A Place of Hiding

China was an excellent navigator. Where there were signs, she called out the names of the streets they were passing as they rolled north along the esplanade, and she got them without a wrong turn to Vale Road at the northern end of Belle Greve Bay.

They passed through a little neighbourhood with its grocer, hairdresser, and car repair shop, and at a traffic light—one of the few on the island—they coursed to the northwest. In the way Guernsey had of continually changing its landscape, they found themselves in an agricultural area less than a half mile along the road. This was defined by a few acres of greenhouses that winked in the morning sunlight and, beyond them, a stretch of fields. Perhaps a quarter of a mile into this area, Deborah recognised it and wondered that she hadn’t done so before. She glanced warily at her friend in the passenger seat, and she saw from China’s expression that she, too, realised where they were.

China said abruptly, “Pull in here, okay?” when they came to the turn for the States Prison. When Deborah braked in a lay-by some twenty yards along the lane, China climbed out of the car and walked over to a tangle of hawthorn and blackthorn that served as a hedge. Above this and in the distance rose two of the buildings that comprised the prison. With its pale yellow exterior and red-tiled roof, it might have been a school or a hospital. Only its windows—iron-barred—declared it for what it was.

Deborah joined her friend. China looked closed off, and Deborah was hesitant to break into her thoughts. So she stood next to her in silence and felt the frustration of her own inadequacy, especially when she compared it to the tender kinship she’d received from this woman when she herself had been in need.

China was the one to speak. “He couldn’t handle it. No way in hell.”

“I don’t see how anyone could.” Deborah thought of prison doors closing and keys being turned and the stretch of time: days which melted into weeks and months until years had passed.

“It’d be worse for Cherokee,” China said. “It’s always worse for men.”

Deborah glanced at her. She recalled China’s description—years ago—

of the single time she’d visited her father in prison. “His eyes,” she’d said.

“He couldn’t keep them still. We were sitting at this table, and when someone passed too close behind him, he flew around like he expected to be knifed. Or worse.”

He’d been in for five years that particular time. The California prison system, China told her, kept its arms permanently open for her father. Now China said, “He doesn’t know what to expect inside.”

“It’s not going to come to that,” Deborah told her. “We’ll sort this out soon enough and you can both go home.”

“You know, I used to gripe about being so poor. Rubbing two pennies together in the hope they would make a quarter someday. I hated that. Working in high school just to buy a pair of shoes at a place like Kmart. Waiting on tables for years to get enough money to go to Brooks. And then that apartment in Santa Barbara. That dump we had, Debs. God, I hated all of it. But I’d take it all back this second just to be out of here. He drives me crazy most of the time. I used to dread picking up the telephone when it rang because I was always afraid it’d be Cherokee and he’d be saying, ‘Chine! Wait’ll you hear the plan,’ and I’d know it was going to mean something shady or something he wanted me to help finance. But right now...at this very instant...I’d gi ve just about anything to have my brother standing next to me and to have both of us standing on the pier in Santa Barbara with him telling me about his latest scam.”

Impulsively Deborah put her arms round her friend. China’s body was unyielding at first, but Deborah held on till she felt her soften. She said, “We’ll get him out of this. We’ll get you both out of it. You will go home.”

They returned to the car. As Deborah reversed it out of the lay-by and made the turn back onto the main road, China said, “If I’d known they were going to come for him next...This sounds like a martyr thing. I don’t mean it that way. But I think I’d rather do the time myself.”

“No one’s going to prison,” Deborah said. “Simon is going to see to that.”

China held the map open on her lap and looked at it as if checking their route. But she said tentatively, “He’s nothing like...He’s very di fferent...I wouldn’t ever have thought...” She stopped altogether. Then, “He seems very nice, Deborah.”

Deborah glanced at her and completed her thought. “But he’s nothing like Tommy, is he?”

“Not in any way. You seem...I don’t know...less free with him?