Daddy's Girl (3 page)

Nat smiled to herself. She saw Hank Ballisteri as the chocolate Lab of men; overgrown, active, and affable. A Penn State econ major and born salesman, Hank connected instantly with people, complementing her perfectly. She knew enough not to go for you-complete-me love, but she did enjoy knowing that she could delegate her social life to him, at least for the foreseeable future.

Her cold toes found his under the covers, and he wiggled back, their customary toe-hello. She leaned over and kissed him on his slightly oily cheek, since he never washed his face at night, and he shifted onto his back, smiled lazily, and opened his eyes, a rich, large brown.

“Thanks for a great birthday party,” he murmured.

“You’re welcome. I was cooking all day.”

“You did buy the cake.”

“True.”

“I love my new pen. I hope I don’t lose it.”

“You won’t. You’re thirty-four now. Thirty-three-year-olds lose gold pens. Men your age, never.”

Hank smiled with pleasure and fatigue. He reached up and touched her hair. “I love you.”

“I love you, too. And my family loves you even more than I do.”

“The lamp was Paul’s fault, no matter what he says.”

“I know. Forget about the lamp.” Nat inched close to him and warmed her breast on the side of his arm. “I’m nude, by the way.”

“I noticed.”

“I want extra credit.”

“For not wearing that disgusting sweatshirt to bed?”

“Exactly.” They both smiled, and Nat stroked his chest under the covers. “You too tired?”

“For what?”

Actually, Nat wanted to tell him about the vice dean and the trip to the prison, but men never stay up to talk about work. “For Happy Birthday.”

“Now that’s worth missing Conan for,” he said, rolling over and giving her a deep kiss.

After they had made love, Hank fell fast asleep, but Nat tossed and turned. She couldn’t stop thinking about her seminar or the prison trip. She regretted saying yes to Angus. She should have just begged off. She even had work to do, writing another article that no one would read. What would she do at a prison? More important, what would she
wear
? How do you dress to look terrible?

Nat turned over and shut her eyes. She would have switched on the light and read but then she’d never get to sleep. She tried to relax, breathing in the sweetness of the dark bedroom, with the chill of winter safely at bay and the man she loved slumbering beside her. In time, she drifted off, and at the threshold of sleep, she remembered the birthday poem.

My heart is gladder than all these
,
because my love is come to me.

N
at and Angus were driving in his sunflower-yellow VW Beetle along a one-lane road that wound up and down through the snow-covered hills of the Pennsylvania countryside. Angus had been pleasant company on the drive from the city, and Nat was relieved to note that he didn’t smell like a controlled substance this morning.

“It’s gorgeous out here,” she said, looking out the car window. The mid-morning sun climbed a cloudless sky, late to work as it lingered behind the barren branches of winter trees. They drove past a field of snow, its glazed veneer broken in patches from horses, which stood together under worn blue blankets, nosing the snow from habit or in vain hope of grass. Their long necks stretched down with a quiet grace, and chalky steam wreathed their muzzles.

“This is southern Chester County, the Brandywine River Valley. Wyeth Country.” Angus downshifted around a curve. “The Wyeths live around here, and the Brandywine River Museum’s not far, in Chadds Ford. Ever been to the museum?”

“No.”

“I go there all the time. It’s dedicated to the Wyeth family. They have Andrew and his son Jamie, and N.C., the grandfather. Newell Convers Wyeth, the patriarch. I love his stuff.”

“Why?”

“The colors. The light. The superheroes. He was more into people than landscapes. He started out as an illustrator of adventure books. Old N.C. was a painter of knights and pirates, and I can relate.”

“To the knights or the pirates?”

“To the painter,” Angus answered, and Nat smiled. She sat enveloped in her toggle coat, unusually near him in the forced intimacy of the small car. Up close, he had intelligent, if narrow, blue eyes and heavy eyebrows of a darker gold shade. His thick hair, barely contained by an orange rubber band, still looked uncombed, and he wore the same clothes as yesterday; a faded blue workshirt, its wrinkled collar sticking out from underneath a thick fisherman’s sweater, worn with jeans and boots. He barely fit in the driver’s seat and looked as incongruous in a VW as a Viking.

“That house is a funny color,” Nat said, as they passed a Colonial-scale home, its gray stone shining oddly green.

“It’s the copper in the stone, leaching through. Have you ever been out this way, in Chester County?”

“No, but I do a chapter on the Fugitive Slave Act in my seminar.”

“What’s that have to do with Chester County?”

“Chester County was an important stop on the Underground Railroad. On a map, you can see that it’s just north of the Mason-Dixon Line. The Quakers down here, especially from the Longwood Progressive Meeting, brought thousands of slaves north.”

“Longwood? That’s not far, about half an hour.” Silence fell for a minute, then Angus said, “I thought I knew everything about this area. I was trying to impress you with my Wyeth lecture.”

“I was impressed.” Nat smiled. “I think the Progressive Meetinghouse still stands. I read that it’s part of Longwood Gardens.”

“So why don’t we go, after the prison?” Angus shifted gears around a curve, and his hand accidentally bumped her knee.

“I can’t. I should get back to work.”

“We can get back by two, even if we grab lunch.”

Did he just ask me out?
“I don’t have time. I’m working on an article.”

“But how can you pass up the chance to see it? You teach it.”

“I teach
The Merchant of Venice
without going to Italy. That’s why we have books.”

“No, that’s why we have clinics,” Angus shot back with a grin. “How about Saturday? We can take in the Wyeth museum, find the meetinghouse, and then have dinner. A day o’ fun!”

His hand bumped her knee again, and this time, Nat wondered how accidentally. She stole a glance at his left hand. No wedding band, but maybe he didn’t wear one. She had thought he was married. For school gossip she always relied on a colleague, who’d gone on sabbatical this year. Maybe delegating your social life wasn’t such a hot idea.

“I can’t go. I have plans.”

“What about Sunday?” Angus hit the gas, and Nat shifted in her seat so her knee wouldn’t get bumped. She didn’t want her bumpage to lead him on, and, anyway, enough was enough.

“Aren’t you married?”

“Not anymore. We divorced about a year ago.” Angus kept his eyes on the road, and if he was upset, it didn’t show.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

“I didn’t advertise. She dumped me for a Republican.” He smiled, then it vanished. “So how about it? Would you like to go out?”

“Thanks, but I’m seeing someone.”

“I should have known.” He braked at the stop sign, his lower lip puckering somewhere inside his beard. “Cool move by me, huh? Am I rusty or what?”

“You’re fine,” Nat said, touched by his openness. He really was a nice guy. Then she thought of something. “Is that why you asked me to go to the prison?”

“No. I thought my class would benefit from what you had to say. But I admit I was looking forward to the drive—way too much.” He glanced over. “I thought what you did in your class was so cool, and it’s too bad we don’t know each other, even though we have so much in common.”

“We do? Like what?” Nat asked, keeping the incredulity from her tone.

“For one, we’re both outsiders at school.”

“Are you kidding?” She scoffed. “No one is more inside than you. I saw your students gazing at you adoringly.”

“Those are my clinic members, and the clinic is its own little world, didn’t you notice?”

“No, I’m in my own little world.”

Angus smiled crookedly. “We have the same problems. The truth is it’s tough to attract students to the clinic. How do you get a kid to go into public interest law when he has student loans of a hundred grand? It’s a lost cause.”

“Which is what you love about it.”

“Exactly. Like you and your class. Don’t you like the idea that you’re doing something important, even if no one else recognizes it?”

Nat understood. He was right; they did have that in common. She let an awkward moment pass.

“My clinic needed marketing, too. I had to explain to the students what’s so great about what we do, so they would see the benefit to them. I told them that they could get into court and actually represent people.” Angus paused. “In our situation, I would explain to you the many benefits of dating me.”

“You’d market yourself?”

“If that’s what it took.”

“It’s not happening,” Nat said with a smile, and Angus laughed, which broke the tension.

“Are you and this lucky guy serious?”

“Yes.”
But don’t tell my mother.

“So, okay, Professor Holt strikes out. If you two break up, will you take me off the wait list?”

Nat flushed, flattered. “Yes,” she answered, and they took off through the countryside. She could have been imagining it, but he seemed to drive faster after she turned him down. They traveled up and down hills, through forest and pasture and over the Brandywine Creek, and in time, rounded a sharp curve. On the right was a brick building with a bright green roof behind a Youth Study Center sign, but they drove on. Tucked uphill behind a grove of tall evergreens appeared an older wooden sign that read,
CHESTER COUNTY CORRECTIONAL INSTITUTION
in white-painted letters that were oddly rustic for a penitentiary.

“End of the Wyeth part.” Nat instantly regretted that she’d come. She should have been back at school, teaching class. Her students needed sleep.

“I know, right?” Angus said matter-of-factly. They drove up to a tall, white guardhouse, and out of its skinny door stepped a young, blue-uniformed guard with a black rifle slung over his shoulder. The guard leaned into the car window, which Angus had rolled down. “Hi, Jimmy.”

“Hey, Teach!” the guard said, grinning broadly. He had brown eyes under the patent-leather bill of his cap and sported a small, dark mustache over unevenly spaced teeth. “You brought a new student? Hi, honey.”

“Keep it classy,” Angus said, mock-stern. “This is Professor Greco. She’s lecturing here today.”

“Oh, jeez.” The guard shifted his cap up, instantly sheepish. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay.” Nat waved him off, and Angus thanked the guard and hit the gas. Nat asked, “Don’t we have to show him any ID?”

“Nah. He knows me.”

“I have to show ID in a store, when I use a credit card.”

“Like I said, minimum security.” Angus shrugged, but Nat didn’t get it.

“More minimum than J.Crew, yet not so minimum that the guard doesn’t carry a gun.”

“Exactly.” The VW traveled up a single-lane paved road to a small, elevated parking lot. Freshly plowed snow sat piled around the perimeter of the lot, decreasing the number of spaces. Angus continued, “Inside, none of the guards is armed. I should say C.O.s. Corrections officers. They don’t like when we call them guards. They’re nice guys, most of ’em.”

“They don’t have guns inside?” Nat’s tone said,
You told me it was safe.

“No. It’s standard in prisons. Most of the C.O.’s treat the inmates with respect, but still as a group. Like a lower caste, not like each one is an individual. The C.O.s have to, to manage them. But in my class, I try to make up for that.”

Nat sensed that Angus was climbing a soapbox, but she didn’t mind. Passion did that to people. She’d sound the same way if anybody asked her about Abraham Lincoln. She loved reminding her students that he was a lawyer. Nobody believed her.

“Rehabilitation is essential here. These men are inside for only two years, so they’re getting out again. They’re in for misdemeanors and nonviolent offenses. Petty larceny, burglary, fraud. Chester County offers drug and alcohol counseling, and job training like heating and air conditioning, auto repair, even haircutting.”

Bad to worse.
“With scissors?”

“Sure, and the inmates who work in the kitchen use knives.”

“Great.”

“Don’t worry.” Angus steered the car into the parking lot. “They hang up the scissors and knives in glass cases, on pegboards painted with the shape of the tool, and when the inmates are finished, a C.O. locks the cases.” He found a space, and Nat noticed that many of the cars were idling, with white plumes of exhaust puffing from their tailpipes.

“What’s up with the cars?”

“They’re inmate families, waiting for visiting hours to start.” Angus put on the emergency brake and looked over at Nat with a smile. “Let’s rock. Bring your driver’s license but leave your handbag. Only legal papers are allowed. Do you have lecture notes?”

“Yes.” Nat retrieved her accordion file, and they got out of the car. She stepped into the cold and clasped her file to her chest like a security blanket, surveying the scene.

The prison complex was situated on a large, flat tray of snow-covered land, which looked as if it had been created by cutting the top off of one of the hills. A tall blue water tower stood behind the compound. The prison itself was a sprawling brick edifice shaped like a T, with a public entrance and largish windows at the bottom of the T, in front of a circular driveway. The no-joke end of the prison was the body and top of the T, where the windows were ugly slits. Double rows of cyclone fencing topped with razorwire surrounded that section. The compound was discreetly screened from the surrounding neighborhood by a man-made forest of tall, full evergreens, encircling the entire property.

“It’s something, isn’t it?” Angus asked. His breath made a cloud in the cold air. “Lovely setting for a place with no windows.”

“It’s crime and punishment.”

“So they say.”

“Didn’t you bring a coat? It’s freezing out.”

“Too manly. Let’s go.” Angus touched her back, and they walked up a long plowed road, their shoes crunching in the salt and ice patches. They reached the circular driveway, which was lined with black prison vans and a grimy Chevy pickup loaded with lumber and covered with a blue tarp that flapped in the wind. Behind the truck sat a construction trailer with a plastic sign that read,
PHOENIX CONSTRUCTION
, some white propane tanks, and a pallet of cinderblocks. Ahead lay the prison entrance.

Nat tried to shake off her nerves, and Angus slowed their pace as they passed a dark blue sedan with its engine running. Two men in dark suits and ties sat in the front seat. Angus pointed. “Look,
federales.
”

“What?” Nat asked, but he was already walking up to the car and knocking on the driver’s window.

“We don’t need no stinking badges,” Angus said as the window slid down, and the driver laughed. He wore Ray-Ban sunglasses and held a slim can of Red Bull.

“The original army of one!” the driver said, and Angus flashed a peace sign.

“Ha! I prefer the loyal opposition.”

“Who’re you suing today, Holt? Somebody miss yoga?”

“Don’t give me any ideas,” Angus shot back, and they laughed as the window slid back up. Angus touched Nat’s elbow, and they resumed walking. “Those poor guys, they’re federal marshals, bored to tears. That’s the truest thing about this place. This prison, any prison, whether it’s a supermax or a playpen. The inmates, the C.O.s, the staff—they’re just so damned
bored
. Everybody who’s ever been inside will tell you. Every day, it’s the same as the last.”

“Why are marshals here?”

“The prison takes in federal prisoners on a courtesy hold. They got one guy here, all by himself in maximum security. The marshals maintain an official presence until he goes to trial in Philly.”

“What’d he do?” Nat asked, as they reached the entrance, a windowless metal door painted red, a strangely cheery color against the industrial brown of the facility. “I mean, allegedly.”

“Oh, he did it.” Angus smiled wryly. “It’s Richard Williams. Distribution, murder, the whole enchilada.” He pulled open the door and waved her inside.

“Thanks.” Nat stepped into a tiny room with bars all around, like the elevator to hell. She told herself not to be afraid.

Or, at least, not to let it show.