Spy Mom

by Beth McMullen

  There is one last thing to confess. When I was a child, still on the farm, I would dream with the dark intensity of an overactive imagination. There were many nights I’d wake up screaming in terror, the strong arms of my mother no match for the dream’s grip. She’d rock me slowly, whispering, singing, stroking my hair until my trembling subsided and I could go back to sleep. What I never told her, what I never told anyone, was that those dreams were different from my regular ones in more than the obvious way. Those dreams spun their tales in a language at once strange yet completely familiar to me. When I entered my teens, the dreams disappeared, and I did not think about them again until my first mission to Moscow. As I exited the plane into the crowded airport, I suddenly understood something.

  Those dreams, those terrifying nightmares, had unfolded in perfect Russian.

  31

  Bath time is a backbreaking experience. On my knees tubside, trying to soap up a small person who is more intent on pouring cupfuls of water onto the bathroom floor, I feel the nine years of relatively hard living I did at the Agency. My knees ache, my lower back is tight, my neck is knotted like a rope. I’m a wreck. But maybe it’s not so much the tub as the partial drowning I experienced earlier. All I really want to do is lie down and sleep, but motherhood doesn’t give evenings off for near-death experiences.

  Theo, on the other hand, is happy as a clam. I am barely paying attention to him as I try to organize the day in my head. But like the rest of me, it hurts. I’m having trouble keeping all the balls up in the air. Theo yanks on my sleeve with a wet hand.

  “Is Daddy back with dinner yet?” he asks.

  “I don’t think so, baby. Probably ten more minutes. Are you starved?”

  “No. I hear the door.”

  His words make me freeze. The door.

  “Okay, honey. Probably time to come out now.”

  “I’m still playing,” he whines. But my ears are tuned elsewhere. I don’t hear footsteps on the stairs. Maybe Will forgot his wallet? I pull Theo out of the tub despite the increasingly loud protests. I wrap him in a towel and carry the whole damp bundle down the hallway to his bedroom. Still no unusual sounds.

  “Mommy, who is that man?”

  I’d be lying if I told you I react calmly to this question. I don’t. Not really. Standing next to Theo’s crib is Ian Blackford, none the worse for wear. He has both hands deep in the pockets of his overcoat, which hides a navy pinstripe suit. It’s strange. The suit, I mean. Yes, it is also strange that Blackford is in my house in Theo’s room, but it is the suit that strikes me.

  “If you try anything, I swear you will regret it,” I say, clutching Theo to my chest, hoping he didn’t hear me. “And what’s with the suit?”

  He looks down as if he’s forgotten he is wearing it.

  “Oh. Right. Work thing.”

  “That’s weird. This whole thing is weird. Get out of my house.”

  “I can’t do that.”

  “Then go downstairs and wait for me.” He nods his head and disappears down the stairs. I’m breathing hard. Blackford appears to have nine lives.

  “Mommy, I’m cold,” Theo says. He seems unfazed by the stranger hanging out in his bedroom in the dark of night. Pretty secure kid. I dry him off and pull him into his dinosaur pajamas. I tuck him in front of the TV and he goes into that trance-like state of a child who doesn’t get to watch very much. In my closet, behind the box of old maternity clothes, is a locked metal safe. In the safe is a shoebox. In the shoebox is my gun. It’s dusty and I have just three bullets, but that’s enough. I only need one. I load it, tuck it into the back of my pants, and go downstairs to see what the hell Blackford wants, because for the life of me, I can’t figure it out.

  He sits in my kitchen, munching on an open bag of pretzels, and drinking my leftover cold coffee.

  “Make yourself at home.”

  “Thanks. Mind if I put this in the microwave?” he asks, holding up the coffee mug.

  “Would it matter if I said yes?” I ask. I lean back against the counter, watching him.

  “Aren’t you going to ask me how I am?” he says. And suddenly I’m mad, really mad, maybe the maddest I’ve ever been. I must be, because when Blackford turns back from the microwave with his coffee, I punch him square in the nose. The coffee goes flying, splashing dark brown stains on the cabinets and ceiling. Blackford feels his nose, the little trickle of blood. And he starts to laugh.

  “Sally! You didn’t think I was really going to drown you out there, did you?”

  I am shaking with fury. “How dare you?” I hiss. “This is my life. How dare you show up here? I don’t know what you want or why, but I will kill you if you force my hand.”

  Blackford looks contemplative for a moment. “Okay, I’m getting that,” he says. “So why don’t I state my case and go?” He wipes the blood from his face on one of my cloth napkins. “I need the dolls.”

  “The what?” My adrenaline levels drop and I suddenly feel like one of Theo’s stuffed animals, all weak and disjointed. I pull out a chair and sit down.

  “The dolls. The ones I sent to Theo when he was born.”

  Somewhere from the deep recesses of my mind comes the image of a delivery box, brown paper, lots of tape, a postage stamp from New York, but no return address, no note, no nothing.

  “The nesting dolls?” I say confused. “They were from you? How did you know?”

  “I remember telling you once, a long time ago, that the reason I am better than everyone else is because I know everything. That remains the truth.”

  The idea that Blackford has been keeping tabs on me all along feels not unlike someone dumping a bucket of ice water on my head.

  “The dolls?” Blackford asks.

  “What’s in the dolls?” I ask. “Theo plays with those dolls.”

  “He plays with them?” For the first time, maybe ever, Blackford looks surprised. “Sally, that set is an antique. Quite valuable, in fact. And you let him play with them? They are meant to be admired. From a distance.”

  “Well, maybe you shouldn’t have given them as a baby present. Maybe you should have sent me some monogrammed washcloths or a hat or something.” Maybe you should have stayed dead.

  “Do you still have them?” A flash of doubt in his eyes.

  “I’ve taken those dolls to the playground, on picnics, to the zoo. Theo liked to chew on the middle one when he was a baby. You do know that babies eat things? Wood, plastic, keys, cell phones, sand, basically anything not nailed to the floor.” Blackford looks horrified when I say sand. He cannot fathom a baby in any context. “What is in the dolls?” I ask again.

  “Doesn’t matter. Do you still have them?” He is growing impatient.

  “I don’t have them anymore,” I say. At the same time, we hear Will’s key in the front door, home with the takeout.

  “Be expecting me back,” Blackford says and slips out the backdoor as my husband comes through the front one. I grab a dish-towel and start cleaning up the coffee.

  “Hi, babe,” he says, “what happened?”

  “Oh, nothing. Knocked over a cup of coffee.”

  “Good shot,” he says, dropping the take-out bags on the counter. “It’s on the ceiling.”

  Great.

  Later that night, as the house sleeps, I sneak out of bed and find the dolls, worn and sandy. With a gentle tap from a hammer, the smallest doll splits open to reveal a hard substance, the shape of a sugar cube and density of resin. I hold it up to the light, turn it. It has no marks, no distinguishing characteristics. It’s simply a brownish-green cube of something that Blackford seems to want back. Badly.

  I smell it. Jungle. Darkness. Decay. Sweat. Blackford’s botanist. They say that the sense of smell is intricately tied to memory and I don’t think they are kidding. I sit down, dizzy, at the dining room table. I remember as if it were yesterday, the intoxicating effect of the flowers we couldn’t even see for the darkness. What they are doing in resin form in my son’s doll is an
other question entirely.

  I throw the cube into an old sugar bowl and put it up on a shelf. I add a few grains of rice to the broken doll and carefully glue it together. I go back to bed, visions of the jungle dancing in my head.

  32

  The cube is still in the sugar bowl when I get up to make Theo breakfast. Now, you may wonder why I don’t call Simon Still and tell him that I have something that Blackford wants. Simon could have the cube sent back to the lab in Washington and we’d know what we were dealing with and we could proceed in an orderly manner. Right. As if we ever proceeded in an orderly manner. Just yesterday, Simon had indicated how expendable he believed me to be. He had no compunction at all about shooting me in the head if it helped him get Blackford. For now, he was no better than the enemy. I was on my own.

  I take the cube out of the sugar bowl and turn it over and over in my hands. It doesn’t look like much, but clearly if Blackford wants it, so must everyone else. And if there is anything about which I am sure these days it is that they will all be coming for it soon. I dial Nanny Pauline. She sounds like she has been up for hours. Probably has a spin class and a nutritious breakfast under her belt already.

  “Come now,” I say and hang up without further explanation.

  I’m not happy about what I’m going to do. In fact, it’s making me a little queasy, but I don’t see the alternative. I have to know if this cube is what I think it is. I sit in my car and wait. He comes out, briefcase in one hand, travel coffee mug in the other, completely unaware that he is being watched. As he sets off toward the freeway, I follow, a few cars behind. We head south in stop-and-go traffic. I listen to the radio and roll the cube over and over and over in my pocket. It’s starting to get mushy and soft inside the plastic bag. I consider rolling down the window and tossing it out onto the freeway. What would happen then?

  Finally, we arrive. I pull into a spot next to his car and get out. I’m about to cross the line.

  Jonathan looks surprised to see me, which is a totally appropriate response, all things considered.

  “Lucy? What are you doing here?”

  “Hi, Jonathan. Looking for you actually. I need a favor.” I hold up the cube. “I need to know what this is.”

  Jonathan looks a little concerned, glances at his watch. “I’d love to help you, but I have a class in about twenty minutes. Maybe if you left it, I could get to it later this week?” Jonathan is already starting to walk away, toward his normal day in his normal life.

  “I hate to do this,” I say, falling in next to him, “but it’s critical.” I take his arm.

  “Lucy?”

  “I know that you’re having an affair, Jonathan. I know the person. If you want me to keep this information to myself, you will take me to your lab right now and tell me what this is. Okay?”

  Jonathan looks pale. “How dare you accuse me of such a … a …” he stammers.

  “Shh,” I say. “Don’t waste your time denying it. In fact, don’t say anything. Let’s go.” He nods, face flaming red, and we head toward his lab.

  I sit on a stool and watch Jonathan work. He says nothing, every once in a while throwing me a hateful look. I want to remind him that I’m not the one having the affair. I don’t actually know who he’s sleeping with and don’t much care, but that’s not important right now. As long as he thinks I know, we’re going to do fine.

  “You’re not writing an article, are you?” he says finally, eyes fixed on a computer screen that is streaming row after row of numbers.

  “I could be,” I say.

  “This has to do with those notes you brought me.” I don’t confirm or deny. More silence. Finally, Jonathan sits down next to me.

  “This thing,” he says, holding up my cube, “is a plant.” His eyes suddenly light up with a dreadful realization. “The Death Lily? It can’t be. Not possible. How did you …”

  I snatch the cube from his hand and put it back in my pocket.

  “Thank you for your help,” I say. “It would be best if you didn’t discuss this with anyone.”

  “Does she know?” he asks as I’m halfway out the door. I turn back.

  “She suspects.” A look of true sadness settles in on his face. His shoulders sag.

  “He’s so wonderful,” he says, mostly to himself. “How do I give him up?”

  I have no answer to that question, so I leave him to mull over the strange turn his morning has taken.

  I drive too fast up the 101. There is, blissfully, no traffic so I push my green automobile into the red. It’s not pleased, whining in protest. This car is so light, at this speed I feel like I might actually take flight. But time is important. Ending up in jail for going 100 miles an hour on the freeway would be a major inconvenience, but it’s a risk I’m willing to take. I fly across the Bay Bridge and right into my familiar parking place near Albert Malcolm’s lab building. I do a quick survey. No Blackford. No Simon Still. No Blind Monk. It could be that I am totally undetected in my activities, but I doubt it. I head straight for the student union. Barry is in place at the corner table, surrounded by the other slightly greasy disciples of Professor Malcolm.

  When you need someone’s help, there are myriad factors to consider in selecting the method by which you will attain it. If you have time, you can push a person gently toward a desirable goal, all the while having him think it was his brilliant idea in the first place. But if you don’t have time, well, then all bets are off. Before Barry has any idea what is happening, I have him under his arm and am hauling him out of the student union. There is enough activity that we don’t stand out, but his friends look confused, concerned. I bank on these men having a lengthy conversation about what is happening, but not actually making a move to intervene. I walk with Barry, holding his arm tightly. He struggles.

  “What do you think you are doing?” he protests. “Let me go.”

  “Not a chance. Bring me to Malcolm.”

  “Are you crazy? I’m going to call the police.”

  I nudge him slightly with the butt of my gun, hidden in my jacket pocket.

  “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

  “You don’t think I’m going to fall for that trick, do you? I watch TV. I wasn’t born yesterday.” I pull the Colt out of my pocket and show it to him.

  “Oh, shit. That’s a real gun. What do you want? Please don’t kill me. I’m not done with my dissertation yet!”

  “I need to talk to Malcolm and I need to do it now. Make that happen and you won’t get hurt.”

  He nods, little beads of sweat popping out on his fuzzy upper lip. “He should be in the lab.”

  We walk arm in arm down the path to the lab building. I notice Barry’s new entry cards and smile. People so rarely pay attention to what is going on around them, it’s a wonder we survive at all. He has no memory of my having mugged him in broad daylight in this exact spot. It is often easier to use human weakness as a means to your end rather than coming up with a complicated plan that involves electronics.

  We enter the main hallway, pass by the security guard, and enter the lab. Professor Malcolm is sitting at a small steel table in the corner, poring over notes, scribbling madly with the nub of a pencil. He doesn’t even bother to look up.

  “Barry, this formula. It’s a disaster,” he says. “Start over.” Barry clears his throat.

  “Excuse me, Professor. I’ve brought someone to see you.” With this, Albert Malcolm looks up and sees me, and he’s not at all pleased.

  “How could you bring this … this … infidel into my laboratory?” he growls. Barry drops his head. He sees his future slipping away.

  “Oh, don’t blame Barry,” I say, waving my gun around. “He didn’t have a choice. And don’t hit the security button, Professor. That would be bad. Besides, I have something you need.”

  I pull the resin out of my pocket, turning it in my fingers. The professor exhales, like a tire with a slow leak.

  “The lily. Ian said you had it. He said you would give
it to him.”

  “He said that?” For some reason it annoys me that Blackford thinks I’m so easy.

  “I’m not here to give it you, Professor,” I say. “Quite the contrary.”

  “But you must!”

  “If you and Blackford both want it so badly, well, that can’t be a good thing. I don’t exactly trust either of you, if you know what I mean.”

  The professor, almost twice my age, lunges at me. And he’s fast. I slide a rolling instrument tray in his way and he crashes into it, going down. I put my knee gently on the back of his neck.

  “Never surprise a person with a gun,” I say. “It’s a really good way to get shot.” He squirms. I lean harder. He stops. Meanwhile, Barry is frozen like a statue in the corner. It’s possible he is enjoying watching his mentor get a little bit beat up. I bend down, close to Malcolm’s ear. He groans under the pressure from my knee.

  “In case you missed it,” I whisper, “Ian Blackford is the little boy you left all those years ago. You remember the one? When you decided to take your books and the cat and your socks and underwear but leave your son, well, that’s the sort of thing that can come back to haunt you. Blackford’s only purpose in life right now is to humiliate you. And after you’ve been disgraced in front of the world, he might take pity on you and waltz into whatever prison you’re rotting in and kill you. But then again, he might not.”

  I roll my knee off his neck. The professor gulps in a few deep breaths but doesn’t sit up. I toss the fake cube, half of a set of dice from one of Theo’s board games, on the floor. The professor’s hand darts out and snatches it. I step over him.

  “Thanks for your help, Barry,” I say, patting him on the back as I head out the door. He continues to stand there, motionless. As soon as the lab door swings shut, I pull out my cell phone and call Nanny Pauline.

  “How are things there?” I ask. There is a pause, a second too long.