the deed.”
“Is she okay?”
Jillian glances at me. “The woman put you in jail,” she says. “What do you care?”
“She’s obviously very ill,” I respond, glad to see that my time on the inside hasn’t changed my disposition that much. “I just hope that she can get the help that she needs, that’s all.”
“I think that just might happen,” Jillian says, turning onto my street. It’s funny. I had never realized that James lives so close to the jail. I mean, it’s about ten miles, but still.
“What do you mean?”
“When the detective intimated that he didn’t believe her, she went down to the station.”
“Oh jeez,” I say.
Jillian chortles smoke through her nostrils and mutters, “Girl wants to steal one of my cigarettes and can’t even use a proper expletive.” She parks in front of the house as James pulls into the driveway. I don’t really know why, but I had kind of expected there to be camera crews or something on my lawn. “She went down there and started screaming at the detective,” she says as she puts the car into park. “I guess it was about the time that she started saying that she saw you do it that the detective really felt the need to look into her credibility as a witness. Apparently, she has none.”
“Huh,” I say. I want to elucidate the monosyllabic utterance, but there’s nothing else that I can think to follow it.
“Yep,” Jillian says. “So, I think you were really unlucky to have her as a coworker, but really lucky that she was so close to cracking as it was that it only took a little bit of disbelief on the part of the detective to make her unravel.”
“Huh,” I say again, and I swear there are more words to my vernacular; they just seem to be eluding me at the moment. “How’s James?” I ask, not so much because I’m expecting an answer, more than anything, I’m asking Jillian’s permission to go to him.
She smiles. “Why don’t you go ask him yourself,” she says, flicking her cigarette into the ash tray as I open my car door.
Chapter Seven
Home Again
––––––––
I t’s barely after noon, but I’m already starting to feel tired again. I don’t know if it’s the stress of the whole ordeal or what, but James is very understanding when I ask if I can take a nap in his bed.
By the time I wake up, it’s nearly dark. I walk downstairs to find not only James, but every one of my siblings in the front room.
“There she is,” Andrew says, lifting up a glass filled with what, from the looks of it, can’t be his first beer of the evening.
My brothers are, in descending order of age, Matthew, Mark, Luke, John, Andrew and Simon. The fact that I’ve chosen a man named James only helps to round out the apostle theme that my parents had apparently gone for. The funny thing—well, apart from the fact that my brothers are named after biblical characters, and I’m named after a role that Betty White played—something I’ve always found a little curious is that my parents are about the least religious people that I know. I once asked them why they named all of my brothers after apostles, and they didn’t seem to realize that they had done it. My dad simply said, “We just liked the names.”
They’re all here. Well, my brothers, their spouses and my parents, anyway. Usually, I’m more than a little ill-at-ease when I’m around my whole family, but right now, I’m just happy to see all of them.
James comes in from the kitchen, obviously a little stressed at having to cook for so many people and having no cooking skills to call upon whatsoever. “Does anyone know how to braise something?” he asks, then follows the gaze of everyone else in the room. “Rose!” he calls and runs up to the landing where I’m standing. “How are you feeling?”
“You know,” I say, “I’m feeling all right.”
The evening is filled with talking and babies crying and I can’t get enough of it. For a while there, I was really
“Is she okay?”
Jillian glances at me. “The woman put you in jail,” she says. “What do you care?”
“She’s obviously very ill,” I respond, glad to see that my time on the inside hasn’t changed my disposition that much. “I just hope that she can get the help that she needs, that’s all.”
“I think that just might happen,” Jillian says, turning onto my street. It’s funny. I had never realized that James lives so close to the jail. I mean, it’s about ten miles, but still.
“What do you mean?”
“When the detective intimated that he didn’t believe her, she went down to the station.”
“Oh jeez,” I say.
Jillian chortles smoke through her nostrils and mutters, “Girl wants to steal one of my cigarettes and can’t even use a proper expletive.” She parks in front of the house as James pulls into the driveway. I don’t really know why, but I had kind of expected there to be camera crews or something on my lawn. “She went down there and started screaming at the detective,” she says as she puts the car into park. “I guess it was about the time that she started saying that she saw you do it that the detective really felt the need to look into her credibility as a witness. Apparently, she has none.”
“Huh,” I say. I want to elucidate the monosyllabic utterance, but there’s nothing else that I can think to follow it.
“Yep,” Jillian says. “So, I think you were really unlucky to have her as a coworker, but really lucky that she was so close to cracking as it was that it only took a little bit of disbelief on the part of the detective to make her unravel.”
“Huh,” I say again, and I swear there are more words to my vernacular; they just seem to be eluding me at the moment. “How’s James?” I ask, not so much because I’m expecting an answer, more than anything, I’m asking Jillian’s permission to go to him.
She smiles. “Why don’t you go ask him yourself,” she says, flicking her cigarette into the ash tray as I open my car door.
Chapter Seven
Home Again
––––––––
I t’s barely after noon, but I’m already starting to feel tired again. I don’t know if it’s the stress of the whole ordeal or what, but James is very understanding when I ask if I can take a nap in his bed.
By the time I wake up, it’s nearly dark. I walk downstairs to find not only James, but every one of my siblings in the front room.
“There she is,” Andrew says, lifting up a glass filled with what, from the looks of it, can’t be his first beer of the evening.
My brothers are, in descending order of age, Matthew, Mark, Luke, John, Andrew and Simon. The fact that I’ve chosen a man named James only helps to round out the apostle theme that my parents had apparently gone for. The funny thing—well, apart from the fact that my brothers are named after biblical characters, and I’m named after a role that Betty White played—something I’ve always found a little curious is that my parents are about the least religious people that I know. I once asked them why they named all of my brothers after apostles, and they didn’t seem to realize that they had done it. My dad simply said, “We just liked the names.”
They’re all here. Well, my brothers, their spouses and my parents, anyway. Usually, I’m more than a little ill-at-ease when I’m around my whole family, but right now, I’m just happy to see all of them.
James comes in from the kitchen, obviously a little stressed at having to cook for so many people and having no cooking skills to call upon whatsoever. “Does anyone know how to braise something?” he asks, then follows the gaze of everyone else in the room. “Rose!” he calls and runs up to the landing where I’m standing. “How are you feeling?”
“You know,” I say, “I’m feeling all right.”
The evening is filled with talking and babies crying and I can’t get enough of it. For a while there, I was really
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