For the Best

by Vanessa Lillie

  He licks his lower lip as he steers. “Well, the big thing is that Dez took out responsibility.”

  “Not even responsibility for the crimes?”

  That change surprises me, since it had always been a big part of what Terrance wanted to push forward in our national conversations. He pictured sitting down with people who’d broken the law and been punished, on stage with the people they’d hurt. To show the power of restorative justice in action.

  I liked that idea, but Terrance had wanted to bring in police who’d overstepped, teachers who’d failed students, and parents who’d neglected or abused. It got complicated, and I tried to push back again and again. He argued if the criminal justice system isn’t working, it’s our duty to spotlight other solutions and have difficult conversations. Even if they make people uncomfortable.

  “Turn here.” I point toward a smaller street that I actually didn’t even know the name of. I only recognized the same grouping of yard gnomes holding faded Puerto Rican flags.

  “Dez has watered everything down so Terry’s words are meaningless,” Phillip says as he takes the right. “The power of restorative justice is the person who wronged that person understanding what they did. They must take personal responsibility. Without it, the person who committed the crime can’t heal, nor can the victims.” He glances at me. “That’s the real injustice. No one moves on.”

  I feel the spike of frustration at his points, similar to how I felt when Terrance was making these points over and over again. “You have to meet people where they’re at,” I say, repeating my old arguments. “No one wants a finger in their face.”

  “Dez can write what she wants,” Phillip says. “She needs to leave Terry and his legacy out of it.”

  We’re quiet for a few moments, and we pass the outdoor market with the watermelon-juice smoothies I’ve had to cure many a hangover on my drive.

  I tap my hand on the armrest, thinking of Terrance. “What did he say all the time . . . oh, ‘Get comfortable with being uncomfortable.’ God, I was so sick of that phrase.”

  Phillip laughs a little, but I can tell he’s upset. I try to remember that night and wonder if Terrance and I were arguing about these same points right before . . . Reba attacked him. I swallow thickly and then point. “This left, and it’s at the end of the block.”

  He slows down and turns. “Dez is announcing that bogus book and their legacy tour on Sunday. She had the nerve to invite me. As if my presence is an endorsement.”

  It stings that everything is moving on without me. I’ve pictured the night of releasing his book so many times. Both of us on stage and ready to launch the national tour.

  Even with Reba’s confession, it won’t change how Miller and the Poe Foundation treat me.

  I direct Phillip one more time, and we stop in front of a small house on this block of rentals. Things have gotten better in the past few years, after their delinquent landlord sold most of the houses to a local developer.

  We step outside, and the noon sun is already hot above us. I stare down the block at where the Poe Foundation put a park during my first year as a vice president. We won a City Innovator Award for it from the Latino Arts Council. I thought about that park more than any other project I’d completed. Well, until the Genius Grant came along. I imagined that Santiago would have had his own kids playing there. Probably when he’d visit his mother at the house we’ve pulled up to.

  Wiping my forehead, I watch as Phillip sees the small bike sprayed white with a sash and wreath of flowers around it. I follow him as he walks closer and see the name Santiago in hand-painted letters.

  “The kid your dad ran over,” he murmurs. “This was his house?”

  “Yeah,” I say softly. “I’ve given his mother money the first of every month. Since I graduated from college, anyway.”

  Phillip looks toward the house. “Why?”

  I shrug because I don’t really know. Guilt is too simple a word for what I feel about that day. What we did to her life. Penance, maybe, but again, money can’t bring back a child.

  “You were a little girl when it happened,” Phillip says. “Do you feel responsible?”

  I think about his question, but I don’t have a good answer for that either. “Santiago was her only child. Her whole life.”

  “Why am I here?” Phillip asks, not exactly sounding skeptical but likely wondering if I am trying to make him feel bad for me.

  “I won’t be coming back here for a while. Ethan’s job is barely covering our mortgage.” I run my fingers through my bangs. “I don’t know why I brought you. When you mentioned how a victim acts . . . I wanted to show you Alicia.”

  He swallows thickly and stares at the child’s bike sprayed white. “If she doesn’t mind, I would like to meet her.”

  I’ve never taken anyone inside her house. If it wasn’t for Franco, her lurking nephew, I would have left the money under her door. But the one time I did that, and she didn’t find the envelope, I assumed he’d taken it.

  As if he knew I was thinking of him, Franco walks around from the back of the house with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth. He’s wearing the same black T-shirt and paint-stained pants he usually wears.

  “That’s her nephew,” I say. “I got him a job at the Sider, but he’s so ungrateful.”

  I watch as he gets closer and think how he probably was considered handsome a decade ago. He lived hard, according to Alicia, and it is showing on his sallow face.

  Leading Phillip along the narrow sidewalk, I keep my gaze from the bike memorial at the center of her yard.

  “Well, what do you know,” Franco says, coming behind us. “Local celebrity.”

  “We’re here to see your aunt,” I say as we head up the porch steps.

  “Sean hasn’t been calling me for any shifts,” Franco says. “You say something to him?”

  I pause and turn to face him. “I got you that job, and you never said thank you, by the way.” I shake my head. “Why would I try to take it away?”

  He lifts a bony shoulder. “Hard to know. Maybe you’re worried about what I saw?”

  Phillip glances at me, then to Franco. “Were you there when Dr. Castle was killed?”

  “Not in the alley,” Franco says, still staring at me, ignoring Phillip. “I was working. I saw things. Lovers’ quarrel?”

  “Screw you, Franco.”

  “Oh, it’s like that, huh?” Franco says. “You kill one black guy and get this new one?” He snickers and continues to stare at me, as if he wants a fight.

  “How dare you. I will call Sean after this and make sure you are fired from that job.” I knock on Alicia’s door, and I’m already regretting my words.

  Franco calls me a bitch under his breath, then leaves, shoving his hands in his pockets.

  “Sorry about that,” I say to Phillip. “He’s an asshole.”

  “Hard to blame him,” Phillip says.

  “What?”

  He frowns at me, as if confused. “Pretty sure a dishwasher job isn’t going to make up for your dad killing his cousin.”

  I have to lean onto her door for a minute. The guilt is like a corkscrew to the heart, and it twists with each breath. “I didn’t think it would . . . I didn’t mean it like that.”

  “It’s how you made it sound.” Phillip puts a hand on my shoulder. “Jules? Are you okay?”

  The tears start to burn, and I take a deep sniffing breath. “No, Phillip, I’m really not. If you’re going to pile on, maybe you should wait in the car.”

  Before he can answer, Alicia opens the door. “Juliet,” she says and stares at Phillip. “Who are you? Your face is familiar.”

  “I’m Phillip Hale,” he says. “I’m writing a story about Juliet.”

  That takes me by surprise, but Alicia only opens her screen porch door. “Come in.”

  She’s wearing the same housecoat, a faded floral pattern, and ratty slippers. Her hair is up in a loose bun, and it’s thick and mostly silver.

  T
he half-metal-and-half-plastic door slams behind us, and we stand in her dark house. In my hundreds of visits, nothing much has changed. The stacks of papers on the floor. The cartons of milk and juice and various cleaners lining the walls. I don’t know when Alicia’s hoarding started, but I’m sure the death of her son didn’t help.

  Usually, I drop off the money and ask if she needs anything, which she never does. I mean, it’s not like she’d want to sit down over tea or whiskey, which sounds great right about now.

  Phillip steps around a stack of magazines, and I’m about to ask her if we can sit on her back porch. I don’t think she has air-conditioning, and I worry the smell will get worse, even if we’re only there a few minutes. My stomach is queasy from last night, and stress isn’t helping.

  “Do you want to see my son’s room?” Alicia asks Phillip.

  I glance at her, wondering why she’s never made me the same offer. Actually, I was always in such a hurry to get out of her house I’d never thought to ask if she’d kept his room. Even if it had occurred to me, I’d never have been brave enough to ask.

  “If you don’t mind,” Phillip says, “it’d be an honor.”

  She takes Phillip by the arm, and I follow them down the hallway, which is lined with trash and magazines and plastic clearance kitchen stuff. There’s a stack of faded yellow towels with the tags still on and a large stuffed brontosaurus. She pauses there, picking it up and cradling it under her arm.

  “He was only eleven,” she says, and the words fill the small hallway. “But he would have been a scientist. He loved dinosaurs. What’s that called?”

  “Paleontologist, I think,” Phillip says. “I’m sure he would have been a great one.”

  I see Fitz in his dinosaur pj’s, with his plastic T. rex tub toys, and my eyes burn. I’ve never cried at her house, but I can’t help it. I wipe a few tears and am thankfully ignored.

  She swings open the door at the end of the dark hallway, and it’s like we’ve been transported to a different house. The room is pristine. The bed is made with a green quilt, the faces of dinosaurs sewn into it. There’s a stuffed T. rex on the bed. A stack of dinosaur books on the nightstand. A wooden dresser is polished to a high gloss.

  I’m sure if I opened the drawers, the clothes would be freshly laundered, folded neatly. She probably pretends there are grass stains and scrubs the knees. That’s what I would do if anything happened to Fitz. Either you pretend they’re still alive or like they never existed. Hard to fault either choice.

  She gently refolds a small blanket and runs her hand along the corners before placing it on the back of a rocking chair. But she doesn’t sit down.

  I can imagine a younger version of her rocking her little boy before bed as he asks her to read a dinosaur book one more time.

  I have to hold my breath to keep from crying, and I turn away as tears fall. I wipe them quickly and quietly off my cheeks and focus on the wall I’ve stepped toward. There is Santiago, and I realize I haven’t seen his face in decades. Not since his picture was in the newspaper, but those articles never included these sweet, smiling photos. In fact, I remember the paper only had a juvie picture of him scowling at being caught stealing a candy bar or whatever it was.

  But here, in his old room, the photos begin at what looks like Fitz’s age, and I’d guess it’s Santiago’s school photo from kindergarten. It’s framed and dust-free. I don’t need to glance at Alicia to see he favors her in almost every way. The same deep-set eyes and dark thick hair. I’ve never seen her smile, but I bet it’s a lot like the toothy grin in each of his photos. He wears collared shirts in all of them. I have to hold my breath again as I picture her ironing them for picture day.

  The photos abruptly stop in the middle of the wall, where he’s holding a fifth-grade sign. I am gasping quietly as Phillip stands next to me. He hands me one of his handkerchiefs, and I take it, wiping more tears.

  Phillip is staring at the photos too. On the dresser next to the wall is a picture of Alicia, Santiago, and a man who must be her husband. Phillip lingers on the family photo.

  “I haven’t seen him much since we lost Santiago,” Alicia says from behind us. “He couldn’t stay in the house. We didn’t have a great marriage, but we loved being parents. We did that well. Without it . . . there was nothing to keep us together.”

  Phillip turns to her, and I see him reach in his other pocket. He hands her another of his handkerchiefs, and I wonder how many he has to keep these days. “I’m so sorry,” he says. “It must have been terrible to go through your loss alone.”

  She nods once, wiping at the tears, seeming a little frustrated with herself for crying.

  Phillip is watching me now, and I’m not sure what to say to Alicia. I never know, actually. “Is Franco helping out?” I ask.

  She blows out a breath and swats at the air. “My sister spoiled her boy. What a waste. My Santiago would have been nothing like my nephew.”

  “Alicia,” I begin. “I don’t know if you’ve seen the news, but . . .”

  She blinks at me. “I saw.”

  “I lost my job. I didn’t . . . do anything wrong.”

  She frowns but doesn’t correct me.

  “I wouldn’t hurt anyone.”

  “That’s what your father said. In the trial.” She scrapes a short nail on her shoulder. “‘I could never ever hurt anyone.’ But he did, didn’t he? Even though he said those words.”

  I never minded when she took a swipe during our brief visits. I’d take any punch, for myself, for my father, whatever she wanted to give. Honestly, she didn’t do it that often. I deserved a lot more, but that’s on her for being gracious.

  I dig into my purse and hand her an envelope. “This is my last one hundred dollars. As soon as I get a new job, I’ll start paying again.”

  She takes the money without an acknowledgment of what has passed between us. I know she spends it on memorials to Santiago. Probably gives part of it to Franco. Maybe church. She could light it on fire, and that’d be fine with me too. Giving her money never helped my guilt, and I doubt it lessened her pain either.

  “You hear of work for Franco,” she says, treading a familiar topic, “pass it along. He gets into trouble if he’s not busy. Dishwashing, computer work. Whatever you hear. He’s smart. He can do it.”

  “Of course,” I lie. “Can we get you lunch?”

  She looks worn down suddenly and shakes her head. I can see the sadness giving way to anger.

  “I’d like you to leave,” she murmurs. “And maybe it’s best if you don’t come back.”

  I expected her to do that a long time ago. “I’m sorry,” I say, not sure what it’s for or if I have a right to offer.

  Phillip takes me firmly by the arm, and she kicks me out in a polite way I don’t deserve.

  Chapter 30

  “Jules, we’re going to be late,” Ethan calls from downstairs.

  “Couple more minutes,” I say, checking the comments on my Reba video.

  “Lou said five p.m. sharp,” he says.

  I want to yell: Up here clearing my name. Hate to miss Mom’s vegetable tray and Stop & Shop’s blandest cheeses.

  “Almost done.” I notice we’re already fifteen minutes late, so what’s ten more?

  I finish the rather tall pour of white wine I’ve been drinking and close the computer. What I want to do is sip wine alone and watch the comments roll in, but dear old Dad had another plan.

  What a perfect night for a big Worthington family dinner. There’s so much to celebrate, after all: my father, who lied; my husband, who lied; and my mother, who has learned to ignore lies all her life.

  On the plus side, Dad will have the drinks flowing. Wine gone and computer off, I have no more reason to stay.

  “Mama, you look fancy,” Fitz says from the bottom of the stairs. He’s wearing his bow tie, and Ethan has on one of his collared polos and khakis. I’m wearing a simple red dress, but I put on a sparkle necklace that Fitz likes.

  “
Grandpa said we’re celebrating,” I say. “When I was your age, we always got dressed up for dinner parties.”

  Ethan grins at me, but I can’t quite bring myself to smile back. “It’ll be nice to have fun with our family all together,” he says.

  We get into the car, and it’s cool enough for windows down. Fitz is chattering about digging fossils with Grammie yesterday, and I’m already planning my boozy drink to take the edge off.

  I close my eyes, and all I can see is Santiago’s face. It’s familiar, like he’s an old friend. My heart speeds up, as if we’re about to crash. I lean my head out the window, breathing as deeply as I can, willing the face of that poor boy to leave me alone.

  “That looks fun, Mama.” Fitz rolls his down, and I watch him lean out of the passenger window. His giggles fill the car, and I am haunted by that bedroom and Alicia’s tears. What would she give for this silly moment I’m wishing away for a stiff drink? A moment my own father took away from Alicia.

  I wonder if that is part of why Dad was always so distant, so drunk. Did he see Santiago every time he looked at me?

  Ethan pulls over, and I nearly leap out of the car. I dig my hands into my hip bones and stare at my parents’ house. How did we live there after a boy was killed right down the block because of us? I focus on the windows of our neighbors, feeling stares that aren’t there. They might be following my case. Perhaps they’ve heard about Reba. Learned that we are innocent this time. That I am innocent. I am not the same.

  Just like her father.

  “Let’s go inside,” Ethan says, balancing the wine bottle and Fitz’s backpack.

  I follow behind them, up the sidewalk, through the door, and straight to the bar in my father’s study.

  Fitz runs off calling for my mom, who is probably busy in the kitchen. The house smells like pot roast, my dad’s favorite. Ethan follows me, and we’re alone in my dad’s study.

  “Are you babysitting?” I snap, grabbing a glass and pouring gin. I put a splash of tonic in it because he’s there and watching.

  “No, Jules,” he says. “I want to know if you’re going to tell your father about . . . the video of him. That I told you he was there.”