Evan eased his car to the curb, unable to draw his attention away from Alma. She was waiting for him on the stoop, her face wet and blotchy and her body wrapped in a dull wool blanket. Mrs. King stood bent on the stoop, urging Alma to stand. Evan walked toward them. He knelt at Alma’s feet and took her face in his hands. He only wondered briefly what Mrs. King would think. Then he pressed his lips to Alma’s eyes, her cheeks, her mouth. He felt her lips warm against his, and the wind chimes that hung from the porch made a faint tinkling sound. Evan let himself imagine that the two of them were being transported, together, to some other place and time. But cold, hard concrete pressed against his knees, anchoring him now in this place.
“We’ll be going on back inside now,” Mrs. King announced. “Or the neighbors will get to talkin’.”
Evan lifted Alma to her feet and guided her gently through the door into a warm room that smelled of Pine-Sol. He led her to an old-fashioned sofa, with pretty pink upholstery and deep wood trim. She leaned against him, seeming barely able to balance on her feet. She let him support her weight almost completely as they landed on the firm cushions.
Mrs. King wandered off to the kitchen. Evan and Alma sat silently, their bodies intertwined, staring at the screen of an incongruously large flat-screen television. The sound was turned down too low to hear, but news images of an unmanned satellite careening through space flashed across the screen.
Mrs. King returned and carefully rested a plate of thick-sliced banana bread on the table. She handed Evan a glass of milk.
“I’m brewin’ more coffee,” she said. She eased her body into a wing-backed chair.
On the television screen, the image shifted to reveal the blue-green Earth, shrinking as the satellite hurtled toward some distant planet.
Everything in this small shotgun-style house seemed too large—the television, the furniture, the rugs—too grand for the modest space. Evan peered through the kitchen door to see a small, fully updated kitchen, with bright tile floors and thick wood countertops. The house was neat and orderly, freshly painted and scrubbed clean. He wondered if this was how all of the houses in this part of town looked on the inside. Though he’d never admit it, he had always imagined these houses shabby and sagging.
Evan sat forward and took a piece of banana bread from the plate. He swallowed it in two large bites. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was, and the bread tasted delicious and warm. He followed with a second piece, and then a third, washing them down with long, deep gulps from the glass of milk. Finishing the milk, he rested the glass on the table and paused, realizing that Alma and Mrs. King were staring at him, incredulous.
“You’ll have to excuse Evan’s manners, Mrs. King. I guess you’d say he has a healthy appetite,” Alma said with a smile. A smile he was relieved to see.
Evan wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Your banana bread is delicious, Mrs. King.
“Thank you, Evan,” Mrs. King said.
What do you put in it?” he asked.
“I’ll never tell. But we’re not here to swap recipes, are we?”
Evan shrugged and took another gulp of milk.
“Alma has filled me in on her family’s terrible predicament,” Mrs. King said. “I know you two will be relieved to hear that I have a plan.”
“Well, that’s real kind of you, Mrs. King,” Evan said, “but I think I need to tell Alma about what happened at the jail.” He clenched his teeth, absently ran his hand through his still-uncombed hair, and continued, “Uh, the ‘predicament,’ as you call it, is worse than it seems.”
“You don’t have to explain,” Alma said. “I know. I know they’re going to be sent to the detention center. I know ICE is involved.”
Evan replied, “You know? How?”
“I’ve been paying attention, and it’s already happening in a couple of other counties around here—the roadblocks, people going to jail for practically no reason and then not being allowed to post bail.”
She paused and looked down at their intertwined hands.
“I should have known Gilbert County would be next.”
“Lord have mercy on us,” Mrs. King said. “Sounds to me like Sheriff Bull Connor come to town.”
She looked at them both and continued, “You do know who he was—Bull Connor?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Evan said. “He was a sheriff in Alabama.”
“In Birmingham,” Alma said, “back in the civil rights days.”
Mrs. King started to walk toward the kitchen, but then turned around and continued.
“Alma telling me her story, well, it sure reminds me of those days—the bad ol’ days, as my daddy called them.”
Mrs. King chuckled while Alma nodded her head vigorously. Evan sat perfectly still. For the first time in his life, he was feeling more than a little uncomfortable in his white skin.
“Enough about that,” Mrs. King said, returning from the kitchen with a fresh pot of coffee. “Let’s talk about this plan of mine. It has three parts, just like our Lord’s Holy Trinity. Three’s always a good number for starting out.”
She looked to them as if they might have a response.
“Yes, ma’am,” Evan said tentatively.
“Part one: We all three will get down on our knees and pray. Now, I’ll be headin’ to that little church over there.” She pointed out her front window, toward a white clapboard building with a tall steeple that stood catty-corner from the house.
“First Iconium Baptist Church. And you two children can be sure I’ll tell everyone gathered there tomorrow about what I heard from you. Won’t be the first time we gathered ourselves together and called on God to let justice roll down like waters and righteousness like a mighty stream.”
Evan had no idea how talking about rolling waters and mighty streams would help. He hoped the next stages of the plan would be a little more practical.
“Now, how about you two?” She seemed to be speaking to them both, but she looked directly at Evan.
“I know your momma and daddy must still take you to that fancy Methodist church downtown?”
“Yes, ma’am, First Methodist,” Evan replied. He couldn’t begin to imagine going to his staid and proper church and sharing what he had learned today.
Alma, on the other hand, felt certain that all fifteen hundred members of her church, Santa Cruz, would, without a doubt, be praying about this tomorrow. Alma and Mrs. King, it seemed, shared an entirely unreasonable expectation that going to church and praying had anything at all to do with fixing this problem.
Evan could feel an undercurrent of rage beginning to surge through his gut. He grasped onto the edges of the sofa and, without willing it, imagined what it might feel like to approach Uncle Buddy’s favorite corner table at brunch tomorrow. He would ask the Sheriff whether stealing a boat was less of a crime than driving with a broken taillight, whether driving drunk and crashing into the side of a house was somehow more noble than crossing an invisible border to feed one’s family. All of these stories his mom had laughed about over dinner—the stories of good ol’ Buddy’s crazy days—ran through his mind. Evan now understood them for what they were: hypocrisy.
* * *
Strangely, Alma was feeling hopeful. Sitting in Mrs. King’s cozy, warm home, sipping a fresh cup of coffee, nibbling sweets—it all was almost enough to make her think that everything would work out. Alma looked at Evan, wanting to share her unlikely hope with him, wanting to hold his hand. The lines of his jaw were hard, and the muscles throbbed, pulling in taut ropes along his neck. His cheeks burned red, nothing like the endearing pink splotches that appeared when Evan was nervous or wanted her. His eyes were thin slits surrounded by lines of tension.
This was not a face of hope.
“Evan, are you okay?”
He turned to her but seemed to look past her.
“Let’s just get to the rest of the plan,” he replied.
“Well, all right then,” Mrs. King said. “Part two: You, young man, are going to make a little visit to your Uncle Sexton.”
Alma’s bright optimism began to fade. Sexton Prentiss had no intention of helping her dad and Raúl. Going to visit him would make things worse before they’d make things better.
“Mrs. King,” she asked, “I don’t mean any disrespect, but do you think that’s a good idea—for Evan to talk to his uncle?”
“Honestly, Alma,” Mrs. King replied, “I’m not sure what to think. But he’s a powerful man, and if he wants to, he can make things happen.”
“It’s worth a try,” Evan said. “He and Aunt Maggie went out to the lake after my party,”
“Lake Rabun?” Mrs. King asked.
“Yes, ma’am. We can go out tomorrow to talk to him.”
Alma was glad to see the hard lines soften on Evan’s face, but she was far from glad to hear that he expected her to accompany him on a visit to the “catch and return” senator.
“Uh, by ‘we,’ do you mean you and I?” she asked tentatively.
“Yeah, Alma. He loves you. Remember? He wants to clone you so that he can make a match for Whit.”
Mrs. King laughed a hearty laugh.
“I think we can put that into the past tense, Evan,” Alma said. “I’m pretty sure he doesn’t want his son dating a mojada.” Both Evan and Mrs. King stared blankly. Alma translated. “A wetback. An illegal.”
“You mean an ‘undocumented immigrant,’” Evan said, grasping onto her knee. “Remember?”
Alma smiled and shook her head. “Yeah,” she said. “I remember.”
“So, it’s settled. You two will make a drive out to Lake Rabun tomorrow,” Mrs. King said.
She walked toward an old-fashioned telephone table, complete with a real phone book and a bulky cordless phone that looked like it must be older than Alma.
“And so we come to part three. This is my part,” she said. “I’m gonna pick up this phone and call my son, Reginald. Little Reggie’s a partner at one of those fancy law firms down in Atlanta, and you can be sure they’ve got somebody down there who can help your daddy and brother.”
She lifted the heavy black receiver and waved it into the air as she spoke. “Problem is, those people, they charge a king’s ransom. You children wouldn’t believe how much they get paid, just to talk to a person on the telephone.”
She shook her head as she dialed. “Don’t you worry, though. I’m gonna tell my little Reggie that he better find you a lawyer, and a good one, without charging a penny.”
She disappeared through a doorway, phone cradled between her ear and shoulder.
“Lord knows those people can afford it,” she said as she closed the door behind her.
Alma looked at Evan to see whether he was as awed by this amazing good luck as she was. He smiled and shrugged. Then he pulled her into his chest and ran his hand slowly through her hair while they turned their attention back to the television, where the satellite now floated weightlessly beyond the atmosphere.