1503951243

by Laurel Saville

  “Miranda’s baby,” Sally said.

  Dix stared at her. As if he didn’t know, as if there could be any other baby.

  “I thought the baby died with her,” Sally explained. “I thought the baby may have even caused her death. Both their deaths.”

  “Right,” Dix said. “That’s what Darius told me.” Wasn’t it? He remembered clearly the look on Darius’s face, the sad, slow shaking of his head when Dix had asked about the baby. He couldn’t remember all the details of what Darius had said. But he could remember the feelings. Feelings he didn’t want to recall.

  “The baby didn’t die,” Sally said. “They have her. They’re hiding her. They’re hiding Miranda’s baby so they can raise her according to all his whacked-out principles.”

  “Why are you telling me this?” Dix asked, frustrated, growing angry that this woman was dragging out all these things he’d packed up, put away, gotten over. She was making a mess of all the emotions he’d so carefully organized. “What does Darius and Miranda’s baby have to do with me? Why does Darius have to hide his own baby?”

  Sally stared at Dix. “Darius and Miranda?” she asked, confused. “Darius’s baby?”

  Dix returned her look, challenging her to explain.

  “You thought . . .” Sally couldn’t complete her sentence. She dropped her head to her chest. “Dix. The baby. Not Darius’s,” she stammered. She lifted her face and met his eyes. “It’s your baby, Dix. Yours. That’s why I’m here.”

  My baby? My daughter?

  Sally shook her head in dismay.

  Dix remembered Miranda similarly shaking her head at him. As Darius had done when he’d asked about the baby. They’d deliberately misled him. Deceived him. He could not fathom that degree of falsehood. The heat of betrayal filled his body. He began to tremble. He wanted to vomit.

  Miranda had become pregnant by him. Not Darius. Flashes of her, of the two of them in bed together, cluttered his head. The feel of her hair. The smell of her skin. The release of his climax within her. He’d made her pregnant. He had a baby. Alive. His baby. Out there. Without him. He dropped his face to his hands. Then he looked directly at Sally.

  “That bitch,” he said. “She stole my baby.”

  “Do you want to go get a cup of coffee?”

  They were standing outside the back door to Warren’s office. The three of them had just spent two hours together, sharing information and coordinating plans.

  “Probably a bad idea.” Dix answered his own question before Sally did. “Can’t be seen together.”

  “Right,” Sally said.

  “You going to be OK going back out there?”

  Sally shrugged. “Just like Warren said. We have to keep things as normal as possible until we can get a warrant and social services all lined up.”

  Dix stared off into a tree, where a squirrel was scolding them. “You sure they’ll tell you in advance when they’re coming in so you can get out of there?”

  “Believe me, the last place I want to be when the state shows up with a warrant and a baby seat is anywhere near Darius. Let them deliver the eviction notice. Let them fill up their banker’s boxes with evidence. I’ll make sure they tell me when it’s going to happen and when it’s done.”

  It was a hot day, even in the shaded parking lot. Dix lifted his ball cap and wiped his brow with his forearm.

  “Don’t worry, Dix,” Sally said. “It’ll be OK. They’ll move fast because of the baby. They’ll get her safe and into foster care quickly. Then it’s just a DNA test, home visit, paperwork, and she’ll be with you.”

  Dix wanted to cry. Dix never wanted to cry. But he had grown unaccustomed to kindness. He was unused to receiving help. He had never needed it before. He was also scared about becoming a father. And just as scared he’d never have the chance.

  Sally crossed her arms over her chest. “I do wish I could be there to see his face when they arrive, though,” she said. “Wipe that smug grin off his pretty little mouth.”

  “Yup,” Dix said. “And to watch him realize we are the ones who snuffed out his little world.”

  She nodded. “Too dangerous, though,” she said. “It’s bad enough he’ll know it was me. I’m going to be watching my back for a long time after this.”

  Dix expelled a breath. He shifted his weight from foot to foot.

  “What?” she asked.

  “I have an idea,” he said.

  Sally’s colleagues told her when they were going in. The night before it was to happen, she got back to The Source in the diffuse dark of a summer night. She ran into no one as she ascended the steps to her room. She heard footfalls above. Darius was in the attic. The lights were still on in the trailer. She stood at her window and watched as two of the women returned to the farmhouse.

  For the last time, Sally thought as the lights went out across the yard. This is the last night you will spend in my house.

  Dix wanted Sally at his place two hours before dawn. She was afraid to go to bed, afraid to sleep. As if staying awake, on guard, could guarantee success. She listened to the floorboards creak as Darius dropped his weight onto the thin mattress overhead. A toilet flushed and a door closed across the hall. Silence descended. Sally stood by the window, watching the sky darken, waiting for everyone to fall into a deep sleep, then tiptoed around her room, packing a bag with a few essentials, a couple of changes of clothes. She hadn’t made any preparations for what was about to happen. She hadn’t wanted anyone to discover she was making plans of any kind. She’d stay in a motel for a few weeks, or however long it took to evict them. However long it took her to recover some equilibrium. Then she could come back. Then she’d figure out the next step.

  Her bag packed, there was nothing to do but wait. She pulled up a chair and watched the moon rise, the stars prick the black curtain of sky. Hours passed. She’d never sat this still for this long. Her mind emptied. There was nothing for her to do. This was a new feeling. She checked her watch. Soon it would be time to go, to slink down the stairs to her truck and drive away. After this morning was over, nothing would be the same again.

  A muffled cry spilled into the dark. Sally listened as it was hushed.

  Don’t worry, little baby, she thought, making the words a singsong in her head. Don’t you worry. Soon, this will all be over. Soon, your real life will begin.

  Mine, too, it occurred to her. Mine, too.

  An hour later, she was making her way up Dix’s driveway. He met her with a steaming mug of coffee, which she gulped gratefully.

  “I’m not exactly an outdoorsy person,” she said. “More a Stewart’s doughnuts-and-pizza type. Just so you know.”

  Dix smiled and said nothing. Their breath sent vapor up between them in the cool predawn air. She handed him the mug when it was empty. He took it indoors and came back with a small pack. He patted the side, indicating a slender metal thermos.

  “There’s plenty more coffee in here.”

  He handed her a headlamp and then helped her stretch it over the ball cap on her head and switched it on for her.

  “Ready?”

  She nodded. “Just remember that my legs are, like, half as long as yours, and I’m completely out of shape. Just quit smoking. Sort of.”

  They broke into the woods at a spot where Sally would never have even noticed a trail. She kept her head bent so the headlamp illuminated the small track that wound through the dense trees. She lifted her face from time to time and was reassured by Dix’s broad back only a few steps in front of her. They trudged on in silence. In the dark, Sally had no sense of time. Her thoughts were hazed with sleep deprivation and anticipation. Her feet moved forward in mindless repetition broken only by the occasional stumble over a clod of dirt or a downed sapling. Dampness seeped into her shoes and through her socks. Movement kept her toes from getting chilled. Eventually, her lungs began to burn with exertion.

  I’ve got to quit smoking for real, she thought. I’ve got to eat better. I need to start taking care o
f myself. Today is a fresh start. Today, everything changes.

  She was too stubborn to stop or ask for a rest. But her body was about to give up on her. She heard birdsong. Silhouettes of individual trees crept out of the dawn. Small breaks of sky overhead were just becoming visible through the canopy. Her legs were heavy, her muscles spent. She slogged forward and bumped into something. Dix. He’d stopped in the track.

  “Sorry.”

  He was looking upward. “Tired?” he asked, peering down at her.

  “Didn’t sleep well last night,” she said.

  “Me neither.”

  “At all, honestly.”

  “Me neither.” Dix removed her headlamp and then his own, stuffed them into the backpack. “We’re here.”

  Sally looked in the direction of his gaze and saw an enormous tree with a smooth gray trunk and stout, horizontal limbs. It reminded her of an elephant. The ground around it was littered with bristled nut casings. Dix motioned her forward, interlaced his long fingers into a stirrup, and held it out for her to step into.

  “Are you fucking kidding me?” she said.

  “C’mon,” he said. “Up we go. Don’t want to miss the show.”

  Dix helped her climb from one limb to the other, alternately supporting her from below or lending her a hand from above, until they were settled on a branch high enough up that Sally dared not look down. Dix took a wide piece of webbing from his pack, wrapped it around her waist and the tree trunk, and then ratcheted it snugly closed. Supported in this way, Sally began to relax. Dix then draped a pair of binoculars around her neck, put a granola bar in her pocket, and handed her a cup of coffee from the thermos. His movements were so fluid and understated, it took Sally some moments to register how well he was caring for her. Only he wasn’t, really. He was just doing what needed to be done. Just being Dix. Even knowing him as little as she did, she could see that.

  Through the dissipating mists, the increasing light, and a gap in the layers of tree branches, Sally could see the lopsided roofline, sagging porch, scrappy yard, and, farther in the distance, a corner of the trailer at The Source. The whole place looked uninhabited. Long uninhabited. It was hard to believe she had left there only a few hours ago.

  Dix shifted on his branch and Sally gestured at him with the thermos. He shook his head and brought his binoculars to his face. They didn’t talk. They just stared and waited. Sally felt light-headed. Her hands trembled slightly. No sleep, no breakfast, this absurd errand, and this crazy perch. But still, she was glad she was here. She wanted to see this. She took a few bites from the granola bar. Another gulp of coffee. Then Dix leaned forward and Sally looked in the direction his binoculars were pointed. Red and blue lights were coming toward them, up the driveway. Sally reached for her binoculars and, in the process, dropped both the coffee and the bar. She didn’t look after them, just listened to the metal cup ping off a few branches, echoing in the morning stillness.

  By the time she got her binoculars focused, there were three cars blocking the drive: a beige late-model, state-issued sedan, which she knew was driven by a social worker; a black unmarked police car; and a police cruiser with its lights spinning in the early-morning air. She figured there was another cruiser positioned down by the road. Doors slammed in quick succession as the cars emptied. She watched two officers, one plainclothes and the other uniformed, step up to the farmhouse. The cop rapped his knuckles on the door, but the sound didn’t carry to her perch. Another cop and the social worker went to the trailer and did the same. The farmhouse door opened. The trailer’s did not. The cop took Darius by the arm and cuffed his hands behind his back before walking him to the cruiser and pushing him into the backseat. Then they pushed their way into the trailer, and the social worker emerged a few minutes later with a blanketed bundle over her shoulder. The cop and beige car drove away. The two men left went into the farmhouse. They’d be in there awhile, Sally knew. Looking around. Collecting evidence. Telling the women to leave. The scene returned to empty silence.

  Sally stared into the void. She felt Dix, on the other side of the trunk, doing the same. It seemed there should have been more. She didn’t know what sort of more she wanted, but something. The whole scene had transpired in minutes. Darius didn’t resist. The baby didn’t even cry. And yet, everything was suddenly, dramatically different. She let her binoculars fall to her chest. Dix did the same.

  “She’s safe now?” he whispered.

  “Yes, Dix. Yes, she is.”

  He cried then. Sally could feel it—the regular, gentle vibration as the tree shook in solidarity with his sobs. It didn’t last long. One sustained spasm of grief and relief. Once he had composed himself, they climbed down. Dix helped Sally through the awkward process, showing her where to grab hold, taking her foot and placing it on a branch, supporting her with a palm on her back. When they were on solid ground again, he retrieved the cup she had dropped and left behind the granola bar for the squirrels but took the wrapper. They found the trail and started back, now walking slowly in the filtered light and warm breeze of a bright summer’s morning. There was no hurry, nowhere either of them needed to be. They were unburdened. They had set everything in motion, and now other people were taking care of all that had been weighing on them.

  They walked as if in a daze. All the stress and anticipation had left them both, a rush of water down a drain. The amped-up emotions would return, they both knew. The world of lawyers and court cases was waiting for them. But for now, for this brief interlude, they were simply two people on a walk in the woods. Sally watched as Dix stopped and squatted from time to time to examine something near or in the trail. He picked apart bear scat and owl pellets. He pointed out faint deer tracks and ginseng patches. He named the trees and mushrooms, the birds that flittered past and the ones that beat their bills against a tree.

  “Guess dealers pay good money for these wild things now,” he said. “Mushrooms. Ginseng. Sell them to restaurants.”

  “Foraged,” Sally said. “That’s what they call it now, right?”

  Dix nodded.

  “Another one of those words from away,” she said. “We always just called it picking berries.”

  “Yep. If those downstate diners knew some redneck collected this stuff in a dirty old basket, the chefs couldn’t charge extra for it. Foraged sounds so much more romantic, you know?” Dix said. “Kind of like using the word cabin for some three-thousand-square-foot, totally decked-out second home with every modern convenience.”

  “Right. No single-room shack in the woods held together with roofing nails, filled with beer cans and cigarette butts, smelling of sweat, wood smoke, and animal blood.”

  “You’re a local, then?” Dix asked, recognizing how much was already, natively understood between them.

  Sally said the name of a town that was also that of a prison.

  “Guard?”

  She nodded, answering his question of what her father did for a living. As if there was anything else her father might have done in that place.

  “Disability now. For a long time,” she added.

  Dix sighed, and in that exhalation she heard sympathy—for her and also for all those people in this part of the world who relied on “the system” to stay alive.

  They walked on. The light slanted through the dark branches and green leaves. Sally took in the layers of mature evergreens and deciduous trees, the smaller shrubs and young, spindly saplings reaching toward the intermittent patches of sun. She inhaled the damp, tangy smell of decay. She listened to some animal chattering up in the canopy. She heard a long, plaintive bird call. She realized that the bulk of her life had been spent experiencing the woods from the road and the inside of her car. She had seen them as little more than a wall of trees that hemmed her in on her way to somewhere else and occasionally jettisoned a frantic squirrel or startled deer into her path. She had never tried to experience, much less enjoy, the mountains that surrounded her as a park, a place of beauty and recreation. That was all fo
r rich visitors and tourists. To the people she knew, the woods were a place to hunt, trap, fish, snowmobile, or avoid. She did none of the former, so instead she did the latter. Maybe this was something else she could change. Maybe, these woods could be something she could take some time to enjoy. Like Dix did. Dix, who was clearly as comfortable in the mountains as in his own backyard, was stopped in the path up ahead, adjusting his boot laces.

  Waiting for me, Sally thought. Giving me a rest. A polite man. A nice man. What a concept.

  “You from around here?” she asked when she caught up.

  “Yup,” Dix replied. “Dad’s side’s been here for generations. Mom was from away. They met in architecture school.”

  “Architects.” Sally tested the word. “I’ve never met an architect. Where’d you go to school?”

  Dix looked mildly amused at Sally’s question. She figured most people he encountered assumed he hadn’t gone to college. At least most people from away.

  “Started at Paul Smith’s. In forestry. Finished at St. Lawrence in environmental studies. You?”

  “Plattsburgh State.”

  Sally knew she and Dix were filling in worlds of information about each other. She, blue collar, state school, state job. He, professional parents, private college, self-employed. But they were both locals, shaped by the land and the weather, the people and their pervasive view that life was pretty much just a long, hard slog.

  They began to trade stories that had recently been in the news—or just in the air. There was the man who had allegedly offered a woman he befriended at a bar his life insurance policy if she helped him commit suicide by driving over him in his car. Which she did, and got jail time instead of an inheritance. The contractor hired to do some grading work at the cemetery who got drunk, climbed in the tractor in the dark, and pushed several dozen headstones over a cliff and into the river before rolling the machine over on himself, crawling out, falling asleep in the grass, and waking up with no injuries save a bad hangover. The young man who beat his wife to death and was pulled over for a broken taillight by police who found her corpse, three young children, and a litter of puppies in the car. The café owner who drank all night from her own bar. The pancake breakfast fund-raiser that raised $2,500 for the local girl without health insurance who got internal injuries and a leg broken in several places when she crashed her ATV, and how small a dent that would make in her six-figure hospital bills. The need for volunteer firefighters and medics. The closing of the post office.