“She coming back?” he asks again, and this time he keeps his eyes on me.
“I don’t think so,” I say, and he rests his head back on the mattress so he can see only ceiling.
An hour later and Trevor is snoring, full of pancake. I dial the phone number I promised Purple Suit I would dial because there really isn’t any alternative when these two breaking boys need me and I don’t have enough of a body to give them both what they need and keep on breathing. Marsha Fields answers with a chirp and I start talking; nothing left to do but let the words out.
Marsha is blond. Not only blond, but she’s got the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen and she stands petite but tall in stilettos and a pencil skirt, just like every TV show predicted she would. Yet, here she is, standing right next to the shit pool, trying to pretend that it doesn’t bother her: the traces of scent, sulfur still locked into every molecule despite the chemicals Vernon drops in once a month.
When I called Marsha, I didn’t expect her to say she’d be here first thing in the morning and for that first thing to be nine a.m. and her face to be this angelic, not a splotch on it. She’s got hair so thin I bet I could rip it all out with one pull, and the shirt beneath her blazer has tiny cats on it, a casual Sunday look tucked into her pencil skirt.
Marsha steps forward so she’s close enough to hold her hand out to me, and I stare at it for a moment, the length of her fingers, before shaking it. Marsha starts her nice-to-meet-you speech. She’s all bright, a dusty foundation covering her face, and she seems like she’s having the time of her life while I am shoved into rooms with men and suits and uniforms, getting calls from cells. I want to be grateful, want to think Marsha a god, but so much of me resents her, resents her heels and the way she gets to walk in and out of a room without asking nobody for permission. Bet she makes six figures too.
She talks faster than I’ve ever heard anybody talk before, like her tongue is in some kind of relay race with her words. I catch snippets of it, digest only the words I really understand. Marsha throws in a whole bunch of legal bullshit that she knows only somebody who went to law school could understand.
As she talks, her hands move, acting out her words. Whenever she says “them,” she lifts one of her hands up and flings it over her shoulder, does a half eye roll. I don’t know if she’s talking about the cops or the detectives or the police department or, shit, maybe she’s talking about all them white people in those little rooms, playing dress-up with handguns. Probably not, though, because that would put Marsha with “them” and she seems to think she’s part of the “us,” as if she’d walk into my apartment and feel right at home in its emptiness, bare walls, no bed frame.
When she’s done with her speech, Marsha turns right back around toward the gate, eager to get away from the Regal-Hi, like it’s gonna come clawing after her. Her car is all the way down the street and Marsha walks fast, takes these giant steps that shouldn’t even be possible with how short her legs are. I attempt to mimic her gestures, releasing my fists and making my arms swing wider. I wonder why she does that, makes her legs extend farther than they could possibly need to go.
Marsha keeps walking the same way and I think this must just be the way she moves. I’m out of breath from it, let my body dip back into its usual stroll, stomach rolls, and slouch. Marsha stops outside a black car that must be hers and gets her keys out. She presses a button and the car blinks on.
Marsha doesn’t know how to sit still and immediately starts driving, continuing to talk. “Today’s normally my day off, but Sandra and I talked last week and she said you’d be giving me a call, explained your situation.” At first I don’t know who Marsha’s talking about, until I realize Sandra must be Purple Suit’s name. “I don’t typically perform pro bono work, however, you are a special case, my dear. I’m guessing it’s going to be rather difficult for you to get proper representation. Next time, always ask for a lawyer if some strange detectives want to sit you down alone and question you. Good thing you called me when you did.”
“I don’t think you understand, I’m not the one who needs representation. It’s my brother, Marcus, he needs a lawyer,” I say.
Marsha smiles. “No, sweetheart, you’re the one who needs a lawyer. Didn’t Sandra explain this? Pretty soon you’ll be in court and having a good attorney is half the battle.”
“But my brother’s the one locked up. You tryna tell me they gonna arrest me too?”