The next day, I walked across the street to Lacey Satterfield’s house for our usual Tuesday morning breakfast and gab session. Lacey was a sixty-something widow who had moved to our sleepy little neighborhood about five years ago and had had everyone talking. Our street was full of fortyish-year-old homes, nice but not fancy, priced considerably higher than houses in similar neighborhoods because we were in the best school district. Why would an older single woman pay extra for that? Besides, she was a retired lawyer—but the rumor on the street was that she hadn’t actually retired, she’d been disbarred. No one seemed to have actual substantial details, but few doubted the truth of the rumor, either. I was her one and only friend on the street, and I didn’t ask. Having a son who is an addict helps a person understand the principle of leaving private things private.
The exterior of her home had been redone by its previous owner in white and gray minimalist modern, but once inside, it was a return to the Victorian era with lace, linen, and dark wood. Lacey herself was an eclectic mix of just about everything. She always wore sweat suits—I’d never seen her in anything else—and they were always in one shocking shade of neon or another. Today’s outfit was lemon yellow, with a matching sequined headband holding back shoulder-length gray hair. “Come on in,” she welcomed me. “I just pulled the scones out of the oven, or there’s biscotti if you prefer.”
I followed her inside and went through all the usual motions of mixing cream in my coffee and putting food on my plate. I sat at the walnut table and offered the only small talk I could think of this morning. “So, what’s new? Have you got your spring vegetables planted?” Gardener though I was, I couldn’t have cared less. There were more important things to discuss this morning, but I didn’t want to jump right in with my real question. Better to work my way into this slowly.
“Nah. I don’t think I’m even going to plant this year.” Lacey’s voice had the gravelly sound of a woman who’d spent most of her life smoking a few packs a day. “My back’s too old and stiff for all that. Besides, we can buy perfectly fresh vegetables at the farmer’s market every week. What’s the point?”
Normally, I would have argued about the sense of accomplishment, breathing the fresh air, working in the sunshine, whatever. Today, my thoughts and energy were moving in other directions. “So, I was just reading my newspaper. Have you seen that story about the drug dealer that was murdered downtown last weekend?” I hoped my tone sounded as casual as I intended.
She nodded once, tilted her head to the side. “Yeah, I saw it.”
I fussed with my lace napkin before setting it neatly on my lap. “What do you think about it?”
“What do you mean what do I think?” She coughed once, then continued. “That boy was a thug if ever there was one. He sold drugs to teenagers, he beat no-telling-how-many people with that baseball bat he always carried. I think if the police do find out who killed him, instead of pressing charges they ought to award a medal. Maybe even the keys to Santa Barbara.”
Lacey had a strong opinion about many things, but this one surprised me more than most. “Do you really think so?”
“I think you know me well enough to know that I do.” She took a bite of the cranberry scone she’d made that morning and nodded. “I find it downright poetic that the killer beat him to death with his own baseball bat. It’s almost like an-eye-for-an-eye, you know. I can’t think of a more appropriate way for him to die. If our justice system worked a little more like that, we’d all be better off.”
I dipped a chocolate macadamia biscotti in my coffee, watching the top layers soften. I held it up but didn’t take a bite. “Kurt is one of those ‘people of interest’ the police keep talking about.” I nibbled at the cookie, simply because I needed to do something.
“I wondered as much.” Her tone was as matter-of-fact as if I’d told her that the weatherman had predicted fog tomorrow morning.
Why this surprised me I can’t say for sure. Lacey had always had more than the average insight. Still, I looked at her faded blue eyes, at the small wrinkles that surrounded her lips, and wondered again if it were a mere mortal that inhabited her worn-out body. “You did? Why?”
“Well, for one thing, it would explain that policeman that came to your door yesterday. He stayed quite a while; it was obvious he had something to say.”
“How did you even know he was here?”
“Baby, I live on this street. You know I’m home most of the day.”
“But I saw you in the driveway last night. We talked for five minutes and you never mentioned it.”
“I don’t go poking around in places that aren’t my business. Last night you didn’t bring it up, so it wasn’t my business.”
“And now?”
“Now that you’ve mentioned it, you’ve made it my business. So I plan to give you my complete and honest opinion. If you want to hear it, that is.”
“You know I do.” And I truly did. Lacey never spoke fluff; what she said was what she meant. Without exception.
“I didn’t know Kurt too long before he cut the strings on his parachute and had his freefall, but I knew him well enough. He’s lost his way right now, there’s not much doubt about it. But there’s not a mean bone in that boy’s body, and there’s no doubt about that either.” She took a sip of coffee. “Kurt’s just not the beat-someone-beyond-recognition kind of person. Anyone with half a brain can see that. I don’t expect they’ll be interested in him for long. But like I said before, whoever did it should be congratulated.”
What a relief to know that someone else saw the absolute certainty that Kurt couldn’t have done this thing. Still, Lacey and I were not the two opinions that mattered most in this case. “Every time the phone rings, I’m afraid to answer it. I keep thinking it will be the police telling me they’ve arrested him. I know he didn’t do it, but what if the police don’t see it that way?”
Her index and middle fingers twitched as if they were holding an invisible cigarette. She raised them to her lips and drummed a slow beat. “Would it really be worse than what you’ve got now?” She leaned back in her chair and braced her arms against the table. “I mean, no mother wants her son to be accused of murder, but at least you would know where he is. You’d know that he’s still alive, for crying out loud, eating three squares, maybe getting some help.”
There was some truth in what she was saying. “I can’t argue with that. But there’s also the other side. It would mean I raised a killer. The well-mannered young man that I raised to hold open doors for women, to say please and thank you, to clean up after himself … I thought I was doing everything right.” My throat closed, effectively choking further words.
“You were, and are, a great mother. Don’t ever doubt that.”
I pictured myself walking into the church staff meeting and trying to explain to the governing board that my youngest son was no longer just a prodigal. He was a murderer. I could see their faces, the senior pastor kind but disapproving, the director of missions shaking his head in disbelief, the two secretaries whispering behind uplifted hands. “The hope that Kurt will eventually return, my daughter, my work at church—those are the only things I have left in my life that matter. Nick’s death took so much away from us all. If Kurt killed that man, there won’t be anything left.”
Lacey leaned across and squeezed my hand. “Like I told you, Kurt’s not the one who did that. We both know it.”
“Sometimes the police get things wrong.”
She looked out the window at this statement, but nodded her head oh so slightly. “I’m afraid I’ve seen too much of this world to argue with that one.” She took a sip of her orange juice, which I suspected she occasionally laced with something a little stronger. “You’re still a great mother to Caroline, and you would be even if the worst came to pass. Nothing can change that. And I wouldn’t expect any of this to affect your church work. The people there, they all know about Kurt, right?”
“Sure, they know he is an addict, they know he started using drugs after Nick’s murder, but they all see me as the woman who counsels people in their grief, the one who stands with God through storms and dark times. How can I continue to counsel families who have lost loved ones if they believe my son is out there killing people’s loved ones?”
“Never have understood the church crowd, don’t expect I’ll start now.” She stood up and carried her plate to the sink. “I’d give anything for a smoke right now.” She tossed the remaining orange juice down the sink. “Seems kind of silly to me that I stopped at my age, especially when the damage is already done.” Lacey spent nights, and several hours each day, hooked up to portable oxygen, although she always refused to wear it during our breakfasts together.
“Well, you don’t want to do any more damage. Besides, I’m sure it would be dangerous to smoke while you’re using oxygen. Wouldn’t it explode or something?”
“I don’t know, baby, I don’t know.” She took the plate from my hand and rinsed it in the sink before loading it into the dishwasher. “I just wish that I knew at some point I could once again do the one thing I really want to do. It’s not like I’m on a diet and there’s hope for a piece of cake after I’ve lost the appropriate amount of weight. I can never, ever smoke again, and it’s all I can think about. There’s no hope, and it’s maddening.”
That would be me if Kurt got arrested. I thought about the strong façade I’d put on for so long. Yes, my oldest son had died in a brutal attack; yes, the grief of that had driven his younger brother into a world of addiction. Still, somehow it would be easier to tell people I had a prodigal than a murderer. All hope fled by simply changing that one word, and hope was all I had to keep me going these days.
The only problem was, I didn’t even know what to hope for anymore.