“Really? Then what were you doing in there?”
“You told me to put the folder—”
“On the desk, not in it.”
“What are you going to do? Frisk me? Or do a strip search—full body, cavity maybe?”
Jared walked over to the desk and brought his hand down hard on its surface. The resultant smack made Diego start a little. Good. Maybe he was getting somewhere. “Why would I frisk you?” he said. “Do you think being here is like being in jail? Punishment of some kind? Because if you do, you should just walk away. Walk away now, Diego. No one is making you stay. Certainly not me.”
Diego stood there, nostrils flaring like a restive horse.
“What’s eating you, anyway? Don’t you like working here?”
“It’s not so bad,” Diego said. “At least you’re not so bad.”
“Who is, then?”
“All those white people coming through here. They’re the ones with attitude. They think they own the neighborhood. Hell, they think they own the world.”
“And stealing from Athena is going to fix that?”
“I told you: I didn’t take nothing. I—”
“Come on. Just drop the act, okay? I’m not going to ask you again how much you took; I’m going to walk out of here in a few minutes and just let you put whatever it was back.”
“How do you know I won’t just take it all and clear out? Never come back here.”
“I don’t,” said Jared. “But I’m willing to take a chance.” He let Diego process that and then added, “You didn’t answer my question. How is stealing from Athena going to fix the white-people problem?”
“She’s worse than they are! She’s such an Oreo, acting all false and smiley with them. Makes me sick.”
Oreo. Jared had heard that one for years, like he’d personally betrayed his people and his race by being smart, ambitious, and wanting to swim in a wider sea. “Sit down.” He pointed toward one of the two chairs facing Athena’s desk; Diego sat down and Jared sat next to him. “I don’t know if white people own the world, but they have a lot of power, and if you want in, you have to play nice. That’s what Athena figured out. She’s not an Oreo cookie, but she sure is a smart one. She’s made something of herself. And you can too. Only you have to decide you’re going to join the party—not spit on it.” Jared got up. “I’m going back to my office. You can do the right thing. Or not. It’s up to you, Diego. It always is.”
Jared sat quietly at his desk. He was not going to check Athena’s petty cash; he had no idea how much she kept in there on any given day, so he wouldn’t have been able to tell if Diego had put the money back or not. Anyway, if Diego decided to turn things around, it wasn’t going to be because Jared had shamed or scared him into it; it would be because he wanted to. A little while later, Diego appeared before Jared yet again, this time with a sheet of lined paper in his hand. “I wrote a note to Athena,” he said. “Want to see?”
Jared took it from him. Diego had gone through the applications himself and marked the ones he thought had red flags; he made an itemized list detailing each one and why. “She’ll appreciate this,” Jared said. “Good work.” And for the first time in Jared’s recollection, the kid smiled.
The sky was still light when Jared left the office and headed home. He walked quickly because he was planning on going out again tonight, only it was business, not pleasure, that was taking him away from Lily. The two of them had settled into a viable rhythm. Supah arrived five mornings a week to take care of her; he got home around six to take over. He’d feed and bathe his daughter and then sometimes Olivia would come over so he could go out for work or to meet friends. If he wanted to go somewhere straight from the office, he arranged it so that Olivia would arrive at the apartment just as Supah was getting ready to go; both of them had keys to his place, and the transitions had so far been pretty seamless.
Of course there were some bumps in the road to new fatherhood. That was normal, right? Lily could go off on these crying jags that went on for more than an hour. Was it gas? Colic? Missing Miranda Berenzweig? Damned if he could tell.
When this happened, it was like the subtly shifting pitch and tenor of her screams were being channeled directly to his brain and he felt ready to explode. The business of changing her diapers didn’t get any less gross. Ditto dealing with her throwing up, which seemed to happen with some regularity. She might wake him four times during the night and then again at the crack of dawn. He was exhausted and losing weight—not that he needed to—and was starting to look pretty haggard. He hadn’t given any thought to a vacation, and his love life had stopped dead in its tracks.
He wished he could connect Lily with the feelings he’d had for Caroline. They had met at a club, and their chemistry had been instant and explosive. Everything they did together had that impulsive, pushing-the-envelope kind of feel—driving to Atlantic City on a whim and spending the entire night in a casino, a midnight swim on a Montauk beach, blowing an entire paycheck at Saratoga.
Sometimes, just sometimes, when he walked into the room and Lily smiled at him, or pressed her tiny head against his chest, he’d feel the pull toward her and he’d get it—the connection, the love. But those moments were often obliterated by the daily grind of caring for her, a grind that was not shared with a woman he loved. With Lily’s mother.
Jared let himself into the apartment, took Lily from Supah, and popped her into the high chair for her supper. Then it was a bath and pj’s; he had no time to eat or even change. Tonight he was meeting with a skittish client who was teetering on the edge of making an offer on that garden apartment in the building on 117th Street.
Those apartments were not moving; it was like the incident with Isabel Clarke and that berserk cat had jinxed it and the apartments remained, unappreciated and unclaimed, on the market, which was really bad news. If a place sat around too long, prospective buyers began to wonder why, and soon the apartment developed what he privately thought of as bad buying juju. It was a real shame this little gem of a property had fallen victim to the syndrome, and he was hoping that the meeting tonight would turn things around.
The only trouble was that Olivia was late, damn it. He checked his watch and his phone as he impatiently waited for her; Lily was all ready to be put to bed, and he could tell she was tired—rubbing her eyes with her fists and opening her mouth in a series of luxurious yawns. He laid her in the crib and turned out the light; when he looked in on her again, she was asleep. But still no Olivia.
He had texted her three times without getting a reply; he was standing at the window, looking out at the street and willing her to appear, when his phone pinged with an incoming message. Sorry I’m late. Be there in 5.
Finally! But he still had to get out of here or he wasn’t going to get there on time. Should he wait for Olivia or leave now? He darted into the baby’s room to check on her; her little onesie-clad rump was in the air and her cheek was mashed against the sheet. She snored lightly. Olivia would be here any minute. And his client, a high-powered finance guy, was such a stickler; he knew that being even two minutes late might piss him off and ultimately screw up the sale. Jared decided to risk it. Late. Have 2 leave now. Lily asleep. Just let yourself in. See u around 10, he texted.
Then he was out the door. He hadn’t gone a block when he stopped to text Olivia again. To his relief, she texted right back.
Here now. Lily still asleep. Don’t worry.
Jared stared at the tiny letters before slipping the phone back in his pocket. Lily was fine, totally fine. Great. He had a good feeling, a selling feeling, about this showing, and he hurried down the subway steps, eager to meet his client.
SIXTEEN
“It’s the next exit,” Miranda said to Evan. “The ramp comes up quickly, so you have to watch for it.” She was sitting beside him in his Kia, on the way to the nursing home in Westchester to see her father. Once
in a while she rented a Zipcar and drove up there herself; the rest of the time she took the train from Grand Central Terminal. But when she mentioned to Evan that she’d planned to visit this weekend, he’d volunteered to drive her.
“Got it,” he said, glancing over in her direction. “It’s really pretty close.”
“It is,” she agreed, letting her gaze drift out the window at the rush of passing roadside shrubbery. “I should get up to see him more often.”
“Sounds like the visits are depressing.”
“That,” she said, turning back to him, “is an understatement. You’ll see for yourself.”
Evan found the ramp and they were off the highway, heading onto the tree-lined streets. The nursing home was in the center of town, flanked by a frozen yogurt shop on one side and a sandwich shop on the other. On his better days, Miranda had taken her father to both, but that had not been for some time. In the last few months, he was reluctant to leave the building, even for a little stroll around the grounds. She didn’t know what to expect today, or how her father would react to Evan. There was just no predicting.
Inside the nursing home it was warm and stuffy; although there must have been air-conditioning, most of the residents didn’t like the cold. Miranda signed in and led Evan to the elevators, down the hall, and finally to her father’s room. Only when she got there, it was empty. Her first response was alarm; had something happened? But they would have notified her. Leaving Evan looking out of the window, she went into the corridor to investigate. “He’s in arts and crafts,” said the desk attendant. “It’s on the third floor. You can go down and stop in if you want.”
“Thanks, but I’ll just wait in his room.” Miranda briefly tried to imagine what her father might be doing. Weaving loops of fabric into a potholder? Gluing tiles down to form a trivet? She decided it didn’t matter. Anything that could release him, even temporarily, from the prison of his diseased mind would be a welcome distraction, and she did not want to interfere.
“He’s in arts and crafts,” she reported to Evan back in her father’s room. Evan, who was holding his camera, nodded; he was photographing something outside in the street. Miranda settled in with a magazine to wait, but she had no concentration, even for the length of an article, and she kept checking her phone.
Earlier that morning she had left a message for Jared Masters, telling him she had changed her mind and asking if he would let her see Celeste. Even thinking of her baby girl (she would always, always think of Celeste as hers in some essential way) could bring on a storm of tears, but she remembered what Courtney had said: Celeste was alive, not dead. Mourning was not the operative mode here; negotiation and compromise were. Just because she’d surrendered custody didn’t mean there was no place for her in Celeste’s life. Maybe she could be a godmother of sorts—not too close to threaten Celeste’s father or any woman who might come into his life, but not banished either. So she was keeping the phone close and was ready to pick up in an instant. Only Jared Masters had not called back.
Miranda heard voices in the hall, one fretful and petulant, the other soothing and calm. Aided by his walker, her father shuffled into the room. Eunice was right behind him. “Look who’s here, Nate!” Eunice announced. “It’s your daughter!”
Miranda saw her father look at her, but there was no recognition—at least none that she sparked. He seemed much more interested in Evan, who’d turned away from the window and was standing with his camera still in his hand.
“Norm!” The elation in his voice was unmistakable. “Norm, you old son of a gun! Where’ve you been keeping yourself? It’s good to see you.” He moved across the room—he was surprisingly quick for a man with a walker—until he reached Evan, whom he squeezed tightly in a bear hug.
Miranda could see Evan looking over the top of her father’s head at her. “Norm?”
“His brother, Norman. He’s been dead at least twenty years.”
“Do I look like him?”
“Of course not,” Miranda said.
“He’s been having a bad day,” said Eunice. “We had to leave arts and crafts early because he dumped all the buttons on the floor and threw glitter in someone’s hair. And he used the f-word to the occupational therapist. Twice.”
“Well, he looks happy now,” Miranda said.
Her father had released Evan and stood grinning up at him. “How about a game, Norm? Pinochle? Scrabble? Checkers? You name it; I’m your man.”
“I guess checkers would be okay,” said Evan.
“I can get the checker board from the game room,” Eunice said. “Be back in a jiff.”
Miranda looked at Evan. “You don’t mind?”
“Not a bit,” he assured her.
Eunice returned with the game and set it up at a small table. The two men played three rounds; Nate won each time. He was exuberant in his victory, high-fiving Evan and Eunice. Miranda he ignored totally, even when she opened the tin of lime meltaways—made from one of her favorite cookie recipes—and served them with the iced jasmine tea she’d brought in a large thermos.
“Excellent cookies, Norm!” said her father. Crumbs dotted his chin. “Where’d you get them?”
“Miranda baked them for you, Nate,” said Evan. “You know Miranda. She’s your daughter.”
“Daughter?” A scowl crossed Nate’s face. “No daughters, no girls, and NO BABIES!” Suddenly he was shouting, and he spit the cookie out in apparent disgust.
“Nate, don’t get yourself excited.” Eunice was right there, hand pressed to his shoulder, voice gentle but firm. “And please don’t spit.”
Miranda just watched. Why had he said anything about babies? Babies had not been mentioned at all today. Not once. It meant he did remember something, he did. If only she could find a way to reach him. “You’re right, Dad. No babies. No babies here; no babies anywhere.” Her voice was reedy with sorrow.
“Baby, baby, bye-bye, baby.” Her father turned the words into a song; his anger was gone as quickly as it had come. He took another cookie and offered it to her. “Have this. It’s good.”
“Thank you, Daddy,” Miranda said, and ate it slowly, making it last as long as she could. Then she turned to Evan. “Time to go?”
“Time to go.” Evan walked over to hug her father again.
“Don’t be a stranger, Norm,” Nate said as he gazed up adoringly. “Next time, we’ll play chess. A real intellectual game.”
“We’ll do that,” Evan said.
She hugged her father before she left, but he did not react and his eyes remained fixed on Evan.
Miranda was mostly quiet on the drive back to Manhattan. Earlier in the day, Evan had mentioned stopping by a photography gallery on Orchard Street; she wasn’t sure she’d be up for it, but when they got there, she decided that she would go in with him after all.
“I think you’ll like the pictures.” He locked the car doors. “The show is coming down tomorrow, and after that, the gallery will be closed until September, so this is my last chance to see it.”
Miranda followed him inside. Large color photographs were strategically hung on the white walls. Many of them depicted a thirtyish woman, often with a child or two, though sometimes alone. The woman was very striking, with a mane of rippling hair, full mouth, and well-defined cheekbones. But there was nothing airbrushed about her looks, and some of the photographs showed her face in close-up, so that her pores or a thin film of sweat were quite visible. In one, she had the beginning of a blemish, red and angry, near her chin. And the pictures of the children, always the same two, were equally unsentimental: here was one of a small boy crying, a thin thread of mucus trailing from his nose, his face wet and smeared.
“Who is she?” Miranda asked as they moved around the gallery.
“Elinor Carucci,” he said. “She’s actually the photographer. She uses a tripod with a timer so she can be in the picture
s as well as take them. What do you think?”
“I like them.” She stopped in front of a photograph that showed the top part of a child’s face and the bottom part of a woman’s; the two faces were close together and the child’s hand rested on her mother’s cheek. “Do you?”
“I really do. Look at what she does here. You get just the girl’s eyes, staring right out at you, but not her mouth or nose; the mother’s face is also cut off, so you see the nose and mouth but not the eyes. It’s like they’re two parts of the same whole. And this gesture”—he pointed to the hand—“is so intimate. It’s perfect. The child is reaching for her, caressing her, and claiming her, all at the same time.”
“You see so much.” Miranda loved how animated he was, how passionate.
“It’s all in there; you just have to look.”
Miranda lapsed into silence again on the drive home; the gallery had been a lovely respite, but being with her father always wore her out. And today was one of the worst visits. Even though she was glad he’d enjoyed Evan and the checkers, his inability to recognize her was excruciating. She knew it was not his fault; it was the damn disease, turning his brain into Swiss cheese. But still. And Jared Masters had not called back. Maybe he never would.
As they were crossing the Brooklyn Bridge, the lights of the city behind them and the vast river rippling out below, she blurted out, “I called Celeste’s father.”
“You did? What for?”
“I decided that I do want to meet him. No, that’s not exactly right. I want to be able to see her. And if I want that, I have to meet him.”
“I thought you had decided against it.” He kept his eyes straight ahead on the road.
“That was before . . .” she said. “Now that Celeste is with him, it’s the only way to have contact. And contact, even once in a while, is better than nothing at all.”
“You’re sure about this?”
“No, I’m not. I don’t know how it will play out. Maybe he won’t want me to see her on a regular basis. Maybe he’ll get married and Celeste will have a new mother.”
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