Valentine(64)

Yes.

Yes, what? Beneath those white eyebrows, Judge Rice has turned red as a beet.

Yes, I say.

Yes, what?

I know what he’s looking for. When I was a girl just a few years older than Aimee is now, there was a time when I got into some pretty good squabbles with my daddy, mostly because I wouldn’t stop arguing with him about every little thing. There came a day when we both had had enough and we stood across from each other in the driveway, him asking questions and me looking him right in the eye. I was still about half tickled that I was tall enough to do it, look him in the eye, and I folded my arms across my chest when he asked a question.

I said, Yes.

And he said, Yes, what?

And I smirked, Yep.

He slapped my face. Yes, what?

Yes. He slapped me again. Yes, what?

Yes.

When he slapped me a third time, I told my daddy what he wanted to hear—yes sir—but I never forgot it and I never really forgave him. And I vowed I’d never hit my own kids. Now I look around the courtroom, searching for somebody to stand up with me, to help me make it through this morning. Mr. Ramírez nods slightly, and I wonder what his life here in Odessa has been like since this happened. I wonder about Gloria’s mother and how long it will be before she sees her daughter again. Nothing is more important than this, certainly not my pride. So I look at the judge and I ruck up my lips, and I smile. Yes, sir.

But he’s not done. He says, It is painful to see a young woman—a mother—use that language in a court of law.

Yes, sir.

Thank you. Did that young man threaten you?

Judge, he was like—nothing I have ever seen. It was like the devil himself drove into my front yard. I have never in my life seen such evil.

Clemens is back on his feet. Objection! It’s a yes or no question.

Did he threaten you, Mary Rose, or your family?

No. Sir.

Good girl, Clemens says, and Judge Rice leans back in his chair. He crosses his hands behind his head. Mr. Clemens, do you have any more questions for this young lady?

Just one more. Mrs. Whitehead, were you pointing a gun at Mr. Strickland?

I see Keith sigh in his chair, shuffle some papers around, and lean forward. But I do not look at Strickland. Yes, I was.

*

Victor Ramírez is already standing next to his car with his hand on the door when he sees me running across the parking lot. We’ve got ten minutes before we have to be back in court and even though I’ve hardly run more than a few feet, I am out of breath. I glance down, just to be sure there’s no milk on my blouse, and then step close to Mr. Ramírez, as if standing close to him might make me feel better.

I’m sorry, I say. I want to help Gloria.

Glory, he says and stands looking at the sky, as if I haven’t said a word.

Can I see her and talk with her, ask her if she’s okay?

A small chuckle rises in his throat. No, ma’am, he says. No, you may not. He opens the driver’s side door and sits down. When I try to grab the door, he gently pushes my hand away.

Are you leaving?

Yes, ma’am.

Please, Mr. Ramírez, make her testify.

You people won’t hear what Glory has to say. Do you understand that, Mrs. Whitehead? Then he pulls the door closed and starts the car and drives away.

*

Keith stands up and gives his collar a few good tugs. Mary Rose, can you describe for all of us one more time what Gloria Ramírez looked like when she showed up at your front door that morning?

Yes, I can.

Well, let’s make it quick, Judge Rice says. If I keep the missus waiting and they run out of that prime rib special, I’ll be sleeping outside with my horses tonight. The courtroom erupts with laughter. Dale Strickland laughs, a flat and hollow sound that sets my teeth on edge. Even Mrs. Henderson cracks a smile. Me and Keith Taylor are the only two people in that room who are not laughing.

On my way back to my seat, Strickland reaches out and presses his thumb lightly against my hand. The hair stands up on my arms. A door opens in the back of the courtroom, and a thin shaft of light illuminates the dust motes floating in the air between us.

Keith is moving fast in our direction, but the rest of the court is quiet, or not paying any attention. Or maybe there is plenty of noise and everyone sees, but this is how I will remember it: a silence that makes me want to scream for days.

Mary Rose, Strickland speaks so softly I can barely hear him. His thumbnail scratches gently against my palm. His hands are still cuffed, and I feel the metal against my wrist. Mary Rose, he says—how I hate that he knows my name—I want to tell you how sorry I am for the trouble I’ve brought to you and your family. He smiles, mouth closed, lips pressed tight. When this is all over, he says, I hope to see you again under better circumstances, maybe at your ranch or here in town.

He has spoken so quietly, I’m not even sure I’ve heard him correctly. But I am about to learn something else about Dale Strickland—he’s smarter than me. Because when I answer him, I make sure everybody in the courtroom hears it. Well come on over, I tell him. I will look forward to blowing your fucking head off.

She’s crazy, someone says, and then everyone starts talking all at once, a quick murmur that rolls like thunder across the courtroom. Dale Strickland grins at me, and then Judge Rice slams the butt of his pistol against his desk. His lips are a tight seam. I sure hope your husband can take care of that baby without you tonight, Mrs. Whitehead, he says, because you are in contempt.