The Row(4)
“Did you do anything fun today?” Mama clears her throat and lifts her chin as she puts her bowl on the table and takes her seat. I can see in her eyes that our previous discussion is now over.
“I did some reading,” I answer, knowing that she won’t be pleased if she feels like I sat around all day, content with my newly unemployed status.
“Oh? What did you read?” Her smile is hard, but the tone in her voice has a softer edge. She won’t say out loud that she understands why I quit, but she does. Her job may be stable now, but it hasn’t always been. And I know from her stories that she’s had to work twice as hard just to get people to look at how competent she is instead of who she’s married to.
Like Mama always says: If you make yourself priceless, people can’t throw you away.
“It was The Count of Monte Cristo.” I swirl some spaghetti around on my fork, but don’t take a bite.
Mama’s frown is back. “Again? A book about an innocent man in prison, Riley? Don’t you think you should try reading something new?”
“I like it.” I shrug, and then decide it’s my turn to change the subject. “Are you still coming with me to the appeal hearing on Thursday?”
Mama nods as she pokes at her spaghetti. “Yes. I arranged for someone else to cover for me for a couple of hours. Should I come pick you up on my way to the courthouse?”
“Sure.” I’m relieved I won’t be alone this time. I look down and realize that I’ve just been swirling the spaghetti around in my bowl and haven’t actually taken a bite. My stomach is rolling into a tight knot now, and it has nothing to do with hunger.
Maybe bringing up the appeal at dinner hadn’t been my brightest idea.
Mama’s hand closes over my fingers, stopping them from clutching my fork a little too tight.
“Whatever happens at the hearing, we’re going to be just fine.” Mama holds her head high and I wish I could sap a little of her resilience through her gaze. When I don’t say anything, she gives my hand a squeeze. “You believe me, Riley?”
I quickly nod and try to convince myself that I mean it. “Yes, Mama.”
3
WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON, my Volkswagen bakes in the Texas sun like one of Mama’s pecan pies. Heat rises from it in waves, but I can guarantee it won’t smell even half as good. I stop on the front porch when I see a white paper tucked inside one of Mama’s planters. No one in our neighborhood has been friendly since they found out who Daddy was about a month after we’d moved in. Since then we’ve received lovely messages like this occasionally. I consider just throwing it away, knowing from experience that I don’t want to see what it contains, but curiosity gets the better of me and I carefully unfold it.
It’s exactly the kind of message I was expecting.
People who support murderers don’t belong here. Get out of our neighborhood!
Shoving my sunglasses farther up my nose with a sigh, I toss the note in the trash can before speed-walking down my driveway and unlocking the car door. I take a deep breath and open it, stepping back so the wave of heat escaping from inside doesn’t blast me across the face.
Almost as if to spite my efforts, a wind hot as blazes kicks up like it came from the face of the sun itself. God, even the breezes in Texas can be hotter than hell. Instead of cooling me off, it makes sweat drip down the back of my neck.
I see my neighbor Mary walk out of her house three doors down, and I wave. She raises her hand automatically to wave back, but then recognizes me and quickly drops it back to her side when she sees her mother coming out after her. Mrs. Jones ushers her to her car, shaking her head and whispering in low tones the whole way. I can practically hear her clucking from here. Ducking my head, I ignore the sting of it and pretend not to care what they might be saying about me.
I watch them drive down the street as my car airs out a bit. It’s always like this. We’ve moved three times around Houston—new neighborhoods, new schools, new friends. The same three things always happen with the kids at school. First, they eventually find out about Daddy, and that alone weeds out the vast majority. The few who aren’t driven away by him being on death row are strangely obsessed with it. All they want to do is ask questions about what it’s like to have a father on death row. Which is weird, but at least I have someone to hang out with—until their parents find out and forbid them to see me or come to our house. That cuts out almost everyone.
Only two remained after that, Kali and Rebecca. They were the two who didn’t seem to care on any level about my dad—the two who felt like they were my friends just for me. That’s part of what made it so hard when my mom and I moved to the other side of town, away from Kali in seventh grade. She made new friends and we lost touch. Rebecca’s dad was in the army at Joint Base San Antonio, and then they were transferred to a base in South Dakota. I still get letters from her occasionally, but not often.
The neighbors usually went straight from finding out the truth to wanting us gone. Not all of them left nasty notes, but none of them were what I’d call friendly either.
Eventually I think I got tired of being rejected and started rejecting everyone else before they got a chance. Keeping people at a bit of a distance may be lonely sometimes, but it can also save a lot of heartbreak.
I punch the buttons to roll down all the windows simultaneously. I throw the blanket I keep over my seat into the back with a little more force than usual. When I climb in, I flip the visor down with a grunt to block the glare blinding me as it bounces off the hood of the car, forgetting for an instant about the old and warped photo of Daddy that I hide there. I catch it with gently cradled hands.