One More Knight

Chapter 2

June 10, 1977

Dear Diary,

This is just so unfair! The judge found out about my platform shoes, and did he throw a fit! He says no daughter of his is going to show her face in something so trashy, and besides, I’d probably fall off of them and break an ankle, which is the most ridiculous thing I ever heard of. They’re not trashy. Everybody’s wearing them but me. Colin even says they’re bitchin’, and he’s got the best taste of anybody I know. The judge says they’re just a fad, and a waste of money, but I bought them with my birthday money, so I don’t see how it’s any of his business!

Thought for the Day: It’s the absolute pits, having a judge for a father.

Charly lifted her hands, tried a smile that didn’t work and finally just said, “Hi.”

“Sweet Jesus…sweet Jesus…” Tears had begun to trickle down the woman’s cheeks.

In about another second they were going to be flooding down Charly’s, too. Desperate not to let that happen, she laughed instead, and said in a shaking voice, “Yes, it’s me, Aunt Dobie. It’s me, Charlene. How are you?”

One hand rose slowly to touch Charly’s cheek. “Charlene Elizabeth… is that you?”

Then the same hand hauled off and smacked her hard on the arm. “That is you! Wicked, wicked girl! Never called, nor wrote…I thought you was dead.”

Trembly with relief, Charly rubbed her arm and said, “Ow!”

Aunt Dobie whacked her again for good measure. “I thought you was dead, and here you stand. Come here and let me look at you. Oh, praise the Lord, praise Jesus. My baby’s come home. My baby’s come home.”

And with that, Charly found herself enveloped in loving arms, familiar arms, and in old, familiar scents-Ivory soap and starched cotton clothes, oil of wintergreen and strong coffee laced with a splash, just a splash, of bourbon whiskey-and in the time and place those scents evoked. Just like that, she was a child again, seeking solace and protection in those same strong arms, while inside, her heart quaked with dread.

Because, of course, she wasn’t a child, and had not been in more than twenty years. And not even Dobrina Ralston, the only mother Charly had ever known, was going to make what she’d come to do easier.

“Aunt Dobie,” she began, “is he…is my…?” But her voice was betraying her. She drew herself up straight and tall to give it support, and with a good strong breath behind it, tried again. “Is he here?”

“He is. Yes, he is,” Dobrina crooned, wiping her face with the big wraparound apron she’d worn for all the years Charly could remember. “You just come in here, child. Come in.”

Dobrina backed up into the house, keeping a good firm grip on the arm she was holding as if she thought Charly might be about to bolt and disappear on her for another twenty years. Once she had the door shut solid behind them, she plunged her hand into an apron pocket and pulled out a tissue. She swiped it hastily across her cheeks and nose and then waved it at Charly.

“Stay here, child, you hear me? Stay right here. Don’t you move a muscle, now. I’ll go fetch the judge.” And off she went toward the back of the house, her flat summer shoes slap-slapping down the long hallway. From far away Charly could still hear her muttering “Praise the Lord!” and “Thank you, Jesus!”

In the distance a door closed and the silence settled around her, and suddenly Charly was overwhelmed by feelings, most of which she didn’t understand. How, she wondered, could it all seem so familiar, and yet so strange? Everything was exactly as she remembered, including the smells-a mix of lemon furniture polish and old wood and dusty draperies and pipe tobacco. She felt as if she’d been caught up in a time warp and hurled back into her own childhood. Except that, since she was no longer a child, she didn’t belong in this time, in this place. She was a stranger here. And standing in the house she’d grown up in, she knew a terrible sense of alienation, and loss.

Panic seized her. Lord, she couldn’t face him like this! Not in so vulnerable a state, standing here in the entry hall like a charity case-like somebody come collecting for the heart fund or the March of Dimes!

On the verge of flight, she was suddenly aware of warmth on her cheek, like a kind and comforting touch. Turning, she saw through the open arched doorway on her left that the formal living room-the “front room,” Aunt Dobie had always called it, though the judge preferred “the parlor”-was awash with the last golden light from the setting sun. It was that light, slanting into the hallway, that had reached out to Charly where she stood. Like an omen, perhaps? If she believed in such things.

But maybe, she thought, her panicked heartbeat slowing and her breathing becoming calmer, that would be better. She could confront him there, with her back to the windows so her face would be in shadow, his in the light. Basic interviewer’s strategy. That way he’d be the one at a disadvantage.

She walked through the archway and instantly felt a sense of safety, inspired, perhaps, by the almost awesome gentility of the room. This was too lovely and formal a setting for angry words and recriminations. No memories here of emotional scenes and bitter confrontations.

She turned slowly, taking in the elegance of the high ceilings and wood moldings, the warmth of the beautiful old mantelpiece and hardwood floors, the graciousness of stunning antiques perfectly set against a backdrop of soft spring colors, cream and green and mauve. Here, too, it seemed that nothing had changed, except that maybe now she had a better appreciation for the beauty of it.

But then the arrangement of photographs on the mantelpiece caught her eye. At last here was something that was different. She remembered the candles in their silver candlesticks, and the clock that used to mark the quarter hours with advancing phrases of the Westminster chimes, with the complete chime on each hour following by the tolling. And fresh flowers in the cut crystal vase, picked by Aunt Dobie from whatever the yard and the season had to offer. But in Charly’s memory there had been only one photograph there, the formal portrait, framed in silver and black velvet, of her mother, Elizabeth, who had died the week after Charly was born.

But now there were other pictures there, too. Curious, since she’d never known the judge to be sentimental, she went to take a closer look. The photographs all seemed to be of a boy, the same boy at different ages and stages: a laughing toddler with golden curls, posed with his favorite toy, a top-eared, black-and-white-spotted dog, clutched to his heart; a gap-toothed Little Leaguer in his uniform, holding a glove almost as big as he was; a proud and handsome high-school graduate in cap and gown, the golden curls shorn and darkened to a sandy brown.

How odd, Chatty thought. She stared at the pictures. Who is this? I don’t know this person.

But her world had gone strange and still, like the quiet that precedes a violent storm. She felt it shift, and put out a hand to steady herself, but didn’t feel the mantelpiece beneath her fingers.

But I do. I know this child. I know…

Her body was cold…so cold. She didn’t recognize that phenomenon yet for the symptom of shock it was but only felt pleased that she could be so calm, pleased that she wasn’t falling apart, that her hands were steady, that she felt no pain. She felt nothing at all, in fact. Just that strange, all-consuming, allenveloping cold.

She must have heard something-some sound, a faint gasp, an indrawn breath. She felt herself turn within that cold, silent cocoon to face the man who had come to stand in the arched doorway. Some part of her mind must have recorded the fact that he was heavier than when she’d last seen him, that his hair was whiter, that there were jowls and eye pouches and a slight stoop to his shoulders that hadn’t been there before. That he’d grown old. But none of that registered then. Her world, her perspective, had narrowed to a single laserlike beam, from her eyes to his-eyes that, though she’d always hated to acknowledge the fact, were so very much like her own.

She’d tried not to plan what she would say to him, knowing that the first words out of his mouth would send it all flying out the window anyway. As it turned out, it wouldn’t have mattered if she’d written a speech and tattooed crib notes on the palms of her hands. Now nothing mattered. Except…

The words came quietly from her mouth, but in more than a whisper. Almost a growl. “Who is this?”

She realized only men that she was clutching the graduation portrait in both hands, holding it before her like a shield.

Judge Charles Phelps drew himself up, breathing in through his nostrils in a way she’d seen him do so many times before when he was about to deliver a pronouncement-a broadside, an edict, an ultimatum, a sentence. Though he was wearing no jacket or tie, just shirtsleeves and suspenders on this warm June evening, she could almost see his judicial robes.

For once the old intimidation tactic failed to have its intended effect on her. Still focused with that laserlike intensity on one thing, and one thing only, she repeated it. “Who is this?”

His eyebrows bunched and lowered, but he didn’t answer her question. So she tried once more, her voice a guttural croak, forced between tightly clenched teeth. “Is…this…my…son? Tell me. I have a right-”

The judge’s voice boomed out then, as shocking in that sun-washed room as thunder on a cloudless day. “You have no right!” The next words came like its rumbling echoes, slow and measured, the handing down of a sentence. “None whatsoever. Any right you may have had, you signed away twenty years ago.”

Charly flinched, then braced herself. “Is this my s-?”

“You have no right, and you have no son!” His voice bludgeoned hers to silence. “You gave up the one when you gave away the other!”

“Gave up? Gave up?” How long had she been crying? Her face was wet, and her throat felt raw, as if she’d been screaming. “You made me! You took him away from me.” She swiped a hand across her eyes and then could see, with the shimmering edges of her vision, that Dobrina was crying, too, standing behind the judge with both hands pressed to her mouth, folded as if in prayer.

“I wanted to keep him,” Charly whispered, trying so hard to suppress sobs, her eyes clinging desperately to the face of the man she had once both feared and idolized. With every ounce of her strength and will she searched for some, for any sign of softening, wanting to believe that, just this once, she could make him hear. “You know that. I would have kept him if you’d let me.”

With a single bark of laughter the judge’s demeanor changed from an almost Biblical wrath to icy disdain. “Kept him? How did you propose to do that? You were a selfish, irresponsible-”

“I was sixteen!”

“You were not fit to raise a child then, and to all appearances, you have not changed. And now, if you have any decency-” His voice suddenly faded, and he turned away.

In despair Charly shot out a hand and clutched at his arm. “I want to see him.”

The judge’s eyes flicked downward, then slowly rose to her face. Chilled to the bone, she snatched her hand away.

“Young woman,” he said, in the quiet, impersonal voice of a trial judge, a voice with the cutting power of steel, “I would be obliged if you would leave my house.”

That, finally, was too much for Dobrina. With an anguished cry she threw up her hands and fled. Unable to believe what she was hearing, Charly shook her head and whispered, “My God. I’m your daughter.”

“I have no daughter!” On the last word the powerful voice broke, and once more, this time with finality, he turned away.

She saw then the signs of weakness she’d been hoping for-the trembling hands and bowed shoulders, a tinge of gray pallor-but instead of triumph it was fear she felt, a little girl’s fear, fear that struck her like a blow to the belly, taking her breath away. She held out a hand like an abandoned child and heard herself whisper, “Daddy…”

But he continued on down the hallway as if she hadn’t spoken. As if she wasn’t even there.

She had no way of knowing how long she stood there frozen and trembling. It was a small thud followed by the tinkle of broken glass that shocked her into motion and some degree of awareness, if not reality. Not reality. She told herself it couldn’t be real, that it wasn’t happening. Somehow she’d gotten caught in her worst nightmare, and now she couldn’t seem to wake up.

The graduation portrait had slipped from her fingers and lay ruined at her feet. She thought there must be a kind of symbolism in the handsome young face smiling confidently up at her through a crisscross of glass shards, but the pain that engulfed her in the same moment was so overpowering she couldn’t grasp it. She found herself kneeling on the floor, trying to gather up all the broken pieces. Except that she was crying so hard she couldn’t see them. And then she was outside, running as if wild dogs were chasing her, across the porch and down the steps.

Through a blur of tears she saw Dobrina waiting for her beside her rental car. She looked like an ancient goddess, Charly thought, standing straight and tall and proud with her arms folded under her apron. Except that, although the bright colors of June were drowning in sunset shadows, Charly could still see the shine of tears on the woman’s cheeks.

She held out one imploring hand. “Baby…oh, baby, please don’t be goin’-he doesn’t mean what he says. You know he doesn’t mean it-”

Charly had both of her hands out, too, and was holding them up as if to ward the other woman off. The car keys were already in her hand-another Los Angeles habit. She fumbled for the door handle, muttering, “No…no…I have to get… out of here.”

Dobrina’s fingers closed around hers. “Where you think you’re goin’, child?”

“Anywhere,” Charly growled with a prolonged sniff, “as long as it isn’t here.”

“You’re in no condition to be drivin’!”

“I’m fine. At least I will be. Aunt Dobie…” But her voice gave way. She turned in a rush and clutched the other woman in her arms, whispering into the downy softness of her close-dropped hair. “I’m sorry, Aunt Dobie. I’m so sorry…I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have come. This was a mistake. I’m sorry.”

Oh, God, the tears had started again. Somehow she managed to get the car door open and herself inside. She kept trying futilely to stern the flow with the back of her hand, blotting her streaming eyes with her sleeves so she could see to get the key in the ignition and locate the headlights.

As she put the car in gear and drove away, the last thing she saw in the rearview mirror was a shimmery image of Dobrina, still standing in the driveway, straight and tall as a pillar with her arms once again folded beneath her apron, the very image of dignity in the midst of overwhelming grief.

That was when the pain really hit her. It woke and grew inside her like a living thing. But all she cared about at that moment was getting away, as far away from Mourning Spring as it was possible to get, and as fast as she could possibly get there. Then maybe, she told herself, just maybe, the pain would go away…

Of course it would. Just as it had before. Once before, so many years ago.

Oh, yes, she knew this pain, these tears. Knew them very well, like old friends-or enemies. And she knew what was causing them. They were the natural consequence of a broken heart. Once, long ago, this town, these people had broken hers. But what she was finding out only now was that in all those years, it had never really mended.

And she thought she’d done so well! She’d been proud of the way she’d healed, not without scars, but like a tree re-forming its bark around an old wound and growing up tall and strong and spreading its branches in spite of it. Now she wondered how she could actually have thought she could come back here and face down the town, these people, her father on equal terms, as the successful adult she’d become. What a fool she’d been. Two hours in this place, and it was as if she’d never left. Just like that, in the blink of an eye she was sixteen again, terrified, heartbroken, and alone…

Okay, not quite alone. Those headlights in her rearview mirror were awfully close. Too close.

Damn redneck drivers, Charly thought, dashing furiously at her tears and hating all things Southern with a passion that would have astounded her closest friends. Good old laid-back Charly-she knew that’s what they thought of her. Charly the cool one, the sophisticated one, renowned for her dry and often acerbic wit. That’s what they all thought-even Mirabella.

What would Bella think if she could see her now?

She reached up and, with a flourish of defiance and a few choice swear words, flipped the mirror’s dimmer switch.

Then she glanced down at the speedometer and muttered, “Oh, hell,” under her breath. All right, so it seemed she’d been toddling down the highway at just under forty miles per hour. When had she left the town behind? For that matter where was she? Dusk had deepened into darkness while she wasn’t watching, and suddenly nothing looked familiar.

Plus she was still crying like a baby-couldn’t seem to stop. Could barely even see. And those damn headlights were still right on her tail. Why didn’t they just pass, for God’s sake?

Charly was never sure exactly what happened next. One minute she was looking in the mirror at the shimmering lights, and the next minute she was looking ahead into the path of her own headlamps and seeing nothing but trees. Her heart jumped into her throat, and she jerked the wheel hard to the left-too hard; she was used to her own car, a nice, solid eight-year-old Mercedes. The lighter rented Ford responded to such brutal handling by careening wildly back and forth across the highway, while behind her the headlights suddenly seemed to break up and began to flash rainbow colors.

Something in Charly’s mind-the answer to a silently screamed prayer, perhaps-told her to tromp on the brakes. This she did, but too late. The Taurus was already tilting and lurching, bucking and banging its way down an embankment. Somehow she managed to keep her foot on the brake and hold on to the steering wheel-mere wasn’t much else she could do, except maybe pray, and she was sure it was way too late for that, as well.

She heard things snapping and crashing all around her, and the sound of glass breaking, and then the air bag blew up and hit her in the face.

And there was darkness. Stillness. Silence.

She heard herself whimpering, “Oh God, oh God, oh God.” Which she told herself wasn’t actually praying, no matter what it sounded like.

Then she heard more rustlings and crashings and thumpings. Something rapped against the car window barely inches from her head. She jumped when a flashlight stabbed at her through the glass.

A voice, strangely muffled, called out, “Ma’am? Hey, you okay in there?”

Charly shook her head, but not in response to the question. She didn’t know if she was okay or not. She felt as though she was-nothing hurt or anything-but then she’d heard stories about people in shock running around on broken legs, having horrendous injuries and not even knowing.

The door beside her was wrenched open. The light slapped across her eyes, making her wince again, then moved on. Hands touched her, not gently. Quickly and efficiently exploring.

A voice, young and male, said, “Okay, ma‘am, you just sit tight now, y’hear? We’ll have you out of there in a jiffy.” She heard the click of her seat-belt buckle, and felt the release of pressure. “You hurt anywhere?”

“I don’t think so,” Charly said, rubbing her chest. It did hurt where the seat-belt strap had crossed it, but since it was probably what had saved her life, it didn’t seem like something she should complain about.

“Can you tell me your name?” That was a different voice, also male, also young.

“Charly…uh…” Damn.

“Ma’am?”

She ground her teeth silently, but there was no help for it. “Charly…Phelps.”

She’d hoped that might get past them, but she could see it wasn’t going to. The first young man, hunkered down in the open doorway, exchanged a look with the second young man, who was peering over his shoulder.

‘Phelps, huh? Charlie, you say?” He slanted a look back at Charly. ”You know, we got a judge in this town by the name of Charles Phelps-now, how’s that for a coincidence?”

“Wow,” said Charly weakly.

“Ma’am, you know where you are?” It was the second young man again, the one with all the questions.

“Yeah… Mourning Spring, Alabama.” She sighed and closed her eyes. Because it had just registered that both of the young men giving her aid and comfort were wearing uniforms-law-enforcement uniforms, complete with thick belts and guns and things that creaked and clanked when they moved. And that the colorful flashing lights on the edges of her vision were not some sort of residual effect from the accident or her recent crying jag, but the lights on top of a patrol car.

Under her breath she muttered softly, “Damn, I hate this place.”

“Ma’am. I’m gonna need to see your license and registration.”

“Oh-yeah, sure.” She pawed at the deflated air bag until she got it out of the way and reached for her purse with shaking hands-at least for the place where it should have been, just across the center console, on the passenger seat. Then she realized that of course, everything would most likely have been thrown onto the floor during the accident. Mumbling “Just a minute,” she leaned over as far as she could and groped for it on the floor.

A strong odor, one she recognized instantly, filled her nostrils. She registered the thought. But that’s impossible.

“Ouch!”

“Ma’am?”

“Nothing-I cut myself. I think…there’s something…broken down here.” Cautiously now, she got a hand on it and pulled it out Sat holding it, staring at it, winking in the beam of the young patrolman’s flashlight-a squarish bottle minus its neck and its contents, wearing a black label with Jack Daniel’s Old No. 7 boldly printed on it in white.

“But,” said Charly firmly, “that’s impossible.”

The two patrolmen exchanged another long look; they had to have gotten a whiff of the whiskey by this time. One of them took the bottle gingerly from her hands. The other said politely, “Ma’am, if you can, I’m gonna have to ask you to step out of the car.”

“I don’t know where that came from,” Charly said. “It isn’t mine.”

Neither of the patrolmen seemed to feel that required an answer.

The one not holding the bottle put his hand under her elbow and thoughtfully murmured, “Watch your head,” as he helped her from the car.

“I’m telling you, that bottle is not mine,” Charly insisted. “Look, if you’ll just let me…” She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Okay, she thought, I can’t believe I’m about to do this, but… “That judge you mentioned-Charles Phelps?” She let the breath out in a rush. “Okay, you’re not going to believe this, but I’m his daughter. I just left his house. Somebody there will vouch for me. If you’ll just-”

The two patrolmen were looking at each other again. The one holding on to Charly’s arm was kind of scratching at the back of his head. The other one hitched at his belt and shifted his feet, cleared his throat and said, “Well now, ma‘am, there’s just one problem with that I’ve lived in this town for most of my life, and far as I know, Judge Phelps hasn’t even got a daughter. Kenny, you know anything about Judge Phelps havin’ a daughter?”

“First I’ve heard of it,” said Kenny.

Sizing up the two officers, Charly decided she wasn’t all that surprised. She figured they’d both had to have been barely out of diapers when she’d left town. This town. Why, oh, why, had she ever come back? This town had tried once before to eat her alive; maybe that was meant to be her destiny.

She tried again, but with a growing sense of futility; her story sounded far-fetched even to her. “Look, I’ve been away. For a long time, actually. I live in California now. If you’ll just let me get my purse-”

“We’ll take care of that, ma’am.” Patrolman Kenny already had his head and shoulders inside the Taurus and was shining his flashlight around, looking in the glove box, in the back, under the seats. He paused to give Charly a look over his shoulder. “Sure don’t see a purse in here anywhere. You sure you had one with you?”

“Of course I had one with me,” Charly said, pleased that she’d had the presence of mind not to actually add the words you nitwit, even if her tone clearly implied them. “Look, it has to be there. It was right there on the seat. Maybe it-” She stopped.

But had it been? She’d been pretty upset. Too upset to notice? She was sure she’d had it when she’d left Kelly’s. Could she have taken it into the house with her? She didn’t remember. But she might have-reaching for her purse when getting out of a car was something she usually did automatically.

Okay, she must have. The purse wasn’t here. Therefore, she must have taken it someplace with her and left it. And after Kelly’s she’d only been to one place.

“Wait,” she said, breathing through her nose and trying not to panic. “Okay. I know where it must be. I must have left it at the judge’s-I was just there. If you could just…I don’t know, take me back there, or let me call, or something…”

The two patrolmen were flanking her now, half facing her with arms folded ominously on their chests, grave, official looks on their peach-fuzz faces. Charly’s heart began to pound; she thought she knew how a cornered rabbit feels.

“Well now, ma’am,” said the one not named Kenny, “we’ve got a little situation here.”

“What…situation?” asked Charly. She suddenly felt air starved. You in a heap a’ trouble, girl.

“Have you had anything to drink this evening, ma’am?” Kenny was the speaker again; it was getting to be almost like a comedy routine, Charly thought, the way these two passed the conversational ball back and forth.

“D-drink?” She shifted uncomfortably, remembering that she needed to go to the bathroom and wondering how he knew. Then the full meaning of the question hit her and she gasped, “Not Of course not!”

“You sure about that?” Kenny sort of hefted the Jack Daniel’s bottle.

“No, I swear. Look, I can explain-”

Not-Kenny leaned over until his face was close to Charly’s and said in his nice, soft, polite Southern voice, “Ma’am, I’m sure you can, and we’re gonna give you a chance to do that. There’s just a couple problems we need to get cleared up first, okay?”

“P-problems?” Charly resisted an urge to cringe; she’d been in worse situations, she supposed, but none quite so embarrassing. She was a lawyer, for God’s sake-she knew how bad this looked.

“Yes, ma‘am. Now, first off there’s the little matter of this bottle. I found the neck underneath the seat, and see here, the seal’s broken? Which means it looks to me like you had an open bottle of whiskey in your car, ma’am. And along with the way you were drivin’-”

“You were tailgating me! Your lights were in my eyes!”

Kenny held up a warning hand. “Ma‘am, we followed you quite a ways at well under the speed limit, and you were weavin’ back and forth across the road. Then you lose control of your car for no good reason that I could see, and we find an open whiskey bottle in your car-now, you tell me, what are we supposed to think? And then you give us this story about bein’ Judge Phelps’s daughter, when everybody knows the judge don’t even have a daughter, and you got no driver’s license, no identification, no registration on this car you’re drivin’-and that’s another little problem. Well, a big one, actually.” He nodded at his partner, offering him the punch line.

Which his partner-whom she was unable to identify, since by this time Charly had lost track again of who was Kenny and who wasn‘t-was delighted to deliver. “You see, ma’am, the reason we were following you in the first place is because this-here vehicle was reported stolen-”

“What?”

“Yes, ma‘am. Brown Ford Taurus. Georgia plates…” He took a notebook out of his shirt pocket, read the number off, then tucked the notebook away again and jerked his head toward the car now resting lopsidedly with its front end mashed up against a tree. “Look’s to me like that’s this car right here, ma’am.”

“This is a mistake,” Charly muttered. A terrible mistake.

“Yes, ma‘am. But right now what I’m gon’ do is, I’m placin’ you under arrest, and then we’re gonna take you on over to the hospital and make sure you’re okay, and while we’re at it, we’ll get this alcohol question settled, okay? And then you’re gonna have all the time you need to get things straightened out. Now, you have the right to remain silent…”

Charly just closed her eyes.