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Only…now it’s not clear who the enemy is. The courthouse? Or their father? And no matter who the enemy is, how could Tyson’s brothers abandon both him and their mother to face that enemy alone?
Tyson pulls into a parking deck and takes a ticket, then parks in a faraway corner with flashing fluorescent lights— the sort of place that I’d never in a million years park my own car. He glances around, then we climb out and head toward a door labeled “impound enforcement office”. There are hours posted on the door, and even though we’re early, it’s unlocked.
“The staff gets here an hour before they open. The judge suggested I start using this entrance at the last hearing,” Tyson explains as we slip inside. We wind through stairwells and hallways until I’m thoroughly turned around. The courthouse has been added on to and expanded so many times that the second floor on one end of the hallway becomes the third on the opposite end— but Tyson moves through them with practiced skill. I notice, though, that the deeper we delve into the building, the farther ahead of me he walks. At first I attribute it to his longer stride, but then it becomes clear to me that he’s intentionally keeping distance between us. Just enough that, should someone spot us, he could easily pretend I’m just another courthouse patron who happened to be walking behind him.
I wanted to be safe, especially since you’re with me. I thought he was protecting me, when he said it, but now I know he’s protecting himself just as much. I can’t fault him for this, can I?
He knows I don’t want the drama or the attention.
Still, when he asked me to come to court with him, I thought I’d be…well…with him, not jogging behind him to keep up.
We round a corner into a long, wood-paneled hallway lined in courtrooms. There’s a buzzing noise from the opposite end of the hall, and I realize that it’s photographers and a small crowd consisting of Dennis Slate supporters and haters. I can’t quite see them, and they can’t quite see us, but the clatter of shutters and heavy chants of “Clear the Slate!” or “Infamy isn’t innocence!” give them away. Tyson glances back at me and swallows.
“Oh, honey! I’m so glad you came!” a woman calls out, and pushes through the small pack of attorneys and officials waiting outside the courtroom. She’s Tyson’s mother, obviously, and is so impossibly tiny in comparison to him that I shiver at the thought of her giving birth to not one, but three Slate boys.
She’s even shorter than Trishelle, with a tidy bob haircut and a red suit. She’s wearing a matching red pin that bears the logo of the sports franchise Dennis Slate played for back in his glory days. Tyson hugs her; her head barely comes up to his chest, but she presses her cheek to him and closes her eyes like she’s trying not to cry.
“I’m here for you, Mom,” Tyson says.
She nods, looking discouraged. “Well, I’m here for your father. I wish your brothers had come with you. They aren’t even returning my calls.”
Tyson sighs. “We’ve talked about this. They don’t want to hear you talk about Dad anymore, and that’s all you want to talk about.”
“How can I talk about anything else?” she answers, before her gaze finally flicks towards me.
“Is she with you?” Tyson’s mother asks.
“Yes,” Tyson answers in that unreadable voice. “This is Anna Milhomme. Anna, this is my mother.”
“Pleasure to meet you Mrs. Slate,” I say quickly, and reach forward to shake her hand. My ultra-responsible nature might not always be the most fun thing in the world, but it does mean that I know how to make a good first impression with parents, bosses, landlords, and professors. Her handshake is as firm as my own, and I understand from that single touch that while she may be a loving and devoted wife, she’s no shrinking violet.
“Anna Milhomme. Mil-homme— French?” she asks.
“I suppose. I’m not totally sure of the origin,” I answer.
“You should look into it, Anna. Where you come from is everything,” she says, elbowing Tyson a little as she says this— another dig at him for distancing himself from his father. “I wasn’t aware that you had a new girlfriend, Tyson.”
“She’s not my girlfriend,” Tyson says quickly. Very quickly. There’s a burn in my chest that I ignore, forcing a smile instead. I open my mouth to explain that I’m just a friend, but Tyson continues, “She’s my minder from the team.”
“What’s that?” Mrs. Slate asks. I want to ask the same thing, frankly.
“The team doesn’t want any more drama, so they sent Anna to make sure I get in and out without any interviews or reality producers or whatever,” he says dismissively. “Sebastian’s school wanted to do it for him too, I think, but he was so close to graduation it never happened.” His voice takes on a note of irritation, like I— the minder— am irritating at best, and straight out annoying at worst.
