A few minutes later, Brandon looked at his watch again. She was four minutes late. Unusual, he thought. Not that he really knew. Nothing about her punctuality or lack of it had been written in her file, but her boss had mentioned it. In addition, he believed she wanted to impress him, to assure him she had changed.
After another minute, Brandon began to wonder again why he was so concerned about this one, about her. His other parolees could come an hour late, and he took advantage of the time by finishing up notes or making calls or seeing another client. Why did he care about Miss Calhoun? She was no different from the others, not a bit. Not one single bit, he repeated to himself.
Then she threw the door open and came into the office area. With one hand she closed the door. With the other she tried to tame her unruly curls. Unsuccessful at that, she dropped into a chair in the waiting area. Her remorse was so obvious he had to struggle not to smile.
He looked back at her file where he’d taken a few notes, questions he needed to ask her but the image of her, all the energy she radiated and those wild curls, stayed with him.
Brandon glanced up again. “Miss Calhoun?” he called.
Francie—Miss Calhoun, he corrected himself—stood and walked toward him. She wore jeans and a trim blue shirt with a button-down collar. A less buttoned-down person he’d never seen.
Did she have an extra spring in her step? Who in the world still used the phrase “spring in her step?” But she did seem to have a little more energy than when he’d seen her last.
“I’m sorry I’m late. I don’t know what happened to the time.”
“That’s fine. You’re only a few minutes late.”
Standing, Brandon reached out his hand and shook hers. “Please sit down,” he said as he did the same. For a moment, he shuffled the papers before he asked, “How has your week been?”
“Really terrific. I went to church last Sunday and think I found the right place.”
“Why is that?”
“Well, as I told you before, I don’t have a lot of clothes, especially not nice things to wear to church, but they didn’t mind. Everyone greeted me and was so friendly. They even asked me to stay for their monthly dinner after the service. It was really great. They had me take home a plate of food for dinner.” She paused for a moment. “And they take up an offering to help the hungry and homeless. Everyone brings canned food and beans and stuff.”
“So they have a strong evangelism program and mission outreach.”
She considered the words. “Yes, I guess that’s what you’d call it, but it felt a lot friendlier.”
“What about the minister?”
“He was really nice. It was a good sermon. I mean, if I could stay awake after school and work to listen, it had to be interesting.”
“How was his theology?” What a dumb question. He was her parole officer. He was supposed to get her back on track, not act like a seminary professor. Or was he trying to put some space between them? Maybe even put her down to remind himself he knew more about church and religion than she did? Whatever the reason for the question, it wasn’t at all necessary.
“Well, I have to tell you, I don’t know. I liked what he said. He challenged me in some places, too—to be a better person.”
Brandon looked down at his list of questions. “I need to set up a visit to your apartment.”
“Oh?”
Because her voice sounded so horrified, he looked up at Miss Calhoun. Her eyes were wide and she was biting her lip.
“My apartment? Couldn’t we meet someplace else?” she asked.
“No, Miss Calhoun. I have to make visits to the apartments of all my parolees.” He motioned toward his list. “It’s one of the requirements.” He guessed she’d say Gentry hadn’t done that so he repeated, “It is required.”
She leaned forward. “It’s just that I really don’t want you—” she stopped and bit her lip again “or anyone to see my apartment.”
“Is there a problem?” He started to write a note in her file.
“It’s just not a really—” she paused as if she were searching for a word “—plush place,” she finished. “It’s little and not in a particularly nice area of town.”
“Miss Calhoun, the people I work with don’t come out of prison with a lot of money. I realize you can’t afford much yet and that doesn’t bother me. This is a purely professional visit.”
“Oh, I know that. I’m really proud of how I’ve changed, except for the apartment.”
“Miss Calhoun, most parolees don’t want me to see where they live. They’re embarrassed that where they live now is not as nice as they’d like. I know that, but I have to see that you do have a place to live.”
After a long pause, she said, “Okay.” Then she added, “You have my address. Do you know how to get there?”
He looked at her file. “Yes, I’ve had clients in that area before. Probably in that building. Do I remember that there’s no elevator?”
She nodded. “My apartment’s on the fourth floor. It isn’t a bad climb.”
“When is a good time?”
“That’s harder to say. I work the breakfast and lunch shift, have classes Monday, Wednesday and Friday mornings and afternoons. The psych class is every afternoon.”
“You don’t work Saturdays?”
“No, we’re only open during the week. We really serve people who work in the area. Some come for breakfast; a few stick around and work late. They drop in for dinner, but our big crowd is for lunch.”
“You tell me. What day and time are best for you? I can change appointments around if I need to.”
“Sometime between eight and ten Tuesday or Thursday?”
“Are you sure? I can work almost anything into my calendar.”
“You certainly are flexible. Thanks, because my schedule can be so crazy.” She thought for a moment. “What about Tuesday?” That would give her the weekend to clean up. Not much to clean or make an improvement, but she’d try. “I don’t have a class and can tell Julie I have to leave after breakfast. But I’ve got to be back at the diner by eleven.”
“Eight-thirty? That way, I can come to your apartment first, before I come to the office. We’ll both have plenty of time to get to work.”
“Okay, that’s fine.”
He wrote the appointment on his calendar. “Do you need a card?”
“No, I’ll remember.”
“I need to get some information about your life and some dates, Miss Calhoun. The only one I have is the date of your birth.”
“Go ahead.”
“Parents’ names?”
“Sam and Maisy Calhoun.” She squirmed a little. “I don’t like talking about my parents.”
“Mother’s maiden name?” he asked without a pause. She was like any other parolee, he reminded himself again. He couldn’t ignore things she didn’t like talking about—but he hated to see her so uncomfortable.
“Busby.”
“Place of birth?”
“Me or them?”
“Yours, Miss Calhoun.”
“I was born in Austin.”
“Where