Exposure (16 page)

“Of course not. When our children keep secrets—”

“But he has his reasons, which I support.”

Kim bit back the reply she’d have liked to give, a remark about thinking for oneself, and said instead, “Why don’t we all sit down tomorrow sometime and talk about all of this. The kids can explain their plans, and—”

“Plans?”

“Well, what they intend, for after graduation—”

“Ms. Winter, even if I was inclined, you don’t know my husband. As far as he’s concerned, your son is … well, let me just say it would be best”—and she stressed
best
in a way that Kim knew meant
required
—“for your son not to have any contact with our daughter in the future.”

“Have you talked to Amelia about any of this? You do know that she and Anthony are, well, they’re in love.” Her embarrassed laugh came out sounding more like a hiccup. “I know they’re young, but when you see them together—”

“How long have you known about this?” Sheri Wilkes said.

Oh hell
, Kim thought, bringing her hand to her mouth. “Mrs. Wilkes, my son and I, we’re very close. I raised him on my own; my ex-husband has never been involved. We talk about everything that affects him. And I’m sorry I didn’t … I’m sorry you didn’t know about them before now. But the fact of the matter is that regardless of how you or I or your husband feels about it all, they’re a pair of very mature, very determined young adults who are planning a future together. I think we should try to respect that.”

Sheri Wilkes sighed. “That may all be as you say. My husband, though, is of the view that your son has had … undue influence over Amelia. She hasn’t had much experience with boys.”

So far as you know
, Kim thought, not ungenerously. She said, “With due respect, he’s mistaken. Anthony is not that kind of person.”

“I’m sorry, Ms. Winter. I’m sure it will be hard for him but, really, it’d be best if you tell him to stay away from Amelia. Her father has already made it clear to her that she won’t be seeing him again. Thank you so much for your call.”

So that was it? Kim dropped her phone onto the table, stunned at how these people had shut her down so quickly, with almost no consideration at all.

She’d hardly had time to breathe the deep, calming breath she’d learned in yoga, when her phone rang. William. Kim picked up the phone, her thumb moving automatically to the
TALK
button, while her brain protested the spinning ride she’d been thrown onto.
Stop now, I want to get off
. But it was only just beginning.

Tuesday morning, Kim modified Sheri Wilkes’s message before passing it on to Anthony. “Amelia won’t be able to see you for a while,” she told him, standing in his bedroom doorway at ten after six.

Anthony rolled over and looked up from his bed. His dark expression said what she knew he wouldn’t articulate, at least to her
(Fuck that)
, so she tacked on a warning. “You’ll earn a lot more respect by being cooperative, you know. Her father’s a little hotheaded. Let him cool down.” Then she broke the worst of the news. “I spoke to Mr. Braddock last night—Harlan Wilkes called him—and Amelia’s going to be out of school for a while.”

Anthony sat up, alarmed. “What?”

“I don’t know the details.”

“They can’t take her out of school,” he said. “That’ll screw up everything!”

“Anthony. Let it be for now. Let’s focus on you and this court business. I’ll be calling some lawyers today to see what you’re supposed to do.”

“I’m supposed to meet Amelia in the parking lot before class. And then I’m supposed to eat lunch with her. We’re supposed to sit together in English, and talk about a book that illuminates the bullshit teens have to deal with.” He was nearly spitting the words.

“Get dressed,” Kim said. “You’ll be late.”

He grabbed a T-shirt from a chair-back and pulled it on. Calming down, he said, “Just so you know, I looked up the charge. It’s a misdemeanor, which is good, but apparently it’s the worst kind.”

“Meaning?”

“Probably not jail time, since this is my first arrest.”

Kim considered the words
jail
and
arrest
and how out of context they were, coming from him. She really hadn’t had enough caffeine for any of this. She said, “Well, that’s something, I guess. But we won’t let it come to that anyway, if we can help it. We’ll get it all straightened out.”

Anthony, though he looked at her skeptically, didn’t reply.

9

MELIA’S ALARM, A GENTLE
E
ASTERN CHIME, BEGAN ROUSING
her at five-fifteen. In the predawn darkness, before wakeful recollection took hold, she lay beneath her smooth sheets and the lightweight, down-filled comforter the housekeeper laid on her bed spring and fall, smiling at the remnants of a dream. She’d been onstage with Anthony, footlights shining upon them, warming them the way sunshine would.… He was holding her against him, telling her something important about flowers, and snow. She tried to keep hold of the dream … it faded, though, as the alarm sang on and her memory of last night’s troubles filled the space the dream had occupied.

She pushed her feet out the side of the covers, letting the room’s cool air in, then swung her legs over the bedside and got up. In the bathroom, she pulled her hair into a thick ponytail and put her contacts in. Then she began the other part of her morning routine, the part she had begun originally at age five and been officially excused from three years ago, but which she continued on her own, as insurance against the stutter’s returning like a cancer that chemotherapy had missed.

She began with a low, breathy sort of warm-up song, choosing, today, a C scale. She heard her speech pathologist’s voice coaching her,
Long A sound
, and she sang, “aaayyyy,”
long O
, “ohhhhhh,”
long E
, “eeeeee,”
long I
, “ahyhe,”
long U sound
, “you-u-u-u.”
Again
. She went through her litany twice more, then began the consonants exercise: “Bat, pat, dot, tot, kit, git. Bit, pit, dock, talk, kale, gale.” Though it all came easily now, the shadow of the affliction cast a pall that, so far, refused to leave her for long.

Usually she’d go online to check the weather before heading out for her run; usually, she had a smartphone. Today, she opened the window to gauge the temperature, then got dressed in running pants, sports bra, tank top, and a long-sleeved shirt. She tucked her pewter charm on its leather string into her tank top and then, shoes in hand, left her room, heading for the main stairway, and was surprised to see lights burning in the wide front hall and then, as she went down the broad, winding staircase, lights on in the living room and conservatory, too—where her parents were seated, already showered and dressed, and with a platter of ham biscuits waiting on the coffee table in front of them.

They looked up as Amelia came into the doorway. Their faces were calm, placid even. Her mother held a mug in both hands and was blowing into it to cool its contents. Steam leapt up and around her mother’s properly made-up face, done with the most flattering foundation color, the softest pale powder, the finest eyeliner, mascara, and the most modest touch of blush in the slight caverns of her cheeks. Rosy lipstick complemented her silk sweater, and her manicured nails matched both. She was so pretty, so pulled-together, so perfect. So careful.

Her mother’s family, the Kerrs, were furniture makers who’d opened a factory in High Point shortly after the Civil War. They weren’t wealthy in the way that so many people were these days; furniture-building made a man a living, not a fortune, her grandfather was known to say. They lived well, which was to say that the kids were always dressed right for the weather, always had hot suppers, didn’t have to work in the factory, and mostly didn’t die from the diseases that used to be prevalent: polio, measles, diphtheria. The Kerrs were as sturdy, upright, and high quality as the ladderback chairs they made. Her grandfather prided himself on his broad-mindedness: if you worked hard and did right, it didn’t matter who your people were or where you’d gotten your start. To him, Amelia’s father was a hero, one who had apparently rescued her mother from the lonely single life she’d been leading. “She’s lucky you’d have her,” her grandfather sometimes said, patting her father on the back.

That lucky woman was the one sitting here now. Amelia preferred the mother she sometimes found on Saturday mornings lounging in the sunroom with the
News & Observer
spread about on the floor around her green toile-covered chaise. The robed, tousled, relaxed-looking woman who knew she had no immediate task ahead of her, no audience, no impending appearance at a Women’s Club function or Ravenswood fund-raiser or Helping Hand Mission activity or church coffee-service. Somewhere behind the perfect makeup and silk sweater and camel-colored wool slacks that Amelia saw before her was that Saturday mother, the woman Amelia wished to know better. Because even on Saturdays, her mother was careful with her words, measured, as if she, too, had once fought off a stutter—though Amelia knew that wasn’t the case.

Her father clapped his hands once and stood up.

“ ’Mornin’, Ladybug.”

“What’s going on?” Amelia asked, holding her running shoes to her chest as if they were a shield.

“Momma made us some breakfast, wasn’t that good of her? We thought we’d have a bite to eat together and talk some. Last night … well, I was upset, plain and simple. Thought maybe we’d try this again.”

“Let me get you some juice,” her mother said, standing.

“No thanks. I really need to get going so I’m not late for school.”

“Couldn’t you skip the run this morning?” her father asked. He looked so hopeful and apologetic that she softened toward him. Maybe he’d reconsidered his actions and was going to clear Anthony after all.

“I’ll shorten it,” she said.

Her mother walked past her and paused for the slightest beat, laying her hand on Amelia’s shoulder as she passed. “I’ll get your juice,” she said.

Amelia set her shoes on the rug and sat down in the upholstered chair nearest the piano, a Steinway Parlor Grand that their housekeeper kept polished as though her life depended on guests being able to see their reflection in the glossy black surface. Her father sat with his elbows on his knees and his hands clasped in front of him, the way he often did while watching football. She waited for him to say something, but he was apparently waiting for her mother’s return.

“Here we go,” her mother said, handing her a glass of orange juice. Then she took a small china plate and set a biscuit on it, and passed it to Amelia’s father.

“Thanks, hon,” he said. “These sure do look good.”

“Amelia?”

“No, Momma, I’m not hungry, thanks.”

Her mother’s smile was pained. Amelia’s throat tightened. They did so much for her, and she’d let them down, disrespected them by going behind their backs. Even now, they didn’t know how bad it was, how she’d hidden so much more from them than photographs.

Amelia pulled her feet up and tucked them beneath her. “Maybe I will have a biscuit,” she said.

“Harlan, pass this to her.”

The house was silent save for the ticking of the grandfather clock in the front hall. The faint sound of geese honking in flight grew loud, then louder, and then receded, and still no one spoke.

“What your momma and I want to know first,” her father finally said, “is the straight story about the Winter boy.”

“The straight story?”

“You told me one thing, then told the police another, and what we need to know is the truth. Why are you covering for him? Neither of us believes that you’re the kind to go asking a boy for naked pictures just for sport.”

“Why not? Because I get good grades? Because I’m always in by curfew?” She spoke the questions softly, gently. “I’m practically an adult, you know.”

“Every kid your age thinks so,” her father said. “But no, it’s not your grades or your good behavior—”

“And it
is
good, and we appreciate that so much,” her mother added.

“It’s that we know the kind of person you are,” her father finished. Despite Amelia’s thoughts to the contrary last night, they did know her, at least well enough to know she wasn’t the kind to ask for such pictures from any friend—let alone from a new acquaintance, which she knew other girls at school had done.