Love Over Matter

by Maggie Bloom

  With a covert glance, the man scans the street. “Come in,” he says, gesturing frantically at the door. “And hurry up.”

  * * *

  Cinnamon. As soon as we set foot in the toothpick-skinny home of Ruth Dawson’s neighbor, a cloud of the sweet spice swallows us. “Are you, like, making cider or something?” I ask, probably rudely, as our little gang huddles around a hefty wooden coffee table in the shag-carpeted, furniture-stuffed living room.

  The old guy ignores me, clomps around snatching newspapers and opened mail into rough piles. When the seating areas are clear, he barks, “Well, don’t just stand there. Cool your jets already.” He drops into the head-honcho chair, a tufted-velvet recliner with a view of the street, and waits for us to finish a musical-chairs-style dance. Once we’re settled—Opal, Haley, and me on a squishy sofa, Ian and Rosie on its matching love seat—the guy continues, “I’m Lionel, by the way. Or Mr. Rabinski, if you prefer. And who might you be?”

  “My name’s Ian, sir. And this is Rosie, Opal, Haley, and Cassandra,” Ian says with a wave down the line.

  The guy gives us a raggedy-toothed grin. “Lucky man, all these beautiful ladies on your arm.”

  Ian looks tongue-tied, so I redirect the conversation. “So . . . did you say you know Ruth Dawson?”

  “I wish you’d stop saying that. If anyone’s listening, we could be . . .”

  “We could be what?” Haley snaps.

  Mr. Rabinski pulls the drapes back, steals a paranoid glance outside. When he’s satisfied we’re in the clear, he leans toward us and lowers his voice. “In trouble with the CIA.”

  Okay, it’s official: the dude is cuckoo—which you’d never guess by the way Haley’s eyes widen. “I’m sorry,” I say. “But if you don’t have any information about Ruth Dawson, we should probably be going. Right?” I look to Rosie and/or Ian for confirmation, but they’re as captivated by the CIA mention as my sister is.

  “Simmer down, French Fry, before you wake Eleanor.”

  Rosie scoots to the edge of her seat. “Is she your wife?”

  “Fifty-two years,” he says with a nod. “You kids from around here? Don’t sound like you are. Sound like you’re from New England somewhere. Massachusetts, maybe?”

  “Vermont,” reveals Ian. “We live in Milbridge.”

  Mr. Rabinski slaps his thigh. “See, I knew it.”

  I study the haphazardly displayed photographs on the fireplace mantel—big ones, small ones; some framed, some bare; multiple shots layered over one another. “That woman,” I say, pointing out a sepia-toned picture that towers above the others, “looks exactly like you.”

  “Good reason for that,” Mr. Rabinski says. “She’s my daughter, Caroline. The oldest of nine. All girls.”

  “Whoa,” says Opal, her only-child mind presumably blown.

  “It’s funny you should mention Carol,” Mr. Rabinski continues. “She was quite friendly with”—he points his eyes toward Ruth Dawson’s house—“you know who.”

  Oh, great. George’s mother is some kind of psycho villain who must remain nameless? The Voldemort of Middle Village, Queens? “What happened?” I dare to ask.

  “Come again?”

  “With Carol and Ruth. You said they used to be friends.”

  He draws a tense, whistling breath. “Can you keep a secret?”

  He’s come to the right girl—or, well, the right girl’s come to him. As for my pals . . . he’ll have to take his chances. “Go ahead.”

  “I probably shouldn’t tell you this,” he says in a resigned tone, “but it’s been so long now. And somebody should . . .”

  Uh-oh. I feel something serious coming. “Okay . . .”

  “First, what do you already know?”

  Ian throws me an encouraging nod. With a shimmy, I coax the birth certificate from my shorts. “We got Ruth Dawson’s address from this.” I pass the paper to Mr. Rabinski. “It belonged to our friend, George Brooks. He died in a car accident a couple of years ago.”

  He studies the sheet, takes his time putting two and two together. “Carol and Ruth were pregnant at the same time,” he says, his eyes misting over. “That’s what got ‘em so close, I think, even though Carol was in her thirties and Ruth was only about twenty-five.”

  The way’s he’s talking about everyone in the past tense gets me thinking they might be dead. “Does she live around here? Carol, I mean?”

  “Did at the time,” he says. “Her husband’s in the Navy. He was deployed to . . . well, I can’t remember now.” He chuckles and shakes his head. “But the point is, he wasn’t around for the pregnancy. Eleanor wanted Carol at home with us, in case something happened.”

  Rosie asks, “But everything turned out okay?”

  “Oh, yes. We’ve got the sweetest granddaughter, Paige. She’s headed to Vassar in two—maybe, three—weeks now.”

  This is all very fascinating, but . . . “And what about Ruth Dawson? Is she still next door? We tried knocking, but nobody answered.”

  He stares a hole through the birth certificate. (Seriously, I wouldn’t be surprised if smoke started billowing out of the thing.) “You’re picking at a scab here,” he says. “What happened . . . it weren’t right. But there was nothing we could do without risking everything.” Haley and Opal exchange intrigued looks; meanwhile, Rosie and Ian lean in to each other, their knees softly rubbing. “Now brace yourselves,” he continues, slipping the birth certificate back to me, “’cause the truth is a bit . . . unpleasant. See, your friend’s mother was, uh, arrested.”

  “Arrested?” echoes Ian.

  “As a spy, for the Russians. She was deported right after giving birth. We never heard what happened to her—or the baby. That really broke Carol up; she thought of that baby as part of her too.”

  My mind is as numb as an ice cube. “He was awesome,” I say about George. “Your daughter would have loved him.”

  With a scrunch of her nose, Haley inquires, “What about the father? Was he a spy too?”

  “That’s the interesting part: I don’t think so. Carol was pretty sure she knew who the father was. Praise the Lord, nobody ever asked us about it.”

  “You wouldn’t happen to remember his name, would you?” probes Ian.

  A shot of hope surges through me.

  Mr. Rabinski scratches at a patch of stubble on his chin and eyes us suspiciously. “Why? What’re you going to do if I tell you?”

  I give a genuine shrug. “Track him down, probably,” I say. “Find out who he is, what he knows about George—if he knows anything at all.”

  His expression relaxes. “He’s got a unique name. Sort of oddball, if you ask me. Shouldn’t be too hard to locate, especially if he’s still at the university.”

  “Vassar?” I ask.

  He practically busts a gut with a wheezy laugh. “Lord, no,” he says once he’s up to breathing normally again. “Columbia. He was a professor of . . . anthropology, I think. Ruth was one of his graduate students.”

  Haley says what I’m thinking. “I thought you said she was a spy.”

  “I said no such thing. And don’t you go pinning that one on me. That was Uncle Sam, all the way. The Ruth Dawson I knew was a good-natured young lady with a keen mind and a quick wit. Beautiful inside and out.”

  Sounds like George, I think. I hug his hoodie tighter around me. “So . . . the name . . . ?”

  “Smullen, David or Donald. I don’t recall which, for sure. I’d check Columbia first. The anthropology department. If he’s still there, he’s probably chair by now.”

  I survey the living room. “Do you have a computer?”

  “What do you think we are, cave people?” Of course we’ve got a computer.” He gives a disgruntled huff. “The thing’s even got its own room, for Pete’s sake.” He hobbles to his feet without me having to ask. “Well, what’re you waitin’ for? I ain’t got all night.”

  chapter 10

  Eleanor Rabinski should be cloned. Or martyred. Not only did she drag her
self out of bed at 10 p.m. to prep a guest room for five stray teens, she also stirred up a batch of the most delicious chocolate chip pancakes this world has ever known, complete with quivery gobs of almond-flavored cream (amaretto whip, she calls it). Needless to say, with a belly full of such yumminess, I slept like a Sherpa after a trek through the Himalayas.

  I slink up behind Ian in the Rabinskis’ office, my hair towel dried following a lukewarm shower. “You find anything yet?”

  When Mr. Rabinski told us (indignantly, I might add) that he owns a computer, he failed to mention that the machine in question is twelve years old, at least, and operates at sloth speed. “Believe it or not, I did.” Ian swivels the robot-head monitor to face me. “Dr. David Smullen,” he says, poking at the screen, where a picture of a genteel-looking middle-aged man greets us. “He’s a professor of history and anthropology.” He scrolls the screen along so I can appreciate the full biography we’re viewing. “And look: he’s got like seven or eight books published—and a bunch of research articles too.”

  I always knew George was smart; I just never expected this. “Wow,” is all I can say.

  “So what do you want to do?” Ian asks.

  “How much time do we have?”

  “Until?”

  I’m lucky my parents bought the excuse Rosie cooked up yesterday. They may not be so receptive next time. “It’s pretty close to here, right?” I ask about Columbia. “I mean, I’m sure I spotted a couple of signs during our drive.”

  “If you give me ten minutes, I can Mapquest it. Or we can just use the GPS.”

  Haley and Opal wander in and flop down on a frilly daybed tucked against the wall. “When are we leaving?” my sister asks, her tone a cross between bored and annoyed.

  My eyes dart for the door. “Shh! Someone might hear you.”

  “They know we’re leaving,” she shoots back. “Sheesh.”

  “Don’t be rude, Haley,” I say.

  Ian fiddles with the keyboard for another minute, a number of the keycaps stuck or outright missing. “Is Rosie okay?” he asks absently.

  “Sure,” Opal replies.

  As if on cue, Rosie flits into the office, looking dewy and refreshed. “What?” she says, noticing our overt stares.

  “We’re gonna get out of here soon,” I inform her, “so we can try to find George’s father before we have to head home.”

  She bites her lip. “I should probably call your parents again, don’t you think?”

  Haley twirls her hair, blows a giant bubble. (Where did she get that gum?)

  “I wouldn’t,” I say.

  A clip-clop sound echoes through the hallway. I turn, expecting Mr. Rabinski, but instead Eleanor peeks in. “Anything I can do for you before my walk?” she asks. We murmur a round of thanks but no thanks. She gives us a broad, jolly smile, her eyes crinkling at the edges. “I left a pitcher of tea on the counter. You’re welcome to it. If I don’t see you again, it was nice meeting you all. And good luck with your search.” With a flap of her arm, she exits, stage left.

  Ian powers the computer down, and the five of us traipse off to the living room, where Mr. Rabinski is hard at work solving the Jumble, the daily newspaper folded neatly on a tray table in front of him. “You find what you were looking for?” he asks, a pair of wire-rimmed glasses poised to coast off the tip of his nose.

  “Yup,” says Ian. “All set.”

  A brief silence ensues. “So . . . I guess we’ll be going now,” I say. I clear my throat. “Thanks for everything. We really appreciate it.”

  At once, Haley and Opal confirm, “Yeah.”

  “Whatever you do,” instructs Mr. Rabinski, “stay mum about the Russians.” He makes a twisting gesture across his lips. “The less anyone knows the better.”

  I’m figuring that if Dr. Smullen knows anything about George, he’s also in on the whole spy caper thing (maybe not in on it, in on it—but at least marginally aware). “Will do,” I agree.

  Rosie takes the lead out the door, followed closely by Opal and Haley. Ian and I linger a bit longer, exchanging uneasy glances until finally I say, “Okay, well . . . see ya.”

  Mr. Rabinski simply grunts in reply.

  * * *

  The toughest thing about sneaking into Columbia was the parking—or lack thereof. “I’d better not get towed,” Rosie says, throwing an anxious glance at the Bunny Mobile, which is parked inches off the bumper of an armored vehicle, within the buffer normally allotted to a fire hydrant.

  “You should be fine,” says Ian, clapping a reassuring hand over her shoulder. Strangely enough, she doesn’t flinch.

  Following a vigorous jaunt, we come upon a maze of gorgeous stone buildings sending Columbia hopefuls in conflicting directions. “Okay, what now?” asks Haley.

  I turn to Rosie, the only one among us with real-life college expertise. “Let’s just find the anthropology building,” she says, sounding nonplussed. “His office should be in there—or at least close by.”

  We venture into the labyrinth, its pristinely kept grounds and intricate masonry mimicking an Italian piazza. “This is so . . . neat,” I say, struck not only by reverence for this Ivy League institution but by the likelihood that, within a matter of minutes, we’ll be face to face with George’s father, the Y-chromosome contributor to my best friend and secret love’s existence.

  After another extended stroll—and much oohing and aahing over columns and statues—it becomes clear that the “anthropology building” doesn’t exist. Luckily, Ian recalls a bit of text from Columbia’s website suggesting that anthropologists are corralled in a spot called Schermer-something.

  Five minutes later, we’re striding through Schermerhorn’s hallowed halls, rubbing elbows (and hips and ankles) with genuine Columbians. Yet Dr. Smullen’s office eludes us. “Maybe we should ask someone,” Opal suggests.

  Because it’s summertime, the halls are relatively deserted, our fellow travelers appearing in staggered bursts like fireworks on the 4th of July. “Go ahead,” says Haley. “Hit up the next person we see.”

  As luck would have it, the next person we see is . . . Dr. David Smullen, a ceramic coffee mug in one hand and . . .

  There’s no delicate way of saying this: George’s father has a hook-arm, a fact that was definitely not highlighted in the brochure.

  Ian and I swap panicked, confused looks as the doctor zips past us. “That was him, right?” I whisper.

  Rosie says, “Huh?”

  Ian doesn’t bother answering. Instead, he spins around and hightails it after the doctor. “Excuse me, sir!” he calls. Dr. Smullen gets off another step or two before Ian repeats, “Sir!”

  Finally, the doctor stops, eyes us with the same penetrating gaze George employed when he was determined to get to the bottom of something. “Hmm?”

  “Are you Dr. David Smullen, the anthropologist?” Ian asks needlessly. The proof of the man’s connection to George is as obvious as the freckled nose on his face.

  “I am.”

  To quote Haley: What Now?

  Ian extends a hand as if to shake but withdraws it when the hook-arm situation dawns on him. “Do you have a minute,” he asks with a head bob at the rest of our crew, “to talk to us?”

  “Regarding?”

  A brilliant idea (if I do say so myself) practically bonks me over the head. “He’s a huge fan of your work,” I say, stepping into the conversational fray. I dig deep for a book title or two. “In Absentia; Boys to Men. He’s sort of obsessed with them, really.”

  Dr. Smullen gives Ian a skeptical squint. “You read anthropology texts? Recreationally?”

  Ian manages to simultaneously shrug and shoot me a withering glare. “Well, sure, but that’s not the only . . .”

  The doctor checks his watch, an expandable metal number strapped around his plastic forearm. With a frown that breaks my heart (man, I miss George), he says, “I’m running late for a lunch meeting. Perhaps we can discuss this at another time?” He smiles briefly, then res
umes his purposeful stride, leaving us in the dust.

  After a couple of seconds of shocked silence, Haley says in an accusatory tone, “What was that?”

  “I didn’t see you doing anything,” I snap back.

  Opal and Rosie ignore us, dash off after the doctor as if they’re swooning tweens in pursuit of the hottest new boy band. “We’ve gotta make a plan,” Ian tells me as we follow along. “So . . .”

  Honestly, I don’t know what we were thinking coming here. Other than informing an already burdened guy (I mean, the mother of his child is a deported spy and he’s missing an arm) that his son—a child he may or may not even know existed—is dead, I’m not sure what we’re going to accomplish.

  Except . . .

  “I just think George would want his father to know him. Like, some stuff about him: his favorite color”—green, obviously: see hoodie—“what bands he liked”—The White Stripes and some obscure ‘80s group called Tears for Fears—“what he wanted to be when he grew up”—a geologist, or a chef, or an auto mechanic—“stuff like that.” By the wounded look in Ian’s eyes, I figure I’ve hit a nerve. Sometimes I forget he was George’s friend too. “Sorry,” I say.

  Up ahead, the trio of Dr. Smullen, Rosie, and Opal exits Schermerhorn and keeps on trucking. “Pick up the pace, people,” Haley says, pulling away from Ian and me.

  At the moment, speed walking is not in my repertoire of skills, my mind racing with George-related anecdotes to spring on his father if I’m lucky enough to get the chance. “Go ahead,” I tell Haley, who needs no further encouragement to jog off.

  The good news is that we’re not going far. As soon as Ian and I hit daylight, the rest of our party slips inside a building called Uris. When we catch up, I realize we’ve tracked Dr. Smullen all the way to his meeting at a campus deli. “Maybe we should go,” I say, feeling creepy about my (and everyone else’s) stalkerish behavior.

  Ian says, “You’re kidding, right?”

  Dr. Smullen breezes through the food line, somehow managing to stack a tray full of goodies one-handed.