A String of Beads (Jane Whitefield, #8)(117)

31



The sounds of heavy traffic woke Mattie Sanders. She had never lived in such a noisy place. She didn’t mind getting up, because she had always been an early riser. But here she was in a city where the sirens of fire trucks competed with the horns of the taxi drivers to keep a person from sleeping.

Each morning when she opened her eyes it took a few seconds to place herself on the planet. There was always a surprise that she wasn’t in her house on the reservation where she had lived with Clinton Sanders until he’d died, and where she had raised their boy, Jimmy. The sounds her brain had been listening for had been the chirps and warbles of birds, maybe the distant scream of a hawk far overhead, but she heard cars instead, and her mind jumped to Hanover. But after that she had become fully awake and remembered they were in Philadelphia now.

The height of the buildings and the closeness of them made her feel uncomfortable. The hotel was cut off and insulated from the ground and the water. Even though it jutted up into the sky, the windows were all sealed and kept out the air. The only way to even tell what the weather was would be to turn on the television set and watch the news.

This morning, as she did every morning, she silently gave thanks that her son was alive, that he was well, and that they were together. She thanked the forces of the universe for sending Jane, and for the girl Chelsea. She gave thanks to the Creator for life, and to his twin brother the Destroyer for holding off her death this long.

Mattie sat up and got out of bed. She went into the bathroom and drew a hot bath. It seemed to loosen the stiffness that came on her overnight, and always made her feel good.

She dried, dressed in clean clothes, and walked out into the living room just as Jane appeared from one of the other bedrooms.

Mattie said, “Where’s Chelsea?”

“When I saw her last she was in Jimmy’s room helping him pack.”

In her heart Mattie knew that it was the truth, but also considerably less than the truth. Chelsea must have spent the night in Jimmy’s room, even if she was helping him pack now. It didn’t matter. “Pack? Are we moving again?”

Jane said, “We’re moving out, but not to another hiding place. It’s time to go home.” She went to the table by the window, picked up the laptop and refreshed its display, then handed it to Mattie. “Here. Read this. It’s the Buffalo News. Daniel Crane is dead and the police found his fingerprints on the rifle.”

JAMES SANDERS’S ATTORNEY, KAREN ALVAREZ, stood before the Honorable Mary Ann O’Riordan in the courtroom. “Your honor,” she said, “I have a copy of the cell phone activity on the account of James Sanders’s mother, Mrs. Mattie Sanders, for the period June sixteen through July ten of this year. It’s certified by Mr. David Altner of Central Mobile Company. As you will see, Mrs. Sanders attempted to call her son eighty-nine times during the period, but a connection was never made. All of her calls went to his voice mail.”

“And Mr. Sanders never thought to call her?”

“No, your honor. When Mr. Sanders’s cell phone was lost, he was on a hiking trip through the forests of the Southern Tier of New York and northeastern Pennsylvania. He had no reason to think he was being sought by the police, and had often been out of touch with his mother for a few weeks.”

“There were no pay phones?”

“No, your honor. He was in the forest.”

“And after that?”

“When he called home, he was told that two local men, very distant relatives of his, had been in county jail and learned that there were men getting themselves sent there so they could take revenge on Mr. Sanders for the death of Nicholas Bauermeister. I have their depositions here. My client had only one way to survive, and that was to delay his surrender.”

“That’s an unusual defense.”

“Yes, your honor. It’s an unusual case. He has been cleared of any crime or infraction other than missing a court date in a case that a dozen eyewitnesses have sworn in affidavits was frivolous. He has now voluntarily turned himself in. I request that all charges be dismissed, and that he be allowed to go.”

“Mr. Ferraro?” The judge stared at the assistant district attorney.

“The people concur, your honor.”

The judge turned to Jimmy Sanders. “Then Mr. Sanders, the court dismisses the charge. We also advise you to answer your phone, and to call your mother more frequently. Case dismissed.”

“Thank you, your honor,” said Karen Alvarez.

Jimmy Sanders glanced over his shoulder to look at his mother and his girlfriend, Chelsea, standing beside her. He repeated, “Thank you, your honor,” before his attorney ushered him away from the table and out of the courtroom.

THE NEXT MORNING AN EDGE of the Woods ceremony was performed on the reservation. Jimmy Sanders and his mother, Mattie, stood at the edge of the lawn near the council house beside a small fire, and they both tossed pinches of tobacco into it, so white smoke rose into the air. After a short time, a crowd of friends, relatives, and neighbors came from the council house and walked to the spot to meet them.

Although the people present were taking part in an ancient ritual, they dressed in their usual Saturday clothes, and looked like fifty members of an extended family coming together for a reunion picnic. The Edge of the Woods had once been used to honor and heal warriors returning from distant battles, or to admit important visitors into a Seneca village. It was still used to welcome people at a condolence ritual for the death of a chief and the elevation of his successor. Today the ceremony was meant to celebrate the return of a young man and his mother who had survived terrible danger and come home.