I head back to Lise’s room, carrying a magazine.
“And what’s this?” I yell as I barge in without knocking. “These are Dad’s initials next to this photo, aren’t they?”
“You’re stupid! CR means ‘copyright.’ I asked Mom.”
“What does ‘copyright’ mean? Explain it to me, then.”
Lise sighs. “Ask Mom.”
I try to do my homework while I wait for Mom to come home, but everything I read is a blur.
When I hear the car pull into the driveway, I rush downstairs. I turn the radio on, fill the teakettle, and open the door. Mom has barely taken off her jacket when I ask her where Dad is. She pauses the way she always does when we talk about Dad and his travels. I’ve never paid attention to that before.
“Why do you ask, Anthony? He’s traveling, like always.”
“Where is he now?”
“It depends. Why?”
“Because …”
I hesitate, and then the words fly out of my mouth.
“Because Lise told me that Dad’s in jail.”
Mom turns around and I see her eyes change and become very small and very dark.
“LISE!” she shouts.
My sister comes out of her room quietly. I’m sure she knows what’s going on, because usually when we call her she keeps us waiting at least fifteen minutes and we have to call her three more times before she “consents to show up,” as my mother says. This time Lise appears immediately and looks at Mom from the top of the stairs.
“What did you tell your brother?” Mom asks her.
“The truth! Do you mind?”
“Yes.”
“He has the right to know. Besides, he guessed almost by himself.”
My mom starts to go up the stairs, and as she gets close to Lise I think she’s going to slap my sister’s face. Lise looks at her hard, sure of herself.
“Is it true, Mom?” I speak up. “I looked through Lise’s desk and her postcards all have the same postmark, like mine, and Dad never mentions traveling.”
Mom turns around and sits on the stairs. She smiles tightly. “His trips …,” she says with a faraway look.
Lise comes down a few stairs and sits next to Mom. She’s smiling too, not her usual defiant smile, but a serene smile.
A while later the three of us head to the kitchen and sit around the table. Mom gets up to make tea, takes off her shoes, and shuts off the radio. Lise helps herself to a cup of tea too (tea must be a girl thing, I guess), and Mom tells us Dad’s story.
• 2 •
The Story of the Cantes Men
“I met your father while I was working at a hospital in Toulouse,” Mom begins. “He didn’t tell me what he did for a living. I only knew that his father had been a burglar.”
My eyes go wide. “What? You mean Grandpa?”
“Yes, and it soon became clear to me that your dad was working with him, that they were doing heists together.”
“Heists? What does that mean?” I ask.
“It means holding up banks or places where there’s money,” Mom explains. “It scared me, but I tried to ignore it and act as if everything was normal. I continued working at the hospital. Your dad was very nice to me. He never talked about what he did. My parents disliked him, which is why we ended up on bad terms and why you don’t know them. Eventually the day came when your father and I had to leave town in a hurry because the police had identified him on the security camera of the bank he had recently held up. I was pregnant with Lise. We went to Tangier, in Africa. Do you know where that is?”
I don’t know and I don’t care right now. I’ll find it on my glow-in-the-dark globe later tonight.
I nod. “Go on.”
“Soon the police were looking for him in Africa. They knew he was over there. They also knew that he had a wife and a daughter. So we moved even farther away. But Lise got sick and we came back to Europe to get her the proper treatment. The police were still looking for your father. We continued to hide. I started to work as a self-employed nurse; we made believe your dad wasn’t living with us, and he disguised himself as a patient to visit us. I became pregnant again and the police were still watching us but we didn’t know it. That’s how your father got caught.”
“How?” I ask.
“He came to the hospital when you were born.”
“It’s all my fault, then?”
Mom shakes her head. “Of course not, silly.”
Still, if he hadn’t come to the hospital, things would be different today. There’s a lot I don’t understand. My dad got caught, but I remember seeing him when I was younger. I have photographs and memories of nighttime train rides, the ocean, a fishing village. I remember that he taught me how to swim and that he carried me on his shoulders when I was tired of walking. I remember that he had a big beard.
Mom must have read my thoughts, because she goes on.
“Your father escaped before his case went to court. Nobody knows who helped him and he always refused to tell me. One night, while you were sleeping, he arrived with a car. We packed up and left.”
“Where did we go?”
“To the seaside. Don’t you remember?”
“I do. But I thought we were on vacation.”
“That’s one way to look at it. It was a vacation that lasted four years. We moved a lot, always to more and more remote villages, either by the sea or up in the mountains, or to very large towns. It wasn’t fun, even for you.”
For once, Lise agrees with Mom. She says that she wanted to go to school and have friends, but that Mom insisted on being the one to teach her to read and write. When Lise says that, I can see that Mom looks sad. Lise notices it too. I want to make Mom feel better.
“I’d love to be homeschooled,” I say. “I wouldn’t have to bother with grades, no report card to be signed—”
“Yes, well, it didn’t take long for your father to see that living like that wasn’t a good solution,” Mom says. “You needed to attend school too, Anthony. So the three of us came back and he stayed away. You both went to school, and at last Lise had friends. We were watched; there was always a policeman in front of the house. They were waiting for your father. From time to time, friends of his would bring letters and leave them under the doormat. But it was hard for your father to stay away. He wanted to come back and see you grow up, even if it was dangerous for him. We called his lawyers and they entered a plea bargain: if he agreed to turn himself in, the court would take it into account.”
“What does that mean?” I ask.
“It means he got a shorter sentence.”
“And that was a long time ago?”
“Two years ago. Your father’s been in jail for two years, waiting for his trial.”
“When will that happen?”
“Soon.”
“How soon?”
“Soon is soon.”
I can’t concentrate on my homework.
At dinner, I pepper Mom with questions. Is my father a mean man? Is she afraid of him? Why did he choose to rob banks? Why didn’t he have a normal job? She tells me that we’ll talk about it later, that I don’t have to get upset about it. She also tells me that Dad never killed anyone and that I should never forget that.
She comes up when I’m in bed and shows me a photo of Dad with Lise and me on his knees.
She turns the night-light on when she leaves and I look at the picture for a long time. Later, Lise comes into my room.
At night she usually locks herself in her bedroom and writes in her diary, or she listens to music and dances. But here she is. She sits down on my bed.
“You’re crushing my feet,” I tell her.
She scoots over a little. “So what do you think? What are you feeling?”
“Nothing,” I say.
“Come on. Dad’s in jail and you’re not upset?”
“I am upset. But it feels like a movie.”
Lise sighs. “Well, it’s not a movie, Anthony. It’s real life. And
take my advice: don’t mention any of this to your friends.”
For once she called me Anthony and not shrimp.
“Why?”
“You’re so dumb,” she says, shaking her head. “If you tell them, they won’t play with you anymore.”
“Why not?”
“If someone told you Hassan’s father was a murderer, would you still want to play with him?”
“I don’t know. But Dad’s a thief, not a murderer. Mom said he never killed anyone.”
“It’s still the same. What he did is against the law.”
“But it’s only money. It’s not that serious.”
“What if everybody started doing what he did?”
I hadn’t thought about it like that.
“Move over some more, I want to sleep.”
She takes the pillow and pretends to smother me with it. Then she gives me a kiss.
“Good night, shrimp.”
At recess the next day, I don’t feel like playing, not even with Hassan. He thinks I’m mad at him and goes off with the other kids. Usually I don’t like being alone, but today I couldn’t care less. I imagine my dad robbing banks. Did he carry a gun? Did he wear a mask or a hood? It’s dangerous to be a bank robber; he could’ve been killed. And maybe he did kill people. Mom said he didn’t, but she’s lied to me once and could be lying again.
Another friend asks me to play with him but I don’t want to. I’m still thinking about Dad. If he has killed people, he could have killed Hassan’s father or mother.…
In the cafeteria I sit at a table with some younger kids. Hassan saved me a seat next to him but I want to eat by myself. He comes over and asks if I’m upset because of Stephanie’s birthday party. I’m the only one in the class she didn’t invite. When I tell Hassan that I don’t care about his ugly girlfriend’s birthday, he doesn’t believe me (or he doesn’t like what I have to say), and he walks off.
After lunch, I keep to myself on the playground. I can’t believe that my dad didn’t kill anyone, ever. When they talk about bank robbers on the news, it’s always because someone got killed. If Dad really did just steal some money, my grandparents or my mom would have told me. They wouldn’t have kept quiet just about money. They lied to me again, I’m sure of it.
Grandpa comes to pick me up after school. On our way home, we talk. Mom told him that I know.
“Is it true that Dad never killed anyone?” I ask.
“Yes, it’s true.”
“Is it true that you held up banks too?”
“Yes, a very long time ago.”
“Did you kill people?”
“Anthony, you have every reason to be upset, but—”
“Lise says that if everyone did what you did, everything would be a mess.”
“She’s right. It’s more complicated than that, but she’s right.”
“So why did you tell me that you worked at the sawmill?”
“Because it’s true. I worked at the sawmill afterward.”
“Did you go to jail too?”
My grandfather takes a deep breath and starts to tell me his story. It turns out he was one of the most famous bank robbers of his time. Books have been written about him.
He worked alone for a long time, before teaching the business to my uncle and my dad. But my uncle didn’t want to live like his father. He did well at school and went off to college. He never came back. He’s a research scientist in Germany now. My dad wasn’t like his brother. He thought robbing banks was a good profession. He decided to follow in my grandfather’s footsteps.
Again I ask Grandpa if he ever killed anyone. He stops walking and lets out a deep breath.
“Yes, once, and it was an accident.”
My grandfather is a murderer. Suddenly I feel dizzy. I feel my legs turn to jelly, like I’m about to pass out. I’m afraid to ask my next question.
“And Dad?” I say.
Grandpa hesitates before answering. “No.”
“You’re not sure?”
Grandpa looks at me. “Yes, I’m sure.”
“Who was it that you killed?”
“I told you it was an accident. I’ll explain it all to you when you’re older.”
“But I’m old enough now!”
“I promise I’ll explain when you’re older.”
I don’t pester him any more. I decide to ask Lise. She’s older, so she must know.
When we arrive home, Yaya prepares our afternoon snack and Lise watches TV. Yaya wants to give me her own version of the story. I tell her I already know, but she insists. She repeats the things Grandpa just told me and says other things too. I notice that Lise lowers the volume on the TV and listens to what Yaya has to say. Since Grandpa is nearby, I don’t dare ask Yaya why Grandpa, who killed at least one person, isn’t in jail. It’s unfair.
For the first time, Yaya talks to me as if I’m a grown-up. She’s very serious and her voice is deeper than usual.
Lise shuts off the TV and comes to sit with us. She wants to know why Yaya didn’t stop our dad from becoming a bank robber, why my uncle went to college and my father didn’t.
Yaya sighs. “That is the choice he made,” she says.
“It was your duty to tell him that it was wrong,” Lise argues. “Why didn’t you?”
“Because it was his life, not mine.”
“But you knew how dangerous it was!”
“I couldn’t stop him.”
“Liar! You’re his mother. You should have stopped him! It’s your fault he’s in jail. You’re the one who pushed him to do all this.”
“Lise! Don’t talk to me like that.”
“I’ll talk to you any way I want. It’s your fault if we never see him.”
Lise storms up to her room and locks her door. Yaya goes to the kitchen. I don’t know what to do, so I go knock on Lise’s door. She opens it. Her eyes are red and she’s holding one of Dad’s postcards. Since I have a hard time making out his handwriting, she reads them to me.
Mom doesn’t come home too late this evening. I want to ask Grandpa how you hold up a bank, but it isn’t the right time. Mom says she’ll be visiting my dad in prison next week, in the visiting room.
“The visiting room?”
“It’s the place where you can see the detainees.”
“I want to go too.”
“It’s not pleasant, Anthony, it’s grim. Not really a place for children.”
Lise says she’s not going. Sometimes it’s difficult to understand my sister.
After dinner, when we head upstairs to bed, I hear the conversation between Mom and Yaya.
Yaya thinks Mom should listen to me, that it would cheer my dad up to see me. If anyone can convince my mom to let me see Dad, it’s Yaya.
I go to Lise’s room. She’s cutting pictures out for her diary. I’ve already sneaked a look inside and I know she writes about her girlfriends and boyfriends, that she glues in pictures of singers she loves, that she writes about her dreams. It’s a girl thing, totally stupid and useless.
“Why don’t you want to go visit Dad?” I ask her.
“Because I want to be normal.”
“What would that change?”
“Normal people don’t go to jail. Now get out of here. I’m busy.”
I brush my teeth and Mom comes up to say goodnight. I ask her again if I can visit Dad. She says, “We’ll see.” That means that I’ll get to go. My mom explains that it will be a difficult experience, that the visit won’t last long, and that jail is not a place for children. She explains that there are lots of hallways and metal bars and prison guards, and that I might not even recognize Dad because jail is a sad place where people change a lot.
She closes my bedroom door. I start to understand what Lise means. Normal kids don’t go to jail to visit their fathers.
Lise is right. It is all Yaya’s fault. She had no right to let my father do what he did.
I fall asleep, imagining jail like a life-size video game—gray, with metal bars
and doors and endless hallways.
A few days before I go to visit my dad, the TV news announces his trial: “Rafael Cantes, the man who escaped police custody several times and finally surrendered, will go on trial soon,” says one of the anchors.
At school, some kids want to know if I’m related to Rafael Cantes, the bank robber. I don’t know what to tell them, so we fight. One of the kids tears my T-shirt, so I kick him where it hurts most—right in the groin.
• 3 •
The Visiting Room
Now that I know I’m going to be visiting my dad, I count off the days in my math notebook. I use a coded system so if someone happens to see it they won’t understand.
Only eight days left. Only four days. Seventy-eight hours. Just a few hours more …
Today is the day. Mom is picking me up at school, after the three o’clock recess. She wrote a note for the principal. I don’t know if she said that my father is in jail or if she lied.
In class, I get the feeling that the teacher isn’t looking at me the same way she usually does. It’s as if she knows. I don’t want to attract attention or be punished, so for once I don’t whisper with Hassan. He and I always talk about what we’ll do at recess or when we go to his house after school.
I wait for the bell, feeling like it won’t ever ring.
When I gaze out the window, I see my mom waiting for me in front of her car. She’s early, for once.
At recess, Hassan asks me why I’m not staying. The teacher hears him. She tells him I have an appointment and it’s none of his business. It must mean she knows where I’m going. She’s nicer than I thought.
In the car, I want to talk to Mom, to ask her questions about the jail, but I can see that it’s not the right time: she’s tense, impatient at red lights, grumbling about the pedestrians and all the people who don’t know how to drive.
I try to imagine what a real jail will be like. In comic books, everything is gray, rooms are like high-walled cubes, criminals are in drab pajamas, and the guards keep an eye on them with big rifles. In movies, it’s less gloomy but more frightening.
On the Run Page 2