Gerald’s eyes flicked over Robbie and Denise emptily. He pulled the tab on his second can of soda and said, “You’re asking the wrong guy.”
“Who do we ask, then?” Carl said.
“The right guy.” Gerald’s smile was toothless.
There was a metallic clang then, like the heavy steel door had been thrown open with too much force and collided with the bars of the jail cell behind it. Someone muttered, “Dang it,” and I heard that traditional wood heel striking the cement floor, a man whistling a leisurely tune. The guard reacted as though the fire alarm had gone off. He came toward Gerald and slipped a hand beneath his armpit, hauling him to his feet, telling him his time was up.
“But we’ve barely been here ten minutes!” Tina cried.
“Visiting hours are from nine to four,” a new voice said, and we turned to see a grandfatherly man outfitted in all khaki and, yes, cowboy boots, the walking kind with the slight slant, fitting his key into the door of the visitors’ cell. “You can come back tomorrow.”
“I sure hope they do, Sheriff,” Gerald said agreeably. “Bring me the filet next time,” he told Tina, sucking on his lips lewdly as the guard led him out.
“We’re leaving tonight, sir,” I told the Glenwood Springs sheriff. I dreaded having to address anyone as sir or ma’am. That wasn’t how I was raised, and no matter how hard I tried, I always sounded like I was mocking the person to whom I was supposed to be showing respect.
“You should have come earlier, then,” he said unsympathetically, and motioned for us to follow him, wriggling his meaty fingers like he was tickling something from the underside. I felt an extreme revulsion rise up in me.
“We did get here earlier,” I couldn’t stop myself from saying as I got up and followed him into the prison’s reception area. “On time. You were the ones who were late, sir.”
“Our sincerest apologies, ma’am,” the sheriff said, about as insincere as I’d ever heard a person, “but the prison transport van had to go to the shop for a little tune-up, and the guys got a late start at the park.”
“How convenient,” Tina remarked.
“You need me to look at it, sir?” Carl offered in an obsequious voice. When the sheriff glanced back at him, he added, “I was an airplane mechanic in the army.”
The sheriff swung the door wide with the side of his forearm. “Thank you for your service, but we go to the automobile mechanic when there’s a problem with our automobiles. You folks have a nice evening.” It wasn’t enough to allow the door to swing shut behind him; the sheriff pulled it closed with two hands on the knob, then tugged down the security shade for good measure.
Outside, the sun had dipped beneath the snowcaps, but the sky remained a soft, stained blue. Tina looked up, then back down at the hunk of gold on her wrist. It was a Rolex with the jubilee bracelet and jade mosaic dial, the same one my father wore.
“It’s three fifty-one,” Tina said. The three of us stood there, forming a small ring and passing between us a look weighted with understanding. We’d had nine minutes left with Gerald, enough time for him to tell us whatever it was they did not want him to tell. We’d stumbled onto something here in Colorado, and possibly it was the truth.
RUTH
Aspen
Winter 1974
I saw the kitchen curtains flutter furtively as Tina reversed out of the driveway. My mother had been opening and shutting drawers with deep, woeful sighs when I’d told her I was leaving, like finding anything she needed was impossible now that I’d organized the kitchen for her. It was as good a goodbye as I was going to get. My fifty-two-year-old mother turned into a sullen teenager when she didn’t get her way, giving her oppressor flat, monosyllabic answers when a shrug or nod wouldn’t do. Normally, when she iced me out like this, I spiraled into a state of unparalleled terror. I’d become convinced that not only did everyone hate me but I had cancer and I was going to die. But on the day Tina and I left for Aspen, I was too in love with my face to care. In the bathroom mirror, I tilted my chin down and up, turned my head left and right. The only bump on my face was my nose, and I had always liked my nose.
Aspen. I felt so worldly saying it: I’m headed to Ah-spin for the weekend. Tina was wearing not an outfit but an ensemble—knit hat with a cute pom-pom on top, a fuzzy white jacket, suede and fur snow boots that made her legs look miles long. I wouldn’t have been able to stand looking at her if I didn’t feel so beautiful myself. People could finally see my bright eyes, my pale skin, and my pitch-black hair. Earlier that week, a little girl in the grocery store had tugged her mother’s sleeve and asked her what Snow White was doing in the cereal aisle.