He finds Nell in the kitchen, bent over her latest drawing. She doesn’t seem to notice his presence as he stands behind her, observing her pencil make mark after mark. Before his eyes the marks give shape to a tree, standing at the edge of an already realized field. Part of him wonders if she is mocking him, if soon she will add bodies dangling from the branches, but he knows the tree, knows the field, remembers the picnic they’d taken there last fall to celebrate Gabe’s twelfth birthday.
He clears his throat, alerting her to his presence, then crosses the room. He takes the kettle from the stove and fills it at the sink.
“Are you off?”
Polly glances over his shoulder. Nell has put her pencil down and is looking up at him. He shuts the tap off and sets the kettle on the stove. “Soon,” he says. He lights the range, and a ring of blue flames whooshes to life. “Coffee?” He turns around.
“No.” Nell lowers her eyes and regards her drawing, but she does not pick up a pencil.
Polly sits down across from her. He leans forward, elbows on the table, and rubs his temples.
“Did you say good night to Gabe?”
He looks at the tabletop, ashamed; he hadn’t dared. “He was asleep.”
“Mmmm.”
Polly lifts his eyes; Nell is still staring at her drawing. “Can I ask you something?” he asks.
Nell looks up. “You can ask.”
Polly pauses. “Why tonight?” he asks.
“Why what tonight?”
“Why wait until tonight to say anything about how you felt? He was sentenced eight months ago.”
Nell drops her eyes. She lifts a pencil from the row of them on the table and moves it from one side of the drawing to the other. Then she moves another, and another, moving the pencils one at a time. “I went to see him yesterday,” she says. “Willie Jones.”
Polly stares at her.
“I was down there by the courthouse, at the locksmith. I was getting the back door key copied, so I was down there. And then I saw the priest, that Holy Ghost Father, the one who ministers to the black folks at St. Edward’s. He was going up the courthouse steps, and I figured there was just one reason he’d be going there, so I asked could I go in with him.”
Polly leans back in his chair. “Why?”
Nell shakes her head, faintly shrugs her shoulders. “I had to see him,” she says. “I don’t know rightly why. But I did.” She begins to move the pencils back to the other side of the drawing. “And when I saw him …” she trails off, shaking her head.
“He’s a criminal, don’t forget that.”
Nell frowns, lifts a pencil. “That’s what I used to tell myself. I told myself he was a rapist, that he had it coming—even if death seemed extreme. But after yesterday …” She pauses, taking a deep breath. “I just don’t think he’s guilty of what they say. I looked in his eyes.” She sets the pencil down and gives Polly a hard look.
Polly grimaces. “His guilt was proved. Proved in court.”
Nell puts her hands on the table with a force that surprises Polly. “Look, Polly, you’re a fine lawyer and there’s no doubt about that, but a chipmunk could have had that boy convicted. It was his word against a white man’s.”
Polly feels his insides sink. He knows Nell disapproves of the sentence, has known it all along. But he needs her to believe in Willie’s guilt. He looks pleadingly at his wife. She returns his gaze, unflinching.
“If he didn’t rape her,” Polly asks, grasping, “why would the girl have killed herself?”
Nell’s expression softens into a mixture of disappointment and pity. “Think about it, Polly. The boy said he loved her. If she loved him, too—well, there wasn’t going to be a good way out of any of it for either of them. Maybe it was more than she could bear.”
“She could have testified on his behalf.”
“Polly.” Nell frowns. “If her father had even allowed it, what on earth kind of a life would she’ve been left with then?”
The kettle starts to howl. Nell stands, and Polly shuts his eyes. He hears the kettle’s whistle fade, hears the cabinet open, the clink of china, first on the countertop, and a minute later on the table beneath him. He opens his eyes; dark liquid steams in a blue-rimmed mug.
Nell is looking down at him, her head tilted slightly to the side. She puts her hand on his shoulder, and when Polly lifts his hand to touch hers with his own, she takes it away and walks over to the screen door, where she stands with her back to the room. Laughter from outside floats inside: the Gildorfs’ guests leaving, the party over. It is ten o’clock, and Polly is tired, but his evening has only just begun. He lifts the mug and drinks, and he hardly feels it when the boiling liquid scalds his tongue.