The Cat, The Devil, The Last Escape

6

THE NIGHT BEFORE Sammie said good-bye to Daddy she dreamed she was there in the police station. Sleeping next to Mama, Misto close in her arms, she saw their good-bye there in the jail and she hugged Misto tight, trying not to cry and wake Mama.

“It will be all right,” Misto murmured, his whiskers tickling her ear. “It isn’t over, Sammie. Your daddy will be all right.”

“The cowboy will come?” Sammie whispered. “He will help Daddy?”

“You dreamed he would,” Misto said.

She hadn’t answered, she’d hugged the big cat tight and he pressed his cool nose against her cheek. “You are my Sammie, you will endure.” He purred against her so hard she thought his rumble would wake Mama, but it didn’t, she was too tired from the courtroom trial.

“It must have been ugly and mean,” she whispered, “if Mama wouldn’t take me.”

“It was ugly. But your daddy will prevail, and so will you.” And Misto had leaped from her arms, raced around the night-dim room, raced up the curtains never moving them and making no sound, only delighting Sammie. He sailed from the curtain rod to the dresser with not a stir of air, then to the top of the open closet door and back to the bed, then up, up to the ceiling. His joy and wildness, his cat-madness made her want to race and fly with him, and maybe that would make the pain go away. He sailed around the room twice, then pounced down again and snuggled close, still and warm against her, purring and purring. Misto was with her all the rest of the night, snuggled in her arms. In the morning when she and Mama drove to the jail she knew he was near; sometimes she could feel his whiskers on her cheek or feel a brush of fur, and that helped her to be strong for Daddy.

At the jail when they said good-bye she clung to Daddy and so did Mama but that cop pulled him away and forced him from the room. She could see Daddy’s anger, she knew he wanted to fight them but what good would it do? They’d hardly had time to hug each other and then he was gone, was marched away down the hall. He glanced back once, then she and Mama were alone. Everything was empty, the whole world empty. She felt Misto’s warmth against her cheek, but now even her loving cat couldn’t help.

“You know we’ll visit him at the prison,” Mama said. “They have visiting hours, we’ll be with him then.”

“In a cage,” Sammie said. “We can’t be with him at home. We have to visit Daddy, like a stranger in a cage.”

Another cop walked them out to the front door. They crossed the parking lot, got in their car and sat holding each other. Mama tried to stop crying but she couldn’t. Sammie pressed so close that when Mama started the car she could hardly drive; she drove one-handed, her arm tight around Sammie. Sammie was nine but she felt like a tiny child, pressing her face against Mama. Now, without Daddy, they weren’t a family, they needed to be together to be a real family. When Daddy went overseas, when she was little, he told her he was going to fight for freedom. Freedom for their world, he said. Freedom for their country and for every person in it. But instead of freedom for all, like the history books said, those people in the federal court and even their own neighbors had stolen her daddy’s freedom from him, and Daddy had done nothing wrong.

Ever since the trial began, she and Mama had stayed with Grandma, and Sammie had been with Grandma every day. Mama didn’t want her in school, when Brad Falon with the narrow eyes might still be in town, might follow her. And where the kids would bully her and say her daddy was guilty.

During the trial Grandma had gone right on running her baking business; she said the money she made was even more important now, and you couldn’t just tell longtime customers there would be no more pies and cakes until the trial was over. Grandma said that would lose all her good customers and she had already lost some of them because of what people thought Daddy had done. Grandma was up every morning at three; the smell of baking always woke Sammie. A lady came in to help her, and once the cakes and pies and bread were out and cooling they would stop long enough to make breakfast, but Sammie could never eat very much. Later when the cakes were iced and everything was boxed and ready, Sammie would ride with Grandma in the van to deliver them to the local restaurants. And every night, during the trial, Misto was with her.

Now, after saying good-bye to Daddy they came in the house, through the closed-in porch, and straight into Grandma Caroline’s arms. They stood in the middle of the living room clinging together hugging each other, needing each other, hurting and lost.

The whole house smelled of sausage biscuits. In the kitchen, Grandma had already poured a cup of hot tea for Mama and milk for Sammie. Grandma always wore jeans, and this morning a faded plaid shirt covered by a bright apron of patchwork, one of the aprons she liked to sew late at night when she couldn’t sleep. She must be awake a lot because she sure had a lot of aprons, all as bright as picture books.

CAROLINE TANNER WORE no makeup, her high coloring and short, dark hair needing no enhancement. She set a tray of sausage biscuits on the table beside a strawberry shortcake. Comfort food, Becky thought, watching her mother, never ceasing to wonder at her calm strength. Becky had been seven when her father was killed in a tractor accident. Two weeks after the funeral Caroline began baking and selling her goods. She was a Rome girl, and the town had given her its support. They had lived on what she made, Becky and her two brothers helping all they could.

Becky was ten, her brother Ron twelve and James fifteen when Caroline got a loan from the bank and extended the kitchen of their little house into a bigger and more efficient bakery and storeroom. Becky and her brothers had helped the carpenter after school and on weekends, as he built and dried in the new walls, then tore out the original walls. The children had learned how to paint properly, how to clean their tools, and her brothers had learned how to plaster. After the stainless steel counters were installed, and the two big commercial refrigerators and two sinks, they had taken the bakery van into Atlanta and brought home the new ovens, the big stovetop, and the smaller commercial appliances. The big window over the sink looked out on the side yard beneath a pair of live oak trees.

Before the remodel, Caroline had done all her baking in their small, inadequate kitchen, her equipment and trays of baked goods spilling over into the dining room, where cookies and breads and cakes cooled on racks, along with those already boxed and ready for delivery. The two iceboxes never had enough space for the salads and casseroles for the parties that Caroline catered. Their own simple meals had been eaten in the living room, worked around the urgent business of making a living. When the new bakery was finished, they’d had a little party, just the four of them, to celebrate the new and more accommodating kitchen, to reclaim their own house.

Within three years Caroline had paid off the van and equipment and could hire more help for the catered weddings and parties, though still, the whole family pitched in for those. All the years Becky was growing up, her mother would be out of bed and dressed by three in the morning, rolling out pie crusts, baking cakes. Becky’s brothers made breakfast until Becky was old enough to cook. Her brothers, as soon as they could drive legally, had done the bakery deliveries before school.

Becky missed her brothers. Even after Ron was killed in the Pacific, she still felt often that he was near her. And though their older brother, James, was still in Japan he was close to them, he liked to write home of that very different part of the world. She looked forward to his return next year when his tour of duty ended.

By the time Becky turned sixteen and got her driver’s license, her brothers had moved on with their lives. She had felt very grown-up, handling the deliveries herself, before and after school. She had helped with them after she and Morgan were married, until Sammie was born. Even during the war years Caroline made an adequate living, using special recipes that took little of the precious rationed sugar but were still delicious.

Now, at forty-eight, Caroline was as energetic and slim as ever, a tall, strong woman whom Becky, at this time in her life, deeply envied. She wished she had half her mother’s resilience, wished she could follow better Caroline’s hardheaded approach to life. Caroline Tanner had always tackled problems head-on, stubbornly weighing each possible solution, choosing the most viable one, then plunging ahead with no holds barred. If Caroline had tears during those hard years, she cried them in private.

They were halfway through supper when Caroline said, “The next thing is to go for an appeal. You need a better lawyer.” She looked steadily at Becky. “I plan to help with his fees. I want Falon taken down, I want to see him in prison. I want Morgan out of that place.”

“Mama, I don’t—”

“It’s family money. Half of it will be yours one day and you need it now. If it bothers you to take it, you can pay me back after Morgan gets out.”

“If he gets out.”

Caroline stared at her. “When he gets out. Morgan is in prison unjustly. We keep at it until we find a better lawyer, get an appeal and a new trial. A fair trial. But not in Rome,” she said bitterly.

Becky laid her hand over Caroline’s. “You make it sound so simple.”

“There’s no other way. First thing is to find an attorney.”

“I’ve already made some inquiries,” Becky said. “There are several lawyers in Atlanta I want to see. But, Mama, we need new evidence, stronger evidence, for an appeal. I want to talk with the tellers, with Mrs. Herron and Betty Holmes, and the younger teller. I want to talk with the bank manager, and the witness who saw Morgan’s car leave the bank.” She sighed. “I mean to talk with Natalie Hooper, though I don’t look forward to facing that piece of trash.”

Caroline gave Becky a long look. “That’s not the way to go.” She rose to cut the shortcake and lathered on whipped cream. “Let the lawyer do that. You could compromise the case.”

Watching her mother, Becky thought about that. She watched Sammie, too. Though the child made quick work of her dessert she was too quiet, hurting so bad inside, missing her daddy.

Still, though, after the good meal Sammie seemed steadier. Her color brightened; she seemed more alive, less subdued than when they’d left the jail. “Can I go outside and play?”

Becky and Caroline looked at each other. “In the front yard,” Becky said. “Stay in front of the big window where we can see you.”

Sammie nodded. She walked quietly through the house and out the front door, not running as she normally would. Becky and Caroline moved into the living room to sit on the couch looking out the bay window, watching her.

“The new attorney should talk to the witnesses,” Caroline repeated. “Particularly Falon’s girlfriend, his key witness. What if Falon found out you’d questioned her? Don’t you think he’d make trouble?”

“Mama, I . . . tried to speak to her yesterday, in the parking lot after the sentencing. He probably knows that. She was still nervous, even more upset than she showed on the witness stand. I thought if I could get her to say something incriminating . . .”

Watching her mother, Becky wilted. “I guess that was foolish. I approached her as she was getting in her car. She scowled and turned away, said she couldn’t talk to me. But,” she said, her hand on Caroline’s, “it gave me satisfaction that she was so shaky. I . . . hoped to scare her, make her think about what she’d done.”

“Leave her alone, Becky. That’s your attorney’s job.” Caroline was quiet for a moment, then her look softened. “When you’re the most determined, the most set on something, I see your father in you.”

Becky grinned. “You don’t see yourself?”

Caroline laughed.

“I didn’t understand until I got older,” Becky said, “how hard it was for you, raising us alone.”

“We did it together,” Caroline said, “the four of us. It was our life and it’s been a good one. It’s still a good life,” she said. “We’ll get through this hard part, this isn’t forever.”

Becky hoped it wasn’t forever, hoped her mother was right. “No one could have had a better childhood,” she said, “or a closer, stronger family.”

Watching Sammie out the window, where she was petting the neighbors’ collie, Becky smiled as Sammie tried to push the dog into the bushes as if in some new game. When he wouldn’t go, and Sammie herself crept in beneath the shrubs, a chill touched Becky.

Rising, she moved quickly to the window. Sammie was out of sight. A sleek black convertible came slowly down the street, the top up. As Falon’s Ford coupe eased to a crawl they raced for the front door. As they crossed the glassed porch, Falon was in the yard. Behind him the driver’s door stood open, they could hear the engine running. They lost sight of him beyond the porch blinds. When they burst out to the walk the car door slammed and the car sped away.

The yard was empty. They couldn’t see Sammie, and couldn’t see if she was in the car. Becky parted the bushes, peering in, but saw only shadows. The dog had disappeared, too. She screamed for Sammie, then ran, chasing the car, ran until she heard Caroline shout.

“She’s here—she’s all right.”

Becky turned, saw Caroline kneeling, hugging Sammie. The dog was there, too, pressing against them. Becky knelt beside them, holding Sammie close, the dog licking their faces. Picking Sammie up, Becky carried her in the house like a very small child. They locked the door, and as Caroline checked the back door, Becky sat at the table holding Sammie. “What did he say? What did he do, what did he say to you?”

“He came to the bushes and looked in. We were down at the end. When Brownie growled, Falon backed away. But he kept looking.” She shivered against Becky. “He told me to come out. Brownie growled again and he turned away. I heard his door slam, heard him drive away.”

Caroline had picked up the phone to call the police. At Becky’s look she put the receiver down.

“What good,” Becky said, “after the way we were treated in court? The Rome cops don’t like us. They’ll write it up as grandstanding, trying to get attention. Who knows what the report would say?” She stared over Sammie’s head at Caroline. Could Falon have come in retaliation because she’d talked to Natalie? She should have left the woman alone. She cuddled Sammie, kissing her, terrified for her.

Caroline sat down at the table. “I think you can’t stay in Rome. You’ll have to get out, move where he won’t find you.”

“Where, Mama? I can’t afford to rent somewhere. And my work, my bookkeeping accounts are all here.”

Caroline’s look was conflicted. “There’s my sister, Anne. I doubt many people know where she is or even know I have a sister. I never talk about her, she never comes to see us.”

“I couldn’t go there. I haven’t seen her since I was in high school. She wouldn’t want me and Sammie, she doesn’t even like children.” The only time they heard from Anne was an occasional phone call, a familiar duty in which she’d ask after everyone’s health but didn’t seem to really care. She would send a stiff little card at Christmas, cool and impersonal.

Caroline and Anne, even when they were young children, had been at odds, Anne an austere and withdrawn little girl, disdaining the small pleasures that brought joy to Caroline and her friends. She didn’t care to climb trees, play ball, compose and act out complicated stage plays with wildly fancy costumes. Aloof and judgmental, Anne had seemed caught in her own solemn world. As if, Caroline said, Anne had never been a child, not in the normal sense. Over the years, after Becky’s father died, their family had visited Anne twice in Atlanta. They weren’t comfortable in her big, elegant home, with her formal ways. She had never come up to Rome, though Caroline had invited her many times.

Anne had left Rome very young to work as a secretary in Atlanta. She had married young, and some years later was divorced. She had remained in Atlanta in her Morningside home, comfortable with the money her philandering husband had settled on her. Becky thought that asking to move in with Anne, begging to be taken in like a charity case, was not something she could handle.

But she had to get away from Falon, she had to get Sammie away.

“I’ll call her,” Caroline said. “Let me see what I can do.”

“Mama, she won’t want us. She certainly won’t want a little girl in the house. And to know she’d be harboring a convict’s family . . . No, I don’t want to go there.”

“We have to try. Sammie can’t stay here, it’s too dangerous.” She put her hand over Becky’s. “Only a few people in town would remember Anne. I doubt they’d know where she went or that she married and later divorced. I doubt anyone would know what her name is now.”

Becky wasn’t so sure. In a small town, everyone knew your business. And this small town had turned vicious; people might dredge up anything they could find.

“You have to get Sammie out of Rome, she’s the one vulnerable weapon Falon has. He’ll use her if he can, to make you stop going for an appeal. He has to be terrified of an appeal, of a new trial.”

Becky watched her mother. “I’ll look for a room in Atlanta, I can find a job there. You can keep Sammie close for a few days, keep her inside with you. Once we’re settled she’ll be in school. Maybe I can get a job with short hours, or take work home as I do here.”

“If Anne will invite you, she won’t want rent. Let me try. You’d be better off there, among other people, if you mean to keep Sammie safe.”

IT WAS LATE that night, Becky and Sammie asleep tucked up in Caroline’s guest bed, when Sammie woke shivering, clinging to Becky, her body sticky with sweat. When Becky gathered her up, holding her tight, the child said nothing, but lay against Becky in silence. Becky would never force Sammie to tell a dream, that could make her reluctant to reveal any others in the future. Silently she held Sammie until at last the child dozed again, but restlessly, as if still trying to drive away whatever vision haunted her. Only in the small hours did Sammie sleep soundly. Becky slept then, exhausted, holding Sammie close.

IN SAMMIE’S DREAM Daddy was inside the bars and the man with the cold eyes and the narrow head was looking in at him but then he turned and looked hard at her, too. When he reached out for her she woke up. In the dark room she could hear her own heart pounding. Mama held her and kissed her, she clung to Mama for a long time but she was still afraid.

But then when she slept again her dream was nice. She was with the old man, the cowboy, his thin, tanned face, his gray eyes that seemed to see everything. He was in a big airplane looking out the window down at the world laid out below him, the green hills, the tall mountains. Then he was in a big black car with two men in uniform. He was coming now. Soon he would be with Daddy. And in sleep Sammie smiled, snuggling easier against Mama.

BECKY WOKE AT dawn, her eyes dry and grainy, her body aching. Whatever Sammie had experienced last night had left Becky herself uncertain and distraught. She rose, pulled on her robe, stood looking down at the sleeping child, wanting to touch her soft, innocent cheek but not wanting to wake her.

But when Becky left the room, Misto did wake Sammie. His purr rumbled, his fur was thick and warm, his whiskers tickled her face. In the dim, early light, as she recalled her dream of the cowboy she hugged Misto so tight he wriggled. The cowboy was coming now, and she didn’t feel afraid anymore. When she slept again, cocooned with the invisible tomcat, it was a sleep filled with hope that her daddy would come home. That he would come home again, safe.