“Why? He has nothing to do with this.”
The older man slapped his notebook on the desktop in disgust. “Is there anything you’d like to share about your friends in Brooklyn?”
Jeremy shook his head.
“You might be interested to know that Sari Gupta and Carl Goldman have been subpoenaed to the grand jury looking into that firebombing. They’ll certainly be indicted and they’ll no doubt be convicted. With terrorism enhancements, they could face very long sentences.”
“And,” the young guy interrupted, “if you’re an accessory, so could you. If you cooperate, we won’t have to subpoena you.”
“I’m not part of any of this,” Jeremy said. “I keep telling you that.”
The young agent stood up and walked close to Jeremy’s chair. He looked down at him. “Do you understand that lying to a federal agent is a serious crime?”
Jeremy nodded. Had he said anything that wasn’t true?
“You still claim that you haven’t seen any of the Brooklyn group?” the agent asked. “Not even Greenhope Murphy?”
Jeremy stared at his wet shoes, still wet from his walk from the bus stop. He wiggled his toes, wondering if they were wrinkled prunes.
“Look,” the young guy said, squatting so that his face was close to Jeremy’s. “We know she visited you at UMass and we want to talk with her. If you tell us where we can find her, you can go home.”
How could they know about UMass? They weren’t following him, were they? He shook his head. “How?”
“Amateurs. Remember that ATM on campus? Geez. So, where is the green lady heading?”
They were amateurs and Jeremy didn’t know if that was good because they were innocent, or bad because being innocent might not matter to these people. Still, he didn’t know where Greenhope was going, not really, not exactly.
“I don’t know where she’s going,” Jeremy said. “She didn’t tell me.” We’re not that amateurish, he thought. At least, Greenhope wasn’t.
The older agent shrugged and put his notebook under his arm. “Then I’m afraid you’re in big trouble.” He opened the door for his partner, and they both left the room.
Alone, Jeremy wished he hadn’t said anything. He hadn’t actually lied about anything, had he? He looked down at his hands. If ever there was a time he needed the plant delusions to rescue him, it was now. He tried to summon the tingling in his fingertips. He wiggled his fingers, urging the pinch of shoots pushing through muscle and skin. He beckoned green vines, urging them to twine around his arms, encircle his heart, protect him from these men and their accusations. He yearned for red blossoms covering his body, shielding his face, taking him away from these men and this place. But nothing happened.
“Just act normal, everyone?” Claire instructed the group. “She’s still our Flo.”
Mimi wiped the raindrops off her glasses and pushed ahead of the others in the quiet hallway. “There’s nothing normal about this. It’s horrible.” Maybe this had been a bad idea, for the women’s group to meet this morning. Probably the last time before Flo left them. Mimi didn’t think she could bear Claire ending one more declarative sentence with a question. She couldn’t stand one more go-round of their recurring discussion about a name for their group. Marlene would suggest the Girls’ Club and Fanny would counter with Sisterhood. Claire would reply that it was too much like the Hadassah and she herself would mutter Geezerhood. Around and around in circles they talked and it didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered was that her best friend in the world was dying.
There had been other deaths in their forty-five years together. Sarah’s breast cancer was the first and it shocked them because she was so young and they still thought they’d live forever. When Sandy killed herself, they didn’t know whether to mourn or feel guilty that they hadn’t realized how bad it was, hadn’t been able to help her. And of course Joanna, her beloved Joanna, but that was so quick, with no time to say goodbye, no time to say anything at all.
Standing in the doorway of Flo’s room, all these losses returned and they merged together in the overheated air of the nursing home, each memory magnifying the sorrow of losing Flo. Mimi’s throat ached, the pressure of unshed tears pushed deep into her sinuses and her brain and her ears until her skull wanted to burst.
“Mocha delight for you,” Marlene said, holding a take-out cup with Coffee Hut printed on the cardboard. “And one for Flo.”
Wordless, Mimi grasped both cups and took the seat closest to Flo’s head.
“What a sweet kitty,” Fanny cooed, sitting on the foot of the bed and petting the sleeping black cat. “You know how much Flo loves kitties, don’t you, big guy?”
And how much Flo hates baby talk, Mimi thought, but she stopped herself from making an unkind comment. Everyone was doing their best, Marlene picking up their favorite hot drinks and Fanny talking silly. At least Claire hadn’t brought her stethoscope and gone all medical on them. Mimi would just lose it if Claire did that.
And none of it made any difference. In the center of their circle, Flo just lay there, motionless. Her chest barely moving. Her flesh a deflated balloon, like someone opened a vital valve and let the air out.
Mimi had called Sam’s cell early that morning, asking if it was okay for the group to come for a visit. “It’s our usual meeting, you know. Saturday morning at 10:00.”
“That’s fine,” Sam had said. His voice sounded thin on the phone. “I could use a break.”
“Are you okay?” she’d asked. She and Joanna hadn’t had children. Sam was as close to a son as she had. “Is there anything I can do?”
“No,” Sam answered. “And no. But thanks.”
She’d try to comfort Sam later. Now, Mimi tried to soothe herself. She searched her friend’s face for any sign of life but saw nothing. “Oh, Flo,” she whispered. “I’m going to miss you so much.”
“A toast to Flo.” Marlene stood at the foot of the bed, decaf skinny latté held high. “Forty-five years of sisterhood. Of fighting patriarchy, together.”
Mimi wondered if Marlene’s drink was made with skim or whole milk, but why did she care? They were all going to die, no matter if they ate double fat ice cream or fat-free frozen yogurt. She blew her nose on a wadded up tissue from her jeans pocket and gave herself a swift mental kick in the rear. Enough.
“Yes. To sisterhood,” Fanny echoed, nodding meaningfully at each of them.
“To my best friend in the world,” Mimi said. “I love you, Flo.” Mimi raised her mocha delight and leaned forward to bump cardboard cups with Marlene.
Fanny flourished a nip bottle of peppermint schnapps and poured a generous dollop into her drink and Mimi’s. “Anyone else?” she asked.
Claire pursed her lips and shook her head, murmuring something about before noon, but Marlene held her cup out for a splash.
“Can you hear us, Flo?” Claire asked. “We’re here with you. We love you.”
“To Flo!” The four women touched their cups high over Flo’s quiet form.
“To our Flo,” Mimi repeated and they drank.
Jeremy hadn’t shown up by ten and her calls kept going to voice mail. Zoe redialed his number, didn’t leave another message.
“What’s wrong?” Sam asked.
“Jeremy said he’d be here, hours ago.”
“He probably got involved with something. His family, or schoolwork.” Sam squirted lotion into the palm of his hand and rubbed it into Flo’s foot. “This is almost empty. Do you know where she buys this?”
Zoe looked at her father. “I don’t think we’ll need …”
“Don’t say it,” Sam said. He massaged the callus on his mother’s heel.
Zoe wheeled away from the bed. “Be back soon,” she said. “I’m going to call Jeremy’s parents.”
It took Zoe a few minutes to find a phone number for Francie, but she answered on the first ring.
“Hello?” Francie’s voice sounded worn.
“This is Zoe. Is Jeremy ther
e?”
“No,” Francie said. “His father and a lawyer are downtown, hopefully bringing him home.”
“What happened?”
“The FBI brought him in for questioning,” Francie said. “I’ll tell him you called.”
“Thanks,” Zoe said. Clearly Jeremy’s mom didn’t want to tell her anything.
“It’ll be okay,” Francie said before she hung up.
Shortly after midnight, Jeremy and Tian stood awkwardly in the living room.
“Thanks, Dad.” Jeremy said. “I was really glad to see you.”
Jeremy remembered his surge of relief when Tian walked into the interrogation room downtown and put his arm around his shoulders. Funny how a parent—even a not-so-great parent, even a mostly-gone parent—could offer such comfort. But his relief had been tempered with anxiety about what this new Tian might do.
Tian chuckled. “You didn’t look glad. You looked terrified.”
“I was worried that you’d get pissed off.”
“I’m not that guy any more,” Tian said. “At least, I’m trying not to be. Sorry it took me so long to get you out of there. Couldn’t reach my lawyer and it took a while to find someone else.”
“I didn’t really need a lawyer, you know. They weren’t charging me or anything.”
“Just trying to intimidate you. That’s why you need a lawyer.”
Jeremy nodded.
After several long seconds, Tian asked. “You home for good, Son?”
Jeremy almost smiled at that. He still hated being called “Son,” but Tian wasn’t likely to mix him up with his brother, not after all this trouble.
“Maybe for the summer. If that’s okay.” Jeremy picked up his duffle and started down the hallway to his room.
“I don’t think I can sleep yet,” Tian called after him. “I’m making coffee. You want some?”
Jeremy stopped walking. He had no experience spending time with Tian—just the two of them, two adults, father and son—without Francie orchestrating things. What would they even talk about?
First things first. “Don’t call me ‘Son,’ okay? I have a name.”
Tian shrugged. “No problem. Jeremy. Now do you want coffee?”
“Yeah. Sure. But I’ve got to make a phone call first.”
He dumped the duffle on his bed and checked his messages, then dialed Zoe’s phone. While it rang, he looked around the room he once shared with Tim, walls plastered with their shared heritage of X-Men posters. He wasn’t at all sure how he felt about waking up every morning staring at Wolverine.
“You okay?” Zoe asked. “I was worried.”
“Yeah. Just got home.”
“What happened?”
“Nothing, really.”
“Being taken downtown by the FBI isn’t nothing.”
“Nothing happened. I’ll tell you all the details tomorrow, okay?”
“Okay. 10:30 at the park. At the ball field.”
Tian was pouring the coffee when Jeremy returned to the kitchen. They sat across from each other at the round table.
“You called that girl?” Tian asked.
“Zoe. Her grandma’s dying.”
“You like her.”
“Yeah.” Jeremy shifted in his chair. Had they already run out of things to talk about? This was going to be a long summer. Though hopefully he’d find a job. Work plus finishing two incompletes and seeing Zoe a lot wouldn’t leave too much time at home.
“What are you going to do this summer?” Tian asked.
Jeremy grinned. His dad could always read his mind when he was a kid, mostly when he had mischief in mind. “Get a job, I guess.”
“Maybe there’s something at the medical center.”
“I’ll ask Mom.” Jeremy sipped the coffee. “Geez, this is strong. When did you start drinking coffee anyway?”
“In prison real men don’t drink tea.”
“They don’t add milk either?”
Tian grinned. “Nope. But you can if you want.”
“Sugar okay?”
“All you want,” Tian said, pushing the bowl closer to Jeremy.
The coffee was still too hot to drink. Jeremy blew across the surface. That probably wasn’t done in prison either.
“What was it like there?” Jeremy asked.
“You saw some of it, when you visited. Nasty.”
“Yeah.”
“The good part was, there was plenty of time to think. The bad part was, there was plenty of time to think.”
More silence as they sipped the coffee. Singed tongues were easier than words, Jeremy figured. Finally, Tian pushed his cup away.
“Listen, Son. Jeremy. I’ve been chewing on what you said the other day. About what we all lost. I’ve never told you that I’m sorry. But I am. Sorry. About that night.”
Jeremy closed his eyes and he was back to the snowy Solstice. They parked the van by the side entrance to Forest Park and walked single file to the dingle buried deep in the woods. They all wore white. He and Tim were nine, old enough to wear the bleached muslin robes over their fleece and long johns and walk with the adults along the path. Tim pushed him out of the way and walked ahead, even though Jeremy was a few minutes older and should have been first. Abby and Terrence were babies, bundled up in triple-layer pajama sleepers and blankets and carried by their moms.
At the sacred place, Tian let them light the bonfire that they helped build earlier that afternoon. The moms nursed their babies to sleep in the small clearing, but he and Tim got to stay up. They played the heartbeat rhythm on the clay darbuka drums and Murphy’s recorder notes danced between drumbeats. Everyone chanted and Adele danced, her big belly hidden in robes until the end, when Tian parted her robes and offered the baby to the Goddess, just like each of the other children in the family had been offered, even the ones whose parents moved out and took them to live away.
Later, when the adults started drinking the libation and dancing crazy and wild, Francie settled Jeremy and Tim in their nest of sleeping bags and tarps and blankets at the edge of the circle, where they’d be warm and could watch until they fell asleep. Tim snuck a couple of swallows of the libation and nodded off right away, but Jeremy watched, cocooned warm and safe in his sleeping bag.
The snow drifted down and sizzled on the hot rocks ringing the fire pit. The sparkly smoke rose into the sky making new clouds with the snow. His whole family danced a swirling, whirling joyous parade around the bonfire, taking turns on the drums and the recorder and the dancing stone. Jeremy floated in and out of sleep, dreams merging with memories. Much later, when the party was quiet, he heard Abby and Terrence babbling to each other and thought about checking on them, or did he dream that part?
Tian shook his shoulder. “You daydreaming? You need more coffee?”
“Sorry, Dad. I was just remembering. The night Abby and Terrence went missing. Do you ever think about it?”
Tian’s hand went to his wrist. He fingered the red rubber band, but didn’t snap it. He was silent for so long Jeremy wondered if he heard the question. Of course he heard, but that didn’t mean he would answer it.
“Every day,” Tian finally whispered. “I think about those babies every single day.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
In Jeremy’s first childhood memory, at age five or six, he stepped outside with his mom and Tim after a spring rain and sniffed the earthy air.
“What’s that smell?” he had asked.
“Petrichor,” Francie told him. “It’s a mix of bacterial secretion with plant oil. Rain after a long dry spell releases it into the air.”
“Yuck!” Tim held his nose. “I don’t want to breathe bug oil.”
Jeremy loved the smell and he loved the sound of the word peh-tra-chore and he loved that his mom had worked in Forest Park and knew about plants and nature. Jeremy’s first homeschool project was studying petrichor, how the oil protected the plants and kept them from germinating until conditions were right for their growth.
�
�Don’t you love that smell?” he asked Zoe the next morning. The rain had stopped and the park sparkled. “It’s called petrichor. Peh-tra-chore.” He sang the syllables in time to his footsteps. “Peh-tra-chore.”
They were walking—well, Zoe was rolling, but the details really didn’t matter—along the main road looping around the playing fields. He couldn’t stop smiling, which could have been the perfect weather or could have been Zoe. He took her hand.
Zoe giggled. “I need them both.” She demonstrated what happened when she pushed her chair one-handed.
“Guess I’ve got you going in circles,” Jeremy said. He was amazed; he’d never talked like that to a girl. Had never imagined he could flirt like people in the movies.
She laughed. “Not exactly. But listen, I want to know what’s going on with you. Last time, the lurgies saved you, but there are no strings of cheese or banana here. So talk.”
The last thing in the world he wanted at that moment was to think about hard stuff. He wanted to sit on a park bench and kiss Zoe until it got dark. He wanted to feel carefree and happy and silly. The serious look on her face made it clear that she had other ideas.
“First,” he said, “tell me what’s happening with your grandmother.”
“She’s dying. After our walk, I’m going back to sit with her.”
“Can I come with you?”
“Sure, but don’t try to change the subject. Why don’t you start with the FBI visit,” she prompted, “and then move on to Mary-the-terrorist and your friends with the Molotov cocktails. After that, you can fill me in about whatever it was that got you sent to the hospital.”
“Health Services,” he said. “Not hospital.”
“Okay,” she said. “Health Services.”
“First of all, they’re not really my friends. I mean, I knew them for a few weeks in Brooklyn and we worked together planning Earth Day. But they never told me anything about Molotov cocktails and I didn’t even like them much.” He looked at Zoe. Did she really care about this? “In some ways, I care about them more now that they’re in trouble, if that makes any sense.”
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