The Volunteer

by Barbara Taylor Sissel

  “No, I don’t know and, obviously, in spite of what you said, you don’t trust me after all.” She raises her hands cutting off Sophia’s denial. “I’m going for a run.”

  Sophia answers the phone, asking Phil to wait, calling Carolyn’s name as she walks fast into the hallway. But Carolyn has already flung open the front door and when it slams behind her, Sophia flinches even though she was expecting it.

  “What’s going on over there, Sophia?”

  “Carolyn’s furious at me. Do you have a few minutes?” Sophia retraces her steps; she finishes making her tea.

  “Sure, but let me ask you one thing first. Do you have any idea why Trent Hunter is calling me?”

  “Oh, God.” Sophia sits at the breakfast table, pushing aside the morning newspaper, setting down her cup with a clatter. “You didn’t speak to him?”

  “I wasn’t here, but his message mentions you specifically.”

  “I think he knows something about Russ,” Sophia begins and she goes on sharing her worry that Russ may have been connected to Louis Tilley, that he may have purchased stolen artifacts, that he may have known about the missing 2037 codex. “I asked Cort about it.”

  “And?”

  “He said he never heard Russ’s name mentioned during the investigation.”

  “But you think Hunter’s found some link?”

  “Well, it has to be that, doesn’t it? The only other thing I can think is that Hunter’s worked his pernicious voodoo on Sharon Slade.”

  “She wouldn’t tell him anything, Sophia. She’s far too discreet.”

  Sophia doesn’t answer.

  “You’ve discussed all this with Carolyn by now, right? You said you were going to. So if anything were to break in that regard—”

  “Oh, Phil.” Sophia swallows feeling on the verge of tears. “It isn’t just about the drug use.”

  “What do you mean?”

  But Sophia doesn’t answer. She sidesteps. Speaks of Carolyn’s pregnancy, Carolyn’s difficulties. “She has enough on her shoulders, don’t you think?”

  “So, it’s better if she hears it from Hunter when she turns on Heart of the Story?”

  “But suppose it’s nothing to do with either me or Russ? Suppose it’s to do with the Capshaws?”

  “Well, you mentioned you were concerned about that back when you hired Cort.” Phil takes a moment to consider. “It makes more sense, I guess. If Hunter’s found out Cort’s working there, he probably assumes it’s some kind of cover, that you actually intend to toss a Hail Mary on Capshaw’s behalf the way you did for Doaks. Hunter may be calling me to see if he can talk me into verifying his information since he can’t get to you.”

  She chews her lip, thinking.

  “Sophia?” Phil prompts.

  “It’s just I should have heard from someone at the museum by now about the collection. Someone should have called to say when it would go on display. I would call them, but— I don’t know. I just have an odd feeling about it, a very odd feeling.”

  “But Russ would never have involved himself with anything illegal. The man was a fanatic about his reputation. You know that better than anyone given the way you had to monitor your every word, your every—”

  “It was the nature of his business, Phil. If you manage millions of dollars for your clients, your background, your credentials, and those of everyone associated with you had better be impeccable and you had better be discreet.”

  Phil sighs. “You are nothing if not loyal.”

  “Your point being?”

  “That Russ is beyond need of defense or protection.”

  “I only did what was expected as his wife; I’m not going to apologize.”

  “But you aren’t bound by his expectation now. You aren’t his subordinate. You aren’t, and never were, his inferior.”

  “Phil—”

  “No, let me finish. I realize that you credit him with saving your life and other untold miracles and I won’t argue that. But you deserve credit too. He provided you with an opportunity, but you did the work, Sophia. You kicked your addiction. You went back to school and got an education. You brought yourself out of that terrible place through your own effort and persistence, your courage.”

  “Phil, please.”

  “You’re an inspiration to the few of us who know your story, but you can’t see that because you’re focused on your shame.”

  “You’re making too much of it.”

  “Think of the Slade family. Think how Sharon responded when you reached out to her. She didn’t care that you used drugs; she cared that you survived. She cared that you were sitting there with her a living, breathing success story. You were proof that people can come back from that, her son could come back and be well, be a whole person. That’s a gift, Sophia, and if that’s what Hunter’s on about— Well, I can’t buy it. What’s the story there? Somehow I don’t think he’s the type of reporter who’s into the hero’s journey. You know what I mean?”

  Sophia picks up her cup. Tea sloshes over the rim. She sets it down.

  “You need to have this out with Carolyn, the sooner the better.” Phil’s voice is a buzz in her ear. “Regardless of what Hunter’s on about, Carolyn deserves to hear the truth from you.”

  “She’s already furious.”

  “Not as furious as she’s going to get if she has to hear some sensationalized version of your story on the news.”

  “I couldn’t stand it.”

  “Then don’t let it happen,” Phil says. “Promise me.”

  “All right,” Sophia says, but within minutes of his letting her go, she is already reconsidering. Asking herself if it isn’t foolish to assume that Trent Hunter, or any reporter for that matter, would have an interest in her. She’s a nobody. Who cares about her life, her history?

  Russ is who the media cares about or the Capshaws. They’re the ones who are newsworthy and it’s as she’s entertaining these thoughts that her glance falls to the morning newspaper. Jarrett Capshaw’s mug shot stares out from beneath a headline that reads: Capshaw ready to die. Sophia studies his image. There won’t be a Hail Mary tossed in his case, she thinks. Even Trent Hunter must realize it’s too late for that. She scans the accompanying article that includes excerpts from Capshaw’s previous interviews and correspondence with the Lincoln County District Clerk's office.

  The appeals process is of benefit when someone is wrongfully accused, Capshaw is quoted as saying, or when they have suffered as the result of inadequate counsel. In my case any appeal is a waste of the taxpayer's money. I'm guilty and I'm not interested in working the system. It isn't so different from being terminally ill and asking to have the machines unplugged. I'm asking to be taken off legal life support. It's my choice, my decision.

  In another interview with an AP correspondent Capshaw indicated that while he appreciated that there were situations where attorneys for the families of the condemned, and for the ACLU and groups like them, provided an invaluable service, it wasn't true in his case and he respectfully requested that they cease interfering on his behalf.

  How noble he sounds, Sophia thinks, shouldering responsibility for his crimes, claiming remorse. Amazingly, he stops short of what most death row inmates declare, that they’ve been saved by Jesus, or maybe the reporter failed to include that part.

  Legal life support ...it’s an interesting analogy, but it’s just words, isn’t it? A lot of heroic sounding words. Who knows whether they’re genuine. Sophia sets the newspaper back on the table.

  She wonders: Does the man realize what removing himself from legal life support is costing his family? That aside from leaving Grace a near-penniless widow with three fatherless children to raise, he’s leaving behind a legacy of emotional turmoil that might never be resolved? Leaving his wife and his brother in some morally ambiguous no man’s land without a way to find each other that is clear of guilt? Has Jarrett Capshaw ever once stopped to consider the consequences to others of his actions?

  So
phia stands up now, too abruptly, and somehow her fingertips catch her cup and saucer, sweeping them to the floor. She cries out when the china shatters.

  o0o

  She washes their breakfast dishes and then sits at the table waiting for Carolyn’s return, addled and filled with dread. Carolyn will come into the kitchen and they will have it out and nothing will ever be the same. Damage, there will be more damage, worse damage, to what is left of their relationship, that’s all, and Sophia has only herself to blame if it goes wrong. More wrong than it is now. She hears the front door open and stops her breath, but Carolyn bypasses the kitchen. She climbs the stairs and her tread is quiet, so quiet, and Sophia thinks: Am I not to be given even one chance? But she has been given a lifetime of chances and she’s dismissed every one.

  Within a few minutes, she hears the shower come on and she goes to the foot of the stairs and looks up, but she can’t make herself follow her gaze. We can talk later, she tells herself, as long as it’s done today. She hasn’t time now anyway; she has a patient coming.

  Returning to the kitchen at noon she finds a note and half expects to read that Carolyn has returned to Chicago, but instead she’s written that she’s gone to meet friends for lunch. I didn’t want to interrupt. I hope you don’t need the car. I won’t be long. The note is unsigned.

  Sophia looks off at nothing. She would ask Cort if he spoke to her, but so far he hasn’t shown up for work today. She can only guess where he is, handling another in his long list of calamities, she thinks.

  o0o

  Thomas is seated at the end of the pier when she deserts her office between appointments and goes to the lake seeking a half hour’s respite. She hasn’t seen him since the car accident and while his appearance here is a surprise, she’s glad for the distraction it provides.

  “Teacher workday,” he says before she can ask.

  “Ah.” Sophia settles next to him. “This is so sturdy now since you and Cort worked on it. It’s wonderful.”

  His shrug is dismissive. “Didn’t take much. A couple posts and some new boards, is all.”

  Sophia knows it was more, three days of hard dirty work, but a discussion about that isn’t why Thomas is sitting here.

  She lets her gaze follow his out over the lake. A smart breeze dithers, lifting her hair, plucking at the water’s surface. She thinks of Hurricane Maria. The storm has moved off the coast of the Yucatan and appears headed for the northern coast of Mexico, but really where it makes landfall is anyone’s guess. Out of the blue, she wonders about the men on death row, what happens if there’s a threat to their safety? Are they evacuated? Does anyone care?

  Slipping off her shoes, she dangles her feet next to Thomas’s in the water, asks how he’s doing.

  “Mom thinks I’m working. It’s the only way she’ll let me out of the house.” He starts to pull up his feet, but Sophia pats his arm.

  “It’s okay. I’ve asked if you could continue to come and help me out. I thought you could use the money, but also that you might need the space.”

  When he doesn’t respond, Sophia looks at him, at his face in profile, at his eyes that are squeezed shut, his jaw that’s quivering and she shifts her glance quickly forward. Her heart hurts for him, that he should have added so much more to the burden he is already carrying. “You can talk to me,” she says softly, “patient to therapist, if you want to. On the house,” she adds.

  He makes a sound, something between a laugh and a sob.

  “At least you’re in one piece.” Now she’s fighting tears.

  “I called the hospital at lunch today, they said Luke went home.”

  “I heard you have stitches.”

  He turns to show her. The cut bisects the plane of his cheek beneath his right eye. “Nice shiner.”

  “Thanks,” he says.

  A silence comes, but it is as busy and as hectic as the breeze.

  “I wasn’t driving.”

  “That’s what your mother said.”

  “I don’t know why Luke’s lying.”

  “Usually when people lie they’re trying to avoid responsibility.”

  “I’m not going to jail for something I didn’t do.”

  “I hope neither of you has to go to jail.” Sophia is careful to keep her tone neutral.

  “I know it looks bad because I took off, but I just had the dumb idea I could see Jarrett. That part’s on me.”

  “What part?”

  “The drinking part.”

  “It was your idea?”

  “I guess.”

  “And whose idea was it to take Luke’s dad’s car?”

  “Luke wanted more beer. I wanted to go to the prison.”

  “Why, Thomas? You’ve been so set against it.”

  He looks out over the water. “I walked from the hospital to the freeway and hitched a ride with a trucker. He knew right where the Terrell Unit was. He said he had a cousin in there. Not on death row. All his cousin did was rob a liquor store. He had a gun, but he didn’t kill anybody. He just shot a guy up, put him in a wheelchair. He got five years for it.” Thomas scoops up a handful of gravel and tosses it. The pebbles come down on the water like hard rain. Thomas squints at Sophia. “Five years for messing up somebody’s legs. Does that sound right to you?”

  o0o

  She’s in her office later when the knock comes on the door. She glances up from the notes she’s jotting, thinking it must be Carolyn. She’s home now because the car was in the garage when Sophia returned from the lake earlier, or perhaps it’s Wick. He often stops by in the afternoons around this time. Sophia feels a silly flush of pleasure at the prospect. But her visitor isn’t Wick or Carolyn. It’s Thomas.

  She closes the folder and beckons him in. “Did you come for your pay?”

  He says no and from his vantage point just inside the doorway, he shifts his glance from the club chairs in front of her desk to the sofa against the wall. “Do your patients sit or lie down?”

  “It depends. I encourage them to do what feels comfortable.”

  Thomas runs his hands over his head and Sophia sees that they’re shaking. She gets up and adjusts the blind. By the time she turns around, he’s put himself into a chair.

  “You can keep the money I earned so far. Maybe I can work off the rest?”

  “I said my services would be on the house.”

  He lifts his chin, blinking fast.

  “Thomas?” she prompts gently. “Whatever it is, we’ll work it out.”

  He makes a sound that gives her the sense that he doesn’t believe her. “When I rode with that trucker, I should have just kept going. It would have been better for everyone.”

  “I know it can feel like that sometimes, like disappearing is the best thing, but it hardly ever is, believe me.”

  He scrubs his hands down his thighs to his knees. “Luke’s parents came over last night. They were pretty upset, yelling and everything.”

  “At you?”

  “Yeah. And Mom.”

  Sophia’s heart sinks.

  “They said they’re pressing charges against me. They also said Mom has to pay Luke’s hospital bill. If she doesn’t they’ll sue her even though she told them she doesn’t have any money.”

  “They’re angry and frightened right now. Have you thought of apologizing?”

  Thomas hoots. “It’s way past that.”

  “Maybe not. Maybe once a little time passes, you can talk to them and tell them how sorry you are.”

  “Trust me, they want me in jail. They told Mom it’s where I belong. Like father, like son, right?”

  “No, that’s not right, Thomas, and I’m sure they didn’t mean it. It’s only that they—” Sensing an impatience with this rational, she changes direction. “What did your mom tell them?”

  “She said they should leave and when they wouldn’t, she started yelling that if they didn’t get out of her house, she was calling the cops. I never saw her like that before. She was like totally freaked.”

/>   “Was your uncle there?”

  “Yeah. He kept trying to get everyone to calm down. Finally Luke’s parents left, then Mom cried. I didn’t think she would ever stop; she wouldn’t have if Uncle Cort hadn’t been there.”

  “She’s upset, Thomas, because she wants to believe Luke was driving the car. She wants to be convinced you’re being falsely accused and she’s determined to protect you.”

  Thomas braces his elbows on his knees, puts his head in his hands. “She’s calling Jarrett’s lawyer. She says she’s going to sue Luke’s mom and dad.”

  “Why is it that you sound as if that’s the worst thing that could happen?”

  He looks up and he’s so pale with fear and remorse that Sophia feels a jolt of alarm, but she’s also relieved. Just as Cort had predicted, Thomas is feeling too vulnerable now to hold the lie.

  “I have to stop her, but I don’t know how.”

  “Yes, you do, Thomas. You know exactly how.”

  He coughs and scours his eyes. She would pass him the box of tissues, but it would only further unman him and so she sits with her hands in her lap. Sits as if there’s all the time in the world, which she supposes there is. The truth, after all, is inevitable, isn’t it? And unalterable. People fight so hard against it; they tend to think it’s scary when in actuality, it is the lie that creates the burden, that requires constant attention. She knows this because she’s no better at the truth than the next person.

  “I never meant for any of this to happen,” Thomas says.

  “Which? The drinking and driving or the accident and getting your friend Luke hurt? Or is it the lying about it that you didn’t mean?”

  He slides low on his spine. “I can’t tell Mom.”

  “Suppose you tell me.”

  “I was driving, okay? I wanted to see Jarrett so I got Luke to give me the keys.”

  Sophia nods.

  “So you asked me why I wanted to see him.”

  “I did.”

  The look Thomas gives her now is almost hostile and verges on resentment as if he’s being pressured to give up secrets against his will, but when Sophia encourages him to go on, the words spill from him so fast that at times she has to slow him down, ask him to repeat himself. When he finishes, he sucks in a huge breath as if he has run out of air. He wipes his face in the crook of his elbow. Near tears again, he works his jaw fiercely in hope of aborting them. Sophia fiddles with her desk blotter.