At the door, she gave her hand to a bald, fat bouncer who stamped it with ink. Inside, she moved through the confusion of bodies and heat. Music below was as loud as a hurricane vibrating in her ears. Boys milling around gave her sidelong glances as she turned down a narrow, circular stairway. Couples shared cigarettes and held bottles of cheap Hungarian beer. She followed the exposed brick wall of the stairwell down to the basement, stepping over legs, bumping into a boy’s shoulder.
“Sorry.” A boy glanced sideways at her with his beautiful green eyes.
“Annie!” Bernardo shouted. “What the hell is this?”
She kept going down, the red wine in her making her not care about the smoke, which she normally disdained. At the bottom, the basement looked like a bomb shelter. Exposed brick walls, a few round tables, a crowd of three, four people deep at the walls watching a live rock show, African Brazilian rock fusion mixing with American rock. The lead singer swaggered on the stage, imitating Jim Morrison’s thick-lipped seductive stances. Behind him the drummer and two more guitar players leapt and gyrated.
“Beer?” Bernardo shouted to her.
She nodded and turned. She saw Will behind Bernardo. The sound in the main room exploded. She felt her shoes humming. Bernardo pointed to the bar at the back and returned with three bottles of beer. Annie took a long, thirsty sip, her sweat soaking her bra, the sweat of others rising like steam. Will put his hand on her back. They danced slowly together amid the crowd of twenty-something rockers. She felt them watching, knew the Hungarians were watching the American couple as she watched them.
With both arms around Will’s neck, she turned and saw Bernardo take a young woman’s hand, a tall, slim woman with red lipstick and black-rimmed eyes, fishnet stockings and a thigh-high skirt. Instantly, Bernardo was dancing close, his face nuzzling the Hungarian’s earlobe, talking into her ear, laughing.
Then Bernardo was beside her, clapping a hand on Will’s shoulder, kissing Annie distractedly on the mouth. “Taking off. Great night. Talk tomorrow.”
Annie pressed her chin into Will’s shoulder and watched Bernardo leave, the woman in fishnet stockings following him up the narrow stairs.
Thirteen
Dear Annie,
Thank you for checking on Edward. How is little Leo? What new words is he saying? Josef’s heart is worse. I want him to see a doctor, but he refuses. You know how he is. Stubborn. How is Will’s business? We are anxious to hear from you. The man who bought your house, the horse breeder? He travels a lot, and he wasn’t very friendly when I introduced myself. I don’t talk to him.
Here is a letter from the agency. I hope it is nothing.
Love,
Rose
Across the bridge to Margaret Island, Annie jogged into the park before heading to see Mr. Weiss and breathed the sweet scent of manicured, watered lawns and trees. She turned onto the running path alongside the river. Following the loop, she passed a mother pushing her child on a swing, couples strolling along pebbled pathways, and clusters of seniors on benches facing the gardens. The river looked brownish today under the hazy sky. She passed the park’s small barnyard with horses, goats, and ducks, which Leo loved. All looked peaceful, but she felt shaken inside from the agency letter.
Dear Mr. and Mrs. Gordon:
I have a note here on my calendar reminding me that little Leo will soon be a year old and per our phone conversation last winter, you promised to send his birth mother a report of his progress at year one with a picture or two. I hope you have not forgotten. I will write again if I don’t hear back from you. Please respond at your earliest convenience.
Kind regards,
Mr. John Calloway, MSW
First, she couldn’t stand the formal way he addressed her—Mrs. Gordon? He’d called her Annie from day one. Second, she felt irritated by his endearment of Leo. While not unexpected, it felt intrusive and insidious—polite in a demanding kind of way.
Little Leo. What did he know of her son? Leo was a mere four months when they left the States, freed from Calloway’s smarmy control over their lives. His biweekly visits for three months—yes, she fully understood that the state required it—seemed excessive and insulting; his authority over her felt cloying, as if he enjoyed her dependence on him for the ultimate approval of their adoption. They’d already filled out an exhaustive questionnaire, underwent a lengthy interview by Calloway, got multiple references from friends who wrote the agency praising her and Will’s ability to be loving parents. The anger she felt toward him, anger she thought she’d let go of after leaving the country, after leaving their old address and escaping Calloway’s prurient interests, throbbed in her head. It’s why she put Rose in charge of their mail so that Calloway couldn’t track them down. She knew Rose would never disclose where she and Will had moved to. She ran harder now. She needed to calm down.
The adoption papers had been signed, judge-approved, and delivered. The adoption itself was a closed deal, something she and Will welcomed and Leo’s birth mother required. Until Leo was legally theirs, Calloway, with his self-serving polite demeanor, had stopped by their house unannounced just to see how things were going—all in the name of social work and his job. It was his responsibility to inspect and sign off on papers certifying her parenting skills; his authority to decide if they were good enough to love a child. What about those drug-addicted parents? Biological parents who abused their kids? Who was coming to their houses to inspect their babies’ limbs for hidden bruises? No one.
But then . . .
Annie slowed down again to maintain an even pace. After the adoption was finalized and Calloway was no longer required — legally—to show up, he did anyway. He wanted Annie and Will to meet a young unwed mother. He had an agenda and asked if they would mind meeting with her for an hour. It was as if he couldn’t let go of his control, his mission to decide a family’s fate. They said yes the first time, still afraid that Calloway might change his mind or rewrite his papers or somehow manage to pull the plug on the adoption. He couldn’t. She knew that—in her head, that is, but not in her heart, which was still scared and recovering from years of waiting and yearning for a child. Years of waiting to conceive and failing; years of waiting for that moment of luck or fate, then waiting for lawyers and judges and social workers to sign off on papers—and even then, at first, she still didn’t quite believe Leo was theirs, completely, irrevocably, all theirs. So they said yes to Calloway, and a few days later a teenager rang their bell, a sixteen-year-old mother with her two-month-old son. Annie and Will sat in their newly renovated living room smiling, asking inane questions of this young stranger who sat across from them rocking her baby, looking as tense and unsure as they felt, and equally determined to keep her son, too.
“I’ll manage,” she told them. “I live with my mother and she watches him when I go to class. I’ll get my diploma.”
“He’s beautiful,” Annie said to this young mother who, if Annie had been pregnant at sixteen, could be her daughter. Finally, after an hour that felt like half a day, the girl ambled to her car still carrying postpregnancy weight. Annie and Will stood in the doorway watching as she reached the end of their long front walk, put her infant in the car seat, strapped him in, and got herself behind the wheel and drove off.
When she closed the door, Annie turned to Will. “That’s it. We’re done. We don’t have to please that man anymore. How conniving. That poor girl has no interest in giving up her child for adoption. That’s why he sent her here, isn’t it?”
“I’d say so. It’s not our responsibility.”
“He wants her to see that her baby would go to a nice couple like us. He’s pressuring her,” Annie said. Leo lay heavy on her chest, asleep. She walked upstairs and placed their son in his beautiful new gleaming white crib. Will had painted the room yellow and hung cheerful pictures of animals and balloons on the wall. The bedroom was cozy and neat and felt safe—except for her lingering worry that Calloway would attach himself inappropriately to their
life.
The next day, when Calloway called to see how it went and ask if the “young gal” could come for another visit, she told him politely and slowly that she felt it was in Leo’s best interest to focus on their own family right now. “John. I’m sure you understand our need for privacy and bonding right now.” She used the word bonding on purpose, knowing it was a parenting buzz word, one that Calloway would embrace. John was silent but then in a quiet, sad voice said, “I understand.” But, then, sucker that she was for the wounded, she felt sorry for him and offered a kind of emotional bargaining chip, a way to stay thinly connected by promising to send him pictures of Leo when he turned one, which John could then pass on to the birth mother via the agency.
THAT SEEMED SO long ago. Now that time was near—next month would mark that important landmark in her son’s life—and Calloway hadn’t forgotten. She knew he wouldn’t. That wasn’t his way. This thought spawned an old feeling of insecurity, a sense that even with adoption papers signed, her new role as a mother didn’t guarantee bulletproof protection from the limitless things that could go wrong, including meddling people like a so-called well-meaning social worker named John Calloway. It made her wary. Becoming a mother opened up new possibilities for disaster.
Her skin broke into a sweat and her heart settled into a strong, pulsing beat as she jogged past the now-familiar thirteenth-century stone ruin of a Dominican convent. A marble plaque marked the burial place of Princess Margaret, the island’s namesake. Margaret’s father, King Béla IV, sent his daughter to a nunnery when she was eleven years old, fulfilling a vow he made to rebuild his country devastated by the Mongols. Giving up a child to save his child’s country and keep it safe? She couldn’t imagine it. Maybe the king thought he was keeping his child from harm, sheltering her from predators. It was a different world back then, or was it? How far would she go to keep her Leo safe?
The answer was obvious: five thousand miles, across an ocean, to a country whose language she couldn’t speak.
Fourteen
She knocked three times on Mr. Weiss’s door. The peephole in his door opened and shut. Relieved, she listened to metal scraping and a clickety-clack of the lock chain swinging free.
“How are you today?”
“No different from yesterday.”
He gestured for her to enter.
“That doesn’t sound too good.”
“Who’s talking about good?” He waved the air. “How’s your son today?”
“Good. Excellent.”
Leo was easiest in the morning. Today, as usual, he’d been happy to see Klara, who planned to take him up to Castle Hill.
“Adopted? Is that right?”
“Yes.” Obviously, Rose had told him.
“Next time, bring him with you.”
He almost smiled at her, an almost smile that hinted of another man, a livelier, happier man. She smiled back and stood in the middle of the room, surveying. Everything looked identical to her last visit—the dusky light, the small piles of paintings, the same picture on the easel—no fresh oil paint scenting the room.
“Feels much cooler in here,” she said, spotting the air conditioner in the kitchen window. “How did you get it up here? Those things are heavy.”
“I have means. Get yourself a glass of water.”
She did as instructed, then came back in and sat on the chair opposite him.
“I’m old. Let’s not waste time with small talk.”
“At your service,” she said.
“Tell me,” he said, looking at her, his eyes softer today and more open. “Why did you come to this banged-up city?”
“To support Will’s business venture.”
“That’s it?”
“We had just adopted our son.”
“What has that got to do with Will’s venture?”
“I wanted to be with Leo, not worry about adoption agencies watching over us—everything was legal, of course. Stamped by the judge. But I wanted to get away from all that. Not worry about it. The process felt intrusive.”
“Hmmf,” he said, then coughed. “Not worry? You’re a parent. You’ll never stop worrying about your child.”
Annie agreed with this simple and overpowering fact. She felt it to her core the moment she held Leo for the first time. “I didn’t expect it to be so powerful.”
“Life’s not what we expect. Your husband. How does he like it here?”
“He likes it well enough.”
“Sounds lukewarm. What’s the problem?”
She hesitated, shifting in her chair, wondering what this interview was about. But Edward seemed earnest enough.
“Success isn’t what everyone says it is here. The Wall Street Journal doesn’t know the full story.”
“Agreed. Success is a phony word as far as I’m concerned.”
“If you’re happy, that’s success. Don’t you think?” She leaned forward, cupping her glass.
“I don’t measure life in degrees of happiness. Telling the truth, finding the truth—that’s success. If you’re not happy, what does it matter? You’re not happy here. Admit it. I can see it in your face.”
She wasn’t sure how to respond to this. Tell him the truth? She put her empty glass on the floor.
“Maybe.”
“Come on. Don’t hedge with me. I don’t have time for that, remember?”
“Okay. Maybe I’m not happy here.”
She felt the hidden tide of unhappiness rising inside her, her eyes watering. For the first time since her arrival eight and a half months ago, she felt relieved to admit how she truly felt. She’d been trying so hard to push it back down. She looked at the windows, how the sun was straining to get through a sieve of dust and shadows.
“I need more water.” She rose and went into the kitchen, feeling confused and conflicted. What was she doing here? What was he? He had no time for bullshit? Well, neither did she. The tiny sink was filled with dishes, as it had been on her first visit. The air conditioner was working, though it made the air feel stale and used. Again, she was tempted to clean up but instead filled her glass with tap water and returned to the chair.
“Rose told me you had diabetes and a heart condition. Do you have a good doctor here?”
He tilted his head. “I do. My daughter Nan set me up. She’s a nurse. You don’t need to concern yourself with that.”
“Then why are you here? You said you needed to tell me something.”
“My daughter.”
“I thought you said you didn’t have family here.”
“I have two daughters. My elder daughter was murdered.” He pointed to the framed picture next to the couch. “That’s what I needed you to know.”
She opened and closed her hands. The word murdered pummeled her ears. She didn’t know how to react. She had never met anyone whose family member was murdered. “My God. I’m so sorry.”
He grunted and swatted the air, the swatting almost a physical tic. “I told you I’ve had enough sorries. Sorry doesn’t bring her back. And God? Pffft! Look, when Deborah turned fifteen, her troubles began. That’s the sorry part.”
Annie bit her lip and heard a familiar humming sound—the fan, turning its sorry head back and forth.
Edward swatted the air again.
“Deborah liked saving people. Drug addicts, alcoholics, gamblers. She couldn’t stop. I got angry with her. We didn’t speak for years.” He shook his head. “I couldn’t understand it. Why did she pick these types? You’re close to her age. You’re a helper, like she was. Explain it to me.”
“I suppose she wanted to improve their lives, give them something they didn’t have.” She clasped her glass in both hands. “Or maybe she didn’t judge them like most people do.” Judgment, she had learned while working with the men at the shelter, was the single most devastating response. It shut everything down. She drank the rest of the tepid water.
“You mean, like her father judged her?” His eyes rocketed upward, his thoughts swerving thr
ough an internal map of his body causing his shoulders and face to twitch.
“I didn’t mean to imply that.”
“Look, she was a hippie. What a pile of crap that was. Peace and love.” He made a spitting noise again. “Bunch of lies, phony baloney is what that was. More screwed-up people from that generation. Then Deborah got sick. You know what multiple sclerosis is?”
“Yes. I know someone who has it. A volunteer at the homeless shelter, where I used to work.”
“There are different types, you know. My Deborah had the worst of it.”
“My colleague tired easily and it affected her balance when she walked,” Annie said. “She started using a cane, even on the days she didn’t need it, because she said people treated her as if she were a drunk.” Annie noted privately how the woman’s name was Tracy, same as her sister’s, an odd coincidence.
“In six years, my Deborah went from walking to a wheelchair,” he said. “And she still managed to find another loser. The last one married her. He drugged her with her own prescription pills. Murdered her, understand? Stole her insurance. He’s here in Budapest.”
She felt her eyebrows rising. She couldn’t fathom this.
“You don’t believe me?”
“Not that. I’ve never—” She felt stupid and clueless.
“My kid’s dead, but I haven’t stopped worrying about her. Her killer is free. Somewhere in this city. Near the river. I’m here to find him.”
“And that’s why you wanted me to drive—”
“Bloodsucking off my daughter’s life,” he said, interrupting her, his cheeks reddening. “You’re here to find what? Happiness? You should go home. Raise your son in a good school. Get the hell out of here. It’s a depressing place.” He paused for a second. “But since you’re here, I believe you can help me. It’s up to you.”
Annie shifted in her seat, uncrossed and crossed her legs, and set her empty glass on the floor. She had cooled down, the sweat gone from her skin. Only her shirt felt clammy.
The word murdered scared her, but she felt the pull of “helping” drawing her toward him, like air sucking into a vacuum. It was true what Will said. She wanted to get involved, comfort people, fix what wasn’t right, dive into their struggles, get beneath the surface of things. Will said other people’s tragedies gave her license to feel her own buried discomforts and pain around Tracy’s tragedy, her brother’s, her family’s wreckage.
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