‘If you trust me, why don’t you tell me what’s going on with you?’ she asks. ‘I can tell something is. Or lots of things, maybe.’
I break eye contact with her because it’s too painful. I peek out the window, past the threadbare yellow curtains that have been washed and ironed so many times that they’re paper-thin. I hear my voice say, at last, ‘Mama, what do you want for me?’ It’s a surprise, even to me.
‘What do you mean, what do I want for you?’ she asks, and I manage at last to draw my eyes back toward her, toward the deep wrinkle that cuts between her eyes as she frowns in my direction.
‘You know what I mean,’ I try again.
‘Well,’ she says, her voice resigned, ‘I’d like it if you didn’t end up like me, smelling like bleach and rich people’s garbage.’
‘Don’t say that,’ I push back. ‘It’s not true.’
‘It is,’ she says. ‘I’m used to it. But I want your life to be easier than mine. Settled. A life where you don’t have to work so hard and you can have someone to take care of you.’
I know she means a nice boy. A good man, not like my father. Again, I’m struck with the urge to open my mouth, spill everything that’s been going on. But what could my mother do for me except worry? She can’t get Johnny out of prison. She can’t make Diane innocent of killing Preston Fowler, even if she did do it to protect me. And she can’t go back in time and stop Preston from trying to hurt me. I want to believe Mama would understand what happened that night, but wouldn’t she think a girl who couldn’t keep herself out of a situation like that would also be a girl who’d never find the right sort of boy? Wouldn’t I end up being an even bigger disappointment if I told her the truth?
And at the thought of the truth about Preston Fowler, I close my eyes and feel a rage coursing through me without any place to put it. The shadowy figure from my dream feels very real all of a sudden, even though now I’m awake. I’m gripped by the urge to run again. Somewhere. Anywhere.
‘Evelyn, are you all right?’
My mother’s voice pulls me back, forces me to open my eyes. She tilts her head, confused.
‘I’m all right, Mama,’ I say. I push out a smile and free my hand from hers. Suddenly I feel irritable. Unsettled. I need to get up. Move. ‘I need to wash up. I’m going to the park later.’
‘Oh, Evie, I wish you’d stay put today,’ she says, defeated.
‘Mama, please,’ I fight back, annoyed and hating myself for being annoyed all at the same time. ‘It’s Saturday.’
I head out into the hall, leaving my mother on my bed, the plate of bacon on the nightstand.
‘Evelyn?’ my mother tries again.
If I move fast enough toward the bathroom, maybe I can shut the door behind me before the urge strikes to turn and race back into her arms.
I spy Diane on the park bench, waiting for me. She’s early, of course. And she’s wearing one of her pastel sweater sets.
‘Hi,’ I say, walking up to her. I notice she has a piece of paper folded in her hands.
‘Hi, Evie,’ she says. Her face is pale, and there are slight, purplish half-moons under her eyes. As I sit down, I notice her fingers pressing tight against the paper, the tips almost white from the pressure. I think about last night and all she shared with me, how much courage it must have taken to share it.
‘How are you feeling?’ I ask.
‘I’m all right,’ she says, offering a shy smile. ‘I’m so glad you were able to walk home with me last night.’
‘Me too,’ I answer, and we both know exactly what we mean, even if we don’t say the words out loud. ‘What’s that?’ I ask, motioning to the paper in her hands. ‘A letter?’
Diane turns the paper over a few times, like she’s attempting a magic trick she’s not sure she can pull off. ‘Evie, you know the part of town I come from, right?’
‘I know it exists, sure,’ I say, trying to crack a joke. ‘But I don’t know it much more than that.’
Diane doesn’t laugh at my poor attempt at being funny. ‘No, what I mean is, you know the kind of people who live there? Folks who have money? Power?’
Of course I know that much. The name River Oaks even sounds impressive. Rivers can be strong, dangerous, cutting courses however they wish. Oaks are broad and tough, towering above other trees. River. Oaks. Just a mention of that neighborhood and it’s easy to picture homes like palaces with big fat columns out front and green grass as thick as carpeting and rows of maids and butlers in matching sharp black outfits marching up the drives to fetch tea and slippers and whatever else maids and butlers fetch for the mighty and the rich.
‘Yes, I know, Diane,’ I say, cutting the humor out of my voice and matching Diane’s tone. ‘Of course I do.’
Diane takes a deep breath. ‘So you’ve heard the name Howell? Tom Howell?’
The name is familiar, but I can’t place it. ‘Yes, but why do I know it?’ I ask Diane.
‘He’s the police chief,’ Diane says. ‘And he’s married to Lynn Cullen Howell. All that oil money. Anyway, I’m friends with their daughter Betty. Or … I was.’ She peers at the paper in her lap.
‘Was she one of those mean girls at Winkler’s that night? The ones I tossed my cigarette at?’
Diane manages a brief grin at that memory, then says, ‘Yes. She was the one who came up later. Who tried to get Vickie and the other girl to leave me alone. But she didn’t say anything to me.’ She hangs her head for a moment, clutches the paper in her hand. ‘Like I told you, Betty and I were best friends once. She was the only one who I trusted to know about me and Johnny and about what happened to me.’ Her voice cracks, and I picture two fancy River Oaks girls having slumber parties in matching silk pajamas and staying up late and breaking into their parents’ liquor cabinets.
‘But after I got sent away, it was all over,’ Diane continues. ‘Those few weeks I was home after I’d—’ She stops, and I wait for the words I’d had the baby to spill out of her mouth, but she pauses, takes a breath, and corrects herself. ‘Those few weeks I was home after I got sent away, the few weeks before I moved to my aunt’s house … no one came around, but Betty was the only one decent enough to sneak a phone call to me to tell me her mother wouldn’t let her talk to me anymore and she was sorry. She hung up before I could say anything, but … I guess that’s why I’m hoping this harebrained plan will work and she’ll help me.’
‘So what’s the plan?’ I press.
At this Diane hands me the paper. It’s thick and cream-colored, and when I open it, I see the name Diane Amelia Farris embossed at the top in shiny black lettering.
‘Amelia?’ I say, surprised.
‘Don’t. It was my great-grandmother’s, and I hate it,’ says Diane, knocking into me only slightly. ‘Just read it, Evie.’
The letter is written in Diane’s careful, even script.
To All Concerned,
I swear to God that everything in this letter is true and correct. I want it to be known that on the evening of Saturday, October 10, 1964, I stabbed and killed Preston Fowler behind the bathroom at Winkler Drive-In because I was protecting a girl who Preston was trying to hurt. I did not intend to kill Preston, only to scare him off, but he was very intoxicated, wouldn’t listen, and everything happened very quickly. If I hadn’t acted, Preston could have hurt a girl very badly. I am sorry for the pain I’ve caused the Fowler family, but I had to do it. It must be known that Johnny Treadway is completely innocent of all charges and should be freed immediately. I take full responsibility for what I have done.