Deadlock Page 8

  Yes, coming home was the right thing to do. Healing could happen here. Quiet rest. She wouldn’t have to think about anything. The desert did not make demands on you. It did not ask you questions. This was just the place to regain equilibrium, forget thoughts of death and dark visions. Become normal again.

  Royal popped the trunk and started getting Millie’s bags. A noise made Millie look up, toward the roof. The sun was behind the house and she had to squint. But there was definitely something moving on top of the house.

  Her first thought was that a TV reporter had managed to precede them. He was lying in wait until the car came, ready to get his exclusive. She almost ducked her head. Then she noticed the ladder against the house. Whoever was up there must be a worker of some sort.

  “Hey there, Ethel,” the worker said, leaning over the edge of the roof.

  “Come down offa there,” Ethel said. “Meet my daughter.”

  Terrific. All Millie wanted to do was go inside, into her old room where her mother still kept a bed, and sleep. She was not in any mood to talk to strangers.

  But this was her mother’s house. She would follow the rules. A quick greeting, then inside.

  The worker came into focus now. Millie first noticed his denim work shirt splotchy with sweat. He had a leather tool belt around his waist and wore blue jeans.

  As he descended the ladder she noticed that his tanned arms, glistening with perspiration, were strong. This was a man who did not shy away from hard work.

  When he turned from the ladder Millie was greeted by a friendly pair of eyes with a set of hard wrinkles at each corner. His hair was dark with a hint of gray at the temples. He looked about her age.

  His face was not that of a construction worker, but of an academic. Strange, but he looked like a young Thomas Riley, her colleague on the Court. And everyone said when Tom Riley was a young lawyer in Wyoming, he was the spittin’ image of Gary Cooper – solid, rugged, quintessentially American.

  “Howdy,” he said, taking out a red bandanna and wiping his hands. He extended it. “I’m Jack Holden.”

  Millie caught sight of her mother grinning off to the side. She shook his hand. “Millie Hollander.”

  “Welcome home.”

  She forced a smile and a nod, but felt the slightest bit put off by the sentiment. Who was he to welcome her to her own childhood residence?

  “That’s Pastor Jack,” Ethel said.

  Oh no, Mother, Millie thought, you didn’t. You didn’t set me up to meet this man, did you?

  “So nice to meet you,” Millie said without enthusiasm. Then she noticed what looked like a string of faded, colored beads around his neck. It reminded her of the hippies in the sixties.

  “Heard a lot about you,” Holden said. “Personally I’d like to say it’s a privilege to meet you. I visited the Supreme Court once.”

  “How nice.”

  “Didn’t hear an argument, though. Wondered what I’d do if I ever had to make one.”

  Millie wanted to get inside the house.

  “Will you stay for dinner?” Ethel said.

  No! Millie’s mind screamed. She was about to say something about being tired when Holden spoke.

  “Now, Ethel, your daughter’s come a long way, and I’m sure she’s tired. Probably doesn’t feel much like socializing.”

  “Maybe after church on Sunday,” Edith said.

  “I’d love to,” Holden said.

  A firecracker of pain went off at the base of Millie’s neck. “Mr. Holden,” she snapped. “I am here just to get some rest. Excuse me.” She turned and walked into her childhood home.

  Royal brought in her two suitcases, with Ethel close behind.

  “Millie,” Ethel said, in a way that made Millie feel like she was ten years old.

  “Not now, Mom, please.”

  “He’s my pastor.”

  “I know, it’s just – ”

  “You could try to be pleasant.”

  “Mother, I’m sorry. I just want to go lie down.”

  “Then you do that,” Ethel said. “Just remember, a tree doesn’t fall too far from the fruit.”

  Millie had no idea what that meant. But she was no longer in any mood for talk. Her head was starting to pound like a gavel on a judge’s bench.

  3

  She dreamed of dark clouds.

  In the dream, Millie sat in her judicial robes, in her chair on the Court. The courtroom was empty. And the walls had been taken away.

  Black storm clouds rolled in, like an advancing army. She tried to get out of her chair but found she could not move. It was going to start raining soon. She had to find shelter.

  The rain came. Lightning flashed. Peals of thunder exploded around her. She could not get away. There was no shelter. And then she saw something on the horizon. Help. Someone coming to help her.

  But as the figure got closer she realized he was in black, and sticking out of his robed sleeves were long, slithery fingers, like snakes…

  She woke up breathing hard, her ribs protesting. Muted sunlight filtered in through the window, indicating late afternoon. She lay there several minutes until her breathing was back to normal, then carefully got out of bed.

  Ethel was preparing a meal in the kitchen. When Millie entered Ethel barely looked up from the peas she was liberating into a Tupperware bowl.

  “Have a little sleep?” Ethel asked.

  “A little,” Millie said. She was not going to mention the dream. “Can I help you with those?”

  “Grab yourself a handful, why don’t you?”

  From the big bowl of rich, green pea pods Millie scooped up a healthy portion and set them in front of her. When she was a girl she’d always liked cooking with her mother. The love of cooking was the one thing they shared in common.

  “How are you feeling?” Ethel asked.

  “A lot of sore spots still. When I first get up it hurts most.”

  “I mean inside.”

  Millie pushed out three raw peas into the Tupperware bowl. “Inside?”

  “That’s what I said. I want to know what’s going on in that head of yours.”

  “I’m fine, Mom.”

  “You goin’ back inside your turtle shell, huh?”

  Millie looked away. “I haven’t heard that in a long time.”

  “You been in fancy Washington, D.C., is why,” Ethel said. “You remember the first time?”

  Millie did, very much so. But her mother had on her storytelling look, and Millie let her go.

  “You were nine years old.” Ethel said. “You came in from school with red eyes, like you’d been crying, and you ran in past me. I was cleaning or something. But I went right after you. And when I got to you, you wouldn’t tell me what happened. You remember that?”

  Millie nodded.

  “I kept asking and asking,” Ethel said, “but that old stubborn streak in you was a mile wide, even then. And you said you were going into your turtle shell. You took to your room with a book, like usual, and wouldn’t talk about it.”

  A stab hit Millie between the ribs. She well remembered that day. Three fourth grade girls had approached her at recess.

  Your mom’s a goody-two-shoes, they said.

  Millie tried to get away, but the girls grabbed her arms.

  Nobody likes you or your mom, you Bible thumpers. That’s what you are. Why don’t you dry up and blow away?

  “I told your father about it,” Ethel said, snapping Millie back to the present, “and he laughed and said ‘She’s your girl.’ And whenever you used to crawl away with a book, not talking about things, I’d say to myself, ‘She’s going back in her turtle shell.’ ”

  “Mom – ” Millie stopped herself. If only her mother had ever told her she approved of Millie, even though she had rejected her childhood faith, maybe they could talk more openly now.

  “Why don’t you take a walk?” Ethel said.

  “Walk?”

  “Like you used to. Can you? I mean, with your ribs.�
�

  “Oh, yes. Dr. Cross told me to walk.”

  “Down to the square. You used to like to do that. Go on. I’ll have dinner for you when you get home.”

  4

  As Millie strolled, dusk dropped its red and orange cloak over the valley. She followed a dirt path lined with rabbit bush and scrub oak that wound its way from the back of Ethel’s home into town. Millie could see across the valley to the Santa Lucia range, where the legendary mountain, the Sleeping Giant, lay. The outline of the mountains, from around Henderson up toward the 232 highway, gave the impression of a man sleeping on his back if you looked at it just right. It was the only tourist attraction in the town of Santa Lucia.

  Climbing a small rise, Millie came to the outskirts of town. Santa Lucia looked the same to Millie. It was as if a dome had been placed over it, preventing any aging. There were paint jobs, of course, and some sprucing up. City Hall had a new flagpole, with a grand, golden eagle on the top.

  If there was any difference it was that fewer people seemed to be out at this time of day. She could remember balmy summer evenings when the streets were teeming with families. That was in the early sixties. When cable TV got to the valley, people stayed indoors more. They could watch the tube, and also avoid the bad things they thought might float down from San Francisco or up from Los Angeles.

  Millie found a bench facing the town’s only fountain – a double decker erected by the Rotary in ’59 and dedicated to the fallen heroes of World War II. She settled into the bench and opened the book she’d brought with her, On Death and Dying. There was barely enough light to read.

  “Howdy.”

  Millie looked up. Jack Holden stood there, dressed in casual blue jeans and a T-shirt – as if he were a rancher or a farmhand. He still had that odd bead necklace on. She hoped he would not ask to join her.

  “May I join you?” he said.

  She nodded reluctantly.

  Holden sat down. “Saw you over here and thought I’d apologize for earlier. I think I sort of hit the wrong note.”

  “Thank you. I apologize, too. I was a little tired from my trip.” You can go now.

  “See, I’ve got this little problem. People sometimes think I’m a little, what’s the word I’m looking for…”

  Obnoxious?

  “Persistent,” Holden said. “I get a little carried away sometimes, especially when I talk about the church. But it saved my life, you see, so I guess that’s why.”

  Millie gave him a quick nod but said nothing. She did not want to invite further conversation.

  “So,” Holden said. “What are you reading?”

  Millie placed her hand over the cover of her paperback. “Oh, just a little book.”

  “Like to read myself,” Holden said. “Wish I had more time for it.”

  Shifting uncomfortably – her blouse was sticking to her back – Millie cleared her throat in a way she hoped would finally end the conversation.

  “May I ask you a question that’s a little personal?” Holden said.

  No. “Personal?”

  “I don’t mean to be… persistent. You can tell me to go jump in the lake if you want to.”

  “What’s the question?”

  “We’ve been praying for you, after your accident and all. I was just wondering how you’re feeling. Not just physically, but every way.”

  She didn’t know which she liked less. The fact that he was looking at her so seriously, or the fact that she almost wanted to answer him.

  “Reverend Holden?”

  “Yes?”

  “Perhaps that jump in the lake?”

  Holden put his head back and laughed. “I will respect your privacy,” he said. “But I wonder if I might try this again. Would you do me the honor of attending my church on Sunday?”

  Millie had to at least admire his persistence. “Thank you, that’s very nice, but I’m just not a churchgoer.”

  “Well, we don’t discriminate at our church. Non-churchgoers are welcome.”

  She shook her head slightly. “Again, thanks for the invitation.”

  Holden didn’t leave. “It really would be an honor to have a Supreme Court justice visit us. Though in the interest of full disclosure, I must tell you that I don’t agree with your judicial opinions most of the time.”

  She was aghast. Not so much that he would disagree with her, but that he had read enough of her opinions to reach such a judgment. “You’ve actually read my opinions?”

  “All of them,” he said.

  “But why?”

  “Why not? I’m a citizen. And your mother is, after all, a member of my flock.” He stood up and nodded. “Well, hope to see you on Sunday. Thanks for the chat.” And with that he turned and walked away.

  Stunned, she watched him go, noticing for the first time that he had a slight limp. Now she was curious. He had, in the last few minutes, transformed from a stereotype to a man of much more complexity.

  A clergyman who read her opinions? Now she wanted to know just why he disagreed with her. She wanted to ask him questions, like she would have done to a lawyer arguing before her. For a moment she considered calling him back.

  “Don’t,” she said out loud. Then she forced herself back into her book. But, unable to concentrate, she finally gave up and walked back to her mother’s house.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  1

  The trick to fighting depression, Sam Levering thought, was to keep busy. You could busy yourself with staff work, public ceremonies, drink, female companionship – any one of a number of items from a United States senator’s playbook. And he had tried them all.

  That was true now, as he pounded his way out of the chamber of the Judiciary Committee. He had been unable to concentrate on the hearing, even though it was an easy one. President Francis had sent Preston Atkins, a judge from the Second Circuit, as his nominee to fill the vacancy created by Ed Pavel’s retirement.

  The media were full of speculation about who would assume the CJ’s chair, especially after the accident involving Millicent Mannings Hollander. Most assumed Hollander was going to get the nod.

  But Atkins brought his own set of credentials. Described by Francis as “middle of the road,” Atkins was really a staunch social liberal. The conservatives were making a lot of noise, but Atkins was handling the questioning with poise and equanimity. He was going to sail through, despite a few bumpy waves.

  Yet Levering couldn’t keep his mind focused. He’d been distracted by a simple phrase one of the opponents had said in the middle of an argument. “We cannot leave our children with that legacy.”

  Children.

  Thoughts of his son raced into Levering’s mind, stronger than they had in a long time. Levering had fought against all thoughts and feelings about his son. But sometimes nothing seemed to help.

  So, though it was only eleven in the morning, Sam Levering was on his way back to his office for a drink. He turned toward the east corridor when he heard his name called. It was Anne Deveraux.

  “Don’t you ever rest?” he said.

  “What’s rest?”

  “I’m about to have lunch.” Bourbon, he thought.

  “Want to hear the latest on Hollander?”

  “Yes.”

  Anne looked around. No one was within earshot. “She was talking to, get this, a minister.”

  “Minister?”

  “Yeah. Heads up a little church. Now isn’t that curious?”

  Levering ran his tongue over his dry lips. He hated the word minister. It had been a minister who ruined his son’s life. What was Hollander doing consorting with one of that ilk?

  “Bottom line, what do you think it means?”

  “Maybe nothing,” Anne said. “Maybe something. It appeared to be a somewhat casual conversation, according to my source. But it went on for a bit.”

  It better not be more than casual, Levering thought. Not for his pick for chief justice. “Don’t you think you’re being a bit paranoid? I mean, isn’t her mo
ther a churchgoer or something like that?”

  “Something like that,” Anne said.

  “So what’s your gut instinct?”

  Anne looked at him over her sunglasses. “I think Madame Justice is not herself these days.”

  2

  Charlene Moore felt her legs trembling. But she had to stand for her opening statement.

  The courtroom was huge, especially compared to the state court satellites she was used to. Judge Howard Lewis seemed to be a hundred feet in the air atop his bench, looking down like an Olympian god. And the majestic eagle rendered on the shield that adorned the wall seemed ready to drop the olive branches in its talons and swoop down, mercilessly, on Charlene.

  And every member of the jury seemed better dressed than Charlene.

  But they were people. She reminded herself of the advice she’d given Sarah Mae’s mother. She was going to tell them the story as if she were talking to people in her living room.

  “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen,” Charlene said. Most of the jurors nodded at her.

  “As you know, my name is Charlene Moore, and I represent Sarah Mae Sherman.”

  Charlene turned to her client. “Sarah Mae, would you please stand?”

  The girl, looking terrified, got to her feet. Her plain summer dress – pastel blue – was hanging on her like a tablecloth draped over a chair. She tried to look at the jurors, but her eyes kept glancing down toward the floor.

  “Thank you, Sarah Mae,” Charlene said. Sarah Mae returned to her seat.

  “Sarah Mae Sherman did not grow up in a nice part of town. Her mother, Aggie, has been raising Sarah Mae alone since her husband left the family ten years ago. Life has not been easy for them. Like many girls her age, Sarah Mae dreamed of one day moving to the big city, making her way in the world.”