Meghan says that I should just focus on the here and now and not worry about the future. She means I should stop dwelling on the threats and just look to the things I have some control over, like doing my job. Which, today, is to sit down with the invoices and write some checks. Shadow throws me a plaintive look, sort of an Aww shucks. Can’t we play a little hooky first? I tell him no. We must persevere. I promise him that a good long walk through Dogtown is in order afterward. I’ve gotten quite comfortable in those woods now, and they no longer give me the creeps. I can find my way to the reservoir and back along two different trails without feeling like I’m on the verge of being lost. Most of that is because Shadow leads the way. I fear nothing. Not even the gunfire from the firing range abutting the trailhead off Cherry Street. The first time I heard it, I nearly dived for cover; but now I know it’s just target practice at the Cape Ann Sportsmen’s Club. Still, I always hurry by.
Now that I’ve inventoried and pretty much cleared out the generational detritus from upstairs, the most recent project for Tucker’s crew is to install Sheetrock and insulation in those bedrooms. There was some talk of simply leaving the lathe and plaster, but in the end the family decided that they shouldn’t err on the side of keeping it authentic and expect humans to be comfortable in here year-round. Tucker and his team will begin the painstaking installation of Sheetrock so that the beams will remain exposed but the humans won’t freeze to death. The pop pop pop of nail guns is augmented by the on/off/on roar of the compressor that runs them. Then there is the scritch scritch whir of drills. I realize that my teeth are on edge and my dog has abandoned me for the great outdoors.
Gathering the envelopes and pulling on a jacket, I head out to join him. I’ve grown complacent living out here in isolation, and my keys are in the car, along with my wallet and, I notice with a little chagrin, my phone. There are no text messages, but the log indicates that Pete Bannerman has called three times, twice from the office and once from his cell phone. Shoot. So much for Meghan’s advice. I tap Pete’s name. Shadow stands between my knees as I sit on the granite bench.
“Hey, Rosie, I was getting worried.”
“Sorry, I left my phone in the car and I just saw that you’d called.” I feel this weird little sense of pleasure in hearing Pete say he was worried about me. He’s such a nice guy.
“I met with Mrs. Foster’s lawyers yesterday. I want to bring you up to speed.”
I always assumed that the expression “heavy heart” was a metaphor, but as he enumerates the many ways that Cecily Foster won’t give up on punishing me, my heart does indeed feel like it’s taking on ballast. I always thought you couldn’t be tried for the same crime twice; although there had been no trial per se, just a plea bargain excruciatingly extracted out of my confusion and my PD’s reckless disregard for the truth. As the Advocacy challenged in its brief, there really had been no crime. What happened was an unfortunate accident. Except—and this was Cecily’s cudgel—I had motive. According to her, I was exacting revenge for my poor dead dog. As painful as it is, I understand her logic, but I know, as angry as I was with Charles that night, I didn’t intentionally kill him. But there was one brief moment when I wasn’t sorry.
“I think we’re going to have to prove that you were in fear for your life.” I’m brought out of my thoughts by Pete’s comment.
“I was; it’s hard to live with a man with such cruel tendencies.”
“And it’s commonly thought that animal cruelty leads to domestic abuse.”
“Yes. Charles separated me from everyone I loved. Isn’t that also indicative of domestic abuse?”
“It is.”
I see where Pete is going with this. I have had plenty of time to look back over my time with Charles and come to the same conclusion. For six years, I lived with women who had endured unspeakable domestic situations. Mine was a paler version, but I related to their entrapment in households of fear. I hadn’t been screamed at or punched, but Charles’s silences were surely a form of abuse; the way he was able to cow me with a look. Even his generosity became a form of control, a way of turning me into his paper doll. I slide my ponytail through my fingers, look down at my sturdy cheap sneakers. I have a mystery stain above the left knee of my Levi’s. I am comfortable with all of it. I never expect to walk down Newbury Street again, and I don’t care. I had my Cinderella moment, and those glass slippers were painful.
“We need to set up a time for depositions.”
“What, take a day off from my exacting job?”
“Half a day. Next week. Tuesday.”
“Of course.” We sign off and I am no lighter of heart than before. A deposition, where I will be effectively grilled by a friendly lawyer and an unfriendly one. And I have nothing to wear.
My phone rings again; it’s Pete.
“Rosie, I don’t want you to worry. You’re not being defended by a hack this time. You’ve got me.”
“Oh, Pete, I know that. Thank you.” I smile down at my feet. He’s right. This time I have a real advocate.
“We’re in this together. I won’t let you down.”
“I know that you won’t. I trust you.”
“So, no bad thoughts. Just good ones. Promise?”
“I do.” And I don’t.
Saturday morning and I’m in my car, heading toward the massive Burlington Mall to find something appropriate to wear to the deposition. I’d poked around in the Main Street shops of Gloucester and had then gone over to Rockport to poke around in its boutiques, but I’d found nothing that seemed just right. I don’t know what I have in mind, but I just know even my favorite consignment shop didn’t have it. Maybe it was just that I was ready for a foray into a larger environment than I had been comfortably inhabiting these many weeks. I remember thinking when Meghan and Carol were here that it was time for bright lights, and now I’m going to them. I hope that I won’t be dazzled and run for the comfort of my dimly lit temporary home. Shadow lounges, if that is a good description of a dog who is longer than the backseat of my car, behind me. His long legs hang off the seat. He’s got his head propped on the armrest of the back door. I can’t say that he looks comfortable, but he seems okay with it. The temperature has dropped into the mid-forties, so he’ll be fine in the car while I do my thing in the mall. I won’t linger. Even as I find a parking place, I can feel my urge to do this fade. I haven’t been in a crowd for a very long time. I haven’t been in a mall for even longer. I sit, gathering my resources, and watch families go by, young couples holding hands and an older couple, she with her arm through his. I’m here all by myself. Solitary shopping. Pairs of teenage girls reinforce my sense of solitude. Shopping should be shared. How will I judge what I try on? I wish that I had the guts to claim Shadow as an emotional support dog. But I won’t.
Meghan and Marley are back together and she sounds as happy as I have ever heard her. Marley’s dog, Spike, features prominently in her conversation, as if she and Marley now have stepchildren of whom they are fond. Spike is Marley’s emotional support dog, and I know from my time training dogs in prison that all dogs can be labeled as such, but those for whom that is their singular role are so deeply embedded in the psyche of their guardians that it is impossible not to see the difference. I glance back at the recumbent Shadow and acknowledge, not for the first time, that he performs that role for me perfectly. I don’t know what I’d do without him, and I will insist that he accompany me to the deposition. So there. Even if I have to buy him a fake red vest.
Okay, time to fish or cut bait. I crack the windows and give my dog a kiss on the nose. “I won’t be long.” He doesn’t look like he’s worried.
I have some money to spend, given that I have been paid biweekly and have virtually no expenses except those of my phone and food. And Shadow, of course. I can visit the better stores, or I can go to my old standbys from the days prior to my conversion as a fashion plate. I choose the latter, skipping Nordstrom and Michael Kors. Macy’s is more my speed these days, or the Gap if necessary.
It really doesn’t take that long to pick out a skirt suit, navy blue, white piping, above the knee, and a simple silk blouse to go under the jacket. Blah. But it makes the point that I am a reliable, rational, unemotional woman. No frills, no fakery. I look like an airline hostess or whatever it is that they call them these days. I put them back. I move on to the dresses. I’ve lost the prison weight and I like what I see, but these dresses are meant for happy occasions, dinners out or going to a show, not depositions. I really don’t want to invest in a dress that I will associate only with unhappiness and probably never wear again. In the end, I select two pairs of nice tailored trousers and three pretty, but not too pretty, blouses to go with them. I add a black blazer and there you go. Done. Except that I need footwear.
All in all, it takes an hour and a half to shop. It feels like a lot longer, and I worry about the dog in my car. I pass Cinnabon as I head toward the exit, but I do not want to jeopardize my body, newly restored to its original shape, with an ill-considered fling with sticky dough.
“Rosie? Rosie Collins?”
My hand is on the exit door, but I turn toward a very familiar voice. “Brenda!”
It takes a few moments, but soon enough the surprise falls away and we are once again two girls on a bench in the mall.
Of all the people I should have called upon my unforeseen release, Brenda was, except for my family, at the top of the list; but I hadn’t. I had gotten so stuck on my mother’s silence and my brothers—all of them—ignoring me that I assumed everyone from my former life would do the same. It was a surfeit of embarrassment and the fear of further rejection that kept me from calling Brenda Brathwaite. And that’s what I babble to her now.
To her credit, Brenda doesn’t seem insulted. “So, you’re in Gloucester to regroup?”
“Essentially, yes.” It would be a much longer conversation to explain about the Advocacy and the Homestead Trust and Meghan and the rest of it. I’ve condensed it down into a flat miracle. “I got out and they gave me this odd little job and here I am. At least for a while.”
“Gosh, your mother must be so happy.”
What do I say to that? Brenda has known me a long time, has known about my estrangement, so I can give her an honest answer. “No. She still won’t talk to me. I haven’t seen or heard from her since I was released. She wouldn’t let me visit her.”
“That’s just crazy talk.”
“Well, I think so.” I crack a smile. Brenda has never been one to mince words. I suggest lunch, anything to prolong this unexpected reunion.
She shakes her head. “I’m meeting some, um, colleagues for lunch at the Cheesecake Factory. Practically a business lunch.”
I get it. How would she ever explain me to a nice group of friends? I give her my blessing. “Yeah, and, really, I don’t have time. My dog is in the car.”
“It’s so good to see you.”
“I’m so glad to see you, too.” I get up. “I should go.”
“Rosie?” Brenda Brathwaite, the boon companion of my youth, has changed. She’s a grown-up woman. While I lingered in the rarified atmosphere of my gilded cage, and then lived out the monotony of prison, I failed to mature. I feel stunted. “Give me your number.”
I give it to her, momentarily cheered by her request, the suggestion that she will stay in touch with me.
We hug.
“Rosie, you should go see your mother.”
“She doesn’t want to see me.”
“And that stops you, how?” As I said, Brenda never minces words.