She smiled.
“He’s an ass, all right. But I don’t know why he’d try to kill you, except maybe he’s upset that you’re trying to help the guy who killed his cousin. That’s enough, isn’t it?”
“Maybe,” she said. “But considering how close we are to the execution, he could just wait.”
“It’s the principal of the thing, to a guy like Frank.”
“He has principles?”
He smiled a little.
“Tell me about this Frank. He work for others?”
“Frank?” he scoffed. “That man hates work.”
That wasn’t what she meant, and he knew it.
“How about Jerrod Tinsley?” she asked. “What kind of fellow is he?”
He looked away. The fun of the interview was wearing off, and he was beginning, like many, to think of courts and being called as a witness.
“Homeboy but not,” he said, and she knew exactly what he meant.
“He has aspirations.”
“Sure.”
It was true of many district attorneys, she had found. It was a fast track into any number of successful careers, especially politics. Whilegoing into defense was the kiss of death for a political career, becoming a prosecutor was a blessing. Play your cards right, and you could advance into the highest offices. It was the career path she had seen often: law school to district attorney to state government to national government. Even the White House.
“You know what those aspirations include?”
“Don’t know the man personally. He’s not exactly friendly to guys like me.”
“Men here go to prison a lot?”
“Isn’t it true everywhere anymore?” he asked, looking tired. “So, what kind of car do you want? That Honda?”
“The Honda will do.”
29.
At the Chinook Harvest Fest on a cold fall day many years ago, a girl named Emma Higginbottom was making a corncob doll. To do this, you took a dried ear of corn, the husks still on. You pulled down the husks, and voilà, you had her skirt. The skirt made a fine rustle, and Emma swayed the doll back and forth, listening to that dry, evocative sound. It was a sound that made you think of winter, and the snows to come. It made you think of fires outside and dances in the barn, even if you were just by yourself.
Emma was the daughter of the sheriff. She had a wide face and lips that turned purple in the cold. The whites of her eyes were so white they looked blue. Her mom had called her Morning Glory when she was little. It was a bit of a joke: The girl’s eyes were the perfect blue of the morning glories on the barn.
Now Emma was at the Harvest Fest, making her doll. She sat at a table in the community center by herself. There weren’t many children in Chinook. People moved here to have kids, but somehow they never came.
For the eyes of the doll, Emma used a table knife to gently pluck out two corn kernels. You had to be careful, making a corncob doll. One wrong move and it was ruined.
For the nose, another kernel gently plied loose. For the lips, she picked up a paintbrush and gently painted two of the kernels a deep, sympathetic red.
For the hair, she picked up a clump of corn silk from among the supplies on the table, and used a dab of carpenter’s glue to set it.
There. Her corncob doll looked back at her: deep-set eyes, a dainty nose, very red lips, and long blond hair.
Now the doll needed clothes. She had her skirt, but her top was naked—Emma knew that wouldn’t do. Picking up two corn husks from the stack, she quickly wove these into loose wings, and glued them on the back of the doll. For her front, she pasted on two more pieces.
Now the doll was winged—and covered.
