Welcome the Little Children

by Lynda McDaniel

  We held back just enough to stay out of sight—but close enough not to lose them. The guy gave Astrid’s mother a public kinda kiss and went one way. Then she hailed a cab, and Della waited a beat to hail one for us. I couldn’t help but chuckle again when Della told the cabbie to “follow that cab.” Like in the movies. She added, “There’s an extra twenty dollars in it for you.” That really made me laugh, though I reckoned it was more from nerves.

  While we were riding, I asked her something that had been on my mind. “Why did you ask me to come up? You could have done this on your own.”

  “Not really. I’ve never been good at photography—and I believe you’ve gotten something we can use. And, oh, I just wanted to see you. Moral support. Friendship.”

  Before I had a chance to respond, we noticed our cabbie had lost the first cab. “Dammit,” Della said. “There’s not an extra twenty in it for you.” Della started to stuff the money back in her purse, but the cabbie had such a sad face when he looked over his shoulder, I could see her waiver. He was younger than me and so small that his head barely made it over the steering wheel. She told him to pull to the curb, and when we got out, she gave him the fare plus the extra money. “Good luck in America,” she said. He smiled and waved goodbye.

  “What?” she asked when I gave her a look.

  “He could’ve lived here for years, Della.”

  “You might be right, but he’ll still need good luck in America.”

  33

  Della

  We walked a few blocks looking for a one-hour photo shop I’d used before. The guy behind the counter promised our photos in two hours. I couldn’t believe their deceptive name; Abit couldn’t believe how fast the photos would be ready. Since we had a couple of hours to kill, I suggested we go to the National Mall.

  “Lead the way,” Abit said, picking up his pace.

  Two hours wasn’t much time for all the choices the Mall offered; stately statues, majestic memorials, and castle-like buildings beckoned. Not surprisingly, Abit pointed at the National Museum of Natural History, where we wandered past mastodons and stuffed birds, Inuit masks and Indian canoes. I’d seen the exhibits dozens of times—it was a favorite stop for guests—but I never tired of them. I had to tear Abit away from a stegosaurus so we could pick up the photos before closing time. Then I hailed a cab for home. Abit needed to pack.

  As we looked over the pictures en route to Alex’s, Abit got a wicked grin on his face. Something I hadn’t seen before. “I think you got her,” he said.

  “No, I think you got her. Or them.” The pictures showed the loving couple locked in an enviable kiss. Their faces were obscured in those shots, but when they came up for air, Abit got several photos that clearly showed Astrid’s mother and whoever she was kissing.

  “So what’s next? Are you gonna turn her in?” Abit asked as the cab pulled onto Alex’s street.

  I didn’t have an answer yet, though I’d thought a lot about it. I couldn’t see the point of ruining half a dozen lives, only to rub those kids’ faces in the fact that their mother had chosen a rich lifestyle over them. But I didn’t want her to get off easy, either. I told Abit I needed to come up with a plan. He flashed that grin again.

  We didn’t have time for a meal together before his train home, but Alex gave Abit plenty of cash for dinner and snacks en route. And if he liked his overnight accommodations as much heading home as he had coming up (I’d heard dozens of details about that roomette), he’d be happy.

  After I dropped him off at Union Station, I went home to meet with Alex. I apologized for blowing off my editorial work and promised to get back to it as soon as possible. He seemed to understand how much this meant to me, but still, I needed to make some progress with my work-work.

  “Any idea who this guy is?” I asked, holding up Abit’s photographs.

  “Not at the moment, but I’d like a kiss like that.” Easiest request I’d had all day.

  When we got back to work, Alex said he was knee-deep in a big election story he needed to file, but he promised to check out Lover Boy soon. Off the top of his head, Alex didn’t think he was famous or infamous, which in that town eliminated a lot of folks. But one way or another, those photos were the centerpiece of a blackmail plan I was still pulling together.

  About midnight, we took up where we’d left off with that kiss.

  Something told me that paramour of Astrid’s mother must work around the Metro Center station. That would make meeting for lunch easier, especially at the Mezzanine Café. With all that chintz, it wasn’t the kind of place men—at least burly men like him—frequented, so he was less likely to run into cohorts. I doubted she’d worry too much about seeing people she knew. The café was nice by my standards, but not chichi enough for her society friends.

  And I chewed on another idea—she must live in the neighborhood. If so, that meant I might see her out shopping or getting her tootsies pampered. The next day, I took the train to Metro Station and headed toward the café. I was sick of the menu and wondered how she and Lover Boy could keep meeting there. But then I guessed the lovebirds weren’t focused on the food.

  It took a couple of disappointing days before I saw her again—walking down New York Avenue where I’d been standing for hours like a streetwalker. (Seriously, many of the working girls in D.C. dressed far better than me.)

  I followed at a safe distance and could make out her once-lank blond hair, now shiny with expensive highlights and cut to just above her shoulders. She wore a dress made of some kind of soft fabric, also sporting an expensive cut that flowed as she walked.

  Before long, she escaped into a swank condo building, The Meridian. My spirits sank. Those places were like fortresses. Impenetrable. Even if I stalked her, she could just blow me off with a shriek. Or accuse me of a crime. I kept running through scenarios of how to pull off this caper, but every idea hit a brick wall.

  Until one didn’t.

  34

  Abit

  Fiona agreed I should keep my loft and she’d keep her place in Newland. No point in making too many changes at oncet. And to be honest, I wanted to be sure this thing between us was steady.

  But Fiona refused to return to the band. She said real firm-like that she never would. All I could figure was she was embarrassed. I mean, everyone knew she’d had a thing with a married man—and it’d failed. But I also knew they loved her like I did, and who among us hadn’t made asses of ourselves, at least a time or two? She just needed a way to ease back in.

  After a few weeks, I found one. And somehow I talked Fiona into going along with it.

  That weekend, the Rollin’ Ramblers had a concert at one of our regular gigs, not too far away in Spruce Pine. All them fans had welcomed me when I’d had nowhere else to go. They’d nursed me through my broken heart for well over a year, cheering at the sad songs I wrote and played. So I wanted to thank them with a little surprise.

  The band was all set up, but I took the stage with only Bessie. I started singing Buck Owen’s “Together Again,” a fetching tune that’s both happy and mournful. (The solo bass really added to that feeling.) When I got to the end of the first verse, singing about long lonely nights at an end, Fiona came out from backstage, and we sang perfect harmony about her holding the key to my heart in her hand. That set the crowd off whistling and hollering.

  It was just me and Fiona singing and playing together, sounding sweeter than I ever recalled. And then something came over me. Time just fell away, and the crowd noise faded. Like when of an evening I swam underwater at Chatauga Lake and floated in a perfect world of peace and harmony. I lost track of time—and yet I kept perfect time with the music as we sang about the love we oncet knew and how we were together again. When we finished, Fiona set down her fiddle and we moved closer, her arm round my back as I held onto Bessie.

  I came back to the room and heard the crowd going wild. I could tell they’d already forgiven Fiona, maybe even faster than I had. I gave Fiona a squeeze and whispered,
“Thank you for being the best sideman anyone could hope to have.”

  “Oh, Rabbit,” was all she said, but she squeezed me back.

  35

  Della

  “Is that you, Ms. Kincaid?”

  “It is, indeed, Sammy.”

  When I followed Astrid’s mother to her condo building, I’d recognized the doorman standing outside The Meridian—Sammy Feldman, someone I knew from my reporter days. I hadn’t gone up to him that day; I’d wanted to think through how I could use that connection to my advantage. It took me a couple of weeks, in part because I needed to catch up on real work, and Alex and I had tickets for the theater and plans for dinner with some of his friends. Time together having fun. What a concept.

  When I returned to the building, Sammy stood at the front doors of The Meridian. As I walked toward him, I had a big smile on my face. He recognized me straight away and smiled back.

  “I haven’t seen you in ages, but then it’s a big city, eh?” Sammy said, grabbing my hand and shaking it like a long-lost friend.

  I just kept smiling and shaking his hand. I didn’t want him to know I’d moved away. Over the years, I’d gotten the sense that people often felt a twinge of betrayal if you’d left their town, and I wanted to stay on his good side.

  I’d met Sammy more than twenty years ago, when he went by that nickname. (His brass nametag now read Samuel.) His mother, Pearl, was putting five children through college working three jobs, too many hours on her hands and knees cleaning other people’s mess. I did a feature story on her, and I always got a good feeling remembering how that article sparked substantial donations for her boys’ college education. Sammy and I stayed in touch for a while, even after his mother passed away. He apparently still appreciated how that story played out.

  “How’s Rosie?” I recalled his daughter’s name, but not his son’s. I hoped he’d mention it.

  “She’s in Cambridge. You know, near Boston? My brother who’s got a teaching gig at Harvard lives there and keeps an eye on her for me. And Donnie’s headed to American U next year.”

  “Gosh, that’s great. They grow up fast.” Trite, but I was winging it. “And how about you, Sammy? I thought you were a teacher, too.”

  “Oh, I am. They just don’t pay enough for someone with two kids in college. This is a summertime gig for me with a few nights and weekends during the school year. It’s not too bad, as work goes. Easier than taming those wild kids and trying to teach them something. You still telling stories?”

  “As a matter of fact, I’m trying to get a story from someone I believe lives here—but she keeps giving me the cold shoulder.” I showed him Nigel’s drawing.

  “Mrs. Overton?”

  “Uh, yes, Lilah Overton.”

  “Wait a sec. Her name isn’t Lilah. I have to call her Mrs. Overton, but her first name is Christine.”

  “Did I say Lilah? I swear I’m getting old, Sammy. Lilah is another story.” Was she ever. Since her disappearance, I’d been saying that I never again laid eyes on Lilah Holt. And I’d been right. I was tailing Christine Overton. “Mrs. O. won’t give me the time of day. I keep trying to get her to tell me more about this charity event she’s involved in.”

  Sammy made a face. “I’m not surprised. She’s a real snob. She and her lawyer hubby, Clifford, could start their own mint, and yet they complained about having to contribute to our—the staff’s—Christmas bonus.”

  “So busy with charity, she forgot it starts at home.”

  “Isn’t that the truth?”

  I waited an appropriate amount of time and slipped him a hundred dollar bill. “What else could you tell me about her?”

  He eased the bill into his coat pocket with a practiced motion, then looked around before answering. “Well, given how many bags I have to help her get out of the taxis, she spends most of her days shopping.” He thought for a few moments and added, “Now that you’re asking, I have noticed that on Thursdays, she goes to a salon for her hair or nails or whatever. She comes home all coifed and perfumed.”

  “Well, that doesn’t narrow it down much. There are probably a million salons and spas in this town.”

  “Not called Chez Perry.”

  I laughed. “How in the world do you know about Chez Perry?”

  “Oh, those women talk in the lobby like I don’t exist. I heard one of them recommend Perry or whoever the hell actually works there. I pay attention to things like that.” He patted his coat over the pocket where he’d stashed the cash.

  “Well, as long as I’m breaking all the doorman rules, could you tell me what unit number is hers? And more about her hubby?”

  Sammy didn’t hesitate. “Clifford’s a pretty nice guy. He’s lived here for several years, and she joined him after their wedding last year. Kinda old and tame for her, I’d think, but he’s a super-rich real estate attorney.” He gave me a wink that said money beats personality. I slipped him a twenty, and he told me their apartment number. As he pocketed that bill, he whispered, “This must be some story.”

  I thanked him and left. I wanted to get out of there before he asked me what any of that had to do with a charity event.

  When I got home, I did some research on both Christine Overton and Chez Perry. The Internet sure made research faster and more informative than the phone book. The salon was easy—just a few blocks from her home. Christine, on the other hand, didn’t have much of an online profile—though in those days, not many people did. But I found a few mentions on charity sites, and she was definitely the same person.

  I spent the next few days working for my editor. Like a clock-watcher on the job, I had my eye on the calendar, anxiously anticipating the next Thursday. Finally it rolled around. Sammy had told me Christine rarely left home before eleven o’clock, so I made breakfast for me and Alex with enough time afterwards to linger over coffee.

  As I approached the salon address, the vague but distinct smell of polishes and pomades let me know I was in the right place. I crossed the street and grabbed a stool in the window of a coffee shop facing Perry’s. Sure enough, just after eleven o’clock, Christine walked into the salon, dressed more casually this time, though even her silk apricot-colored jumpsuit looked as though it cost more than my weekly take at Coburn’s.

  I sipped my espresso and waited. When the jolt from the caffeine mixed with my already elevated adrenaline, I felt ready to pounce. But a minute later, I felt more like the dog that caught the car. What in the world could I do with my quarry? I couldn’t go charging in on her, at least not yet. Too much explaining about who I was and why I was cornering her. And this was her turf, too many people around. I needed to confront her somewhere more private. I ordered another espresso and drank it slowly. By the time I finished that one, I had my plan.

  36

  Della

  I waited until the following Monday to go back to the Mezzanine Café. I figured Christine’s weekends were likely spent with hubby. I didn’t want to waste my time chasing—but not finding—her when I could spend that time with Alex.

  I decided not to buy lunch again—my editor wasn’t paying me that much—but I started to feel conspicuous just hanging out and wandering around the block. The miserable heat and humidity didn’t help matters. (Summertime in D.C. drove out everyone who could wangle a trip somewhere else. I could only hope Christine and Lover Boy wouldn’t leave town.) When the temperature and humidity climbed into the nineties, though, I broke down and bought a museum ticket. I saw a fine exhibit of Frida Kahlo’s work, taking breaks to check on the café. No luck.

  By one o’clock, I was starving and my resolve was shot. I headed for the café.

  “Good to see you again,” my waiter said. I’d tipped him plenty the last time, and he’d deserved it. I’d been hogging his table for weeks. “The usual?” he asked. Oh, brother, I thought, was I that predictable? Or was he that good?

  “No, I think I’ll have the burger and fries.” In honor of Abit, who’d called last night and told me all a
bout Fiona’s return to the stage.

  “Ah, like your son ordered.” I smiled and nodded. That guy was good.

  But they never showed. Not that day or the next. I had work piling up, so I gave up and transcribed four interviews on Thursday. I got through that and even had time to do more research for my editor.

  On Friday, I chose to skip the café, which left only The Meridian. I knew I couldn’t stakeout her building with Sammy standing out front, so I decided to move a couple of doors down and across the street to avoid his spotting me. Trouble was, that was far enough away that I needed binoculars. Not a great idea in a hoity-toity residential area. If they suspected a spy in their midst, rich residents would call the cops faster than a lousy politician forgets his constituents.

  All I could come up with was an (embarrassing) impersonation of a birdwatcher. An old fellow sporting binoculars and guidebook used to stalk back gardens in Georgetown with knee socks pulled over his trousers and a long-sleeved shirt to protect his arms from briars and branches. I rummaged through old clothes and found the right gear. Alex’s laughter still rang in my ears as I made myself comfortable in the shade of a large maple tree.

  I didn’t have to wait too long before I saw Christine saunter out of her building. She looked radiant. She deigned to give Sammy a little toodle-oo wave and started walking in my direction. A bit of luck, since I wouldn’t have to walk past Sammy, and I didn’t need to hide any longer—she was too self-centered to recognize me (especially in that getup) after a couple of years and in a radically different venue. She walked to the Hay-Adams Hotel, where she appeared to be a regular, nodding at the staff with that rich-person familiarity that made my teeth ache.