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There’s a long pause, then the child-voice says, “We’re going to wait, Daddy. Either she’ll come or she won’t.” Laughter, cracked and high. “As many as I can get, as many as I can get, why not?”
Holly raises the gun, points it at the lock, then lowers it again. Shooting locks works in the movies, but would it in real life? Maybe all it would do is alert him, in which case he’d shoot his two hostages, as he’s shot… how many others? Five? Six? Seven? In her current state of stress, Holly has lost count.
We’re going to wait, Daddy. Either she’ll come or she won’t.
Is Gibson talking about a real person, or a phantasm? Holly doesn’t know. All she’s sure of is that the father—the Daddy—is make-believe. Gibson is like Norman Bates inPsycho, only talking in his father’s voiceinstead of his mother’s. Which fits, because Gibsonispsycho. Maybe he thinks his mother is going to come. Or some girl he dated in high school. Or the Virgin Mary, riding down from heaven in a chariot to bless him and tell him he’s not crackers but doing the absolute right thing.
All Holly knows for sure is that if someone comes, someonereal, he’ll have to open the door. Then she can shoot him.
Holly slides to the left, the .38 raised to shoulder level. Waiting is the best choice, she knows this, but if she hears gunshots from inside the deserted rink, she thinks she’ll lose her mind.
The child: “I hate you, Daddy.”
The man: “You can’t even hold your liquor. Mr. Useless, that’s you. Mr. Alcoholics Anonymous.”
Then, screaming: “WHO ARE YOU?”
4
6:46 PM.
Betty is alone at last, and can take off her show face. She hangs up her clothes for after the song and puts her purse on the room’s one shelf. She heaves a long, trembling sigh, and feels her pulse in the side of her neck. It’s too fast and stumbling all over itself. There are pills in her bag. She slips one under her tongue, then adds a second. The taste is bitter but somehow comforting. She wipes a hand down her face, then gets kneebound. She folds her hands on top of the closed toilet seat. She begins her prayer as she did as a child, whispering the incantatory words “Jesus, mighty Jesus.”
She pauses, gathering her thoughts.
“There’s no way I can save that girl’s life without your help, mighty Jesus, no way at all, but she’s a good girl, I already just about love her like the child I gave up when I was seventeen, and I mean to try. I don’t even know if that Mr. Gibson will call me like he said he would, because he’s as crazy as a rabid dog. I think he might mean to kill us both. I hope if I shoot him with Red’s gun you’ll forgive me. Not ifthere’s no other way to save her. Please help me to sing out there like there’s nothing wrong, all right? I’m in the way of believing you can do all those things—as long as I do my part—but now I have to ask you for a miracle, mighty Jesus. There ain’t no way I can get out of here without being seen, there will be all kinds of people waitin for me, because that is the curse of what I have become. I don’t know what to do about that, which is why I need a miracle. I—”
Lewis Warwick taps on the door with her face on it. “Ma’am?” he says. “Sista? It’s time.”
She whispers, “I pray it in your name, mighty Jesus,” then stands, reknots her starry sash, and comes out.
“Thank you again for doing this,” Lewis says.
She nods distractedly. “Will my little bag be safe in there? I see there’s no lock on the door.” Her phone is in her purse, and so is Red’s gun.
Warwick beckons Mr. Estevez, who is standing by the T-Bird. He asks Estevez to stay outside the door of Sista’s dressing room and make sure nobody enters. Mr. Estevez says he’ll be happy to do it.
“All right, then,” Betty says. “Red? What do you say?”
Red stands up, sax around his neck, and when Betty extends her hand, he takes hold. “Let’s git it.”
Betty extends her other hand. “Come on, Young Man Jerome,” she says. “I want you with me.”
“That’s my honor,” he says, and takes her hand. It’s warm in his. “You are quite a gal, Betty Brady.”
She smiles, thinking,I better be. I just better be.
They walk onto the field, the three of them with their hands linked. When the gathered thousand or so in the bleachers—hundreds more are standing—see them heading toward the pitcher’s mound, they get on their feet, applauding.
Two Black men, one old, one young. One sturdy-built Black woman between them. Their shadows, blacker than they are, walk beside them, crisp as cutouts. Red Jones whispers a question in Betty’s ear, and she nods. She turns to Jerome and tells him about a slight change in plans; there’s going to be a little additional music.
5
6:50 PM.
To the left of the Holman Rink doors, pressed against the splintery, gray-painted boards, Holly realizes she needs to pee, and badly.Hold it, she tells herself.Just hold it. But if she tries, she’s going to wet her pants. She steps carefully into the bushes (hoping there’s no snakes or poison ivy), lowers her jeans, and squats. The relief is enormous. She pulls up her pants and returns to her post as the mournful strains of a well-known tune, played on the saxophone, reach her.
In the foyer, Trig cocks his head listening. He can make out what the music is, and he smiles. He thinks,How fitting.