din in the lunchr
oom. “I’ve been waving to you for five minutes. Didn’t you see me?”

  “I was looking for Bailey.”

  “Bailey Jones?” Tess drew back in horror. “Oh, Chloe,” she wailed, “please don’t.”

  “Don’t what?”

  “Bailey isn’t a good person for you to be around, especially when no one knows you yet.”

  “I like him.”

  Tess’s eyes widened.

  “Not that way,” Chloe assured her. “He’s a friend. I wonder why he’s missing the first day.”

  “Bailey comes and goes as he pleases,” Tess explained. “You don’t have to worry about him. He can take care of himself. Besides, he won’t thank you for feeling sorry for him. Bailey Jones can be the meanest thing when he wants to be.” She pronounced it thang. “I can’t believe you like him.” Her voice turned conciliatory. “C’mon, Chloe. I saved you a seat at Skylar’s table. When people see you there, it won’t matter who you’re friends with. It’ll be okay. You’ll see.”

  Chloe relented and followed Tess, who picked her way around chairs and over backpacks through the crowded room to where Skylar sat with her friends. “Why is it Skylar’s table?” she asked.

  Tess shrugged impatiently. “Why are you always asking why? Some things just are. It’s easier that way.” She pasted a bright artificial smile on her face. “Hi, y’all. Look who I brought.”

  Skylar moved over. “Where have you been all morning?” she asked Chloe. “We looked for you at snack.”

  “I was working on my locker combination,” replied Chloe. She was very aware of the glances in her direction. They were curious, considering glances, neither hostile nor friendly.

  “Who’s your partner?”

  “Marsha Bradbury.”

  Skylar nodded. “Marsha’s all right. She’s a swimmer so you won’t see much of her.”

  Chloe wasn’t hungry. She looked at the clock. Three more hours before she could go home. It would be nine o’clock in the morning in California. She would be checking over her schedule with Sharon Simms and Casey Reilly, to see if they shared any classes. They would be planning whose house to go to after school and which clubs they would join. Chloe would be signing up for auditions for the fall play.

  Her vision blurred. Horrified, she blinked back tears. She would not cry in front of Skylar Taft. They could pull out her fingernails and she wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of a single tear.

  Suddenly, for an instant, the room went silent. A single titter broke the stillness and then the hum of conversation continued. Confused, Chloe looked around. Her glance settled on the thin, ragged figure sauntering defiantly toward the cafeteria line. Bailey. Their eyes met and held. He looked terrible. Chloe’s heart sank. She smiled tentatively and waved, but he turned away. She tried to stand, but Tess’s hand pressed down hard on her knee.

  “Don’t do it, Chloe,” she whispered. “He doesn’t want you to say anything.”

  “I don’t care,” muttered Chloe, furious at both Tess and Bailey.

  Tess looked her full in the face, her brown eyes dark with worry. “If everyone starts talking about you and saying awful things, you’ll care.”

  “He’s my friend.”

  “That’s why he ignored you. Think about it,” Tess pleaded.

  Chloe frowned. “You’re not just saying this, are you? You’re really worried about me.”

  “Incredibly worried.”

  “Why?”

  Tess smiled shyly. “I like you. You’re funny and interesting. I don’t want you to hate it here. Bailey Jones isn’t your only friend, Chloe.”

  “Wow,” Chloe said, completely disarmed. “Thanks.”

  Tess sighed and bit into her apple. “Just don’t do anything stupid.”

  Chloe looked at the clock again. Somehow, she would find Bailey and make him talk to her.

  Later that afternoon, Cole found Libby and Chloe in the kitchen. “What a nice surprise,” he said, kissing his daughter’s cheek. “You haven’t been home early all week.”

  Libby licked ice cream off the back of her spoon. “I wanted to see how Chloe’s day went.”

  Cole poured himself a glass of iced tea and sat down at the table. “How did it go, Chloe?”

  “Better than I expected,” Chloe replied. “The teachers are okay and the kids are nice enough.” She stood up to rinse her plate and stack it in the dishwasher. “I already have homework, so I guess I’ll go upstairs and start on it.”

  Cole watched her leave. “She’s a winner, Libba Jane. I’m sure you know that.”

  “Thanks, Daddy.” Libby reached for a glass and held it under the faucet. “I really should be getting back. I have that meeting with the watermen tonight. I only stopped in for a minute to check on Chloe.” She lifted the glass to her lips.

  Instantly, Cole was on his feet, his face wild, his arm extended, moving faster than he’d moved in twenty years to knock it from her hand. The glass shattered into a thousand sparkling shards, covering the counters and kitchen sink.

  “Daddy! What on earth—?” Libby’s face was frozen into a horrified mask.

  Her father lifted a shaking hand to his head and wet his lips. They tasted like steel wool. “Forgive me. I’m not myself. I think I’ll lie down.” He rested his hand on Libby’s shoulder. “Use the bottled water for drinking, honey. You can never be too careful.”

  Libby’s eyes were huge in her chalk-white face. She had never once seen her father lose control. It shook her to the core. “Are you all right, Daddy?” she whispered.

  He nodded. “Run along now. I’m going to spend some time with your mother.”

  Libby backed out the door and walked slowly to her car. She rolled down the windows and started the engine. The sun beat down on the summer-baked earth and the humidity was so great it was hard to breathe. For the first time, the home where she was born had brought no respite. Something significant and unpleasant had happened. Her father was afraid. For Libby, who’d relied on his cool judgment for a good part of her life, the very idea was terrifying. She wanted nothing more than to put whatever distance she could between herself and the place where she had been.

  She slowed down at the bridge, turned right and drove to the crest of the small hill, where she parked, climbed out of the car and looked down on the lawn of Hennessey House.

  Russ, a football under his arm, was yelling at Tess, who stood across the lawn, poised to catch. “Hike,” Russ yelled, lifting the football above his head. “No, not that way.” He waved Tess in the opposite direction. “Left, left. That’s it. Atta girl. Go for the pass.” The pigskin sailed through the air, a perfect arc against the cerulean blue of the sky.

  Tess ran backward and to the left, her arms raised in anticipation of the ball. It dropped into her grasp as smoothly as butter across a hot skillet. With a delighted chuckle, she charged across the lawn, running wildly, weaving first right and then left to avoid Russ’s tackle. He caught her, of course, but not until she’d maneuvered her way down what would have been a good many yards on a real football field.

  From her vantage point on the rise, Libby could hear the girl’s shriek of glee and Russ’s lower, deeper laugh. A lump rose in her throat. She ached for Chloe, filled with regret for her own troubled marriage and the broken home in which she’d raised her child. She wondered, once again, if she had done the right thing by moving back to Marshyhope Creek.

  They were having such fun. Libby knew she should turn around and leave them to their bonding, but she started down the hill, anyway. Russ, caught in a tangle of legs and long hair, didn’t see her until she was standing directly over him. Separating the curtain of hair that obstructed his vision, he looked up and grinned. “We were just about to get a burger. Care to join us?”

  “Where were you going?”

  “To the drive-through. Tess wants a burger.”

  Tess lifted her head from Russ’s shoulder and rolled over to lie spread-eagled on the grass. “You can bring Chloe if you want.”
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br />   Libby smiled. “Who could refuse such an invitation? I’ll call Chloe and see if she wants to come.” Maybe they would have their dinner with the girls, after all.

  Later, in the air-conditioned coolness of the Dairy Queen, between bites of her cheeseburger, Chloe eyed Russ dangling fries into his salted ketchup. “What was my mother like as a little girl?” she asked him.

  Libby stopped chewing. “What brought this on?”

  Chloe shrugged. “You don’t talk much about when you were small.”

  “I don’t remember much,” Libby replied. “Why don’t you ask your grandparents?”

  “Because they didn’t know you like Russ did. You were friends from the beginning, right?”

  “What do you want to know?” Russ cut in.

  Chloe tilted her head to the side, considering the matter seriously. “Was she smart?”

  “Very.”

  “Was she pretty?”

  “Chloe,” Libby protested.

  “I know you were pretty, Mom,” Chloe explained. “I’ve seen the pictures. I want to know whether people back then thought you were pretty.” She looked at Russ. “Well?”

  He nodded. “She was pretty.”

  Chloe threw down her French fry in disgust. “You’re no help. Can’t you give me more than that?”

  “If you wanted a story, you should have told me,” Russ answered agreeably, settling into the subject. “I just happen to remember the first time I ever really spoke to your mother. It was the morning after a rain and I was late getting out of bed. I was on my way when I heard the school bell ring. I started to run. When I got to within fifty yards of the playground, I saw her. I already knew she was a Delacourte from school. She was bending down, looking at something. When I got closer, I could see that she was picking up earthworms from the sidewalk and putting them back in the grass. She heard me coming and stood up. “You can’t walk through here,” she said, her face as fierce as she could make it. “I’m not through.” When I got closer, I could see she’d been crying. There must have been a hundred squashed worms lying there on the ground.”