Other people’s problems were not fascinating. Del Sol offered tempered intercourse, moderate weather, and casual but clean attire. The choice was this or back to the New York of dark people who move too quickly, think too quickly, and decide the things that Mary never wanted to decide. The others waited for her to decide, and then they decided and she didn’t. They liked the responsibility of deciding. She hated it.
Mary could get a job in Del Sol, or the neighboring town of Mesa, for a pittance. Then every night she’d drive her ten-year-old car into her mother’s driveway and sit in the garden behind the house like all the neighbors. The street was deserted with flat beige squares of concrete in front of each garage. All the hidden neighbors were sitting quietly behind their own houses, privately. That’s what she wanted–privacy–so no one could see her inadequacies or evaluate them. No one measuring her failure. No competition with people she can’t beat. Eva had supported her every step on the way to failure.
The night before, they were watching TV. Mary, her mom, and some friends. Someone on the Jay Leno show had said the word “consequences,” and Mary ran into the bathroom, shaking. She hated that word. It was a symptom of false sociality. In New York, when she snapped at someone with that American twang, the way every one of her relatives had always snapped at her, the way her grandfather snapped at her father when they worked together on the Ford line in Michigan, the way her father snapped at her mother when she forgot to stop by the package store. This reflex made New
Yorkers cringe. They are so weak—they require low tones, false politeness, and explicit reasons for every critique. If she snapped at them, they called her a bitch. Not a Euro-trash unruly one, but a white trash one, and New Yorkers don’t even know what white trash is. They think any non-rich white Protestant is white trash. They’re so ignorant that blue collar is sexy to them, only if it’s rugged but not if it twangs. White blue collar isn’t white trash, so how come they don’t know the difference?
“
Be nice
,” Eva would whisper whenever Mary got bristly in public. But it was impossible. Do your job, expect nothing, and mind your own business. Delilah suffers in silence here at the end of the continent, sips vodka. Here people have a few drinks and shut up. New Yorkers drink to get livelier. More ideas, more plans. It never stops. Ideas. Plans. Ideas. Plans. They don’t even care if they never come true, but they try to make them come true. Why try if it’s not going to happen? They just like planning, so Mary, too, had learned to hope and plan, to gesture pathetically toward strategy. She mimicked them, imitated them falsely, became a cheaper version of them, one that could never succeed at their tricks. They loved planning and she hated it. There is nothing wrong with working hard just to stay in place.
Wendy kissed her again. She wanted one more round.
“In a minute … let’s have a smoke.”
“Okay, but I only have menthol.”
“That’s fine.”
They lit up a Kool.
“Don’t give up on your dreams,” Wendy said, sharing the cig. “I’ve achieved my dreams. About work, I mean.”
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-three.”
“Yeah, well, it’s a little more complicated than that. You’re young, and you’re very pretty. You’ll be okay.”
Every day at four Mary walked with her mother, slowly, along the beach. It was so gorgeous. The Pacific Coast, a vacuum of beauty, no way to participate. Not like going to a play in New York, where all evening she’d churn and yearn to jump in, be a part of it. You can’t envy the ocean. So no disappointment, no agony of exclusion. There’s the sea; you can’t do anything about it.
This part of Southern California was the true Aryan Nation. Having blonde hair and blue eyes meant nothing here. No butt of jokes or desire. No one knew what
melanin
even means. The subdivision was populated principally by bicepped Barbie dolls. Even the yoga class she tried was too advanced. The gym hadn’t offered introductory courses in years, only Advanced Step 2 and Cardio 4. Mary was tall and slim-hipped, lanky, great legs. She could be in shape in no time. Those Jewish, Italian, Puerto Rican bodies can never look that way. They just bulk up. If not, they look false. They look overdone and pretentious, out of place being healthy. Deliberate.
Boogie boarding and jogging and drives to the mall belonged on bodies and faces like Mary’s. That’s what those activities were for. She never wanted to hear them put down again. Beach culture was not a waste of time. That is what time is for. She wanted a Vietnamese woman to wax her legs, a Mexican to clean the garden, and she didn’t want to feel guilty about any of it. Her family worked for a living since 1670. They were still working. Everyone else made it on their backs. They had built his country. They weren’t liberals. Del Sol is a hotbed of social rest. And Mary was tired. She wasn’t going anywhere.
Mary got up to get a glass of water. The stars were her stars, and she could hear the ocean. There was a terrible sadness suddenly, and then she drank the water. She got over it.
“Hey,” she said, bringing the glass to Wendy’s lips. “Have you ever seen a play?”
“Yes, it was good.”
“Well then you know that in a play the hero’s fate has to be made clear before the curtain comes down. Will he be liberated or condemned? The lovers have to have a confrontation or reunite. But there’s a big difference between the way people really act and the way they act in plays. This is real life, so I don’t ever have to pick up that phone. You know what I like about Del Sol?” Mary lit another Kool.
“The weather?”
“Yeah, I like the weather. I like to sit in gardens with people who work as clerks, in banks or malls, or in software. To get in bed with a cop. No one needing to be recognized by an authority larger than their family. The women at the checkout counter look just like me. They don’t try to pass.”
“Pass for what?”
“Middle-class.”
“So what are you going to do, get a job cashiering?”
“Maybe.”
“You’re just mad. Soon you’ll call your girlfriend. You’re not going to stay here.”
“I’m from here,” Mary said. “Car culture is my culture. She’s not my girlfriend. Whatever.”
30
“Aw, Hockey, get off it. Jeez.” Thor was back on his feet now, trying to regain his charm. “Look what they’ve done to him.”
“The kid is a
murderer
, Thor. He murdered a little boy. And no smoking in my office–I have AIDS.”
“He’s fifteen.” Eva took one of Thor’s cigarettes, opened a window, sat on the ledge, and lit it. Immediately she realized that doing so was a passive form of resistance to Hockey’s authority, and that scared her.
“So what? I knew better than to murder a little boy when I was fifteen.”
“They’re charging him as an adult.’
“He
is
an adult.”
“Then,” Eva said, throwing the cigarette out the window after one puff, “how can they charge his lover with child molestation? Either he’s a man, who should not be brought under court supervision for having a boyfriend. Or he’s a child and should be charged in juvenile court.” She went back to her computer.
That was what it boiled down to, after all. The hypocrisy. Eva felt trapped, like Stew. No matter where he turned, he faced a brick wall.
“Stew is a murderer,” Hockey said, making notes. “Nothing worse happened to him than what happened to us. In fact, it’s easier to be a gay kid now than it was when we were little.”
“Are you jealous?”
“No.” Hockey seemed unsure for one moment. He put his hands
in his pockets. “But nowadays they have clubs and things. Look, Bethany’s back.”
He turned up the volume on the Headline Highlights, drowning out any further conversation. Relieved, they all shut up and watched the same clip again.
“Look, Hockey,” Eva heard herself beg. “Stew went through police, courts, and social workers, and no one did anything about that crazy homophobic family.”
“Is that what you’re going to argue in court?” He postured theatrically. “Blame the family? You’ve got to be kidding. Plea bargain. Wait, here’s a new shot of Bethany.”
They watched her cross the lawn, wiggle her ass, and walk over to a kind of normal-looking couple, standing by a normal-looking car.
“What bargain?” Eva said, taking notes; it was time to be systematic. “They’re not going to bargain. We’ve got to go to trial and tell them the truth. Stew’s relationship with Dave was the happiest thing in his life. His family didn’t want him. He’s gay. Other gay people are his family. Stew is our child.”
“He’s not my child.” Hockey was quiet.
She shut up and so did he. They were all silent after that. So silent that the sounds of traffic overwhelmed them. Hockey was now officially different. He had put all his vulnerabilities behind him. He now identified with the strong. Eva could see this.
“Do you want to get Dave a life sentence? Honestly, Eva, they are charging Stew as an adult. This is not a gay rights issue. Gay rights is not about child abuse, nor is it about murdering little boys. It’s not about fucking little boys, and it’s not about killing little boys.”
Eva looked at him and tried to smile, but inside she was furious and trying to think of a plan. Okay, Hockey did not have sympathy
for Stew, or if he did, it was not the first thing on his mind. Eva couldn’t be mad at him for that. She got up from behind the keyboard and Hockey got up from behind his. They both walked to the center of the room, facing off over Thor, who was deep in thought, chewing on an unlit cigarette. She had to appeal to logic. She didn’t have anything more powerful to fall back on.
“Hockey, listen.” She knew she couldn’t be bigger than him, so she tried begging. “We have to go in there and argue that Stew was pathologized for being a gay kid. They drove him crazy.”
“Now
you’re
crazy. Stew is not our client.”
“Let me ask you something, Hockey.”
“Yes, Thor.”
The old man stood up out of his chair like he was doing deep knee bends. Like he did them every morning for forty years while holding two thirty-pound weights. “How old were you the first time you had sex?”
“Twelve.”
“How old was the other guy?”
“Nine.”
“And the next time?”
“Twelve.”
“When was the first time you had sex with an adult man?”
“I was fourteen.”
“How old was he?”
“In his twenties?”
“Were you molested?”
“It’s not the same thing.” Hockey was pissed. “I didn’t go out and kill somebody.”
“I was sixteen.” Eva felt sick like she had done something wrong.
She
had
done something wrong—she had helped Stew trust an untrustworthy man.
“Late bloomer,” Thor said with a funny gravity.
“We’ll argue double jeopardy.” Suddenly Eva knew she wasn’t going to get her way. She realized something deep about herself. She didn’t know how to fight ruthless people. She didn’t know how to fight unfair systems. She didn’t know what to do about cruelty. She only knew human complexity and the difference between right and wrong. Stew was a victim. He was driven crazy, and now he was acting crazy. He was just a gay kid, like she had been, and his family and the system treated him like a criminal until he became one. If they had just loved him, everything would have been all right. It was like Mary. She was driven crazy. If she had been able to be herself, she could have been. But the powers that be treated her like someone who doesn’t matter, and now she was acting that way.
Hockey wanted to argue in court that Stew was responsible for his actions, in order to get David off the hook. But that was not the truth. Stew was driven to murder. But not by Dave. He was driven to it by people who would never be put on trial. Eva couldn’t pretend it was any other way. She loved Mary and she loved Stew. She could understand. She realized that she was not afraid to be uncomfortable.
“It’s not your case, Eva. How many times do I have to say that? The kid is gone. We’ve got to save Dave. If you go in there with a gay rights rap, he’ll never see the light of day again. It doesn’t matter what happens to Stew. David is our client, and David can’t go to trial. I’m going to plea bargain and that’s that. I wouldn’t represent
Stew even if I had the chance. He’s a murderer.”
Eva was quiet, but her mind was churning.
What can I do?
She thought.
What must I do?
They all smoked that day. Even Hockey, who had once had pneumonia, had a cigarette. The three of them sat in the office puffing and watching CNN. They called in for Chinese takeout, but no one ate it.
Then CNN showed Stew being led to court. It was the first time any of them had seen him. It was really upsetting. Even to Hockey. Stew just looked like a little kid.
“He’s so short,” Thor said.
“Look at that kid,” Hockey said.
Eva stared at him. He was a droopy boy with waist irons and chains on his legs. He was her child. Her.
The camera cut to the on-location reporter interviewing a neighbor in Van Buren Township. Betty Podolsky, a beautician for thirty years who did Mrs. Mulcahey’s hair. She had known Stew since he was born.
“I hope he gets raped in prison,” she said.
“Tell me one more time,” Eva asked. “What are you going to argue in court?”
“That Stew is an adult, thereby consenting to sex with our client, and equally responsible for the act of murder.”
“Okay,” Eva said. “I’m out.”
“Out of what?”
“Out of the case. I’m not going to court to fight for David on grounds that will scapegoat Stew. It’s not good for anyone.”
“Eva, honey. Listen to me.” He said it with pity. “What you want
to do will never work. You understand? We are lawyers. We can’t do things with other people’s lives that aren’t going to work. We have to make tough choices.”