by Erin Healy
And his voice had filled her with an inexplicable combination of warmth and dread. She wondered about his phone call, an apparent afterthought to the letter. His insistent need to talk about Molly grated on her memory.
Lexi had parked facing the red-brick school’s main entrance. A man stood at the pay phone to the left of the front office, his back to Lexi, his ear and shoulder pinching the handset, his hips tilted so that all his weight was on one foot. The other foot tapped an irritated rhythm that caught her eye. A cigarette wobbled between the fingers of his left hand, burning like a slow fuse. Above his exposed elbow, partly concealed by his checkered shirtsleeve, a tattoo peeked out.
Warden Pavo, here, at Molly’s school. Lexi put her hand on the door handle and prepared to confront him.
The man’s chin turned in her direction, his eyes slanting toward the car and through the windshield as if he’d sensed her stare and was annoyed by it.
It wasn’t Ward. Lexi dropped her eyes to Grant’s letter, feeling on edge. No, not Ward—she stole a sly peek—but a handsome lookalike.
Ward had seemed handsome enough at first, when Grant first introduced her to him, but his good looks had paled against his increasingly offensive behavior, especially after Grant abandoned her. After Norm was sentenced. Ward hung around town, claiming that Grant owed him money. Ten thousand dollars or so, which he couldn’t have extracted from Lexi even with all the PIN numbers in the world. She didn’t even have five hundred, and what she did have wouldn’t go to any cause but her baby’s. Eventually she’d had to get equally nasty. He had suggested she could clear Grant’s debt with a more lecherous form of payment, and she threatened to call the sheriff.
Lexi withdrew Grant’s letter from the torn envelope and unfolded two papers, which had been torn from a wire-bound notebook. The ragged edges stuck together.
Grant’s familiar printing filled every other line.
Dear Molly-Wolly.
Molly-Wolly. Years had passed since Lexi last thought of her daughter by that endearment. Grant used to string rhymes like train cars onto her name: Molly Wolly Polly Golly Jolly Dolly. Holly! He’d go on with this game until she was giggling.
All this was before the meth.
Lexi’s hands were so cold. Her freezing fingers could barely hold the paper. And yet she was too frugal to keep the car and the heater running.
Too cheap, Gina might have said. Well, maybe so, but she had less than half a tank of gas to get her through the month, and in this little mountain town, gas could be more expensive than it was in New York or L.A.
Dear Molly-Wolly,
Do you remember how I used to call you that? It was a long time ago and you’re nearly all grown up now, but I still think of you that way and guess I always will.
I expect you’re angry at me for taking off and not being in touch for so long. But then, knowing your mom, you probably don’t even remember me. In fact, I’ll bet you have another dad.
The anger that flushed Lexi’s cheeks took the edge off the chill. Her old resentment reared its head. Grant, not she, had removed himself from Molly’s life. Right when they needed him most!
You might even have had several dads—what!—though I’m the only one who could legally lay claim to that title. I’d like to sit down and talk to you about what happened to make me leave. That’s the least I owe you, but your mom will prevent us from getting together if she can. I suppose I might look back on this as a mistake, because I can only imagine what she’s told you about me. She hates me, so you can bet none of it’s true.
Lexi’s mouth was open. Her mother had seen fit to pass this on to Molly? What was she thinking?
So I’m writing because I can finally set the record straight, Molly-Wolly. Now’s the time, for reasons I’ll explain when I see you.
“You won’t be seeing her at all, buster.” Lexi’s words came out of her mouth in a warm fog. She had never told Molly anything but the flattering truth about her father, unless one would call omission of the unflattering facts a lie. But really, what child needed to know her doting father blew his paychecks on a drug habit?
Your mom is a bit blind about some things and might keep you from contacting me. But don’t you think you deserve to know your real dad, or at least get your burning questions answered? She never loved anyone more than she loves herself, so we’ll do what we have to for YOU, okay? If you think you might like to talk with me, send me a note back, and I’ll work out the rest. No sense in getting your mom more lathered up than she usually is.
I hope it works out.
Dad
P.S. You can call me Grant if that’s more comfortable.
This was followed by a Riverbend post office box address. He was so close?
And her mom was running interference for him. Why?
If not for the fact that Molly expected Lexi to give this document back, and her failure to do so would cause more damage than the letter itself, Lexi would have crumpled it and heaved it into the trash can that sat next to the payphone. She would have chased it with a lit match!
Instead, the adult in her decided to rise to the occasion and figure out a way to speak with Molly about this, like . . . like an adult. She frowned, concentrating. How would she do it? Why should a nine-year-old be exposed to this kind of muck? Fortunately, Lexi thought, she had until three o’clock to calm down and choose a strategy. Perhaps she’d talk Molly into burning the thing herself.
Her mother would get an earful and a half and would be lucky if Lexi ever let her near Molly again.
{ chapter 6 }
When Molly emerged from the school at three, Lexi was cranky. She had left the car only for a ten-minute venture into the 7-Eleven across the street. She had heard they sold affordable prepaid cell phones there, without contracts, and Lexi thought she should have one for emergencies, all things considered. At least for now. But even those were out of her financial reach. She turned then to the pepper spray. It was time Molly started carrying it.
She left the store without one of those expensive items either, and planned to dig up the canister buried in the planter at the apartment.
For the rest of the day, she stayed in the school lot. To get her mind off the terrors of the prior night, and Ward’s threat against Molly, and the decision she needed to make about Norm, she kept her eyes on the school doors and composed letters in her head to Grant, telling him to stay out of Molly’s life. At some point, she switched to impersonating Molly. And then, overwhelmed by even these relentless thoughts, she’d rifled through the glove box in search of a napkin to write them on.
She emerged with a prestamped postcard, one of two she’d purchased for Molly to communicate with her grandmother. Sight of the stationery caused Lexi to wonder what might happen if she actually mailed her thoughts, disguised as Molly’s, to Grant. If he didn’t think the letter had come from his daughter, he’d keep pestering until he got what he wanted. Addicts were like that. Sneaky and persistent.
Grant, thanks but no thanks. Don’t bother asking me again. Molly. (Just plain Molly.)
Lexi wrote it, read it, and planned to mail it, then hesitated. Of all the adult ways in which she had planned to handle this mess, impersonating a child probably didn’t qualify.
The letter should have gone in the trash, would go in the trash when she got home. And yet she didn’t feel all bad about the exercise. It was good therapy to think she had done what she could to keep the man away from their girl. Her girl.
As she waited outside of the elementary school, she wondered if it was time she explained more to Molly, began to dismantle her daughter’s romantic notions of Grant slowly. Painlessly if she could. That would be tricky. She was a child still, and would be for some time. What would be worse for Molly at this point: telling her the truth or letting her have her fantasy?
A minute later she saw Molly come through the wide double doors. One more year here and she’d be off to middle school. Murderous Middle School. That social scene had nearly killed Lexi and was probably t
en times worse these days. She wanted her daughter to stay a grade schooler forever.
She wanted Molly not to know the truth about her father.
She wanted Molly never to suffer.
Molly started walking home. Lexi honked, and Molly’s head jerked in the direction of the car. Lexi waved, and the girl started jogging toward her, crossing her eyes and sticking her tongue out sideways.
She plopped herself onto the seat and kicked her backpack under the dash.
“I forgot you were coming.”
“Goofy girl!”
“Do we have time to go to the library?”
“What do you need there?”
“Book for a report.” She buckled in.
“When’s the report due?”
“Monday.”
“And I’m just now hearing about it?”
“It’s a little report. About Indians. The Pawnee. At least I’m not waiting’til Sunday night.”
Lexi set her lips in a thin line. “I’ll give you ten minutes to find what you need. Then I’ve got to get ready for work.”
“So did you read it?”
Lexi was tempted to play dumb. She had hoped for a little more time to ease into this topic.
“You mean your father’s letter?”
“Yeah. Did you?”
“Affirmative, Maynard.” Anything to keep the discussion positive for as long as possible.
“And?”
Studying the rearview mirrors, Lexi pulled onto the street so she didn’t have to look at Molly.
“Why don’t you tell me what you think first?” she said.
“I really want to meet him, Mom.”
“What?”
“I want to meet him. He sounds just like you’ve described to me— remember how you told me he used to make rhymes with my name? I always thought he never wrote because he forgot, but it sounds like that didn’t happen, like something kept him from getting back to us, and I want to know what it is. I’ve been thinking about it all day.”
Lexi’s spirit groaned. It was not at all clear how Molly got that out of Grant’s rude correspondence, but worse was that the mother and daughter were headed for a rare argument.
“Sweetie, adults sometimes make choices that don’t make sense to kids your age.”
In the silence that preceded Molly’s reply, Lexi had no doubt her daughter’s mind went through the paces of deciding exactly what her mother meant and whether the remark might be open-ended.
For a preadolescent, of course, everything was open-ended.
“That’s okay. I mean, even if I don’t understand it all right now, I’m sure he can tell me a lot. Don’t you want to see him again?”
Lexi saw that her past attempts to take the high road in regard to Molly’s memory of her father were about to backfire. Even so, she was unwilling to be perceived as the mean mom, which would be the only possible outcome of the discussion ahead, thus bolstering the claims Grant had made of her in his letter. She searched for a way to bring Molly to her own more accurate conclusions about Grant.
Sometimes, the strategy worked.
“He didn’t sound like he’d want to see me, hon.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean . . . that he sounds like he’s pretty angry at me.”
My daughter frowned as if Lexi spoke another language.
“What do you mean, angry? Where’s the letter?” She spotted the book bag in the back and twisted between the bucket seats to get it. “I thought he was super sweet.”
“Well, to you he was sweet.” Lexi cleared her throat. “I’m sure he has never stopped loving you. But the way he talked about me was disrespectful, don’t you think? That says something about him. The fact that he didn’t even want me to know he’d sent the letter to you—”
Molly cut her off, reading. “‘I haven’t had the courage to go to your mom about all this yet, but I will. I suppose I might look back on this as a mistake, going to you first I mean.’ What’s rude about that?”
“Where do you read that?”
“Right here.” She leaned across the stick shift and pointed to some part of the page that Lexi couldn’t study, not in the middle of traffic. “See? ‘Your mom is a smart woman and knows exactly what’s best for you.’”
“Don’t you go making stuff up, Molly. There was nothing like that—”
“Mom!” She stretched the word into three syllables. “This is a big deal! I’m not making up anything. You said you read this.”
“I did. And I almost threw it away.”
Molly held the letter to her chest and glared. “He wants to come back!”
“What about that garbage could make me happy? I’m starting to think we didn’t read the same letter.”
“Duh.”
“Molly Amanda!”
“You’re not being fair. To Dad.”
Lexi made a left turn. “Read it again, then, so we can talk about this like women.”
Instead, Molly read down to Lexi, pronouncing each word carefully and slowly, because it was clear to her that her mother hadn’t understood the simple letter the first time through.
“‘Dear Molly-Wolly,
“‘Do you remember how I used to call you that? It was a long time ago and you’re nearly all grown up now, but I still think of you that way and guess I always will. I expect you’re angry at me for taking off and not being in touch for so long. Maybe you don’t even remember me, and that’s okay. That’d be my fault.’”
“Molly, if your imagination is doing the talking right now, that won’t help anything.”
“It’s not!” She poked at the letter with her index finger. “It’s right here, and when you come to a stoplight I’ll show you! I knew you wouldn’t read this. You don’t want me to meet him, no matter what he says.”
What could Lexi say to that? The part about her wanting to keep Grant away from Molly was true enough, especially because it led to these kinds of delusions. Lexi glanced at her daughter as they continued. Molly gripped the letter with both hands and slouched over it.
“‘I owe you some explanation for not being there for you. If your mom will let me, I’d like to sit down and talk to you about that.’ See, Mom, that’s not rude.” She held up her hand so Lexi wouldn’t reply. “‘I haven’t had the courage to go to your mom about all this yet, but I will. I suppose I might look back on this as a mistake, going to you first I mean. It’s just that I’m thinking your mom might not want me to see you at all, and this might be my only chance to say I’m sorry, Molly-Wolly. I’m sorry and I’m hoping maybe you can forgive me. If you can’t, I’ll understand, but I wanted to ask it anyway.’”
Lexi’s heart was overcome by a sadness she hadn’t known since Grant left. Their daughter had so much hope for a reunion with her father that could never be, and she was changing her father’s lies to make her hope a reality. Why did she think she could get away with such a fabrication? What on earth possessed her to try this trick after she’d given Lexi the original letter?
“‘Your mom is a smart woman and knows exactly what’s best for you,’” Molly read. “‘She never loved anyone more than she loves you, so we’ll do what she thinks is right, okay?’” The girl is smart, she is. Her chances of getting what she wants always go way up when she puts me on a pedestal. “‘If you think you might like to talk with me, send a note back, and I’ll take it up with your mom then. No sense in getting her lathered up over something you don’t want in the first place. I hope it works out. I love you, Dad. P.S. You can call me Grant if that’s more comfortable.’”
They had traversed the short length of town to the opposite side, where the library, courthouse, mining museum, and post office lined up at attention across the street from King Grocery. Lexi pulled into the library parking lot.
“I want to talk with him, Mom.”
“Honey, I’m not sure—”
“You are so mean!”
Lexi sighed.
“You’re still mad at hi
m after all this time. You’re mad and you want me to be mad too.”
“No, Molly, that’s not what—”
“I’m gonna write to him anyway.”
Lexi raised her eyebrows.
“You can’t stop me.”
“I can ground you.” Lexi immediately wished she hadn’t said that. More than anything, she wanted to share Molly’s heartache. She knew a thing or two about losing a father. There was so much about parenting she’d never get right.
“I don’t care.”
“Molly, give me the letter.”
“No.”
She opened the door and got out, grabbing at her backpack. The strap snagged on the manual window lever, and the letter crumpled in her palm as she yanked at her things.
“Honey—”
Molly freed her pack and slammed the door. Lexi sighed into the silent space of the car.
For several minutes her mind rehashed the conversation. She wished for a redo. Only twelve hours ago she’d raced home, fearing for Molly’s safety, overwhelmed with gratitude to see her tucked in bed, and now here they were, hardly knowing how to speak to each other.
Lexi glanced at her watch—3:18. If only she didn’t have to be to work at four. Then they could talk this through over supper. She hoped that tomorrow morning they could try again, after they’d both slept on it.
For now, though, she would do what was necessary to protect Molly. She withdrew the postcard she’d written to Grant and walked it down to the post office, then dropped it into the blue box at the curb. For a half second after the metal door snapped its jaws shut and swallowed her deception, she wished it back. Was sending it the right thing? She might never know.
But Lexi was resolved: if Molly tried to write a letter of her own, she’d intercept that too.
{ chapter 7 }
In a high-security detention center one hundred miles south of Crag’s Nest, in a valley surrounded by a twisted mountain range, Warden Pavo was cleared for five minutes of visitation with Norman Von Ruden. He would be able to accomplish a lot in five minutes. A guard escorted the prisoner into the partitioned polycarbonate room where Warden had been waiting for ten.