Charletta had come home, kicked off her shoes, and sat in the chair by the window, not bothering to eat, not bothering to take off her dress, underwear, makeup.
She had talked to Lonny, talked to the police, talked to the man from the Public Defender's Office who represented her brother. Charletta's mother and father had refused to come. Her father's heart was bad. Her mother was humiliated. And so, as it always had, it fell on Charletta, the solid one, the smart one, the only person on either side of the family who had ever gone to college.
She had soothed her brother, talked rationally and reasonably with (he public defender, who struck her as tired and a little stupid but well meaning. Lord, she thought, if you're out mete among the rats and garbage, save us from the well-meaning and incompetent Something moved in the field and then stopped.
Tomorrow would be worse and it would be all up to Charletta, who stood tall and with dignity but no trace of beauty.
The Jewish policeman who looked like an old, tired dog had been patient with her, gone over the case against Lonny, told her what the doctors had done and that they were sure he would recover from his wounds and be all right.
'All right?' she said.
'Unfortunate choice of words,' the policeman said. 'He'll be physically fine.'
'I'm sorry,' Charletta said. 'But…'
'No sorry involved here,' the policeman said. 'I'll get the lawyer from the Public Defender's Office to talk to you. Want some coffee, a sandwich?'
'No,' she said.
They had been sitting in a waiting room at Cook County lockup.
'Miss Wayne,' the old policeman said gently. 'You've got enough suffering to do here. You don't have to be hungry while you do it. Coffee and a tuna on white? Place across the street is not awful. It's bad but not awful.'
'How can I resist an offer like mat?'
'I'm very persuasive,' he said, rising. 'Want anything in your coffee?'
'A little cream,' she said.
He patted her hand and said he would be right back. And he sat with her till the public defender showed up, disheveled, tie knotted awkwardly.
And now she was back in her parents' apartment. She no longer thought of it as her home. It was the place of despair from which she was escaping. She saw the end of her brother. Jail, a record. Out in-what had the lawyer said? — four years with a plea bargain, maybe less. And then?
And she saw a threat to her education and future, her escape. She saw parents who needed her, an office job, receptionist, African-American with a white voice was always good for answering phones.
And she hated her brother, hated Lonny for being weak, for threatening her future.
'No,' she whispered in darkness, determined, a little frightened, angry. 'No, I'm not giving it up. I'm not going down.'
From above a shrill crack of gunfire. She looked out the window. Something jumped and squirmed on a slab of concrete in the field below. A rat or cat.
Charletta shook her head.
'No,' she said again. And she meant it
'Lieberman, you're awake?'
'When am I asleep?' he answered.
Bess sat up and turned on the light. Abe looked at her.
'You want to talk?' she asked.
'I have a choice?'
'Yes,' she said.
Lieberman sighed and sat up. 'Talk,' he said.
'What do you want to talk about?' she asked.
'I don't suppose you want to talk about the Cubs' chances at making the play-offs?' 'No.'
'I didn't think so.'
'Rabbi Wass gave a passable sermon, you think?'
'Passable,' said Lieberman, holding back a yawn.
'I think if homosexuals want to join the congregation, they should be welcome,' Bess said emphatically. 'Jews are Jews. They're not going to hold hands or anything that Ida Katzman seems to be so worried about.'
'Why won't they hold hands?' Lieberman asked. 'You and I hold hands.'
'You've got a point, Lieberman.'
'Bottom line here,' said Lieberman, 'Ida Katzman, to whom I owe the pleasure of having been assigned to the Rozier murder, won't like it, and Ida's money is essential to keep the new temple in the black.'
'I didn't say she wouldn't like it,' said Bess. 'But it sounded like she wouldn't like it to me.'
'And to me too,' agreed Lieberman.
'Want some orange juice?' Bess asked. 'I can make a litfle popcorn in the microwave. That can't hurt you.'
'Bess, I love you. You is my woman. You are a rare beauty who I love listening to and looking at. But when are you going to bring out the real agenda?'
She reached over and rapped the top of his head gently with her knuckles. He yawned.
'Lisa may never want to take the kids,' she said. 'She loves them, but… what do you think?'
'Never is a very long time,' said Lieberman. 'It's probably sufficient to say that she probably won't want to take the kids in my lifetime, which, if I avoid eating every food in the known world that has any taste, may not come till Barry and Melisa are adults.'
'She's restless, Abe,' said Bess.
'Give her thirty, forty years. She'll outgrow it,' he said. 'Popcorn sounds good.'
'When we're finished,' Bess said. 'You don't mind, about taking the kids?'
'Of course I mind,' said Lieberman. 'What am I, Father Teresa? I mind. I mind that Lisa feels the way she does. That's what I mind. I'm worried about you and me having to take care of and maybe raise two kids at our age.'
'But…' she prompted.
'All right. All right. All right I'D get up and make die popcorn,' he said. 'The kids'll be hard, but it'll be good. There, I said it. You want an orange juice with the popcorn?'
Bess nodded yes and said, 'A Thin Man movie started on AMC about fifteen minutes ago. You want to watch?'
Lieberman, in his pajamas, paused in the doorway.
'Popcorn, orange juice, Myrna Loy, and you in bed,' he said. 'Who could resist such an offer?'
