The Whole Golden World (12 page)

He croaked, “I'm sorry I made you guys fight.”

“It's not your fault.”

“So you always say.”

“Because it's true.”

After a moment's stillness, Jared unfolded and slouched back against his headboard, stretching out on the bed.

Dinah patted his shin. “But I'm worried about you, too. I don't want to have to take you out of the high school, but I can't turn a blind eye, either. If you can't figure out how to have a social life without getting caught up in a bad crowd, we'll have to think of something else.”

“What? Homeschool?” Jared rolled his eyes. “Like you could do that.”

“Hey, don't underestimate your old mom.”

“I mean, hello? You've got a business to run.”

With a thud in her chest Dinah realized she could in fact homeschool the boys, if she sold the Den, which would get markedly more valuable with an entertainment license attached.

“There are private schools around. We'd think of something. But we won't have to, right? Because you can still steer this back on course, right, Jared?”

He nodded, looking away, in his posture of wanting her to just leave now that the lecture was over.

Knowing he wouldn't like it, she dashed over to plant a kiss on his forehead.

Dinah descended the stairs and was greeted in the kitchen by a look from her husband, who was warming up his cold dinner plate. “You make everything all better now?”

Dinah turned away from him by way of answer and threw herself down on the living room couch, listening to the clicking and scraping of Joe's utensils on his plate, not another word uttered between them.

PART 2

18

JUNE 6, 2012

D
inah watched as the prosecutor rose, straightened his tie, and prepared to lay out the case against TJ Hill.

She tried to shut off, unplug, and drift away somewhere else so she wouldn't have to hear it.

She came to the court because it was the thing one did when one's child was victimized. You go to court and you watch the wheels of justice turn and you applaud when the bad guy is sent to the slammer.

Only this time, her daughter's name would be dragged through the gutter.

She knew in a politically correct sense that her daughter was considered a victim, an innocent. And that the newspaper had not named her, or them, as a result of its policy to protect the identity of victims of sexual crimes.

She also knew what she'd seen and heard around town about her daughter, what she'd read online and seen on Facebook, and she could only imagine what was said privately was worse yet. Not to mention what had happened at the Den.

As far as Arbor Valley was concerned, the two of them could go straight to hell together, the debauched teacher and his teenaged adulterous lover.

“Your Honor,” began Henry Davis, unfolding his lanky frame from his chair. Dinah fixed her eyes on him and tried to call up the feeling of calm and even optimism he'd inspired when they discussed the case. She'd seen him on television before—the election of the county's first black prosecutor had been big news—but they'd never met. That first day in his office, she could have swooned from gratitude for his dignified air, considering how often she'd felt the sting of judgment and whispered titillation from the rest of the town.

“How did we get here?” Henry asked rhetorically, sweeping his arm to indicate the courtroom, the situation, everything at once. “Was this an accident of fate? A simple error in judgment? Ill-fated, star-crossed love?” Those last words Henry anointed with a whiff of irritated sarcasm.

“We are here for a specific, very clear reason that has everything to do with abuse of authority and violation of a girl under that authority. The people will show that Thomas John Hill on numerous occasions contacted the victim by cell phone and messages exchanged through her homework papers, setting up sexual liaisons in parking lots and music rehearsal rooms.”

Dinah flinched, and she heard Joe suck in a breath. Henry began to pace in front of the jury, whose faces were frozen into suitably somber expressions. Dinah could not help but wonder how thrilled they really were, how they probably were giggling to their friends which trial they'd landed.

“This was no simple crush from a teenager in some inappropriate puppy love. Couldn't TJ Hill have refused to meet her anywhere, refused to take her calls? Couldn't he have reported this unwanted attention to his superiors, in fact to the girl's very own father, his boss and assistant principal at the school? We will show that Thomas John Hill did none of these things, and instead he continued to communicate, continued to meet her, despite his supposed concern for his career and her well-being.

“Now, I know that the young lady looks very mature for her age. She's not a child with training wheels on her bike and streamers coming from the handlebars. But she is nonetheless a victim. The evidence will show that she was manipulated and exploited by a grown man who was in charge of her, had authority over her, over this young woman who, by all accounts, had always been one to respect and obey authority.”

A disgusted snort emanated from Morgan. Dinah could tell it was her without looking.

The prosecutor resumed his speech. “It's June now, and a senior in high school should be graduating, celebrating, becoming Facebook friends with her college roommate. A high school senior should not have to be sitting in a courtroom watching her teacher on trial for his sexual affair with her, but here we are. And there is one person to blame for that and one person only. After we present our case, you'll find it clear that Thomas John Hill is the one responsible—the only one—and deliver a verdict accordingly.”

Dinah tried to be pleased at how well delivered the speech was.

But she could only imagine all those blessedly normal things Henry mentioned—Morgan graduating with giddy pride, dancing all night at prom, bubbly with promise of a bright future—and how those simple joys were gone forever. Dinah fought to keep from throwing up all over her navy blue slacks.

 

R
ain felt unaccountably cold.

It seemed warm in the courtroom, based on how everyone else fanned themselves and how they were all shedding jackets and cardigan sweaters.

But the prosecutor's description of TJ as a manipulative abuser of a vulnerable girl under his authority made her shake so hard she was worried she'd vibrate right off the edge of the seat.

She dared not take her eyes off the front of the courtroom to see if anyone knew who she was.

Of course they would know, though. In a town this size, someone would know, and someone would tell someone else. Hell, it was probably posted online by now, courtesy of one of the vultures following this case live, blow by blow. She could almost write the post herself. “Defendant's wife in the courtroom. Shaking and looking pale.”

The defense attorney rose, and Rain sucked in a breath. Now it would get better. Alexandra would tell them how this was all just a terrible misunderstanding, laced with hysteria, the flames fanned by a troubled girl who relished the attention. Something out of Arthur Miller's
Crucible
.

Alexandra rose, her heels clicking loudly. She was tall like a basketball player, her suit smart and cut well, her hair pulled back tightly from her haughty, leonine expression.

“TJ Hill is no monster,” she began. “He's no pedophile. He's a respected, popular teacher and a friend to many in the community. Yes, he made some errors in judgment. Serious errors. Perhaps it doesn't make sense for TJ to have continued to stay in contact with the girl when her inappropriate attachment became known, and we'll give you that much. But TJ's mistakes do not rise to the level of a crime, they do not make him a sexual predator. The people would have you believe that they had a sexual relationship, but this is based on, as you will see, the thinnest of so-called evidence and there's enough reasonable doubt to drive an eighteen-wheeler right through it.

“Mr. Hill tried to solve this problem quietly, on his own. He couldn't take the pressure and just wanted the situation to go away; after all, he feared this very outcome. Sure, it backfired, and with the benefit of hindsight we can see what a grievous error this turned out to be.

“But imagine if you will, this beautiful teenage girl, infatuated with him to the point she left romantic messages on his phone and on her homework! Stalked his wife online to determine her work schedule! If he went to the school administrators and said he had not encouraged a bit of this, what if they didn't believe him? What if they assumed he was guilty anyway? After all, the young lady had never taken a wrong step before, so far as anyone knew, and was in fact the daughter of an assistant principal. So he met her, tried to calm her down, tried to insist there was nothing between them and never could be, thinking if he only said the right things she would give up on him and pick a more appropriate target for her puppy love, and no one would be the wiser.

“Only, as you'll see, any attention at all was enough for her to continue pursuing him, to the point of disrobing before him. I know this is upsetting to hear. You don't want to think this way of a young woman who is a National Honor Society student. But a verdict is not delivered based on gut reactions, hunches, and stereotypes. It's delivered based on the evidence, and the evidence is just not there. We are trusting you. Mr. Hill, his loving wife, his family—we are all trusting you to put your tempers and emotions aside and look only at the facts. And you will be able to reach no other conclusion than to find my client not guilty. Thank you.”

Rain felt herself relax by scant degrees. Everything made perfect sense, coming from Alexandra. It all sounded so reasonable. Believable.

Reasonable doubt,
she chanted to herself, repeatedly. There is plenty of room for reasonable doubt. The jury would see. They had to. Rain would consider no other possible outcome.

 

M
organ imagined herself a statue. Cold marble, impervious.

It was the only way she could remain seated while she listened to the sickening lies perpetrated by both sides of this farce.

First, the prosecutor making out like she was some kind of idiot child manipulated by a mastermind.

Then, his own attorney. Morgan had known he would deny it. She was prepared for this. After all, she didn't want him to go to jail either. She knew he would say whatever it was he had to say to get himself out of trouble.

But hearing herself cast as a blend of siren, stripper, and nutcase made Morgan taste bile in the back of her throat. How could he allow this to be said of her?

She closed her eyes and conjured up his smile when he walked into the courtroom. He still loved her, of course he did. He was just following his attorney's advice. After all, if he was convicted by the salivating wolves in this hick town, not only might he go to prison—up to fifteen years! Outrageous!—he'd be labeled a sex offender for the rest of his life.

Morgan punched her thigh lightly to remember her own careless mistake: the age of consent. She'd researched it online. It was sixteen in Michigan, and she was seventeen. They should have been in the clear; she never intended this. She didn't know that there was a special legal category for a teacher and student. Didn't know it would be “criminal sexual conduct III.”

Thirty-five days, she told herself. Thirty-five days and she'll turn eighteen and the trial will be over. And there would be nothing anyone could do to get in their way.

19

DECEMBER 19, 2011

I
t was the first day of Christmas break. Students all over town were thrilled to be sleeping in, playing on Facebook, going to movies and the mall. Morgan just knew it meant two whole weeks without seeing Mr. Hill.

Unless.

Morgan said through a mouthful of toast at the breakfast table, “Oh, Mom, did I tell you? Mrs. DeWitt can't rehearse with me anymore.”

Her mom paused in making coffee to look at her with a wrinkled forehead. “Oh, no! What are you going to do?”

“Actually it's already worked out. She felt bad having to quit—something about a sick relative?—so she lined up a student from the community college to help me. I can drive over to the college after school and practice with her there.”

“Oh, so much more driving.”

Morgan shrugged. “I don't care. It's only for a few weeks until the competition anyway, unless I go to State. Anyhow, it's not all that far. Twenty minutes maybe?”

“Oh. Well, I'm glad it all worked out then.”

“We might even get to meet up over break. She said she wanted to practice with me as soon as possible so we don't lose any more time.”

“Wow, that's generous. Why would she do that? Do we have to pay her?”

“She gets extra credit in her class for helping me out. Kinda like volunteering points for NHS, right?”

Morgan needed her mom to stop questioning. Thankfully, just then her dad walked into the room.

She could see her mother stiffen from all the way across the kitchen. Dad didn't talk to Mom, just reached around her to grab a coffee mug.

Morgan looked back down to her toast and hoped that if they were going to get a divorce, they'd wait until she turned eighteen in the summer to spare her the drama of visitation.

Though, she thought as she put her plate in the kitchen sink and headed back to her room, she had the kind of parents who would tough it out “for the kids.” Which would be better than getting shuttled back and forth. However, if her parents were going to continue not speaking to each other, that was no laugh riot, either.

Nah, they'd keep it together for the boys, she figured. They were always acting like Connor and Jared were going to pieces at any moment, and now Jared busted for smoking pot? The last thing they would do is get a divorce. Heaven forbid.

She closed her bedroom door and very quietly pressed the lock.

Morgan had perfected a way of pushing the lock button quietly so it didn't snap into place, and when she turned the doorknob to open it, if she held the lock button down with one knuckle as she turned, it didn't snap loudly back open, either. Since her parents were kind enough to knock, they'd never have to know how often she was locking her door.

Her brothers might try to barge through, but whatever.

She licked her lips and smiled at her phone. Here goes. She started a new message to the entry in her contacts list named Teresa Jane.

Got a plan

She'd searched Mr. Hill's wife online—a name like Rain in Arbor Valley? Even with the last name of Hill, Morgan had known she'd find her—and found that she was a yoga instructor and knew what times her classes were from the website of Namaste Yoga Center. So she'd chosen to text when Rain was out of the house.

What plan?

Morgan felt a thundering gallop in her chest. He was in.

Rehearsal room at AVCC. Private, lock on the door.

Morgan had been to the community college rehearsal rooms before. They were used as warm-up spaces for competitions and performances. They were also sound dampened, to keep the practicing students from disturbing one another.

There was a window in each door. Morgan had not yet solved that problem.

Still very risky. Crazy.

Morgan paused with her thumbs over the keys, trying to think of just what she could say to make him feel better.

I have to see you. Can't just sit in class and pretend I'm just another kid. We have to talk this out. Alone.

What followed was an excruciating twenty minutes, during which time Morgan felt despair swamping back in. Like she was helpless on the muddy bottom of a drained pond that was slowly filling back up.

Her phone vibrated in her hand and she gasped.

His message said:

Time and date?

With shaking hands she typed in a rendezvous time that just happened to coincide with Rain's next class.

 

The halls were nearly deserted over Christmas break. But the building was unlocked, and when Morgan requested a practice room key, the bored college kid studying behind the desk of the building lobby just handed it over. He had an iPod plugged into one ear.

Morgan was, after all, nearly college age, and carrying a cello. Perfectly legitimate.

She stowed the cello in the room and then crept down a long hallway to a side exit that was locked from outside; she'd tried it already. She pushed it open and held her breath. Was it alarmed?

No sound. She slid a piece of paper between the door latch and the door frame, and let the door close. One tiny push to test; unlocked, but closed. Perfect.

Her every nerve buzzed. She felt like a spy.

She crept back into the rehearsal room and closed the door. She texted directions to that side door, and which rehearsal door was hers.

She looked up at the window in the room door. It was a high window, which was good. Cellists had to sit down after all, and Morgan wasn't very tall.

As long as they sat on the floor, anyone walking by wouldn't think anything of it. They'd have to be very tall, or stand on tiptoe, not to mention curious enough to press their noses to the window to peer inside.

She busied herself taking the cello out of the case and setting it carefully on its side next to the music stand and chair. She put her music on the stand. She rosined her bow, even, and rested that on the stand as well. This is how the room would look if someone knocked and she set her cello down to answer the door.

Footsteps in the hall. Her heart pounded harder, seemingly in rhythm with the steps. A quiet, tentative knock she could barely hear.

Morgan opened the door a crack, then flung it wide and almost yanked him inside.

“Sit down,” she told him, thrilled by the command in her own voice. “So no one can see through that window.”

He did as instructed and sat cross-legged along the side wall, his hands folded loosely in his lap.

She tested the lock on the door and then came to sit down next to him. She wanted to lean on his shoulder, but he seemed skittish and panicky.

“I can't believe you went to all this trouble,” he said.

“It's worth it to see you alone.”

“I just . . . What do you see in an old asshole like me, anyway? You could see any guy in school, and you wouldn't have to sneak like this.”

“They're hardly lining up at my door. Anyway, I don't want to waste my time on them. Age is so arbitrary, you said it yourself. You know Britney? All she thinks about is boys and makeup and movies and hair. She doesn't understand the world, and worse, she doesn't care. But guess what? She's eighteen already. She can sign herself out of school for the day. She can vote, not that she'll bother. I was born a few months later, and I'm the child? Stupid. You're not even that much older than me.”

“What do you want, then? What do you want from me?”

“I just want to see you. This? Right now? Is the happiest I've been in weeks. Just sitting next to you makes me feel like I could fly.”

Then he turned to her. Morgan watched his eyes roam her whole face, including her scar, but she didn't flinch away, or brush her hair over it. She let him drink it all in, everything that she was.

“You're really beautiful,” he said through a breath.

He drew closer to her. She smelled a minty aftershave and realized he had groomed himself for her, and she wanted to weep in happiness. His eyes were a deep, warm brown. Her breathing shallowed with his delicious proximity, and she thought she might faint and if she did, so what? He would catch her. He could save her from anything.

She opened her lips to him.

In moments he was shrugging out of his leather jacket, stealing kisses from her as he did so. He balled up the jacket and put it on the floor behind her and while she wondered why, he was tipping her back to the floor, her head nestled in the jacket.

He pressed his body against her, and she could feel him hard through his jeans. This made her groan, as she also groaned when he raked his hands across her chest, then under her shirt.

She was exploding. No one had ever brought this out in her, and no one else ever could . . .

He lifted her head with one strong hand and pulled off her T-shirt. The room was chilly, and goose bumps raced across her arms. He reached behind her and deftly unsnapped her bra. He groaned aloud at the sight of her breasts and covered them each with kisses.

Then he was working away at her pants, and the zipper was stuck.

A spike of panic jolted through the electricity crackling between them. She had not expected to go all the way just now, she hadn't thought, he seemed so hesitant to even meet . . . He finally got the zipper down and leaned over her again, so that he nearly eclipsed all the light in the room.

She flashed on her first time with David, when she'd been scared, and cried after.

He was whispering something in her ear.

“What?” she asked.

“Are you on the pill? I don't have any condoms . . .”

“Yes,” she answered, relieved that this was true.

Her body wanted this. She could feel that wanting, dragging her to him. Yet her heart was clanging away like an alarm bell.

He'd finally gotten her pants off, and then Morgan had no more time to think.

No turning back.

Some things you couldn't undo.

The hard floor dug into her back, and the zipper from his jacket was scratching her ear. She felt her thrill fading. She tried to move to get into a better position, but he was nearly crushing her against the tile.

Soon he sucked in a sharp breath and cringed, shuddering, and then rolled off her to one side.

Morgan felt shaky, not to mention, unsatisfied.

Then he walked his hand down her abdomen, and she spied a wicked grin on his face. He reached down and touched her in a way that made her gasp out loud.

“Relax,” he whispered. “It's okay.”

And so she did. She closed her eyes until her body arched and stars burst in the darkness behind her closed lids, and she heard her own voice cry out far too loud. Then his hand clapped hard over her mouth.

Her eyes snapped open. He released her, then whispered, “Sorry I did that, but you were so loud. . . .”

Then he smiled, one corner of his cheek dimpling. “You sure liked that, didn't you?”

Morgan felt like she was liquid; she could be poured into a bowl. He'd made her feel better than anyone ever had.

Given this, she failed to understand why she felt so queasy, watching him tuck his penis back into his pants and start handing her back her clothes.

 

They'd decided he should walk out, first, slipping out the side door.

That left her alone in the practice room. She thought about actually practicing—though she hadn't yet figured out how she'd be able to go through with performing her solo without the invented accompanist—but the brief moments she sat behind her cello felt empty. So she packed it away.

She reached for the light switch in the practice room as she was leaving and cast a glance back, staring at the spot on the floor where they had just been sprawled a few minutes ago.

She was starting down the hall toward the lobby when it occurred to her she could walk out the side door with the practice room key in her hand.

The kid behind the desk was probably supposed to take her ID or something to get the key back, but he hadn't. If she went right out that side door, which she already knew did not have an alarm . . . no one would ever know where the key had gone.

She slipped out the side door and blinked hard in the surprising bright sun; when she'd arrived, the day had been shrouded in a woolly gray.

The clouds were receding just ahead of the early winter sunset. All the power of the setting sun was pouring out through a crack between the edge of the clouds and the horizon. The light bathed everything in gold. She froze, transfixed. The word
phantasmagoric
drifted into her mind. Then,
preternatural
.

It just didn't look possible, yet there it was, right in front of her.

She hurried around the building to her car and stowed her cello in the backseat. From her backpack she retrieved a notebook and a pen and set to work in the driver's seat, before she even started the ignition.

 

Sun will not be restrained

bursts the seam

of the sky

spilling beneath the ashen dome

setting alight the whole golden world