Sophia’s been the object of his scrutiny. During Jody’s trial, Hunter had been everywhere she was. He’d stuck to her side, agitating her with his constant questions, cajoling and demanding by turns, so insistent, she’d become alarmed.
“...unless the situation changes.” Trent is answering Pat. “There are a couple of avenues that could be pursued,” he says, “for instance, there’s talk that Capshaw’s attorneys might attempt a similar course of action as Jody Doaks’ attorneys.”
At the mention of Jody’s name, Sophia’s breath stalls and while Hunter goes on to talk about the wife of the condemned man, she waits to hear her name linked with Jody’s. She wouldn’t put it past Hunter to lie and say she will become involved in this matter and she is hardly relieved when he doesn’t.
She brings her fingertips to her temples. It can’t be possible that Cort Capshaw, the painter she has hired against her better judgment, and this man, whose mug shot fills the screen, are related. She searches the image, hunting a resemblance to Cort, not finding any. She tells herself he would have mentioned it if there was a connection. She tells herself he isn’t the only one who’s brought up the trial to her. Many people have questioned her. People she is less acquainted with than Cort. Sophia drags her fingers back through her hair. Please don’t let these men be related. The words run through her mind, a prayer.
She’ll tell Cort no, that’s all. If it turns out that’s why he’s here, why he pressed her for the job of painting her house, if it’s her help he wants with this volunteer’s case, she’ll say no. She’s done it before. Not long after Russ died, as recently as six months ago, a woman had the nerve to come to Sophia’s front door and demand she step in to help her nephew who was within days of execution. The woman had been furious when Sophia refused. She had accused Sophia of having a thing for perverts. Sophia had been shaken. But the whole experience with Jody, the trial and its aftermath has left her feeling hollowed out. Conflicted in ways she is afraid she might never settle.
She looks back at the television, where Jarrett Capshaw’s competency to decide his fate is now under discussion. Hunter says he doesn’t think the judge will reverse the court’s earlier decision that declared Capshaw of sound mind.
“But the court isn’t the only authority or even the final authority in this case that has been filled from the beginning with twists and surprises,” Hunter continues, briskly eager. “In fact, there’s been talk of a much higher power stepping in to stop the clock.”
Pat bounces her index finger at the ceiling. “I’ll assume you’re not talking...?”
Hunter snickers. “No. This authority would be our own government. Inside sources who agreed to speak to me exclusively have indicated there may be a joint effort underway between the US and Mexico to halt the execution.”
“On what grounds?” Pat asks.
Sophia starts to sit, to wait for the answer, but then catching herself, she switches off the set, gives the kitchen a final distracted inspection, finds her purse, tugs out her car keys, mind tripping over a rubble of worried thoughts. She doesn’t want Cort Capshaw to be related to this man, this volunteer. She can’t help them. Can’t take the risk even if she were so inclined, which she isn’t. Getting drawn into the very public eye of Jody’s case was a fluke and, thankfully, nothing came up about her past. But to tempt fate again in the same way would be foolish, nothing short of insanity. She’d never get away with it, not a second time.
o0o
Sophia’s glance passes right over the slightly-built, dark-haired girl pushing an overloaded airport luggage cart across the sidewalk and then returns to her. It is Carolyn looking frayed and disheveled behind a virtual mountain of suitcases and boxes. What on earth...?
After a hug and a flurry of greetings, Carolyn offers the explanation that she’s been cleaning out closets. Sophia waits to hear something more plausible, but as they stow what they can in the trunk and pack the overflow into the back seat, Carolyn chatters about everything else: the flight, her talkative seatmate, the weather.
Sophia turns south on the feeder road heading toward Houston.
“We’re having lunch at Grandmother’s?” Carolyn is looking at herself in the visor mirror
“Couldn’t be avoided. Aunt Frances is out of her blood pressure medication and I have the refill.”
“I can’t believe they took Grandmother’s driver’s license. Is she making you crazy?”
“Nearly.”
“Is it Alzheimer’s, do you think?”
“Her doctor claims it’s too soon to tell.”
“Well, I hope not. You’re on your own now. It’s not as if you have Dad to help anymore.” Carolyn pulls down the visor mirror again and fiddles with her hair, a dark cap of pixie curls that frames her face. Her fingers dart like nervous birds.
“I’ll manage,” Sophia says. “Is something wrong?”
“No, why?”
“You seem jittery.”
“Too much coffee.”
Sophia glances in the backseat. Too much baggage....
Carolyn asks about paint colors for the house.
“I’m leaning toward shades of green,” Sophia says. “Are you too warm?” She eyes Carolyn hands that are busy now with adjusting the A/C vent.
Carolyn claims she’s fine. But she isn’t. After a stream of animated chatter, she has fallen abruptly silent and the way she’s sitting, with her hands clutched in her lap and her face turned to the passenger window, suggests that if she isn’t crying, she’s close. “Do you want to talk about it?” Sophia asks.
At first Carolyn shakes her head, but when her gaze comes around, her eyes are brimming; her mouth is knotted. It’s obvious she can’t speak. Sophia cups her palm over Carolyn’s clasped hands and finds that Carolyn’s diamond solitaire is missing. Her heart sinks.
“Have you and Larry broken up?”
Carolyn sniffs and wipes her face. “I’m not sure.”
“You’ve seemed so happy all this time. What’s happened?”
Carolyn’s shrug is somehow both noncommittal and defensive. She says, “There’s something else you might as well know. I turned down the job with Vanderburg and Dodge.”
“What?” Sophia backs her foot off the accelerator, she can’t help it. “Why would you do that?” She talks over the squeal of brakes, the staccato sound of honking. Within moments an angry driver wheels around her, glaring, middle finger stabbing skyward.
Carolyn thanks him. She mentions his IQ.
Sophia won’t be distracted. “You aren’t thinking you can do better? You said yourself the salary and benefits, the retirement package, was more than you had hoped for. Please tell me you’ve left the door open.”
Carolyn says that she hasn’t. She presses herself into the seat corner as if she might escape the onslaught of Sophia’s dismay. Somehow Sophia manages to stifle herself. She’s a psychologist, good at waiting, good at giving space, however little she wants to practice the skills at this moment.
“They want someone innovative, someone creative who can think on their feet.” Carolyn manages to sound both furious and contrite at the same time and Sophia thinks of pulling over, of drawing Carolyn into her embrace. Never mind, she will say, it doesn’t matter. But she is very concerned that it does matter. A profession is the way a woman maintains her independence in her marriage. Without that, Carolyn could well be made vulnerable to her husband’s decisions about how she will conduct her life.
Sophia says, “It’s all you ever wanted to do, follow in your dad’s footsteps.”
“No, it’s what you wanted me to do.”
“Me?”
“You said I should find a career.”
“Yes, all right, I did say that, but—”
“I knew you wouldn’t understand.”
“People can wait a lifetime for an opportunity like this, Carolyn, and you’re giving it away.” Sophia is saying everything wrong. Russ would put it differently; he would be more diplomatic. Carolyn woul
d listen to him and do as he said. It was always his advice she relied on. He’d been the parent she could relate to and now he’s gone.
They ride through a gnawing silence.
“I don’t think I want to live in Chicago either.” Carolyn addresses the passing scenery outside her window.
“Then what do you want?”
“Honestly? I don’t know, Mom. Not to be stupid? That would be good for starters.”
Sophia glances at her. “Why are you talking this way? You aren’t making sense.”
“Who will give me away?”
“What? Uncle John, I suppose. At least Aunt Floy offered.”
“But I hardly know him. He and Dad weren’t close even when they were growing up.”
It was true. Of the two Beckman sons, Russ had been the oldest by eight years, the brilliant one, adored by their wealthy parents. John had been the rebellious, pot-smoking, perennial student. Now he’s a fully-tenured college professor at Fordham University in New York. Sophia doesn’t see much of John, but she’s always liked him. The day Russ brought her to meet his family, John went out of his way to welcome her, unlike Madeleine. Sophia can never think of that initial meeting with her mother-in-law without remembering how Madeleine had peered down the thin ridge of her patrician nose at her as if Sophia were some variety of strange fruit. They had never warmed to each other.
“If the engagement is off,” Sophia says, changing lanes, “it would seem a discussion of who is to give you away is moot.”
“I don’t know that it is. I don’t know anything for sure. I’m scared, Mom.” Carolyn is peering into her lap. The tremor in her hands, in her voice, stalls Sophia’s heart.
“Has Larry done something?” She keeps her eyes on the Houston city skyline that is lost in a light-shot haze of smog.
“No. Maybe.”
They share a look that is quickly full of Sophia’s panicked question.
“Not that! Why would you think—?”
“Because even people we love can lose their temper with so little provocation.” Sophia bites her lip; she tells herself to settle down. Carolyn would never do it; she wouldn’t let herself get mixed up with an abuser. But there’s the baggage and her talk of dissatisfaction with her life. It’s the portent of something ominous. It has to be. What Sophia can’t decide is whether to delve into it or leave it alone. If only someone would hand her a script....
“I won’t go to the barbeque tomorrow, if you’d rather I didn’t.”
“Of course, I want you to go. Phil and Dorie couldn’t believe their luck when I said you’d be in town on the very weekend of their annual bash. They’re thrilled you can make it.”
“But I don’t want to embarrass you.”
“What do you mean? You could never—”
“They’ll ask about the job, Mom, the wedding and Larry. I don’t want to explain and you shouldn’t have to.”
“We won’t mention it,” Sophia says. She will call Phil, she thinks, and warn him. He’ll worry if they don’t show. Phil Stedman is a psychologist too, Sophia’s mentor in fact, and one-time office partner, but she is convinced he is also part Jewish mother. His wife Dorie agrees. They joke about it.
“They’re bound to ask though.”
“If they do, we’ll say everything is fine. Because it will be. It will work out, you’ll see.” Sophia pats Carolyn’s knee and when Carolyn takes her hand, Sophia’s heart wallows and the warm and surprising sea of her love blends with the cooler current of her apprehension.
o0o
Frances is peering out at them as Sophia and Carolyn climb the front porch steps. “Sister’s furious at me,” she says instead of hello. She pushes open the screen door.
“Why?” Sophia bends to hug Frances. Her cheek next to Sophia’s is withered and soft, like creased tissue paper. The blades of Frances’s shoulders are bent as delicately as a bird’s wings. But she’s spry and right now her eyes are bright with worry.
“She ran over a pencil with the vacuum cleaner,” Frances explains while at the same time Carolyn is saying, “Mmm ...something smells divine . . .
“I made vegetable soup for our lunch,” Frances tells Carolyn. “How are you, honey?” Not waiting for Carolyn’s answer, she turns back to Sophia. “It was only a little stub and it got caught in the hose and the vacuum won’t go and Sister says it’s my fault, but she’s the one who was using it. The pencil, I mean. She was working the crossword and she was mad because she couldn’t think of half the answers. I wish she wouldn’t—”
“Where is Mother?” Sophia interrupts.
Frances gestures them toward the living room. “We were trying to fix it.”
“I’ll see if I can help her,” Carolyn offers.
Sophia links arms with Frances. “How about we tend to the soup?”
A few minutes later, when Sophia goes to the living room, Carolyn is crouched beside the sweeper using a screwdriver and Esther is watching her. She’s a sturdier version of her sister, taller and bigger-boned. Sophia takes after her, while Carolyn is more agile and slender like Frances. When Esther turns at Sophia’s approach; her still-handsome features knit into a frown.
“I wanted the house to be clean when you brought Carolyn by. Now here she is down on her knees because of Frances’s carelessness.”
“Come on to the kitchen, Mother, and have your lunch. Frances and I have the soup ready.”
“Did you bring her medicine? Did she take it? It’s her own fault if she’s in a state.” Esther sounds fretful and it is so uncharacteristic that it draws Carolyn’s glance.
Her reassurance, “It’s okay, Grandmother.”
“Frances is fine,” Sophia soothes. “Carolyn, do you need me to help?”
She waves the screwdriver. “I’ll just be a minute more. It’s no big deal,” she adds.
“Hmmph,” Esther grumbles, following Sophia into the kitchen.
At the stove, Sophia concentrates on ladling the soup into bowls and carries them to the table. “Tarragon, I’m guessing,” she says setting Frances’s bowl in front of her.
Frances nods. “With just a tish of cayenne pepper and those wonderful fresh mushrooms you brought us.”
Sophia smiles. Frances is an imaginative chef. She never works from a recipe and no dish is ever the same twice.
Esther drags out a chair and sits down, making more noise than necessary. “If you’d been paying attention,” she tells Frances, “when you carried the newspapers to the recycle, you would have seen the pencil fall on the floor.”
Frances dips soup into her spoon and sips. “Do you think we should add more salt, Sophia?”
“I think it’s fine.” Sophia clatters the lid back onto the soup pan. Don’t start, please don’t start....
“All fixed,” Carolyn says going to the sink to wash her hands.
Esther sniffs. “I doubt it’ll hold. We’ll have to buy a new one because of Frances’s foolishness.”
Sophia mentions she’s forgotten the crackers and Carolyn picks up the basket on her way to the table handing it to Sophia as she sits down.
“Where is Larry?” Esther asks.
“Yes, where is he?” Frances echoes.
“What about the wedding?” Esther wonders.
“Sophia never tells us anything,” Frances complains.
“Mom and I were talking about it on the way here,” Carolyn says brightly.
When the sisters ask for details, she seems happy to elaborate. She’s been thinking about color schemes, she tells them. Sophia frowns.
Carolyn pays her no mind. “What do you think of shades of ivory and green with maybe a touch of lilac, or should the accent color be pink?” she asks.
Sophia butters a cracker, feeling a thrust of irritation. She resents having to sit here, having to share Carolyn’s visit, having to pretend everything is oh-so-happy. Coming here is a worsening chore. The drive between her house in Hardys Walk north of the city and their house here near Houston’s 610 loop is an hour ea
ch way, longer if there’s traffic, and now there’s the shopping to do and the ferrying to various doctors, the endless running of idle errands, and after all that, the sisters will still treat Sophia like the twelve-year-old girl they had used to send off for a loaf of bread or to fetch the laundry from the clothesline before it rained. She thinks how tired she is of it, the sisters’ endless squabbling, their furtive whispering.
Their secrets.
They have no idea Sophia has such feelings. Feelings aren’t to be discussed. Esther’s rule. It’s understood.
Sophia realizes Carolyn is into it with them now, over something to do with Russ’s funeral. She’s brought it up again, that Esther and Frances hadn’t attended.
“They weren’t feeling well,” Sophia says. “Remember? I told you.”
“Sister said your mother didn’t want us there,” Frances tells Carolyn. “We would only have been in the way. Sister says nobody wants to entertain two old women.”
“Mother!” Sophia is appalled. “Why on earth would you say such a thing to Frances? Honestly.”
“Honestly, what?” Esther arches a single eyebrow.
Sophia shifts her gaze, blinking, defensive, and hating herself for it. Why is it she can never learn? It’s not as if she hasn’t had plenty of experience. Take the day Russ died for instance. It had happened suddenly, without warning, and when his brief struggle was over, Sophia had called Esther wanting only the simple comfort of her mother’s voice, but instead, she’d been made to listen while Esther tut-tutted that she’d warned Sophia about marrying a man so much older.
“I’m surprised he lasted this long,” she had declared.
“Younger men than Russ have coronaries, Mother. Much younger,” Sophia had repeated. “As young as twenty,” she had said uselessly.
The Volunteer Page 3
