Chapter Twenty-Four

Marge felt like her skin was on fire. At the lake, she had forgotten the mosquito repellent and watched as her flesh became one big buffet for a swarm of blood suckers. She almost admired their valiant efforts to feast, seeing that the days were so hot, the little buggers looked like their wings were sweating. 

They were back home now, and even though the lake had been a beautiful reprieve, Marge felt the weight of reality as sharp as the stinging in her skin.

What would happen to Travis?

When she had gotten the call from Franklin, she could barely believe it. Travis was a good boy. He wasn’t like his cousin, Douglas, who wore his pants practically around his backside and once pretended to shoot at her with his hand in the shape of a gun.

“I don’t like that boy,” she had told Travis, not caring whether or not Travis considered him kin. Marge knew what evil felt like, and she swore she could feel it emanating out of Douglas’s pores. Travis had just shrugged, which told Marge everything she needed to know.

“He’s getting the hang of it,” Walt said, walking in from his session in the shed with Garrett. Garrett was holding a clay bowl delicately in his hands and gave what Marge suspected was the equivalent of a smile.

“Well, would you look at that,” Marge said, studying the bowl’s fine structure. The bottom was thick and round, and the sides seamlessly fanned out into the thin lip of the bowl. She never thought she’d see something like that, not from her son. But marrying Walt and having Garrett see a play therapist at her husband’s assistance had changed the course of Garrett’s trajectory. And here he was now, giving her a piece of himself.

“We need to paint it and then seal it, but it will be all good to set out soon. I told you that kiln wasn’t a silly idea.” 

“Proved me wrong,” Marge said as Walt stooped in to kiss her. He was still the Walt she knew, even if he’d managed a little wear and tear in the eleven years since they had rekindled their friendship. One bad back and two knee replacements later, he was the same old Walt, loving her through every hardship life had thrown her way. And boy, were there many.

Marge started pouring some Cheerios into a bowl for her son, no spoon. Garrett had come to hate the feel of utensils and mostly ate with his hands. He was no longer a boy but a full-grown man. He had turned twenty-three last fall, the kind of math Marge loathed doing because it always reminded her that her daughter was growing older too.

“So, what’s the plan?” she asked her husband as he sat down and placed the clay bowl between him and Garrett. He looked refreshed, partly due to spending so much time at the lake teaching his adopted son how to fish and partly due to the way Walt could easily see the bigger picture.

“We can follow up with George. See if they’ve decided on a hearing yet.” Marge’s stomach went south for multiple reasons. She didn’t like that they had hired George again. The man was a good man, someone Walt had known for a long time now, but his face was a reminder of what had happened all those years ago when they had needed his help the first time. Marge also didn’t like the waiting. Her grandson was being held at some detention facility, waiting for a trial and Marge could do nothing about it but make futile calls to a lawyer who most likely hadn’t heard anything. She got angry about it, and Walt was good enough to let her get it out. But he also didn’t let her sit in it either. Hence the lake trip, which was worthwhile no matter how bad she itched.

“Stop scratching,” Walt said, giving her a teasing smile.

“Oh, you couldn’t tell I was scratching,” she said.

“Says the woman about to knock over the table.” She smiled at him, wondering how God had managed to give her so much even in the midst of her storm. His face grew serious, and Marge prepared her body for what she knew he’d ask.

“Have you told her yet?” Walt asked.

“It’s only been a week,” Marge said, pretending to be enthralled by the back of the Cheerios box.

“Two. Two weeks, Marge. She deserves to know. He’s her son.” 

The old Marge would have blustered back, “Don’t you think I know that?” But the new Marge, the one who had been re-baptized ten years ago, this time with the full intention of giving all her hardest parts to God, just said, “I know.” The news about Whitney and Jamal was so heinously devastating, Marge had lost all sense of herself. She was too numb to be grateful at the time, but she knew, looking back, that God had orchestrated her meeting Walt again at the exact right moment. Because if it hadn’t been for Walt, Marge was sure she would have died of a heart attack.

“I know you know, sweetheart. Just pray on it.” He got up from the table and kissed the top of her head. Garrett looked bored by his bowl of cereal, so Marge scooted it over and started picking at the little crunchy o’s. Walt took Garrett by the hand.

“Now if you don’t mind, the men have some painting to do.” Marge nodded and smiled, her heart still caught in the past. It was Franklin who had called. He had received a call from the Dean of Students after it had happened. He had described everything in his slow, straightforward way, but Marge still had trouble processing it. A gun? Whitney? Murder? She felt like a four-year-old trying to spell words for the first time. Nothing made sense to the point that she didn’t even wail her anger. She just told him thank you, like he had called to compliment her on her pot roast. She didn’t even have the brainpower to ask Franklin how he was doing or what was supposed to happen next. 

It was when she had called Walt that evening—after he was back home from the bakery, hours after their breakfast date—that the wailing began. He had come right over and had done what he had promised to do. He sat with her.

The details were a blur. Walt had taken care of all of those right down to hiring his friend George Jennings, a defense attorney who Walt sometimes bowled with. It was something he didn’t have to do but outright insisted. From there, they had the trial, and Marge mostly remembered the way her back ached in the wooden pew-like seats. She also remembered being cross-examined by the prosecutor who made her out to be nothing but welfare trailer trash who taught her daughter the fine art of revenge. Despite George’s sound instruction before her time on the stand, Marge had been so flustered by that lawyer woman, she spit out a defense against her accusations and was threatened by the judge to be held in contempt of court. That had smoldered the flame, but it hadn’t healed the burn. 

They took her daughter. And Marge wasn’t so blind to think it was all the court’s fault. She knew Whitney had a heavy hand in it, probably Jamal too to some degree, not to mention an entire society that looked down on them. But most of all, Marge blamed herself.

It was why she couldn’t gather the courage to call her daughter. She couldn’t imagine her in a cell, small and cold and alone. She didn’t want to think about the evil things that happened in a place like that, especially to somebody she loved.

So, Marge decided to write a letter.