Butchers Hill

'Luther Beale? What do they say about him?'

'They say he's stuck up, which is about the worst thing you can be in these parts. He thinks he's better than they are, and he makes no secret of it. People will forgive you for a lot, but not for that. Whatever you do, you can't let people know you want more from life than they do.'

It occurred to Tess that Jackie might be speaking from firsthand experience.

The school day was almost over by the time they headed out to Gwynn's Falls Middle School. Again, Tess coached Jackie along the way. Telling the truth was an okay system, as far as it went, but it had limitations. The tough-cookie principal wasn't going to divulge the whereabouts of her former student, Salamon Hawkings, just because Jackie was a straight shooter.

'I'm to say I'm from Arena Stage?' Jackie asked, puzzled. 'I thought I was going to be a relative. If I'm going to make up a story, why not say I'm from the School for the Arts? That's much more plausible.'

'Uh-uh. Another school, even one in a different jurisdiction, could track down a student in a single phone call. So you're from Arena Stage, and you're putting on an original work next season, with this really talky part for a teenage boy, reams of dialogue to memorize, and you've heard this Salamon Hawkings is a gifted public speaker.'

'What's the name of the play?'

'The name? Jesus, I don't know, Jackie. Improvise.'

'I prefer to plan things in advance,' she said primly.

I bet you do. 'Okay, the play is called-' Tess glanced to the side of the road. They were near the lot where an old amusement park once stood and, just beyond it, the place where her mother had bought produce from a truck farmer in the summers. He had graduated from his truck to a small shop, then added seafood. The store had burned to the ground in a mysterious fire a few years ago, and the family had simply disappeared. Now a small cinderblock church stood in its place. But Tess still remembered the hand-lettered sign that had hung over the fish in their icy beds.

'The play is called ‘Fresh Lake Trout.' It's an August Wilson-style drama about a local family scraping by with a produce stand. Lots of tension between the father and son, over whether he's going to stay and help the business, or go to college. How's that?'

'Not very original, but I guess it will have to do. So Arena Stage is putting on ‘Fresh Lake Trout,' and it needs a teenager who can handle lots of dialogue.'

'Right, and you remember hearing about Salamon Hawkings from one of your cousins, whose daughter competed against him in the state finals.'

Jackie looked as if she didn't know whether to be impressed or disgusted. 'This is what you do for a living? Make shit up?'

'The truth may set you free, but it doesn't get you much in the way of information. Trust me, when we start looking for your daughter, you're going to appreciate what the right lie can do.'

Children were pouring out of the tired-looking school. Tess scrunched down in the passenger seat of Jackie's car, waiting. She didn't want to risk being seen by the principal, who was sure to make good on her threat to have Tess arrested. As it was, the woman was sharp enough that the Arena Stage story might not fly. Tess wished she could be at Jackie's side, ready to provide the additional lies such a situation might demand. Despite the elaborate ruse Jackie had used on her, she didn't seem to have any innate ability for spontaneous prevarication. Successful lying required a certain amount of joy in the act itself. If you focused only on the results, you missed the hang- gliding sensation of simply getting away it. You were out there, high above the landscape where most people lived, feeling the wind on your face. Besides, the Arena Stage story was one of Tess's more inspired lies; she would have liked to deliver it herself.

Fifteen minutes had gone by. The school had emptied quickly and now seemed desolate. Jackie had parked in the shade, but it was hot in the car, the leather seat stickier than a cloth one would have been. Tess rolled down the window, stuck her head out, and panted a little bit, imitating Esskay. She had wanted to bring the dog with them. After all, she had to go all the way back to Columbia to pick up her car, and she could have used the company on the ride back. But Jackie had been appalled at the idea of a dog in her pristine car. Tess wasn't sure she was that keen on having her in it.

'That's attractive,' Jackie said, coming up behind her.

'I think dogs are on to something. I actually feel a little cooler. How'd you do?'

Jackie walked around the car and slid into the driver's seat. 'It was so easy, it was embarrassing. I stayed and chatted with the principal just to ease my conscience about fooling a perfectly nice woman. Turns out Salamon Hawkings got himself a scholarship to some ritzy private school, the Penfield School, up in Butler.' She paused. 'I'm not even sure where that is.'

'The heart of WASP country. You can tell because Butler has exactly two businesses, a saddlery and a liquor store. All the WASP needs.'

'What's a black boy doing in a place like that?'

Tess shrugged. 'These private schools do care about diversity. Every one I know has at least a few inner-city kids on scholarship. And if Salamon really is a good public speaker, I bet several schools came after him.'

'Or maybe they just needed a little black boy to stand at the end of the driveway and hold out a lamp, like one of those old lawn jockeys.'

They were passing through Woodlawn, caught in the first waves of Social Security traffic. Tess wished she had noticed what route Jackie was taking; she would have steered her away from this daily snarl of traffic and onto the empty ghost road known as I-70, one of the few interstates in the country that came to a dead-end. People who didn't know Baltimore's shortcuts and back roads made her impatient.

'You still see those jockeys in some parts of Baltimore, I've noticed,' Jackie continued. 'They painted the faces white, as if that fools anyone.'

'Yeah, and you still see ceramic kittens scampering up brick houses. There's one over there. Oh my God, call PETA.'

'It's not the same thing,' Jackie said stiffly.

'It is in the sense that it's not worth expending energy. Some people are idiots. At least the ones with those lawn jockeys announce themselves to the world. You know what kind of moron you're dealing with up front.'

'According to that logic, you must support the special license plates for Sons of Confederate War Veterans. Or do you think that's a freedom of speech issue?'

'I think it's trivial. It's like getting upset over those truckers who have the mudflaps with those big-breasted women on them. What am I going to do, take them to court for hurting my feelings?'

'The state didn't issue the mudflaps.'

'Maybe they should. They could make a lot more money than they did on the Confederate tags. Look, Jackie, you're my client, I'm your employee. I don't want to argue over stuff I don't even care about.'

'I wish I had the luxury of not caring, but I don't. It's my life, it affects me.'

Tess sat quietly for a minute. There were a lot of things she wanted to say, a lot of things she was scared to say. Jackie was a client, after all, even if they had acted as partners this afternoon. Besides, such conversations were dangerous under any circumstances. No one, not even best friends, had ever had a truly honest conversation about race. Tess decided to play possum, tilting back the passenger seat and closing her eyes. Reality overtook the pose, and the next thing she knew they were in the parking lot at Jackie's condo. It seemed as if weeks had passed since Tess had arrived here this morning, feeling so cocky about tracking down one Jackie Weir, nee Susan King.

'The Adoption Rights group meets Monday night,' Jackie reminded her, as Tess stretched, stiff from her nap. 'You're going with me, right?'

'That was our deal. What kind of person would renege after all you've done for me today?'

'You'd be surprised at what kind of people don't honor their promises.' Jackie sounded almost dire. If it were someone else, Tess would have thought the comment an odd joke, but Jackie had made it clear that humor was not her strong suit.

'Another tip for the small businesswoman?'

'A tip for life. One I've known for a long, long time.' With that, Jackie was gone, still favoring her left foot in its