It didn’t take Ali long to decide how to respond:
Dear Roseanne,
Thanks to both you and Jake for your kind offer. You’re right. I’m living in the trailer…
She didn’t say manufactured home with what was essentially two master suites. She didn’t say that there was a Jacuzzi soaking tub in her spacious bath or an office alcove off her bedroom. Nor did she mention that the home had been placed on footings that allowed for a basement with wine cellar underneath.
…my Aunt Evie left me when she died. It has running water now, and air-conditioning won’t be an issue until summer.
Don’t worry about me. I’m in Sedona. If I just stay focused on my crystals, I’m sure everything will be fine.
Ali
It was a goofy enough response that Ali giggled aloud, but she didn’t post either one. It wasn’t necessary. Saying something like that to Roseanne Maxwell was as good as an Internet posting any day.
Then she went back to reading the mail. It was interesting to see that comments from gun-control advocates and gun-control opponents were fairly evenly divided and almost uniformly shrill. She posted some of them but not all, because many of them said the same things.
Dear Babe,
You sound like you’re proud of yourself for taking another person’s life. You shouldn’t be. Because you had that gun, you didn’t even look for other ways to end the conflict between you and the man who broke into your house. You just hit the trigger and went blam, blam, blam!!! The other guy’s dead. End of story.
If there were fewer guns in the world, maybe we’d find other ways to solve the world’s problems. Stories like yours make things worse instead of better.
Tommy F.
Ben Witherspoon wasn’t interested in talking, Ali thought, and maybe we should outlaw kitchen knives, too, while we’re at it. But she posted Tommy’s remarks without any further comment from her.
Dear Babe,
The Bible says “The meek shall inherit the earth.” Guess you won’t be on the receiving end.
Georgie
Guess not, Ali thought and posted that one, too. The next one gave her pause.
Dear Babe,
Twenty years ago, when my husband beat me up, I filed charges against him. He was tried, convicted, and sent to jail. As they were taking him out of the courtroom, he screamed that he’d get me when he got out. My friends told me to get a restraining order. I got a.45 instead.
When he got out, he broke into our apartment while I was asleep. He woke me up and said he was going to take our baby, my son, and throw him out the window. I got the gun out of my nightstand, followed him into the hallway, and shot him. He died and I went to prison. The cops said that yes, he broke into the house, but he didn’t hurt me, and he wasn’t armed at the time. They said it was my fault, that I should have called the cops instead of following him into the hallway and shooting him in the back. They weren’t there, but they all said that showed premeditation.
And my public defender told me I’d better cop a plea to second degree or I’d go to prison for first, so I spent the next seventeen years in prison. DSHS took my son and the courts terminated my parental rights. I don’t know where he is. He’d be twenty-two by now.
I hope this doesn’t happen to you, and I don’t think it will. You’re white. I’m not.
Lucille
Ali didn’t post Lucille’s comment. Instead she wrote back.
Dear Lucille,
Thank you for your good wishes. Your letter is all too true. There’s more than one level of justice in this country, one for those who can pay for quality representation and one for those who can’t. I’m appalled by what happened to you. With your permission, I’d like to post your comment on cutlooseblog.com to see what kind of discussion it engenders.
Also, have you made any effort to locate your son? If I can be of any help in that regard, let me know.
Ali Reynolds, aka Babe
The phone rang. “Ali,” Paul said. I’m glad you’re there. I need to talk to you.”
It would have been nice if he’d asked how she was feeling or if she was okay, but he didn’t.
“If this is about the station sending over that film crew tomorrow,” Ali began, “I’ve already decided I’m not-”
“No, no,” Paul interrupted impatiently. “It’s nothing like that. It’s April. I just found out she’s pregnant.”
So? Ali wondered. What does this joyous news have to do with me?
“The baby’s yours I assume,” she said.
“Of course it’s mine,” Paul snapped back at her. “Whose do you think it is?”
No point in going into that, Ali thought. “Why are you calling me, then?”
“She wants us to be married,” Paul said. “Right away. Before the baby gets here. That’s what I want, too. This child is my future, Ali. This is the baby who will carry my genetic material forward. So what can I do to get this process started?”
Ali’s first instinct was to simply burst out laughing. Wasn’t this the same man, who, in the course of their last conversation, had declared that he wouldn’t be manipulated? The ever-dependable pregnancy gambit had to be the oldest ploy in the book.
She also understood exactly why he was calling her directly. By going around Helga, he was sure he could negotiate himself a better deal. And he had reason to think so. After all, Ali Reynolds had gone along with his wishes for years. But with the death of Ben Witherspoon, the playing field had changed. Paul Grayson still hadn’t figured that out.
“Well…?” he pressed, pushing her to give him an answer in the same bullying voice he always used to get his way.
“When it comes to divorces,” she said finally, “you have three choices-quick, cheap, and good. Pick any two. When you figure out which two you want, give Helga a call and we’ll talk.”
She hung up. The phone rang again almost immediately, but when caller ID showed it was Paul calling back, Ali didn’t pick up. She’d already said her piece and had nothing more to add. Instead, she jotted off an e-mail to Helga.
Dear Helga,
Paul’s girlfriend is pregnant and wants to get married-fast. I think he’s ready to wheel and deal. Call him up tomorrow morning and see what you can do. I trust your judgment on this. The more we can stick it to him, the better.
Ali
She returned to cutloose.
Dear Babe,
As you suggested, I’ve been in touch with Mr. Tompkins. Based on what happened with his mother, I’ve made a determination not to pursue treatment with the Rodriguez Medical Center folks in Mazatlan.
According to Tompkins, the treatments consist mostly of stuffing the people full of overpriced but essentially over-the-counter supplements and then filling them full of a pain med cocktail that keeps them in enough of a pink haze that they don’t know what’s hit them. They keep them feeling better-right up until their money is gone. Then the patient is shipped back home to die, unless they conk out while they’re still in Mexico. Bad idea.
The money we’re not spending on them is almost enough to pay off our mortgage. I think I’ll do that-stay
