I wished I had worn a different dress. In the warped mirror of the courthouse bathroom, I looked bulbous and awkward, like an adult trying to fit into castoffs from a children’s beauty pageant. But according to my father’s lawyer, I looked sweet and reliable. And that, also according to my father’s lawyer, was exactly what my father needed. I brushed a wrinkle out of the floral fabric and headed back into the hallway.

"There you are," said the lawyer. Paul was his name. "I’ve been looking everywhere for you. Go talk to your dad, will you? He’s not doing so good."

"Yeah well," I shrugged. "I probably wouldn’t be doing so good either if I was being sued for violently raping my third wife."

Paul’s pupil’s constricted and his voice slipped into a hiss.

"Hey, none of that," he said.

A group of polished looking men and women in suits passed us and Paul’s face instantly morphed into a relaxed smile. "Good morning Bryan, good morning Charlotte," he said.

They smiled back.

As soon as they had passed, Paul grabbed my upper arm and steered me to a corner.

"I can’t believe I’m even having this conversation," he said. "Do you really want to see your dad go to jail? Is that what you want? Because if you get up on the stand today with that attitude, that’s exactly what’s going to happen."

"Maybe he should be in jail," I said. I scraped the sole of my sensible heel against the polished stone floor and a piercing squeak filled the hallway.

"Stop that," Paul said, swatting the air. "And stop with this pity party. We’ve been practicing for weeks, and today is your one shot. Now go to talk to your dad."

"Got it," I said, mostly so Paul would loosen the sweaty fingers that were still gripping my bicep.

"At least you’re wearing the dress we talked about," Paul said.

I found my father sitting alone at a table in the courthouse cafeteria, hunched over a cup of coffee that was no doubt mostly milk and sugar. He always wore madras shirts and cargo shorts, but today he wore a navy blue suit. It looked wrong—it made him look like he was in trouble. I avoided him for a few more minutes by digging through my purse for quarters and buying a bag of chips from one of the vending machines.

“Hi,” I said, taking a seat across from him.

My father looked up from his coffee and a weak smile spread across his otherwise gray face.

“Baby," he said. "Thank you so much for being here today. I couldn’t do this without you.” He reached a calloused hand across the table and, without thinking, I recoiled.

“Sorry,” I said quickly. “Don’t want you to get chip grease on your suit,” I said.

“Sure.” He half-smiled, clearly not believing me, but trying to.

A man sitting at the next table over cleared his throat and shifted in his seat. When I looked over at him, he looked away quickly. I wondered if he recognized my father. His face had been on the news enough times in recent weeks that it was possible.

“Your dress looks nice,” my father said.

“Paul says you’re sad,” I said.

“Well, it’s not easy when the world is out to get you. But soon this witch hunt will be over and we can all go home, right?”

“Right,” I said.

I was sure the man at the next table was still listening to us. He wasn’t dressed like a lawyer, and he was eating his turkey sandwich with great deliberation. I wondered if he could be a reporter, eavesdropping on our conversation, already crafting the headline in his head. Alleged rapist shares tender moment with darling daughter. 

I was so wrapped up in this side plot that I didn’t notice my father’s hand reaching out again and, this time, successfully seizing mine. I flinched as his palm closed around my fingers.

“It’s just you and me,” he said. “In this big, bad world, we only have each other and no one else.”

His thumb rubbed across the top of my hand hard enough to wrinkle my skin.

“I have to pee,” I said.

“Do good for me today,” my father called after me.

I didn’t actually have to pee, I just needed to be alone. I returned to the courthouse bathroom. Anna was standing in front of the sink, furiously scrubbing at a large brown stain on her white blouse. Anna was my father’s third wife, the one suing him. The one I was being asked to testify against. She saw me walk in and froze. Her face was puffy and her makeup looked too thick.

“I’m sorry,” she said. She returned to scrubbing even harder than before. “I’ll just be a minute.”

“It’s okay,” I said, feeling stupid as soon as I said it.

I gathered a wad of fresh paper towels and doused them with soap and cold water.

“Here,” I said. I slowly drew close to her and gestured with my paper towel towards her stain. It covered almost the entirety of her shirt. “Let me help.”

Anna started to say something, but decided against it. She let me begin to scrub at a patch of discoloration near the hem.

"I’ve just been," she started and then swallowed hard. "I’ve just been a little shaky lately is all." I nodded and continued working.

I didn’t know Anna well, honestly. I knew she was just a few years older than me and had worked at a casino before my father asked her to marry him after three weeks of dating. She seemed simple and quiet. The type of person who might be able to get a bird to land on her finger. Anna had sent me a birthday card once. My father didn’t like that. He made me throw the card away in front of him.

“I’m just a simple man,” he had said. “I don’t like when the people in my life try to make everything so complicated.” So I threw the card away and didn’t ask about her anymore.

“It’s no use,” Anna said. “This isn’t doing any good.”

I stepped back from the shirt and saw she was right. What was once a large brown stain was now an even larger wet spot, covered with tiny pills of gray paper towel.

“It’s okay,” Anna shrugged. Really. “Thank you." She looked up at me and tried to smile, but her lips were shaking.

I stood there, useless, while she steadied herself on the edge of the sink. I thought if I were her, I would hate me. And I would be right.

“I have an idea,” I said. I reached for the zipper on the side of my dress and pulled.

“What are you doing?”

“Give me your shirt,” I said. I pulled the dress up over my head and offered it in Anna’s direction. She was smaller than me by at least a size. I knew it would fit.

Anna looked into my face, swollen eyes searching for whether or not this was a joke. She began undoing the buttons on her stained blouse. Slowly, at first, and then quickly, as though there was a time limit to the offer.

She took the dress from my hands and pulled it over her head. On me it had looked childish, but on her it looked like something a fashionable housewife might wear to church.

“You look great,” I said.

“Thank you, Bonnie.” Anna sighed with something like relief and left the bathroom.

I stood alone in front of the warped mirror and tugged on my outfit. I buttoned up the damp shirt and I could tell no matter how I adjusted it, it wasn’t going to fit right. The buttons gaped, revealing a hint of my worn-out bra, and the brown stain, starting to dry slightly, looked at best like a grotesque artistic statement.

Yes, I thought. This is much better.



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