Andrew Vachss - Down Here

“Yes. It was . . . it was about what you’d expect. A shock.”

“Did they let you speak to him before they took him away?”

“I was too stunned to even move,” she said. “It was like, I closed my eyes, and when I opened them, he was gone.”

“Did you visit him in prison?”

“No. John wrote and asked me not to. He said the visiting conditions were disgusting. The guards were very abusive to women. He didn’t want me there. Besides, he expected to be released any day.”

“He never lost faith?”

“Never once. But, with John, it isn’t ‘faith,’ exactly. It’s more like . . . certainty.”

“You really don’t know much about the case itself, then?” I asked, walking the tightrope.

“Well, I know John didn’t do what he was accused of. What more is there?” she asked, blue eyes on mine.

“The . . . impact thing, remember? Are you saying that your brother’s faith—his certainty—that he’d be vindicated made the whole thing less hard on you? And maybe on your father?”

“I’m sure that’s true,” she said. “Although I never thought about it until right now. Is that common?”

“In a way, it is,” I lied. “For other families I’ve interviewed, it was always the belief that someday the truth would come out that kept them going. I guess the difference is, sometimes the families had an awful lot more faith than the person who had been convicted.”

“But they would be the only ones who really knew, isn’t that true?”

“I guess that is true,” I acknowledged. “In some of the cases, the evidence was so shaky, or there was such outright corruption, or there was a journalist already on the job, beating the drums so hard, that the public got to share the sense of innocence before the courts ratified it. But in your brother’s case, that wasn’t so. Until he was actually set free, I couldn’t find one line of coverage of the case after the trial was over.”

“And when he got shot . . .”

“Exactly. Truth is, Laura, if that hadn’t happened, I never would have heard of your brother’s case at all.”

“I’m not surprised,” she said. “It wasn’t that big a deal.”

“I’m sure it was to you.”

“I know how this must sound, but when I told you my brother and I were never close, that’s an understatement. When I heard about it, my first thought was how . . . humiliated I was at the idea of anyone connecting me to him. We don’t have the same name. . . . You think that’s disgusting, don’t you?”

“I think it’s human,” I told her. “After all, for all you knew . . .”

“Who knows what anyone’s capable of?” she said.

“Exactly.”

“This doesn’t do a lot for your book, does it, J.?” Her expression shifted, too quick to read. “Can I call you that? J.? ‘J.P.’ sounds like you should be a banker or something.”

“Sure,” I said.

“Does anyone do it? Call you that?”

“Never in my life,” I said.

“I never liked my name,” she said, wistfully. “When I was a little girl, I always wanted to change it.”

“To what?”

“Oh, all kinds of different things. ‘Laura’ always sounded so old-fashioned to me. I wanted a fabulous name.”

“Like Hildegarde?”

“Stop it!” she laughed. “You know what I mean. I went to school with girls named Kerri, and Pandora, and Astrid, and . . . names like those.”

“So why didn’t you?”

“What do you mean?”

“I did some research into this, for a story I was working on. All you have to do, to change your name, is file a petition in court.”

“Just like that?”

“Just like that. You have to file a notice in the papers—in case you’re trying to duck a bunch of debts and get some new credit—but it’s no big deal.”

“I could never do that now,” she said. “In my business, a name is very important. Not what the name is, what it represents. Like a brand. ‘Laura Reinhardt’ isn’t what to call me, it’s what I do. Understand?”

“Sure.”

“So I guess I’m stuck with Laura the Librarian.”

“That’s not how I see you. Although I bet you’d look real cute in glasses.”

“I have glasses,” she said. “I never really use them—I wear contacts—but I have them. I always thought I looked dorky in them.”

“Let me see.”

“I . . . All right, wait here.”

I thought I heard the bottle tree tinkle as she swept out of the kitchen, but I couldn’t swear to it.

She was back in a minute, wearing a pair of plain round glasses with rust-colored frames.

“All you need is your hair in a bun,” I said.

“I knew it.”

“It’s your own fault,” I said. “You picked out the glasses, right?”

“Sure.”

“But you didn’t pick them out the same way you picked out your dresses. Or your jewelry. Or your apartment, even.”

“I see what you mean. . . .”

“They’ve got thousands of different frames. You could get some that would show off your eyes. Like putting something especially beautiful under glass.”

“Oh God, that’s so . . .” She started sniffling.

Thanks, Little Sis, I said to myself, holding Laura Reinhardt against me.

“ Ishould go home,” I said, later.

“Am I making you—?”

“I just feel grungy in these same clothes,” I told her. “I need to change.”

“Want me to come with you?”

Fucking moron, you didn’t see that one coming? I thought. “I’d like to have you stay with me,” I said. “But not until I . . . do some stuff to my place.”

“You mean, like, rehab?”

“No. I mean, like, clean. ”

She giggled. Then said, “You probably think I’m the world’s best housekeeper, looking around this place.”

“It does look immaculate.”

“It should. I’m hardly ever here. I have a girl come in twice a week, and I’ll bet all she does is watch TV.”

“You don’t let her touch your bottle tree, do you?”

“Never! I blow the dust off it with my own breath.”

“I’m not surprised.”

“When I put something together myself—even a deal, which is not really a thing you can touch —I get very protective of it. I don’t want anyone handling it but me.”

“I understand.”

“You’re the same way about your car, I bet.”

“I guess I am, now that you make me think about it,” I confessed, lying. The truth was, the Plymouth had been built as a multi-user appliance—power steering and an automatic transmission made it possible for anyone to drive the beast, if they didn’t get too crazy with the gas pedal. “How about this? I go and get some fresh clothes, and come back in time for dinner?”

“Do you want to go to—?”

“Let me surprise you,” I said.

Ablock away from Laura’s, I thumbed my cellular into life.

“Gardens.”

“It’s me, Mama. Can you get everyone over there?”

“Now, yes?”

“Yes.”

“Basement?”

“No.”

“Okay.”

Max was the only one there when I walked in. He was in my booth, trying to play a game of solitaire. Mama was seated across from him, tapping the table sharply every time she detected what she considered a major error in progress.

“Have soup at big table,” Mama said, confirming everyone was on their way. I never would have asked her. In my family, some things you know inside yourself. Other things—like “basement” meaning “weapons”—you learn.

The Prof strolled in the door just as the soup came up from the back. He snatched a cup from the tray and put it on the table in front of him as he sat down.