Saint had read parenting books in the small library in Pecaut, fielded advice from Norma when the girl stopped eating, from Dr. Caldwell when the girl stopped sleeping. She had consulted with Mrs. Meyer when the girl’s grades fell, the two taking tea together each Monday afternoon, watching rolling Missouri clouds the same gray as their frets. Each Saturday they spent a couple of hours with Sammy, while Charlotte locked herself in her father’s old studio and played Nirvana so loud Sammy took to dragging a leather armchair out onto the sidewalk and sitting in the afternoon sun. She did not paint a single stroke.
Tuesdays after school Saint dropped her at a small house on the edge of Thurley State Park, where Charlotte sat in total silence in the office of Rita Kohl, M.D. The bills were sent to her grandmother, the shrink quietly marveling at the girl’s prevailing vow of silence.
Saint spoke quietly, “There’s another piece about your…about Patch in The Washington Sun. My grandmother clipped it for you. People collect his work now…the paintings you have are—”
“She can just toss it in the trash.”
Sunlight broke past the tower. Saint had tried to visit with Patch a dozen times. She could make the drive blindfolded. She could pick out distant mountain ranges from the lot, knew each pothole in the eight-mile track. She knew the building was too old, the cells like ice in the winter, a furnace come summer. Saint quietly campaigned for change, added her name to petitions for humane facilities, to expedite the construction schedule. Sometimes she made it to the tall gate and remained on the outside, talking to Blackjack, the giant of a man so sweet on her he shied when they spoke.
“What you did to Noah…”
She felt the girl glance at her.
“Maybe he’ll think twice before he does it to another girl,” Saint said.
“Yeah?”
“I’m not good at this. I didn’t have a…I have my grandmother, and I love her, but she’s not…”
Charlotte watched the grave. “I want to be left alone. I don’t want to talk when people ask me to talk. Or paint. Or share goddamn feelings I don’t even have. I don’t want my ass grabbed. If I want to rage, I’ll rage.”
Saint stood. “This weekend I’ll show you how to disengage a testicle.”