“I wish I could hate you,” she whispered. “I wish it was that easy.”
“I would hate you if you had done…”
“Done what?” She was leaning over the table again, an edge of desperation in her voice. “Done what, John? I read what you said to the parole board. I know what you told them. Tell me.” She slapped her hand on the table. “Tell me what happened.”
He pulled a napkin from the container on the table and blew his nose.
She wouldn’t let up. “Every time you were up in front of the board, every time you spoke to them, you told them you weren’t guilty, that you wouldn’t say that you had done it just so you could get out.”
He took another napkin so he’d have something to do with his hands.
“What changed, John? Was it Mom? You didn’t want to disappoint her? Is that what it is, John? Now that Mom’s gone, you could finally tell the truth?”
“She wasn’t gone when I said it.”
“She was wasting away,” Joyce hissed. “She was in that hospital bed wasting away and all she could think about was you. ”Look after Johnny,“ she kept saying. ”Don’t let him be alone in there. We’re all he has.“‘
John heard himself sob, a bark like a seal that echoed in the restaurant.
“Tell me, John. Just tell me the truth.” Her voice was quiet. Like their father, she didn’t like to show her feelings. The more upset she got, the lower her tone tended to be. Joyce-She put her hand on his. She had never touched him before, and he could feel her desperation flowing through her fingertips and needling under his skin. “I don’t care anymore,” she said, more like a plea. “I don’t care if you did it, Johnny. I really don’t. I just want to know for myself, for my own sanity. Please-tell me the truth.”
Her hands were beautiful, so delicate, with such long fingers. Just like Emily’s.
“John, please.”
“I love you, Joyce.” He reached into his back pocket and took out a folded piece of paper. “Something is going to happen,” he said. “Something bad that I don’t think I can stop.”
She took her hand away, moved back in her chair. “What are you talking about, John? What have you gotten mixed up in?”
“Take this,” he said, putting the credit report on top of the Christmas card. “Just take this and know that whatever happens, I love you.”
John hadn’t brought the Fairlane with him, but he didn’t want Joyce to see him waiting at the bus stop outside the entrance to the mall so he jogged up the street toward Virginia-Highland, catching MARTA there. He didn’t want to go home, couldn’t face his roach-infested hovel or his fellow rapists in the hallway, so he went to the Inman Park station and picked up the Fairlane.
He didn’t normally follow Woody until the evenings on the weekend. John’s first two weeks of reconnaissance had proven the guy pretty much stayed inside unless his wife made him take out the trash. John had been thinking, though, that maybe Woody was more clever than he seemed. Maybe he had another car somewhere. It wasn’t much of a stretch, considering the post office box and the credit cards. Maybe John Shelley had purchased a car during the last six years.
This close to Christmas, Woody’s neighborhood was decked out with colorful lights and decorations. Luminaries made of old milk jugs lined the street. Just the week before, John had watched an old lady walking her dog go around and light each one.
It was a nice neighborhood.
John tucked his car between an SUV and a station wagon parked in the church lot, glancing at the times on the sign outside to check when the services were over. Woody’s wife always took the kid to church on Sundays, then spent most of the time with a woman who was probably her mother.
From the church, John walked down a side street that ran parallel to Woody’s house, whistling as if he was just a guy taking a walk. He plotted the distance in his head, cutting across a field until he could see what had to be the back of Woody’s house. There weren’t many trees for cover and John felt exposed. Anybody could come out their back door and see him. He was about to turn around when that very thing happened. A woman came out, standing in the open doorway. John froze because he was right in her line of sight, but she wasn’t looking at him. She was turned toward Woody’s house next door, her hand held up in a salute as she shielded her eyes from the sun.
John dropped flat to his stomach. The girl’s backyard was overgrown with weeds, but anybody who was looking could have seen him lying there. Thankfully, her eyes were following something more interesting. John saw Woody walk across his yard, hopping over a chain-link fence that had been taken down by a tree. He went right to the girl, not even tossing a look in John’s direction, picked her up and started kissing her.
John watched as she wrapped her skinny legs around him, their lips locked together as Woody carried her into the house and slammed the door closed.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
John waited all night for Mary Alice to show at the party, smoking enough pot to make his lungs ache in his chest. Woody kept catching his eye, giving him the thumbs-up like he was cheering him on. John could have kicked himself for telling his cousin that he’d invited a girl to the party. It was bad enough Mary Alice wasn’t here, but looking like an idiot in front of Woody made it a million times worse.
John had already given up hope when around midnight, she walked through the front door. The first thing he noticed was how out of place she looked in her freshly ironed Jordache jeans and high-collared white shirt. She looked beautiful, but everybody else was dressed in varying degrees of black: filthy jeans, stained heavy metal T-shirts, greasy hair.
She was about to turn right around and leave when he grabbed her arm.
“Hey!” She sounded surprised and giddy and wary all rolled into one.
“You look nice,” he told her, raising his voice over Poison blaring from the stereo.
“I should go,” she said, but she didn’t make to leave.
“Come have something to drink.”
He could see her thinking it out, wondering what he meant by drink, wondering if she should trust him.
“Woody has soft drinks in the kitchen,” he said, thinking he’d never used the words “soft drink” in his life. “Let’s go.”
She still hesitated, but when John stepped aside so he could walk behind her to the kitchen, blocking her exit, she finally relented.
He saw Woody as they passed the stairs. His cousin was leaning against the banister, his pupils blown, a lazy smile on his face. One of the girls from the only black family in the neighborhood was stuck to him like Velcro, her arms wrapped around his neck, leg snaked around his. They kissed long and deep while John watched. She was gorgeous, with creamy dark skin and exotically braided hair. Leave it to Woody to score with the best-looking girl at the party.
He gave John the thumbs-up again, but this time he wasn’t smiling.
The kitchen was filled with smoke and Mary Alice coughed, waving her hand in front of her face. In the corner, a couple was making out, and John found himself stopping to stare because the guy had his hand right down the front of the girl’s jeans.
“Cool party,” another guy said, bumping into John. His drink spilled over John’s hand, and he apologized, passing John the half-full plastic cup as a peace offering. John had already had more than enough alcohol that night, but he took a large gulp from the cup, the liquid burning his throat as it went down.
When John looked around for Mary Alice, she was already heading out the back door.
“Hey,” John said, chasing after her.
She stood by a tall oak, looking up at the stars. Her hair was messed up and she looked nervous. Maybe he could hold her hand. Maybe he could kiss her.
She laughed for no reason. “I couldn’t breathe in there.”