In the backyard is a metal trough, similar to the one we used growing up. I pull the hose from the side of the house and begin filling the trough with water. Bishop’s dropped the clothes on the cement patio and holds a bag of soap flakes in his hand. “Okay,” I say, “sprinkle some of those in here. You want to put them in while the water’s still running, otherwise they just sit on top and don’t lather up. ” Bishop nods and proceeds to dump half the bag into the water. “Not so much!” I tell him. “I said sprinkle! Sprinkle!”
“Sorry,” Bishops says. “What do I do? Take some out?”
“You can try. ”
He uses both hands to scoop half-dissolved soap flakes out of the water, flinging them onto the lawn. “I don’t think this is working,” he says. “I am clearly not meant for a life of laundry. ”
“Well, don’t worry. It’s probably the only time you’ll have to do it. ”
Bishop frowns. “Why would you say that?”
“Because I’m the wife,” I say slowly, “and you’re the husband. And that’s how things are done here. ”
“I don’t care about that,” Bishop says. “I mean, you have a job now, right? So it seems fair we should both help out around the house. ”
I sit back on my heels, turning his words over in my head, searching for the trap. “Okay,” I say finally.
Bishop gives me a quick nod. “Okay. ” He turns his attention back to the trough. “Now I just have to get the rest of this soap out of here. ”
A giggle bursts out of me, totally unexpected, and Bishop glances over. “What?” he asks.
“You look ridiculous,” I tell him. His sleeves are rolled up and he’s covered in water and soap flakes from fingertip to elbow, a handful of slimy soap still cupped in his hands. Another giggle escapes, and I cover my mouth with the back of my hand. “Sorry,” I choke out.
He flings the soap away and wipes his hands on his shorts. “Yeah, laugh it up,” he says, smiling. “What now?”
“Now you put a couple pieces of clothes in. Two or three!” I say when he grabs the whole pile. “Not everything!”
“This is going to take forever when we have a full load,” he mutters as he throws two shirts and a pair of pants into the sudsy water.
“Then you take the washboard. ” I point to the wooden and metal washboard next to the trough. “And you scrub the clothes on it. Like this. ” I take one of the shirts and run it up and down the washboard, move it around until I’ve gotten it scrubbed and then pull it from the water. “Then you rinse it and hang it and you’re done. ”
“Got it,” Bishop says.
I rinse the shirt I’ve already washed and pin it to the line while Bishop gets to work on the rest of the clothes. When I turn back around, he’s washing a pair of pants, scrubbing them like he means to wear a hole through the cloth.
“Umm…you’re trying to get them clean,” I tell him. “Not beat them into submission. ”
Bishop looks up at me. His dark hair is falling onto his forehead, and his nose crinkles up when he laughs. It makes him look younger, carefree. For the first time, I can clearly picture him as a boy. We stare at each other for a long moment, and then he begins washing again, gentler this time.
I take a deep breath, ignore the heat rushing to my cheeks. “That’s better,” I say, walking toward the house. “I’ll just be here, on the screened porch relaxing, while you finish up. You obviously need the practice. ”
He flings a handful of soap in my direction and I dodge it with a yelp. Once I’m safely out of range, I realize this is the first time I’ve spent more than five minutes with him where I wasn’t thinking about the plan or what to do next. Which is exactly what my father and Callie want, for me to act natural, to make it seem real. I should be happy. But I remember Bishop’s laugh, his crinkly nose, the warmth in my cheeks, and can’t help feeling I’ve done something wrong.
The courthouse is limestone like City Hall, and they sit directly across the town square from one another. My eyes slide over to City Hall as I climb the courthouse steps. Inside I’m sure they’ve dismantled the stage, put all the chairs back in storage until next year. The lives of dozens of children changed in the course of a day and the evidence already whisked away.
The courthouse entryway is smaller than the City Hall rotunda, but it has the same tile floors, the same chill in the air from the limestone walls. Two uniformed guards stand inside the door, guns in holsters on their hips. It’s rare to see a gun these days. They are illegal to own and even the police don’t carry them routinely, making do with batons and martial arts if situations get out of hand, which isn’t very often. I remind myself not to stare. My flats make a loud clacking noise on the floor and already a blister is forming on my heel, making me long for my sandals.
There is an overweight man with glasses that seem too small for his face sitting at the reception desk. He watches me approach but doesn’t speak, even once I reach the desk.
“Hi,” I say. “I’m supposed to meet with Victoria Jameson. ”
“And you are?” he drawls.
“Ivy Lattimer. ”
For a split second, I relish the look of surprise on his face, the nervous recognition that accompanies his suddenly bright smile. But just as swiftly, I remember the day in the market when the woman gave me the pastry because of my name. I don’t want people to like me or be afraid of me because of who I am. Lattimer doesn’t even really belong to me anyway. It’s just something I put on, like a dress or a pair of shoes.
“Mrs. Lattimer,” he says, standing. “I didn’t realize you were coming here today. If I’d known…”