LOCAL WOMAN
STUPID. PATHETIC. WEAK. LOSER. I think I’ve heard my mom called every name imaginable. From cops to ER nurses to grocery store cashiers to waitresses and bus drivers—all strangers who could see through her lies and her constant cover-ups and outlandish excuses. They shook their heads and silently cursed her, dismissing her as someone who deserved what she got. Whispers from people who thought they knew, thought they understood something even though they didn’t have the slightest clue what it was really like, their words always some variation of “Why doesn’t she just leave him?” or “Ever hear of a restraining order?” or “What kind of a mother would let her kids witness X, Y, Z?”
This is the first time she’s been called a killer.
Last night’s news: “Local woman awaits arraignment after being arrested for allegedly stabbing her police officer husband to death.” Jackie immediately grabbed the remote, pressing a few wrong buttons before the TV went black. “We don’t need to hear this,” she said.
But that was yesterday and now it’s Monday. Aaron and I sit next to each other on the couch in Jackie’s living room, waiting for dinner to be ready. I’m thankful that Aaron is here, even if there is this awkward silence hanging between us. If I had to be alone with Jackie and Ray for another second, having Jackie ask if I needed anything, if I was okay, if I wanted to talk, and did I like salmon, was I allergic to anything, I would implode. All weekend long she and Ray were trying so hard to make me feel welcome, but it was only making me feel like more of an outsider, more of a burden.
I pull my phone out, checking for the latest updates on final exam grades. No news yet. I close out my e-mail and return my phone to my back pocket. But I pull it out again to check one last time. Aaron sighs loudly and gives my phone the dirty look he really wants to be giving me.
“Will you stop that?” he finally mumbles, nudging me in the arm. “Making me nervous.”
I want to ask if he saw the news last night, if he knows what they’re saying about Mom, but I don’t. Just then Ray appears in the entryway of the living room, clapping his hands together once. “All right,” he announces, “I think we’re about ready in here.”
Aaron and I sit across from each other, with Jackie and Ray at either end of the table. When I set my phone facedown next to me, Jackie clears her throat and says, “Brooke, one of our house rules is we always unplug at the dinner table. This is pretty much the one and only time we get to really be together and catch up, so that’s what we do.”
“Oh. Right. No, I wasn’t—” I begin, but stop because we’re talking over each other.
“No, I know you weren’t using it right now,” she says, her voice higher than usual. “I’m just taking the opportunity to let you know, that’s all.”
“There aren’t many rules,” Ray chimes in, shaking his head slowly. “But boy, is she serious about that one. I was in the doghouse for a week over one text message.”
“Stop it, you were not!” Jackie swats at him, showing all her teeth. Ray laughs on mute: no sound, with his face scrunched up and his shoulders bobbing up and down. “He’s teasing,” Jackie says, looking at him like they’re the teenagers, in goofy sappy-sick love.
I glance over at Aaron. He offers a tight smile, but his eyes are glaring at me. We rarely ever made it through a meal with a conversation that didn’t end in a major blowout. So we’d learned simply to be quiet. His eyes are telling me, Put the damn phone away now. I do. I slide it into my back pocket despite the fact that it’s now digging into my flesh as I sit. I try not to move too much.
But that’s hard when there’s this elaborate foreign ritual of passing dishes and spooning sauces and picking the right utensils, and the stress of saying “please” and “thank you” and acting normal and polite, like we ever had dinners like this at our house. There are fresh biscuits Jackie made from scratch, steamed vegetables and roasted potatoes, salad with sliced strawberries and little wedges of mandarin orange, and grilled salmon that looks and smells expensive. They even have a white tablecloth that’s embroidered with flowers and lace, and a tall white candle lit in the center of the table. I know I’m going to spill something on the tablecloth. I try to make my movements as small and careful as possible, which is only making me feel clumsier—I accidentally drop my biscuit and I can feel Aaron tense up next to me.
I pick at the salmon with my fork. It’s pink. I’m sure this is how it’s supposed to be, but I’m scared to eat it. The only fish we ever had at home was in the form of sticks. I look over at Aaron to see if he’s as lost as I am. He’s eating normally, but maybe he has meals like this at Carmen’s all the time. I feel so uncivilized.
“Well, the whole point of our family dinnertime is to talk about our day,” Jackie begins, like this is something she’s rehearsed. “So I went over to the courthouse today for the arraignment. And I also had a chance to meet with Allison’s lawyer, Mr. Clarence.”
“When is she coming home?” I ask.
“Well,” she says, carefully setting her fork on the edge of her plate. “She’s not coming home, at least not for a little while, anyway. The judge denied bail.”
I look back and forth between Aaron and Jackie, but no one says anything. “What does that mean?” I finally say.
“It means she’s going to have to stay in the county jail until”—she pauses, looking up as if trying to locate her next words—“the next hearing, which will determine if they have enough evidence to move forward with a trial.”
“What are the charges, exactly?” Aaron asks, twisting up the cloth napkin in his lap.
“There are a number of factors coming into play.” Her words are precise, prepared. “The lawyer said that this could potentially be high profile. From his perspective, I guess it’s not as open and shut as we’d like it to be. It involves a police officer, minors, assault with a deadly weapon”—she ticks off the reasons on her fingers—“and the doctors say Callie doesn’t remember what happened, so as of right now there are no witnesses.”
“But what are the charges?” Aaron asks again, this time flattening his napkin and smoothing it out over his legs.
“This sounds bad, I know,” she cautions us. “It’s voluntary manslaughter, second-degree murder, and first-degree murder.”
“She didn’t murder . . . ,” I begin, but the word sticks in my throat, my voice catching on its jagged edges. “She was defending herself. It was an accident. I mean, it would be ridiculous to charge her with that.”
“I know, I agree with you. Her lawyer is fully aware of everything. We all know that, honey.” She exchanges a loaded glance with Ray before continuing. “The lawyer had to explain it to me, and so now I’m explaining it you. They always include more-serious charges, in hopes that we’ll plea down to one of the lesser ones to avoid a trial. It’s just how it’s done, apparently.”
Aaron remains silent. I wish he’d say something, anything. There’s a tightness taking hold of my insides, everything in me wanting to constrict. I try to breathe in deeply, but my lungs feel like they’re made of rusty metal.
When I turn to look at Aaron, he’s covering his face—I hear him mumble something through his hands, but the only word I can make out is “fucking.” Somehow, I manage to push away my own feelings and put my arm around him like I’m the big sister.
Jackie shakes her head slowly and brings her napkin to her face. “I’m sorry, I know this isn’t what anyone wants to hear.” Ray reaches out and places his hand on her shoulder and looks down at his half-eaten salmon.