I was surprised into blushing. “No. Of course not. Never mind.”
His brow wrinkled. “You’d think you didn’t own a mirror, Gemma. You are a lovely woman. I like that your loveliness is natural, too, that it isn’t painted on. I can’t imagine Genie being prettier than you are. Maybe as pretty, but not prettier.”
I was shocked and didn’t say anything. I was the dull, drab one of the two of us. At least according to Genie.
At least according to Genie. A tiny, improbable suspicion bloomed in my mind, but I had to put off exploring that suspicion to respond to Zander’s next question.
“And you said you and she weren’t alike in any way. What did you mean by that?”
Careful, Gemma. I had to caution myself when it came to Genie. A lifetime of caution is a hard habit to break.
“She’s, uh, we, well, we have different personalities.” It was a weak reply and I closed myself up tight after I’d said it.
I didn’t realize I’d “gone away” for a few minutes or notice how quiet Zander had become. When I snapped out of it he turned his eyes away, but I guessed he’d been watching me while I zoned out.
Not to worry, I told myself. I didn’t give anything away.
Maybe, but his next question was penetrating. I wasn’t ready for it.
“Gemma, are you frightened of Genie?”
My hands, suddenly sweaty, clenched and unclenched on my thighs. “Of course not.”
“I think you are.” It was gently said, but Zander sounded convinced. “I don’t know what the issue is between you sisters, but I can see that it’s painful to you. I’m sorry I butted in. Sorry I caused you discomfort.”
My childhood had tutored me in the art of hypervigilance. I’d learned to watch, to observe while not being observed, to school my emotions, and to weigh my options before acting. In short, I’d learned to survive.
I nodded, and I kept how undone I was feeling hidden from him.
After Zander left I stood over the counter in my kitchen, thinking. A line of tiny “sugar” ants trailed across the floor and up onto the counter. I observed their purposeful progress, their unfaltering determination to cart away whatever edibles they found. Aunt Lucy had hated the “little buzzards” with long-suffering fervor.
Nothing she tried had deterred the ants from their objectives for long: not sprays or powders or baits, so she obsessively wiped counters clean and swept floors of crumbs. When I asked why she didn’t hire an exterminator, she answered that she had, several times, but the ants always returned.
“The exterminator says there’s a crack in the house’s foundation,” Lu explained. “The ants live in the ground below the crack where he can’t reach. He said he would never be able to kill the colony, because the ants we see are only a tiny part of what’s below ground.”
The idea of a crack in the cement slab under the house stuck with vivid glue. I don’t recall when I first started applying it as a metaphor to my sister, but sometime in my early teen years I came to grips with how deeply the crack in Genie’s foundation ran.
I’d never looked at a trail of ants the same after that; instead I studied them for some clue so as how to understand my sister . . . and what must lie “below ground” in her heart.
Until today, no one had guessed at the truths I covered so well. And yet, in the space of minutes, Zander had come close to penetrating my walls of secrecy and self-defense.
I would have to be more careful in the future.
I TREKKED UP THE FOOTHILLS to bring Dr. Bickel supplies before dawn the next morning. We had agreed on an eight-day cycle for my visits so that hikers and mountain bikers who were regulars on the trails would be less likely to remember me. After that, we settled into a comfortable routine.
I stopped filing for unemployment, but kept searching for work and I applied when I found something. Nothing seemed to be a good fit for me, though, other than government or government contractor jobs—and I knew I wouldn’t be getting a call for one of those.
When the job search grew discouraging, it comforted me to think of the small but growing stash hidden in my freezer. Yes, the money was good because Dr. Bickel was generous. On the flip side, I’m sure he felt he had to be liberal—given the risks I took.
Each time I saw him he gave me a shopping list for the next time—and paid ahead for the groceries and my efforts. I varied the grocery stores where I shopped for Dr. Bickel, picking stores I hadn’t shopped in before, stores not near my home. Twice I went to his “safe house” as he called it and picked up orders he had purchased over the Internet and had shipped to the house.
Dr. Bickel had a locked mailbox at the safe house, and the orders I picked up were small parts for lab equipment. I didn’t want to think about what might happen if something big and vital to his work went out and needed to be replaced. Something that wouldn’t fit in the mailbox. Well, the situation hadn’t occurred yet, so I put it out of my mind.
As far as food went, Dr. Bickel had enough staples in his kitchen’s pantry to last years: pasta, rice, peanut butter, dehydrated potatoes and fruit, and racks of canned goods. However, I totally understood how hard it would be to go without anything fresh.
Once in a while Dr. Bickel developed a “hankering” for something exotic (like crab), but most times I bought pretty much the same things: steaks, chicken, salad greens, eggs, half-and-half, butter, English muffins, fresh fruit, and a few in-season veggies like broccoli or asparagus.
I laughed when I found out that he was fond of Gummi Bears! Every shopping list included a bag of the chewy candies. One of the smartest mathematical minds in America or maybe the world? Go figure. He was human after all.
And Dr. Bickel seemed genuinely happy to see me when I made the hike into the tunnels and to his lab. Yes, he paid me to fetch his groceries, and I received the money gladly, but perhaps I wasn’t just a means to an end for him. Perhaps our deal was not just a mutually beneficial arrangement.
The truth was, I had by now realized that Dr. Bickel’s gruff and touchy manner back in the AMEMS lab had been nothing more than a smokescreen he’d put up to keep people (other than Rick and Tony) at a safe distance. I think it was a facade he’d used from the early days of his career to keep those who would exploit his work at bay. I came to understand that he’d presented a false front to the world most of his life.
Yes, we had some things in common.
I GLANCED AT MY CELL; the caller ID read simply, “Roanoke, VA.” I already knew from the ringtone who it was. I’d made the tone especially for her.
The phone “rang” again, belting out the “Flying Monkeys Theme” from The Wizard of Oz.
Dun-duhdada-dundun; Dun-duhdada-dundun.
Genie.
She called every six months or so. We never exchanged meaningful news—the call was her way of ensuring that the inferior planets circumnavigating her Sun stayed in their proper alignments. If I answered the phone, her part of the conversation would consist of a couched interrogation. And if she didn’t like the answer to a question she would dig until she got the one she wanted.
If I didn’t pick up, she’d just call again. And again.
Not much of a choice, huh? You don’t know how often I’d fantasized about blocking her number.
“Hello.”
“Hi, Gemma. Just checking in.”
Right.
“How are you, Genie?”
Deflect, deflect!
“Oh, doing well. I’ve been offered a partnership in my firm.”
“That’s wonderful. Do you have to buy into it?”
Keep her busy answering my questions.
“Of course. But I called to check on you. How is your job going? I heard there was an accident at Sandia back in March. Nothing near you, I hope?”
I skirted the first question by answering the second. “Actually, the incident involved two of my coworkers.”
Artfully done, Gemma.
“Oh, dear! They weren’t injured, were they?”
<
br /> See, I understood that she already knew the answer to her question. “I’m afraid they were both killed. It was horrible. I’m still grieving.”
True enough.
She was silent and I swallowed. Silence from Genie was ominous.
“But Gemma, are you being completely candid with me? Are you still working at Sandia?”
Aha! She did know the answer. “I’m sorry—did I say I was? Please don’t concern yourself, Genie. I’m working on a contract at present, until a more permanent position opens up.”
That was true, too. Dr. Bickel had promised a legitimate 1099.
“Really? With whom?”
Drat. I should have anticipated that question.
“Just another research facility. How did you know I wasn’t at Sandia anymore?”
I had my suspicions. Genie and Belicia Calderón had too much nastiness in common not to share the wealth.
“Oh, Gemma. So defensive! If you must know, Mrs. Calderón has expressed some concern for you. She feels that you might not be able to make your mortgage payment. Like a good sister, I’m just making sure you’re all right.”
But without an offer to help, right?
I had to bite my tongue. “Please tell Mrs. Calderón that my finances are in good shape. You might also tell her that my finances are none of her business.”
“I’m sure you can tell her yourself, Gemma.” Once she had succeeded at putting me on the defensive, Genie no longer needed to keep me on the phone. Mission accomplished.
“Talk to you later, Gemma.” The line went dead.
ZANDER CAME BY OCCASIONALLY through the heat of the summer. He was out of town helping with youth camp late July into August but, usually when I didn’t expect him, he’d drop by.
It was the same thing each time. We’d sit on the back porch drinking tea or lemonade, talking about my garden. I sent tomatoes home with him in August, but I was sending tomatoes to everyone in the neighborhood by then. My tomatoes were really “coming on” in the late summer heat. Abe and the Floreses especially appreciated them.
Zander and I laughed over some of the young “characters” he’d encountered at camp. His descriptions were rich and vivid, always good-humored. Even though I could tell that he worried over a few of the boys he interacted with, I could also sense a love or compassion for them.
“Where’s that hideous cat of yours?” Zander asked one morning. “He’s usually crawling up in my lap by now.”
I laughed. “Thank you for admitting he’s ugly! Aunt Lucy wouldn’t allow me to call him names, but you’d have to be blind not to see that Jake is one of the sorriest feline specimens ever born.”
“And that’s putting it mildly,” Zander muttered from behind his hand.
I burst into giggles. I couldn’t help it. Then we were laughing.
“You know that cat hates me, don’t you? He only cozies up to you to spite me,” I finally managed. I wiped my eyes with the corner of my t-shirt.
“Is it ’cause you’re so charming?”
I knew he was teasing, so it didn’t sting. Instead it felt, well, comfortable, like all our conversations. “Yeah. My charm is legendary.”
I waggled my eyebrows and he grinned. And then I asked something I’d been thinking about. Thinking about a lot. I hadn’t planned on asking today, but, well, it just came out.
“Zander, can I ask you a question?”
“Sure.” He swirled the last two ice cubes in his glass.
“How did you choose to be a pastor? I mean, I guess you don’t seem the, um, type to me.”
He just nodded, still swirling the ice. “That’s a great question, Gemma. It might take a minute to explain. Is that all right?”
“Let me check my busy schedule.” I examined the palm of my hand. “Hmm. Looks like I have a minute between my mani-pedi and my standing massage appointment.”
He grabbed my hand and scrutinized my nails—my ragged, dirt-filled nails. “Miss, you’d better call and schedule extra time on that manicure.”
We laughed again. Then Zander’s face softened, became almost a little sad.
“When I told you about my family, Gemma, I didn’t really say much about me. The fact is, I left out a lot. The details aren’t important except to say this: Until about eight years ago I was involved in a gang. Had been since high school.”
The blood drained from my head and rushed to my feet. I felt it tingling in my toes as it arrived there. “A gang. Like Mateo?”
He didn’t look at me. Instead he stared over my garden. “Yes. And worse, possibly.”
I could see his jaw working, his lips thin and taut. My mind was having trouble wrapping itself around what I was hearing.
“I ran with a bad crew down in Las Cruces, Gemma. I dealt drugs. I drank and caroused. I was violent. I . . . misused women.”
No. No! I protested, horrified.
He glanced at me and I knew what he saw on my face pained him. “I’m sorry, Gemma, but I want to be truthful with you.”
I was frozen; I couldn’t move.
“I would still be that man today,” he whispered, “if not for the God of grace.”
We were silent while, inside, my image of Zander was shattering.
He broke the silence at last. “About eight years ago I was living in Phoenix. I was minding my territory one evening, just taking care of business. A rugged old guy wandered up to me. I thought he was buying. Instead he looked me over and said in a gruff way, ‘Son, I was where you are twenty years ago. Different town, same drugs. Different corner, same grave just waiting for me to fall into it.’
“He came closer and said, ‘How many years or months do you think you have left before someone puts a round in your head or slides a shiv between your ribs? Jesus would like to set you free from the grave you’ve dug for yourself before that happens.’
“Of course, I told him to get the *blank* away from me before I shanked him. He smiled, though, and replied, ‘Kid, there isn’t anything you can do to hurt me hasn’t been done before. I’ve been shot four times, knifed twice, run down by a truck, had a needle broke off in my arm, and been beaten more times than I can recall. I still care what happens to you.’
“He asked me, ‘Can I just tell you one more thing? And then I’ll leave you be.’ I wanted to curse him, make him shut the *blank* up and get out of my face, but I couldn’t get my mouth to work. He just nodded this knowing nod and said, ‘All I want to tell you is this: Jesus loves you, boy. And he has the power to change you, inside and out. The Good News is about change. About transformation—a transformation of the heart and soul. It’s about letting God peel off the old, ugly, scarred man and letting him give you a new life, a life Jesus died to give you.’
“And then he asked me, ‘Do you like this life? Or do you want a new one?’”
Zander heaved a deep sigh. “I was raised to know right from wrong, Gemma, but up to that very moment I actually believed I was fine—happy and content with my life of money, power, drugs, alcohol, violence, and women. But in less than two minutes that old guy’s words rocked me to my core and ripped away the lies I’d fed myself.”
I thought I saw moisture in the corners of Zander’s eyes. I was embarrassed for him and looked away. He didn’t seem to mind.
“I followed that man away from the corner I was working and got into his car. He started driving and we didn’t stop until we reached Albuquerque. He knew I had to leave Phoenix right then if I was going to get away from the gang—they don’t let you leave alive, you know.”
I swallowed. “What, um, what did you do then?”
“What did I do? I stuck to that old man like puncture vine sticks to the bottom of a shoe. Everywhere he went, I went. Where he slept, I slept. No one knew where I was, not my old gang, not my so-called friends, not my family.
“He read the Bible to me every chance we got. I went with him when he went out on the streets to talk about Jesus. I soaked in a lot of what he had to offer.
“Then one
day he says to me, ‘Kid, you need to go to Bible school.’ He took me to see a pastor who took me into his home. Gemma, that man and his wife just brought me into their home and treated me like their own. They helped me to apply to Bible school. Helped me get the money together. Prayed over me, wept with me, loved me.”
Zander’s voice dropped to a whisper. “I spent two years at Bible school. Never went home between terms, just stayed there and worked to earn my keep and my tuition. Two weeks before I graduated, I called my folks and invited my family to come see me.
“We talked for a long time. I apologized for the grief I’d put them through when I’d been involved in the gang and their criminal activities. I shared what Jesus had done for me.
“That was more than six years ago. I still take each day as it comes: another day to be thankful for; another day to share God’s love.”
We didn’t say much more. After a bit he said he had to get going.
I hadn’t commented further on his story, and I was sure that was the last time I’d see him.
Chapter 11
I wrote earlier that Dr. Bickel and I had agreed on an eight-day cycle for my visits. We also agreed that I should arrive and leave in the dark, or close to it, to lessen the possibility of detection. I preferred coming before dawn and leaving after dark. That meant I would be spending a very long day with Dr. Bickel each trip.
At first, I thought it would feel awkward being with him for hours on end (but less awkward than my spending the night in the lab!) or that he would go off and work with his nanomites and leave me to be killed by boredom. What did happen, the little routine we fell into, turned into some of my happiest moments since Aunt Lucy died.
On the day scheduled for me to tote in the new supplies, I would leave home hours before dawn so that I entered the tunnels while the foothills were still in the dark. Dr. Bickel would greet me with a hot breakfast and I would unload my backpack. The pitifully few items I actually brought seemed like a lot when I was carrying them, pushing them ahead of me under the fence and through a few other chokepoints. But when I unpacked and stacked them on his kitchen counters, I always wished I had brought more.
Stealthy Steps Page 17