“Let me catch my breath!” he said. “A moose? You couldn’t make that up!”
The crowd around him was laughing, too. Meanwhile, I stood beside my mother, listening as she described in minute detail the golf trip she and Dad planned to take in November. Even if I had any interest in golf, which I didn’t, it would have been a tedious story.
Maybe Ed sensed my envy. “Sasha, you’ve got to hear this,” he said, calling me over.
I took a step toward him as he went on.
“Camille here was down at Yosemite and ran into Marcus—”
I froze in my tracks—my smile, my feet, the air, nothing moved. I heard my mother stop her own story mid-sentence. I saw my father, maybe six feet off, his eyes darting from my mother to Ed and back again.
Uncle Ed’s sentence hung there, stalled in his throat. He stiffened, then a second later shook himself free and went on. “Marcus Hunt,” Uncle Ed said. “He’s a radiology resident. I forgot—you don’t know him.”
I doubted that the people in Ed’s orbit had noticed the stutter in his speech, but you can bet that everyone in my immediate family had. I glanced back at my mother, who continued to watch her brother, as if unsure whether or not to believe him.
“Go on, Mom,” Kurt prompted. “You were saying?”
“It sounds like Ed has quite a story,” she said.
I tried to see my father’s expression, but he was inching away from all of us, slowly, like a cat trying to avoid a fight. He crept off so slowly that at any one second, he looked to be standing still, yet the space between us kept growing.
I was soon back in my chair beside the pool, chatting up Scott and the other caterers as they sneaked cigarette breaks. I liked listening to their banter. It was such a different world from the one I inhabited. Sure, we both interacted with strangers and passed judgment on them. But while I researched, they eavesdropped. While I worried about maintaining confidentiality, they gossiped openly. They also laughed, carried trays, refilled drinks and ate well. And they all intended to do something else with their lives, something larger. Maybe we did share that last trait.
“Has anyone seen Emily?” one of them asked, looking around the party.
“She left already,” Scott said.
“She left?”
“Which one was Emily?” I asked, as if I might possibly have had something to add.
“Short blond hair. Great legs.”
“With the mini-quiches. I think my brother was admiring her earlier.”
“I expect a lot of the guys here were,” Scott said. “Maybe one of them took home a party favor.”
That’s when Uncle Ed wandered over. “May I?” he asked.
I motioned for Ed to sit down. At once, the caterers began to fade back toward the kitchen, as though Ed seemed like more of an adult than me and thus someone who might cause trouble for them. How little they knew. Caterers were frequently audited. All those undeclared tips.
“Are you enjoying yourself?” I asked Ed.
“I’m having a grand time.” He sat heavily beside me. “But I guess I said the wrong name back there.”
“It’s a sore spot. Always has been. Always will be.”
“You think?” Ed asked.
“I know,” I said.
Ed shrugged and took a pull on his drink. He looked out over the pool. “I talk to him,” he said. “I bet you didn’t know that.”
I turned to look, to make sure that he wasn’t joking. Of course he wasn’t joking, I thought. Of course he wasn’t.
“You talk to Marcus? Johnston?”
“I talk to Marcus.”
“But, you’re not even related.”
“Sasha—”
“Well, you’re not.”
“What does that matter? He’s a person. I’m a person. We certainly have people in common.”
“I’m just pointing out…” I wasn’t sure what I was trying to point out. “How? I mean, how often? When?”
He shrugged again. “A few times a month maybe? Sometimes less.”
“Does Mom know?”
“Oh heavens, no.”
“And Dad?”
“He does.”
I turned back to the pool. “Where is he?” I asked quietly. I wasn’t sure whether I was supposed to want to know.
“Sacramento.”
“California? He’s in California? Doing what?”
“Working.”
“Construction?” I asked.
Ed looked at me and sighed. “That was five years ago.”
The way he said it made clear that changes had occurred that I ought to have known about. I was embarrassed. I searched my mind for any newer information about Marcus, but I had none. I couldn’t even remember the last time I had thought of him.
“Does Dad talk to him?”
“Sometimes. When Jacob got sick, it seemed a good time to start something. But you understand, the way your mother is…He’s coming down next week. We’re having dinner on Thursday. You should come.”
“To dinner? Why?”
“Call my office on Monday and my secretary will give you the details. You want to come?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
“Put it in your calendar. I’ll drop you a line to remind you.”
I nodded. Marcus. Now there was a name from the past.
Genetically speaking, Marcus Johnston was my half brother, though on the day of the anniversary party, I wasn’t sure I could have picked him out of a crowd. Marcus was the child of my father and Eloise Johnston, “that woman,” my mother called her. “That woman” had been my father’s secretary in his first accountancy office, back in Roanoke. I’d never known much more about the affair—not how serious it was or how it had begun or how long it had lasted. Long enough for Eloise to get pregnant, that much was clear. And it must have ended quickly. We were already months into our first Piedmont home by the time Marcus was born.
It seemed a strange subject to be thinking about on that day in particular. The affair had been a stress fracture, straining my parents’ marriage to the point of breaking without actually snapping it in half. My mother had stayed, or rather, she had allowed my father to stay. And over the years, especially after Blake came along, the breach had healed into something secure.
All I knew about Eloise Johnston was that she’d moved to Florida soon after Marcus was born, where she could live near her mother. I didn’t know whether she had married, bore any other children or anything else about her. Marcus wasn’t officially a secret, but nor was he ever discussed, which was the functional equivalent. I read once about the New Guinean word mokita, which means the truth that everyone knows about but no one speaks of. Marcus was my family’s version of that.
He had come to visit just once that I could remember—when he was eleven. He’d been acting out at home, and apparently Eloise felt that it might help him to know who his father was, or else she’d simply needed a break. She’d put him on a westward plane with little warning. He’d stayed just three days before my father sent him back again, but in that time, he managed to break Kurt’s favorite model plane.
I remembered being a little nervous around him, though I was almost six years older than he was. I wasn’t scared of him, but he seemed like such a brooding kid and unpredictable. Kurt had gone off to college by then, and as soon as my mother heard that the boy was on his way, she bundled up Blake and took him to her parents’ place for the duration. So for those three days, it was just me and Dad and Marcus.
I hadn’t heard much of him in the years since. Somehow, I knew that he’d dropped out of high school, although I also recalled that he’d gotten his GED. There had been a run-in at a convenience store—either he’d started a fight or botched a mugging or something—for which he’d spent a few months in a sort of halfway jail. He’d gone into construction after that, and that was the last rooted fact I could recall about him. I had assumed he was still in that line of work, traveling to jobs around northern Florida or southern
Georgia.
“When did he move to Sacramento?” I asked. I felt certain I would have remembered if I’d been told he lived in-state.
“Maybe a year ago. After he finished his degree.”
“He got a degree?”
My uncle rolled his eyes. “You should get to know him. He’s your brother, for God’s sake.”
“Not really,” I said. “I know he is, but I don’t know him.”
“And why is that?”
“Oh, you know, I…” I faltered. “He just…we never. He’s always lived across the country.”
Ed looked as if he’d tasted something spoiled. It was an expression I’d never seen on his face before.
“What?” I asked. “He has.”
“He was just a kid. You don’t punish a kid,” he said. “I always figured that you would be the one who got that.”
I’d never before received a harsh word from Uncle Ed, and I hated the way his comment made me feel. As if I’d done something wrong, when I hadn’t done anything.
“Meaning what?” I asked.
“You’re his sister,” Ed said, but he didn’t get a chance to continue. My mother ran out of the house and called for him, not in a casual way, but in something closer to a panic. People parted to let her through.
“Over here. Calm down,” Ed said as she ran up to us.
“You need to come inside.”
“What is it?” I asked.
“Your father fell—”
“Is he okay? Should I—” I began.
“You stay there. You stay right there. Ed, come with me.”
“But Mom—”
“You stay with the guests. I want Ed to take a look.” With that, they hurried through the crowd, now buzzing a bit about things overheard.
Apparently, my father had been in the kitchen when he took an abrupt tumble. The caterers who’d witnessed his fall were unclear what he might have tripped over, but whatever it was, he’d gone down hard. Ed quickly pronounced it a simple sprained ankle, but my father’s demeanor proved more troubling. He had accused one of the catering assistants—a girl who had quickly come to his aid—first of causing the fall and later, of trying to steal his watch. The girl had burst into tears.
I figured that my father had simply been drunk. It wouldn’t have been the first time. But Ed insisted on a trip to the hospital, to do an X-ray and look for signs of a concussion.
“I’m going with them,” my mother told me. “You stay here,” she said.
“Why me? What about Kurt?”
“Kurt left already. Something about an early appointment. And with Blake over at Barney’s, someone’s got to pay the caterers and make sure they get moved out.”
What could I say? It was their anniversary. I told myself that I’d count the inconvenience as part of their present.
It was nearly eleven when my mother left for the hospital, and there were still seven or so couples lingering in the torchlight. I stood by the sliding doors between the den and the patio, watching them. I was wondering when everyone would leave when a hot hand settled onto my shoulder.
“Is the old man gonna survive?” I turned to face Ian Maselin. “I can tell you’re worried. It’s always a shame to see a pretty girl worried.”
“I think he’ll be fine,” I said, trying to inch off gracefully.
“You’re probably right. And here I am, left,” he said.
“Excuse me?”
“Oh, you know that song, don’t you?” He swayed a little bit to get the rhythm down. “Well, you’re right, I’m left, and she’s gone,” he sang. Mr. Maselin was always singing or humming something. Serenades were a large part of his flirtation routine.
“I don’t think I know that song,” I said, backing farther away.
“No? Oh, honey, it’s Tom Jones. You’ve got to know Tom Jones. Well, you’re right, I’m left, she’s gone. You’re right, and I’m left all alone. I’ve got a whole collection of original records in my media room. You should come by some time and take a listen.”
“Yeah,” I said, meaning never. “I’d better go pay the caterers.”
“I suppose I should scare up that wife of mine,” he said. He went away humming. Much as I disliked him, I had to admit, the man could carry a tune.
Chapter Seven
IT HAD BEEN NEARLY ONE IN THE MORNING BEFORE the caterers finished clearing out. Scott had invited me to join a gaggle of them at a bar up in Berkeley, but I didn’t want to leave before my parents returned.
“Okay, then. I guess I’ll see you around,” he’d said.
I’d nodded, though I knew that the statistical likelihood of our crossing paths a second time was slight. I was okay with that. You reach a certain age and the previously spontaneous “why not?” spirit mellows into a more rational “why bother?” Scott was cute and nice, but the fact was I was more interested in a good night’s sleep.
Besides, my to-do list the next day was long. Once back in Oakland, I planned to straighten my closet. I was going to get my car washed. I was going to do laundry. I was going to vacuum. I was going to crack open my new book, New Approaches in Forensic Auditing.
Those were my plans at least. In the end, the same tasks remained on my list, no checkmarks or lines bisecting them. Instead, I spent the day at my computer, combing through the online archive of the Stockton Star and reading everything Jonah Gray had written since taking the job a year before. So much for my determination to follow my standard protocols.
The first mention of him was my favorite.
The Stockton Star extends a warm welcome to its newest newsroom staffer, Jonah Gray! it read. I wondered if all new employees went through this public getting-to-know-you hazing.
So how old are you, Jonah?
I’m thirty-two.
And how long have you lived in Stockton?
Only about a month at this point.
What brought you to our fair city?
A lot of things. Family, you could say.
What do you do when you’re not hard at work at the best newspaper in town, the Stockton Star?
Well, I garden a lot. I used to sail.
And have you ever eaten at Greasy Gus?
Not yet, but I’ve promised to stop by next week.
As always, the Stockton Star’s welcome page is sponsored by Greasy Gus Barbecue on White Oak Way. Don’t forget—we cater!
There had originally been a picture attached to the article—an awkward, taken-on-the-newsroom-floor headshot, I imagined—but it wasn’t included in the text-only archive.
Jonah Gray had gone from microeconomic trend analysis for the Wall Street Journal to covering the police beat at the Stockton Star. Though I didn’t know much about journalism, it seemed like quite a dive. Soon enough, however, his beat had expanded to cover crime in general—chasing down teenagers accused of theft or vandalism, unruly crowds at local football rallies, stolen farm equipment and at one point, pilfered fat.
Hold on to your fryers, he had written, about four months into his tenure.
The lard rustlers are back. Last week, a manager at the Otis Waffle Hut reported the broad-daylight theft of four fifty-five-gallon drums of used pork grease. Faithful readers of this paper may recall that earlier in the summer, Greasy Gus in Stockton suffered a similar theft. Police assume that the used cooking oil was likely sold to rendering plants where it can be turned into useful products like soap, cosmetics and livestock feed. It can bring in as much as $0.15 per pound. Talk about your greased palms!
If the criminal nature of Jonah’s assignments ever depressed him, it didn’t show. His style was clear, often lighthearted and revealed a dogged optimism. He ended one article by saying that the police chief “felt certain that the element responsible would be brought to justice.” He ended another by pointing out that one hijacked truckload of grade-B lettuce had been found and donated to a local shelter, rather than remind his readers of the second truckload still at large.
More recently, he had been working
the local government beat, a shift I inferred to be yet another promotion. For someone who hadn’t been in Stockton long, he certainly followed the city’s comings and goings.
I was startled from my reading by the ringing of my telephone. I looked at the clock and saw that it was almost five. I had been reading the Stockton Star for nearly three hours.
“Hello?”
“My name is Mel, and I’m a taxpayer,” a man’s voice said. “I’m calling to lodge a complaint.”
“How did you get this phone number?”
“You shouldn’t go around auditing people pell-mell like that. You’re upsetting the balance of things. It’s wrong, I tell you. It’s fundamentally wrong. That’s all I have to say on that matter.”
“So you’re a gardener,” I said. “You’re one of Jonah Gray’s lackeys.”
“I ain’t no man’s lackey, lady,” Mel said. “I say what I want to say.”
“It was just random chance, you know. Chance that he’s being audited. Chance that I was assigned to his case,” I said.
“Yeah, well, what matters is what you do with the chance,” Mel snarled.
“Like calling to harass someone at home?” I asked. “Like that? Right? Mel?”
But there was only a dial tone.
“Dammit,” I muttered. The last thing I needed were random gardeners calling me at home. It wasn’t appropriate and it wasn’t fair, and what I ought to do, I told myself, was report Mel to the phone company or the police (though I had to admit that he hadn’t threatened me). But I hesitated. Such a report might get Jonah Gray in trouble, and I didn’t want that either. I realized that I felt strangely protective of the guy. My God, I wondered. Was I turning into one of them?
Chapter Eight
I’D NEVER HAD TO REQUEST A REPLACEMENT RETURN before, but I’d heard stories of other auditors who’d had to. Typically, that was a sign of someone on the way out. It wasn’t a terminal offense, but when you start to misplace returns, well, you’re hitting the bottom of your game. Of course, Jonah Gray’s return hadn’t been misplaced; it had been destroyed. Thank goodness I’d only handed Ricardo the first page.
The Return of Jonah Gray Page 8