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Authors: Rae Meadows
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guard and followed by his short, bald, well-shod lawyer. Charles doesn’t look Grace’s way. He moves past the gallery and slumps into his seat.
She fights the urge to catch his eye and say, “Charles, I’m here.”
CHAPTER 7
Y ou see his mouth moving but you can’t make out the words. You have lost feeling in your left hand, the handcuff too tight. It’s cold and hard against your wrist and attached to the chain around your belly. “In God We Trust,” it says above the judge’s head, but the letters blur like water spilled on ink. You’ve long since realized that your parents can’t buy your way out of this one. The thought of them, small and disconnected from you, makes you angry. You’re not just angry. You hate them. For what? For not understanding you and for always telling you to try harder and for being so providing and, well, nice. They are on their way to New York and you know the sight of them will make you cry.
The judge has said something else but you can only hear the jangle of your chains. You pick up one foot and then the other. You think about the smell of blood, metallic as it hung in the room. You look down in a panic but it is only sweat that coats your hands now, bloated and pink and shiny like large baby mice.
You try to tense your muscles to stop the shaking but it only makes it worse. The chains are getting louder. You are lonelier than you’ve ever been, and you can’t remember ever really not being lonely.
“Do you understand the charges against you?”
The judge’s voice cuts a hole in your brain. Your lawyer’s whisper is cool and wordless against your ear. He is urging you to do something but you can’t focus on what he’s telling you to do.
“Say yes,” he says, “tell him yes.”
“Yes,” you say. The voice is not yours at all but low and damp. You say yes again just in case it didn’t come out the first time. It sounds like it originates from outside your body.
Your lawyer’s cologne tickles your nose and you wonder if he can smell your oniony odor. You have not showered in almost a week and your hair is limp and dirty on your forehead. They have you isolated and they monitor you around the clock. If they only knew that you don’t care enough to even get up from the lumpy mattress, let alone figure out how to hurt yourself. You wonder at the events of the last month but you want to say that it was all part of something that started in you long ago, before you ever arrived in New York, before you accepted that you couldn’t shed the soul you were born with.
“Judge Richard Castiglione” the plaque says. You read it over and over, tracing the curves of each letter and leaping over to the next. You notice him now, for the first time. Although he is sitting, you can tell he is short, his head like a cantaloupe perched on a round body, his skin accordioned around his eyes. Now that you look at him, he seems more paternal than imposing, his voice firm but not mean. More like a father than your father, more interested in your fate, it seems at this moment you stand before him, than anyone else. You want to tell him how it was, how it came to be, how you arrived at this ratty courtroom in Mineola, unable to even scratch your nose, impotent against the churning in your skull. You’re pretty sure he just called you son. Your lawyer puts his hand on your shoulder, warm and heavy through your jumpsuit, so heavy you fear you might tip over. He shakes you a little and you guess you are supposed to say something to the judge who isn’t smiling when you look up at him, but isn’t scowling, either. He doesn’t look disapproving and you like him for it.
“Say yes,” the lawyer says again.
All you want to do is sit down, even if it’s back in jail. You are at once unbearably tired and thirsty and you wonder if you could ask Judge Castiglione for a sip of his water. You know that’s ridiculous but you bet he would make the bailiff get you your own if you asked. At
She fights the urge to catch his eye and say, “Charles, I’m here.”
CHAPTER 7
Y ou see his mouth moving but you can’t make out the words. You have lost feeling in your left hand, the handcuff too tight. It’s cold and hard against your wrist and attached to the chain around your belly. “In God We Trust,” it says above the judge’s head, but the letters blur like water spilled on ink. You’ve long since realized that your parents can’t buy your way out of this one. The thought of them, small and disconnected from you, makes you angry. You’re not just angry. You hate them. For what? For not understanding you and for always telling you to try harder and for being so providing and, well, nice. They are on their way to New York and you know the sight of them will make you cry.
The judge has said something else but you can only hear the jangle of your chains. You pick up one foot and then the other. You think about the smell of blood, metallic as it hung in the room. You look down in a panic but it is only sweat that coats your hands now, bloated and pink and shiny like large baby mice.
You try to tense your muscles to stop the shaking but it only makes it worse. The chains are getting louder. You are lonelier than you’ve ever been, and you can’t remember ever really not being lonely.
“Do you understand the charges against you?”
The judge’s voice cuts a hole in your brain. Your lawyer’s whisper is cool and wordless against your ear. He is urging you to do something but you can’t focus on what he’s telling you to do.
“Say yes,” he says, “tell him yes.”
“Yes,” you say. The voice is not yours at all but low and damp. You say yes again just in case it didn’t come out the first time. It sounds like it originates from outside your body.
Your lawyer’s cologne tickles your nose and you wonder if he can smell your oniony odor. You have not showered in almost a week and your hair is limp and dirty on your forehead. They have you isolated and they monitor you around the clock. If they only knew that you don’t care enough to even get up from the lumpy mattress, let alone figure out how to hurt yourself. You wonder at the events of the last month but you want to say that it was all part of something that started in you long ago, before you ever arrived in New York, before you accepted that you couldn’t shed the soul you were born with.
“Judge Richard Castiglione” the plaque says. You read it over and over, tracing the curves of each letter and leaping over to the next. You notice him now, for the first time. Although he is sitting, you can tell he is short, his head like a cantaloupe perched on a round body, his skin accordioned around his eyes. Now that you look at him, he seems more paternal than imposing, his voice firm but not mean. More like a father than your father, more interested in your fate, it seems at this moment you stand before him, than anyone else. You want to tell him how it was, how it came to be, how you arrived at this ratty courtroom in Mineola, unable to even scratch your nose, impotent against the churning in your skull. You’re pretty sure he just called you son. Your lawyer puts his hand on your shoulder, warm and heavy through your jumpsuit, so heavy you fear you might tip over. He shakes you a little and you guess you are supposed to say something to the judge who isn’t smiling when you look up at him, but isn’t scowling, either. He doesn’t look disapproving and you like him for it.
“Say yes,” the lawyer says again.
All you want to do is sit down, even if it’s back in jail. You are at once unbearably tired and thirsty and you wonder if you could ask Judge Castiglione for a sip of his water. You know that’s ridiculous but you bet he would make the bailiff get you your own if you asked. At
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