Poetic Justice. Andrea J. Johnson
coastline boasted the cleanest water and best boardwalks on the eastern seaboard, so it wasn’t uncommon for tourists to descend upon our tiny town and balloon the population from 3,000 to 33,000 during the summer. This meant our secluded four-bedroom wasn’t as fancy as the homes closer to the water, but we had room to spread out.
I raised my voice to a holler in case my mother was in her office upstairs. “Ma, I need to talk to you.”
Nothing but the hum of the refrigerator in response, so I kicked off my pumps and sank my toes into the carpet. The plush fabric cradled my feet and provided a small sense of comfort.
My mother, Corinne Justice, was rarely home before dark. During her forty-four years as an employee of the Trident County School System—twenty-three years as an English teacher, sixteen years as a guidance counselor, and five years as an elementary school principal—she’d earned a master’s degree, adopted me, and obtained a doctorate in education, all while directing the church choir and presiding over her Kappa Mu chapter.
She’d recently retired, but decided to pursue politics by running for mayor of our humble hamlet. With Election Day less than twelve hours away, I figured she could still be on the campaign trail.
“Back here, Angel.” Ma shouted to my surprise. The volume of her voice made it clear she was sitting on the sun porch. “I came home as soon as I heard about Freddie.”
“How’d you hear?” I hurried across the family room and through the kitchen to the open sliding glass door.
Ma sat cross-legged on a cushioned chaise with the cordless in one hand and a bottle of Moscato in the other. A heavy knit blanket draped across her shoulders. She wore a navy-blue dress suit with an American flag pin clipped to her lapel. Smears of plum lipstick and heavy black mascara stained her sienna skin from where she’d rubbed at tears and a leaky nose. Her tawny pageboy, which was usually flawless, was in disarray from where she’d tugged at the ends.
“WSYS already picked up the story. I saw it on the four o’clock news.” She took a sip of sweet liquid courage straight from the bottle. “They said a courthouse employee found Freddie murdered sometime around noon and the small window of opportunity points to a suspect who works in the building.” She yanked a strand of her hair and twisted it around her index finger. “Grace called about twenty minutes ago and asked if you were okay because you didn’t answer your cell. She told me you found Freddie. Is it true?” Her bloodshot eyes watered as she waited for my answer.
I knitted my brows in quiet confirmation and sat on the floorboards beside her lounge chair. “Grace shouldn’t have told you.”
“Oh, no.” Thick droplets fell from her eyes. “Was it bad?”
I didn’t answer.
“Call in sick tomorrow. I don’t want you going back there with a killer on the loose.”
“Ma—”
“Do not argue with me, Victoria. You can’t possibly be safe in a place where a judge is murdered under the nose of the law. I will not put my only child at risk.”
I picked at the hardwood floor to hide my disappointment. Ma had always been overprotective—even before Langley’s attempt on my life…although that issue intensified things.
In answer to my silence, Ma reached out and lifted my chin. “I am yours, you are mine, and together we’ll be fine.”
Her favorite saying. One she uttered whenever I questioned her love for me, which had happened daily after I learned of my adoption. She broke the news just as I skipped over middle school and entered high school hell. Ma always used the phrase to remind me how she chose me, despite the odds. After losing her parents to old age, she decided at the age of forty to build a new family and took the risk of adopting from a pregnant teen hooked on drugs.
She could have been signing up for a host of problems, but I came out healthy—a victory, a Victoria—so she was determined to raise me in the most pristine environment possible. Some of her methods were sensible, like no dating until sixteen. But most of them, like insisting I get off the bus at a daycare center even though I was fifteen and a senior in high school, were…extreme.
This request fell into the latter category.
“Ma, I’m going to work tomorrow.” I shoved my hand into my bag and handed her the letter. “I don’t think Ms. Freddie would have wanted me to sit around and mope.”
“‘In life we are given two choices,’” Ma read aloud from the opening paragraph, “‘rise up or fall by the wayside. Victoria has chosen the third option—the one rarely spoken of due to its inherent difficulty—rise above and forge your own path.’”
Ma held the letter against her heart, exhaled, and took another generous swig from her wine bottle. “I get it. You’re old enough to know what’s best for you.” She handed the paper back to me and slouched against the cushions of the chaise. “But I think you should give a copy of that letter to Russell. I’ve been trying to get him on the phone to see if there’s anything we can do for him, but I can’t get through. If he picks up this time, offer your condolences. Read him the letter. He may find solace in those words.”
Ma dialed and handed me the cordless. Her puffy eyes mirrored the same dull sorrow that gnawed at my soul. I clicked off the phone, placed it on the floor, and climbed onto the chaise beside her. She needed my comfort just as much as Mr. Russell did. Besides, I couldn’t talk to Ms. Freddie’s husband. The truth of the matter was his wife’s death was gruesome, foul, and undeserved. I wouldn’t be the one to remind him of that.
I spread out Ma’s knit blanket, and we huddled beneath its scratchy folds. She nursed her Moscato while the day’s events rolled over in my mind.
“Did the newscast mention this all started with Langley Dean’s drug trial?”
Ma froze mid-swallow with the bottle still tucked between her lips.
Even though I wore the physical scars of Langley’s wrath, Ma bore the mental ones. When they rushed me to the emergency room after the incident, the thought of losing her only child enraged her. She had gone after Langley with everything she had.
Despite numerous protests to Bickerton High’s principal, the Trident County School Board, and the Bickerton Police, she was never able to press charges because no one had witnessed Langley push me into the pool. My word was worthless against the head cheerleader and the teammates who’d given her a solid alibi. “Langley was nowhere near the pool. She was serving drinks at the concession stand.”
The county did offer a settlement for medical bills and damages, but Ma had always thought she’d failed to protect me.
“Langley wiggled her way out of felony drug possession today,” I said when Ma didn’t respond. “She threw a pitcher of water at me just as I was trying to leave the courtroom to go meet Ms. Freddie. I’m filing assault and menacing charges, but if I’d gotten away from Langley sooner—if I hadn’t let her get under my skin—maybe I would have been there in time, and the murderer wouldn’t have attacked…”
Ma’s body reanimated at the word “murderer.” She put down the bottle, swung her chubby legs over the edge of the chaise, and turned to face me.
“Don’t you blame yourself, Angel. I love Freddie. I want her back just as much as you do, but don’t put yourself through the agony of thinking you could have stopped it. You’re not responsible. Blaming yourself is not going to change things.” Tears fell from her eyes again. She pulled me into her arms. “Everyone in this community loved Freddie. Believe me, justice will be swift.”
For both our sakes, I hoped she was right.
CHAPTER 7
Getting up the next morning was rough. Pain lit across my body like wildfire—a torturous dread so intense my bones ached. The thought of going to work without Ms. Freddie left me hollow.
I curled up in the middle of my queen-size bed, the downy fabric