A second later, an inmate in another part of the supply room called out, Six-five. The floor’s wet. Gulu stepped back, righted the bag of mops. Why? Marydale whispered. So you’ll have something that’s yours, Gulu said. All that day, Marydale had felt Gulu’s touch like a thumbprint in paste. She felt it as she threw laundry into the washer, as she lined up in the chow hall, as she stood for count. At night the guards walked up and down the metal grates, looking into each cell, the main lights glaring in the atrium. And Marydale felt a reluctant drop of moisture leave her body, not lubrication, just a memory, the last drop of rain ground out of a desert tuber. And she understood.
Now she felt Kristen drawing open the folds of her body. Marydale gasped as Kristen made a wide sweep with her tongue, touching every part of Marydale’s sex. It felt like Kristen erased Gulu’s touch. Pleasure smoothed away that sticky imprint, and the dry ache that had lingered beneath her skin dissipated with a sigh. Kristen slowed her kisses, exploring Marydale’s body with small, hot strokes, her lips trailing across the sensitive skin. The whole time, Kristen murmured her approval.
“You’re beautiful. I want to make you happy.”
And Marydale tried to tell Kristen that she didn’t deserve to be, but she couldn’t find the words, and she felt her clit expanding back into her body, turning her very tendons into extensions of pleasure. Then Kristen placed her thumbs on either side of Marydale’s clit and rubbed while she tongued the opening of her body, in and up and around Marydale’s clit and back in, until Marydale’s whole body tensed in pure anticipation. Behind her closed eyes, Marydale saw a kaleidoscope of wings, as though a thousand frantic sparrows had suddenly been released from an attic window, and in that moment, she had never been imprisoned, and she sobbed as the orgasm raced through her body.
14
Kristen stepped out of the shower, toweled off, and put on a robe. In the kitchen, the coffeepot was percolating. Marydale stood with her back to the door, tossing something in a skillet. The kitchen window framed her hair in sky blue, and the sunlight caught in the steam from the pan. Kristen thought, Maybe there’s a way. She walked over and put her arms around Marydale, resting her cheek on Marydale’s back, breathing in her vanilla perfume. In the back of Kristen’s mind, she remembered how strange her attraction to Marydale had first felt. She had never noticed women before. Her desire for Marydale was like a single electrical circuit left active when the rest of the grid was dark. But it didn’t seem strange now. There simply weren’t any other women like her. I love you, she thought, just to try on the words to see if they fit.
“Hungry?” Marydale asked.
Kristen released Marydale slowly and poured herself a cup of coffee. It tasted like Portland coffee, not the thin acid they served at the Ro-Day-O. She pictured Marydale working at a bistro in the city, someplace like the Veritable Quandary, where the waitresses wore long black aprons over their black slacks. Or maybe Marydale could start her own café, a ranch-to-table steakhouse or an organic sandwich shop that gave jobs to troubled teens.
Marydale moved with the efficiency of a short-order cook, so Kristen wandered onto the front porch to stay out of her way and to breathe. The rough boards felt cold beneath her feet and the air was clean.
She let out a long sigh. Happy. She had no reason to be. She was a deputy DA sleeping with a felon in a town the size of a family reunion. At that moment, her mother was probably waking up with her own felon-lover. Sierra was probably dropping out of college with the pansexual named Frog. And it didn’t matter that Frog was dating a man named Moss; Sierra would manage to get pregnant by one of them, and the whole cycle would start over again.
Yet she could not bring herself to worry, because Marydale was in the kitchen cooking. It was Sunday. They had the whole day to lie in bed or walk out into the range, to drink whiskey and stare at the sky. Nothing seemed to matter beyond this day and maybe another and maybe one more. Maybe there’s a way.
Kristen glanced down the long drive, out to Gulch Creek Road. Two cars appeared in the distance, so far away they seemed to be barely moving. She watched for a long time as they drew nearer. Apprehension flooded her body.
“What’s at the end of Gulch Creek Road?” Kristen called back toward the kitchen.
“Nothing,” Marydale said. “It just loops around.”
It occurred to Kristen she had never seen another car on the road, and now the cars were slowing down as they approached the drive. Her mouth felt dry. She felt sick. The cars turned.
“Someone’s here,” she said.
It was a proselytizer, she told herself, or meter readers working in a pair, lest they get a flat or run into an unfriendly hermit. Her heart beat high in her chest. Marydale appeared at her side.
“Oh, fuck,” Marydale said.
“What is it?”
“You should go to your bedroom,” she said. “Hide.”
“Who is it?”
“It’s Cody. My PO…”
Now that the cars were almost in front of the house, Kristen could make out a man in each car.
“Go,” Marydale said.
It felt wrong to leave Marydale standing in the doorway in her long T-shirt and fuzzy, slumped-over slippers, but Kristen hurried up the stairs and closed the door behind her.
She heard Marydale hurry into the other bedroom. A moment later she heard the front door open without a knock.
A man’s voice echoed up the staircase, indistinct but stern. “Marydale Rae!”
Kristen cracked the door a fraction of an inch, then slipped out onto the landing and angled herself so she could glimpse the foyer at the foot of the stairs.
A man stood in front of Marydale, his body accented by a black vest, like an apocalyptic life vest, with the word PAROLE printed across the front.
“I’ll let you get your shoes and a sweatshirt.” The man was chewing gum. It made his words juicy.
Marydale had put on jeans and now stood in the front hall, her back to the wall. “I haven’t done anything,” she said.
The man grabbed Marydale by the shoulder and peered into her eyes. “I told you not to room with that woman.”
“I’m not!” Marydale lowered her voice, and Kristen couldn’t hear what she said next.
The man glanced back at the open door. “You disregarded an explicit order from your PO.”
“You can’t tell me who I can live with. Did Ronald Holten put you up to this? Is this all because he can’t admit Kristen didn’t want to take his bribe?”
“That’s ninety days!”
Kristen held her breath. The other driver appeared in the open doorway, his thumbs hooked into his wide brown belt. Even backlit in the doorway, Kristen recognized Ronald Holten’s swagger.
“Trouble, Cody?” he asked.
Marydale squared her shoulders. She was taller than both of them and bigger, too, but there was something heartbreaking about her posture, like the mountain lion that had been seen stalking the neighborhoods of northwest Portland until it got barreled over by a Smart car. Kristen didn’t need a law degree to know Marydale was losing.
“Would you like to tell Mr. Holten about your little arrangement?” the parole officer said, striding up to Marydale until they were only a few inches apart. “You want to tell him about Kristen Brock?”
Kristen felt her face flush a hot, sick red like a heart attack about to happen.
“Okay, Cody, I’ll go,” Marydale said quickly. “You’re right. I disobeyed an order. Give me a sanction. I’ll go with you.”
“All of a sudden you’re ready to go,” the parole officer drawled, all mean courtesy.
Holten stood in the hall, smiling.
“What’s upstairs?” the parole officer asked. Then he lunged for the stairs. Marydale stepped in front of him. He pushed her aside. Marydale stumbled back. He bounded up the stairs. Kristen didn’t even bother to hide.
“Well, fuck me,” he said, grinning. “District Attorney Kristen Brock.” Then to Marydale he called out,
“You’re going down. Guess you already did.”
“We weren’t.” Marydale stood at the bottom of the stairs, looking up. “She lives here. She rents a room.”
“You said you weren’t rooming with her. Boyd Relington is going to love this!”
“Leave her out of it. She didn’t do anything,” Marydale yelled. “Cody, this has nothing to do with her!”
“You can’t just come in here.” Kristen walked past the parole officer and down the stairs. She stopped in front of Holten.
“Are you fucking her?” Cody was right behind her.
“It’s none of your business,” Kristen said. She turned to Holten. “He doesn’t have probable cause to come in here, and as far as I can tell, you’re trespassing.”
The PO glanced back and forth between Kristen and Holten. Kristen said nothing.
Holten said, “Guess you didn’t study parole at that school of yours. Cody doesn’t need probable cause. He’s Marydale’s PO. He just brought me for protection, since we hear Marydale’s been getting up to her old ways.” Holten looked Kristen up and down. “It’s just this kind of behavior that got my nephew killed.”
“What kind of behavior?” Kristen spat, but she knew the answer.
Marydale was already holding out her hands to the parole officer. He unsnapped a pair of handcuffs from his belt and clicked the cuffs in place. Then they were gone, and the house was empty. When Kristen returned to the Almost Home and called the jail, they said Marydale was still being processed.
On Monday morning, Grady stopped Kristen on her way into the municipal building. A cold wind swirled the dust around their feet.
“Kristen,” he said. He seemed about to say something more, then reconsidered, then said, “I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
The wind blew her words away, but it didn’t matter. Everything was sorry, from the gray sky overhead to the cracked asphalt beneath their feet. Even Grady’s cream-white suit and ten-gallon hat—immaculate as they were—looked like a costume from a theater production long since packed up and forgotten.
“This whole damn town,” he said. “I’m sorry about the whole goddamn thing.”
I’m getting fired, Kristen thought. It wasn’t a surprise.
“I talked to Marydale before she got arrested,” she said. “She told me what happened.”
“Have you gone to the jail to see her?”
“No.”
“Go see her before you leave.” Grady looked down the street toward the pawnshop and the vacant storefronts. “I don’t imagine there’s much to stay for now.”
Some sad, romantic teenage girl inside Kristen cried out, I’m staying for her! Sierra would stay. Maybe that was why she couldn’t.
Relington was at her office before she’d had a chance to check her voice mail. He stood in front of her desk without an invitation.
“I got a call from Ronald Holten last night,” he said.
“I’m sure you did.”
“You have a lot of freedom outside this office, outside your position.” Relington’s voice was a judge’s gavel. “But the district attorney has an obligation to uphold the law and the moral fiber of this community. The people of this county need to know that you will not be swayed by a criminal element to use your power to benefit some while unjustly prosecuting others.”
“That’s bullshit.” Kristen slapped her hand on her desk. “And you know it.”
There would be no last-chance agreement, no work plan. She read it in Relington’s eyes.
“I know who you prosecute and who you don’t, Boyd. How many domestic-violence cases have you passed over? But a Mexican on a bicycle? Can’t have that kind of element coming into our town. Can’t risk that someone would finger the Holtens, can we?”
“That has nothing to do with your situation.” Relington spoke through his teeth.
“I think it has everything to do with everything in this town.”
“I will give you twenty-four hours to resign with a neutral reference. Dates of employment only,” Relington said. “If you stay one minute longer—and I mean stay in this town—I will file a complaint with the bar.”
After he left, Kristen looked around the room. There was almost nothing to collect. The Chamber of Commerce’s potted palm had long since died. The photo of Sierra on her desk was the only personal item she had brought to work. She picked it up and stared at Sierra’s optimistic smile. On her desk, her phone buzzed. A new text from Donna read, I know you’ll say no, but Falcon’s still looking for a family lawyer.
The Tristess County Jail stood on top of a bluff overlooking a stretch of desert. From a distance, it looked like the building had been carved from stone, but up close it was clearly concrete, the windows barred with heavy black bands of metal.
At the visitors gate, Kristen was greeted by a series of signs bearing paragraphs of fine print. Kristen had gotten to item four—no weapons, including firearms, etc.—when a woman’s voice blared from a microphone on a pole.
“Purpose?”
“I’m here to see Marydale Rae,” Kristen said.
Inside the building, she felt the staff watching her as she presented her ID. Their silence told her they knew. It occurred to Kristen that her mother had probably visited rooms like this, waiting for men named Hooch or Spike to emerge, dressed in their jailhouse uniforms. Her mother would be happy to know Kristen was standing in this line. She wouldn’t mind that Kristen was waiting for a girl. She’d just be happy they were finally manifesting the same dream.
A guard in a tan uniform led her into a small room, much like the waiting area of a DMV office. The only decorations were faded drug campaign posters. Chairs were set up in widely spaced rows, some back to back, others facing each other. Half a dozen women were already waiting.
“You sit here,” the man said. “Other visitors sit here.” He indicated the same row. “The inmate sits there.” He pointed to a chair about four feet away. “There’s no touching, no exchange of gifts. If either you or the inmate becomes agitated, we will remove you for your own safety. Is that clear?”
Kristen waited for a long time. This is the right choice, the only choice, she thought, but the angry calm she had felt in front of Boyd Relington had deserted her. Marydale had to stay. Marydale had to live in Tristess with her PO and Ronald Holten and a whole town of people whispering behind their hands because it was Marydale—not Kristen—who was the most interesting person in Tristess. It seemed so brutally unfair, and yet Kristen couldn’t stay. She couldn’t.
A door opened. Five women in loose orange shorts and navy T-shirts filed in, followed by a female guard. Marydale straightened when she saw Kristen, and Kristen could tell she was trying to pose, to flip her hair, to put on the parade-float smile. But her eyes looked flat and gray, and Kristen saw a bruise spreading down Marydale’s jaw. Another darkened her wrist.
“What happened?” she asked when Marydale sat down.
“Things got a little busy.” Marydale shrugged.
“Are you okay?”
“Of course.” Marydale glanced at the guard in the corner.
Kristen wanted to wrap her arms around her, to pull her close, to press kisses into Marydale’s hair. I have to make the right choice, Kristen thought. She opened her mouth, but no sound came out.
“I’m sorry that you had to see this. It’s not exactly…” Marydale trailed off.
Kristen felt Marydale scanning her face.
“What is it?” Marydale asked.
“I…”
They were so far apart. Kristen couldn’t even touch the tip of her shoe to Marydale’s sneaker.
“You’re leaving,” Marydale said, her voice suddenly hollow. She sank her head into her hands.
“Marydale? Honey?” Kristen wanted to say, No. She wanted to say, I’ll stay. We’ll make it work. She knew how Marydale’s smile would open up like the sun rising. “I got fired.” Kristen knew if she didn’t speak now, she would never be able to force the words out o
f her mouth. “I’m so sorry.”
“No.” Marydale didn’t look up.
“I’d never get work here. There aren’t any firms, and if I open my own practice, I’ll be the lawyer who got fired from the DA’s office. I wish there was a way you could come with me, but I’ve got to go back to Portland.”
“My parole officer will never let me leave.”
“Marydale,” Kristen said quietly. “We both knew this couldn’t last. Isn’t that why you didn’t tell me? We had something really beautiful together, and it’s still beautiful even though it didn’t last forever.” It felt like a loophole, the kind of cheap, slimy exemption that made people hate lawyers. “I will miss you so much, Marydale. But you want to get out of here, out of Tristess. They’re not going to leave you alone if I’m here. You told me you have to go three years without a sanction. What happens if we’ve been together for two and a half years and then we get caught? All that time wasted? You have to be perfect, and their version of perfect…doesn’t include me.”
“I don’t care about my parole.” Marydale looked up.
“You got beat up in jail,” Kristen pleaded.
“It’s worth it.”
“I can’t let that happen to you.” Kristen felt tears well up in her eyes, and she felt the guard’s gaze on her, and from the great distance of imagination, she felt her mother smile. You always were my girl, Kristi.
“If it means I can be with you…” Marydale began.
“Marydale, what if you got really hurt?”
Marydale pulled up the hem of her shirt. “See this?” She pointed at a faint scar on her side.
From the corner of the room, the guard warned, “Inmate!”
Marydale lowered her shirt. “I got pushed off a staircase at Holten. I hit the railing below. And here.” She touched her top lip above the missing tooth. “I can barely remember this. I think there was a fight. It had nothing to do with me. You know how I stopped the bleeding? Salt. You mix it with deodorant or toothpaste. It stings like hell, but it doesn’t matter.” She leaned forward, her breasts heaving with her breath. “It’s just a body. You know what it’s like to be a rodeo queen? It puts you on the other side. Everyone thinks if they were beautiful enough, somehow everything would be different. But you get up on that float with everyone looking, and you know how much it’s really worth.”
For Good Page 10
