I nodded, then started getting to my feet.
“We’re not finished,” Rebecca said, and I lowered myself to the chair again.
Rebecca opened a box with what looked like one of those ankle bracelets that monitored people under house arrest.
“Do you know what this is?” Rebecca asked.
“Do I have to wear that?” I asked in disbelief. “I’m not under house arrest, am I?”
“It’s an alcohol monitor, and yes you do need to wear it,” Rebecca said. “It goes on your ankle and reacts to your sweat. You take the smallest sip of booze and I’ll know about it even before you feel the buzz. You don’t take it off, not for showering, not for anything. I’ll know if you drink and I’ll know if you tamper with it. I’ll know if you try to stick a piece of plastic wrap between it and your skin. You’ll wear it for six months and then we’ll reevaluate.”
I couldn’t imagine being tied to that thing for six months … but then I thought of Emily Maxwell. I imagined her tied to a wheelchair for life.
“All right,” I said.
“You can wear pants that cover it up, if it bothers you,” Rebecca said. “Tell people it’s an exercise monitor. I don’t care. All I care about is that you don’t drink.”
I nodded.
“You’ll have an eleven P.M. curfew and I’ll be checking on that occasionally. You need to attend DUI classes to get your license back. Here’s a list of where and when the classes are offered.” She handed me yet one more piece of paper. How was I going to find time for all of this? “You’ll have a random drug screen at least monthly, and—”
“I’ve never used drugs,” I said.
“A random drug screen at least monthly,” Rebecca repeated as if I hadn’t spoken.
“All right,” I said, thinking it was best to nod and go along.
“Now let’s talk about your risk factors,” Rebecca said. “Who do you need to stay away from to avoid temptation?”
The name “Trey” thumped inside my brain in time with my heartbeat.
“There’s no one around here I need to avoid,” I said. “I’m hours away from any of my old friends and I’m done with them.”
“Who did you used to drink with?”
“Friends. And my boyfriend. The one who was driving that night.” I looked at her as if challenging her to argue with me on that fact again.
“Have you been in touch with the boyfriend? What’s his name?”
“Trey. And no.”
“Whether he was driving or not, do I need to tell you to steer clear of that guy?”
I shook my head. “No, you don’t,” I said, and I felt my anger at Trey rise up inside me again.
The walk from the parole office to the gallery wasn’t far, but I felt the monitor rubbing against my ankle with every step. It was going to take some getting used to.
No one was in the foyer of the gallery, though I could hear the buzz of saws and the pop of nail guns coming from somewhere in the rear of the building. I was alone with the mural, which seemed to have grown in size overnight. I stared down at the seventy-two square feet of dirt and abraded paint, and panic filled my chest. What a mess. I didn’t even like the thing. The old-fashioned style and subject matter. The bizarre motorcycle was the only intriguing thing about it. Jesse Williams, I thought, what have you gotten me into?
I stared at the mural a while longer, already feeling time ticking away from me, growing closer minute by minute to August 5. There wasn’t anything I could do with the mural until I got my new computer and learned something about restoration. Even then, I wasn’t sure I’d know where to begin.
Chapter 10
ANNA
December 11, 1939
Mid-afternoon, Mayor Sykes picked Anna up from Miss Myrtle’s house in his green Chevrolet for the drive to the warehouse that he hoped would become her new studio space.
“What do you think of Miss Myrtle’s?” he asked, chewing his cigar as he drove. The smoke filled the car and Anna wanted to roll down the window, but then they’d both freeze. The mayor exuded a sense of power in his strong, resonant voice. Although she remembered him being short at lunch, she hadn’t realized how very fat he was. His belly strained at the buttons of his wool coat and brushed against the bottom of the steering wheel. His hair, which had seemed either blond or gray in the restaurant, was actually a mixture of the two. His entire presence was quite overwhelming to her in the small confines of the car, and she felt very young, very girlish sitting next to him. Actually, she felt quite vulnerable, an unusual feeling for her. She didn’t like it.
As they chatted about Miss Myrtle’s house, the weather, and the things the mayor’s teenaged sons wanted for Christmas, she thought about how few men she’d truly known in her life. She’d never had a chance to know her father. Her uncle Horace, Aunt Alice’s husband, was such a quiet man that she didn’t feel as though she knew him at all. Then there was Mr. Prior, the sculpture teacher at Van Emburgh, who seemed to think her work was wonderful, so of course she’d liked him very much and had hardly found him intimidating. The only other male art teacher at Van Emburgh, Mr. Blaine, had been kind, serious, complimentary, and almost certainly homosexual and unthreatening.
Cigar-smoking men who took up more than their share of space were a new species to her.
After driving for a short while, Mayor Sykes pulled onto a long, narrow dirt road that led into a short tunnel of trees, at the end of which was a large, decrepit-looking, once-white warehouse partially surrounded by woods. The side of the building facing the car had a series of tall windows that Anna doubted would be enough to let in much light in that wooded setting.
“Here we are,” Mayor Sykes said as he slowly drove toward the building. “No one’s used this ol’ warehouse in a generation or two.”
Anna couldn’t have said why, but she had an instantaneous fear of the building as they neared it. They weren’t very far from town, yet the location felt isolated, and even before the mayor had stopped the car, she was already planning to use the excuse of poor lighting to turn down the offer of the building.
Mayor Sykes parked the car near the side door of the warehouse, and for a moment Anna wondered if she would be foolish to go into the building with him. He’s the mayor, she reminded herself. You’re being silly. They got out of the car, and the mayor walked her across the weedy, rutted lawn, his hand on her elbow. They entered through the unlocked side door. The scent inside was musty, a little oily and metallic, but it quickly gave way to the tobacco smell of the mayor’s cigar. Anna stood still, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the interior light, and she began to notice her surroundings. For the most part, the warehouse was quite empty, save for some boards and crates scattered here and there, along with the occasional concrete block. Against one wall were three long wooden tables and a couple of chairs. The floor was a mess, littered with dirt and sawdust and who knew what else. The place was downright spooky.
“Is there a key for the door?” she asked. “I’ll have supplies and other valuables in here I won’t want stolen.”
“Well, you might have to worry about that in New Jersey, but it won’t be a problem down here.” The mayor gave a self-satisfied laugh. “But sure, I can have a locksmith come and make you a key, if that’ll help you rest easy.”