Valentine(62)

I hear you’ve been having a hard time of things. You feeling okay?

Yes, I am. I say, But I’m wondering what the hell he’s heard.

How are things out at the ranch? Y’all losing many cows to these heel flies?

Blowflies, I correct him.

Oh, I beg your pardon, Mrs. Whitehead. Blowflies.

My husband has lost nearly his entire stock.

Whew! Clemens pulls a handkerchief from his pocket and dabs at his forehead. I’m so sorry to hear that. Please give Robert my regards. It’s a nasty business, these bugs—he folds the handkerchief and slides it into his jacket and then turns his smile on me—I’ll bet you and the children are a real comfort to him out there. Bet he loves coming home at night and seeing your beautiful face. Clemens slaps his forehead and glances in the general direction of the jury. I look at them too and realize with a start that there are only two women in the room—Mrs. Henderson and me. We don’t belong here, I think. This room isn’t for us.

Oh, I beg your pardon, Mrs. Whitehead, Clemens says. I plumb forgot that you and the children are living in town now.

Yes, I say. We moved to town in April. We only came to town because of him, I tell the court. I explain that seeing Dale Strickland, and what he did to Gloria Ramírez, made me want to take my daughter and leave. Then I mention Ginny Pierce, who might be gone for good. I talk about Raylene McKnight, who took half the family savings, two suitcases, and her ten-year-old son, and flew from Midland to Dallas to Atlanta to London to Melbourne, Australia. Imagine all those layovers, I tell the court before Judge Rice asks me to please, please, please get on with my story. Young lady, he says, I don’t like complicated tales, and what does this have to do with today’s task? The answer is nothing—this has nothing to do with Gloria Ramiréz. Still, I feel my face grow warm, and I think, This is my story, you old rooster. Y’all can sit and listen for a few minutes. Instead I say, yes sir, and tug at my waistband.

Well, it’s a shame to let this little bit of trouble run you out of your own house, Scooter says. When this matter is settled, I hope you feel like you can go back out there and be with your husband, where you belong.

Mr. Clemens, I don’t think that’s really any of your—

Keith shakes his head very slightly, and I imagine what he’d say if he were standing next to me. Don’t let him get your goat, Mary Rose.

How’s that new son of yours?

He’s fine. Thank you.

You enjoying your new house here in town—he looks down at his legal pad—on Larkspur Lane?

At the mention of my street, I glance sharply at the defense table. Strickland keeps his eyes turned toward the table in front of him, but there is a slight smile on his face. If he ever gets the chance, he will drive straight to my house. He will park his truck in my driveway, and this time he won’t even have time to take his hand off the steering wheel before I shoot him in the face.

Larkspur Lane, Clemens says. Ain’t that where Corrine Shepard lives?

For a man that doesn’t live here in Odessa, I tell him, you seem to know everybody and everything.

He chuckles, and I want to knock his teeth in.

Corrine keeping busy?

I guess so.

I hear she’s a hoot, always cutting people off in traffic, getting the ladies in an uproar at church, but I guess her family’s been here since Odessa was just a pee stop on the Texas & Pacific, so y’all get to keep her. He looks over at the jury. Several men smile and shake their heads.

How have you been getting along with your new neighbors, Mrs. Whitehead?

At that, Keith Taylor sighs loudly and gets to his feet. Judge, is there some point to this line of questioning?

Judge Rice has been sitting with his head leaned against one hand and his eyes closed. Now he sits up straight in his chair and looks at me. I heard you gave Grace Cowden what-for at church not too long ago, he says.

Keith’s shoulders are all the way up around his neck, and he is frowning at the notepad in front of him.

My wife is still talking about it. The judge laughs. You gals! Y’all look for trouble coming and trouble going. And speaking of my wife, Mr. Clemens, come one o’clock, I’m meeting Mrs. Rice for lunch at the Country Club. You have some pertinent questions for Mrs. Whitehead?

Scooter Clemens nods solemnly. Yes sir, thank you. Mrs. Whitehead, can you tell us how far your house is from Farm to Market, Number 182?

The old ranch road? I ask him.

Ranch road, he says. No, ma’am, I mean FM182.

Okay, I shrug. Everybody out here calls it the ranch road.

Well, Judge Rice doesn’t. And neither do I. He looks at the jury like they have just shared an inside joke, and my pantyhose suddenly feel real tight against my belly, still loose from my pregnancy. I think about Aimee Jo and my new son, barely four months old, both of them at home with Mrs. Shepard so I can come do my civic duty, talk about this awfulness. I didn’t ask for this trouble. It came to me. I didn’t go looking for it. Then my breasts begin to itch and burn because I haven’t fed the baby in nearly four hours, and I start to worry that I might be shamed in front of these men if my milk should leak through the Kleenex I tucked into my bra. So I tell Scooter that Farm to Market wasn’t what I meant to say at all. Everybody knows you call it the ranch road, unless you’re from someplace else, which I guess he is, since his boots don’t look like they’ve ever stepped in a single cow patty. The jury starts laughing, and I remind them all that I was the first to see Gloria Ramírez alive that Sunday morning.