All for a Sister (32 page)

You know Mr. Parker now as the slick, accomplished young man who has somehow managed to worm his way into every crevice of our lives, but you might be surprised at his inauspicious beginnings. He might even serve well as a lesson in ambition, that nothing is ever truly out of reach, as long as one is willing to stretch in order to grasp it. Stretch your principles, perhaps. Or stretch the truth. Perhaps even stretch the boundaries of the law. Who better to bring in as part and parcel confidant and conspirator than a would-be lawyer?

But oh, his idealism. His sincerity. If you’ve ever had occasion to bite square down on a sugar cube and felt that tingling discomfort back in the corner of your cheek? Something that, if
dissolved in a cup of tea, might bring a perfect balance of flavor, but left to its own devices is altogether unpleasant? That sums up the painful ambition of young Christopher Parker.

How he berated me that afternoon, peppering me with question after question, about how she had come to be there. Angling, he was, as if
I
were on trial, right there in our little park, with you, my baby girl, playing happily not ten feet away. But he found me to be a hostile witness, unable to explain the irrational decision of a now-deceased judge.

“I will tell you this, Mrs. DuFrane.” His voice held an unmistakable, if polite, threat. Mindful of our public exposure, we adhered to an unspoken agreement of civility. “I will see that Miss Dana has a day in court. With me as her lawyer, if necessary.”

I calculated his age to be about seventeen, giving me some comfort in the space of time to pass before such could be a possibility. No amount of time, however, would change the color of his skin, and I asked him if he truly thought it would be that easy for a Negro from Cleveland to become the voice of justice to set the prisoners free?

“I have written and been accepted to three different universities.” One of them in California, where Arthur had spent the months before Celeste’s birth. My mind became a spinneret of possibilities.

This time, I calculated far beyond his age, asking if he had secured the funding to attend any of these institutions.

For the first time in our acquaintance, he appeared uncomfortable. “No, ma’am. I figure I’ll have to get me a job—a good job—to pay for it.”

I suggested that he perhaps would find something on campus. I knew of several such situations, given my husband’s occupation. Why, just imagine. Christopher Parker, mopping floors and
washing dishes for all the other law students. You might have to wear a sign around your neck to remind them that you belong in the classroom as well as the kitchen, I told him.

Sometimes, I am appalled by my own cruelty. Such was the case as I watched that young man diminish before my very eyes.

While he was puddled before me, I took one more jab, asking just what he intended to do about the unfortunate Miss Dana during his days as a college man.

He kept his face down but looked up. “I’ll tell everybody I can about her. I’ll write to the warden, the district attorney, the mayor, the governor.”

I hadn’t yet flinched.

“Your husband.”

There. Perhaps our minds weren’t so different after all.

I would not beg. I would not ask this boy for a single thing. He hadn’t even graduated from his Cleveland high school, and as far as I knew, he never would. Still, I knew I should be mindful of the blessings God had bestowed upon me. When trusted with position and power, one must take opportunities to invest in those grasping to have the same.

As if to remind me of all that was at stake, you came running over to hand me what you claimed to be the most beautiful leaf in the park. And your heart being the purest I’ve ever known, you had a white polished stone for the person you called “Mother’s newest friend.”

He was quite sweet and tender in thanking you, and we both watched as you bounded off to new discoveries over by—but not too close to—the pond.

“She’s a beautiful little girl,” he said.

I reminded him that the young woman he was so quick to champion had killed my other daughter.

“That’s for a court of law to decide, Mrs. DuFrane. Or God. Not you.”

I told him that I appreciated his dedication to justice, and on some level, it was true. But, I continued, I needed time.

He looked suspicious. “Time for what?”

My eyes traveled to Celeste as I told him that I simply could not bear to be living here, in the same house, with my little girl, should the day come when Dana Lundgren walked out of prison. I granted him full permission to do as he wished, but not until he could do so on his own, with an education and credentials to back whatever claims he thought himself to have.

“It’s not right to wait that long. Working and going to school—it could take years. And I happen to think she’s suffered enough.”

“Suffered enough”?
As if he knew anything of suffering. Masking my disgust at his statement, I drew strength simply from knowing that he and I were more alike than we could have first imagined. We both wanted justice. But our interpretations were as different as the color of our skin and the resources at our disposal.

For the first time, I addressed him as Mr. Parker, and I offered, upon his graduation from high school, to finance his college education, all the way through law school, upon the condition that he contact neither Dana nor anyone else until that education had ended.

He at least had the courtesy to look surprised, though I’ve often thought he might well have been two steps ahead of me, fully expecting to strike such a deal on my front porch.

“That’s asking a lot,” he said. “From both of us.”

But there was more. If he were to see to it that, for whatever might be in his power, nobody contacted
her
, I would include a generous living allowance. Not forever, I amended. Nothing lasted
forever. Not college, not a prison sentence, not even, apparently, peace of mind. Only death had a permanence that could not be negotiated.

He held up the small rock you had given him. “I’ll keep this, as a promise.”

I agreed, as it seemed fair, coming from the one sweet soul worth such a fiendish bargain, but I had one final condition. University of California, where I would do my best to follow, keeping him far away from her and close to me.

Never once did I expect him to become anything more than a casher of my checks. After all, I sent a monthly donation to those missionaries in China, never once believing that a newly baptized Chinaman would show up on my doorstep to thank me for bringing him into the fold. So, too, for years to follow, did I mail off a monthly allotment to the graduate from some unfortunate factory smoke–spewing high school in the slums of Cleveland. On the rare occasion that your father examined the ledger, I explained the money as being a donation to a scholarship fund in Mary’s honor, and he seemed satisfied with the idea. Not convinced, mind you, but satisfied. Lord knows he had secrets of his own. And truthfully, I never thought I would see Christopher Parker again.

I underestimated the depth of his integrity.

CLOSE-UP:
A framed cross-stitch with these words:
“And ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free.”

INTERIOR:
The warden’s office, but a new man behind the desk. Younger, stronger, the build and countenance of one who has survived a war, which he has. Warden Brewster, United States Army colonel, retired, is reading what looks to be a letter. By his expression, we can tell that this is an unhappy missive. His brow furrows; he holds the paper closer, then away, then close again, as if doing so might change the bad news within.

CLOSE-UP—THE LETTER:
And so I leave you with stern warning, that should Miss Dana Lundgren not receive an immediate release, we shall have no choice but to seek legal action and have all parties involved face a civil suit for wrongful imprisonment. Signed, Christopher Parker, Esq.

INTERIOR:
The warden crumples the letter and stands to pace his office, coming to a stop along one wall, on which hangs a series of photographs of the honorable men in long black robes who keep him employed.

CLOSE-UP:
A photograph. A small metal placard underneath is inscribed,
Judge George Stephens, 1842–1908
.

TITLE CARD:
Some secrets are taken to the grave.

INTERIOR:
Warden Brewster shakes his fist at the photograph, as if to say, “Look what you’ve done to me!” He returns to his desk, looking despondent indeed, when his attention is drawn to a knocking on the door.

BREWSTER:
“Come in.”

CLOSE-UP:
Brewster is instantly a changed man. His brow is smooth, his countenance all agreeable. Perhaps, in fact, apologetic.

INTERIOR—THE DOOR:
Dana walks in, looking far the worse for wear. Her hair is in two long, lank braids, her dress soiled. She is downcast, barely able to meet his eyes.

DANA:
“You wanted to see me, sir?”

INTERIOR—TWO-SHOT:
Brewster gestures for her to sit down.

1918

DANA COULDN’T IMAGINE
why she’d been summoned, but she dared not fan the flame of hope that this might be the fulfillment of a promise all but forgotten. Too much time had passed for her to believe that any force was at work on her behalf. Certainly not Christopher Parker, of whom she’d neither seen nor heard since the afternoon when, after craning her neck to see from her high, narrow window, she’d watched him walk past the black iron gates of Bridewell. Carrie, at least, she’d hoped, would send an occasional letter, as they might have been something like friends. But there’d been nothing, and she’d marked first the days, then the weeks, then a year with the nothingness before cutting loose any expectations and letting herself drift slowly, silently into a mire of complacency.

Until she got the summons and crawled back from death to answer.

Somehow—and she was certain Effie was responsible, but
such could never be proven—Dana had been spared the inconvenience of a cellmate for nearly a year. Instead, and this she knew to be Effie’s doing, she’d hosted literary giants, thoughtful essayists, poets, biographers, and world travelers who had taken the time to pen their adventures. Once, she had been hoping to keep her copy of H. D. Thoreau’s
Walden
and reread some of her favorite passages but had forgotten to leave it under her pillow. Upon returning from her bath, she found it in its place on her shelf, with a copy of
Don Juan
left under her pillow. Thus began her collection.

On bath day in June, absorbed in what she knew would become one of her favorite books—a collection of Greek mythology—she hopped to the floor, dressed in her nightgown, ready to give herself over to the ministrations of Marvena Gray.

For all Dana knew, Marvena Gray lived in the dankness of the shower room. From what she understood, any new female inmate could request a shower upon arrival, and any day thereafter. By the same logic, she could refuse, as long as vermin and lice were kept at bay. Dana liked it best when she could have the showers to herself, and not be subjected to the uncomfortable leers of the other women as she stood, naked and exposed, under the sulfurous flow of warm water.

This day, she was subjected only to Marvena’s eyes, cloudy with disinterest, as she lathered herself with a brand-new bar of clean-smelling soap, even taking the time to wet and scrub it through her hair, clear to the tips. The water seemed especially hot, bringing her to the point of dizziness once or twice. She stretched her hand out to the slimy wall, knowing full well the dim-eyed Marvena would not come to her rescue should she collapse.

Once dried, she was presented with a clean dress and gown, two pairs of stockings, and even gained permission to keep the
towel wrapped around her head. She thanked Marvena as she always did and listened to the woman’s complaints about everything from bunions to back pain for the entire walk back to Dana’s cell.

“Not many of us here today,” Dana said, by way of changing the conversation. She didn’t feel well herself, but knew Marvena wouldn’t be a sympathetic audience.

“Most’s in the infirmary.” Marvena held the ring close to her face, the better to find the correct key. “Back where they used to keep the childrens. Set it up with cots for them what are sick with that flu.”

“I didn’t realize.”

“Taken its toll on alls of us, it is. Some’s died already.”

They had arrived at the cell, its door left open, wide and welcoming, and the anticipation of a new book lessened the shame at the sound of its locking behind her. With a final word to Marvena, Dana dropped her fresh clothing on the foot of the bottom bunk and, after verifying that the mythology book remained, reached under her pillow to see what new adventure awaited.