Dear Miss Quinn,

I apologize for the delay in responding to your letters. To answer your questions: the conditions of Jesse Joe Barfoot’s parole were not set by this office. Therefore, we are unable to alter the no contact order. The conditions of his parole were set by the sentencing judge. To have them changed, you would need to file a formal appeal in the district court where he was sentenced.

Sincerely,
James Teeter

“What happens now?” Renee said.

“Formal appeal in district court.”

I opened my accordion file folder, put the letter in one slot, and pulled out a Form J-319-7. Modification to Orders of Protection and No Contact. I put it in the old Underwood and rolled it up.

“Wow, there’s a form for that?” Renee said.

I’d requested the form, even before I knew I would need it, just like I’d requested copies of Kellen’s final judgment from the district court. I took those out, too, to be sure I got everything correct on the form.

It made me sick to see him listed there by the name he never wanted: Jesse Joe Barfoot, Jr. They’d taken away his identity, pressed him back into his father’s mold. Kellen wasn’t the only one who had his identity stripped away in those records. Every place I appeared, I was the minor victim, identified only as WLQ. To protect me, of course, even if I didn’t want to be protected. That was what I put in the very small space provided on the form for me to justify my request to have the no contact order rescinded. I do not wish to be protected by the court’s order, as the defendant presents no danger to me.

“Have you considered becoming a lawyer?” Renee said, while I typed.

“Never.” I thought of all the lawyers who’d passed through my life, and I didn’t envy any of them the part they’d played.

I drove up to Garringer by myself to file the form and pay the fifty dollar filing fee. After that, I waited. Just like I’d been waiting for years. Renee talked about how electronic mail was going to be the next big thing, but the dented mailbox in the front hall of our apartment building was still my god. Every day I prayed that it would deliver up a letter from Donal or from someone who knew where he was. I prayed for it to bring me an answer from the district court.

I wondered if that was what it was like for Kellen, after he’d written Liam’s phone number on my arm. When he was sitting alone and bleeding, waiting for me to come back, had it seemed like a month to him? Had it seemed longer? Had it seemed hopeless?

14

KELLEN

July 1990

That first week, I slept at the same dive hotel where I’d stayed when Beth’s grandkids came to visit. Most of June, when the weather was good, I stayed at a campground in a tent I picked up from an Army surplus store. Reminded me of sleeping out in the meadow with Wavy, and it was that memory as much as the summer heat that made me give it up. After a couple more nights in a motel, I moved in with Craig, one of the guys at the shop. Him and his wife was expecting a baby, though, and she didn’t like me being there when he was out.

By the middle of August, I was back to another crappy motel, and working as many hours as I could, so I wouldn’t have to be at the motel except to sleep.

I had my head up under the hood of a Toyota when somebody said, “Jesse,” behind me. There was Beth, with her hair dyed this new dark color of red, holding my baseball bat. Wouldn’t have surprised me if she’d swung it at me, but she said, “You forgot this. Thought you might want it. And your winter coat.”

The employee lounge was just a closet with lockers and chairs, but it was kind of private, so I took her in there. I stuck the bat and coat in my locker and counted three hundred dollars out of my wallet.

“Thanks for bringing my stuff. This here’s for May’s rent and electric,” I said.

“You were only there for a week.”

“Yeah, well, I still owe you the rent.”

She took the money and put it in her purse. Then she just looked at me, so I knew she was waiting for me to say something.

“Look, I’m sorry about what happened. I know that was a lousy thing to do to you. If I’d been thinking—”

“Is it over? Are you still breaking your parole?” Beth said.

“No. I haven’t seen her again.”

“If it’s over, you could come back. I won’t put up with you breaking your parole, but if you promise it’s over, we could try again.” I guess I didn’t answer soon enough, because she stood up and put her purse over her shoulder. “Jesus Christ. I can’t believe I came here thinking you might be interested in a second chance.”

“I can’t come back, because I can’t promise anything. If Wavy showed up tomorrow, I’d do it all over again. I loved her the first time I saw her and I still do.”

“Love at first sight, huh?” Beth snorted. “How old was she?”

“Eight.”

“That’s creepy.”

She said a bunch of other shitty things, too. “You should’ve stayed in prison if that’s how you’re going to live,” and, “Nothing like flushing the rest of your life down the toilet over some girl you’re never going to be with.” Like I didn’t wish I was dead most of the time. Like I hadn’t spent some time thinking about where I could buy a gun and solve it. Almost as much time as I’d spent thinking about breaking my parole and seeing Wavy.

After Beth got that out of her system, she asked me to move back in with her. I said yes, but only as roommates. She needed help with the rent, and I needed some place to stay that wasn’t gonna get me in trouble with my parole officer.