by Kathy Reichs
The old man wiped both palms on his jeans.
“O’Hare’s using my troubles to get his name in the paper. Guipone’s a moron. The army’s got a dog in the fight. I ain’t a churching man, so I can’t ask the Lord who’s upright and who ain’t. I gotta go with my gut.”
Lowery swallowed. His discomfort was painful to watch.
“I listened to what you said back at the cemetery. To what you said just now. My gut’s telling me I can trust you.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“I’d appreciate you listening to what I got to say.”
“Shall we talk in my car?”
As I wheep-wheeped my door locks and cranked the AC, Lowery retrieved something from the dashboard of his truck. When he dropped into my passenger seat, a wave of cheap cologne and stale sweat rolled my way.
Not pleasant, but it beat the odors I’d just left behind.
Lowery pressed a gilt-edged album to his chest. Eyes fixed on something outside the windshield, he drummed callused thumbs on its red leather cover.
Seconds passed. A full minute.
Finally, he spoke.
“My mama give me a cracker of a name. Plato. You can imagine the jokes.”
“I hear you.” I tapped my chest. “Temperance. People think I’m a movement to reinstate prohibition.”
“So I picked good solid names for my boys.”
“Hard to go wrong with John,” I said, wondering at Lowery’s use of the plural.
“John wasn’t but five when he started collecting spiders. Lined ’em up in jars on his windowsill. Red ones, speckled ones, big hairy black ones. Got so his mama dreaded going into his room.”
I didn’t interrupt.
“Soon’s he could read, John took to borrowing at the mobile library.” The i in mobile was pronounced as in spider. “That’s all he talked about. Spiders this and spiders that. What they ate, where they lived, how they made young ’uns. Librarian got him every book she could lay hands on. I wasn’t working much, couldn’t buy.”
Lowery paused, gaze still on something outside the car, perhaps outside that moment in time.
“Folks took to calling him Spider. Nickname stuck like gum on a shoe. Before long, no one remembered nothing about John. Even his schoolteachers called him Spider.”
Again, Lowery fell silent. I didn’t push.
“Wasn’t just spiders. John loved animals. Brought home all kinda strays. His mama let most of ’em stay.”
Lowery turned toward me but kept his eyes lowered.
“Harriet. She passed five years back. Kidneys finally give out. Harriet was always poorly, even after the transplant.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“Spider offered his mama one of his very own kidneys. That’s how generous that boy was.” Lowery’s voice dropped. “Didn’t work out.”
I didn’t interrupt.
“Spider had a twin brother, Thomas. John and Tom. Good, solid names. Tom’s passed, too. Killed on a tractor in two thousand three. Losing both her boys just took the wind out of Harriet’s sails.”
“Grief has consequences not fully understood.”
Lowery’s eyes rose to mine. In them I saw the anguish of resurrected pain.
“You find a jar in that coffin, miss?”
“Yes, sir. I did.”
“I put that there.” He paused, perhaps embarrassed, perhaps regretting his disclosure. “Foolishness.” With a tight shake of his head, Lowery turned away. “I went out and caught a spider and tucked it in with my boy.”
“That was a very kind gesture, Mr. Lowery.”
“My boy.” Lowery thumped his chest so hard I jumped. “And he was growing into a fine young man.” Lowery’s jaw hardened, relaxed. “That’s why I’m going on like this. I want you to think of Spider as a person when you’re cutting him up.”
“Mr. Lowery, I won’t be the one—”
“His mama kept this.”
When Lowery leaned my way, the cloaked BO was almost overwhelming. Opening the album, he slid it toward me.
Each page held four to six pictures. Black-and-whites with scallopy edges. Baby and school portraits. Three-by-five drugstore prints.
I leafed through the pages, asking about people, places, events. Lowery gave short, often single-word explanations. Christmas of 1954. 1961. 1964. A trip to Myrtle Beach. Harriet. Tom. The house on Red Oak. The trailer at the lake. Each image included a younger version of the boy I’d first seen in Jean Laurier’s desk drawer.
One snapshot showed Plato and a woman I assumed was Harriet.
“Is this your wife?” I asked.
Plato provided uncharacteristic detail. “Harriet had real pretty eyes. One brown, one green as a loblolly pine. Damnedest thing.”
The next Kodak moment caught Spider, Plato, and Harriet on a pier. All wore shorts and light summer shirts. Harriet looked like she’d seen way too much sun and way too little blocker. A stack of creases V’ed into her substantial cleavage.
The second to last picture captured Spider under a balloon arch with a girl in glasses and hair piled high on her head. He wore a boutonniered white jacket. She wore a pink satin formal and wrist corsage. Both looked stiff and uncomfortable.
The album’s last entry was a formal portrait of a baseball team, twelve uniformed boys and two coaches, front row down on one knee, back row standing. A printed date identified the season as 1966–67.
Again, Plato’s answer was unexpectedly long.
“This was took Spider’s senior year, before he went off to the army. He weren’t much for sports, but he give it a shot. Mostly rode the bench. That’s him.”
Lowery jabbed at a kid kneeling in the first row.
I was raising the album when Lowery yanked it sideways.
“Wait.” He held the page out at arm’s length, drew it in, then out again. This time the finger-jab indicated one of the kids standing. “That there’s Spider.”
I understood the source of Lowery’s confusion. Both boys had the same dark hair and eyes, the same heavy brows curving their orbits.
“Wow,” I said. “They could be brothers.”
“Cousins, down through Harriet’s side. Folks used to confuse ’em. ’Cept Spider got the green eyes from his mama. Reggie’s was dark like mine.”
The image was too faded, the faces too small to note the difference.
“Thick as thieves, that pair,” Plato went on. “Reggie’s the one talked Spider into joining the team.”
The old man took back and closed the album. There was another long, long silence before he spoke again.
“My daddy fought in France. I did my duty in Korea. Got three brothers was army, one navy. Their sons all joined up. Not bragging, just stating a fact.”
“That’s admirable, sir.”
“Spider went off to Vietnam, come home in a box.”
Lowery inhaled through his nose. Exhaled. Swallowed.
“I’ve always had faith in the military. Now—”
Abruptly, he reopened the album, yanked out the team photo, and thrust it at me.
“I’m trusting you to do right by my boy.”
My estimate was low by over an hour. When I reached my town house in Charlotte, Gran’s mantel clock was already bonging ten.
Bird cut me off at the door, radiating disapproval.
After apologizing and filling the cat’s bowl, I stripped, chucked my clothes into the washer, and headed for the shower. While toweling off, I told him about my day in Lumberton.
I’d just slipped on pj’s when something banged in the kitchen.
Puzzled, I hurried downstairs.
I was crossing the dining room when Katy slammed through the swinging door.
The look on my daughter’s face froze the blood in my veins.
KATY’S HAIR WAS BLOND CHAOS, HER EYES WET AND RED. MASCARA smeared her lower lids and cheeks.
I rushed forward and drew my daughter to me.
“Sweetheart, what is it?”
Katy
stood mute, shoulders hunched, fingers curled into fists.
Urging her to the study and onto the couch, I reengaged my embrace and began stroking her back. She remained rigid, neither resisting nor responding to my touch.
Seconds passed. A minute. Finally, chest heaving, her body collapsed into mine. Tears soon dampened my pajama top.
My stomach knotted as memories kaleidoscoped in my brain. Childhood tragedies that had elicited similar tears. The death of her kitten, Arthur. The relocation to Iowa of her middle school best friend. The news that her father, Pete, and I were separating.
But Katy was twenty-four now. What could have happened to upset her so profoundly? Illness? A clash at work? A crisis involving Lija? Pete?
As with those long-ago heartbreaks, my response was lightning, instinctual.
Fix it!
But I knew. There was nothing I could do.
Feeling helpless, I caressed my daughter’s hair and made calming sounds.
Gran’s clock ticked a steady metronome. I remembered her gnarled old hand on my small head, her voice soothing me through my own childhood misfortunes.
Outside, a dog barked. Others joined in. A horn honked.
At one point, Birdie appeared in the doorway. Sensing high emotion, or perhaps hungry or bored, he moved on.
Slowly, inevitably, Katy’s sobs subsided and her breathing regained a normal rhythm. Pushing off from my chest, she sat up.
Normally perfect, my daughter’s face set a new standard for makeup gone wild. Backhanding her nose, she dragged clumps of long blond hair from her face.
I plucked tissues from a box and handed them to her. She wiped her eyes, blew her nose, then tossed the wad to the floor.
“Coop’s dead.” Barely a whisper.
“Coop’s coming home.” Stupid, but it’s what I said. I’d heard Katy’s words, but my mind had locked down.
“Yeah.” Fighting fresh tears. “In a box.”
I offered more tissues, clasped Katy’s hands. “What happened?”
“You haven’t seen the news?”
“I was in Lumberton all day.”
“Insurgents fired on their convoy. Coop was killed along with an Afghan driver and two women from England.”
“Oh, my God. When?”
“Yesterday.” She drew a tremulous breath. “I heard the story on CNN, never thought anything of it. They didn’t give names, not of the dead people nor the organization they worked for. Then today, they identified the victims. I . . .”
Her lower lip trembled. She bit down hard.
“Oh, Katy,” I said.
Sonofabitch, I thought.
But, yes, that’s how it would work. Identities would be released only after notification of next of kin.
“Have you phoned Coop’s family?”
“Yeah, right.” She gave a derisive snort. “I got some uncle or cousin or something. Basically, he told me to kiss off.”
“What did he say?”
“The guy hadn’t a clue who I was, couldn’t have cared less. Said the memorial service would be private. Thanks for calling. Go screw yourself.”
“Where were they attacked?”
“Some road outside Kabul. Everyone in the convoy worked for the International Rescue Committee. They were taking Coop and one of the Brits to the airport.”
To fly home. She couldn’t say it.
“Two were injured in the second vehicle. All four in the lead car died on the spot.” Katy swallowed. “Of multiple bullet wounds.”
“Oh, sweetie. I am so, so sorry.”
“They were aid workers!” It was almost a shriek. “They dug wells and taught people how to boil water.”
I squeezed Katy’s hands. They trembled.
“The Taliban are claiming responsibility. They say Coop and his colleagues were spies. Spies! Can you believe it?”
Loathing battled sorrow inside me. And mounting fury. It was the Taliban’s usual justification for murder. The victims were always spies or collaborators.
“The assholes described the International Rescue Committee as a hated ally of the foreign invader forces.”
“I wish I knew what to say to you, sweetheart.”
“The people in Coop’s convoy were unarmed, Mom. Their vehicle was plastered with IRC stickers.”
“I am so, so sorry.” Exhausted by my trip to Lumberton, and wary of my own emotions should I unleash them, the response, though lame, was the best I could muster.
“Coop was no spy. He went to Afghanistan because he wanted to help people. It’s totally wrong that he should die.”
“War takes many blameless victims,” I said.
“Coop volunteered.” Fresh tears now flooded Katy’s cheeks. “He didn’t even have to be there.”
“I know.”
“Why him?”
I had no answer.
“Is Lija at home?” I asked gently, when several seconds had passed.
“She’s in the mountains.” Katy swiped a wadded tissue under each eye. “Banner Elk, I think.”
“Does she know?”
“I left a message on her mobile.”
“Stay with me tonight?”
Katy’s shoulder shrug zinged straight to my heart. Since babyhood she’d used the gesture when deeply sad.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” I said.
For sixty ticks of Gran’s clock we both sat lost in our separate thoughts.
When Katy spoke again her voice was jagged with anger.
“The fucking Taliban stinks.” A bunched tissue ricocheted off the desk and landed on the rug.
The bitterness in my daughter’s voice sent a chill up my spine. Encircling her shoulders, I drew her to me and rested my head against hers.
Together, we cried softly. She for her lost friend. I for my child whose pain I could not erase.
We opened and made up the sofa bed. While Katy showered, I took supermarket cookie dough from the freezer, placed it on a tray, and shoved it into the oven.
When Katy reappeared, the condo was rich with the sweet smell of baking. With exaggerated Martha Stewart grace, I offered milk and warm chocolate chips.
Reaching for a cookie, my daughter cocked a skeptical, and now spotless, brow. I admitted to using prepared frozen dough, but demanded credit for making the purchase. Katy almost smiled.
I was placing our glasses in the sink when the landline rang.
My eyes darted to the wall clock. Twelve fifteen a.m.
Annoyed, I snatched up the handset.
“First prize! An all-expense-paid trip to Hawaii!” Danny Tandler imitated a game show host.
“Do you know what time it is here?”
Wiggling good-bye fingers, Katy exited the kitchen.
“Travel time!”
“What?”
“Our lucky winner receives a coach-class seat by the loo and a low-budget room a zillion miles from the ocean.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You charmed the shorts off Plato Lowery.”
“He’s a very nice gentleman.”
“The very nice gentleman wants you and only you. And his congressman is turning the screws to make sure he gets it.”
Based on our shared photo album moment, I was afraid something like this might unfold.
“O’Hare called again,” I guessed.
“Yep. I don’t know if Lowery phoned the good congressman or vice versa. O’Hare phoned Notter. Notter phoned Merkel. Ain’t modern communication grand?”
“I can’t come to Hawaii right now.”
“Notter thinks otherwise.”
“He’ll get over it.”
“What if we billet you on a really nice beach?”
“Danny.”
“Why not?”
I told him about Coop.
“Jesus, I saw that story on the news. Katy’s friend was the American?”
“Yes.”
“Poor kid. Were they, you know, close?”
I didn’t know. “C
lose enough.”
“Give Katy a big hug for me. Wait. Better yet, bring her with you. A little Hawaiian sun could be just what she needs.”
“Oh, Danny.”
“Lowery is adamant that you accompany his son’s body to Honolulu, and that you oversee the entire reanalysis.”
“Have Notter talk him down.”
“Not happening.”
“Not my problem.”
“When’s the last time you took a vacation?”
“Christmas.”
“Look, Tempe. We both know the guy you dug up today is not John Lowery.”
“He went by Spider.”
“Why?”
“Long story.”
“This thing’s going to skewer old Plato. Do it for him. And for Notter and Merkel. You may need a favor from us sometime.”
I pictured tormented eyes beneath a Korean vet’s cap.
A plastic-wrapped corpse.
A mold-crusted skeleton.
I had no urgent cases in North Carolina or Quebec. Maybe Danny was right. Maybe a trip to Hawaii would be therapeutic for Katy, and Danny’s point about my perhaps needing them in the future wasn’t said entirely in jest. But would Katy go?
“When will action kick off at the CIL?” I asked.
“The remains are being transported on Friday. Lowery insists you travel with them.”
“Adamantly.”
“Adamantly.”
“I’ll ask Katy.”
“Good girl.”
“That’s not a promise, Danny. Katy needs me right now. It’s her call.”
“I imagine she’s pretty torn up.”
“Very.”
“Will she attend the kid’s funeral?”
“The service will be open to close family only.”
Silence hummed from the South Pacific to the southeastern seaboard. Danny broke it.
“I’ll send flight information as soon as I have it.”
I ROSE EARLY THE NEXT MORNING, BLITZED THE HARRIS TEETER floral department, then returned home to download and print photos from the net. Armed and ready, I made a tippy-toe visit to my study-turned-guest-room.
Katy awoke to orchids and plumeria, a handmade lei, and a thumbtacked Hawaiian panorama.
She appeared in the kitchen shortly after ten, tousled and confused, holding a particularly dazzling shot of Maui’s Kamaole I beach.
I asked how she felt. She shrugged, poured herself coffee.