Welcome the Little Children

by Lynda McDaniel

  When I walked into the lobby, something came over me; I felt dizzy. As I steadied myself on a nearby railing, I thought this must be how the women meeting Alex felt. Or when Fiona had her head turned by that doctor and hurried to meet him. I pushed those thoughts away and followed Christine into the restaurant.

  I wondered why the maître‘d gave me such a strange look—until I sat down and put my napkin in my lap. My ensemble. Oh well, stranger people wander the District every day. I ordered a club sandwich and coffee for a mere thirty-five dollars.

  Within minutes, Lover Boy showed up. He was a galoot, but a well-manicured, well-tailored one, and he looked almost as radiant as Christine. Young love does that, even when you’re well into middle age, before the arguments over important stuff like socks on the bathroom floor or whose turn it was to empty the dishwasher takes its toll. Though from the looks of those two, they had maids to help them avoid such petty differences.

  After cooing at one another for a while, they finally ordered. While they waited for their lunches, Lover Boy pulled some papers out of his briefcase. Maybe they really were having a business lunch, and I was just a cynical snoop. But then I recalled Abit’s photos. And I caught the gleam of shiny, color brochures. They were going away together—Hawaii or Tahiti, that kind of place.

  After an hour or so—and the need to order a ten dollar molten chocolate cake to hold my table—he looked at his watch, kissed her on the cheek, and left. No nooner in a backroom this visit.

  Christine had just pulled out her lipstick and mirror when I slid into the seat next to her.

  “Greetings from Laurel Falls.”

  37

  Della

  “Who the hell are you?” Christine demanded as her eyes ran up and down my creative couture.

  “Don’t recognize your daughter’s cooking advisor from Laurel Falls? Hell, maybe you don’t even remember your daughter.”

  It took a few seconds before what I’d said registered. Her face went white. Well, whiter. She already had that pale look—not like when she lived in Laurel Falls, but a fashion statement some women thought made them look younger, hipper.

  “Leave me alone or I’ll call security,” she growled.

  “Fine with me,” I said, fanning her with the photos and report. “Maybe your rich lawyer husband can get you out of all the trouble these could cause you—that is, if he doesn’t dump you. And I know all your society pals would love to learn how you abandoned your children so you could raise money for starving artists.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, floundering.

  “Sure you do, Christine. You know, Astrid and Dusk—those poor kids you stuck with names they hate?”

  “What are you playing at?” she hissed through gritted teeth.

  “Oh, I’m not playing at anything. But I’m about to I’ll tell you how this is all going to play out.”

  We bantered like that for a good ten minutes before she looked around furtively and muttered, “We need to leave.” When she stood, I could tell the cheapskate wasn’t going to leave any tip. I put a bunch of bills on my table and followed her. Closely. I didn’t trust her not to run off.

  Once we were out on H Street, she stopped and looked around. When she didn’t offer any ideas about where we could talk, I suggested her apartment. “It’s so close,” I added, letting her know I knew where she lived.

  She scoffed. “You think I’d have you to my apartment? And possibly run into my husband?”

  “Listen, Christine. You’re acting as though you’ve got the upper hand here. Trust me, you don’t. I’ve made copies of all my research, and if you skip out again on me—or rather Astrid and Dee—those copies are going straight to the sheriff and the Washington Post. I know reporters there who’d love the opportunity to knock some art maven off her fucking pedestal.”

  She got a desperate look on her face, and I fully expected her to jump in a cab and flee. But the fight seemed to have gone out of her; she agreed her apartment was the best place. Apparently hubby was off fleecing clients for outrageous billable hours—or she had a gun waiting for me there.

  Christine hailed a cab, even though her apartment was just a few blocks away. I was surprised she’d sit in the backseat with me, which made me worry about what she had in mind. We arrived in a matter of minutes. When we pulled up, she looked at me as though I should pay for the cab. This woman had gotten used to the princess life. With a sigh, she forked over a tenner, but I could see there were still plenty more bills in her wallet.

  I was relieved Sammy was busy with a trio of women who looked like clones of Christine. I didn’t want to get sidetracked, and I couldn’t remember all the lies I’d told him. We took the elevator to the penultimate floor. Inside, the long views of the Potomac and Virginia landscape were breathtaking. Christine pointed at the couch, and I sat. We had a lot of logistics to work out. At least, that was the way I saw it. She saw it as a shakedown.

  Christine headed straight to a drinks table and poured herself a hefty scotch from a crystal bottle. I guessed it was the maid’s day off. After knocking back a half glass, she topped it up before she sat on a stiff-looking Queen Anne chair and started to talk.

  She and Enoch (though she called him Jonathan) had met in an underground group back in the seventies. Mostly rich kids playing at being domestic terrorists. She tried to justify the riots and bombs with the old line that they were “responsible terrorists,” as some of her compatriots had dubbed their actions. I scoffed. Those two words side by side were a joke.

  “We were just tagalongs. Misspent youth and all that,” she said, floating her hand languidly in the air as she warmed to her old story. Given her surroundings—brocade-upholstered furniture, brass chandelier, mahogany sideboard and tables—I doubted she’d uttered a word about this in ages. “We escaped from the group. They were cultish and didn’t want anyone leaving, but we managed to get away. We headed to the Virginia mountains and had to move around a lot.”

  “Hold on a minute,” I interrupted. “You sound like those Japanese soldiers on some Philippine island thinking World War II was still going on thirty years later. Didn’t you know the FBI screwed up so badly they’d had to drop most of the charges back then?”

  In what I guessed was a moment of honest reflection, she said, “We were so self-absorbed, we thought we were on the 10 Most Wanted. Later we learned that was only for the biggies in the movement like ‎Bill Ayers and ‎Bernardine Dohrn. At the time, though, we were running scared. We went from a cabin outside of Roanoke to that godforsaken Laurel Falls. A few years later, I had Astrid.”

  I had Astrid. Like the kid was a disease. I’d never had children because I didn’t think I’d make a very good mother. Compared to Christine, I’d’ve been Mother of the Year. And I wasn’t buying their innocent bomb throwing.

  She picked up on my attitude, leaning closer. “We never hurt anyone back then—and we didn’t want to hurt anyone. That’s why we fled. Why else would we move to that hellhole, away from civilization?”

  “So what’s with the folksy names—Enoch and Lilah?”

  She raised her eyebrows and shrugged her shoulders in a “what else?” gesture. “We were running from the law, so we needed aliases. We took a common surname to blend in, though of course we never did or never could. Or ever wanted to.” I must have looked confused, because she added, “Fit in. We never could or wanted to fit in. And now look at me,” she said, motioning around her stuffy old living room. It may have cost a lot to decorate, but it was as cold as her intentions. “You think I’m going to confess to anything like this to my upstanding husband, Clifford Overton, Esquire?”

  “Except he’s not your husband, is he? You’re still married to Enoch, which nullifies your current arrangement.”

  “Ha! You don’t know everything, even though you think you do. Jonathan and I never married. Like everything we did, we just played at it.”

  I thought that little victory would invigorate her,
but she seemed spent. I just let her stew in her stinking story. Eventually, she stood up and poured herself another glass of scotch. No offer to me, but I wouldn’t have accepted. I had too many other things I wanted from her.

  Something struck me while I watched her guzzle alcohol and wallow in self-pity. “You are such a piece of work, you know that? You think I’m concerned about your checkered past, don’t you? I don’t give a flip about your political escapades. I’m not here to hold you accountable for that. I want to know what you’re going to do about your children. Remember them? I met them. I cooked for them. I consoled them when you’d run off and left them. When your husband was accused of murdering you and was carted off to jail. Do you have any idea the kind of scars that leaves? In your twenties, you were busy playing at revolution—in theirs, they’ll be busy dealing with their fucked-up psyches.”

  No reaction other than topping up her drink before sitting again. I went on. “But you know, I’ve written too many stories about parents who beat, starved, or even tortured their children, so your leaving them behind probably did the least damage. You were a lousy mother—and once they got over the trauma of those first few weeks, they seemed a lot happier without you.”

  I expected at least a frown, a wince, something. She just shrugged again. “I wasn’t any good as a mother.”

  “You don’t have to convince me of that. I first met Astrid when she was cooking for you. An eight year old in charge of the kitchen.

  “Oh, fuck off,” she said, baring her teeth. I was afraid she was going to throw her crystal glass against the wall—or at me—Hollywood-style. “You act as though you got everything right, but I came in your store early on and saw you lying to yourself. Oh, that surprises you, does it? I thought you knew everything. But you don’t remember me from back then. I watched you, trying to get along where you didn’t belong. I knew the signs too well myself not to notice.”

  I let that pass. This wasn’t about my shortcomings. Or hers, really, except for one. “We’ve all made mistakes, Christine. You, me, my ex-husband. Even Clifford—I know because I’m looking at one of his right now. I tried, I really tried to cut you some slack, but then I asked myself why you should be living this life. Have all this”—I borrowed her game-show-hostess wave—“while Astrid and Dee get their clothes from Goodwill and have never known a mother’s comfort.”

  She just sat there, simpering. I took away her scotch glass, and said, “Okay, let’s get down to business.”

  Christine slumped deeper into her chair. Not easy in a rigid wingback chair, but either the alcohol or her conscience had finally kicked in. More than likely the alcohol. “I can’t go back,” she whined. “I’ve got a good life now. You can’t make me.” She sounded about the same age as Astrid.

  “Don’t kid yourself. No one wants you back in Laurel Falls,” I said. “And I’m glad you’ve got such a good life, because you’re going to pay for your kids’ lives to get a lot better. But you’re too drunk right now to listen to reason. I’ll see you tomorrow—and you’d better be here.”

  I waved the copies of the photos as a reminder and let myself out.

  38

  Abit

  Life carried on normal-like for a while, but just about the time the Queen Anne’s Lace turned the roadsides snowy white, everything started to change again.

  First, Jasper O’Farrell stopped by Daddy’s and asked if I’d be interested in a small place out Hanging Dog way. Seemed a widow woman, Addie Compton, needed to move fast and asked O’Farrell to help her sell her place. Fiona and I went to look at it the next day.

  A small farmhouse, surrounded by two acres of meadows and trees, sat atop a knoll overlooking the valley below. One of the prettiest scenes I’d seen since the meadows at The Hicks. When Fiona stepped inside the knotty-pine paneled kitchen, I knew what her heart was doing because mine was working like bellows, too. Same with the chestnut-log barn. (Chestnut trees had been wiped out by a blight early in the century, so them logs were precious.) I saw myself working in there, as real as if I had a twin brother standing at a band saw, making fine things.

  Within a coupla weeks, the bank approved us for a loan. Mrs. Compton sold at a good price, so we didn’t haggle with her or nothin’. She seemed happy, and we sure were. We just needed to close on the deal and figure out when we could move in. Mrs. Compton did ask if she could come back and dig up a few dahlias when she got settled in her new place. We said sure.

  “Rabbit, pinch me. I can’t believe I’m this lucky,” Fiona said on the way home from the closing.

  “And if things work out the way they said,” I added, “we could move in as early as next month.” Fiona didn’t say anything, so I went on. “Right? You are moving in with me?” I smiled and looked over to her side of the car. She wasn’t smiling, and I lost mine. “Wait a minute. You’re not planning another runner, are you?”

  “No, it’s just that we aren’t married.”

  I had enough sense not to mention that she’d overlooked details like that when she was hanging out with her married doctor. And we’d been living like a married couple, just under her roof one night and mine anothern. After a mile or two, I finally I got it. Even though she considered herself a so-so Catholic, she didn’t want to live together ‘til we were married. Somehow, messing round but having your own place didn’t make her feel as guilty as living together.

  I wasn’t keen on the idea of getting married right then, and I didn’t see why a piece of paper from some clerk made much difference. But I knew we’d marry sooner or later, so why not sooner?

  “Are you proposing to me?” I asked. She started laughing, which I took as a good sign. I went on. “So, I reckon you want to get married quick-like?

  “I do.”

  The next day, Daddy stopped by my woodshop again. I reckoned Mama had told him Fiona and I were getting married, and he wanted to know when he’d get his barn back. Well, I planned to move my shop out to my new place as soon as possible. Them chestnut logs were calling to me.

  “Daddy, thanks so much for finding that place for us. We can’t believe our good fortune.”

  “I didn’t have nothin’ to do with it. I was just getting that O’Farrell offa my back.”

  Man, you couldn’t say anything to him without getting some sorry reaction. That was why I kept putting off telling him something else, but now seemed as good a time as any. “Daddy, I want to ask Nigel to be my best man. I know it should be you, but if it weren’t for him, we wouldn’t be having a wedding next month.”

  “Son, I don’t know about all that wedding stuff. Never made sense to me, so go ahead and ask that man to do it. I’d be obliged if he would spare me that.”

  I was glad he wasn’t upset, but his comment kinda stung. I started some busy work on a hoosier and asked, “Will you come to the wedding?” He didn’t answer right away; when I turned my head his way, his face carried a world of hurt. I didn’t know what to say, so I went back to sanding. Pretty soon, I heard him leave.

  39

  Della

  Christine kept giving me the runaround, wasting a lot of my time. After a while, I’d had to let my plans for her go while I spent a week down in Laurel Falls tending to some store matters. I’d just returned to D.C. the night before.

  Alex was already at his desk when I got up. “Hon, I finally had a chance to research that Christine character’s husband. He’s loaded. One of those D.C. lawyers whose quietly raking in the money.” He handed me a sizeable file.

  “So she can afford the plan I’ve got in mind,” I said, sipping his coffee and leafing through his report. “You know, what I’m planning to ask for those kids, she probably blows on facials and pedicures in any given month. I’m done with letting her drag her well-groomed feet any longer.”

  I didn’t want to ask too much of Alex—he had plenty of his own work to worry about—but I needed to know more about Christine’s burly boyfriend. Alex had tried searching in some photo database he subscribed to, but nothing
had come up.

  I still had a few contacts from my reporter days. The last I knew, Howard Pinzer was at The Hill. While Christine’s galoot didn’t appear to be in politics, reporters like Pinzer had tools to find almost anyone. I dialed the only number I had for him and was surprised when he answered. Then again, given the state of journalism, few reporters had the luxury of job-hopping.

  “Howard? It’s a blast from the past—Della Kincaid.”

  “Hey, Ghoulfriend, how’re you doing?”

  Just like that, I was back in. When I gave him a brief overview of what was going on, he suggested we have lunch. “I want to hear all about you and Jed Clampett.” Journalists think they’re so funny (and generally they are).

  We met on Wednesday at the Old Ebbitt Grill, Washington’s oldest bar and restaurant. A great place for people-watching, at least for us political junkies. Howard looked the same, only without as much hair. With his tie askew and dark circles under his eyes, he gave off a weary vibe.

  After we ordered, he said, “Tell me what it’s like to get away from it all.”

  “To tell you the truth, I haven’t gotten away from anything. I’m embroiled in something that landed me back in D.C.” I brought him up to date with a CliffNotes version of the Holt/Overton ordeal. When I showed him a photo of The Couple enjoying their steamy embrace, he whistled the way people do when remembering a kiss like that. Then I showed him the one that captured their faces.

  He removed his glasses and held the photocopy close to his eyes. “Can I have this?” he asked. He put his glasses back on and added, “He looks mobstery. I’ve got some connections I can show this to.”

  I paid for our lunch, and we left. Out on 15th Street, Howard gave me a kiss on the cheek and promised to get back by day’s end or the next day at the latest. True to his word, he called around nine o’clock that evening. Just what I’d figured. Roscoe Cohen, a major mobster in the construction business.