“Why did we do that?” asked Emily.
“Actually, we didn’t do anything. It was the Europeans. It was . . .” she stopped herself from saying Christians, even though she had a feeling the word was probably accurate. What else? There it was, that sense of entitlement, of knowing so absolutely and certainly that you were right and everyone else was wrong, to the point that you didn’t even care if you wiped out entire villages, entire cultures. “Indians are very spiritual,” she said. “Listen to this song they’re singing.”
On the radio, the voices continued to chant. After a few moments, Bernice realized that they were not chanting in Navajo at all, at least not all the time. Some of the words were clearly in English. It sounded as if they were saying, “Mickey Mouse and Minnie Mouse,” and then something about how they lived down in Disneyland.
“Disneyland!” said Emily, excitedly.
“I guess you know about that, huh?” She looked up into the rearview mirror. “You feeling all right? You’re not going to get carsick on me, are you?”
There was no response. She’d been good about giving the child her ear drops every four hours, and she didn’t seem as sick anymore, but Bernice assumed that the next bad thing was just around the corner. She’d never been able to keep even a house plant alive.
“Mickey Mouse and Minnie Mouse,” chanted the radio Indians.
“OK, that’s enough of that.” Bernice turned it off and they were left with only the high-speed rattlings of the ancient car. She tried not to think about how stressed the rusty metal probably was, how it wasn’t unreasonable to imagine the whole thing coming apart like a low-tech version of the space shuttle, wheels heading off in all directions, she and Emily skidding along the asphalt on whatever remained of the undercarriage like tobogganers.
“Is it much farther?” Emily asked.
“Oh, yeah. A lot. I just hope we can make it in this piece of junk. Remember my car? That was a great car.”
Emily blew a few notes on the comb.
“You know, I lived with those people, too—your other parents. I didn’t spend as much time with them as you did, but we had the same room. Did you know that? I’ll bet they never even told you. It looked different when I was in it, though.”
“I know,” she said. Then, after a moment, she asked, “How did it look?”
Bernice tried to remember. “Well, for one thing, it wasn’t all pink on the walls the way they did it up for you. That happened about a week before you came. They had painters all ready to go, and then presto, change-o! We took down all of the postcards I had up of artists I like. Stanley Spencer. You’ll like him—he was religious, too, but in a weird way. And Philip Guston. His work is funny. Let’s see. I had my CD player, and my VCR. I watched a lot of movies with you, even if you don’t remember them. Ate a lot of popcorn, too. Do you like popcorn?”
“I love popcorn,” said Emily.
“Who likes popcorn?” Bernice said enthusiastically. When there was no response, she answered the question herself. “We like popcorn! Now, once again, who likes popcorn?”
“We like popcorn!” shouted Emily.
“That’s what I’m talking about,” said Bernice. “You probably like Preston Sturges, too, even though you don’t know it yet. I went through a whole thing with his movies. Palm Beach Story, Christmas in July. They’re in black and white. In the old days, everything was in black and white. Anyway, you asked about the room. There was a desk, and a desk chair, and I had an easel, but I had to promise not to use any oil paints because I was pregnant and we didn’t want you coming out with two heads, so I tried doing watercolors. Which I incidentally suck at. Sorry, I shouldn’t say ‘suck,’ I guess. I did some charcoal drawings. I wonder where those are?” When she thought back on those long months, mostly what she remembered was the intense isolation, the anger that threatened to blow her apart. A couple of times, just to scare them, she’d gone out to the bars, but pregnancy had erased any desire in her for drinking, and without that, the scene had seemed dumb. That last week, she’d slept in a nursery, her bags packed and ready both for the hospital and for her return to Florida—a former coworker of hers had a sister in Miami with whom she would crash temporarily—and the rest of her life. The last thing she’d seen before closing her eyes each night was the brand-new crib, empty and waiting.
“Yeah, I really hate watercolor,” she said. “Do you like to make art?”
“Of course,” said Emily. “I like to draw. And I like crayons.”
“Maybe later we can try drawing together some, huh?”
“OK,” she said.
“What else can you do? You can read, I guess. You know your alphabet.”
Emily demonstrated that she did, and Bernice sang along with her.
“Well, we’ll have to find you a nice school to go to.”
“I’m going to New Jerusalem.”
“How about numbers? Can you add or anything? What’s two and two?”
“Four.”
A truck that had been tailgating her for some time suddenly pulled out and passed, its slipstream making Bernice almost lose control of the car, just for a moment. She gasped and tightened both hands around the wheel. “I hate this,” she said. She felt despair growing in her, despite her determination to be cheery and forward looking.
“And four and four is eight. And eight and eight is sixteen.”
“That’s great. That is amazing, actually. What else can you do?”
“‘For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life.’ John 3:16.”
“‘Believeth’? What do you think that means?”
“I don’t know,” she said.
“And who was John?”
She was silent.
“Do you even know what death is?”
“Of course.”
“Explain, then, smarty-pants. Tell me someone who’s dead, for instance.”
She was quiet, thinking.
“Dead people go away,” said Bernice. “They just go away, and they never come back, period. And at first you’re sad, and then you might be angry for a while, and then you just do your best not to think about them anymore.” She watched the truck that had passed them get smaller as it accelerated toward the horizon, the legend “England” across its back doors brightly lit by the afternoon sun.
“I want french fries,” said Emily.
“You do?” She felt suddenly hopeful. It was such a normal, such an un-Emily thing to say. “OK, then. Let’s find some.” They were in the middle of no place, but how far could it be to the next french fry? This was America, after all.
“With mustard,” she said.
“That’s weird,” said Bernice. “I’m not criticizing you, but I want you to know, that’s weird. Most people go for ketchup, though back where I’m from, you’ll find people ordering them with gravy. I don’t know why—it just makes the fries all soggy. But mustard? That’s a new one on me.” She was silent for a bit, thinking of various french fries she’d known and loved. The Sip ’n’ Bite had good ones, particularly at three in the morning after you’d been out drinking hard. There had been a place in Atlanta, right near the campus, and she’d often had a whole basket for dinner, nothing else.
“I’ll pray for them.”
“For what?”
“French fries.”
Bernice nodded. “OK, I will, too.” In the rearview mirror, she could see Emily grin at this news.
“Hey, Emily,” she said. “I just want to ask you something. Are you, like, OK with all of this? I mean, I know I never checked it out with you officially. Because here’s the thing—if you hate it, there’s always a way out, you know? It would be difficult at this point, and I’m not sure exactly what I’d do, but I could do something. Do you understand what I’m saying? You don’t hate it, do you? I’m mean, you’re not, are you? Just tell me you’re not and I’ll shut up.”
“Not what?” s
aid Emily.
“Not angry at me,” said Bernice.
EIGHT
On Sunday, Landis went to the movies and took a hike on Section 16. Monday, he closed out his checking account, which still had a little over four thousand dollars left in it. He stopped by ProSound, but Kevin’s truck wasn’t there and the building was locked up tight. Landis felt disconnected, as if he were spinning in space, living outside of time. He’d eaten almost nothing but Mexican food, and his stomach was starting to hurt. It crossed his mind a couple of times to call Robin and ask her if she wanted to meet and talk some more. He wanted to tell her that he wasn’t a criminal, and he wasn’t dumb either, even if he had gotten into something a little over his head. It was just that he was changing himself, or trying to, at any rate. He’d abandoned one woman, years ago, when things got rough, and he didn’t know if his karma could stand up to doing the same thing again. But it seemed a lot to explain, and he doubted she was the person to tell it to, anyhow. At Kaw-Lija’s, a Mexican restaurant with a huge Indian’s head atop it in the north part of town, he saw Devon having dinner with a pretty girl with makeup and big hair. Devon grinned at him as if he’d just won the lotto. Later, he drank beer at the Copper Dollar across the street, a tiny tavern with an oval bar that he’d always kind of liked, until the same songs had cycled around on the jukebox one too many times.
Tuesday morning, he left his nearly empty trailer, got himself eggs at the Purple Castle Diner, then drove to a 7-Eleven, went inside and got set up with a lot of quarters. He came back out to the pay phone and called.
“They’re gone,” said Gillian. “You missed them. She left.”
“She did what?” Landis said, holding his free hand to his other ear to block out the street noise. His head hurt and his eyes felt as if they’d been dipped in candle wax and hung out to dry.
“Took her and left,” said Gillian. “I’ve been looking around for a note or something, but I haven’t found one. She just got up early and went. Yesterday.”
“Did she say anything about where she might be going?”
“Not really.”
“Think hard, OK? This is important.”
“I know it’s important. Do you think I don’t know it’s important? You’re the one who ought to think. Where have you been? She’s been waiting to hear from you. She probably thought she never would again.”
“This is not my fault,” he said. “Maybe she just went someplace for a few hours, like on a picnic or something. Maybe she’ll be back soon.”
“Picnic? Her stuff is gone, and she stripped the mattress and folded up the sheets.”
A voice told him to deposit another dollar fifty, so he did, taking the quarters from the stack he’d placed on top of the phone box. A low-rider sixties Buick with gold roulette wheels for hubcaps pulled up to one of the gas pumps, its engine revving before falling silent.
“I’m coming there,” he said.
“Why?” she said. “I’m telling you, she left. You should have called before. What happened to you?”
“I was busy,” said Landis. “There was a lot to do.”
“Maybe you should leave well enough alone,” said Gillian.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“She told me all about it. When that kid’s parents find her, at least Bernice will have some kind of excuse. She is the mother. But you—you’re not even related. I think what you did is kidnapping, no matter how you try to slice it, and if they press charges, you’re going to jail. Actually, they may not even have to press charges—it’s probably just automatic.”
Landis didn’t like being lectured, and he didn’t like standing at a public phone while someone told him he’d be going to jail. “Where’s she from?” he asked.
“Where’s she from? What, are you serious?”
“She never said. I know it’s back east someplace. I know about Atlanta, I know about Florida after she had the baby. She just—” he closed his eyes in frustration at all the games he’d let her play—“she never said where she was from. New York? Washington?”
“I find this hard to believe,” said Gillian.
“I don’t care how you find it,” said Landis. “Philadelphia? New Haven? Why don’t you just fucking tell me.”
“Baltimore,” she said. “But I doubt she’d go there. She’s not on good terms with her dad.”
“What about her mom?”
There was silence on the other end, and Landis fingered the diminished pile of quarters. He wondered if he shouldn’t hang up soon—everything was monitored these days. You typed Islam into an Internet search engine and some light went off at FBI headquarters. You said kidnapped on a pay phone, and before you knew it, the cops were pulling up with sirens wailing.
“You don’t know anything, do you?” said Gillian. “Her mother’s dead.”
“I didn’t know. How’d that happen?”
“She told me she killed her.”
“She what?”
“Well, that’s Bernice. She speaks in code. I doubt she actually killed her, although I am pretty sure her mother is dead.”
“Do you have an address?”
“Someplace. Maybe. You could probably find it yourself. Her dad’s name is Don. I’m sure he’s listed.”
“Could you go look for it? Please?”
There was a pause. “Now that I think about it, she did ask me about going home.”
“When?”
“In Mexico.”
“You went to Mexico? Whose bright idea was that? I’m going to call you back later, is that all right? You look for the address, and I’ll call you back.”
He went into the 7-Eleven and scanned the front page of the paper for an abducted-child article, but found none. His breakfast was moving around in his stomach, and he thought he ought to find a bathroom. There was a deli across the street, Spooners, next to a running-shoe store.
Spooners held only a scattering of customers—a man in a business suit reading the paper, two middle-aged women talking and laughing. A short guy with Down syndrome and a reedy voice greeted him like an old friend. “Hey!” he said. “Where you been?”
“Oh, all over,” said Landis, who felt certain that if he’d ever met this person before, he’d remember him. “You know.”
“Yeah,” said the guy, his eyes tiny and set at angles in his face, like pinball flippers. “I know.” He had a rag in his hand, and Landis realized that he must be working here. “All right, then.”
“You bet,” said Landis. And then he was left alone. A transaction had occurred between them, but he couldn’t say what it was, exactly. The kid had glowed with good feeling, proud to be at his job. Landis inhaled the warm smell of the blueberry-and-almond muffins arrayed on the counter, and of the three flavors of coffee sitting hot in their brushed-steel urns.
He used the bathroom, then bought a coffee, brought it to a booth and stared at it. This was his fault. Why hadn’t he just called? He took out the portrait Bernice had done of him one night on the back of a bar-tab receipt and unfolded it. It was remarkable—somehow, she’d captured everything about him with only a cheap ballpoint pen. His eyes, in particular, surprised him—he saw they looked like his father’s. Bernice had entrusted herself to him, difficult parts and all. She’d put herself in his arms and he’d dropped her.
There had been problem moments before with Bernice. A week after they’d met, she’d shown up unannounced at his trailer when he was on the phone talking to Junebug, a waitress he’d been dating, and he’d held his hand up in a “wait-a-minute” gesture because the conversation was at a critical juncture, as he was explaining to Junebug that she wouldn’t be seeing him again for a while, possibly ever. He was happy to see Bernice, happy that she felt free to come over without calling. A new relationship was like a new shirt or shoes, and he still had the excitement of unfamiliarity, that pride that he’d managed to find something so great for himself. But then he heard the angry, consumptive sound of the Hyundai’s engine, follow
ed by her tires spitting gravel, and she was gone, headed back up the drive toward the access road and, ultimately, the highway. He called her for an hour, but she wouldn’t pick up. And when he drove over, she wouldn’t answer the door. He stood there on the concrete walkway outside her door in the cold pressing her buzzer. Finally, she opened it. She had changed into a nightgown—a very old-fashioned-looking thing—and the look she gave him was withering. “What?” he asked. “What was all that about?”
“You can’t do that,” she told him. “You can’t treat me that way.”
“I was on the phone.”
“With her?”
He had not, up to that point, made it clear that there was a her, but he found himself unsurprised that Bernice had intuited the circumstances of his life.
She allowed him in, but wouldn’t speak, though he tried to make conversation with her, even after she buried herself back inside her bedclothes and put a pillow over her head. So he sat in the dark beside her for over an hour. Then she put a hand out toward him. Without saying a word, they made love until they were both sweating like marathoners.
He paged though the free paper’s classifieds in the ridiculous hope that she might have left him a message there.
She could have found herself a place in Tucson. Possibly. Except Landis knew her well enough to know that if she’d left, she’d really left—gone someplace far away.
Where exactly was Baltimore? South of DC? North of it? He’d been past it before, he knew that, knew it was someplace along I-95, but he’d just never paid any real attention.
He went back to the 7-Eleven and dug his remaining quarters out of the pocket of his jeans, then dialed Gillian Cooper’s number. She answered on the first ring.
“Did you find it?”
“Yes. It’s old, though. It’s off a sketchbook of hers she gave me.” She read him the address and telephone number. “If she calls here, should I tell her anything?”
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