Glory Days

by Irene Peterson

  Flo waved her off, dismissing her granddaughter’s fears. “You two ought to get to know each other. You’ll both be living under the same roof for awhile . . . so I suggest you unruffle your feathers, Liz, and make nice.”

  Another snort, this time pure scoff. “Not if I can help it.”

  John shot her a quick look, then turned his attention on Flo. “Hey, you okay? What’s wrong? Anything I can do to help?”

  Flo smiled and shook her head. “It’s the gout again. This time the doctor told me I had to stay off my feet and gave me yet another diet. I hope this works. I took a chance and called Liz all the way in California and asked her to come stay with me until this spell is over.”

  John turned to face the younger woman, noting as he did that she was no kid, probably close to his own age, a little younger. Again that luscious red hair, pale skin, nice face, even with her less than welcome scowl. He knew she didn’t really mean it.

  “I gotta go, Flo. I’ll just get another cup of coffee and get on back to the office. If you need anything, just let me know. Okay?” He patted her hand, this time noticing how frail it seemed, how thin. He turned his attention back to Liz and found her glowering at him.

  “No mess.”

  He grinned at her, suddenly glad at this turn of events, then remembered his own surprise upstairs. Snagging a couple of jelly doughnuts and a carton of milk from the fridge, he juggled them up the steep steps, wondering how much worse his day could possibly get.

  No kid.

  Annoyance steamed through him . . . he’d gone through the trouble of getting her a doughnut and all. Then relief . . . what had he been thinking to even let her stay upstairs? She could have ripped him off . . . had there been anything worth taking that she could steal in the few minutes he’d been gone.

  To his amazement, he felt a twinge of disappointment that passed almost instantaneously. What brought that on?

  She was curled up on the office sofa. Asleep. Looking small and young with her hand near her mouth, thumb brushing her bottom lip like a baby. Sleep had smoothed the tension from her face and she looked all of twelve years old.

  Ah, hell.

  The paper with the six names on it had dropped to the floor. John put his doughnuts and coffee on the cluttered desk, snatched up the wrinkled list and sat in his desk chair, pulling the damned coat around him in case the kid woke up. His name, written on an old fashioned typewriter, really was at the top. Scanning the other names, he realized he knew every single one.

  The summer of 1986. The beach house.

  All six had spent the summer in a rental in Belmar.

  They’d all been friends, some closer to him than others, but they’d all known each other and suffered one another’s bad habits that summer. By the end of August, he’d been ready to kill two of them, but had been prevented from doing so by the need to return to school to finish his law degree.

  And one of these guys was this kid’s father?

  He chuckled to himself.

  He knew how to locate most of them. It wouldn’t be too much of a strain—he could probably do it in half an hour over the Internet.

  A soft sigh issued from the sleeper on the sofa, pulling his attention back to her. How old was she? Who the hell was her mother? Where did this list come from?

  He thought about waking her and getting the answers, then realized she’d probably be in better shape with some sleep. He could use the time to get dressed himself, and maybe play around with the computer, come up with some addresses. Maybe he’d make a call or two, depending on the time it would take.

  The kid. He knew that look of fear that had crossed her face. He’d worn it himself too many times.

  Shit.

  “You were awfully hard on John,” Flo said as she hobbled painfully to the bedroom door.

  Liz looked up from the edge of the bed, quickly changing her scowl to a small smile at the sight of her grandmother. “He’s a man.”

  Flo entered the room looking at the big suitcase and still unopened bureau. “Need some help?”

  “Maybe. Shouldn’t you be sitting down, Gram?”

  With a shake of her head, Flo refused assistance and settled into the lone chair in the small room. “Honey, I know it’s been rough, but all men aren’t like that S.O.B. you married. Maybe you shouldn’t condemn them all. There are a few good ones left. John Preshin is one of them.”

  Liz flipped open the suitcase and examined the contents briefly, then stopped to look around again. She took a deep breath. As if stepping back in time, she could smell the musty salt scent of the Jersey shore in the bedding and curtains.

  She’d come full circle. The Jersey girl had come home. Maybe it was true. You could take the girl out of Jersey but you couldn’t take the Jersey out of the girl.

  There were only precious memories in this place. The room looked exactly as she remembered it. Liz crossed the floor and tugged open the top drawer of the ancient bureau. It wasn’t empty.

  “Will you look at this?” She took out a faded bit of cloth and held it out to her grandmother. When the older woman’s eyes squinted in question, Liz fluffed the gaudy red, white and blue rag until it fell into its halter shape.

  “Oh, my Lord!” Flo fell to laughing. “That halter top! I’d forgotten that was in there.”

  Liz placed it against her chest and shook her head. “Lots of changes here, Grandma.”

  Flo shook with gentle chuckles and pulled out some more sedately colored tops from the suitcase. As she did, a small photograph slipped out and fell onto the bed. “What’s this?”

  Before she could grab it, Liz snatched it up and held it to her heart. Flo’s face wrinkled as she leaned back. “I’m sorry, dear. Whatever. . . .”

  “No, Gram. You—it’s just—” Liz finally met her grandmother’s eyes. “This is the only picture I have of Jesse. Everything else is gone.”

  Silence fell between them, so profound not even street noises seeped through until Flo, a bright smile wreathing her face, smacked her knee and struggled to get up. With a grunt, she sat again, but beckoned her granddaughter to her.

  “Go in my room, honey. Top of my dresser. Go, now!”

  What the? Liz left the old lady—Flo crowed with glee when her granddaughter exclaimed from the other room.

  “Gram! Oh, Gram!” Liz cried as she rushed back, her arms laden with framed photographs and a small album. “It’s Jesse! They’re my baby—right here.”

  She hugged the photos to her chest. Tears she never thought she’d cry for joy rolled down her cheeks.

  “Easy, baby,” Flo crooned. “Easy, my sweet girl.”

  He tried gently tugging at the duct tape once again, this time pulling out at least ten hairs. At this rate, it would take him half a day to get it off and he’d be bald as a bodybuilder around the Z. He’d probably have to shave off the rest and look like a jerk . . . but who would see it?

  A knock sounded at the bathroom door. He jumped and pulled out at least twenty more hairs with a small scream.

  “It’s just me, Mr. Preshin. I haveta use the facilities.”

  Oh, the kid.

  “I’ll be right out,” he muttered and pulled his T-shirt on. The exposed end of the tape stuck to the thin fabric and pulled out a few more precious hairs.

  She looked only slightly better than when she’d first appeared at his door. Her hair stuck up on one side and her eyes were puffy, but she had some color in her cheeks.

  “Sorry,” she whispered.

  “No problem. Take your time. And after you’re through in there, you and I are going to have a little talk.”

  Her muffled “okay” sounded from behind the bathroom door.

  John waited, half expecting her to spend at least an hour in the can. She surprised him by taking only a few minutes.

  The kid still had water dripping down her nose as she approached him at the desk.

  Her face scrunched, but her eyes seemed focused on the front of his shirt. John sucked the jelly ou
t of the hole in his doughnut, ignoring her stare.

  “Still got that tape on ya?”

  John felt heat in his cheeks. “My problem. Never mind that, let’s get some things out in the open. Charles? What’s your name?”

  Her eyes strayed from his face to the container of milk and doughnuts.

  “Go ahead. I brought them up for you.”

  The kid grabbed the milk first, took a slug and smiled. The doughnut oozed red jelly from the hole as she grabbed it.

  “How long since you’ve had a good meal?”

  With sticky fingers she pulled the spare chair up to the desk. Sitting, she turned the doughnut around and carefully licked away the jelly then sucked out the rest.

  “Yesterday.”

  John felt something tighten in his chest and it wasn’t the tape. “At home?”

  After swallowing some milk, she said, “Truck stop.”

  John rose from his chair. “You ate at a truck stop?” Years of kidnapping cases and investigating bodies found in the woods flipped ugly pictures through his mind.

  “Relax. I was with some friends. I knew what I was doing.”

  He felt his insides quake with fury. “Where did you come from?”

  The girl licked more jelly off her fingers. He pushed a napkin across the expanse of old oak separating them. She nodded thanks.

  “Okay. If I tell you, you have to promise not to call anyone. And you have to take my case. Otherwise, I don’t tell you anything.” A satisfied look crossed her face, as if she had managed to put one over on him. He disagreed, but figured he’d let her think she’d won.

  “Are you in trouble with the law?”

  “No.”

  “Are you a runaway? Are there people searching for you, wondering where you are, maybe even calling the cops?”

  “Doubt it.” She picked up bits of sugar on her fingertip.

  “Why do you think that?”

  “The nuns didn’t exactly want me around any more.”

  He felt his eyebrows move. “Nuns?”

  She leaned forward. “Deal?”

  John tilted back in his chair. “Not on so little information. You’re not over eighteen. I could get in a whole lot of trouble just talking to you here in my office.”

  The kid settled back in her chair, her face serious but comical for the dot of jelly on the corner of her mouth. “My name is Carly Anne Snow. This is the straight poop. That isn’t my real last name . . . it’s the name the nuns gave me when I was born. They told me my mother gave me my first name, but she left a few hours after delivering me. It was snowing outside, so the nuns called me ‘Snow.’”

  “Your mother left you . . . where?”

  “The convent of St. Hedwig across the river in Philly runs what they call a residential treatment center. It’s one of those places unmarried girls get sent by their parents to have their babies in secret . . . rich parents, that is. As far as I can tell, the sisters used to try to get the pregnant girls to repent and change their evil ways, but it’s way different from the old days now. Still, when the babies are born, the mothers don’t get more than a few minutes to look at the kids, then they’re separated.

  “From then on, the babies are cared for by the sisters and the mothers leave after signing papers to put the kids up for adoption. There’s a waiting list a mile long for healthy babies and the sisters believe in being careful. The state gets involved somewhere along the line, most of the time. Sort of.”

  Her voice wavered a little as she reached the end of the sentence. John prepared for tears that did not come. He had questions.

  “You didn’t get adopted.”

  Carly shrugged. “I wasn’t fostered and I wasn’t allowed to be adopted. There was something weird about me. Mother Superior once told me that someone was paying my room and board.”

  “Your mother?”

  Another shrug, this time not as casual. Her body tensed. “One of the nuns told me she was dead.” A tear escaped and rolled down her cheek.

  He waited.

  “Last week, I turned sixteen. Mother Superior called me into her office to tell me that the money had stopped. She didn’t know what to do. I could stay on at the convent as a novitiate or leave as an emancipated minor. Kind of like being in limbo, you know?”

  John absorbed this information. It all sounded brutal. The kid clipped out the words, talking over the tears she tried to hold in. He’d put in a call to this Mother Superior as soon as he could.

  “How did you get the note?”

  Carly let out a laugh. “I see it as my birthday present from my mother. I took it from my file when Mother Superior left the office. And that night I split.”

  Brutal. John wished the dull ache in his head would stop, but her words reverberated through his brain and he absorbed some of the kid’s tension by osmosis.

  Carly moved to the edge of the seat. “I’ve been honest with you. I’m not a runaway. You have to have a home to run away from. I do not have one. I’m not even an orphan anymore because I’m sixteen. This emancipated minor thing . . . I read about some kid movie star declaring himself emancipated so his parents couldn’t control his money. That’s what it is. My mother left me with the nuns. The nuns didn’t want me hanging around. I figured if I found my father, maybe he’d want me. It’s a long shot, I know. Maybe he’s been looking for me all along. Maybe he’s been searching for his kid and now I can find him and he’ll want me and take me with him and I’ll . . . I’ll be with . . . I’ll. . . .”

  The kid dissolved in tears.

  John felt something wrench in his chest and restrict his breathing.

  If she were his daughter, he’d want her around.

  Chapter 3

  The cold rain stung his face. He walked with purpose toward the oceanfront, hands shoved in pockets, head down. The street was February dead. No cars ventured out on the desolate streets of Asbury Park at this time of year, in this kind of weather.

  The idiotic face of Tillie, with its fading black hair and hundreds of teeth, sneered at him as he passed by the old amusement building. Once a symbol of a thriving seaside resort, Tillie looked down at the world as the resort crumbled and slowly died. The building ought to be torn down. It made John feel old.

  Rain pelted him as he stepped onto the street, not even bothering to look for oncoming vehicles. Maybe in summer, cars would come, full of parents pointing at the derelict buildings and telling their kids, “When grandma and grandpa were young, this was some place. They took me here a few times, but I was really little and don’t remember all that much. That building used to have a really great carousel in it.”

  He kept on, needing to see the ocean. Wet sand made the broken sidewalk ooze as his footsteps melted through the gray slick. Wind whipped across the waves, sending flecks of foam toward the beach and remnants of the boardwalk. Grabbing the iron railing, he searched the surf. The waves pounded the shore, eroding the beach where in summer people still opened up umbrellas and gave some life to the shoreline. But now, the gray sky lingered over the crashing, restless ocean. The only one watching it was John.

  He ought to turn the kid over to Social Services.

  She needed help, the kind of help he couldn’t give her. He could locate her father, maybe, and perhaps even identify her mother, but what good would that do?

  He knew what she really needed. She needed a nice place to stay. She needed people to look after her. She needed to be in school and not alone in the world. She needed a family.

  Man oh man. This newest blip could be a further complication in his already complicated life. He chose not to dwell on the kid right now, his thoughts turning to the lady downstairs. Her and that knife. Did she actually think a serrated bread knife would be sufficient to fend off a man who’d gone through the FBI Academy? He laughed into the sound of the surf. Flo had never mentioned a granddaughter. Or had she? The red hair. Flo’s hair had been red in the head shots she had on display. He wondered whether this Miss Liz was half the fun he
r grandmother was.

  A gull called out over the gray-green ocean, sounding like a child calling for its mother. Reminding him of the kid he’d left alone in his office. His newest complication.

  He turned on his heel and made his way down the street, thinking all the while that he needed help on this one.

  And he knew just where to turn.

  The inside of the church was dark. A few candles flickered in their stands. He smelled the scent of hundreds of bodies and wet wool, leftovers from the three Sunday morning masses. The smoky, happy-birthday-pleasant odor of extinguished candles lingered in the air. A shadowy figure snuffed out the two large candles on the altar.

  John gave a little grunt of satisfaction.

  “How’s it hangin’, Father Mike?”

  His footsteps echoed in the aisle as he approached the altar. Out of habit, he genuflected and made the sign of the cross.

  “Altar boy knees,” the priest frowned, but one corner of his mouth twitched. “Arise, my son.”

  John grabbed onto the back of the front pew and pulled himself up.

  “Since when did you start this ‘my son’ business? I’m older than you are.”

  The priest grinned and offered his hand. The men clapped each other on the back. “What brings you to St. Boniface’s?”

  “I need spiritual guidance,” John replied.

  The priest’s eyebrow rose slightly. “Then follow me,” he said softly and led John out the side door.

  John hated going into the rectory. The dark wood and heavily curtained windows gave him the creeps. Years of being Catholic brought with them the sense that there was always something more about priests than other men . . . something tied to the secrets and mysteries that marked the Church and made things holy.

  Mike Ryan was far from holy. John had known him since the early eighties. Nearly a lifetime ago, Mike had been a hell raiser. The stiff white collar and black clothing didn’t seem to fit the man John knew wore them, but then, Mike had made a brave choice in giving up the world.