The Girl at the Border

by Leslie Archer

  “You sure you want to do that?” he asked, a skeptical tilt to his head, the front brim of his panama dipping low.

  “I’m sure.”

  “Two moves from now I’ll take your pawn with my knight.”

  “And I’ll take your knight with my knight.” She looked across the board at him. “It’s called a pawn sacrifice, right?”

  A slow, almost ecstatic smile spread across his face. “You’re a ringer, aren’t you?”

  She wrinkled her nose. “What’s a ringer?”

  “Someone who knows more than she lets on.” He held out a leathery hand, crossing the no-man’s-land between the ranks of black and white pieces. “My name’s Orfeo, piccola,” he said. “What’s yours?”

  SIX

  Night into day. The eastern horizon cracked the fiery sun open like a raw egg, spreading yolk-yellow rivulets across the water. Angela came awake instantly, her heart pounding, her throat filled with dread. Again and again and again. Imagining one of Dey’s people tracking her down, killing her, or worse, dragging her back to face what she had done when she had worked for him.

  She sat up, swinging her legs over the side of the bed, rubbed the sleep out of her eyes with the heels of her hands. Then she stood, stretched hugely, crossed to the tent flap, and stepped outside. She stared out across the raw Cretan morning toward Richard’s tent. She felt the pull of him, like a lodestone, drawing her toward him. Loneliness ate at her like a tapeworm.

  She wasn’t aware that she had moved until she found herself, blinking, at the edge of his tent. As if of its own will, her right arm lifted from her side, her hand pulled aside the flap, and she peered inside.

  Richard was crouched on the edge of his bed, hunched over, body tense as he peered at the glowing screen of his mobile, below which his thumbs were busy pressing keys as he texted someone. She didn’t mean to move, but as she did, her knee cracked, loud as a twig snapping in the forest, and his head sprang up, eyes staring. But it was the look of silent pain on his face that staggered her, sent her emotionally back on her heels.

  “I’m sorry, I—” She started to back away, stumbled over a stone, twisted, and fell. Another stone, sharp edged and vengeful, seemed to hurl itself at her, struck her temple as she hit the ground.

  Tossing the mobile onto the rumpled bed, Richard jumped up, ran to where she lay. She had already risen up on one elbow.

  “You’re hurt,” he said as he helped her to her feet.

  “No, I’m . . . really, I’m fine.”

  “You’re not fine; you’re bleeding.”

  She pressed fingertips into the hair at her temple as he led her into his tent. They came away red and sticky. He sat her down on the bed, went to get a first aid kit. Beside her, his mobile lit up.

  “You’ve got a text message coming in,” she said as he snapped open the lid, pulled out cotton balls, Betadine, and a fistful of different bandages.

  He crossed back to where she sat. “It can wait.”

  “It’s from . . .”

  He began to wipe away the oozing blood.

  “I couldn’t help noticing.” She winced as he applied the Betadine. “The text is from Bella.”

  Parting her hair, he peered at the wound. “You’ve got a little gash. The head always bleeds a lot. This comes first.”

  Angela frowned, not understanding his curt tone. “You must have been in the middle of texting her when I stumbled in.”

  “Without announcing yourself.” He continued to work on her lacerated scalp.

  “Sorry.” She winced again as he put pressure on the wound. “Stupid of me.”

  “It wasn’t stupidity,” he said firmly. “Fear drove you.”

  “Fear? What d’you mean?”

  “Keep quiet. You’ll ruin my work.” He hummed to himself. “You know precisely what I mean. Your heightened fear . . . damn it!” A new burst of blood, immediately damped down as he applied pressure. “It’s a well-known medical fact that cortisol levels in the brain are at their height from four to six in the morning. It’s why both armies and assassins favor that time. Fear, anxiety, even paranoia are at their peaks.”

  “Are you saying I’m paranoid?”

  “I’m in no position to judge. But I do know fear. I’ve smelled it many times in Sinai. Now sit still for another moment.” He managed to hold the bandage squarely over the wound until the bleeding stopped. “There. All finished.” He began to clean up. “Did you black out, for even a moment?”

  “I don’t think so, no.”

  “Headache?”

  “No, but it burns like hell.”

  “Nothing the laceration wouldn’t explain. Good. A concussion’s unlikely then.” He threw away the bloody cotton balls, returned the Betadine and the unused bandages to the kit. “We should keep an eye out, though, at least for the next couple of days.”

  “Okay, sure.”

  He sat down next to her. “Now. What are you afraid of, Angela?”

  His mobile lit up again.

  “Richard, I think Bella is trying to contact you.”

  “Avoiding the question won’t make it go away.”

  I could say the same for you, she thought. And now she wanted to know more about Bella: Who was she? Was she anything like Angela had been when she was Bella’s age and still Laurel? Was Richard a good father to her—what was their relationship like? She sensed trouble, but she didn’t yet know what kind or how bad it might be. “It’s not what I’m afraid of,” she said. “It’s who.”

  “Your ex-boss, I take it.”

  She was trying to decode him. He appeared to be genuinely concerned with her well-being. She found that she liked that. A lot. “Yup.”

  He lifted an eyebrow, making him look a bit impish. “His name wouldn’t be Jordan Catalano, would it?”

  She could see he was laughing, and she laughed too. “No, it isn’t.” Jordan was the name of Angela Chase’s sometime boyfriend in My So-Called Life, the popular TV series from the nineties.

  “I’m assuming you’re a big Claire Danes fan.” Claire Danes played Angela Chase.

  “Huge.”

  “Me too.” His eyebrow lifted again. “I suppose it’s verboten to ask your real name.”

  Laurel Springfield. A chill went through her. No, no, no.

  Recognizing the look on her face, he said, “Never mind. It doesn’t matter.” Smiling. “What’s in a name anyway?” He regarded her levelly. “What are you going to do about this man who isn’t Jordan Catalano?”

  “I’m here.” She stared down at her hands in her lap. “I’ve been running for four years.”

  “You can’t stay an exile forever.”

  She nodded. “I know.”

  “No, I don’t think you fully understand.”

  Her eyes rose to meet his, and she recognized a friend. She was only able to do this by trusting herself again, by letting go of the wariness that had dogged her, the dreadful legacy of her involvement with Dey. For the first time it dawned on her that this was another gift Richard had given her: to be able to recognize a friend.

  “Exile is the twin of death. Exile is a living death.” A small silence before he said, “I’ll help you.”

  “What? How?”

  That conspiratorial smile he’d shared with her their first day together. “I know people.”

  Richard’s mobile lit up again. It was right beside her, and she saw a photo of a young girl, Bella; she could see something of him in her, especially around the eyes. But Bella’s expression was so familiar—withdrawn, intelligent, isolated—that for a disorienting second Angela thought she was looking at a photo of herself a decade ago.

  Scooping up the mobile, she held it out.

  He looked from her to the mobile, ran a hand distractedly through his hair. “I always seem to make a mess of it with her. She’s so distant after my being gone so much. I know she must resent me, which is why, I guess, I’ve never been able to reach her. She’s like an alien creature who speaks a mysterious language of
monosyllables and silence.”

  All at once, he had transformed into a different man, bewildered, unsure of himself, and she knew this was what was on his mind during his long silences at dinner. He was suddenly smaller than his surroundings, his golden glow shrunken, his charisma dimmed and flickering. It was shocking; she felt herself staggered and then closer to him than ever. She could not help thinking of how often she’d had difficulty talking to her own father. What kind of barrier had been raised between them? She had never been able to find out.

  At that moment, Richard rose. He stared at the phone as if it had come alive. “Why don’t you give it a try.”

  “What? I don’t even know Bella.”

  “Pretend you’re me. That will give you sufficient latitude to say whatever you please.”

  Was that a touch of bitterness in his voice to go with his crooked smile? “Richard—”

  “You owe me. No, that’s unfair.”

  “Yes, it is.” She thrust the mobile at him, but she didn’t really want him to take it. This was a way to help him. This was trust. Without trust there could be no joy.

  His brow crinkled, and that silent pain returned, flickering across his face like heat lightning. This time it lasted under her gaze. He seemed vulnerable. “You’re only nine years older than she is. Fix this. Please.” He crossed to the tent flap, stepped outside.

  Angela scrolled back to the beginning of the conversation.

  Maggie’s a hot mess, she read, noting the name, not Mom.

  And Richard’s reply: What else is new.

  This time it’s diff, Bella had written. She’s going under.

  Richard: She’s never cared abt you. Why do you care abt her?

  Bella: lol just relaying news.

  Nothing from Richard, interrupted as he’d been by Angela. Then the second unanswered text from Bella: OK maybe not news 2 u. And this last: guess ur gone again. What else is new.

  Angela glanced up from the screen. “Jesus, Richard,” she whispered.

  Shaking her head, she returned her attention to the screen, began typing with her thumbs. How bad is she?

  just told u, Bella fired back.

  Sorry, we’ve come upon a potentially huge find here. I’ve been distracted.

  Yr ALWAYS distracted

  I’m all yours now.

  Wow!

  I mean it.

  ROFL

  C’mon, Bella.

  C’mon yrself.

  It’s v early here, no one’s around.

  We have time. Talk to me.

  Silence.

  Bella, tell me how you’re doing.

  Silence.

  OK, now yr frightening me.

  Silence. And then: How does it feel?

  And that was it. Bella refused all of Angela’s efforts—masquerading as her father—to get her to respond further. But she had learned some crucial information concerning the difficulties between father and daughter. Someone not as attuned might have assumed that Bella was simply acting out an angry-teenager phase to a father who clearly was never home enough for her. But to Angela, whose own father hadn’t been there enough for her when she needed him most, another thread had revealed itself. Richard had been right about her own fear, and now she could sense the same feeling in Bella. His daughter was afraid of something.

  Stepping out of the tent, she found Richard staring at the eastern horizon, colors changing every moment. Seabirds rose and fell, crying, as they searched for breakfast. Far out, the silhouette of a fishing boat was visible, black against the pinkish sky.

  “How did it go,” he said.

  “How do you think it went.”

  “Uh-huh.” He sighed. “Anyway, it had to have been better than if I had continued.”

  “Remember what I said about females in a room full of men never being heard? The same can hold true for one man.” When he said nothing, she tried to give him back his mobile. He didn’t want it.

  “I want you to keep trying, Angela. For Bella and me it might already be too late.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  He turned to her, eyes dark and gleaming. “Oh, but I do know. All too well.”

  This was a side of him he hadn’t revealed before. A private side. The carefully lacquered shell had cracked. He was no longer the star, the belle of the archaeological ball, so to speak. His facade was gone, and in its place was a man who had failed at being a father, a man who loved his daughter but had no idea how to show that love. The simple fact was that he trusted her to see him like this, to know that she wouldn’t make fun of him, wouldn’t be contemptuous and turn against him. She was astonished by his trust, bowled over by it, and inevitably began to wonder whether she deserved his trust. His cracking open was huge, monumental for what it portended for them both. What could she do to be deserving? She could listen to what he said, to hear what was going on beneath: I need help. Will you help me?

  And the fact was she wanted to try. No one had tried to get through to Laurel—to her—or if they had, they had eventually betrayed her. Who would she be if there’d been someone who’d tried harder? She wanted to do this for Richard, for Bella. For herself.

  SEVEN

  It took Maggie over four months to find a nanny she could abide. Weeks on end neighborhood girls came and went, dismissed almost as soon as they sat down across from her at the kitchen table. Too much makeup, too inarticulate, too giggly, too stupid, too eager, too young, too venal, too dark, too light. The list of flaws was endless. All under her half-crazed eye deemed untrustworthy to be in her house, to take care of the baby who had invaded her life.

  The Baby. That was how she thought of Bella in those days. It was easier, somehow. It lightened her burden, as if the Baby were some other person’s child, a temporary glitch, a bump in the road. But then, each morning as she passed the full-length mirror, she realized that the Baby in the next room must be hers—because look what it had done to her.

  Then Elin was sitting across the kitchen table from her. Elin, whom she recognized from the neighborhood, whose family lived two streets away. They were Muslim, sound citizens, kind, but to her, at least, enigmatic people. She had been brought up with the Bible, with Christ, with bedtime prayers, within the Episcopalian world. What was the meaning of the Qur’an, the hajj, halal meat, their aversion to alcohol? The collision of their world with hers confused her, made the chaos of the world more palpable, like a heart beating with a strange rhythm. Maggie had met Elin’s parents, Lely and Hashim Shehadi, at a block party she had forced herself to go to the previous year. She liked them. They weren’t friends, exactly, but still . . .

  Elin was neither slim nor particularly heavy. But then who could tell under her modest dress? She had large dark liquid eyes, a wide forehead, and a decidedly Semitic nose, which did not bother Maggie in the least. Neither was her hijab a problem. It framed her olive face, might have hidden any otherwise exposed defects, like acne or moles. After twenty minutes of increasingly intense conversation, Maggie was convinced she had found the right person. Though Elin was young, she possessed a seriousness and an air of responsibility beyond her eleven years. Nothing seemed to faze her; her calm demeanor soothed Maggie’s frazzled nerves. And Maggie’s instincts proved correct. Bella took to Elin and Elin to her from the first moment they clapped eyes on each another. If Maggie had been a different sort of person, she might have felt a pang of jealousy. As it was, she felt nothing at all. Well, maybe relief, but that was short-lived. It wasn’t long before Elin became a fixture in the household. She arrived promptly thirty minutes after school let out and stayed until after dinner. Eventually, at Maggie’s request, she began staying later and later, until after the baby was asleep, subbing for Maggie for the first night feeding. Formula. Breast milk was out of the question. By that time, Maggie was already researching the ways to make her breasts perkier, not make them sag all the more.

  There came a time when Elin’s parents allowed her to stay over one or two nights a week, and Maggie w
as glad of it. For some reason she couldn’t pinpoint, the house was creepy when Richard was away. Such was her mania, her guilt.

  Elin proved to be the ideal companion: obedient, quiet, never getting underfoot, always, always respectful. Good upbringing, Maggie thought. And automatically thought even better of her mother and father. Elin was also instantly responsive on those rare occasions when Maggie was moved, either by extreme loneliness or by despair, to talk. Dimly, as she and Elin spoke, she realized how lost she was. Elin understood loneliness. She was the only female child in a family of four brothers, all apples of her father’s eye. To him, she said, she was of another species, lower, less interesting, less important. Maggie understood completely. Often, after these talks, she would sit on the side of her bed, staring blindly at the blue-and-white vinyl wallpaper, silent as a ghost. Defeated. Defeated because she could never tell Elin the source of her despair, her inexplicable rage, her homicidal feelings. Indeed, when they arose like specters in the middle of the night, so real, so wrenching, they forced her out of bed and whipped her into the bathroom, where, on her knees, she vomited up everything in her stomach.

  A week after Richard left again, when Elin had been with her for five years, she looked at herself in her bedroom’s full-length mirror for the last time. When she smashed the mirror, everything changed. She had come to the end of her stay in the real world. It was as if the universe, having rejected her, had released her from its dreadful grip. A perfect egg-shaped shell that only she could see had formed around her, a shell that obliterated both past and future, that kept her in the eternal velvet now conjured up by Vicodin, oxycodone, and fentanyl. In this state of nothingness, detached from the gravity-bound body that was no longer hers, she floated in a sea of self-abnegation. She was nothing: from nothing she was born; to nothing she would go. In this state she did not have to remember the terror of having acquiesced to her husband, the horror of giving birth, the great serpent of animus that slithered within her belly, devouring everything in its path. In this state when she looked at her daughter, she saw nothing.