“Some of our deputies got trained by ICE, and they’re gonna make sure that anyone who we pick up in Gilbert County has permission to be here. If they don’t have permission, we’ll turn ’em over to ICE and they’ll be deported.”
Evan stood up and ran his hand through his hair. “So, you’re saying that Raúl and his dad broke a law?”
Sheriff Cronin stood and reached out to grasp his shoulder. “Evan, son, I’m real sorry that your friend and his dad got mixed up in all of this. I’m sure they are nice folks, but if they’re here in my jail, it’s because they’re illegal. With any luck, they’ll be back home in Mexico in a few weeks.”
Evan tried to imagine Raúl in Mexico, to reconcile the words “home” and “Mexico” with everything he knew about his friend.
He pulled away, anger coursing through him. “So, no favors today?”
“Son, you know I’d do just about anything for your family. But this I simply cannot do. You have no idea the shitstorm it would cause if I released your girlfriend’s family from this jail. I can guaran-damn-tee you that I wouldn’t be doin’ nobody any favors, especially not your Uncle Sexton.”
Evan’s phone emitted a high-pitched noise. He looked down to see the text.
Any news?
Evan wanted to shove the phone back into his pocket, but he gestured for Sheriff Cronin to wait and typed a quick reply:
It’s not looking good. I’m so sorry. On my way to see them now.
Evan tried with all of his might to keep the tears from coming.
FIFTEEN
Hometown
Terror surged as Alma processed the words in Evan’s text. She squeezed her eyes shut and forced herself to imagine the serene face of Our Lady of La Leche while she said a silent prayer. She saw the black eyes and pink cheeks, and the way she held tightly to her son.
Dios te salve María, llena eres de gracia …
If Evan, the eternal optimist, was acknowledging that things weren’t good, then they must be very bad. Alma slumped to the ground.
El Señor es contigo.
Trying to calm her mind, she walked along the road in front of Maplewood Elementary and made a mental list—a list of any facts that could possibly offer hope. Her father had a valid driver’s license.
Bendita tú eres entre todas las mujeres …
It would expire soon, and since the laws had changed in Georgia, he wouldn’t be able to renew. But it was still valid—for now.
Y bendito es el fruto en tu vientre, Jésus.
Neither her father nor Raúl had ever been in trouble with the law—not even a speeding ticket.
Santa María, Madre de Dios …
Alma’s phone rang. Evan. She fumbled to answer.
“Evan?”
“Nah, Alma. It’s just me. Sorry to disappoint.”
To her surprise and relief, Raúl’s voice came through the line.
Alma placed her hand over her heart, trying to calm the rapid beating. This was good, right? If Raúl was talking to her on Evan’s phone, then he wasn’t in jail.
“Raúl? You’re out. What happened? Where’s Dad?”
“Alma, slow down. We’re not out. Your boyfriend must have the hookup with the cops cuz they brought him back here to us and they let me use his cell phone to call you.”
Raúl chuckled. He was trying hard to calm her with his cheerful tone, but Alma heard worry pressing through his voice.
Instinctively, she began to pray again silently. Dios te salve María, llena eres de gracia …
“Evan said you heard about the checkpoints on the radio,” Raúl said.
“Uh-huh,” Alma replied.
“Dad came up to one on Athens Highway.”
“I knew it,” Alma said.
“I was on my way home, too, in the work truck. I left a few minutes after him. He called to tell me I should turn around. They were checking for driver’s licenses, so Dad got through. But while we were talking on the phone, he said a cop was trailing him with his lights flashing.”
Raúl paused, and Alma slumped deeper, staring at a crack in the pavement.
“We hung up, and he pulled over to talk to the cop. I didn’t know what happened to him until I saw him here a couple hours later. I turned around and went the back way, you know, toward the lake. But there was another checkpoint back there.”
“Oh, no,” Alma said.
“I got stopped for not having a license. I’m telling you, Alma, they had the whole neighborhood blocked off. There was no way out.”
“So do you have to pay a fine, or something?”
“That’s not all, Alma. You know the machete—the one dad keeps behind the seat?”
“Yeah.”
“They said it was a concealed weapon, and I’m supposed to have a permit.”
“The machete? Did you tell them it was just a gardening tool?”
“Yeah, they didn’t buy it. They said if it was for gardening, then why weren’t there any other landscaping tools in the truck?”
Every Friday afternoon Alma’s dad took the tools from the bed of the truck to clean them. This Friday had been no exception.
“But it’s not like it was hidden. It’s just there so it doesn’t rattle around in the back.”
“They charged me with a misdemeanor, Alma. They weren’t all that interested in the details.”
“I can’t believe this is happening,” Alma said. “What about Dad?”
“The cop stopped him because something was wrong with the Bronco.”
“Dad’s Bronco?” Alma asked, incredulous. He kept it in impeccable shape.
“Yeah. You know those little lights next to the license plate? There’s one on each side?”
“Yeah,” Alma replied, not sure whether she did, and wondering how this conversation had anything to do with her dad being in jail.
“One was burned out, and they stopped him because of that.” Raúl’s voice thickened as he continued in a low growl. “They were just looking for a way to stop us, Alma. They were trying to find any excuse.”
“Oh, God.” Alma said.
This was bad.
“Everyone’s freaking out in here. People are saying they’ve called ICE to come and get us. They’re not even allowed to do that, are they?”
“No,” Alma replied, dazed. “I don’t think so.”
“We’ll get out of here when they figure out they screwed up.”
Alma heard a rustling on the other end of the line.
“Hold up a sec, Alma.”
Muffled voices crossed the line, and whoever was speaking seemed angry.
“Listen, I’ve gotta go,” Raúl said anxiously. “People are getting pissed that I’m using Evan’s cell phone. They’re asking the guard why they can’t use theirs.”
“But can’t I talk to Dad?”
“Later, OK? He’s fine, Alma. Don’t worry.”
“Give Dad a hug, OK?”
“Yeah, sure. That will help me make friends in here—if I go hugging on other men.”
Alma had to smile. He had a point.
“Good to know you’re still a machista prick,” she replied, teasing. “Stay safe.”
“I love you, Alma.”
The line went dead.
Why had he said that? Why had he told her, with soft vulnerability in his voice, that he loved her? He never said things like that. Never. Hot tears burned her eyes and slid down her frozen cheeks, and she collapsed onto her knees.
Alma barely registered the rattling noise coming from behind, but she did hear the loud thud that followed. Without thinking, she turned to look. An elderly black woman stood next to her garbage can, holding a bulging bag.
She gazed at Alma curiously.
“Are you lost, sweetheart? Can I help you?”
Alma replied, wiping the tears from her eyes, “No, ma’am. I’m not lost. I’m just, uh, wandering around.”
The woman continued to look at her curiously as she dropped the bag into the can.
“I mean,” Alma stuttered, trying to make sense, “I used to live over there, in the apartments. Uh, this is my hometown.”
She heard the words come from her mouth, the acknowledgement that this place—whose cops had just trapped and jailed her own father and brother—was her only real hometown. It was more than Alma could handle. Her breath came hard and fast, her shoulders hunched and a dry sob emerged.
She started to run, and she didn’t stop until she was standing in front of Mrs. King’s house, where she collapsed on the front stoop.
The door flew open and Mrs. King stood towering over her in a plush blue bathrobe.
“What in heaven’s name?”
“I’m sorry,” she heard herself mutter. “I just need…”
“Come on in this house right now. You’ll catch your death o’ cold out here.”
She reached out and took Alma’s freezing hand, and tugged her into the house. Alma was crying so hard that she could barely breathe. She thought she might suffocate from the pain of it. Her back pressed against the wall, and she slid to the floor.
“I’ll be right back,” Mrs. King said. “You just stay put.”
Mrs. King walked into her kitchen and came back with a mug. She sat next to Alma on the floor, so close that Alma smelled her Ivory-soap scent. She hoped Mrs. King didn’t smell the beer that must be oozing through her own pores. Mrs. King carefully placed a steaming mug of black coffee on her knees. Alma lifted the coffee to her nose and took in its soothing, bitter scent.
“Now, I see you have a cell phone there in your hand.” Mrs. King said, with soft kindness in her voice. “I’m going to take that phone from you, and then I’m going to call your father, you hear?”
“You can’t,” Alma choked out, and then she released another long sob.
“All right, Alma. Then you just tell me who should I call.”
She didn’t want to admit it, but she was deeply relieved that someone else was taking over—that another person was telling her what to do with her mess of a self. She felt the urge to nestle into the soft blue quilted gown wrapped around Mrs. King and stay there until it all was over. Instead, she placed her phone on Mrs. King’s lap. Between the sobs that had surged through her, she squeaked out one word.
“Evan.”
Mrs. King held the phone up. Evan’s face was framed in the screen. He was smiling and looking away in the photo. The light caught his auburn hair and skirted the edge of his chin.
“And I’m gonna go on and guess that he’s the reason you’ve been avoiding me?”
Alma looked up and released a low noise she barely recognized.
“My, my.” Mrs. King shook her head slowly. Then she looked directly into Alma’s eyes. “You ab-so-lute-ly sure about this? Wouldn’t you rather I call your family?”
Alma just looked into her eyes, pleading.
Mrs. King pressed a button and lifted the phone to her ear.
* * *
Evan knew he had to go to her. She was waiting, worried. He had to tell her what he knew. But he was paralyzed, sitting in the parking lot of the county jail, his forehead pressed against his steering wheel.
His phone rang.
“Alma?”
“No, young man. Your lady friend is here on my sofa and she has asked me to call you.”
“Is she OK? I mean, is she hurt?”
“Well, Mr. Roland, I’m not sure I can answer that question. I’m thinking you might have the answer for me.”
This angry voice sounded stern and accusing, but also strangely familiar.
“I do intend to ask you to come for her, but before I do that, you and I need to get one thing clear, Evan Prentiss Roland. This is Mrs. Bernice King. I’ve known you since you were a boy. I know your family. And I promise you, young man, that if you don’t do right by this beautiful child, I’m going to let your momma and anyone else I can get ahold of in on your little secret.”
The recognition settled on him now. Evan had no idea what little secret she was talking about, but he knew exactly who she was.
“Mrs. King? Is that you? From Hines Middle School?”
“Why, yes, child. Of course it’s me,” she replied, with a scolding tone.
“And you’re with Alma?” The whole thing was baffling. What was Alma doing with his middle school counselor?
“I believe we’ve covered this, Mr. Roland.”
An image of Mrs. King came to Evan’s mind. Evan was a freshman in high school, and his mom had sent him over to Whit’s house to pick up a box of party invitations. As always, Evan went right in without knocking. Uncle Sexton and Aunt Maggie argued by the stairwell. Whit sat crying on the living room sofa, and Mrs. King sat beside him, gently rubbing his back. Evan had never seen Whit cry. He’d never seen his aunt and uncle fight. He couldn’t believe they would do all of this in front of the middle school counselor. The Prentisses were a very private family.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. King,” Evan said, “but why is Alma with you?”
“Well, if you need to know, Alma and I go way back. She was working with me to apply for scholarships—until she met you.”
Evan remembered dropping her off to meet with a counselor at the Krispy Kreme many months earlier, but Alma never talked about her.
“Mrs. King, is Alma OK?” he asked. “Is she hurt?”
“Child, you know she’s not OK. Just go on and answer me this: Is Alma in a motherly way?”
It took a moment for the question to sink in, but when it did, Evan remembered all that had happened the night before.
“No, ma’am. Alma isn’t pregnant.”
He smiled, and it felt good. At least this was one worry they didn’t have today.
He heard a soft “mmm-hmm” on the other end of the line.
“Mrs. King?” he asked, trying to express in his voice the genuine respect that he had for this woman. “Would you please tell me where you are so that I can come for her?”
“Against my better judgment, I can. But you’ll need to make me a promise.”
“What’s that?” Evan asked.
“You’ll be sure to make right whatever or whoever has made such a mess of this young woman.”
Through his swirling confusion, he heard himself make a promise he had no idea how to keep.
“I will. I promise.”
SIXTEEN
Satellite
Evan eased his car to the curb, unable to draw his attention away from Alma. She was waiting for him on the stoop, her face wet and blotchy and her body wrapped in a dull wool blanket. Mrs. King stood bent on the stoop, urging Alma to stand. Evan walked toward them. He knelt at Alma’s feet and took her face in his hands. He only wondered briefly what Mrs. King would think. Then he pressed his lips to Alma’s eyes, her cheeks, her mouth. He felt her lips warm against his, and the wind chimes that hung from the porch made a faint tinkling sound. Evan let himself imagine that the two of them were being transported, together, to some other place and time. But cold, hard concrete pressed against his knees, anchoring him now in this place.
“We’ll be going on back inside now,” Mrs. King announced. “Or the neighbors will get to talkin’.”
Evan lifted Alma to her feet and guided her gently through the door into a warm room that smelled of Pine-Sol. He led her to an old-fashioned sofa, with pretty pink upholstery and deep wood trim. She leaned against him, seeming barely able to balance on her feet. She let him support her weight almost completely as they landed on the firm cushions.
Mrs. King wandered off to the kitchen. Evan and Alma sat silently, their bodies intertwined, staring at the screen of an incongruously large flat-screen television. The sound was turned down too low to hear, but news images of an unmanned satellite careening through space flashed across the screen.
Mrs. King returned and carefully rested a plate of thick-sliced banana bread on the table. She handed Evan a glass of milk.
“I’m brewin’ more coffee,” she said. She eased her body into a wing-backed chair.
Everything in this small shotgun-style house seemed too large—the television, the furniture, the rugs—too grand for the modest space. Evan peered through the kitchen door to see a small, fully updated kitchen, with bright tile floors and thick wood countertops. The house was neat and orderly, freshly painted and scrubbed clean. He wondered if this was how all of the houses in this part of town looked on the inside. Though he’d never admit it, he had always imagined these houses shabby and sagging.
Evan sat forward and took a piece of banana bread from the plate. He swallowed it in two large bites. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was, and the bread tasted delicious and warm. He followed with a second piece, and then a third, washing them down with long, deep gulps from the glass of milk. Finishing the milk, he rested the glass on the table and paused, realizing that Alma and Mrs. King were staring at him, incredulous.
“You’ll have to excuse Evan’s manners, Mrs. King. I guess you’d say he has a healthy appetite,” Alma said with a smile. A smile he was relieved to see.
Evan wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Your banana bread is delicious, Mrs. King.
“Thank you, Evan,” Mrs. King said.
What do you put in it?” he asked.
“I’ll never tell. But we’re not here to swap recipes, are we?”
Evan shrugged and took another gulp of milk.
“Alma has filled me in on her family’s terrible predicament,” Mrs. King said. “I know you two will be relieved to hear that I have a plan.”
“Well, that’s real kind of you, Mrs. King,” Evan said, “but I think I need to tell Alma about what happened at the jail.” He clenched his teeth, absently ran his hand through his still-uncombed hair, and continued, “Uh, the ‘predicament,’ as you call it, is worse than it seems.”
“You don’t have to explain,” Alma said. “I know. I know they’re going to be sent to the detention center. I know ICE is involved.”
Evan replied, “You know? How?”
“I’ve been paying attention, and it’s already happening in a couple of other counties around here—the roadblocks, people going to jail for practically no reason and then not being allowed to post bail.”
Dream Things True Page 16
