by Jean Stone
BeBe’s head felt ready to burst. She thought about the look on Josh’s face when BeBe told him that Danny was his son. Maybe Liz didn’t need to know what she’d done so stupidly. Maybe Josh would keep it all to himself.
“Just be sure Danny doesn’t know how much you need him, Liz,” she quietly said. “Or you’ll do to him what Father did to Daniel and what he did to you.”
“You might want to ration that, in case the hurricane comes,” said one of the Secret Service agents—the older one, who had introduced himself as Keith. He had a gentle accent that might have been rooted somewhere in the South.
BeBe had retreated to Father’s study, and was pouring brandy into her glass. “Why?” she asked. “You can’t have any, can you? Aren’t you on duty?”
He laughed. It was a nice laugh, which she guessed might have softened from years on a job where he’d seen and heard more than maybe he’d wanted. She wondered how many family secrets—“first” family and otherwise—he held between his silver-gray temples.
“Wouldn’t drink even if I wasn’t on duty,” he replied. “My father did enough of that for both of us. He fell off a bar stool when I was twelve. Cracked his skull on the floor. No one knew he was dead until after last call.”
BeBe looked at her glass, then set it down. “Where are you from?”
“New Orleans. And before you ask, yes. The bar was on Bourbon Street.”
She’d only been once, but remembered the noise and the heat and the stench. She raised her glass. “Then here’s to fathers,” she said. “May they all rot in hell.”
Two hours later, Danny had still not returned. Liz had busied herself cleaning out closets, sorting through Father’s Vineyard flannel shirts and sweaters for the Salvation Army, a task easier to tackle with her mind on Danny, not Father, on Danny’s life, not Father’s death.
But the closets were clean now, and Danny had not yet returned. She had moved to the living room and was sitting quite still, unable to speak to either Keith or Joe or even to Clay: she was upset that once again they had let him out of their sight, they had let her down. She half wanted to call Michael and have them all fired, but the thought of talking with her husband right now was far too disturbing, as if he would know by the sound of her voice that she’d been unfaithful. That she had made love not just with her body but also—more sinful, perhaps—she had made love with her heart.
BeBe was on her third or fourth glass of something, Liz did not know or care what, but her sister insisted on sitting out on the porch in the rain, staring off across the dunes, which were no longer visible on the foggy horizon.
Liz stood up and went to the fireplace. She lifted the poker and shoved it at the fire, wondering when it would be legitimate to voice her concern. Was two hours long enough? Three? BeBe … all of them … thought she was being foolish. A hysterical mother not wanting to let go. But it wasn’t true. She had always, of course, worried about the children when they were out. But Danny was … different. Yes, he was twenty-two. He was an adult. And he should be able to do as he pleased. But all that had stopped the day of the accident.
“He’s going to need massive blood transfusions,” Father had said, and the life and the soul and the spirit had drained from her body, leaving her smothered by a blanket of cold like she had never known. Cold for her child who lay virtually lifeless, cold for the fact she might have to tell them the truth. Tell them the truth that his blood might be different. It would not match Michael’s; it would match Josh Miller’s. And they might need to know that to save Danny’s life.
She had stood in the white-on-white corridor of Massachusetts General Hospital, hearing the muted sounds of sirens in the distance, hearing, but not hearing, voices around her that sounded as if they were coming from deep inside a tunnel. She had looked down at her terra-cotta suit and wondered not what the people of the state would think of the governor’s wife and her unmentionable transgressions, or even how Michael would react when he learned the truth. She had thought only of Danny. And Mags. And Greg. Of how this would hurt her innocent children and if she could ever forgive herself for what she had done.
But she had been spared. Blood was taken from the blood bank and Michael “replaced” it with his, as did Father, as did Mags, as Greg would have done if he’d been old enough. But Liz had been spared, and Danny had been spared, and the other children had been spared. And every person who believed in the Adams legacy and in the leadership of Michael Barton had been spared learning the pain that Liz had carried all those years.
She poked at the fire and warmed herself against the growing chill of the rain.
The polls, of course, would go wild if news that Danny was missing ever leaked out; if the world ever learned about Liz’s renewed love affair with Josh, or that Danny was not Michael’s son at all, but Josh’s, of all people. The polls would bounce like a steel ball in an old-fashioned pinball machine, zinging and pinging all over the playing field, until the gossip finally settled on … Michael for sympathy? Josh as a victim, never having been told?
She stared into the embers and realized how sad the country was, that the choice of its leader could be so influenced by the behavior—then and now—of a scared, confused wife.
The perfect life. Oh, sure, Beebs, Liz thought. If I’ve had anything it hasn’t been that. Then she thought about Mags. And about Greg. They had a different father from Danny, but she had loved them all equally and she still did.
She glanced at her watch. Another fifteen minutes had passed. She could not wait any longer. She had to call Michael. Because Michael was still Danny’s father, and he had a right to know his son was missing. And a right to help her figure out what to do.
“He what?” Michael barked into the phone.
“I know that everyone here thinks I’m overreacting. But, Michael, it’s almost two and a half hours …”
“Call Hugh Talbot. Hang up the telephone, Liz, and call Hugh Talbot.”
Hugh Talbot was, as Liz and everyone up island knew, the sheriff, and had been for nearly thirty years.
“The van can’t be too hard to locate, honey,” Michael continued, his steady politician’s voice wavering only a little, only enough for Liz to know that deep down, Michael was scared.
“But what if Danny went off-island? What if he … left?”
“There might be a hurricane, right? Maybe he couldn’t get across. Maybe the ferry’s shut down.”
But Liz knew the weather had to be pretty inclement for the Steamship Authority to cease its shuttle. She also realized that Michael wasn’t going to be much help in Florida.
“You’re right,” she answered abruptly. “I’ll give Hugh a call. I’m sure Danny just ran into a few old friends or something. Besides, he hasn’t driven in a few years. Maybe he’s just enjoying the ride again.” She wanted to add that his license must be expired, but decided that was unimportant, and would be a sure tip-off that she was faking unconcern.
“I’ll give Hugh a call and let you know what happens,” she said and hung up the phone, grateful that Michael did not point out that this would not have happened if they were with him campaigning as they should have been, grateful that Michael could not look her in the eye right now and see what she feared he would see there.
Hugh, however, was not available. “Folks are battening down for the hurricane,” Hugh’s wife, Lucy, told her. “Not that it’s any of my business, but you should be doing the same.”
“When you see Hugh,” Liz said, “please ask him to keep an eye out for the van. It’s dark green.”
She hung up, feeling slightly annoyed that Lucy Talbot felt preparing for a hurricane was more important than locating a lost son.
Rubbing her arms, Liz went out onto the porch where BeBe was still stationed, trancelike, looking out at the rain. Liz sat down next to her sister on the swing, pushing away the thought that only the day before yesterday she had sat here with Josh.
“If he’s not home soon I’m going to call the media,” L
iz said abruptly.
“What?” BeBe asked, sharply turning to face her sister. For all the alcohol Liz presumed she had drunk, BeBe looked as clear-eyed and sober as a Mormon on Sunday, or any other day.
“I said I’m going to call the media. It shouldn’t be difficult. There must be an army of reporters stationed at Josh’s. A lot of the media people have cars. They can help us search for Danny.”
“You’re going to call up a search party?”
“Don’t make fun of me, BeBe. Danny is missing and, quite honestly, I feel as if something’s wrong. In my gut, I feel it.”
BeBe didn’t answer.
“Are you with me?” Liz asked. “Will you help me find him?”
“Do you honestly think the Secret Service will let you leave?” BeBe nodded toward the house, where Keith and Joe had moved the chessboard inside and were playing a quiet, subdued game. “I’d put money on it that they’ve been told it’s more important to guard you, not Danny.”
“They don’t have a choice.”
“Yes, they do. Danny has the van and I’ll bet they have the keys to the other car.”
Liz’s head began to throb with a dull ache.
“They have to let me go. Danny might need help.” She stood up. “I know you’re going to hate me for this, but I’m going to call Josh. I have his number …”
Suddenly, BeBe was beside her. “Don’t,” she said.
“Don’t what? Don’t call Josh?”
BeBe squeezed her eyes shut. “Please don’t. It will only complicate things.”
Liz felt a sting as if her hand had been slapped, as if she were that little girl again, the know-nothing baby of the family. “It will not complicate things, BeBe. But Michael is not here, and I need help fast. Josh has the connections. He can get it done.” She started to move away, then turned back. “Besides, it’s not as if he knows anything, BeBe. It’s not as if …” It was the paralyzed look on her sister’s face that cut off Liz’s words. A look that said something, something …
“He knows,” BeBe said.
Any energy Liz had remaining now left her body. She stood on the porch of the house she had loved for as long as she remembered, and slowly forced her eyes away from her sister, off toward the dunes, off toward the thicket, off toward the cove, and out toward the sea. She pictured Daniel there a moment, a brief moment. If he had not died, he would be the one running for president. If he had not died, none of this would be happening. None of this nightmare that had become Liz’s life.
She looked back at BeBe. “How?” she asked slowly.
BeBe paused. She picked up her glass from the old wooden table next to the swing and took a drink.
“How?” Liz repeated, this time more insistent.
BeBe closed her eyes again. “I told him,” she said. “This afternoon.”
It was strange how quickly the wind had picked up and how quickly the fog was crowding out the daylight. Reggie had pulled in the sails and was tying off everything he could tie off topside; LeeAnn was with Danny in the wheelhouse, at the controls. She fought to steer, struggling, Danny knew, to keep the boat upright. He held on to the ledge that surrounded the windows of the small, square, all-weather-carpeted area and knew it was best not to speak. He was oddly grateful to be out of his wheelchair, which was folded up and stuck in the corner. Even though he could not feel the bench underneath him, it was good to know that something other than a flap of brown vinyl was supporting his dead little ass. He made a mental note to get out of the chair more often, if they ever survived this adventure across the high seas.
Through the rain-splattered window Danny could barely see land, a long, gray strip that would be Cuttyhunk Island. It did not look too far: it looked almost as if he could reach out and paddle a few strokes and the boat would be there. But Danny knew better than to be deceived by the ocean, especially when the ocean was all inky and rough as it was now, and when no man-of-wars floated on the surface, as they were known to do in this patch of water on sunny days, not on days that turned out like today, when even the most playful sea creatures knew the importance of being serious.
LeeAnn, for example. Danny glanced at the hardworking young woman whose eyes were fixed on the water. Usually, LeeAnn had the CD player blasting with reggae or Caribbean music—anything to make the passengers feel they were bound for a tropical island, a visit to paradise.
Today, she had not turned it on. She did not need to impress Danny. And she did not need to pretend that they were in paradise.
“I knew this was stupid,” she finally said now. “We’ll be lucky to make it to Cuttyhunk in one piece.”
Danny didn’t respond. Instead, he looked out the window again at the sharp, slanted gray rain and felt himself fill up with gratitude for these friends he had found, for LeeAnn and Reggie, who had always been there for him—been there to laugh and play when they were kids, been at his bedside when he lay crumpled and worthless, been there even after he’d been too despondent to write back or return their phone calls, and now, there for him when he’d been ready to end it once and for all. He might have been lied to all of his life, he might have a father he did not even know, but Danny Barton was lucky that he had friends such as these. Friends, dear Gramps, that he hadn’t had to buy.
He looked at LeeAnn again and blinked back a few tears. Then he wished Reggie would hurry up and come in off the deck before he got tossed overboard and pissed them both off.
Chapter 26
BeBe had never understood the old cliché of feeling like a piece of shit. After all, what exactly did shit feel like? And who had determined that shit had feelings, anyway?
She’d never understood it, and yet, right now, it about described how she felt. After having spent a lifetime protecting her younger, presumably more fragile sister, BeBe had blown it, big time. She had betrayed Liz. Okay, it had been a stupid mistake, but what kind of excuse was that?
She went to the back hall to find an old yellow slicker. She slipped it on, inhaling the familiar dull scent, like tires on wet pavement, or the old inner tubes they had once floated on in the cove, until Father had decided it was too dangerous because the hard intake valve might poke out someone’s eye.
Back in the living room, she went to the telephone. From the drawer of the small oak stand, she pulled out the phone book—The Island Book, it was called—which, of course, was still there, was always there, updated yearly. It only took her a moment to find the number she wanted.
“What are you doing?” Liz asked, walking into the room and eyeing her sister.
BeBe averted her gaze. “I’m going to find your son.”
“Did you forget we don’t have a vehicle, or are you calling a cab?”
BeBe knew the sarcasm in Liz’s voice was propelled by deep anger, and she did not blame her. “There are probably only two men in the world I haven’t totally pissed off yet,” BeBe said. “One is your husband, only because he doesn’t know what’s really going on. The other is Tuna. Hopefully, he’ll give us a hand. If he’s still alive.”
Tuna was still alive. He said he still drove a rusted-out pickup truck (though this one was black), and he was still married to the same woman (four kids, three grandkids now), and he said he was only too glad to help out BeBe and her famous sister. Besides, he added, he was sick of listening to everyone piss and moan about Hurricane Carol and speculate if she was really going to hit the island or not.
As for speculation, BeBe knew there was no time for any of her own—to wonder whether or not calling Tuna had been a good idea. Instead, she told Liz to put on a slicker, that Tuna would be there in ten minutes, thank God for old friends.
Apparently finally realizing that there might be reason for concern, Keith decided to drive into Vineyard Haven to check with the ferry to see if Danny had boarded. He had tried phoning first, but had not been able to get through. She could not imagine why Danny would have wanted to get off-island, but part of her hoped that he had. She hoped he had arrived in Woods Hole a
nd kept driving, up to Boston, where he had friends, where he might decide to become part of the world again—the world away from the spotlight that shined off the spokes of his wheelchair, the world away from the political board game.
So Keith left, and Clay said he would wait at the house “just in case,” and BeBe sat in silence next to Liz in the living room, where she felt once again like the family’s bad child.
He had a few teeth missing and he smelled a bit like what might have been last night’s beer, but Tuna showed up and for that Liz seemed grateful. She was not so happy, however, when Joe insisted on going with them. Neither did their chauffeur.
“There’s no room,” Tuna said. “You’ll have to sit in the back.”
The “back” turned out to be the open bed of the truck. Tuna tossed a rain hat at Joe and showed him a tarp that might help him stay dry.
Under other circumstances, BeBe would have cracked a joke and Liz would have laughed, and they would have become like silly schoolgirls again, despite their years, despite all they had been through in their lives.
But this was not ordinary circumstances, so BeBe simply climbed into the truck next to Tuna and, for once in her life, did not speak.
Tuna backed out of the driveway. “Where are we going?” he asked BeBe.
BeBe looked at her sister, saw Liz’s pain, then quickly averted her eyes. “Where do you think Danny might be?” she asked.
“I have no idea,” Liz replied. “I was always too busy to pay attention to his friends, or to what he liked—or didn’t like—to do. I was always too busy, but I always trusted him. Danny was a good boy.”
When Liz spoke of Danny in the past tense, BeBe wanted to scream at her sister to stop being a jerk, to slap her and tell her to grow up, that none of this was her fault, that it was all Father’s fault for screwing up all their lives. But of course she said no such thing.