Page 21 of The River Is Waiting

Judge Pelto looks back and forth between me and Reitland. “So let’s say youdoget hired for one of these jobs, Mr. Ledbetter,” he says. “With your driver’s license revoked, have you thought about how you’ll get back and forth to work? And for that matter, what about transportation to and from your AA and NA meetings?”

“Well, if I get a second- or third-shift job, my mother says she can drive me. She works the morning shift at Newport Creamery and gets home by one thirty or two. I can also check out the bus route. Ride a bike if I have to. And in a pinch, there’s Lyft or Uber. And the AA meeting I went to yesterday is at a church a couple of miles away from where I’m staying. I can walk there if I can’t get a ride.”

I wipe the sweat off my top lip and wait. The judge shuffles the papers on his desk. He seems satisfied with what I just said; I’m optimistic. So I’m surprised when he renders his decision that I can be released on a Promise to Appear, but only after I’ve posted a $25,000 bond. He flips through a calendar and schedules my sentencing hearing for July twentieth—elevenweeks from today. “That’s almost twice the number of weeks we usually set for sentencing, but I want to see how successful you are at keeping up with these efforts you’re beginning to make.” Turning to the attorneys, he asks, “Does that work for you two?” Dixon checks her calendar and nods. Reitland says that’s during her vacation. “Okay, let’s see what else we’ve got,” the judge says. The date is switched to August first.

Later that day, while I wait in a holding cell with a guy muttering to himself, my mother drives to the courthouse and cosigns my bail agreement, surrendering the deed to her trailer as collateral. “Okay, Ledbetter, you’re free to go,” some anonymous sheriff announces.

Driving me back to her place, Mom says, “Emily packed up some of your things and dropped them off. I put them in the spare room. There’s a futon in there so that can be your bedroom for now. You’ll have to ignore all the dream-catcher materials. I have a bunch more to do for the crafts show that’s coming up.”

“How does she seem?” I ask.

“Emily? Pretty brave, I’d say. And sad.”

“Angry?”

She shakes her head. “More like determined she’s going to get through this one way or another. Stoic, I guess you’d say. She told me some of the other teachers have donated their sick days so she’s taking some time off from work to figure things out. Which I think will be good for her and Maisie, too.”

“So what do you think the odds are that she’s going to divorce me?” Mom declines to speculate or give an opinion. “I wish Betsy thought like you,” I tell her. “I’m sure she’s not holding backheropinion.”

“Well, honey, Emily’s going to decide for herself what she needs to do, and whatever that is, I think we’re just going to have to respect that decision.”

“Yeah, well…”

“Oh, and she said to tell you your appointment with that grief counselor is at four o’clock Wednesday, so she can swing by and pick you up at a quarter of.”

“Okay. Maybe that’s a good sign. Plus, she’s letting me see Maisie at the house every afternoon. She says she’ll stick around while I’m there but not, like,supervisethe visit. Which would be kind of weird, you know? For Maisie?”

Mom says she thinksthat’sa hopeful sign.

“Yeah, maybe. Hey, by the way, thanks.”

She looks over at me. “It’s fine, Corby. I just hope you’re not going to feel too claustrophobic. It’s a small room, and with all those hoops and feathers and beads and skeins of colored thread in there—”

I tell her I mean because she posted my bail and got me out of there.

“Oh, that. It’s no big deal as long as you’re not planning to skip out of the country on us. I’d hate to end up sleeping on a park bench.”

“Itisa big deal. Putting up your home like that? It’s ahugedeal and I appreciate it. I love you, Mom.”

“I love you, too.” Her eyes brim with tears. “I just wish it didn’t have to be so goddamned hard for you. Indicting you for a crime when it was anaccident?”

“Yeah, but Mom—”

“I’m not saying you were faultless, but what good would it do to send you to prison? I’d like to know how many other people in that courtroom today have driven drunk or stoned and gotten away with it, including that holier-than-thou prosecutor. The way she was scoffing at the efforts you’ve made was infuriating.”

“That’s her job, Mom. Like it or not.”

“Okay, fine, do your job then,” she huffs. “But lose the attitude, lady.”

I can’t help but smile. “Yeah, Reitland. You better watch out now that you’ve pissed off Mama Bear.”

“Damn right,” she says. “She better not come in for breakfast some morning and get one of my tables. She might end up with eggs in her lap.”

We pass the next mile or so in silence until Mom asks me what I’m thinking about. “I’m having trouble reading Emily,” I tell her. “I can’t tell if she thinks I should get a prison sentence.”

Mom says she doesn’t believe Emily would want that. “It’s understandable that she’s angry, but she’s not vindictive. And you’ve lost your son, too. I’m sure she feels that’s punishment enough.”

“And you’ve lost your grandson,” I say. “How areyoudoing?”

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