CLOUDS CASCADED DOWN THE MOUNTAIN behind, framing the farmhouse like it belonged in a print.
She worked, legs heavy, the skin on her hands torn beneath her gloves.
Whatever job he gave, mucking, cutting back the long vines by the house, shifting branches from the winding driveway, she did with quiet hatred. Hal playing grandfather now her mother was deep in the ground.
The funeral had been shamefully quiet. Walk had fished out an old necktie for Robin, the same he’d worn when his own mother passed. Robin had held her hand through it, the priest trying to lead them from their broken lives, talk of God’s need for another angel like he knew nothing of the tortured soul that had been taken.
“We’ll break for lunch now.” The old man snapped her from the memory.
“I’m not hungry.”
“You have to eat.”
She turned her back on him, reached for her brush and swept dirt from the cracked driveway with hard strokes.
Ten minutes then Duchess dropped her brush and walked back, slow. At the house she stepped up onto the porch and looked through the window. Hal with his back to her, her brother eating a sandwich, coming up a head over the table. He had a cup of milk.
She walked through the back door and into the kitchen, cheeks burning hot. At the table she picked up Robin’s cup and emptied the milk into the sink, rinsed it and pulled a carton of juice from the refrigerator.
“I can drink milk at lunch, I don’t even mind,” Robin said.
“No, you can’t. You drink juice, like you did at—”
“Duchess,” Hal said.
“You shut up.” She turned to him. “You don’t say my name, you don’t fucking say it. You don’t know anything about me or my brother.”
Robin began to cry.
“Enough now,” Hal said, gentle.
“You don’t tell me ‘enough.’” She was breathless, shaking, the anger coming up so hot she could barely control it.
“I said—”
“Fuck you.”
He stood then, raised a hand and brought it down hard on the table, sending his plate to the floor. It smashed on the stone and Duchess flinched, and then she turned and ran. Past the water and the driveway, arms pumping, across the long grass and into the rough and toward the trees.
She didn’t stop till she had to, till she took a knee and swallowed mouthfuls of warm, heavy air. She cursed him out, kicked a thick oak and felt pain shoot back through her. She screamed at the trees, so loud birds lifted and speckled the clouds.
She thought of her home. The day after the funeral, what little they owned outright was boxed by Walk. Nothing in the checking account, thirty bucks in her mother’s purse, nothing passed down.
She walked a mile before the Douglas fir thinned. She was mucky and sweaty, her hair damp and knotted. She slowed a little and walked the center line of a road, counting off broken lines.
Beside was grass and wood, edging out, a river in the distance and moving on, the sky all blue forgiveness. Sometimes she expected more, a clue, something wilting or graying or not carrying on, something that told her the world was a different place now her mother was dead.
A sign announced the town. Copper Falls, Montana. A line of stores, orange brick too new for the scene, flat roofs and fading awning, flags that fell limp. Bleached signs long forgot, Bush and Kerry, stars and stripes. A diner, HUNTERS WELCOME, convenience, pharmacy, Laundromat. A bakery that made her mouth water. She stood and looked in, saw old couples at each table, eating pastry and drinking coffee. Outside a man sat and read a newspaper. She passed a barber, the old kind with the glass pole and the offer of a shave. Beside it a beauty salon, women in chairs, heat reaching out the open door.
At the end of the street was a mountain that held the horizon, so towering like a challenge or reminder, there was plenty bigger out there.
She passed a small, skinny black boy. He stood on the sidewalk, coat over his arm despite the eighty degrees, watching her intently. He wore slacks and a bowtie, suspenders pulled the pants high enough to highlight white socks.
He would not turn, no matter how hard she glared. “What the fuck are you looking at?”
“Some kind of angel.”
She took in the bowtie with a shake of her head.
“I’m Thomas Noble.”
He continued to look, mouth a little open.
“Stop staring, you freak.” She pushed him and he fell back onto his ass.
He looked up at her through thick lenses. “That was worth it, just to feel your touch.”
“Ugh. Is everyone in this town retarded?” She felt his eyes on her all the way to the top of the street.
She took a seat on a bench and watched the pace, so slow her eyes weighed heavy.
A lady stopped beside, maybe sixty, so much glamour Duchess stole glances. Towering heels, lipstick and stinking of perfume, her hair falling in waves like she’d just stepped from the salon.
She set her bag down, Chanel, and jammed in beside.
“This summer.”
A kind of accent Duchess didn’t know.
“I keep telling my Bill to fix the air conditioner but you reckon he has?”
“I reckon I don’t give a shit. And maybe Bill doesn’t either.”
She laughed at that, slipped a cigarette into a holder and lit it. “Sounds like you know him, or maybe you’ve got a daddy like him. Start a job and lose interest quick. That’s men for you, sweetheart.”
Duchess exhaled, hoping to ward her off with attitude alone.
The lady reached into her shopping bag and pulled out a smaller paper bag. She took out a donut, then offered one to Duchess.
Duchess tried to ignore her but the lady shook the bag a little, like she was enticing a wary animal. “You ever had one of Cherry’s donuts?” she persisted, shook the bag until Duchess took a donut, sugar falling onto her jeans as she bit into it carefully.
“Best donut you’ve ever had?”
“Average.”
The lady laughed like she’d made a joke. “I could eat a dozen maybe. You ever tried to eat one without licking your lips?”
“Why the fuck would I do that?”
“Let’s give it a go then. Harder than it sounds.”
“Maybe for an old lady.”
“Only as old as the man you feel.”
“How old is Bill?”
“Seventy-five.” Heavy laugh.
Duchess ate, felt the sugar on her lips but didn’t lick them. She watched the lady do it too, for a while, fighting it, like an itch, and then she licked her lips and Duchess pointed and the lady laughed so raucous Duchess fought a smile.
“I’m Dolly, by the way. Like Parton, only without the chest.”
Duchess said nothing for a while, just letting it hang there, feeling Dolly look over once, then away.
“I’m an outlaw. You probably shouldn’t be seen conversing with me.”
“You’ve got swagger. Not enough do in this world.”
“Clay Allison’s gravestone read, He never killed a man that did not need killing. That’s swagger.”
“So does the outlaw have a name?”
“Duchess Day Radley.”
A look, not pity, but close. “I know your grandfather. I’m real sorry about your mother.”
Duchess felt it in her chest then, a tightening, like she couldn’t breathe. She looked down at the street, locked on her sneakers, eyes too hot.
Dolly stubbed out her cigarette, didn’t even take a single drag.
“You didn’t smoke it.”
Dolly smiled, neat, blinding white teeth. “Smoking is bad for you. Ask my Bill.”
“So why then?”
“My daddy caught me smoking once. Beat me something awful. But I kept it up, on the sly. I didn’t even like the taste. You must think I’m a mad old bat.”
“Yes.”
Duchess felt a hand on her shoulder. He stood, smiling wide, curls matted with sweat, dirt beneath his nails.
“I’m Robin.”
“Pleased to meet you, Robin. I’m Dolly.”
“Like Parton?”
“But without the tits,” Duchess added.
“Mom liked Dolly Parton. She used to sing it, that song about working nine to five.”
“Ironic, seeing as she never could hold down a job.”
Dolly shook his hand and told him he was just about the most handsome boy she’d ever seen.
Duchess saw Hal across the street, leaning on the hood of the old truck.
“I’ll see you soon, I hope.” Dolly handed Robin a donut and left them, headed back down the street, nodding at Hal as she passed.
“Grandpa was scared. Please don’t make trouble.”
“I’m an outlaw, kid. Trouble finds me.”
He stared up with sad eyes.
“Try and eat that donut without licking your lips.”
He looked at the donut. “Too easy.”
“Go on then.”
He took a bite and licked his lips right off.
“You just licked them.”
“Did not.”
They walked back down the sidewalk, the sky covering over, those rolling clouds chasing the day so fast.
“I miss her.”
She squeezed his hand. She still hadn’t decided if she felt the same.
* * *
Thirty years in the same room, steel toilet and basin, walls dug out and scrawled. A door that slid open and closed at set times each day.
Walk stood outside Fairmont County Correctional Facility and took in the sun, high and merciless no matter the month. He glanced up at the camera, watched men in the yard, the chain links turning them into puzzle pieces that did not fit anywhere at all.
“I can never get used to the colors. Everything looks washed out.”
Cuddy laughed. “Missing your blue, Walk.”
Cuddy lit a cigarette, offered Walk one but he waved him off.
“You ever smoke?”
“Never even tried it.”
They watched men shoot hoops, bare chests, sweating. A man fell, got up and squared off but caught sight of Cuddy and squashed it quick. The game went on, the ferocity, life or death and no room for the between.
“It got to me, this one,” Cuddy said.
Walk turned but Cuddy kept his eyes on the game.
“But then I used to think some people weren’t meant for this place. When I started out, working the floor. I’d see them bring in a white collar, lawyer or banker or something and I’d think they don’t belong here. But then maybe there aren’t degrees of bad. Maybe it doesn’t matter by how much you cross the line.”
“Most people get near. At least once in their life.”
“Not you, Walk.”
“There’s still time.”
“Vincent crossed when he was fifteen. My father worked that night they brought him in. News crews were here. I remember the jury called it late.”
Walk remembered, too.
“My father said it, worst night of his life. And you can only imagine the things he saw. Booking in a kid. Watching the men, arms through bars, calling. A couple were alright, supportive even. But most, you know. Keep the noise up, welcome him that way.”
Walk clutched the fence, fingers through the diamonds, the air beyond just as hard to breathe.
“I was nineteen my first day here.” Cuddy stubbed out his cigarette and kept hold of the butt. “Four years older than Vincent. I worked his unit, on three. Shit, I used to look at him and see a kid, same as everyone. Maybe a kid from my school, maybe a little brother, whatever. I liked him right off.”
Walk smiled.
“I thought about him, at home, when I was on vacation, when I caught a movie with a girl I liked.”
“Yeah?”
“His life and mine. They aren’t all that different, save for a single mistake. And it was that. Child’s life … Jesus. Two children if you count Vincent. If he’s back here, if he came to nothing, it’s more tragic, right. More of a waste.”
Walk had tried out those same ideas.
“I was happy, when you came and got him. End one chapter, too long, start a new one. He had the time, Walk. We’re not all that old, you know.”
“I know.” Walk thought of the disease, how it twisted him into someone he was not ready to be.
“Sometimes people complained I favored him, said I gave him more time in the yard and shit. I did. I did all I could to give him it. Life … partial life, whatever. We’re not supposed to question guilt, we do our jobs, right?”
“We do.”
“I never ask this question. I never asked it, not once in thirty years here.”
“He didn’t do it, Cuddy.”
Cuddy breathed heavily, like he’d been holding that question a long time. And then he turned and opened the gate.
“I got you a room.”
“Thank you.” Walk had been dreading talking through the phones, easier to stay distant with plexiglass between them.
Cuddy led him to an office, empty of everything but a metal table and two chairs. The place for lawyer and client, lines fed, appeal and hope and which circuit to exhaust next.
Vincent filed in, Cuddy uncuffed him, looked over at Walk then left them.
“What the hell are you doing?” Walk said.
Vincent took the seat opposite and crossed his legs. “You’ve lost weight, Walk.”
Another two pounds. He ate breakfast and nothing more, just drank coffee. He had a pain in his stomach, not sharp, just heavy and constant, like his body was turning in on him again. His new pills were still doing their job, helping him stay steady, helping him stand and walk and almost take both of those things for granted.
“You want to tell me what’s going on?”
“I sent you a letter.”
“I got it. I’m sorry.”
“I meant it.”
“And everything else in there.”
“I meant that too.”
“I won’t put the house up. Maybe after the trial, once we know the future.”
Vincent looked pained, like he’d called on a favor and found Walk all out. He’d been clear, the letter, his writing so graceful Walk read it twice. Sell the house. Take the offer, the million bucks from Dickie Darke.
“I already have the check. I just need you to take care of the paperwork.”
Walk shook his head. “Just wait and we’ll—”
“You look like shit,” Vincent said.
“I’m fine.”
They settled back to silence.
“Duchess and Ro … and the boy. The little boy.” He said the names quietly, like he wasn’t worthy of speaking them.
“You need something, Vincent. We can talk about it, we can sort something out but I think you need to take some time on it.”
“That’s something I do have.”
Walk took a stick of gum from his pocket and offered one over.
“Contraband,” Vincent said.
“Right.”
Walk stared at him, looking for something he couldn’t see. Not guilt, not remorse. He’d toyed with the idea that Vincent missed it, institutionalized. He didn’t buy it, it didn’t fit at all. Vincent looked away, all the time, never meeting his eye for longer than a blink.
“I know, Vin.”
“What do you know?”
“That you didn’t do it.”
“Guilt is decided long before the act is committed. People just don’t realize it. They think they have a choice. They look back, play it different, sliding doors, but they never really did.”
“You won’t speak because you know I’ll tie you up. You can’t keep a consistent lie.”
“That’s not—”
“If you did it where’s the gun?”
Vincent swallowed. “I do need you to instruct a lawyer for me.”
Walk breathed out, smiled and tapped the table with the flat of his hand. “Yes, good. I know a couple of guys, good trial lawyers.”
“I want Martha May.”
Walk stopped tapping. “Excuse me?”
“Martha May. I want her and no one else.”
“She works family law.”
“She’s the only lawyer I want.”
Walk let it settle a while. “What’s your angle here?”
Vincent kept his eyes down.
“What the hell is wrong with you? Thirty years I’ve been waiting for you.” Walk slammed the table with his hand. “Come on, Vincent. You weren’t … your life, it wasn’t the only one on hold.”
“You think our lives have been close to the same?”
“That’s not what I meant. It was hard on all of us. Star.”
Vincent stood.
“Wait.”
“What is it, Walk? What do you need to say?”
“Boyd and the D.A. They’re going for death.”
The word hung there.
“You tell Martha to come see me. I’ll sign papers.”
“It’ll be a capital case. Jesus, Vincent. Think about what you’re doing.”
Vincent knocked the door and signaled the guard. “I’ll see you, Walk.”
That half smile again, the smile that took him back thirty years and kept Walk from giving up on his friend.