Page 13 of Martha Calhoun

ny of them spilling papers and documents. The materials were stamped here and there with seals and covered with bold, black type. They seemed to come from some place new and threatening, and I was cheered to see on the floor a child’s baseball mitt, its worn, brown fingers splayed open.

“Did you hear about the accident?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Was your electricity out?”

“Yes, most of the night.”

She shook her head slowly. “A boy, probably hot-rodding. He hit a utility pole so hard he knocked it down. He was killed, of course. Michael Cooper. Did you know him?”

“A little.” For a moment, I thought that knowing Michael Cooper might be held against me. He was a thin, sandy-haired boy with pockmarks on his cheeks. He was two or three years older than I, but his sister was in my class.

“Well, it’s a shame, of course, but I don’t see why every teenager today has to run around in a car.”

She guided the station wagon toward the square, traveling slowly and making looping turns around corners. “Do you have your license?” she asked after a short silence.

“No.”

“You’re sixteen, aren’t you?”

“Yes, but I don’t know how to drive.”

“Nobody’s taught you?” She sounded pitying.

“Eddie took me out a couple of times,” I said, eager to show that I hadn’t been neglected at home. “He tried to teach me, but I wasn’t very good. He said I was too uncoordinated.”

“Eddie?”

I realized that mentioning him had been a mistake. I have to think harder, I told myself. Guard things. “He’s a man, a friend of Bunny’s.”

“Oh. He’s not your friend?”

“No. I mean, yes, sort of.”

She braked sharply and slowed to cross the railroad tracks. “He doesn’t sound like much of a friend to me,” she said.

We parked just off the square, in a lot reserved for court employees. Walking the steep trail of steps to the courthouse entrance, we ran into Mrs. Covington, who works at the library.

“Martha, what are you doing here?” she asked pleasantly.

I stopped and tried to think what to say.

“Martha’s got business,” said Mrs. O’Brien, lightly pushing me forward.

We entered the courthouse, crossed the black-and-white checkered stone floor of the big, echoing lobby, and walked down a corridor decorated with yellowing pictures of judges. At the far end, people were gathered around two closed doors. A sign standing on an iron stick said JUVENILE COURT IN SESSION—QUIET. Mrs. O’Brien walked over to a bench where two hoods were slouched, their legs stretched into the corridor. “Excuse me,” she said, “could you two gentlemen possibly make room for two ladies to sit down?” The hoods stared at her in disbelief. Finally, one of them stood up and lit a cigarette. Mrs. O’Brien sat on the spot he’d vacated. She patted the bench beside her. “Here, Martha,” she said. I squeezed in and the other hood hopped up. The two of them glared at us. Mrs. O’Brien ignored them.

“I hope your mother gets here soon,” she said. “I told her ten.” A clock on the wall indicated that Bunny had five minutes.

I didn’t recognize any of the people standing around. Besides the two hoods, there was a girl about my age, with red eyes and stringy hair, and a younger boy in a pair of overalls with dried mud around the cuffs. Older people, probably parents, stood morosely by. After a few minutes, one of the courtroom doors opened, and a lady with short, gray hair came out. She saw Mrs. O’Brien and walked over. “You’re next, Peggy,” she said.

“Hi, Josephine,” said the social worker. Then she shook her head. “Awful about the accident.”

“Awful,” said Josephine. “And the family lost an older brother in Korea. Two sons gone.”

“Awful.”

“I lost a pork roast, you know. The electricity was out for eight hours, and in this heat the thing just spoiled on me. I was going to make it for dinner tonight.”

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