On the pads of my bare feet, I walk down the cold marble stairs to his library. He stands in the middle of the room, directionless, yet so elegant in his velvet smoking jacket, one that accentuates his broad shoulders—shoulders I have stood on the whole of my life. I will remember him looking like this.
“Can't sleep either, Father?” I disturb his reverie.
He turns, looks at me for a long time without saying a word.
“No,” he finally says, walking toward me, “I can't sleep. I can't sleep because of you. Why must you take the stand? What can you say other than she is your friend, was a good worker? Why, my Pearl?”
Even now, as my actions disturb him so, I am still “his Pearl.” The question I had been asking myself since we left the courthouse earlier is answered. My decision is made.
“I
