The Bullet

by Mary Louise Kelly

  The question of an inheritance had not crossed my mind before. There was no indication the Smiths had been rich, and in any case I wasn’t hurting for money. Still. Normal married people write wills leaving everything to each other. Failing that, they leave everything to their surviving children. I was the Smiths’ surviving daughter. So how must things have unfolded? What on earth happens when a couple is murdered, and their heir is three years old, and she ends up being raised with no contact with her past, not even the same last name?

  I had no idea how one might go about tracing such things, but I knew someone who might. Jessica Yeo. The newspaper researcher. Her job was to help track down information and people. Plus, she knew Atlanta.

  I picked up my phone and dialed.

  “That is so bizarre,” she answered. “I was about to call you. Literally, I was about to pick up the phone, and here your number shows up on my caller ID. Since I’ve got you now, is it Frannie with an i-e or with a y?”

  “Sorry, what?”

  “Your mom. Mrs. Cashion. Does she spell it F-R-A-N-N—”

  “Oh. With i-e. Why are you—”

  “Leland’s got me fact-checking your profile.” Clicking sounds came down the phone line; I pictured her blue fingernails flying over the keyboard. “It’s also kind of confusing, the way he’s written the section about the bullet. Did you get the MRI first or the X-ray?”

  “The MRI. But listen—”

  “I knew it!” she chirped. “You would think he could get the details straight. He was probably too busy ogling your chest to pay attention to the chronology.”

  That stopped me short. “Wow.”

  “Sorry. Sorry, sorry, sorry. I didn’t just say that. He is my boss, technically. But you are a woman, and you’re alive, which pretty much qualifies you as fair game in Leland’s world. Damn it! I didn’t just say that, either.”

  “He, umm . . . he must be an interesting guy to work for.”

  The typing ceased. “He didn’t really put the moves on you, did he? Not when he was interviewing you for a news story?”

  “He did. In a harmless kind of way.”

  “The bastard. His poor wife. But that’s exactly right: Leland’s so obviously harmless that it’s hard to get too riled up.” The clicking resumed. “Just a couple more questions. Did he get right that you haven’t been back to Atlanta to visit, anytime between 1979 and now?”

  “That’s right. Hang on, though. I’ve got a question for you. Is there a way to figure out what my birth parents’ Social Security numbers would have been?”

  “I’m sure there must be. Why?”

  “I’m sitting here parked in front of their old house. Waiting for your photographer, who’s late, by the way. And it occurs to me that the Smiths used to own this house. When they died, it must have been sold, and I have no idea where the money went.”

  “Oooh.” Jessica sounded intrigued. “I like it. You think there’s some nest egg out there with your name on it, that’s been racking up interest all these years?”

  “I’m not asking out of greediness. I’m mainly interested in where their possessions went. You know, if there’s a chance of getting back any personal items that might be meaningful.”

  “Sure, sure. You could check the property deeds. See who sold the house on behalf of your parents. Fulton County would keep those records, I think.”

  I hadn’t thought of that. “Do you know how to access them?”

  “Yep. Tell you what. Let me finish up this article for Leland. First thing tomorrow, I’ll nose around for you.”

  I exhaled. “That would be terrific. I’ll pay you for your time. And I’d be grateful if you could keep this between us, for now. No need to mention it to Leland.”

  “No problem. Let’s see what I turn up. It’ll be interesting. Very ­Watergate.”

  “Watergate?”

  “You know. Follow the money.”

  • • •

  WILL ZARTMAN WAS livid by the time he reached me. “Don’t you ever answer your phone?” he demanded. “Or is it just my calls that you ignore?”

  “I’m not ignoring you! I’ve been running around all day, and I was going to call you back tonight—”

  “I’ve left two messages, Caroline. I was getting worried that something had happened to you.”

  “I’m fine. Totally fine. I—”

  “No, actually, you’re not. That’s why I’ve been trying to reach you. Part of why I’ve been trying to reach you.” He cleared his throat. “I set things up with Dr. Gellert. The neurosurgeon. He can squeeze you in Friday afternoon. That works, right? You’re still flying back to DC tomorrow?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Good. I also showed your X-ray and MRI to an orthopedic surgeon, an old friend of mine from med school. He agreed that your original doctors must have decided against removing the bullet because it was jammed so tight in there, against so many important nerves.”

  “Makes sense.”

  “But his question was, what if the bullet has shifted? He thinks your wrist pain is almost certainly related. And that didn’t start until a few months ago. Which means something is pressing down in a way that it didn’t used to. Do you have a family history of osteoporosis?”

  “Will. For God’s sake. You of all people should know I have no idea what my family medical history is.”

  He sucked in his breath. “Of course. Sorry. The reason I ask is, as we age, our bodies change. The spine compresses. Most people lose about half an inch in height, every decade. That begins in our late thirties. How old are you exactly?”

  “Not old enough for my spine to be buckling, thank you very much.”

  “I can pull your chart, if you prefer.”

  “Thirty-seven,” I said disagreeably.

  “So you’re on the young side, but that’s around when it starts. Think of your disks as jelly-filled pads between your vertebrae. Over the years they lose fluid and flatten out. Like a house settling on its foundation.”

  “Oh, that’s a lovely image. My body, a collapsing old house . . .”

  “That’s not what I meant. Your body is a lot of things, but old and collapsing would not be the words that spring to mind.”

  I absorbed that. My face felt hot. I was blushing.

  “That was inappropriate,” he said after a long moment. “I apologize. I don’t know what came over me. ” He cleared his throat again, more ferociously this time. “I’ve lost my train of thought. I—oh, yes. My point was that if your spine has compressed—even by a millimeter—that’s a problem. We need to jump on it. My med school buddy suggested you get a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree X-ray taken, to give us a better idea what’s going on. What time does your flight get in tomorrow?”

  “I’m not sure yet. I need to sort out my reservation tonight.”

  “Do you actually have a ticket booked?” he asked suspiciously.

  “Yes, but I paid for a flexible fare. I wasn’t sure how long I would want down here.”

  “Would you e-mail me your itinerary once you nail it down?”

  “Why?” It was my turn to sound suspicious.

  “Because, Caroline,” retorted Will, “we’re not messing around here. There’s a piece of metal buried in your neck. Your symptoms suggest that it may have shifted. I don’t mean to scare you, but you can’t put this off. Do you understand? You could risk paralysis.”

  “Oh,” I said in a small voice.

  “All I mean to say,” he added more gently, “is that at a certain point, the risk of doing nothing begins to outweigh the risk of surgery. I think we may be nearing that point.”

  Sixteen

  * * *

  THURSDAY, OCTOBER 17, 2013

  The picture that ran on the front page of the Journal-Constitution was arresting.

  The photographer had screeched
up half an hour late, ranting about traffic and bad directions. He whipped out his camera and positioned me hurriedly on Mrs. Dorminy’s lawn, swearing the whole time. But his timing was exquisite. The portrait was saturated with golden light. My lips stood out, a slash of scarlet across pale skin. The angle of the shot made me appear smaller than I am, fragile even. The effect was haunting, even before you got to the caption: Caroline Cashion standing in front of the house where she lived with her parents until she was three years old . . . On the inside pages, they ran the X-ray image, cropped to emphasize the bullet glowing inside my neck.

  It was surreal, reading Leland’s account of how I had returned to Atlanta. He told the story chronologically, and he got the facts more or less correct, yet the article felt somehow disconnected from me. I wondered if this is how celebrities feel when they see glossy profiles of themselves. There was nothing per se to quibble with; it just read like an account of someone else’s life.

  In any case, Leland Brett had been right. The article immediately produced results. Two phone calls. The first rang through the hotel switchboard to the phone beside my bed.

  “Hello, Caroline?” said a deep voice.

  “Yes?”

  “This is Ethan Sinclare. I was a friend of your father’s.”

  “Oh! Hi.”

  “Forgive me for calling so early. I’m staring at your picture in this morning’s paper. What a shock.”

  “It’s okay. But—can I ask how you got this number?” I was irritated with Leland. He had no business telling people where I was staying, not without checking first with me.

  It turned out, though, that Sinclare had figured it out on his own. “Lucky guess. It says in the article that you granted an interview over breakfast at the St. Regis. That’s not a place that AJC reporters typically frequent, I wouldn’t think. So it seemed reasonable to assume that’s where you must be staying.”

  “Ah, I see.”

  “I always wondered what had happened to you. The police wouldn’t tell friends of the family anything. It’s a relief to know everything worked out for you.”

  “Thank you. So how did you know Boone Smith?”

  “We were tennis buddies. Same ALTA team. That’s the league here.”

  “I didn’t know he played.”

  “Oh, sure. Boone was pretty good. He played varsity at Chapel Hill. We used to whack a ball around in the evenings, after work. We ended up doubles partners for a while.”

  “And you knew Sadie Rawson, too?”

  “Of course. Great couple. Both so proud of you. Listen, I’d love to meet you, if you’ve got the time. I don’t know how long you’re planning to stay in Atlanta—”

  “I’m flying back to Washington today, actually.”

  “Glad I caught you, then. I live just over in Brookhaven. How about breakfast? I could be at your hotel in an hour.”

  • • •

  ETHAN SINCLARE CROSSED the room as if he owned it. Tall and power­fully built, he had the lithe body of a man who still put in regular hours on the tennis court. Sinclare wore a dark suit and gleaming cuff links. He fit right in with the expense-account crowd now polishing off breakfast in the St. Regis.

  “Thank you so much for seeing me.” He took both my hands in his huge ones and gave them a squeeze, before taking his seat. “I couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw the article this morning. Usually I don’t see the paper until I get to the gym. Betsy—my wife—she reads the copy that comes to the house. But she was up early today, walking the dog, and the front page was already spread out on the kitchen counter when I came downstairs. It took my breath away.”

  He unfolded a white linen napkin across his lap. I saw now that he was older than he’d appeared from a distance. Salt-and-pepper hair, and a patrician face, tanned and deeply lined. He must have been sixty-five, maybe older. He sat studying me, too.

  “You’re very like her.”

  I nodded. “So I’ve been told.”

  “You really are. You’ve got her smile. She was tinier, though. Petite.” His eyes roamed over me, but not in a salacious, Leland-esque way. This did not feel sexual. “It’s jarring, seeing your face. Trying to reconcile it, you know, with Sadie Rawson’s. I didn’t know her all that well. And it’s been a long, long time. But the resemblance is unmistakable.”

  The waiter bustled up. “Good morning, sir. Madam.” He winked at me. “What may I bring you this morning? Your favorite sweet-potato pancakes?” God, they were good at these high-end hotels. This poor man must have served dozens of people yesterday, and here he remembered my order.

  “No, thank you, just the yogurt and fruit today. And . . . umm, maybe a side of bacon.”

  “Very good.” He bowed. “And for you, sir? Might I suggest the lobster frittata? Served with fingerling potatoes, fresh horseradish—”

  Sinclare, who had not so much as glanced at the menu, waved him off. “Two eggs, please, scrambled. With a whole-wheat bagel, toasted, no butter. Sriracha sauce on the side.”

  “Sir-rotch . . . sorry?”

  “Sriracha sauce. They’ll have it. Thanks so much.” Sinclare turned back to me and smiled. “Gives a bit of kick to the eggs.”

  “Ah. I’ll have to try it sometime.”

  “It’s come to me, now that we’re talking food. Why you look familiar. You do look like your mother, no question, but also a bit like that woman with the cooking show. The Englishwoman, looks Italian? Always licking frosting off her fingers.”

  “Nigella Lawson.”

  “That’s the one!”

  “I’m trying to remember exactly what she looks like. Whether I should feel flattered or insulted.”

  “Oh, feel flattered. The camera doesn’t zoom in and linger on all that frosting-licking for nothing. Betsy adores her show. But I gather you’re in a different line of work than the lovely Nigella. A professor, was it? French lit?”

  “That’s right. Up in Washington. And you? Are you a pilot?”

  “A pilot?” He looked confused. “Oh, you mean, because Boone was? No, that’s not how we met. I’m an attorney. Securities claims, broker-­dealer arbitrations, that sort of thing. The litigation side of things. Meaning lawsuits rather than corporate deals.”

  “I know what litigators do. My dad and brother are both lawyers.”

  “Your dad?” He shot me a strange look.

  “My dad, meaning the man who raised me. Thomas Cashion.”

  “Of course, of course. The article made it sound as though you don’t remember much about Boone and Sadie Rawson.”

  “Nothing at all, unfortunately.”

  “I suppose you were so young.”

  “I thought being back here might jog some memories. Seeing my old house, and all that.”

  “And has it worked?”

  “Not so far. The newspaper archives had an old photograph of my parents, and seeing it was . . . jarring, to use your word. But I can’t say I would have recognized them.”

  “Mmm. I might have a few pictures of your dad kicking around the house. I’ll have a nose through the old albums this weekend. Maybe some of us posing in our tennis whites. I’ll mail them to you, if I find any.”

  “That’s kind of you.”

  “And the bullet?” He lowered his voice. “Did you really not know it was there?”

  I shook my head no.

  “You poor girl.” He patted my hand across the white tablecloth. “What a thing to learn, after all this time. That X-ray is unbelievable. There’s no way they can operate and cut it out?”

  “The doctors aren’t sure.”

  “Well, if you decide you want another opinion, probably the best neurosurgeon in the Southeast is an old friend. Mike’s over at Emory now. I’d be happy to put you two in touch.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Just say the word. It’s no trouble. You d
on’t want to mess around with someone who’s not top-notch. But I assume you’re talking with good doctors up in Washington?”

  “Not really,” I hedged. “I’ve been too caught up with coming down here, and processing everything that’s happened, to give the bullet much thought.” Ethan Sinclare seemed like a nice man, but I didn’t feel like discussing my medical symptoms or my private life with him. It was exhausting enough trying to keep up with them myself.

  Sinclare insisted on picking up the check. As he walked me out, he pressed his business card into my palm and made me promise to keep in touch. “I don’t blog or do Facebook or any of that nonsense. But if you ever need anything, anything at all, call me. My cell number is on there. It would be an honor to help out the daughter of Boone Smith.”

  • • •

  I TOOK THE elevator back upstairs to pack.

  I’d booked an afternoon flight from Atlanta to Washington. I needed to get home to meet the neurosurgeon tomorrow, and meanwhile Madame Aubuchon had e-mailed from the French Department to inquire whether I felt inclined to teach my regular Friday-morning class. Her tone was polite, but there was no mistaking that the correct answer would be yes. I wrote back to confirm that I would indeed be there.

  I was looking forward to getting home. To resuming my normal life. I missed my campus routine, my hours in the library. And I was finished here. I had not achieved closure, whatever that meant. But it had been strangely comforting to sit at breakfast this morning, spooning up yogurt and listening to Mr. Sinclare rave about my birth father’s backhand. Apparently Boone had employed a weird grip, one hand so high up the racket it practically rested on the strings. Sinclare swore that it resembled a drunk man playing air guitar. But it had produced a ferocious topspin that left their opponents spitting with frustration, every time. I loved that detail. Not because I gave a damn about Boone’s tennis grip, but because I could glimpse him as a real person. I’d felt the same way when Cheral Rooney shared Sadie Rawson’s talent for scorching cookies. It was a relief to meet people who had known the Smiths, known them as funny, flawed, normal people—and not just as victims of a tragedy.