Contrary to Wavy’s usual habits, it was short and polite, just a request to meet with the judge. When she didn’t get an answer, though, the letters multiplied exponentially. The sheer quantity of them started to worry me, because at what point did it become harassment to send a letter a day to a judge? At least if the cops showed up, Wavy had returned all the illicitly borrowed law books to the library.
I wasn’t home when the letter came, but I knew something big had happened by the way Wavy was tearing around the apartment when I got home from my first class of the semester. She had half the clothes in her closet strewn out on the couch, and as soon as I walked in, she put the letter in my hand. It wasn’t even from the judge. It was from his clerk, and it just said, Judge Maber is available to meet with you on Wednesday, August 15th at 8:00 am. The judge’s court session begins at 9:00 a.m., so please be prompt.
We had less than thirty-six hours to get Wavy ready for her meeting with the judge and the girl owned a closet full of plain-Jane smocks, four pairs of shoes, two pairs of boots, shower shoes, and a pair of tennis shoes for her phys ed requirement that I know for a fact she bought in the children’s department. If I was going to help Wavy look like an adult, we had to start from scratch.
I don’t know if Wavy slept that night, but the next morning, we drove into the city early enough to be there when the stores opened. Within an hour, we had to give up on a business suit. They didn’t make them in Wavy’s size. We settled on a school uniform skirt in navy wool, but there was nothing else in the girls section at Macy’s that didn’t look like it was for little girls. The cashier there suggested what she called a “luxury ladies store” that carried small sizes. The sort of chichi place my mother loved to shop at. Wavy had turned twenty-one in July, so she could write checks off her trust without getting permission from anyone. Otherwise, I could imagine her aunt’s response to Wavy dropping almost four hundred dollars on a silk blouse in an extra-small petite, and a pair of Italian snakeskin sling-back pumps in a size four-and-a-half. My mother once described Wavy as “two steps away from the trailer park,” so I couldn’t wait to tell her they had the same taste in dress shoes.
Back at the apartment, Wavy washed the styling gel out of her hair and I gave her waves instead of spikes. I showed her how to shave her legs, even though she didn’t need it. You couldn’t even see the hairs on her legs.
“On principle,” she said. If adults shaved their legs, Wavy would shave hers.
Then we took the only trial run we were going to get. Skirt, blouse, bra, pantyhose, and shoes. I taught her how to walk in the heels, and once she could manage the stairs and a trip around the block, I officially declared her a grown-up.
In the dark hours of Wednesday morning, we made three attempts at her makeup. The first time, she was nervous about me touching her face. The second failure was a product of how disturbing Wavy looked in full makeup. Like a child prostitute. In the end, we went minimalist: lipstick, eye shadow. By the time she left for Garringer, the sun was coming up, and Wavy looked, if not exactly like an adult, then adultlike.
16
JUDGE C. J. MABER
I remembered the case, although it never went to trial. It didn’t hurt that I’d had Barfoot in my courtroom before on two separate assault charges. He left an impression. A giant of a man with a vicious temper, who still managed to look sheepish in court. I didn’t bother to pull the file before I declined to rescind the no contact order.
When the letters started coming, I looked at the file to refresh my memory. I still wasn’t inclined to meet with Miss Quinn, but I knew from long experience that some people cannot be put off. Some of them will persist until I agree to meet with them.
Miss Quinn arrived at my chambers right on time, and I was glad to see she was a serious young woman. I had no patience with the weepers and the screamers. That kind of woman makes me ashamed of my own sex. Miss Quinn was poised and well-dressed, but I couldn’t have guessed her age if I hadn’t already known it. Because Barfoot pled out, I’d never laid eyes on the girl, never seen how small and delicate she was. Honestly, if I had, I would have sentenced Barfoot to more than ten years.
She took the chair I pointed her to and set down a briefcase, which invariably held a photo album, containing pictures meant to tug at my heartstrings.
“Miss Quinn, may I call you Wavonna?”
“Wavy,” she said.
“Wavy, then. May I ask you some questions?” I liked to get at the things it didn’t occur to them to tell me. Most of all, I liked to let them know that they were important to me. To let them know they had value that wasn’t connected to the man they loved. Some of them got impatient, wanting to get to the real matter, but for many of them, I was possibly the first person in authority who had ever really expressed interest in them. Wavy was neither impatient nor starved for attention. I asked her about whether she was in school or employed. Both.