The Summer That Made Us

Charley wondered, not for the first time, what kind of baggage prison would leave Krista with. She could have visited her more often. But she hadn’t. The whole experience of visiting Chowchilla had been so horrid.

It was odd the way she sat out there, watching the house. What was she doing here? Meg had sent her a note telling her the lake house would be open from June through August but it wasn’t yet June. And Krista was supposed to be in prison, for God’s sake. Last Charley had heard, she wasn’t even eligible for parole.

It was sunny but chilly outside. Charley shivered and found her heaviest sweater. She turned on the oven to begin to warm up the place, then on the spur of the moment opened a can of biscuits, tucked them into a pan, covered them with butter, sugar and cinnamon and popped them in the oven. But the cold air, smell of coffee and hot cinnamon biscuits and sounds of music hadn’t drawn Krista to the porch.

Well, Charley decided, she’s having trouble with this. So I’ll have to bring her in and get her story, find out what she expects of me. I’ve done that for a living for years.

Charley tucked a woven lap blanket under her arm, poured two steaming cups of coffee and went out into the yard. Krista watched her cautiously as she approached but she didn’t move. She neither rose to greet her cousin, nor did she bolt.

Charley knelt before her, placing both coffees on the ground. She unfurled the blanket and wrapped it like a shawl around Krista’s shoulders. Then she placed a warm mug in Krista’s hands. “Krista, why are you sitting out here? Did you escape?” she asked.

Krista shrugged.

“Really?” Charley said with a sarcastic laugh.

Krista’s lips moved into a smirk. “Once I got here, I realized you might not be happy to see me. I was giving you a chance to send me away.”

“Why would I do that?”

“Because I’m a convicted murderer, maybe?” Krista replied with sarcasm of her own.

Charley put on her impatient interviewer face. “I know you didn’t murder anyone, Krista. How’d you get out?”

“A miracle. Some big-shot lady lawyer got me out. I stopped believing something like that was possible a long time ago.”

“That’s a relief. I’m glad I don’t have to harbor a fugitive.” Krista made a face and Charley smiled. “Wanna come in? Or you wanna sit out here by yourself?”

“So you’re okay with this, then? Me being here?”

“I’m not afraid of you, Krista. I think in all fairness I should be asking you if you’re okay with me being here. We haven’t even talked in a couple of years. And I wasn’t able to do anything to help you. Aside from some letters, I was hardly any support to you while you were in prison...and I knew you didn’t deserve to be there.”

“Oh, I don’t even think about that, Charley,” Krista said slowly, getting to her feet. “I mean, first of all, I did deserve to be there—just maybe not for the reasons they said. And second, I wasn’t much help to you, either, as I recall. I don’t think you had it that much easier than me.”

Charley’s head slowly tilted to one side as she listened to Krista. This woman had just come out of twenty-three years of hard time while Charley had been considered a minor celebrity making lots of money. Yet she had sympathetic words for Charley. It was almost unheard of that anyone would express such a kindness to her, especially a member of her family. That her success had come at great labor and sacrifice was irrelevant to most people. She was unaccustomed to genuine concern for her feelings.

She bent to pick up one of the two small suitcases. “How’d you like a nice hot soak in our new bathtub?”

“That would be so cool,” Krista answered. “You just have no idea how cool.”

* * *

Charley gave two taps on the bathroom door before entering. The bubbles were high, nearly covering Krista’s head. Charley picked up the empty coffee cup and replaced it with a new one. “This is Amaretto Crème,” she said. “With a little dollop of whipping cream on top for good measure.”

“I don’t drink.”

“It’s just the flavor—no booze. Krista, I have to say something quick before I lose my nerve. And I don’t think there’s any way to preserve your dignity when I say it.”

“Go ahead, babe. I don’t have hardly any dignity.”

“I peeked in your suitcase. The stuff you brought with you...your clothes. The underwear and jeans? It’s no good. You have to let me replace it all for you. With new stuff.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“Yes, I do. Orphans in third-world countries have better underwear than you. I’ve spent more on lunch...many times...than it would cost to buy a few new outfits for you to wear this summer. And you’ll need a bathing suit.”

“Gee, we were all girls at the last place I lived, so when we went to the beach, we just skinny-dipped,” Krista said, laughing harshly.

“Maybe some nightclothes. You obviously don’t need nightclothes or robes or slippers in prison.”

“Shower thongs, Charley. Not slippers.”

“Well, you need slippers and beach thongs. Flip-flops.”

“Charley,” Krista said.

“And we’ll get you a decent haircut in Brainerd, if you like.”

“This is so much how I pictured you, Charley. A perfectionist. Throwing money at everything.”

“Please, I don’t mean to hurt your pride, Krista. I just want to help. I want you to be comfortable and feel safe. Don’t deny me the pleasure of—”

“Oh, don’t worry, I won’t deny you your pleasures. I don’t do things to hurt myself anymore,” Krista said, raising her arm high above her head and watching the soap suds run slowly down. “Spend as much on me as you want, Charley.” She laughed. “I didn’t have time to stop at Victoria’s Secret on my way out of Chowchilla. And my beautician was all tied up.”

“Who cut your hair in prison?” Charley asked.

“Whoever could be trusted with scissors. It was usually a guard. But we did have a little beauty shop there, if you use the term loosely.” She sank down in the tub, letting the water and bubbles cover her head. She rose up again. “Way loosely.”

“Well, for right now you can wear some of my stuff.”

This made Krista laugh. “Really, Charley, I can get by for the time being. All right?”

Charley left the bathroom and came back directly with some underwear and and a pair of soft white socks. She dangled them toward Krista, then put them down on the closed toilet lid and left.

“Charley?” Krista called. “When do you expect the phone to be hooked up?”

“Couple of days. Why?”

“I haven’t called my mom yet. I never really believed I was going to get out so I didn’t tell anyone what was happening. I just came straight here.”

“I have a cell...you can call her whenever you want...”

“Maybe in the morning, then. And, Charley?” The sound of the drain gulping bathwater accompanied Krista’s yelling. “I have to check in with my parole officer in Grand Rapids...it was the best I could do... Do you suppose...?”

“I’ll take you there myself. I’ll be your sponsor here.”

“I don’t think I need a sponsor. But, Charley? Oh! Oh, Charley! Oh, my God!”

Charley rushed to the bathroom. There stood Krista, her skin pink from the hot water, wearing Charley’s cotton underwear and matching undershirt. Bright soft whites. Krista was running her hands up and down her sides, over her little rump, around her hips, over her little breasts. “Oh, Charley, these are the most wonderful things I have ever had on my body!” she said with reverence. “I will never take them off!”

“Yeah, well, I think that’s what happened to the last ones.”

* * *

They had to share a bed, Charley told her, because they had only the one mattress so far with two more being delivered. And there was only the one heating pad to keep them warm. Fortunately, there were plenty of quilts and comforters and pillows. “Just like our mothers used to do,” she said. Charley took the flavored coffee and hot cinnamon biscuits to the bedroom on a tray and they nibbled and sipped while they talked.

“Tell me what prison was like,” Charley said.

“Oh, not now,” Krista said, sinking back against the down pillows. “Just let me smell and feel these things. Charley, your life is so rich, do you know that?”

She picked up her coffee cup, warming her hands with it, and smiled. She did know. She worked hard for it—she appreciated every moment of it.

“Do you smell all these smells? The lotion and pine and linen and soap...soap that isn’t lye, I mean. The dirt and the lake and the...the...furniture polish?” she asked.

“Yes. And varnish,” Charley said. “I had the hardwood floors sanded and varnished.”

“There’s paint and wallpaper paste and lemon oil.” She closed her eyes and twitched her nose in the air. “There’s vanilla somewhere, some sweet-smelling cleaning fluid. The smell of brand-new muslin and ages-old cotton...what a great combination.”

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