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Authors: Eric Walters

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Innocent (9 page)

BOOK: Innocent
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Fifteen

JAMES AND I
stood by the car as Richie opened the cage, took out a bird and spoke a few words to it, so softly that I couldn’t hear what he was saying. He then held the bird up and released it, and it fluttered away.

Some of the pigeons flew almost exactly in the direction James said was back to Kingston, back to their coop. Others circled around before going off in that direction, and a couple of them looked like they were going to Kingston by way of the North Pole.

With each release, Richie marked in a notebook the exact time—to the second—when the bird was set free. The race was with dozens of other pigeons being released from locations across the city of Belleville. Now we’d drive and the pigeons would fly the fifty miles back to Kingston. Of course, they’d have a direct route—as the crow flies—and we’d follow the roads. James said there was no question they’d get there first, but Ralph was waiting for them, to mark the exact time of their arrival. Then, as Richie explained it, “Distance divided by time equals speed,” and the winning bird would be determined.

With the last pigeon gone, we got into the car, Richie in the back, directly behind James, and me in the front, beside James. He started the engine—it purred like a kitten—and we were off, heading back toward Kingston.

That meant the end of an idea I’d been toying with. We were more than halfway to Hope. I’d fantasized about asking Richie if we could drive there. But really, it wasn’t like any of the people I cared for were even there anymore—they were scattered to the winds. Still, there would be lots of people in the town who knew me. Since before I’d climbed on that outbound train, I’d thought about coming back, and what better way than in a Rolls-Royce? I’d just roll down the window, lean out and wave to people on the street, and—well, the whole thing was just silly.

Richie, of course, wouldn’t want to go anywhere except back to his pigeons. There was a whole routine involved. Routines were the foundations of Richie’s life. There were dozens and dozens of them, and they regulated everything from what foods he ate to what clothing he wore and where he went.

Familiarity made him feel safe. I understood that. Didn’t it make everybody and everything seem safer?

In my mind, I’d replayed dozens and dozens of times the conversation I’d had in my room with Edward. The parts about my mother were the most important, but his warning about not trusting anybody—even Richie, maybe especially Richie—had stayed in my head. Mostly Richie was nothing but harmless, almost like a child, but I’d seen a spark of defiance more than just the one time with Officer Gibson. The image of Richie swinging that shovel was burned into my memory. He’d not done anything even close to that since then, but I’d noticed that he became upset when his routines were broken or altered. He didn’t do well with change.

I’d thought about how close he was to my mother and me, and I’d begun to realize how hard it would have been for him when we left. If it was hard for Mrs. Remington to understand and accept, it must have been that much harder for Richie.

I’d also thought about David—Officer Gibson. I’d been to town twice since he came to the house. He wasn’t the only one keeping an eye out. I was looking for him. I would have died of embarrassment if he or anybody else knew that. But he wasn’t much older than me, and was it wrong for me to want some friends my own age?

We continued to drive. Each second was farther from Hope—the home I’d known—and closer to Kingston—the home I was getting to know. I was traveling from past to future—really, from my recent past to both my future and my more distant past. Almost every day I learned more about my life and my mother’s life. This was the perfect time, in the car, to see if Richie could tell me even more. I turned around in the seat so I was facing him.

“How often did my mother go with you to the races?”

“She went seventeen times.”

I wasn’t surprised that he knew the exact number.

“And this is your seventh time,” he said.

“I went when I was little?”

Richie went on to talk about the times I’d been out with him. I looked over at James, and he nodded in agreement.

“You always liked my pigeons. I tell them what you told them.”

“I don’t understand,” I said.

“Before they fly away, I tell them what you told them.”

I’d noticed him putting the birds close to his face, mumbling something to them, but I’d never made out the words.

“I’m sorry, but I don’t remember. What did I say to them? What did you say to them?”

“What I always say to them. ‘I love you, little angel.’”

“I don’t remember that.” But somehow it did seem familiar. Not like something I’d said to the pigeons but like something I’d heard. “It’s sweet of you to say that to them.”

“It is sweet,” James said. “It’s also what your mother always said to you, Lizzy.”

“She did,” Richie said. “You were her little angel.”

I kept being stunned again and again by details about my past, and this was so personal, so sweet.

“When you said that to the pigeons the first time, they did really well,” Richie said. “They won. That’s why I still say it to them.”

“Not that they always win,” James said. “Maybe next time you should have Lizzy say it to them.”

“Would you do that?” Richie asked.

“Of course I would.” I’d say to them what my mother had always said to me. I just wished I could remember her voice. Wait—everybody said that I sounded just like her. To hear her voice, all I needed was to hear my voice. But maybe the voice didn’t matter as long as I knew the words, what she’d called me—I was her little angel. That made me feel warm inside, like I’d been brought closer to her, and I decided right there that I was going to say those words to my children someday. They would be my angels. All of them.

Richie started to talk about the pigeons and their race results. He listed, race by race, pigeon by pigeon, their times and speeds. These details couldn’t possibly be of interest to anybody except other pigeon racers. They were mind numbing, which wasn’t the worst possible thing, as it was becoming increasingly hard to turn off my brain at night and go to sleep because of all the new information that kept flowing in.

We moved along Highway 2, the lake to our right. We entered Kingston, and Richie leaned over the front seat. I knew he wasn’t interested in conversation but wanted to see the speedometer to make sure that James had slowed down to the speed limit. Of course, James had. I knew that not just because I knew how James drove, but because Richie didn’t say anything. If we were traveling too fast he would have mentioned it and insisted that James slow down. Instead he kept up his running monologue about race results.

I stared out the window. The stores looked vaguely the same as the ones in Hope, but none were familiar to me. I’d been here for almost a month and had only been off the grounds a few times. Mrs. Meyers referred to it as
going to Kingston
. Even though the house was in Kingston, it seemed more like we were on our own little island, almost a separate country or kingdom, surrounded by walls. It was a peaceful kingdom ruled by a kind queen who treated us well.

“There is where your father lives,” Richie said.

“What did you say?” I asked, not believing I had heard him correctly.

“He said nothing,” James snapped.

“Your father is there,” Richie said, pointing out the window.

James let out a big sigh.

“That’s where he lives,” Richie said.

I looked in the direction he was pointing. A high gray stone wall stretched along the street. What could Richie mean? How could my father…? And then I saw the turrets. At the top of the wall there was barbed wire, and I caught a brief glimpse of a man in one of the turrets. He was wearing a uniform and carrying a rifle. In a flash we passed by a gate and the sign announcing what this place was:
Kingston Penitentiary
.

All the time I’d spent learning about my past, living in the place where we’d lived before my mother’s death, I’d been focused on her and on myself. I hadn’t even spent a second wondering what had happened to my father—the man who had murdered my mother, the man who had taken her away from me, who had robbed me of not only my mother but also my childhood. And he was there, right behind that wall. Somehow, I’d just assumed he was dead too. And, really, he was. Dead to me.

We continued to drive, the wall to my right soon replaced by shops and houses again. The prison was gone. He was gone. I moved slightly in my seat and there it was again in the side-view mirror—the place where my father lived.

Sixteen

I WALKED OUT
the front gate and stopped for a moment to look back, across the perfectly manicured lawn and tended flower beds, at the main house. It looked so beautiful. Like something out of a movie. I’d have to tell Ralph that. He worked so hard. On those grounds were the only people I knew in the whole area—well, except for Edward and Officer Gibson.

I’d hardly set one foot off the grounds since I’d come here. There had been work to do, of course, but I did have time off. It was just that I’d had no place to go and no one to meet. I didn’t know the city and I didn’t know anybody in it. Back home, the girls and I had sometimes walked around Hope, looking in the shop windows, having ice cream, talking to people we knew, nodding at everyone else. On these streets, I would be alone. Alone wasn’t bad. Sometimes I’d sneaked out of the orphanage at night and gone for long walks. They had been calming and reassuring, but part of being reassured was knowing that my bed and my friends and Mrs. Hazelton were all there waiting for me.

I started walking and felt uneasy as the house receded from view and then disappeared completely. I knew where I was going—the bank—and how to get there. Richie had told me in great detail. He had given me the address—178 King Street—and made me repeat both the address and the walking route back to him. I’d almost asked Richie to come with me. I’m sure he would have, but I also knew he didn’t like to go into Kingston all that much. I wondered if I should have asked to bring his shovel along with me—as silly as that sounded. There was nothing to fear walking down the main streets of Kingston in broad daylight.

I chuckled at the thought of Officer Gibson pulling up beside me as I marched along with the shovel on my shoulder, and imagined what he’d say to me and what I’d say back to him. Carrying the shovel might have made it more likely that he’d recognize me. Another silly thought, because I was sure he’d know me.

It wasn’t just Richie who didn’t seem to like leaving the estate. Ralph hardly ever left his gardens. Nigel seemed to go into Kingston just for groceries and only if he couldn’t convince Mrs. Meyers to go for him. Mrs. Meyers herself said she had no interest in going except for those occasional shopping trips when she had no choice. She said she was content, and, indeed, she did seem that. She often had a book by her side or shared one with Mrs. Remington, reading out loud to her. Sometimes I’d be dusting or cleaning or polishing within earshot of her reading. It was such a lovely way to spend time.

Mrs. Remington always seemed to stay at home. A few friends visited, as well as Edward, but I didn’t think she’d left in the entire time I’d been there. I understood. She had everything she could possibly need right there, and if she didn’t have something, she could send somebody else to get it.

The only one who seemed to want to leave was James. He looked for any excuse to drive his car. He said having a car like that and not driving it was like keeping a bird in a cage. I knew that if I asked, he actually would drive me to Hope—assuming he could get permission.

Today I finally had a reason to leave and a place to go. Pressed into my purse were my wages. Each Friday afternoon we all gathered together and stood in a line, waiting to receive our weekly pay packages from Mrs. Remington. In my envelope each week was $35. I now had five weeks’ worth of wages, for a total of $175. I still had every cent I’d been paid, because there really was nothing that I needed. My meals were provided, I paid no rent, and I had no expenses. Along with that, I had what was left of the money Mrs. Hazelton had given me. Altogether I had $297.

It was almost impossible to believe I had that much money, but I knew it was true. I’d counted it repeatedly, not because I thought some of it would go missing, but because it was just so amazing to think I had that much. I’d never even
seen
that much money before. Until now, I’d been keeping it in the bottom drawer of my dresser. Mrs. Meyers had finally convinced me—basically ordered me—to open a bank account. It did seem like the proper thing to do, the
grown-up
thing to do.

As I neared the downtown, there was much more activity. There were more cars on the street and more people on the sidewalks. Most of the people passed without giving me a sideways glance when I smiled at them, but others were friendly and nodded and smiled in return or offered a “good morning.” Along the street the little shops were coming to life; shades were pulled up and doors opened. Some shoppers were already inside. I stopped in front of a dress store whose mannequins, draped in bright, flowery prints, caught my eye.

I looked down at what I was wearing. Drab, dull colors. Somebody else’s clothes, practically the only clothes I owned apart from the two uniforms hanging in the cupboard in my room. Not that I was complaining; many people had less than me. I’d never owned a dress like those in the window. I’d looked at things that fancy in the dress shops in Hope, but there’d never been a reason to go inside. Window-shopping didn’t cost money. Toni and I had often stood outside the stores, admiring the clothes on display, talking about what would look good on us, fantasizing about the time when we’d have the money to buy something. Today I had the money.

I straightened my skirt, took a deep breath and opened the door, a little
ding
of the bell above the door announcing I’d arrived.

An hour later I walked back outside. The sun seemed a little brighter. I stopped, put down the bag I was carrying and turned to look at my reflection in the store window. I could hardly believe it was me. One mannequin was now gone; the dress
it
had been wearing,
I
was now wearing. Flowery and feminine, it flowed and fluttered around me as I turned slightly and made a little twirl. It almost looked like I was in the window.

On my feet were new white shoes with a little heel. I’d also purchased a matching white purse. It couldn’t really be me reflected in the window. I must be looking at a mannequin or a model in a Simpson’s or Eaton’s catalog. It certainly didn’t look like me. But really, who was I?

Was I Betty or Elizabeth Anne or Lizzy or a little angel? Was I an orphan nobody wanted to adopt? Was I the beloved daughter of a wonderful woman who was a loving mother before her life was taken? Was I the daughter of a murderer, the man who took that life, who destroyed
my
life, who ripped my mother away from me, robbing me of that love?

I looked hard at the reflection, deep into the eyes staring back at me, trying to see behind them—and I knew. I was all of those people. I was defined by where I’d been, but I was something else, something more. I was
me
. I turned away from the reflection, picked up the bag of my old things and continued on my way.

My new purse contained what was left of my money—not $297.00 but $274.34. Still much more than I’d ever had before. I’d spent $22.66. I could hardly believe that I’d allowed myself to do that, but it was as if I’d had no choice. The dress was perfect and, at $9.00, didn’t seem that expensive—although I’d never owned anything that cost that much in my life. And I really did need shoes. My old black ones didn’t go with the dress or the season or my age, for that matter—they were the shoes of an older woman. Eight dollars for leather shoes was reasonable. The purse was the finishing touch, and it was on sale for $5.00—a good price.

I gave my best “good morning” and a big smile to the first couple who walked past me. They greeted me in an equally friendly manner. I made a decision right then and there to give everybody a smile. This wasn’t Hope, but there was no reason to believe that people here weren’t just as friendly, just as nice. Besides, how could I not smile? I felt so happy that I had to fight the urge to skip instead of walk. I felt so good, so light, so, well…pretty. When I did return to Hope, when I did see Toni and the other girls again, I’d be wearing this exact outfit.

Deep in my thoughts, I lost count of the number of streets I’d passed—Richie had given me an exact number—but I knew the bank couldn’t be more than a few blocks ahead. Maybe I’d even pass by another dress store and go inside. Not that I’d buy anything, but I could browse. If only Toni were with me. It would have been so much fun trying on clothes, spending time with her, giggling at things only we found funny, making quiet little comments about people we passed. Toni had a way of making me laugh.

I noticed that one side of the road was no longer filled with stores. Instead, there was the high cement wall of the prison. The prison that held the man who had killed my mother. I wanted to look away, I wanted to run away, but I couldn’t. I felt like it was calling out to me, like I was being drawn toward it.

I turned to cross the street and jumped back as a car horn blared and a car zoomed by me, so close that the breeze blew my dress. My heart raced, not just from the close call but from my closeness to the wall. I took a deep breath and steadied myself as I waited for a gap in the traffic. I moved gingerly across the street, the straps of my new shoes digging into the backs of my feet.

I was now in the shadow cast by the wall. It towered above me, blocking out not only the sun but also, it seemed, the sky itself. It was much cooler in the shade, and I had the peculiar feeling that I’d been captured by the wall. Then again, perhaps the chill had less to do with the shade and more to do with how I was feeling. I was scared.

As I walked, I reached out and touched the wall. It was rough and cold against my hand. I knew it had to be very thick. As I moved, I looked straight ahead, only giving the wall a sideways glance.

I came up to the gate, and now I could see through the metal bars and beyond. There really wasn’t much to see—just stone buildings behind a small courtyard. In the distance, a man walked across the space. For a split second a surge of electricity rushed through me—
Is that him
?—until I realized he was in uniform. He was a guard, and within a few more strides, even he was gone. I waited, hoping that somebody else would appear, but nobody did. If I hadn’t seen that one person, it would have seemed like the whole place was deserted.

“Can I help you?”

I jumped at the sound of the voice—male and gruff. Another man dressed in uniform had stepped out of a little doorway to the side of the gate.

“Can I help you?” he asked again. This time his voice was a little softer, but I still didn’t know what to say. “Are you here for a visitation?”

“Visitation?”

“To visit one of the prisoners?”

My mind raced. I should just say no and turn and run away, but I didn’t.

“Gordon Sullivan,” I said.

He looked surprised. “Gord doesn’t get many visitors.”

“You know him?”

“I know everybody in here, especially the long-termers. Go over there and sign in.”

He pointed at a doorway beside the gate.

“You’re late, but there’s a small chance you can still get in, but you have to hurry.”

I jumped forward, thanking him, stumbling in my new shoes. I longed for my old comfortable shoes. I came up to the door, hesitated again, then opened it and stepped inside. I was in a small office, empty except for a uniformed officer standing behind a counter. He scowled at me. I smiled timidly, and his scowl seemed to grow.

“I’m here for visitation.”

“Then you should have arrived on time,” he snapped. “Everybody else has already left.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know.” I started to turn away.

“So stop wasting my time and sign in.” He shoved a piece of paper and a pen across the counter at me.

I took them and started to read. There were three simple lines to fill out:

Name of prisoner to be visited:

Name of visitor:

Relationship to prisoner:

I filled in the first two lines, listing my name as Elizabeth Anne Roberts, and hesitated on the third. Should I say
daughter
? Finally, I put
relative
. That was enough. I handed him back the form.

“Through that door,” he said without even glancing at the form. “Follow the yellow line on the floor until you reach the next officer.”

“Thank you. Thank you for letting me in.”

“Just don’t expect to get in again if you come late.”

I went through a door and down a hall, the yellow line in the middle of the floor my guide. Up ahead was another door. I went to open it, and it was locked. I looked down at the floor. The line led right up and under the door and through a small wired window. I could see that it continued on the other side. There was a buzzing sound. I pushed the door again, and it opened. On the other side was another counter, this time with two guards behind it.

“You’re late,” one of them said.

“The guard out front said it was okay for me to come,” I said.

“It’s not a problem for us,” the other guard said. “We’re just surprised. Stan doesn’t let in anybody who’s late. He must have liked you.”

The other guard laughed. “Stan doesn’t like anybody, so this must be a first.” He put a big plastic basket up on the counter. “Put all your things in here.”

“Everything?” I asked.

BOOK: Innocent
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