The Most Wanted

by Jacquelyn Mitchard

  “That about covers it. Least, what I’m allowed to say, ma’am.”

  “Are you certain that this denial reflects institutional objectives and not some personal bias?”

  “Beyond a doubt, Your Honor.”

  “Miss Singer?”

  “Warden Southwynn and counsel know very well that this denial has been based on an offense to the warden’s sensibilities and that this is not a reason contemplated by the law, Your Honor. I mean, we don’t know who Dillon LeGrande dated in high school, either, or whether he always remembered to open the passenger-side door for her. . . .” I was going too far, and Judge Clay’s mouth, quickly bunching in disapproval, confirmed it. “In any case, I think it is clear from the correspondence between Arlington and Dillon that theirs is a very loving and indeed a creative relationship.” I hadn’t meant to, but I suddenly added, “Which is beneficial and supportive to them both. As they are lonely.” What in hell was I talking about? “With the court’s permission, I will read, briefly, from one of Dillon LeGrande’s poems for his wife. . . .” Nobody stopped me.

  And so I read it, from the embossed and laminated piece of stationery on which Arley had carefully used a calligraphy pen to copy out:

  Arlington

  In some dumb wisdom your mama named

  you, not after a person, but after a place.

  Darling, you are all the lonely hometowns

  in Texas, brown and sun-burnt, a little wild,

  a little sad. You are the high meadow

  streaked with shadows of quick-moving clouds.

  You are that narrow valley outside of town

  where flowers bloom after a few drops of rain.

  You are the place I am always moving toward,

  the yellow light that spills from open

  doorways, a darkened bedroom

  with a dress thrown over the chair.

  Dillon Thomas LeGrande

  There was no sound in the courtroom save the whicker of the ceiling fan. Then a child, outside on the lawn, yelled, “You’re out! You’re out!” and Petty cleared his throat and whined, “I’m sure none of us expected a dramatic reading. . . .”

  I glanced around the room. Dillon had raised his head, his perfect forehead furrowed by a single earnest line, and was peering, not boldly but with some intensity, at Judge Clay’s face. She dropped her eyes, suddenly flustered. I heard Ray Henry breathe, “Sweet bleeding Jesus,” and saw that Arley had tears in her eyes.

  Judge Clay stood up as abruptly as she’d entered and told us, “I’m going to have a look at this, and I’ll get right back to y’all, okay?” while the clerk helplessly called for all of us to rise. The door of her chambers whished shut behind the judge’s bustling back.

  Suddenly I had to get out of that courtroom, out of the crossfire of Arley’s and Dillon’s locked gaze as the bailiff helped Dillon to his feet. Down the hall was a washroom casually used by all the attorneys: custom was to yell a greeting upon opening the door, in case of a gender conflict. I locked the door behind me and inspected my face in the smeared mirror—my cheeks were as round and flushed as pomegranates. I looked as though I were running a fever. For some reason, Stuart’s voice kept jangling around my head, his Jersey voice I so loved, over the phone when we were apart for work, and even on those few occasions when we’d had a fight, or a conflict of plans, and gone our separate ways for a weekend. “Annie, I love ya!” he would say. “I’m your biggest fan. I’m rooting for you!”

  I’m rooting for you.

  I soaked a paper towel, folded it, and pressed it against my face; it felt as though my skin might ignite the coarse pad. When I came back out into the hall, Ray Henry was holding the door of the courtroom ajar. He jerked his head at me, and I slipped under his arm and took my place as the judge stomped back up onto the bench.

  “Counsel,” she said, and Petty and I stood. “I have reviewed this material. And I have made a decision regarding this petition, and I will share several observations on that matter before I present you with that decision. I have had three marriages and six children. It is my experience and my sense of the world that bad marriages are made every day but that we in positions of authority seem to care most about the consequences of those marriages where the people involved are people without money or resources.”

  She lowered her glasses and addressed Arley, who had popped up and stood beside me. “Young woman, this is a mistake. Though I fervently hope that I am wrong in this case and that your marriage prospers, statistically and realistically I know that I am not. This relationship may be the one that puts the lie to those statistics, but I see nothing here that would indicate a belief in that being the case.”

  To Petty, Judge Clay said, “Sir, I must say to you that I indeed believe that Warden Southwynn may be right about his fears and misgivings. He may be right, but he is not within the law. If this court had its way, there would be no Missus LeGrande except this boy’s mama. But it is not for this court, nor for the Texas Department of Corrections or its officers, to decide who is to be married to whom and when.” She sighed. “Accordingly, Miss Singer, please prepare an order reflecting the fact that this court will require Mister Southwynn and that department to permit a conjugal visit between Mister LeGrande and his wife, as instructed and provided for by the laws of this state, which shall be signed and delivered in accordance with . . . procedure. I wish you all a good day.” She paused. “And good luck.”

  Dillon had leaned back in his wooden chair and hooked his fingers into the loops of his jeans as best as his cuffed hands would allow. I saw the look on his face then, the flicker of malice in that somnolent grin; and I wanted to grab Arley’s arm and run, or plead with Ray Henry to have the man trumped into solitary, or injured, or gelded. . . . Arley’s strong arms were around my waist; she was hugging me and whispering, “Oh, Annie, thank you thank you thank you. . . .” And the bailiff was whisking Dillon away. I thought, again, helplessly, of Rebecca. She was married now, a young mother. I’d looked up her phone number. I could have called her. I could still . . .

  Unable even to look at Arley’s radiant face, I shuffled my mess of paper into my case and tromped downstairs, borrowed a typewriter from someone’s vacant office, and filled out the order, Arley all but jumping up and down at my side.

  Then we went outside and sat under the live oak trees in the courthouse square, next to two old men in baseball caps who were playing chess. Without asking, I bought lemonades for both of us. Arley took hers silently, nodding her thanks, watching my face, tugging at her skirt, and brushing the end of her braid across her lips, a parody filmstrip of all her little nervous gestures. Finally, she said, “Annie, we won. Are you mad at me?”

  I couldn’t even answer her. I just shook my head, not trusting my lips to deliver the merest civility. I was angry—with Arley, yes; and myself; and Texas—for reasons I could not begin to name. But especially I was angry at the boy with the mesmerizing eyes, like a cheap copy of an August birthstone, who had said not one single word to me, and made not one single inappropriate gesture, but had managed to make himself my enemy.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Arley

  I WAS IN my room with Elena when Annie called to tell me that we had our big date.

  It was Saturday morning, and I thought the phone might be Dillon, so I about flew down those stairs to grab it. We had this system worked out now with my mama: I paid her a sum from my wages every week to cover exactly one fifteen-minute phone call on Saturdays.

  But that day, Elena heard me gasp, and she came running after me. I was jumping up and down like I was crossing the asphalt lot to the swimming pool at high noon on the Fourth of July.

  Covering the mouthpiece, I squealed out to Elena, “Guess what? Guess what? I got me my wedding night!”

  It was set for January 16, which happened to be Annie’s fortieth birthday. I would get to go in with Dillon at six in the evening and come out again at six in the morning. I was supposed to eat beforehand, though th
ere would be Coke and chips in the trailer.

  “I don’t particularly want to spend my birthday driving you to Solamente River for what will probably be the rudest awakening of your life,” she said. But then her voice got softer. It sounded as though she’d dropped the phone for a moment, and then she said, “I’m sorry, Arley. I have a big mouth. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I . . . I’m worried about you. But it’s your life.”

  I was still reacting to the idea of her driving me to Solamente River. I hadn’t thought that was part of what a lawyer did. “You don’t have to take me,” I told her. “I’ll just go by bus like I did before. Or Connie will drive me, if she’s going.”

  “It’s a Friday,” she said. “Doesn’t she usually go on weekends?”

  I hadn’t thought of that.

  “And another thing,” Annie went on. “Do you really want to make that ride down there alone? Do you have any idea how you’re going to feel when the guards strip-search you? When they do a body-cavity search? They aren’t going to let Connie go in with you for that.”

  “Body cavity?”

  “Arley. Honey. I can’t tell you to grow up, because that’s not possible for you. And it’s also not your fault. But your husband is a convicted felon! They have to make sure you’re not bringing in . . . what the other convicted felons’ wives bring in. Bags of smack. Razor blades and zip guns. Stuff he could use to kill guards later on and escape. Stuff he could use to kill you and then kill himself, not that he would. Awful shit like that is the reason some of those people get married. They think that nobody’s ever thought of it before. You know, Arley?”

  One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I thought. A goose walked over my grave. My ribs seemed to wriggle under my skin. But this was Dillon. Dillon wouldn’t hurt a hair of my head. Hadn’t he told me that all the other inmates had the worst hatred for people who harmed the weak—the wife beaters and the ones they called “short eyes,” the child molesters, who had “eyes” for short people, that is, children. Regular prisoners wouldn’t even eat around people like that.

  “I know,” I said to Annie. “I guess I know. And it’s not true for Dillon.”

  “Well, you’d better know, Arley. This isn’t going to be the high school prom. Now, are you absolutely sure you want . . . ?”

  I thought of the window in the prison’s visiting rooms.

  “Oh yes,” I said. I wasn’t at all sure. “Tell me about the body cavity. Like, an X ray?”

  I could hear Annie coughing. It sounded like she was choking on hot coffee, like she did sometimes. She could never wait for it to cool off. “No, Arley. They will put on plastic gloves and search your vagina. And your anus.”

  “My anus?” I asked.

  “Arley,” said Annie. “Look it up in the dictionary.”

  Elena was sitting on the living room floor, watching me. She’d turned one ear my way. She’d busted an eardrum jamming a pen into her right ear when she was little, and I think her hearing wasn’t all that perfect on that side. It made her look like she didn’t quite believe you, which was the way she looked right then. But when I said the word “anus,” she fell right over on her back, laughing. I thought she would crack her skull. Then she started pointing to the butt of her jeans. Anus, I thought. Oh Jesus Christ. I had to twine the phone cord around me to turn away from the door into the living room. I almost pulled the plug out of the wall. Elena was practically holding her breath to hear what I’d say next.

  “And you’ll need to bring condoms, Arley—” Annie went on.

  “But we’re married, Annie. You’re not . . . you don’t have to when you’re married.” That much I knew.

  “Arley, listen,” Annie told me. “Do you want to walk out of that prison pregnant at the age of fourteen? Do you have signed proof that Dillon is free of HIV or any other STD?” She sounded like grownups do when they spell out words little kids aren’t supposed to understand.

  “Actually, I do,” I said, triumphantly. “And so do you.” Dillon’s medical history had been included with our court petition. He was clean as spring water. Didn’t even have tooth decay.

  Annie went silent. “Well,” she grumbled after a moment. “That was almost a month ago.”

  Did she think Dillon was having sex in prison? And him married? With the female guards? Annie knew Dillon wasn’t gay. Well, I guessed she did. . . . “I’m not worried about that, Annie,” I said.

  Was he? With men? I’d never even considered it. I wanted to hang up the phone so bad. I felt like my bladder was about to let go like a water balloon hitting the concrete. I finally told Annie that I had to call her back, and me and Elena went upstairs.

  My mind was running around like a gerbil on a wheel. I knew what was right for me to do, and what I wanted, and yet to tell the truth, I was scared. I’d been thinking that the conjugal visit would take, like, months and months to get set up, even though Annie had asked that compliance be granted forthwith. I thought I’d probably be fifteen or older by the time I was Dillon’s wife in the physical way. In fact, I’d just been dreaming around school with Connie G.’s silver moon spiral ring on my hand, sometimes just stopping in the middle of the hall, with kids foaming around me like a smelly, noisy river, standing there with my book bag dangling from my hand and papers and gum wrappers sliding down out of it, thinking, Arlington Mowbray, you are married. You are a married woman. You could walk right up to Mrs. Murray and say, “My husband was saying the other day on the telephone . . .” I could go to the doctor and write down, “Mrs. Dillon T. LeGrande,” although I hadn’t decided for sure whether I was going to use “Mowbray” for my middle name. I kind of liked it, and I never did have a middle name.

  What Elena and I’d been doing when the phone rang was going through all my papers, like my school records and my blood donor’s card and my National High School Track Association membership badge, and trying to decide whether I should change my name on all of them or keep things a secret from school, Dillon being where he was and all. As we sifted through all the things in my jewelry box, we started talking about the wedding, and we’d both ended up with tears on our faces. I’d been crying so much the last month I could have needed salt pills. Of course, I hated the fact that Elena didn’t get to be my maid of honor, and she did too. After we got back up on my bed, she said, “Looks like I won’t be with you on the most important day of your life this time, either,” and she smiled like a little fox.

  I told her to stop it. “Listen,” I said. “You have to walk me through this. Even if we get really embarrassed. What he’s going to do and what I’m going to do.”

  “You know,” Elena said, looking away suddenly. “You know all that.”

  “I don’t, is what,” I told her, jerking her around so she faced me. Just then, the door banged open downstairs. We both knew it was stupid Cam, but we froze, anyhow. And then we started laughing. Like little kids in the haunted house.

  “I haven’t done . . . it all,” Elena said. “The farthest I ever did was, you know, with your brother. . . . Did you know, they didn’t even call charges on Eric Dorey, him being so clean and all. Probably because his parents shipped him off to military school . . .”

  “They did?”

  “That’s what I heard. Or they moved—”

  “And you are changing the subject,” I reminded her.

  “Well, Arley, all I know is, if you lay there and kiss the boy enough, it just happens. I only know one person real well who’s gone all the way, and that’s my sister Grace, and she says you just sort of fall right into it. You don’t even notice when you take your clothes off.”

  “Who takes them off? Him or you?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Ellie, I was counting on you for this!”

  “We could call Gracie.”

  “And her knowing then what I’m doing! What about Connie?”

  “Connie ain’t never done it.”

  “She’s got to have done more than we have.”

  “W
hat are you worried about, like, the most?”

  “I’m not worried about it hurting. Track makes you so you can take pain. I’m worried about being . . . ashamed.”

  “Well, it’s not like you’re fat.”

  “Fat?”

  “Well, if you’re fat, I always thought you’d be worrying about laying in the right position so he didn’t see your rolls or whatever. You’re . . . perfect, so you don’t have to think about that. I never thought about that, when I did things. You just sort of lay there, and they act like you gave them a check for a million bucks or something.”

  “Do you . . . really like it?”

  “Well,” Elena said, scooping up her cloud of black hair, “I must say I like it. It’s, well, you know how it feels when you touch . . . ?”

  I knew what she meant right away. But I’d never done that, either. Not even by accident? Elena wanted to know. No, I told her, though of course I’d had physical feelings. Particularly since I’d seen Dillon face-to-face. My dreams were so out of control, I woke up sweating. Elena had begun sorting through my papers again, and she came up with my bride poem. I hadn’t showed it to her before, but I figured it was okay to do now. I was pretty proud of it, and it wasn’t like showing her letters. She read it soft, out loud.

  “Every bride

  holds the future

  in her mind

  on her wedding night.

  Here is the future

  I want—enough

  time to grow

  ordinary and dull,

  evenings

  that settle