She lays the clothes in the drawers carefully, creating neat little piles. At the bottom of the laundry basket, she finds one lonely sock. Shit. She searches the basket, then the carpet around her feet. Socks, especially kids’ socks, are so fucking hard to get in this town, mostly because shipments of kids’ clothes are so infrequent, since there’s only one kid. She has to beg and plead with Spiro just to get what few provisions they can. He does his best, but Isaac outgrows everything so fast. These clothes. This room. This town.
She gets down on her hands and knees to check under the dresser. No luck. And there’s something else missing, she realizes: Isaac’s box, the one where he keeps all his treasures. The one where he put his trading cards. The one she was telling Cooper all about. The wooden cigar box, covered in shiny NASCAR stickers that arrived one blessed Wednesday morning years back, on the supply truck, ordered specially by Spiro for Isaac as a surprise. She remembers Isaac bringing the stickers home; she remembers him sitting patiently, applying each one to his cigar box as lovingly as an attending nurse might apply bandages to a suffering patient.
He keeps that box tucked under his dresser, she’s sure of it. She’s cleaned around it a hundred times, each time sliding it out carefully, then placing it back just so, for fear of upsetting him.
His treasure chest.
Now it’s gone. No box, no cards, no bubblegum, no treasures, no nothing.
She can even see the faint impression in the shag carpet where the corners of the box once lay.
Well, that’s about the worst news you could get right now, she thinks.
Then she stands back up, dusts off her jeans, and resolves, quite easily and with surprisingly little internal dissension, to share this information with precisely no one else.
Dawes finds Cooper alone in the police trailer, in his swivel chair, boots up on his desk.
“Are you busy? I can come back,” she says.
“No. Come on in,” he says, and sits up. “And, yes, you can take the car.”
“I’m sorry—?”
“The emergency car. Orson Calhoun told me you were asking about it. I assume you want to track down Ellis Gonzalez and ask him a whole bunch of those questions you’ve been collecting in your notebook.”
“I—” She’s stumped. She had a whole lie prepped and ready, a good one, but apparently she won’t be needing it now. “Yes, I had considered it.”
“I saw Lyndon Lancaster earlier,” says Cooper. “He told me you were asking about Ellis. He mentioned something about Abilene to you?”
“That’s right.”
“Sometimes you seem to forget—people in this town love to talk. And I’m the closest thing they have to a shrink. So things tend to get back to me.” Cooper glances over the paperwork on his desk, as though he’s ready to move on to the next order of business. “I think it’s definitely worth a follow-up. You should go.”
“Really? Because before—”
“What is it they say about gift horses and mouths, Deputy Dawes?” Cooper looks up at her and gives a little smile. “You were right. This is a serious matter. If it means heading off the reservation for a day, so be it. I’d offer you my truck, but I’ve got my own errand to run tomorrow. I just made an appointment to see Dr. Holliday.”
Dr. Holliday is not a name that comes up in conversation very often, and when it does, it’s typically spoken with reverence. Dawes can’t help but ask: “What’s it about?”
“I considered what you said about Gerald Dean and Hubert Gable. This incident with Gable is a serious breach. So I’m going to personally visit Dr. Holliday and put in an information request. Get Gable’s file unsealed, and hopefully Dean’s and Colfax’s, too. Let’s finally get some real answers, right?”
“I’ve never met Dr. Holliday,” Dawes says. “Is she—what they say she is?”
“That all depends on what they say she is.”
“You know—impressive.”
“That, she definitely is. If you think about it, none of this”—Cooper gestures toward the door to the town beyond—“would exist had it not sprung from the depths of her fertile mind.”
“I thought it was Dr. Fell who founded this place.”
“Fell pioneered the technology, but I think he had other applications in mind,” says Cooper. “In any case, he died before Caesura ever opened. So this particular forsaken experiment?” He leans back in the swivel chair and holds his hands wide. “This is all Holliday’s baby. She makes the rules. And, if I prove charming enough tomorrow, we’ll see if she’s willing to make an exception.” He looks back down at his paperwork, by way of a dismissal. “You have yourself a good trip, Deputy.” Let her drive off and track down Gonzalez, he thinks, as he pretends to peruse a form. Let her marry Gonzalez for all he cares. So long as she’s out of his hair for one day. Just one day—a day that promises to be quite eventful here in town.
“Thank you, sir. I’ll let you know whatever I find out.” When he doesn’t answer, Dawes lets herself out of the trailer.
12.
FRAN CHECKS EVERY DRYER for the missing sock but finds nothing. She rummages through the lost and found box—also nothing. Isaac, meanwhile, has enacted a temporary speedway, with a single toy race car, on the peeling linoleum floor of the Laundromat. He races the car in a noisy circuit, around and around, making rubbery race-car gear-shift sounds with his mouth. She watches him for a moment: lost in a world of his own invention. How easily he escapes. To a hidden place with its own rules and regulations, its own dramas and crises. That’s no surprise, she thinks. It’s all he has. An elaborate imaginary realm that only he can access. She hasn’t asked him about the missing cigar box and doesn’t plan to, not yet, at least. He’s so alone in this world, she thinks. He needs the solace of his own secrets.
From above the row of washers, the TV drones—someone switched it back to the all-news channel, apparently.
—has become a national story. Vincent, the tech tycoon who was injured in a brutal domestic assault and lay in a coma for over a year, attracting national headlines—she looks up to see a man in a polo shirt, handsome, smiling, at a podium—and only now, after many long years of recovery, is looking to restart his political ambitions—this apparent politician has a warm smile, he’s appealing, she has to admit—after making his fortune in the science of predicting elections, he’ll now try his luck at his own Senate run. Addressing the media earlier today, Vincent—the man, familiar to her now, she knows this face, she realizes, he’s the same man from the news report she saw the other day, it hits her with a painful twinge, the whine of the TV now making her head throb slightly; the man’s talking now, seated, in an interview, coolly answering questions, in soothing tones. He’s a natural, she thinks, though his voice, she can tell, is still affected somehow by whatever accident he endured, his words ever so slightly slurred—what’s in the past is past, and I can only wish her the best. What I’m interested in is moving forward, together with the good people of the state of California, if they see fit to entrust me with this. For years, I studied the best ways to predict how people would vote. Now I’m just trying to win those votes the old-fashioned way—he chuckles, warmly, on cue, but believable nonetheless—but it certainly is unusual to find myself on the other side of the ballot, so to speak—the interviewer nods, volleys a few more questions and the sharp chatter of the TV surges, stoking Fran’s burgeoning headache; the edges of her vision blur; this one’s worse than ever; her stomach lurches; she feels like she might tumble; she shoots an arm out to steady herself on a nearby machine. Now Isaac’s tugging at her shirt, now he’s asking if she’s okay, his voice distant and tinny—
Then it passes. She finds the nearby remote and mutes the TV. Now the hopeful politician is simply smiling and nodding warmly in muted silence.
So strange that once upon a time that kind of ambient electronic gibberish was the soundtrack of her everyday life, she thinks. That she actually found the staccato of the TV comforting as background noise. Once y
ou spend enough time alone out here in the middle of nowhere, with silence as your counsel, on your steps at two A.M. counting endless stars, you’ll forget how you ever managed to filter all that toxic white noise out, let alone find it welcome.
Given all the peace she’s found out here.
Save for the occasional gunshot.
At the thought, she flinches reflexively, standing in the Laundromat among the mechanistic whir, as though she’s heard a gunshot just now, they sneak up on her, these phantom shots. She glances back at the TV, bewildered for a moment, wondering if maybe something happened on the screen. But the wannabe politician on-screen is still smiling and talking, nodding, the sound’s still muted, the only noise the perpetual sloshing of the washers, and it’s nothing, the moment’s over.
Isaac, below her, looks up, still worried.
Poor Isaac. She’s literally all he has.
She shakes it off, does her best to smile, and reaches out to give his shoulder a reassuring squeeze, and she glances at the etched tattoo that encircles her wrist, the forgotten numbers that she almost never thinks to notice anymore.
Cooper unfolds the fax on his kitchen table. Smoothes it out under the overhead lamp. Reads the single word again. No reason to, it’s not going to change, but he does it anyway.
Tomorrow.
He folds the fax and puts it back in his pocket. Checks the clock. Nearly ten P.M.
Cooper has set his last unopened bottle of Old Grand-Dad bourbon on the table. A new shipment of provisions comes in tomorrow morning, and Greta will definitely set aside something just for him, she always does, but this is his in-case-of-emergency-break-glass secret reserve. You can’t open it lightly. He picks up the bottle, considers the unbroken seal.
Dean is the last one—Cooper’s decided that already. Colfax, Gable, Dean, then he’s done. Not that he went into this with much of a plan, just an offer in hand, a bag of dangled cash, but he definitely has a plan now. And three should be enough. More than enough. It should be plenty.
He hates to break into his last bottle, his emergency reserve, just on principle.
Besides, he’s got one more important thing to do tonight.
He needs a drink. But he needs a clear head more.
He taps the cap. A nervous drumbeat.
Checks the clock again. Just past ten.
Isaac will be asleep by now.
Cooper remembers when he used to visit Fran late at night for entirely different reasons. How she always told him it was safe to come after ten.
How he’d sneak over, under cover of darkness, hoping none of her nosy neighbors would spot him. Hell, Doris Agnew, who lives right next door to Fran, is the worst wag in the town.
How Fran would answer the door without a word and he’d slip inside and spend an hour or so with her, pretending they were somewhere that’s not here. Being as quiet as they could. Pretending they were people who aren’t the people that they are. A few hours in the darkness, together, complicit in indulging that luxury. Just like a normal couple somewhere. You could almost believe it, in the dark. Imagining some other story for themselves, some escape.
He hated breaking it off. Hated it. Hated watching her take the news. Hated seeing this strong woman try stubbornly to keep her face from falling at his weak excuses and pathetic dissembling and obvious lies. Hated watching it dawn on her that even this lowly, inadequate, compromised scrap of human contact they’d forged together was going to be denied her. Cooper doesn’t fool himself into thinking he’s some prize catch. Far from it. He understands that her sorrow in that moment was spurred entirely by the realization that she couldn’t even have something so broken and cheap, so compensatory, not even that, so she could forget about ever finding anything worthwhile.
And most of all he hated watching her realize right before his eyes that those stolen hours they’d spent together were nothing but mutual lies, told to each other in silence in the dark, with the understanding that they’d both pretend to believe that they were true. That in the light of day her life is nothing more than what it is, and always will be. That whoever she used to be, whatever she can’t remember, it doesn’t matter, she’s here now, within these fences, with her son, with nothing but fake names and endless days and no escape.
That’s what she thinks, unless he can convince her otherwise.
He unwedges the bottle from his thighs and sets it aside on the table, unopened. He’ll have to break that emergency glass another time.
Tonight, he needs his head clear.
He hated to do it, he hated to end it. It was the one good thing he can remember in his life, that one weekly hour of escaping, but that’s exactly why he had to break it off. He had to think of the bigger picture. Which, for her, can’t include him. For her, or for her son.
Keep telling yourself that, Cooper.
He checks the clock. It’s time to go.
You’ve got one more chance to save the day, he thinks.
She answers the door, drying her hands with a dish towel, after his second knock.
“You want to come inside?” she says.
“Maybe it’s better if we speak out here. Or walk a little. Will Isaac be okay?”
“Sure, for a moment. He’s asleep.”
They walk up the street together, in the dark, toward the perimeter fence. At the end of the block, she pulls out her pack of cigarettes. “You mind? I like to multitask.”
“You still hiding that habit from Isaac?”
“I’m still pretending he doesn’t know,” she says. “Or that I don’t know he knows—I’ve lost track.” She sticks the cigarette in her mouth and pulls out a lighter and sparks it. Cooper’s about to speak but she hushes him with a raised finger. Takes a long drag. Then exhales.
“That’s the only part I really enjoy,” she says. “So it’s important to maintain a proper reverence.” She puts the cigarette to her lips again and takes a long second drag. She exhales, then says, “Second drag’s never as good,” then drops the cigarette to the dirt and grinds it out with a little halfhearted twist, like a weary dancer at the end of a marathon, just trying to stay upright and keep dancing.
They walk a little farther, until they’re standing right under the fence. Looking out beyond the chain link: Nothing. Total darkness. The watching world, presumably.
“I’m sorry about today,” says Cooper.
“No, I owe you an apology. I looked for his treasure box. The one where he keeps the cards? It’s gone.”
“Look, that doesn’t mean—”
“Don’t bullshit me,” she says. “Sometimes I wonder if I even know him at all anymore.”
“Kids are hard.”
“Easy for you to say, given you don’t have one.”
“There’s a parenting book you could read,” Cooper says. “It’s called Raising Icarus. Just sound advice about kids, you know, keeping them close but not too close. It’s written by a single mother who did a hell of a job with her son. I’m sure we have it at the library. I asked them to order a few copies a while back.”
She turns in the dark to look at him. “What the hell are you doing reading parenting books anyway, Calvin Cooper? Aren’t you just full of surprises.”
“I heard about it on the radio once,” he says. “Before I came out here. Recommended it to a few people over the years. They seemed to find it useful.”
Off in the distance, they can both hear a rising whine as Ginger’s coydogs start in on their nightly serenade.
“Believe it or not, there are things about this place I would definitely miss,” Fran says.
“That’s what I want to talk to you about. I came to tell you that you need to go. As soon as possible.”
“We’ve talked about this—”
“It’s different now. Trust me. Take Isaac. Tomorrow.”
“What the hell, Calvin?”
“Trust me.”
“Sure—like Jean Mondale and Jacob?”
“I had nothing to do with that, you know tha
t. She made her own decision. She knew the risks.”
“So do I. The world’s not safe out there. Not for us.” She pulls the pack of cigarettes from her pocket again and fumbles with it. Thinks better of it. Pockets it again. “I have nothing, Cal. No money. No prospects. No fucking clue even who I am. So where would we go? I thought coming here would be a fresh start, you know? But it’s not. It’s just a fucking hole you fall into and you can never climb back out again.”
“I can help you,” he says.
“How?”
“Money, for starters.”
She laughs a brittle laugh. “I used to think one of the only appealing things about this place is you don’t have to think about money. You really want to help me?”
“Of course.” Cooper strains to see her in the dark. He hears her strong voice wavering. There’s an unsteady twang in her voice now, a vibration, like the sound of struck steel.
“Then how about instead you start by telling me who the fuck I really am?”
“I don’t know that. But I can try to find out,” he says.
She turns toward him. They’re standing close now. She reaches out a hand in the dark for his face. Lets her palm rest on his cheek. It’s been a long time since they touched like this. Cooper wants to resist, but he doesn’t. It’s too dark by the fence for anyone to see them out here anyway. They can barely see each other.
“It’s funny, right?” she says. “We used to expend so much energy pretending we were someone—anyone—else. When all I really want to know is who I am.” She pulls her hand away. “Look, I’m sorry. It’s not your fault I’m here.”
“You’re not alone. We all have secrets,” Cooper says.
“Sure. But at least you know what your secrets are.”
“If I can tell you about your past, the circumstances that brought you here, would you consider leaving?”
“Can you do that?”
“I’m seeing Dr. Holliday tomorrow.”
“Really?” Fran’s surprised. It’s unusual for anyone to mention Dr. Holliday, let alone visit her. “Why?”
The Blinds Page 10