“He wanted to tell me all these theories about who did this …”
“Where did he call from?”
“From his office, I assume,” Blaine said. “Why?”
“Bryant left home four days ago. I’m leaving tomorrow by car to meet him in Los Angeles. He’s at a conference. I haven’t been able to reach him to talk about Stella Cappadora. I must have called him ten times.”
“He said he was tidying things up in the office. But he might have meant finishing business there.”
“Darling,” Claire said. “Of course, you’re right. I’ll call you on my mobile, from the car. Is that okay? The doorbell just rang. I think Laura from next door is here to get the key to bring in our mail.”
“I love you, Mommy,” Blaine said.
“I love you, B,” said Claire and hung up.
Claire sat down on the hard Quaker bench near the door. Her chest thudded as though she had fallen and had the wind knocked out of her.
No one was ringing the doorbell at all.
That evening after work, Eileen Cafferty asked Al, “Do you think they did just get too lucky and somebody wanted to punish them?”
Al nearly shouted but lowered his voice because the baby was asleep. “Eileen! The Cappadoras? How can you say anything about this is lucky!”
“They got their boy back and the boy grew up and the people who had him didn’t rape him or torture him and his brother won an Oscar. Look on TV. They run this over and over.” There was a brief moment of news footage of the Cappadora family on their feet, cheering and crying, at the Oscar ceremony. “They thought they’d be happy forever.”
“You sound like you don’t like that,” said Al.
“Vincent’s even profiting off that poor baby. Oprah went out there to California. Vincent’s everywhere you look. He couldn’t have arranged it better if he tried …”
“Eileen, listen,” Al said. “I love you and I loved Alana as much as you did. In fact, maybe I loved her more because you saw yourself in the little star she was going to be. I’ve never said a cross word to you. But I don’t like this. Would you let their little baby die or stay lost forever if we could have Alana back?”
“Yes, of course,” Eileen said. “Wouldn’t you?”
“God forgive you, Eileen,” Al said. “This is foolish talk.”
She began to sob then, and so did the baby, Alyssa, a sound like bleating, as though Eileen and their daughter were little lamed animals. “Al, I’m sorry. I don’t mean any of that. I have no idea why I said such a thing. Please forgive me.”
“Eileen, I know. I know. But think of Beth. Think of what she’s going through. Twice in a lifetime.”
That night, Al rocked Alyssa, while Eileen slept. As the hour grew late, he dialed the number on the card he found pinned to the corkboard. It went directly to a chirrupy British voice that said, “Congratulations! You’ve reached the offices of Pieces by Reese, Film and Video Productions. You might think we have your phone number. But really, we don’t keep anybody’s. So repeat it a couple of times, do.”
“I’m so sorry, Ben and Eliza, Beth and Pat,” he said. “This is Al, Al Cafferty, And Alana and I …” Oh, God, Al thought and nearly put down the telephone. “Eileen and I want you to know we’ll do anything. Anything. Anything in the world to help.”
At that moment, Vincent was speaking to Walter Hutcheson’s sister, Amy.
She said, “All those towns in Mexico sound the same to me. Flora del Rita. Rita del Flora. I’m just really happy for Walter and Sari. Happened all at once, suddenly, a baby in Mexico. They thought they would have to wait forever because they’re over forty. The residence requirement is only ten days but they said they’d be gone probably three weeks. You know how it is in Mexico … Mañana, mañana. I’ll tell them you called, though,” said Amy. “I’m here taking care of Jerry Garcia and her kittens. Jerry they named her, right? And she has five kittens a month later.”
“Tell them I’m really happy,” Vincent said. “Do they have their cell phone with them?”
“They don’t believe in cell phones. Gave that one Republican guy cancer.”
“Oh. Yeah. Okay.” Vincent turned to his father, who was awkwardly stretched out on the bed, looking about as uptight in the tracksuit Candy had bought for him as most people looked in a tux. “The Hutchesons are in Mexico. Adopting a baby. Pop, it’s Mexico. They might never come back.”
“Vincent, that’s way too easy,” Pat said.
Detective Humbly said, “We’ll check it out but I have a feeling your dad might be right. These were the people who weren’t happy about the movie but weren’t hostile, right?” Vincent nodded. “And they haven’t been in touch? I know a woman who monitors that stuff in Mexico. A good cop. And for every person I know there, Mr. Joel Berriman, FBI, will know ten.”
Vincent lay down on the bed beside Pat. He said he would not sleep but didn’t even finish the sentence before he was snoring.
Humbly called two hours later. The Hutchesons were not in Mexico, but in San Antonio, staying with the Rogelios until the interstate compact would allow them to bring home their five-day-old daughter, Annalee. She was the birth child of a twenty-year-old Mexican-American girl, a married student at the University of the Incarnate Word and the mother of a two-year-old. Her husband had just lost the use of his legs in the war. The Rogelios, with their new baby born right after the premiere—their third since losing Luis—were overjoyed about their new baby. They sent their love and concern to the Cappadoras. The Hutchesons apologized for not calling.
Pat considered waking Vincent. He knew that he should go look for Beth instead, but Sister Bartholomew used to tell them to let each day’s evil be sufficient unto that day. Pat found a thick blanket on a shelf and lay down next to his son. Morning would come soon enough.
CHAPTER TEN
Later that night, when she and Pat and Kerry arrived at Vincent’s house, filling it to more than capacity, Beth tried to make herself useful. She experimented, with the limited repertoire of cooking skills of a restaurateur’s wife, to make an omelet that no one ate although it looked pretty good. She wiped the counters and put in the obligatory loads of laundry before realizing she was washing clothes that had never had the sales tags removed. She read a stack of Varietys, although Vincent’s subscription evidently had stopped in 2007.
Finally, her limbs heavy as water balloons, she sat on the mattress where Pat slept. She lay down next to Pat, who had cocooned himself in a thick blanket, covered herself with two beach towels, pulled Pat’s arm across her, and fell into a gray and intermittent sleep.
In the little box of a living room and kitchen, Vincent turned on the TV, finally finding a station that featured nothing about him or his family. It was a Marx Brothers movie. The hour grew late. Finally, without really meaning to, Vincent picked up and dialed the number on the card he’d had in a pocket of one of his blue-jean jackets for so long it was barely legible. The phone rang once.
“Tom?” Vincent said.
“Yes.”
“This is Vincent Cappa—”
“Vincent! I wanted to call you but I didn’t know if that would be an intrusion. And I don’t have a home number for you,” said Vincent’s therapist. It was ironic that Vincent, a resident of California, had had his only counseling experience as an adolescent Chicagoan.
“I don’t have a home number, Tom. This is my business number and that’s it. I wanted to call you but I didn’t want you to think I would only call you if I was in trouble.”
“I know you’d have called eventually, either way, about stuff.”
Vincent said, “I’m in the worst trouble.”
“I know, Vincent.” There was a settling sound, a rustle and a soft, brief puppy whimper as Tom obviously got out of bed. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“Who’s that?”
“It’s my daughter. We let her sleep in the bed. Horrible father. Love her too much, I guess. We waited too long and now she’s going to
be this spoiled …”
“How old is she?”
“She is six months old, Vincent.”
“Oh, shit,” said Vincent, and the tears began to slip down his face and into his mouth. “Oh, shit.”
“Yeah,” said Tom. “Now, let’s see. What time is it where you are, Vincent?”
“It’s like … oh Jesus, Tom, it’s one in the morning. That would make it like four in the morning where you are? Is Michigan in Central?”
“Eastern. But I get up early,” Tom said.
“I’m sorry. But if I wanted to crack up a car before, when I lost Ben? This time, I’m not a kid who didn’t know better. I did this. I did this and I cost my brother his kid and I’m fucked. My life is fucked. Which I don’t care about. Their life is fucked. And they’re innocent.”
“So that would make you guilty.”
“No. Yes.”
Tom said, “No.” He asked then, “Why did you make this movie, Vincent?”
“I don’t know!”
“Did you do it for world peace?”
“No.”
“Did you do it because you were sorry for what happened to Ben and wanted to make it better for someone else?”
“I guess. And it turned out worse.”
Tom said, “Yeah, and that’s bad. Life owes you an apology. But you’re not going to get one. It doesn’t work that way.” Tom’s voice softened. “And hey, guess what. You don’t get to blame yourself for this one, either.”
Vincent carried the phone out onto the porch, where the extravagantly benign California night bathed his face, as if to say, nothing matters … nothing but you, remember that … nothing but you. He said, “I wish you hadn’t moved to goddamned Michigan.”
Tom said, “It’s not bad, here in goddamned Michigan. I knew my wife in high school, although she wouldn’t look at me then. She’s lowered her standards over twenty years. We live on a lake. Do you live near the ocean?”
“A block. I live in Venice. The crummy artist part, not the minor-movie-star part. You can hear the waves. They call it ‘ocean sounds’ in real-estate ads. I swear to God.” He added, “I can’t live with myself. No one in my family can.”
“I think they can. Better than you know. Take it easy, Vincent.”
“They’ll hate me forever. They’ll think I did this for me.”
“Having a personal reason for doing something well doesn’t negate the purer reasons, Vincent. Just think of Olympic athletes. They say they did this for their mom who loved to skate but she got macular degeneration …”
“What?”
“She went blind.”
“Oh.”
“And the thing that happened. It’s not cause and effect. It’s not ad hoc ergo propter hoc. It wasn’t like you made a movie, therefore your niece …”
“Look, I’m not entirely illiterate, but I don’t know what the hell that means either.”
“It’s a legal term. It means ‘from which, therefore because of which.’ Remember I went to law school for a year. You’re not alone, are you?”
“No, my mom and dad are here.”
“Good. Take care,” Tom said. “I gotta run. My daughter’s an early riser too.” He added after a moment, “Vincent, try to do this. Just keep one thing in the front of your mind, okay? When Ben was kidnapped, you were a child, which presumes you were innocent. And now, you’re an adult. But that doesn’t make you automatically responsible for the actions of every nut on earth who sees your work. I watched your face on TV that night. You were glowing like the guy who discovered religion. And it wasn’t that you had a big head about what an artist you were. It was about Kerry and Ben and you having done this thing together. And about those children in the film.”
“And now,” Vincent said.
“And now, you do your best. Ben will need you. Count on it.”
“Tom, who would do this thing?”
“I think, someone who had needs, like the woman who kidnapped your brother. I think they should be checking hospitals for people in the area who recently lost babies. Stillbirths. Or crib death or meningitis. Young children.”
“That’s what my mother thinks. And they are. They have been.”
“And also people who have been somehow complicit in the loss of their children. Accidents.”
“Someone would steal another person’s baby because their baby got killed in a car accident?” Vincent asked. “You say I’m crazy …”
“People often feel guilty about things that aren’t their fault.”
“Tom.”
“Be good, my man.”
Don’t hang up, Vincent wanted to scream. The pulse just above his sternum began to beat and he tried to breathe out slowly before he spoke. Don’t leave me! Finally, he said, “I’ll give you a call again. Soon.”
Vincent crossed his arms and watched the first of the insane California joggers set out on their endless runs to nowhere.
When his phone rang, at five a.m., he nearly fell out of the deck chair. It was Candy, telling him to brace himself for what she had to say. She told him, “There’s a letter, Vincent.”
“To us?”
“From the kidnapper. Sent to The New York Times.”
“Is it real?”
“Either it’s real or I’ll turn in my shield,” Candy said. “Wake your mom and dad up. Turn on the TV.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The letter read:
The minor child Stella Bliss Cappadora is unharmed and well. She is being cared for gently. As proof that she indeed is the child in question, we point out that she has a pale brown birthmark on the back of her neck, roughly the shape of the State of Florida. She will be restored to her parents very soon at a place soon to be evident—a designated “safe place” such as a hospital emergency room. This deliverance will occur within hours.
The taking of Stella Cappadora is to be considered a demonstration. It intends to point out the fact that, while the world gazed fatuously on the acclaim given to a film exploiting the feelings of five families of abducted children, a child from the filmmaker’s own family was abducted without violence.
“Caring” is not enough. It changes nothing. It advances no knowledge of causes or solutions—merely provides those who vicariously experience grief the phenomenon known by some as “contact compassion,” which allows them the sense of having done good merely by understanding the “issue.” It is no more than satisfying the voyeurism of the masses who feed on pain.
This demonstration, however painful, was a direct result of the acclaim accorded to what was essentially a dishonest bid for attention. Ad hoc ergo propter hoc, in essence. It redirects the focus, in a way that could not be achieved without a certain level of sensationalism.
Any temporary distress caused to the Cappadoras is unintentional.
Along with the letter was a package containing Stella’s little satin shoes—embroidered with stars on the toes and her name on the heels by Candy’s sister, the baby’s great-aunt. It was mailed from Vancouver by priority mail and the security footage in the post office seemed to show a pleasant-faced woman, dressed like a grandmother in her fifties or sixties, wearing an oversized wool hat, smiling at the postal worker. She signed the register “Patricia Fellows” and gave her address as 1060 West Addison Street in Chicago—which was Wrigley Field. There were no fingerprints. The woman, said a Vancouver police officer, could have been anyone. In any books in Canada, or any computer files, there was no trace of her under any name. And, they added, after analyzing the tape, despite her cloth coat and old-fashioned orthopedic shoes, the woman actually walked like someone in her twenties.
Although the false name of the murdered child in Chicago was used again, that proved nothing to Detective Humbly except that Candy might be right: This was personal.
The letter itself was strange. Although it was obviously written by someone with a brain—which was some comfort—it was convoluted and drew no real conclusions, which was no comfort at all. Smart people could s
nap their caps as easy as vagrants.
——
“The letter is goofy,” Candy said, as Humbly drove her, Ben, and Eliza to a little guesthouse in Venice, near where Beth and Pat were staying with Vincent. Beth and Pat had come back to help, offering the trunk of their rental, which Ben had used to stow a couple of garment bags, without saying a word.
Rosie and Angelo had gone home that morning.
“Bethie, my daughter,” Angelo said. “I am an old man but I never wanted to be old enough to see this. We thought life might be kind now.” For the first time, Beth saw her vital, mischievous in-laws as truly old, even frail. They leaned on Pat as he escorted them to the car that Charley Seven had summoned by phone call. There was nothing she could say to comfort them, nothing to soften the splinter wedged hard into the contentment of their age. Angelo was right. They had seen too much, all of them. More than was possible to comprehend or intellectualize.
The only one who chose to stay at the Paloma was George, whose wife and six-year-old son had flown out to join him.
“Pat,” George said as the Cappadoras left. “You’ll let me know….”
“Of course, everything, George,” Pat said. “No hard feelings. I know that what Ben said didn’t have anything to do with you.”
Ben said nothing. He said nothing on the ride, although because of the dimensions of the squad car, he had to ride in the backseat of his father’s rental car.
The management of the Paloma had offered to put the Cappadoras up … forever if need be; but no one wanted to stay anymore.
At the end, that morning just before they left, Candy and Beth were lost in skeins of memory as they watched the command center in the hotel dismantled, as the command center in the Tremont Hotel lobby in Chicago had been dismantled after the first few days following Ben’s kidnapping—when it became apparent that they were in for a long haul rather than a short and ugly solution.
Hauling Eliza’s things, along with Ben’s few things, into the guest house gave Pat and Candy something to do.
Alone with Vincent, who was inert, Beth was frantic. Hope seemed close at one hand. Destruction seemed to have the other hand pinned. She decided to arrange her son’s home—since rearranging it would have been a misnomer. Vincent had basically moved some elements of furniture into his cinder-block space, which was maybe twenty by twenty feet divided into two cubes, and shoved everything against the wall. The living room was basically a futon and a huge table—the table holding a laptop surrounded by at least ten stacks of paper three inches thick and a corkboard covered with thicknesses of slides and still photos. In the kitchen portion of the “big” room, a sink and stovetop stood like bookends on either side of the refrigerator. A piece of Formicaed planking jutted out into the room. Beth supposed this was counter space.
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