Page 71 of Every Sweet Thing Is Bitter

“Don’t speak to me that way about your mother.”

A lightning bolt streaks through me. I leap to my feet. “She’s dead! She can’t be disappointed in me anymore because she’s dead. I never loved her and she never loved me, and I will talk about her whatever fucking way I want because I have the right. I have the right to hate her and I have the right to grieve her. You can’t take any of that away from me.”

I picture every word as a physical blow, hooks and jabs and uppercuts, because the high I get from losing my temper in front of him is almost as gratifying as a real punch. He says nothing, only smirks. He takes Grace by the arm and pulls her down the sidewalk. Just as the crowd absorbs them, Grace’s shirt lifts to reveal a bruise unfurling across her hip, dark like necrosis.

“Good for you.” Sara stands close to me, her hands opened awkwardly like she suspects I’m going to chase after them and she’ll need to pinion me. “Good for you. He deserved that, and you deserved the catharsis.” The encounter with my father has given her a taste of what she has craved for so long, like a parched desert traveler offered a tiny sip of water. She bounces on her toes in hopes of seeing them in the crowd. “Are you ready to go?” she asks.

“I’m not. But I can pretend to be.”

I tell security that Sara is my wife. I even hold her hand and kiss her cheek to sell it. I can’t tell if he knows I’m lying, or if the repulsion plain on his face is from the idea of two women “tainting” the definition of holy matrimony. Regardless, he allows us in.

The courtroom is too full. The bailiff escorts a dozen people out before the proceedings begin because they’ve exceeded the fire marshal’s maximum capacity. The unnatural crowdednessreminds me of the way church pews fill up at Easter and Christmas but never for a regular Sunday service in March.

I scour the room for familiar faces. My father and Grace are two rows in front of us. I can see him talking to nearby neighbors, accepting condolences, yucking it up for the few local reporters on the other side of the aisle. Smile and smile and be a villain—isn’t that Shakespeare? His arm rests behind Grace’s head. He smooths her hair and pretends he does not know about her gruesome bruise. By an inexplicable divine error, Coach Romanoff won one of the lottery seats. He at least has the decency not to grin about it. There is no Zoe, no Connor, no Gil, the latter of whom I didn’t remotely expect to see, but whose presence would have put me at ease.

Sara waggles a stick of gum beneath my nose. The peppermint stings my nostrils. “Peppermint is good for nausea. Take it.”

“I’m fine.”

“You keep gagging.”

“All rise. The Tillman County District Court is now in session.”

It’s not the same judge who sentenced me. This is a heavyset, middle-aged woman whose glasses hang from a bejeweled retainer around her neck and bounce against her chest with every step. The box-dyed blonde hair suggests a mother, but the gray roots sprouting from her part suggest a grandmother. Though she pretends not to see the small press gaggle at the back of the room, she strikes her gavel for their attention. Her role in their stories, however significant, is small. She is part of the supporting cast. If she gives them a bit of spice, hams it up, offers them something to remember her by, she might even see her name printed on the front page.

Her voice sounds artificially deepened, like she has lowered it an octave for dramatic effect. “This is the case ofPeople of the State of Nebraska v. Harmony Byrd…”

I fade in and out as the judge talks. There isn’t a flicker of emotion from Harmony. She looks as pretty as one can while incarcerated, where makeup is scarce and restful sleep a distant memory. Clean hair transforms her into a different person. To me though, the engagement ring, somehow polished to a sheen, is what attracts the most attention. She props her hands on the table and tilts the left until her marquise diamond catches the light, as if to ask how bad can she really be if someone wanted to marry her.

I can’t picture her sauntering down the aisle in white, a man awaiting her at the altar. She would find the flowers wasteful, the dress gaudy, and the vows cheesy. Even as a young girl, she never saw the beauty and romance in playing dress-up.

The judge races through a prescribed list of questions: name, date of birth, ability to understand the English language, when she was arrested.

“Are you currently under the influence of drugs or alcohol?”

“Seroquel and Depakote.”

Some of the crowd recognize the medication names and titter. The rest exchange appalled glances, certain they have just been introduced to a new strain of marijuana.

The public defender (the same woman who defended me—the gaudy Louis Vuitton purse gives her away) brings her manicured fingers to her temples. “She misunderstood the question, Your Honor. Those are prescription medications.”

Harmony can’t help but be pleased with herself, getting a joke off right beneath the judge’s nose, upstaging her on her own turf. She purses her lips to hide a smile.

“Are you under the influence of anyillegaldrugs or alcohol?”

“No, ma’am. Sorry—Your Honor, I mean.”

The judge glares at Harmony over the rim of her glasses. “The grand jury has charged that on or about August sixth ofthe current year, you—Harmony Byrd, the defendant—used a deadly weapon—that is, a vehicle—to incapacitate and ultimately end the life of Elissa Valerie Byrd, and later used said vehicle to transport Elissa Byrd’s body to a remote location on the Long Grass Indian Reservation for disposal. The charges against you are murder in the second degree and unlawful disposal of human remains. If tried and convicted of these charges, you may be sentenced to life in prison.”

When my mother was murdered, she was a person. When she was disposed of, she was human remains. There is a purgatory between those two acts, the desolate drive through the reservation, when she was both.

“Do you understand the charges as I have read them to you?”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“How do you plead?”

Harmony soaks up her last moment in the limelight. She draws her shoulders up when she inhales, down when she exhales, a runner on the track waiting for the starting gun to fire. “Not guilty, Your Honor.”

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