CHAPTER THIRTY

When I got home Georgia was sitting in the front seat of her Ford Ranger, the engine running. I asked her how the afternoon at the courthouse had gone, and she said that Cindy sucked white-and-green peppermints all afternoon. “She put the cellophane wrappers in her purse,” Georgia said.

I was late, Mom and Georgia finished with good-byes, Mom on the porch, the farewell ceremonies over, except for me. The streetlights were on, and the neighboring houses hummed with evening, television, quiet voices, a sprinkler on down the street, glittering drops of water.

“It’s okay,” Georgia said, meaning it was all right, me leaving the restaurant.

I wonder how many important conversations my family has had, an engine running, someone ready to head for the freeway.

“I shouldn’t have done that,” I said, my voice so soft she might not have heard me.

She gave a tilt of her head, quick acknowledgment. “They didn’t set a court date,” Georgia said. “But the judge said there was sufficient case to warrant a trial.”

I hadn’t wanted to come out and ask.

I couldn’t forgive Georgia for her feelings about our father. I could only remind myself that she was married to a guy who loved the elasticity of concrete and was always picking up a virus, nasal infections, earaches. I used to hope Georgia would be a journalist or a world traveler, a woman with a briefcase. “Jack should have torn those witnesses to pieces,” I said.

She left a space in the conversation, where she would have said what she thought about Jack, and about the case against Dad. She wished me luck with Miss P. That’s how she put it, not wanting to say Good luck with the diving, knowing how athletes feel about saying certain things, how words can cause misfortune.

She patted my hand, having to reach out of the car and wave her hand in the air for a moment before I realized what she wanted. I held out my own arm, and she touched me, gave me a squeeze. Then she was gone, waving up and down, like someone flying with one hand, until I could not see her car any more.

I didn’t even have time to tell her, “Say hi to Sweetie.”

A couple of days later I dropped by Dad’s house and ran into LaTanya, the temp from Dad’s office, picking up the mail and putting a fat, pale rubber band around the throwaway ads. “Mr. Chamberlain’s taking a vacation,” said LaTanya with a sympathetic, regal air, car keys tinkling.

I bicycled past the house when I had a chance, and jogged by each dawn.

The lamps in my father’s living room ran on a timer, so the front drapes lit up faithfully at seven-thirty and glowed until dawn. I made the place the destination of my morning miles. I stood breathing hard, flexing my legs, stalling. Hoping the lights would come on again, a silhouette on its way to make coffee.

“I used to worry, the way you do now,” my mother said, up to her elbows in planting mulch. “Where he was, who he was with. Where the money was coming from.” The tropical peat was rich, clinging, like coffee grounds. She prodded the lopsided Y of a ti plant root into the mulch. “Until one day I realized he was going to take me down with him.”

I kept quiet, sprinkling a few scattered crumbs of soil into the pot. I couldn’t help recalling what she had said when I told her Dad had been arrested. You need to think about you.

I wonder if Mom had given her own past some thought, her own secrets. “Maybe I still feel a sort of loyalty,” she continued. “Maybe I looked the other way so long I can’t say anything, if I wanted to. I’m not the one who can answer your questions.”

I almost said, I don’t have any questions.