I start to read all the words until my eyes are fuzzy, and there’s a knock at the door. I gather up the pages, stuff them into a nearby box, and look outside the peep hole. I can’t imagine who’d be here at this time of night.
It’s Lilly and Max.
“Why did you knock? It’s your house,” I say as I open the door.
“We didn’t want to scare you. I came home to get a few things.” She snuggles into Max. “We’re moving in together. Like a normal married couple.”
“You two will never be a normal married couple,” I laugh. “But I’m truly thrilled for you.”
“At the end of the month, we’re having a connection celebration at the hotel.”
“What is a connection celebration?”
“Max’s mother wants to make sure everyone knows we’re already married so she’s come up with the name so she can announce our wedding date beforehand in the paper.”
“Connection celebration? It sounds like you’re getting high-speed Internet service.”
Max grins. “I think she thought it was better than my-young-stud-son-got-his-wife-pregnant-already celebration. It makes us sound less like farm animals this way.”
“Not really,” I quip.
“It’s November 28 at the Red & White Ball. You and Poppy will be there, and I’m making your gowns. I’m wearing the one I made for you. Mrs. Schwartz thought it would be a perfect place to announce our nuptials, and I can wear the white gown without questions beforehand.”
“The one that’s been on the front of every newspaper in town, yet never made it down the aisle? That wedding dress.”
“I can’t have my design name associated with a—” She stops for a minute. “Well, you know, no offense, but a failure wedding dress.”
I scratch my head. “No offense taken.”
“Is it still here? I’m going to take it in.”
“Salt in the wound, Lilly.”
“And sew some boobs in it, okay?”
I laugh. “Okay. It’s a gorgeous dress.” I take it out of the closet, and allow my fingers to run over it one last time. “You’ll be a beautiful bride, Lilly.”
“Hey, so will you, and I’ll make you a better dress when your day comes, all right?”
“Oh my gosh, I’ll probably end up marrying some loser who writes to me in prison because he saw my picture in the paper. We’ll have conjugal visits, my baby will be born, and then taken away from me by child protective services while I scream through the bars.”
“Would you quit? Don’t be ridiculous.” Lilly grabs my hand. “Where’s the blue diamond?”
“I gave it to my lawyer.”
Her forehead wrinkles in confusion. “Why would you give a ring like that to a lawyer?”
I look away, picturing his warmth and the sweet love I witnessed between him and Georgie. “Because he taught me to see the beauty in imperfection. I thought it only right he should possess a little perfection when the right woman comes along.”
“You’re going strange on me, girl.”
“I’m going to take over the lease here, if that’s all right.”
“You’re going to live here?”
“I have a little income that I’m still entitled to. I’ll make the rent.”
“It’s not the rent I’m worried about. Have you ever really lived on your own?”
“I’ll be fine, Lilly.”
I start to tell her about Nate, but I don’t want to ruin her moment. As she eyes the wedding gown, and makes the adjustments in her head, I watch Max following her with his eyes.
“You’re letting him see the gown before you’re in it?”
Lilly shrugs. “We’re married already.”
Max looks at the box filled with legal paperwork. “This all for tomorrow?”
I nod.
“Do you want us to be there with you?”
“They won’t let you in anyway. There’s no reason to come. Just pray for me, and my dad.”
Lilly purses her lips. “I will. You call me the minute you hear anything.”
“Nothing will happen tomorrow, Lilly. They’ll decide they’re charging us, and we’ll wait years for a trial. This is only the beginning.” I flop onto the futon. “I’m so glad I have a place to call home that’s free of my father and Gwen. This is perfect for me,” I pat the futon.
Lilly looks worried, and I have to admit, I have never in my life spent a night alone, other than in my dorm room, where I could just knock on a neighbor’s door. Even Nate and Kim are gone, and this is me. I’m on my own, which I guess is what I said I wanted. A life with purpose. I was just hoping for more than staying out of jail as a goal.
B
efore I head to the courthouse, I offer to help Jenna get herself together for the girls to have their photo taken. I ring the doorbell, my suit carefully tucked away in plastic for fear the girls will decide to finger paint with jelly, and wait for several minutes before Jenna appears at the door. Although I spent the entire morning yesterday cleaning the house, there is literally not one sign that anyone’s been here for more than six months.
“What happened?”
“Storm Keller happened. Aren’t they effective?”
“Girls,
you did not make this mess.”
They nod proudly, as though they’ll receive a reward for their efforts.
I sigh, taking them both by the hand. “Go get a shower, Jenna; this is your opportunity. Are their dresses for the pictures out?”
“Hanging on their door.”
I climb the thin Victorian stairs, holding the hand of Anne (in front of me) and Amber (behind me) and when we get into their room, I draw a bath in the clawfoot tub for them both. As their wiggling bodies drain most of the water from the tub, and I wrestle them to get their hair washed, we end up giggling as they make soap bubble beards and clothes. I pull
them both out of the tub, taking towels from the warming and wrapping them up in precious bundles.
I am so not going to jail.”
The little girls blink as though I’ve lost my mind, and their giggling stops. “I didn’t have anything to do with this, Anne. Nothing, Amber, do you hear me?”
They both nod, incredulous that the game has stopped, seeing their confused glances, I warm my expression immediately. “Because I have games to play, and puzzles together, and I have a family to be a part of.”
I brush each girl’s hair out, saturating it in some high-end
version of “No More Tangles” that doesn’t work nearly as well.
It was my saving grace as a child. Once their hair is dried, I
get them dressed for pictures in frilly frocks that render them
the picture of sweet little angels with no sign of the terror
within save their blue-eyed glimmers.
As I bring them downstairs, Jenna is dressed and ready to
go. “You’re going to be all right taking them to the photographers?”
“We’ll be fine; it’s in a place with plenty of parking.”
“I’ll stay here and get things cleaned up and then I’m off
to the courthouse. But I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Perfect, we’ll see you then.” She gathers her girls and
leaves me alone in the house to once again find the carpet
under all the toys, and the places for kitchen utensils that
have been windswept as play dough tools and battle accouterments
in the living room—the formal living room.
My cell phone trills, and I note it’s my father’s cell number.
“Hi, Daddy,” I answer. “How are you feeling today?” I try to
forget everything that took place between us the night before.
If I’m going to move on—or in, as the case may be—I don’t
need a heart of darkness.
“Never better, princess. You ready to take on these Feds?”
“I am.” I take a last look around the Keller home and its
lived-in warmth, and I realize this is who God gave me for a
father. Had I been presented with the opportunity to pick my
own, I probably couldn’t have done as well as God. My father
may not be warmth personified, but he never allowed me to
wallow in misery if he could make things better. Certainly, he
used things to do it, but I can see now it’s the only language
he knew.
I get into my car, and I drive to the federal courthouse. A
band of photojournalists snap my picture and I smile for
them, widely. I climb the steps and enter the quiet hallway
where I’m of about as much importance as the corbels on the
ceiling—probably less.
Once inside the courtroom, the somber mood burdens
my soul immediately. I look over the jurors—people who will
decide my fate for the next couple of years—and they seem so
severe. So ready to send me to my cell, and I can see my legs
shaking as I sit in the chair. Monkey and Monkey (Lemur and
Lemur) come and sit down across from me, and soon, to my
surprise, my father is wheeled in wearing a freshly pressed
suit I’ve never seen before. Leave it to Richard Malliard to
have a tailor on call from the hospital.
“Dad, what are you doing here?”
“I wouldn’t leave my little girl to these wolves alone,” he
whispers.
The charges against us are officially only criminal complaints.
The grand jury has the power today to make indictments
against us, and the list seems endless. I can honestly
say after reading over the complaints last night that I’ve done
nothing wrong, but as I look at the list of witnesses the prosecutor
will call, I’m glad we won’t be able to stay to hear the
witnesses speak. I can see most of them avoiding my gaze.
I lean over to my father, afraid to speak, but needing some
form of comfort. “Let’s pray this is over today, Daddy.”
He pats my leg. “It will be, Morgan. We’re innocent.”
I wish I had his confidence.
The first witnesses are called, and my father and I are
excused from the room, though our lawyers stay. When I
come back in the jury room, I try to decipher any expression,
but there’s none to be had.
My father is the picture. Clearly he has no worries, and he
leans up and asks his accompanying nurse to get him a
drink of water. If I didn’t know him so well, it would invoke
sympathy within me. Which it’s clearly meant to do. I see his
strained expression, and him clutch the nurse’s arm as though
it’s taking every last ounce of his strength. “Water,” I hear him
croak again.
As he faces the jurors, he puts that plastic smile on—the
one I know has absolutely no meaning of true affection
behind it. It’s troubling to see your parent’s worst side, and for
me, I suppose that one is so intermingled with his good side
I can’t discern one from the other. I imagine he’s seen my bad
side as well.
He won’t look at me. He’s withholding any emotion until
I’ve proven my worth and testified accordingly, but as I search
his face, I see the seething anger boiling under his plastered
expression. He really feels as though he has a right to do
whatever he wants. My heart sinks as I finally discover who
he has always been. George was right.
The prosecutor turns to my father, and I watch his smile
get bigger.
“How are you today, Mr. Malliard?” The prosecutor asks.
Bigger smile, “I’m fine, young man.”
“We’ve heard from several witnesses that you and your daughter have taken in quite a bit of money.”
He laughs. “That’s what a successful business is supposed to do, is it not?”
As the questions become more difficult, I can see the strain on his face become more evident. The prosecutor has become less openly friendly and has started pointing out exact things my father did as general partner of the business.
Things like business trips to Caicos.
Tax returns that were lower than your average plumber’s.
Extravagant business trips to Saudi Arabia, Aruba, and more.
And the wire transfers. Lord, the wire transfers. The money taking better trips than I ever thought possible. Clearly, that’s the most damaging of it all, and I see the jurors shift as they hear about how many countries my father’s money visited before it made it back to the United States—to us.
Through it all, my father doesn’t flinch. When they’re through with him, the prosecutor, a young man of about thirty-four or so fighting for the ideals of his country and justice in all things, turns to me. I’ve already been sworn in, so he begins to ask questions.
“You live a pretty good life?”
“I do,” I admit. I figure he doesn’t want the sob story about how my parents didn’t hug me, so I go straight for what the world sees. Life in a penthouse, wearing elegant jewels to elite parties.
“Is this your signature?” I look closely at the paper he’s thrust before me.
“No,” I shake my head, more surprised than he is. “It isn’t my signature.”
“Objection,” Monkey says.
“Objection to what?”
“She’s been through a lot in the last few days. I’m certain her memory—”
“I know my own signature. It’s not mine.”
“This is your limited partnership agreement.”
“I signed a lot of things. I’m not denying that. But that isn’t my signature.”
“Objection,” my so-called-lawyer says again and I turn to him.
“What are you objecting about? That’s not my signature. Are you my lawyer or aren’t you?”
The judge knocks his gavel.“Mr. Lemur, is there a problem?”
“Permission to approach the bench, your honor.” I got that from
Law and Order
.
He sighs. “Come ahead.”
As I come to the bench, which is really just a raised table on a carpeted step, I say my fears out loud, “Your honor, that isn’t my signature, and it’s dated back when I was in college. I wasn’t even living here in the city. I don’t think my lawyer is acting in my best interest.”
“Do you want to fire him?”
I look back at the desk where Lemur and Lemur are consulting with my father in deep conversation.
“Can I?”
“It’s not the best time to be without a lawyer. You’re lucky you’re getting counsel at all before a grand-jury indictment.”
“I’ll take my chances.”
“Recess.” The judge calls. “Counsel, approach the bench. Ten minutes for everyone else.”
As the judge tells my lawyers what I’ve just said, I see my father’s expression darken and he looks at me the same way he used to look at my mother—as a boulder in his very clear path towards whatever he wants. I’ve tried so hard to believe the lie. The lie that he was the part he played—the perfect father who loved me unconditionally. My heart sinks as I realize that my wanting to believe in him was wasted emotion, and living in the fairy tale I always wanted to make happen.