She meant Riley, of course. She couldn’t blame Alls for running, but Riley was only hurting himself.
Hanna gaped at her. “You are unbelievable. Prison was good for him?”
Grace pushed her chair back. “I have to go to the bathroom.”
Hanna shot her leg under the table and hooked Grace’s chair leg with her ankle, trapping her there. “You don’t pick up where you left off. You can’t. You’re changed.”
“Well, he could more than some people—”
“Let me tell you a little about what prison is like,” Hanna said. “Since you obviously don’t know.”
“Hanna.” Grace pushed the table, trying to move her chair, but Hanna had her locked in.
“Imagine a hospital. Now bust out half the lights, and make the rest buzz, incessantly, like insect traps. Now tip over all the jars of alcohol and formaldehyde. Because that’s what prison smells like, all the time.” She grabbed a bottle of rubbing alcohol from her supply rack and poured a thin stream of it into a puddle on Grace’s table.
Grace grabbed for a rag to mop it up. She didn’t know the woman who was speaking to her now. “Hanna, stop. I didn’t mean that how it sounded.”
“Prison smells that way because you’re always cleaning it, all day every day. It smells like shit and vomit anyway, from three hundred open toilets. Someone is always shitting right next to you. And if your boy wasn’t on any drugs, he is now. Because you have to make the time go somewhere. Time loses all meaning; a day feels like a year, and a year becomes a day. Those first months, all you can think about is what the people on the outside are doing without you. What they are laughing at on TV, what they are whining about in their days. What they are eating. Who’s in bed with them. And you think, why not try heroin to ease the transition to absolutely nothing? Tetanus gets you a week in the infirmary, and they have magazines in there. Someone is always watching you, getting ready to steal from you, spit on you. The officers, the others on your block. People will claw your eyes out because they’re bored, because the boredom drives you insane. And yes, that’s in Poland. But that’s also in a women’s prison.”
Jacqueline’s office door creaked open. Grace’s heart was pounding. Hanna had never spoken to her like that. Rattled, Grace tried to undo what Hanna had said somehow, to generalize it or pretend that her anger had been unfocused, impersonal. Instead, Grace could only think of Alls, and the hard, committed patience of his stare, as though for the entire time she’d known him, he’d been watching a clock, awaiting his release.
Prison would have destroyed Riley. She tried hard not to think so, but she knew. She imagined him laughing at someone, so used to being liked, and getting punched in the gut. She saw him in brief loops, flip-books, in which he collapsed like a pool float, again and again.
Hanna unhooked her ankle and leaned back. “You don’t know them anymore,” she said. “And I bet they never knew you at all.”
Jacqueline clacked over to their table. “What is that, alcohol? Wipe that up, the smell is horrid. Julie, come with me.”
? ? ?
The job was another ring, a hulking emerald with trillion-cut diamonds the size of Grace’s eyeteeth on either side. Jacqueline looked right at Grace and told her to replace the diamonds with something less valuable. The owner, she said, wanted to give the diamonds to her son’s new wife.
“What a lovely mother-in-law,” Grace said.
“Use moissanite,” Jacqueline said. “It’s warmer.” She hurried to open a second box and then stopped, patted the lid back down, and closed her hand over it. “One thing at a time,” she said. “You’ll need to go to Fassi.”
Grace had been to Fassi only twice before, for rhinestones. Then, she had taken the pieces with her so she could match the replacements. “Just don’t get mugged,” Jacqueline had said when Grace left with an art deco jeweled hand mirror in her purse. For a thief, Jacqueline was awfully trusting of others—or perhaps just arrogant. She probably thought Grace lacked the nerve to steal from her.
“We’ll need to measure them here,” Jacqueline said. “Obviously, you can’t take this out.”
Obviously. Grace went back to her desk for a ruler and a loupe. Perhaps Jacqueline did not trust her quite as much as she’d thought. When she returned, Jacqueline was on her knees, opening the safe. Grace sat down in her boss’s chair and switched on the desk lamp. She held the ring against the ruler. The stones were nine millimeters on each side and six millimeters deep at the point. She peered through the loupe, looking at the way they sparkled.
“Nine on each side, six deep.” Grace noticed a minute speck near the bottom tip of one of the diamonds. An inclusion. These diamonds were very real indeed.
Jacqueline leaned back on her heels and held out her palm for the ring. She restacked the boxes deep in the safe and clanked the door shut.
“A friend of mine since we were teenagers—her husband has a little jewelry shop.” Jacqueline paused to frown. “Monsieur had a heart attack and she has been at loose ends, trying to keep up while he’s recovering. They still have orders that came in before his accident. They have small children, and it’s just chaos for her.”
Grace knew the trap of trying to explain your answers before anyone asked a question. She smiled and nodded. “You’re a good friend.”
? ? ?
On the bus, bouncing toward Fassi in Montmartre, Grace sat next to a girl just a few years younger than she was. The girl held her gray leather purse in her lap and balanced a book on it. She was reading Huysmans, à Rebours. The copy was new, its pages bright and flat, no dog-earing or wavy expansion from reading in the tub. Her fingernails were smooth ovals, unpolished and startling in their pink health.
“I love that book,” Grace said, scarcely aware that she was speaking.
“It’s for school,” the girl said, her French flat and closed-throated.
“You’re American?”
She blushed and smiled grimly. “Yes, sorry, my accent is not very good.”
Grace shook her head. “No, it’s good! You’re studying abroad? What’s the course?”
“Literature of the Belle époque.”
“Oh, are you reading Bel-Ami?”
The girl nodded vigorously. “I love that novel! It is very scandalous!”
Grace almost laughed. To be scandalized by the mustachioed gigolos of the 1880s! Her chest cramped with regret. This girl’s was the life Grace would have had—should have had—if she hadn’t done so many stupid things trying to get it. The bus was not at Grace’s stop yet, but she rose to get off.
“Enjoy your trip,” she said in English, smiling at the girl, whose eyes lit up at Grace’s American accent. Grace had delighted her.
She pushed toward the front and hurried off the bus.
How much time did she have left? Telling Hanna the truth—the truth, out and gulping for breath, squalling for attention—had left Grace exposed. It didn’t matter whom you told: A secret always sought its own life. Someone would find her now, or Jacqueline would get shut down, maybe arrested, or Grace would. She needed to leave. It was time to start over again, somewhere bigger this time, or more difficult.
How different from her that girl had looked. Those fingernails, like a living doll’s.
Grace stopped under an awning, next to a wire carousel of black-and-white postcards, and waited for her light-headedness to pass.
Fassi was two blocks farther. The gall of Jacqueline, lying to her so obviously—she could have at least taken out the stones first and told Grace they’d fallen out. That would have been considerate, to spare the underpaid, immigrant help the burden of knowing.