Rage

“Troy’s supporters,” I said.

“Spiritual advisers,” said Cherish Daney.

“Ministers?”

“Not yet,” said Drew. “We’re theology students, at Fulton Seminary. Doctor, thanks so much for being there for Troy. He needs all the support he can get.”

I said, “Are you ministering to Rand Duchay as well?”

“We will if we’re asked. Wherever we’re needed- ”

Sydney Weider said “Let’s get going” and gripped Jane Ha

Cherish Daney said, “We’d better get going to see Troy.”

Her husband looked at his sports watch. “Oh, boy, we’d better.”

Cherish moved toward Jane Ha

Ha

Drew Daney said, “Good to meet you, Doctor. Good luck.”

The two of them walked off toward the jail’s electric gate, keeping up a brisk pace, arm in arm.

Sydney Weider watched them for a few seconds, expressionless, then she turned to me. “Getting another interview room in the jail is going to be a hassle. How about I let you guys talk in my car?”

Jane Ha

“Is there anything you want to tell me, Ms. Ha

She didn’t answer.

“Ma’am?”

Staring at the instrument panel, she said, “Don’t let them kill Troy.”

Flat voice, slight twang. A plea, but no passion.

“Them,” I said.

She scratched her arm through her sleeve, rolled up the fabric, and worked on bare, flaccid skin. More tattoos embroidered her forearm, crude and dark and gothic. Weider had probably bought her the fresh clothes, dressed her up with an eye toward camouflage.

“In prison,” she said. “When they send him up, he’s go

“What kind of bad name?”

“Baby killer,” she said. “Even though he didn’t do it. The niggers and the Mexicans will say it’s cool to get him.”

“Troy didn’t kill Kristal,” I said, “but his reputation will put him in danger in prison.”

She didn’t answer.

I said, “Who did kill Kristal?”

“Troy’s my baby.” She held her mouth open, as if needing more breath. Behind the desiccated lips were three teeth, brown and attenuated. I realized she was smiling.

“I did the best I could,” she said. “You kin believe that or not.”

I nodded.

“You don’ believe me,” she said.

“I’m sure raising a son alone was hard.”

“I got rid of the others.”

“The others?”

“I got knocked up four times.”

“Abortions?”

“Three. The last one hurt me.”

“You kept Troy.”

“I felt like I deserved it.”

“Deserved having a child.”

“Yeah,” she said. “That’s a woman’s right.”

“To have a child.”

“You don’t believe that?”

“You wanted Troy,” I said. “You did your best raising him.”

“You don’t believe that. You’re go

“I’m going to write a report about Troy’s psychological status- what’s going on in his head- and give it to the judge. So anything you can tell me about Troy could help.”

“You sayin’ he’s crazy?”

“No,” I said. “I don’t think he’s one bit crazy.”

The directness of the answer startled her. “He’s not,” she insisted, as if we remained in dispute. “He’s real smart. He always was smart.”

“He’s very bright,” I said.

“Yeah,” she said. “I want him to go to college.” She turned and shot me another smile, closemouthed, subtle. Its arc matched the coil of snake on her neck and the effect was u

Troy had talked about getting rich. Unperturbed. As if the charges against him were an inconvenience along the road to affluence. His mother’s delusions made my eyes hurt.

She placed her hands on the BMW’s steering wheel. Pressed down on the inactive gas pedal. Muttered, “This is somethin’.”

“The car?”

She eyed Weider through the windshield. “You think she’s go

“She seems to be a good lawyer.”

“You don’ ever answer a question, do you?”

“Let’s talk about Troy,” I said. “You want him to go to college.”

“He ain’t goin’ there now. You’re sending him to prison.”

“Ms. Ha

“The judge hates him.”

“Why do you say that?”

She reached over and touched my arm. Stroked it. “I know men. They’re all hate and jumping.”

“Jumping?”

“On women,” she said, working her way up toward my shoulder. Touching my cheek. I removed her hand.

She gave me a knowing smile. “If there’s something a man needs, I know it.”

I shifted backward, touched the door panel. “Is there anything you want to tell me about Troy?”

“I know men,” she repeated.

I caught her gaze and held it. She touched the bruise on her cheek. Her lips quivered.

“Where’d you get that?” I said.

“You think I’m ugly.”

“No, but I would like to know- ”

“I used to be hot,” she said. “My tits were like water balloons, I used to dance.” She pressed her palms to her chest.

“Ms. Ha

“You don’t have to call me that. Miz. I’m no Miz.”

“Jane- ”

She wheeled, grabbed my arm again. Claw-fingers bit through the wool of my sleeve. No seductiveness this time. Desperation, as cold fear brightened her eyes and I caught a glimpse of the girl she’d once been.

“Please,” she said. “Troy didn’t kill no baby. The retard did it. Everyone knows it.”

“Everyone?”

“He’s the big one, Troy’s little. Troy’s my little man. It weren’t his fault he hooked up with the retard.”

“Rand’s the guilty one,” I said.

Her grip on my arm tightened further. “Zactly.”

“Did Troy tell you that Rand killed the baby?”

“Yeah.”

I glanced down at her fingers. She coughed and sniffed and removed them.

“He’ll get better,” she said.

“Who will?”

“Troy. You give him a chance and he’ll get better and go to college.”

“You think he’s sick.”

She stared at me. “Everyone’s sick. Being alive’s being sick. We got to be forgiving. Like Jesus.”

I said nothing.

She said, “You understand? About forgiving?”

“It’s a wonderful quality,” I said. “Being able to forgive.”

“I forgive everyone.”

“Everyone who hurts you?”

“Yeah, why not? Who cares what happened before? Same with Troy, what he did is over. And he didn’t even do it. The retard did.”

She turned in the seat, bumped her hip against the steering wheel and flinched. “You go

“I’ll do my best to be truthful.”

“You should,” she said. Leaning closer. Her scent was a strange mixture of old laundry and too-sweet perfume. “You could look like him.”

“Like who?”

“Jesus.” She smiled, ran a tongue over her lips. “Yeah, definitely. Put a beard on you, a little more hair and yeah, sure. You could be a real cute Jesus.”