Chapter 32
Thirty-Two
On the last Sunday in February, Van climbed behind the wheel of the Christmobile and drove Arthur west to Yorrick, Vermont,
for his mother’s parole hearing.
“I can find the way myself, you know,” Arthur had told him.
“Friends don’t let friends drink alone,” Van replied. “Besides, I wasn’t invited to Texas.” Donna was flying to El Paso with
Allie, where they planned to spend their break licking salt off the rims of their margarita glasses.
“How do you know we’re going to be drinking? We don’t know how it’s going to turn out.”
“It’s going to turn out one of two ways, my son,” Van told him. “And either way is going to require some drinking.”
They got a room with two beds in a Best Western, located a short drive from the penitentiary. It was the only hotel in town,
and the clientele consisted almost entirely of people visiting their incarcerated loved ones. The picture window in their
room had a view of a buckled asphalt parking lot, the four-lane highway beyond, and, across the road, a 7-Eleven and a permanently
closed Dairy Queen with plywood nailed up in the windows. A view like that belonged on a calendar, Arthur thought, for devotees
of New England’s peaceful, rural beauty.
A little after 10:00 p.m., Van began nagging Arthur to cross the street and get them some Doritos.
He didn’t want to go himself. He had his jeans off and said he didn’t like to get dressed again once he had relaxed for the evening.
He was persistent, and finally, when he began to lob balled-up socks at Arthur’s head, Arthur pulled on his Biko hoodie and made his way across all four lanes through the blowing wet.
He was three minutes at the checkout, in full view of the security camera, the footage time-stamped, providing him with an unshakable alibi for the evening.
As it happened, it was an alibi no one ever felt the need to check—a source of great disappointment to Colin.
In the morning, Arthur showered, shaved, slapped on some Bay Rum cologne, and threw on the blue blazer that made him look
like the musty professor of medieval literature he hadn’t yet become. He let himself out of the room without waking Van and
drove to Black Cricket alone. The parking lot at the penitentiary was the emptiest he had ever seen it. But then he had never
been there outside scheduled visiting hours.
His mother’s parole hearing was in the west wing, on the second floor, at the end of a corridor lined with administrative
offices. Walking down that hall reminded him of being sent to the principal’s office to answer for some offense or other,
and he thought again how Black Cricket resembled a high school from the outside.
Somehow, he had thought his mother would be there, that they would sit side by side during the course of his interview, perhaps
be allowed to hold hands. But of course she wasn’t there. Her own interview was scheduled for later in the day.
The parole board—a psychologist, a priest, a retired attorney general, a retired officer of the state police, and a former state congresswoman—sat behind a long walnut table.
The former congresswoman had silver hair blown out in the style of Murphy Brown, and she wore a scarlet power suit with squared-off shoulders.
She ran the proceedings. She said she was glad Arthur could join them and asked him if he’d like a cup of coffee or tea.
He said a cup of tea would be fine and was provided with a small paper cup of lukewarm water with a bag of Tetley floating in it.
He never touched it. The congresswoman asked if Arthur had prepared some remarks.
Arthur had. He read a two-page statement, emphasizing his mother’s work with battered women, both before and during her incarceration; the spiritual counsel she had offered other prisoners; her work for peace and against apartheid; and her role in his life as his only surviving parent, a woman he loved and looked up to.
The congresswoman asked him how he had managed while she was locked up, and he told her about his studies at Rackham, his
summers in England with his father’s people. She asked him if his mother had ever apologized to him, or expressed any remorse
at all, for leaving him to fend for himself while she served her time. Arthur replied in a patient, measured tone that she
had told him she would never be done apologizing and trying to make amends, not just to him, but also to the family of the
late Officer Jason Einaudi.
At that, the retired state policeman spoke up.
“How do you make amends for getting a man killed?” he asked. He studied Arthur with watering, hostile eyes.
“Can anyone ever?” Arthur asked. “Is another twelve months going to make anyone hurt any less? My mother is going to try and
help people whether she’s in here or out there. I didn’t come to ask you to give her life back. I came here to ask you for mine.”
The congresswoman closed her binder and thanked him for his time.
As Arthur rose, the congresswoman said, “We haven’t made a decision yet, and we won’t for several days. I don’t want to give
you false reasons for optimism. Your mother is responsible for the death of a law officer, which occurred while she was committing
trespass on federal land, with the intent of destroying government property. It’s not a speeding ticket. But we won’t see
another prisoner with a record like hers—a record of service to others and unfailing compassion—all year. I’d add that in
retrospect, it’s surprising anyone ever believed a pacifist and ordained priest was hiding a weapon in her cell.”
“Ma’am?” Arthur asked, his heart doing a soft jog in his chest.
“I think you know she was placed into isolation after a weapon was discovered in her pillowcase? A spoon with a handle sharpened into a knife. Planted, apparently, by a lifer who had a grudge. Seems your mother vetoed her pick for the book club.” One corner of her mouth moved in the hint of a smirk.
“A book club in a place like this. Your mother does like her noble wastes of time, doesn’t she?
No, don’t answer that, Arthur. Stay out of trouble yourself, hm? ”
The wind was blowing when he crossed to the Christmobile. Serpents of white snow hissed across the blacktop. That last line—stay out of trouble yourself—grated on him, as if his family was prone to acts of homicide. Then he thought of Jayne and Ronnie and reflected that maybe
they were.
Van was sitting shoeless on the edge of his bed when Arthur got back to the Best Western. His eyes were bright in the gloom,
glinting like new-minted quarters.
“You better call your boss,” Van said. “Back at school.”
“Boss?”
“Meckfessel. At the library. I was just talking to Colin. I guess there was a break-in while we were away. Someone stole some
expensive books. Fuckin’ shame. Fuckin’ outrage! Someone’s head is gonna roll.” Van grinned. “Not yours, though.”