“Sorry.”
She looks me up and down before she speaks. “What are you doing here?”
“I came to say I’m sorry.”
“Well congratulations. You’ve said it three times now.”
“I mean about being a no-show yesterday. I lost track of time. I apologize.”
She nods slowly. “You’re pretty good at this apologizing stuff. I bet you get a lot of practice.”
I have to bite my lip not to say “I’m sorry” again. Instead, I hold out my arm. Karleen’s brows rise as she looks at the contents of the bag I’m tick-tocking in front of her face.
She plucks the baggie from my fingertips. “Luckily I’m good at forgiving.”
She unlocks the nearest classroom, then leads me past the tiny tables and chairs to the bank of windows, one of which she cranks open. She sparks up the joint, takes a hit, and then holds it out to me. I hesitate long enough that she puts it back to her mouth.
“I smoked pot when I was pregnant, and my son turned out just fine.”
“Why do you keep talking about pregnancy?” I hold out my hand and she passes the joint to me. I take a small pull, just a little to test my gag reflex. I shudder but stop short of retching. I hand it back and shake my head.
She smiles and points at the manila envelope in my hand. “What’s that?”
I open it and pass her the first photo. “This is a picture my mom took, and I was wondering about it.”
“It’s Trip’s Malibu.”
“Was it red?”
She nods and hands the picture back. “Is that it?”
I draw out the next photograph and pass it over.
She takes a glance and then quickly lowers it, laughing. “Oh my dear sweet Jesus!” She takes a longer look, trombones it a little, and then lowers it to her side again, still laughing. “Where on earth did you find that?”
“You found it. It was on one of the negatives hidden in the box springs. Is that Trip?”
“In the flesh,” she replies.
Our laughter echoes in the empty room. She relights the joint and takes another drag. “That must have been on one of their camping trips,” she explains.
“My mother liked to camp?” I’m trying to align that reality to the woman I remember freaking out if she saw a spider.
“No, but your grandmother wouldn’t let her date Trip, remember? They had to get creative. They’d go spend the night out at Cypress Point.”
She takes one more look at the photo, still chuckling, then hands it back. “Got any more?”
I hand her the picture of my mother.
Karleen’s grin softens to a tender smile. “That’s how I still think of her. She was almost always smiling. Did she stay that way?”
I take Karleen’s memory of my mother and compare it with mine.
I shake my head. “Sorry.”
Karleen frowns and hands back the photo. “Well, at least she got out of here.”
“What makes you think where she ended up was any better?”
“Do you know how often my kids had to see me with one of these?” Karleen is pointing at her swollen, purple eye.
“I don’t know. Maybe about as often as I had to clean up my mother after she’d gotten pass-out drunk and peed all over herself.”
The second the words are out of my mouth, I wish I could have them back. The expression of tenderness and pity on Karleen’s face is unbearable.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “I didn’t—”
“Don’t. Please,” I tell her. I’m dangerously close to tears. “I just want you to know that you can stop feeling jealous of my mother’s life. There were no glass slippers for her, or for me. No magic fairy dust. No happily ever after.”
She nods and gives me a minute, turning her attention to the joint in her hands, taking her time to pinch it out and test the end until it’s cool enough to slip in her pocket. When she finally looks up at me again, all she says is, “I need to get back to work.”
“What was it you started to tell me Wednesday night?” I ask.
She turns away. In profile Karleen looks older, tired. It’s easy to see where her cheeks and neck are losing their fight with gravity. I try to remember if my mother’s face was softening in a similar way, but I can’t.
“You said you knew my mother wasn’t pregnant,” I remind her. “How did you know?”
She brushes at a few flakes of ash clinging to her shirt. She’s still not looking at me. “Did you sleep with Father Barnes?”
“No.”
Now she turns to face me, her expression asking if I’m telling the truth.
“I didn’t,” I say. “I could have. I was going to. But I didn’t.”
“Why?”
I think about my hand on his leg, the warmth of his lips on mine, how easy it would have been to bulldoze into that man’s life. She’s asking a good question, one I’ve asked myself. I wish I knew the answer.
I shrug. “I just lost a taste for it.”
Karleen nods slowly, as if I’d actually told her something meaningful. Then she says, “I know your mother wasn’t pregnant because she got an abortion the day she left.”
Her revelation catches me off guard. Before I can think of how to respond, she continues.
“Your mother and I were on the outs that summer because of Trip, but the two of us had been best friends since third grade. When she called and asked for my help, I was still mad at her, but we had a history. I couldn’t refuse.” Karleen cranks open another window. The breeze catches a stack of papers at a nearby table. I grab them before they hit the floor and tuck them under a nearby box of crayons.
“When she called she didn’t give me any idea what she needed. It wasn’t until I picked her up that she told me where we were going. I was surprised—no, surprised is too mild a word—I was shocked. We knew girls who’d gotten their problems solved at the same clinic, and your mother had always been very vocal in her disapproval. Hell, who could blame her? Tilda wasn’t married when she had Genie, so the idea of choosing an abortion over being a single parent hit a little too close to home for your mom. And yet there we were, on our way to the clinic.”
I feel a little sick to my stomach. I wonder if it’s the same clinic Dr. McDonald would send me to.
“Did she tell you why?”
Karleen shakes her head. “She wouldn’t say a word, not one single word all the way to Tulsa. She wouldn’t even look at me.”
Karleen goes on, describing the drive, the clinic, sitting in the waiting room while my mother had the procedure. “When it was over, I helped her to the car, and then we drove to a pharmacy about a block away. She waited in the car while I went in to get her pain pills. When I came back out, she was gone.”
“Gone? Where would she go? Why would she do that?”
Karleen doesn’t want to answer the question. She looks around the classroom, out the window, at her hands. “I said some things . . . things I wish I hadn’t.”
She glances at me and I nod. I know what that feels like.
“I was angry that she wouldn’t talk, angry about Trip, angry about what she’d just done. So I gave her a piece of my mind. Several pieces. And then I said I was going to tell her mother about the abortion.” At this, Karleen focuses her attention back on me. “And do you know what your mother did then?”
I shake my head.
“She laughed.”
Karleen watches my face for a reaction and she gets one, but I’m not sure what. Confusion? Surprise? Whatever it is, it keeps her talking.
“She acted like I’d just told her the funniest joke in the world. I didn’t know what to say, so I just left her there and went inside to get her prescription filled. When I came back out, she was gone. She’d left a note on her seat saying she’d gotten a ride with a friend. I was a little surprised, but mostly relieved, if you want to know the truth. It would have been an awkward ride back to town. Honestly, I didn’t think too much of it at the time; people around here are al
ways going to Tulsa for one reason or another. It seemed entirely possible that one of our friends had noticed her waiting and given her a lift home. I mean, where else would she go?”
Karleen sighs and shakes her head. “When I got back to town that day, I should have stopped by her house to drop off her medicine, but I didn’t. I went home. I wanted her to start hurting and have to call me and beg me to bring her the pills. She never called and I didn’t call her. It wasn’t until a week later, when Trip came to see me, that I found out Genie was gone.”
Karleen straightens and closes the windows, not realizing—or not caring—that it still reeks in here. I suspect there are going to be some awkward questions come Sunday morning. Once we’re back out in the hallway, she relocks the classroom door, and then turns to me.
“Your dogs show up yet?”
“No. Your husband?”
She shakes her head. “He’ll turn up pretty soon.”
“Might be a good time to change the locks.”
She takes the oversize metal dustpan from the cart and clanks it to the floor. “You know, every once in a while your mother would send me a postcard.” Karleen bends over, holding the dustpan with one hand, her broom with the other. “Not in a long time, though. Probably twenty years since I got one.” She stands and dumps the pan. “I wish I’d written back.”
“Do you still have them?”
She shakes her head. “Sorry.” Gesturing at the picture in my hand—the one of my mom—Karleen says, “Do you suppose I could have that?”
“Sure.” I pass her the photo, remembering something I’d been meaning to ask. “Did my mom bleach her hair?”
The question surprises Karleen. “Yeah. Did she stop?”
I nod.
“She always wore her hair blond.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. It was the seventies, straight blond hair was the rage. I don’t even know what her real color was, but I do remember that Tilda was fine with her bleaching it—practically insisted that she keep it blond. Hell, my mom wouldn’t even let me pierce my ears.”
Karleen carefully tucks the photograph into a side pocket of the cart.
“Did you ever tell my grandmother about the abortion?” I ask.
“No.”
“Did you tell Trip?”
She doesn’t answer that question, but she doesn’t have to. Her regret is palpable. She fiddles with her broom instead, picking some cobwebby dust from the bristles.
“You know,” she says, “I read a quote once that really stuck with me. It said, ‘We are all more than the worst thing we’ve done.’”
“That’s a good one.”
She gives me a wry look. “Do you think it’s true?”
I weigh my choices—answering honestly versus telling her a comforting lie. Or maybe that’s not what I’m weighing. Maybe it’s my worst fear against my only hope.
“I don’t know,” I say and it’s true enough.
She surprises me with a quick hug, her sturdy arms strong on my back. “You’d better get to work,” she says, but she doesn’t let go right away.
When I turn and walk back down the hall, I can feel her watching my retreat. I’m not surprised when her voice echoes behind me.
“It was red,” she says.
I turn. “What?”
“Genie’s hair. Her natural color was red. I just remembered.”
I nod.
“When you find out what made her do what she did, will you let me know?”
Her voice is even, but her eyes are just a little too shiny. I can’t decide if she’s about to cry or if it’s just from the weed.
“What if there wasn’t a good reason?” I say.
“What if there was?” she replies.
CHAPTER 44
As far as I can tell it’s always windy here, but today it’s blowing like crazy. One tug at the big brass handle, and the wind grabs the door out of my hand and slams it open, the loud boom reverberating through the library. The occupants of the computer area, our usual little island of misfit toys, turn their heads in unison to stare in my direction. Sheets of paper on the circulation desk come to life, with Fritter, stationed behind the desk, struggling to hold everything down until I get the door closed.
I walk to the desk. “Sorry I’m late.”
“Again,” Fritter replies, glaring at me, as usual. We’re like an old married couple now. I notice that she’s got a couple of spooky hairs growing out of a mole on her chin that I briefly—very briefly—consider pointing out.
“Remember, I will be gone this afternoon,” she tells me, “so you and Tawny need to prepare the chairs—”
“You’re going to a nursing home, right?”
She frowns, irritated by the interruption. “That is correct.”
“Visiting your brother?”
Tawny had mentioned Fritter’s brother in the nursing home, but it’s only now that it occurs to me that he might know as much about my mother as Fritter does.
“I read to a group of the residents, but yes my brother Jonah lives there, so I also visit him.”
I stand there as Fritter keeps talking about setting up chairs for the children’s story time, but I’m not listening. I’m torn. I’m pretty sure that there’s no point in trying to finagle my way into meeting that old man, but at the same time now that I know he’s around, I feel like I need to talk to him. He is an itchy scab, and Tawny is right. I’m a picker.
“Are you listening?” Fritter asks.
With effort I pull my focus back to the crabby old woman standing in front of me. “Not really.”
She makes an exasperated face and sighs. “I was trying to explain that you must move the small tables to—”
“Can I come with you?” I blurt out, surprising both of us.
“What?”
“To the nursing home. Can I come? I’ll help. I could read, or I could—”
“Don’t be ridiculous. You will stay here and help Tawny—”
“Oh come on, Tawny doesn’t need my help.” I can’t honestly even say why I want to go, but now that I’ve started I can’t resist continuing to push. “And it will give us a chance to get to know each other.”
“Well, I’m not—”
“You did say I should associate with a higher class of people.”
While Fritter and I have been speaking, an elderly woman has approached the desk.
“Good morning,” the lady chirps, setting a book on the counter.
Fritter smiles and returns the greeting.
I pick up the book. “This looks great,” I say. “Maybe we should read this one at the nursing home this afternoon.”
I see Fritter stiffen. Sensing that I have the advantage, I continue. “Miss Jackson is taking me with her this afternoon to read at the nursing home. She wants to show me how important it is to give back to the community.”
The woman beams at us. “Why isn’t that nice. Fritter, I’m so glad you’re passing along your passion for service.”
“When you come back next week,” I tell the woman, “I’ll let you know how it went.”
“That would be lovely,” she replies.
Fritter pointedly does not look in my direction while entering information into the computer. She and the lady exchange a few words of small talk. When the woman walks off, Fritter turns to me, frowning. “I don’t know what you’re up to, but there’s no way that I’m taking you with me.”
“Well then, maybe I’ll just cut out a little early this afternoon. Yesterday I found some old negatives hidden away that I’m dying to print.”
She narrows her eyes, perhaps trying to decide whether I’m telling the truth or dropping a hint that I know of her involvement in Tawny’s break-in. We stare at each other for an uncomfortable few seconds, each measuring the other’s resolve. Fritter is the first to look away.
The rest of the morning passes quickly. When lunchtime rolls around, I cage another apple from the refrigerator in the back room and sear
ch the cabinets until I find a package of only slightly expired peanut-butter crackers. I’m staying in for lunch so I can keep an eye on Fritter. I’m half expecting her to find some excuse to go without me.
When the time to leave arrives, I start looking for Fritter. From behind the circulation desk, Tawny gives me the stink eye. “I can’t believe you’re ditching me.”
“Believe it.”
“You want to hear something interesting? I get to take a long lunch. Fritter called in a volunteer to cover for me,” Tawny says with a sly smile. “I’ve been assigned a special errand to run as soon as the two of you leave for the nursing home, a certain job Fritter wants me to finish.”
I try to hide my surprise. So, Fritter hadn’t found what she was looking for in the first batch of stolen negatives. Maybe the ones I still have aren’t quite as innocuous as they seem.
I hear Fritter’s footsteps on the stairs.
“Good luck with that.” I pat my purse where the negatives are safely stashed.
“I wasn’t going to do it anyway,” she says quietly. “We’re still on for tomorrow, right? No rain checks.”
Fritter reaches the base of the stairs and walks toward us. I answer Tawny with a nod.
“What are you two talking about?” Fritter asks.
“The weather,” I reply.
Tawny grins. Fritter does not.
The old woman gives Tawny a look, fraught with meaning. “You know your duties for this afternoon?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Satisfied, the old woman shifts her sturdy brown handbag from one forearm to the other and then without one glance in my direction walks to the back of the library, through the door and into the parking lot. I follow close behind.
Once we’re in her car, Fritter spends a few minutes fixing her hair, tucking up some of the pieces that the high wind has freed from their confinement. It occurs to me that this is it; if I want to apply some pressure to this old woman, right now is the time I could tell her what I know about the break-in. I wouldn’t call the cops on her and Tawny, but she doesn’t know that. Maybe the threat would be enough to make her tell me what the hell is going on. Or maybe it wouldn’t be enough, and I would’ve played the only card in my hand. Sensing my gaze, she looks over at me, expectantly, as if she knows exactly what I’m thinking and is itching to call my bluff.
The Art of Crash Landing Page 25