Chapter 42

The next visit to the prison was a few days later, a cold, gray January day. Frances Noonan had given up driving at night, and now she wondered if she should give up driving in gloomy, dark weather too. Hopefully the drive home would be brighter. At least she had Alma Gordon, chattering gently away in the back seat, brightening her mood. The dreary weather didn’t penetrate inside the prison, either, where it might be summer or it might be winter in the artificial light.

The Fog Ladies were eager to watch the progress of the quilts, which were a motley collection of multiple squares sewn together by each woman according to the pattern shown the time before. They had brought the quilting frames and the batting today to add inspiration. Mrs. Noonan demonstrated how to link the pieces into one giant quilt. She placed the squares together to show how it would look.

Maya-the-pricker and the cussing woman were across from each other but realized they would have to sew their squares together. The cussing grew louder, and Maya raised her needle threateningly. Mrs. Noonan said they probably didn’t want so many red squares in one area, and why didn’t Maya slide down the table and sew her red squares to blue.

The cussing stopped abruptly, and the stout woman leaned over to inspect Maya’s work. “You frickin’ copied me. I got these same five red bits.”

Both women had five red squares, two corduroy, two plaid, and one deep red velvet.

“I didn’t copy you, moron,” Maya said. “I just liked the look of these ones.”

“They’re frickin’ beautiful. Did you feel this velvet? I could frickin’ touch it all day.”

“Hey, what if we made this side of the quilt red? Look at our pieces. They look pretty good together.”

“Frickin’ brilliant. Turn yours this way, put the velvet next to my plaid. Look at that. Our side’s bitching.”

Frances Noonan and Harriet Flynn examined the layout, one side shades of red, the rest a patchwork of colors and textures. They shifted a few women and a few squares until the red was in the middle, surrounded by color.

“Frickin’ bitching,” said the stout woman.

“Yes, it is attractive,” said Mrs. Flynn.

As the next group shuffled in, Mrs. Noonan positioned herself next to Serena Evans. Serena looked as if she expected it, tilting her head toward Mrs. Noonan and nodding as they sat down together. They’d spent most of the first visit talking, branching out from Serena and her past to current events, which Serena knew from the radio and television, but her information was fragmented. They discussed books and plays they had seen years ago, places Serena had traveled, and all their favorite foods. Serena confided that she hadn’t made friends, and that she didn’t have anyone to talk to except her brother.

Here was Mrs. Noonan’s chance. “Did your brother know about your insurance policies, dear?”

Serena answered without hesitation. “Yes, he was actually the one who recommended we get them. He’s an insurance agent. It’s one small comfort, to know my girls are well taken care of.”

“Yes. One small comfort.” Mrs. Noonan couldn’t bring herself to say anything else. Hoo boy, she thought, wait until I tell the ladies.

“I’m glad you got to meet him at Christmas.” Serena paused and took a deep breath. “What you did for Christmas, that was lovely. The women here can’t stop talking about it.”

Mrs. Noonan smiled. “It was our pleasure.”

Serena’s face changed. Mrs. Noonan thought she might cry.

“Christmas,” Serena said. “That Christmas in Chicago was the last normal day of my life. I didn’t know it. I didn’t know anything. I didn’t treat it like it was anything special. Like our life was anything special.”

Serena’s hand was stopped midair, her thread dangling from the needle, the cloth forgotten on the table.

“David died the next day. My life died with him. If not for my girls…”

Mrs. Noonan gently placed her hand on Serena’s and lowered it to the table.

Serena shook her head. “I shouldn’t complain. Look around. Everyone here had a life that died somewhere along the way.”

Mrs. Noonan studied the room. The women in their orange jumpsuits were just women, women whose lives might hopefully change again, as Serena said, “somewhere along the way.”

From where she sat, Mrs. Noonan could supervise the entire table. A scrawny woman with a tattoo of a flower on her neck hunched on Mrs. Noonan’s other side. “That is quite a lovely design. What kind of flower is it?” Mrs. Noonan asked her.

“Eh, I can never remember. Some kind. This tattoo hurt like the devil. Lady said it wouldn’t be any worse than any other place. What did she know?”

“You have others, then?”

“This one.” She hoisted up her jumpsuit arm and showed Mrs. Noonan a black tree on her wrist. “Did this myself. Bunch of us. We all gave ourselves tattoos. And hepatitis C.”

“Oh, my,” Mrs. Noonan said. The woman bent into her sewing, and Mrs. Noonan showed her a new stitch.

She turned back to Serena Evans whose face looked perfectly composed now as she focused on her cloth. Mrs. Noonan wanted to ask about Spencer Tremaine. She had seen him just the day before, an unsatisfactory meeting where Julia Blackwell tried in vain to get a timeline estimate for the coming months, and Spencer Tremaine repeated back to them that the “fat lady was a long way from singing,” and that Julia’s job was to support her son. And not ask questions, Mrs. Noonan concluded after half an hour of this.

He walked them out of the office and into the elevator to the lobby. Mrs. Noonan realized he had not counted on them taking up so much time, and he was late for another engagement elsewhere. He’d made it seem as if he were doing them a favor, said he’d “see them safely to the street,” but this flimsy excuse did not escape Mrs. Noonan or Julia Blackwell.

The lobby door was blocked by a large stroller and a quarreling couple, so Spencer Tremaine was unable to make his getaway. They heard how the woman caused the couple to be late for the babies’ photo shoot by mistiming their feeding and how the man forgot the second outfits for when the babies vomited on their clothes.

Imagine Frances Noonan’s surprise when she recognized the woman was Helen. This brought an immediate halt to the argument. Mrs. Noonan introduced Helen and Scott to Julia Blackwell and Spencer Tremaine, babbling on in her embarrassment about Helen being a doctor and knowing Sarah and how Frances had used the same photography company all those years ago.

Spencer Tremaine smiled his celebrity smile and repeated their names as if he cared deeply, gushed about the adorable tots, and commented on the tough job of working parents, all the while sliding the stroller aside so he could exit first. He waved back to Julia as if he were the queen and said he’d be in touch.

What an unsavory character. Mrs. Noonan wanted to know everything Serena Evans knew about him without necessarily telling her why. She wasn’t sure how to start the conversation, but all she needed to say was, “I saw Spencer Tremaine on television recently. Isn’t he your lawyer?” From this she got almost thirty minutes of conversation.

“He approached me,” Serena said. “I didn’t even know who he was. Why would I? He said I’d get life in prison and would have gotten the death penalty if Illinois still had it. Said I needed the best and he was the best. Said the men on the jury would be out for blood.”

Mrs. Noonan nodded. This sounded familiar.

“His fees were exorbitant, but every time I questioned something, he told me talent was expensive and did I want to end up rotting in a cell. My husband and I had a lot of savings. It’s all gone now. Tremaine used to tell me he’d get me off and I’d be rich again with the insurance money. He was the one getting rich.”

Serena told her about Spencer Tremaine’s first marriage with a sniping wife who was never satisfied. Then two additional wives and multiple children he rarely saw. About his alimony and child support and expensive lifestyle. About his penchant for Las Vegas and showgirls and gambling. About how he showed up once with a black eye and split lip and said he’d been hit by the boom on his sailboat.

“He’s not my lawyer anymore,” Serena finished. “I fired him right after he told me I reminded him of his first wife. You have to spend so much time with your lawyer, and for a long time he was the only person I talked to, and each time he’d leave I’d feel slimy. I just couldn’t work with him anymore. I don’t know if he helped me or not. I didn’t get life. But I’m not out free with my girls.”