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After a while, Bunny said, “You know, I’ve figured out what my problem is. It’s really not so different from anyone else’s. But when things go bad for other women, they drink or take pills. For me, when things go bad, I need to be loved. I can’t help it. That’s just the way I am.”
“Maybe you should try to steel yourself,” I said. “I mean, not everybody gets drunk or takes pills when things go wrong. Some people just learn to get by.”
Bunny sat up. “You can’t expect me to change,” she said. “That’s just the way I am. You can’t expect me to be different than I am.”
That wasn’t really an answer, of course, since people are always being forced to be different than they are. But I didn’t want to argue. I just looked away, and after a few seconds, Bunny put her head back down on my shoulder.
We stayed that way for about ten minutes, hardly talking. Finally, Bunny said she better get home and get some rest for the hearing tomorrow. She picked up the goldfish bowl and stood stiffly, like an old person. I walked her to the Pontiac, parked up the block. She put the bowl on the front seat beside her.
“Won’t it slosh?” I asked.
“He’ll be more comfortable there,” she said.
I closed the door behind her and watched as the car lurched away.
The Vernons’ house was dark inside. A pale light from the street drifted through the front windows, making crisscross shadows on the wall. Without turning on a lamp, I could still make out my note, untouched on the table. I had to smile to myself. After everything that had happened tonight, I’d still got in before Mrs. Vernon’s church let out. I tiptoed up the stairs and went softly to Sissy’s room.
TWENTY-EIGHT
We made a strange, starchy party going to court the next morning. Mrs. O’Brien, not taking any chances, had stopped to pick up Bunny before coming by for me, and, for this hearing, Mrs. Vernon came along, too. We were all dressed up, but no one had quite managed to get it right—every outfit seemed half a season wrong, or half a size off one way or the other. I’d put on my white blouse with the bow in front and a navy skirt. The skirt was too heavy for the weather and nagged against the scratches on my legs, but it looked very conservative and had seemed the right choice when I examined the closet early in the morning. Mrs. Vernon was wearing a flowery violet dress, with a white collar, something unexpectedly gay, and she’d pinned on a white spring hat. Just after breakfast, she’d come down to Sissy’s room to primp and get my opinion.
“It’s fine,” I told her, though she was the picture of a woman going to church on an April day.
“The last time I went to court, Josephine told me I looked too dowdy,” she said, frowning. “She told me Judge Horner doesn’t like dowdy women.”
“I’m sure he’ll like this,” I said.
Mrs. O’Brien was wearing a huge, formless green shift that swept around her legs when she walked and gave her the appearance of a great broad tree with feet. But the most surprising outfit was on Bunny. She’d chosen to wear a dark blue linen dress—her good summer dress, as she used to call it, though the dress hadn’t been out of her closet in years. Now, with its plain, boxy lines, the dress was sufficiently out of style to appear very proper. Bunny was sitting in the front seat of Mrs. O’Brien’s station wagon when I came down the walk. Seeing her there I had to pause; the dress jogged loose a memory, something I couldn’t quite grasp that saddened me nonetheless. I found myself fighting back tears, even before we’d got to court.
“That damn fish died last night,” Bunny said, after Mrs. Vernon and I had settled into the back seat.
“A fish?” said Mrs. Vernon. “That’s strange. A bunch of my carrots died yesterday for no reason. I hope there’s not something going around.”
“Probably is,” said Bunny.
At the courthouse, we waited on the benches outside Judge Horner’s courtroom. Unlike the last time, the corridors were almost empty. Shortly after we sat down, Reverend Vaughn appeared. I watched him coming down the long corridor. It cheered me to see him, but when he stood before us, tall and rickety, I found I could hardly speak. Bunny ignored him, and Mrs. O’Brien asked a few sullen questions about whether he’d seen Bishop Sheen on television lately. Finally he was reduced to listening to Mrs. Vernon jabber on about her church. After a few minutes, he managed to escape, and he sat down on a bench by himself, taking a paperback book out of his jacket pocket. Every now and then, I’d glance over at him. Engrossed in the book, he leaned forward, crossing his arms and legs, finally pretzeling himself into a loose, bony knot. “He’s got too many joints,” Bunny had said one time.
The start of my hearing was delayed. There was another group in the courtroom, and periodically an explosion of loud noises could be heard behind the thick wooden door. At one point, Josephine stepped out and came over to Mrs. O’Brien.
“These Mexicans,” she said. “So emotional.”
Bunny looked at her watch and shook her head.
“We’ve got all day,” said Mrs. O’Brien.
At 11:30, Bunny said loudly, “I wonder where Simon Beach is?”
“I told you he’s not coming,” I said.
Bunny glared at me. “Of course he’s coming. He’s your lawyer.”
I leaned toward her and lowered my voice, so Mrs. O’Brien wouldn’t hear. “Don’t mess things up,” I said.
Bunny made a clucking noise with her tongue, then shook her head and looked away.
Shortly after noon, the courtroom door swung open to a procession of Mexicans. An older woman, probably somebody’s mother, stumbled out first, sobbing into a handkerchief and talking in soggy bursts of Spanish. A man had her by the arm, trying to soothe her and hold her up at the same time. A dozen other people came out behind them. Most of the women were crying. Through the door, I could see Francis X. Moon and Sergeant Tony up at the front of the courtroom, huddled with Judge Horner.
My hearing was put off until after lunch, so Mrs. O’Brien, Mrs. Vernon, Reverend Vaughn, and Bunny and I made our own procession down the corridor and out to the square. Reverend Vaughn said he had some business to take care of and promised to return later. He hurried off toward the Congo, obviously relieved to be free. Bunny insisted she wanted to look for Simon Beach. I started to argue with her, then stopped. Maybe believing in him will ease things for her, I thought. So the four of us walked across the square and up the stairs of the hotel to his office. Bunny rattled the knob for a while, but the door was locked—even the secretary was out.
