Page 119 of Goodbye Days

“Bring the towel inside with you,” Judge Edwards says. “And your church clothes.”

I grab the towel that he made me put on his car seat, get my suit that’s hanging in my car and my dress shoes, and limp into the house after him, still wheezing.

Of all of Sauce Crew, we hung out at Mars’s house the least. Mars and Eli dug my house because they could ogle Georgia. We all liked Blake’s because of Nana Betsy. And Eli’s had the best video-game setup. Plus there was always the chance that Adair would show up with a pack of her lithe dancer friends. There was something about Mars’s house that put us on edge. It felt antiseptic, cold, brutal, efficient. Blake wouldn’t fart there. Not even if it was just the four of us. He’d wait until he got out in the car to let fly. “It’s not the kind of place you fart in,” he explained once (as opposed to in public stores and in the foyer of our school). When we did hang out at Mars’s, it was in the messy oasis of his bedroom.

I stand in the entryway while Judge Edwards goes upstairs. I’m afraid to do anything without a direct order. I hear him rummaging around.

“Upstairs,” he calls. “Hall bathroom.”

I plod up the stairs. Even this exertion is exhausting me after the run/walk. I make my way to the bathroom.

Judge Edwards points to where he’s laid things out in neat formation. “Hydrogen peroxide. Bandages. Towels. Shower, tend to your injuries, make yourself presentable for church.”

I nod and he leaves. I hang my suit on a hook on the back of the door and undress. I feel vulnerable being naked in Mars’s house. Especially since I would have never dreamed of showering at his house before. Part of me wonders if Judge Edwards plans to barge in on me midshower, yank me out, and throw me in the street, dripping and nude. Now you see how naked I felt when you killed my son, he’d say.

And then, as the hot water hits me, soothes my aching limbs, flushes the smell of puke from my nose, and washes the blood from my knees and palms, I wonder if he’ll instead turn off the hot water abruptly, leaving me dancing and convulsing in freezing water. Now you know how it felt when you suddenly took my son from me, he’d say. But I finish and dry myself off. I apply the stinging hydrogen peroxide to my wounds and bandage them. I dress in my suit and tie and dress shoes and pad downstairs, feeling slightly less vulnerable. Judge Edwards is waiting for me. He’s already showered and dressed in an impeccable black-gray three-piece suit, with a shirt that gleams cumulus white, and a bloodred tie.

He points to the dining room table. There’s a bowl, a spoon, a container of milk, and a box of Special K. “Eat.”

My stomach is completely void, but somehow I’m not hungry. Still, I sit and pour myself a bowl of cereal and eat.

Judge Edwards’s study is next to the dining room. I hear him go in and sit down, and then the scratching of a pen on paper. The air is tightly wound.

Tell him who I am, Mars whispers to me in the wordless lull. I never did.

I can’t, I whisper. I’m afraid.

Of what?

Of him. Weren’t you?

Yeah. But I’d do it for you if the roles were reversed. What else can he do to you?

I don’t know.

Tell you that you killed me?

Maybe.

What about Billy? Hiro? Jiminy?

You sound like Dr. Mendez.

He sounds smart.

“It’s time,” Judge Edwards says, exiting his study with a sheaf of paper in hand.

I pick up my bowl and start to take it into the kitchen.

“Thurgood always left his bowl on the table.”

I halt, turn, and put the bowl back on the table.

“It drove me mad.”

I pick up the bowl again.

He raises a hand in exasperation. “Leave it. Let’s go.”