Two of a Kind

by Yona Zeldis McDonough

  “People he’s met through volunteering. And they are all church members. Can’t you see? He’s not looking for Jesus. He’s looking for a community. A family even.”

  He stared at her. “I guess I haven’t been so terrific at giving him that.”

  “No,” she said. “You haven’t.” When she saw how stricken he looked, she added, “Maybe you didn’t know how. Maybe it was too hard. Throwing yourself into your work, your patients, was easier.”

  “My patients.” It was almost a moan.

  “Did something bad happen today?”

  “It’s happening right now.”

  “Tell me,” she said.

  “I will. I want to. But Oliver . . . He’s so angry with me all the time. And the thing is, I can’t tell what the hell for. I give him plenty of money, and lots of latitude. What else does he want?”

  “Maybe he’s just angry that you’re still alive. And his mother isn’t.”

  “He was always closer to her. She did everything. The trips to the playground, the park, the zoo. Helping him with his schoolwork, birthday parties. She knew the names of every kid in his class, all his teachers, what flavor Popsicle, cupcake, everything that was his favorite. . . . She”—and his voice cracked a little—“was the one. I was always second fiddle.”

  “You’re angry about that,” she said gently.

  “You’re right—I am. He’s my only son. I’d like to count with him. To matter.” He withdrew one hand—he was still clinging to her—and smoothed back a lock of her hair. His expression softened. “I know what he loves about you,” he said. “Because I love it too.”

  “Are you telling me that you love me?”

  “Yes,” he said, and leaned over for a long, deep kiss. “I am.”

  “I love you too,” she said softly.

  THIRTY

  Early the next morning Christina set out again for Union Street. The day was bright but frigid, and she hurried along, down past Third Avenue and the Gowanus Canal until she reached Derrick’s building. She had called everyone they knew in common, checked out his Facebook page and Twitter account—all of it led nowhere. At Andy’s suggestion she’d even phoned a private investigator, though once she’d heard the price, she decided not to meet with him after all; she simply wouldn’t let Andy spend that kind of money.

  She was greeted by the now-familiar metal gate and the darkened windows above. Derrick truly seemed to have vanished. In the relentless light of day, the empty space where his name had been shone unnaturally bright. She squinted upward, trying to see the windows, so she didn’t notice the man—elderly, walking an obese dachshund—until she’d bumped into him. “Hey, watch where you’re going,” he said irately.

  “So sorry,” said Christina, stepping back. He must have come out of the building; maybe he could tell her something. “I don’t mean to trouble you, but are you a neighbor of Mr. Blascoe?” she asked. The man stared blankly as the dog tugged at the leash. “Derrick Blascoe?” she tried again.

  “Why do you want to know?” he asked finally.

  “Well, I’m a friend of his and I’ve been trying to get in touch with him. He’s not answering his phone and I’m beginning to get worried.”

  “You his friend? How come I never seen you before?”

  Christina did not know what to say. She dug her hands into her pockets—she’d forgotten her gloves and they were cold—and to her dawning delight, her fingers closed around a dog biscuit. One of her clients had recently acquired a puppy and she’d taken to bringing treats when she made her visits. “Is it okay if I give him this?” she asked the man, producing the biscuit. The dog, attention riveted by the possibility of food, poked its long, thin snout in her direction. The man looked at it too, and then down at the dog. His whole demeanor changed. “Yeah, sure. Is it liver flavored? He loves liver.”

  “I believe it is,” she said, though she had not the faintest idea.

  “So ya lookin’ for Derrick?”

  “I am,” she said.

  “He hasn’t been around much.”

  “Yes, I know.” Christina looked down at the dog; he had devoured the biscuit and was looking up at her with wet, hopeful eyes.

  “Other people been looking for him too,” he offered. “Not just you.”

  “Really?” She wished she had another biscuit.

  “Yeah, some guys come in the middle of the night, pounding on the door, cursing, you name it. I gotta get up early in the morning”—he gestured to the dog—“and I did not appreciate it.”

  “Do you know who they were? Did they say anything?”

  “They kept threatening to break the door down if he didn’t open up, but they didn’t. If they come back, I’m calling the cops.”

  “That’s a good idea,” she said. She extricated her hand from her pocket and reached into her bag. She was looking for her card and found instead another biscuit. She fed it to the dog and then gave her card to the man. “If you see him or find out anything, anything at all, will you call me?” she asked.

  He took the card. “Christina’s World,” he read. “You Christina?” She nodded. “Same as my wife, may she rest in peace. Yeah, I’ll call you if he turns up. But don’t hold your breath.”

  Discouraged, Christina turned and went home. She had to find Derrick and, with him, the Sargent portrait that had been entrusted to his care. Phoebe had told her that Ian would be in London on business for a few weeks, which had given her a small reprieve. What she would do when it was over, she had not a clue.

  Then she remembered—there was someone else she and Derrick knew in common. Someone she had not called yet. Her name was Helen something or other; Christina had done a small job for her and she had dated Derrick a while back. Helen Southgate. That was it. Maybe Helen knew something. But the number Christina had for her was not in service and it took her a full hour online to track her down. Helen was now living in New Mexico. Christina could not find a phone number, but she did find an e-mail address and she quickly typed a message. When she checked her own messages a little while later, Helen’s name appeared in her box; she had written back right away.

  No, I haven’t seen Derrick in a long time. He and I parted ways and haven’t been in touch. I heard he’d been having . . . issues of some kind. Something personal. I think I must have sensed that because I knew I didn’t want things to continue with him. To be honest, he kind of scared me.

  Christina read these words over three times. She was both amazed that Helen had opened up to her so readily and alarmed by the information she had divulged. Derrick had scared her too. She thanked Helen for her response and got up from her desk. This was futile. She had better turn her attention to something else or the entire day would have been wasted.

  Around five, the doorbell rang and she hurried to answer it. She was expecting a package of samples from a factory in North Carolina and hoped this was the UPS man with her delivery. Instead, it was Ian Haverstick. “May I come in?” Ian said. But it was not really a question.

  “Of course,” she said. Her heart began an unpleasant stuttering in her chest. “Would you like something? A cup of coffee or tea?”

  “Not necessary,” he said. “But I would like to talk to you for a few minutes.”

  Christina led him into her office; it felt more professional than either the kitchen or the parlor. And she desperately wanted to feel professional: she had been catching up on some paperwork, wearing her oldest, softest jeans and an oversized cashmere sweater that had belonged to Will. Despite the frayed collar and the large holes at either elbow, she had not been able to part with it. Sitting across from Ian, she felt like she was in her pajamas.

  “I want that painting back,” he said flatly. “I think you’ve deliberately been stalling about returning it.”

  “Why would I do that?” she asked. It took a supreme effort to keep her voice steady.

>   “Because you know Phoebe and I don’t agree about it.” He was a tall, slightly doughy man with pale, thinning hair and surprisingly dark eyes. Those eyes were at odds with the rest of his mild appearance and gave him a look of quiet menace. “And you’re both hoping that she’ll be able to wear me down.”

  “It’s true, Phoebe doesn’t want to sell it. But you can understand that. It represents a connection to her aunt.”

  “I know Phoebe has a soft spot for her; she’s just a big softy all around. She lets the girls get away with murder, if you ask me—but that’s another story. Anyway, as for the aunt—” He raised his hand to the side of his head and made a circling motion with his index finger. “Nuts.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Why else would she keep a painting worth that much money stuck away in a closet?”

  “You don’t know why it was there,” Christina said desperately. She could not keep up this charade. Sooner rather than later she’d have to tell him. The truth always feels better when it’s out there on the table, Aunt Barb had been fond of saying. Sister Bernadette had been more succinct: A lie burdens your soul. “Maybe she was planning on having it cleaned herself.”

  “Or selling it and leaving us the money,” he countered.

  “But she didn’t sell it and now it belongs to Phoebe,” said Christina.

  “And to me.” How smug and proprietary he sounded. “Anyway, this so-called cleaning has taken long enough. I want the painting—today.”

  “Today?” Christina’s voice squeaked up, like a cartoon mouse. “That’s not possible.”

  “Why not?”

  “Well, I don’t even know if the restorer is there.”

  “So call him and find out. Or we could walk over there. You said he’s on Union Street.”

  “It’s so cold out,” she said, wretchedly aware of how pathetic her excuse sounded. “Can’t we wait for a warmer day?”

  “Look, I’m sick of this.” He stood up, looming over her. “If you won’t help me get it, I’ll go over there myself.”

  “I’m afraid that won’t do any good.” Christina stood up too.

  “What are you talking about?” His dark eyes glowered.

  “He’s gone. Vanished somewhere. I’ve been trying to find him for weeks.”

  “What?” His voice was low and furious. “What are you saying? Does he have the painting?”

  “I don’t know,” she said.

  “You don’t know! But you recommended him. You said you’d known him for years, that he could be trusted.”

  “And everything I said was true. I’m as astonished as you are. I would never, ever have guessed—”

  “You would never have guessed!” he sneered. “And who are you anyway? Some two-bit, second-rate decorator I didn’t even want to hire. I don’t believe you! You’re probably in cahoots with him—the two of you think you can steal this painting and actually get away with it.”

  “Just leave,” she said. She was shaking—with rage, with shame. “Leave right now.”

  “I’ll leave, all right,” said Ian. “But as of this minute, you can consider yourself fired. And you’ll be hearing from my lawyer. I’m slapping you with a lawsuit so big and so fast it’ll make your head spin.” Christina recoiled as he marched past her. She beat him to the door, though, and deftly managed to stop it before it was slammed shut in her face.

  THIRTY-ONE

  Although it was long past midnight, Christina could not sleep. Outside her window, the March wind whistled and blew. Even though Andy assured her that it was the Haversticks’ responsibility to contact the police about tracking down the missing painting, she was still sick about it. And though she may not have had a legal responsibility, she did have a moral one, and so she had called Phoebe. But Phoebe did not return the call. She also failed to return the two subsequent calls Christina made. And she did not answer Christina’s e-mail. There was really nothing else she could do. Still, the whole thing left her shaken and upset. That ugly scene with Ian kept replaying over and over in her mind. And even when she managed to banish it, briefly, it was supplanted by the worry over money—she’d gone and lost the biggest and most lucrative job she’d had in a while and right now there was nothing on her immediate horizon that would replace it.

  But there was no point to lying here fretting; she would get up and make herself some hot milk. On the way to the kitchen, she heard the sound of coughing. Jordan. Standing outside her daughter’s room, she listened to the ragged, nasty sound for a moment before tapping on the door. “Are you all right?” she said, switching on the light.

  Jordan was sitting up in bed, fine light brown hair that was so much like Christina’s hanging down over her thin neck and bony shoulders. Christina realized she had not seen her hair down in months and was actually relieved to know that Jordan did not go to bed wearing that tightly bound bun.

  “I’m okay. It’s just a little cough.”

  “Hardly little. You sound terrible.” She looked over at the rabbits—Jordan had kept one of the babies—and they were both awake as well.

  “I’ll be fine, Mom. But since you’re here, could you get me some water? Please?”

  In the morning, Christina wanted Jordan to stay home from school. The Winter Ball was the next day and the girl had been pushing herself relentlessly. But Jordan breezed into the kitchen, hair pulled tight into its customary bun, digging through the cabinets for one of those atrocious bars she insisted on calling food.

  “At least let me make you a cup of tea,” Christina said.

  “No time for tea, Mom. But thanks.”

  “I’ll put it in this—” She held out a stainless-steel thermos. “You can have it on the subway.” Jordan looked exasperated—I told you I’m fine—but she waited while Christina made the tea, and deigned to accept it before walking out the door. That evening, she had a rehearsal, and refused all offers of dinner when she got home, saying she’d had something to eat with her friends in the city. All she wanted to do was go to bed.

  Christina watched her slender young back, straight and resolute, as she ascended the stairs. Then she returned to her laptop, where she had been researching some difficult-to-find silk fringed tassels for a bunch of pillows she was having sewn for a client. Jordan’s self-discipline was formidable, and at times even just the littlest bit scary. This past month especially she had given herself no slack at all. She rose early, went to school, ballet classes and rehearsals, brought home superlative grades, and never once complained about her punishing schedule. And if Jordan had not come to love Andy, she was at least polite.

  Here was some fringe that looked like it would work—thick and seemingly lush, the tassels were a full three inches long. But it was imported from Belgium and cost forty-two dollars a yard, which meant her estimate was too low; she wasn’t sure the client would swallow the added cost. It was a small job, but she was in no position to jeopardize it. She sent an e-mail to feel her out on the price, bookmarked the page, and switched off the computer.

  That night, she lay awake for a long time, once more plagued by sleeplessness. Finally she got up and went to Jordan’s door. No coughing. Relieved, she went back to bed. She was more nervous about this performance than Jordan seemed to be. Andy had kindly arranged for Lucy to make everyone a light supper and then Jordan could head over to the theater from there. But that afternoon Christina received a call from the school nurse. “Jordan’s running a fever and I think she should go home,” she said.

  “Did she ask to come home?”

  “No. She said she had a terrible headache and wanted some Tylenol. She actually was pretty insistent on staying in school. I’m the one who thinks she should leave.”

  “She has a performance tonight,” Christina explained. “It’s only a very small part, but she’s been under a lot of pressure.”

  “Maybe if she sleeps for a co
uple of hours, she’ll feel better,” said the nurse. “But keep an eye on her temperature. It was a hundred and one when I took it.”

  While she waited for Jordan, Christina called Andy to say that they would not be joining him for dinner after all. “How sick is she?” he wanted to know.

  “One hundred and one,” she said.

  “Any other symptoms?”

  “Headache and a stiff neck.”

  “Stiff neck? That could be serious. She should see a doctor.”

  “I don’t think she’ll agree. And she says she strained her neck in ballet class.”

  “Are you a doctor?” His tone sounded a bit condescending. Bullying even. “Also, she’s not eating enough,” he said. “Have you noticed how thin she is? What does she weigh?”

  “I don’t ask her questions like that.”

  “Well, you should.” Again that tone. “Are you really going to let her perform tonight if she’s not well?”

  “Let me see how she seems when she gets here. I’ll pump her full of Tylenol and then take her to the doctor tomorrow.”

  “You’re her mother. If you insist she has to see the doctor today—”

  Christina heard the key in the lock. “That’s her now,” she said. “I’ll call you back.” Honestly, he could be so pushy at times.

  Jordan looked awful. There were two hectic spots on her otherwise pale cheeks, and her eyes looked glassy. “Oh, you poor darling!” said Christina. “Why don’t you go right upstairs and lie down?”

  “I’m not missing the performance tonight,” Jordan said defiantly. “I’m not.” She let her backpack tumble to the floor; a couple of pens and a highlighter rolled out and scattered, coming to rest at the edge of the rug.

  “No one said anything about not performing tonight. I just want you to rest now so you’ll feel well enough to dance later.”

  “All right, but you have to promise to wake me up in time. Otherwise I’ll never forgive you.”

  “I promise,” Christina said. “Now please—go upstairs!”