Page 9 of Holding On

“Further south, there’s a history. Gloucester all the way up to Newburyport has African American ties with the whaling industry that go way back—runaway slaves, freed slaves, and people who bought their freedom.”

“And after Newburyport?” I know nothing of East Coast history—Black, white or other. In California, it’s all about Father Serra and the Native Americans, or robbing Mexico.

“Not so much,” she says. “But it’s changing, thank God.” She pauses and makes a left onto Main Street. “But it’s still pretty white. I don’t think Travis had even heard of code-switching until he got to vet school.”

I had to laugh. “Oh, I’m sure he knew before then.” The two buildings loom a block away, and I swallow.

“Listen, it’s just first day jitters. Be gentle with yourself. You’re going to be really tired when you come home, and then I’ll feed you.”

“Well, that’s something to look forward to.” Last night’s dinner, though simple, was delicious.

“You’re going to have a great day,” she says with a confidence I wish I felt.

I watch nervously as we pass the turn for the Farnsworth Museum. The next left is Limerick, and I brace for our turn. Chloe maneuvers the blue car past the bank parking lot and then makes a left onto Union Street, though it’s still Route 1. Having grown up in California, one-way streets feel weird. We’re in the left lane, and there’s a sidewalk on her side. From there, we make our way to the parking lot, and my heart starts to pound.

The courthouse is a lesson in the past and the present. There are two buildings. One is a brick structure that peaks in the middle with a glass atrium making a giant M. Clean lines—modern, but not esoteric. To the right is a much older building, built in the late 1800s. The façade of brick and white marble columns makes the building seem somehow familiar, yet austere. Like going to a distant uncle’s house where you can’t touch anything.

Distant uncle. I know all about those. I shake myself, shift to the present, and squint at my cell phone. “I’m not too sure which building she’s in.”

The courthouse is being renovated, so there’s scaffolding along the north end of the tower of the older building, giving it the appearance of a large renovated church.

“Well,” says Chloe, “it will be one or the other.” For a moment, she’s channeling Claire: practical, punctual, and to the point. Clearly, it’s time for me to leave the car. I stare at my phone again and then the buildings.

But Chloe is on to the next item on her to-do list. “You’ve got my number, right?

“Yes,” I say and wave my phone.

“Don’t worry about me. I’ve got tons to do in town, and I brought a book,” she says, reaching over her seat and lifting up a dog-eared paperback. “So even if you’re running a little late, it’s no problem. I’ll just curl up here and read. No pressure.”

“Well, thanks,” I say, not used to door-to-door service.

“But call when you’re done. I might be in town grabbing a coffee or something.” Now, she too leans over like she’s trying to see through the buildings.

Together, they’re 62 Union Street. I’d have to venture inside one to find Judge Audrey Pratchett. I sigh and place a hand on the door handle. It’s showtime.

***

The massive glossy door has The Honorable Audrey Pratchett inscribed in gold letters. I tap on the dark polished wood.

The “Come in,” is muffled.

I push open the surprisingly heavy door and step onto a plush area rug of blue and gold. The hardwood floors are covered with more thick throw rugs, smaller ones that are braided in traditional New England spirals.

Sitting behind the impressive mahogany desk is a thin, strong-looking woman in her in her late fifties.

With tidy, short blonde hair, a tan face, simple gold hoops, and a quick smile, she starts to stand. I try to wave her down—no judge should be standing for me.

“Maya,” she says and offers a hand. Wishing I had wiped my hand on my skirt outside the door, I reach forward. I hope my grip isn’t too clammy.

“You got the handshake down,” she says. I sense a measure of approval. “I’d like you to sit here.” She points to a leather chair pushed awfully close to her desk. As I settle in, she steps around me and shuts the door firmly behind both of us.

The window is open, and a light breeze ruffles papers on her desk. This too, she closes. Next, she walks over and turns on a wall unit air conditioner, even though it’s not warm in the room.

“We don’t have central air,” she says.

I smile. “That’s fine. Sometimes it gives me a headache anyway.”

Suddenly, she frowns. “Poor thing. Living in LA and can’t take central air conditioning? Well, you certainly won’t get a headache here from the AC. Hardly any of the buildings have it.”