Spy Mom

by Beth McMullen

  “Who’s behind Righteous Liberty?” I ask.

  “We don’t know,” Simon says flatly.

  “But you have a suspicion,” I say. “That’s why you’re here, right? So I can stick my neck out and see who chops off my head and you can go home with your answer?”

  Simon smiles. It’s an ugly smile, born of too many years blurring the lines between what is good and what is necessary. His duty to his country trumps almost everything except his need to be in control. And I’m willing to bet he doesn’t feel all that comfortable with his level of control at the moment. He pulls out a cell phone and lays it on the table between us. It looks like the one he sent me earlier today except this one has more than one button. I’m flattered he feels me worthy of multiple buttons.

  “The number they provided isn’t traceable,” Simon says. “It disappears after stopping in about ten countries. I’m starting to think the Internet might be responsible for the end of civilization as we know it.”

  The coffee shop is quiet. Leonard sits on a stool at the counter, reading the San Francisco Chronicle, muttering about injustice and social inequality.

  “You want me to call here?” I say, looking around. “In public?”

  “Is there anything more ordinary than a person talking on a cell phone in a coffee shop? It’s as close to invisible as you can get these days. Besides, it’s a special phone. Dial.”

  I plug in the number as Simon reads it out to me. There is static, clicking, a few notes from a song that was popular in the 1970s, and finally a voice.

  “Hello?”

  “This is Sally Sin,” I say. I’m a fraud. Sally Sin is gone. Lucy Hamilton with the purple magic marker all over her pants is her replacement. I wonder for a second how well she will do negotiating with madmen.

  “Finally,” the voice says, disguised with voice-altering software. It could be male or female, young or old. I have no idea. “Looks like we figured out how to get your attention.”

  “Looks like you did. Now, what do you want exactly because I have all this stuff I should be doing right now but instead I’m talking to you.” Simon is plugged into the phone. He fiddles with his headset. It chirps.

  “Is there someone on the line with you? My demand was to speak to you alone.” I want to tell this person that he or she is hopelessly naïve. There is no alone anymore. “I hope your people are taking this seriously. As I am.” And there it is, just the slightest hint of an accent seeping out around the cracks of the voice alteration, as if a steamroller has flattened certain letters. I can’t quite place it but it’s definitely there. And it’s familiar.

  “I’m alone,” I say. I don’t tell him that the “people” I have now are small and really into superheroes. It doesn’t seem relevant.

  “I’m sitting outside the Notre Dame, watching the pigeons,” I continue. “I just finished a delicious fair trade Argentinean espresso and when we hang up I plan on going back and having another. I think I’ve become a bit of a caffeine addict in the last few years. But it’s better than being a meth addict, I suppose. I’m considering flying to Rome for lunch. There’s a place that makes a really thin crust pizza that’s so good I could eat the whole thing.” The funny thing is, I mean it. My head is awash with images of Roman pizza and my mouth starts to water. It’s only twelve hours or so on a plane. Might be worth it.

  “You can stop talking about yourself now,” the voice says. “You Americans, so self-absorbed.”

  “And you can stop with the character assassination now. You requested this call, so let’s get to the part where you tell me what this is all about.”

  “There’s something I want back. Something that belongs to me.”

  “You need to be a little more specific. Otherwise, you might end up with a Tickle Me Elmo.”

  “I don’t want anyone named Elmo. I want a man named Richard Yoder.” Next to me, every muscle in Simon’s body goes rigid. Suddenly he looks as if he might benefit from an exorcism. Under his breath, he says something that sounds a lot like “I knew it” but I can’t be sure because I’m busy talking to the crazy person.

  “We know Yoder is there but he belongs to me,” the voice continues. “It’s only been a matter of time until we figured out how to get him back.”

  “Well, I don’t know,” I say. “Does anyone really belong to anyone else? What is that thing they say? If you love something, set it free and if it doesn’t come back to you, that probably means it never liked you in the first place. That’s not it exactly but it’s the idea that counts. What if your Richard Yoder doesn’t want to come back?”

  Simon drums angry fingers on the table. Something has changed. A few minutes ago, he was practically bored with this whole situation but now he’s furious. And it all turned on the name Richard Yoder.

  “He has no choice,” the voice says. “He’s mine.”

  “I see problems in this relationship. You’re too controlling.”

  “Stop it right now!” the voice barks. “We’re wasting time. The deal is simple. We will trade Gray for Yoder. If you try to bring in any of your agency friends to assist you, he dies.”

  “I don’t have any agency friends but I understand,” I say.

  “And just to show you we can be reasonable, I’ll give you four days. At which point you’ll call me back and I will tell you when and where the trade will happen. Is that understood?”

  Four days seems overly generous. Do I take it personally that they think I’ve gotten slow in my retirement or do I let it slide?

  “Why me?” I ask.

  There is a pause. The question confuses the mechanical voice.

  “I thought you knew,” it says. “He said you were smart and would have figured it out by now. He said it would be a fait accompli. His words.”

  “Who said I’d know what?” I press. Again silence. It sounds as if a mini conference is happening on the other end of the line.

  “We will proceed as planned,” the voice says finally, not answering my question.

  “You’re in charge,” I say. “But just so I’m clear, what happens if I don’t call you back in four days?”

  “Your man Gray has done a fairly good job holding up under our interrogation methods thus far. But he’s not young and who knows how long he’ll last? In a final push, we might even get something useful out of him.”

  “I’ll call you back,” I say quickly, an image of Gray being water-boarded flashing before my eyes. Oh, wait a minute. Only the good guys do that.

  “Wonderful,” the voice says, as if I’ve just agreed to buy an extended warranty on my washing machine. “Thank you for your time, Sally Sin. We will meet again soon.”

  Again? “Do I know you?” But it is too late. The line is dead. I hang up the phone.

  “Who is Richard Yoder?” I ask. Simon rarely exhibits signs of stress. In fact, the only time I remember seeing him do so was when we were about to die in a plane crash and, in that situation, who could blame him really? But here he is tapping his foot so the bistro table jumps, his eyes darting every which way. Before I can push him about Yoder, his other cell phone begins beeping frantically. He glances at the screen.

  “You know what happens now,” he says to me. “It’s the regular drill. Go home and forget this ever happened. Enjoy your weekend.”

  “Or?”

  “Sally, you know the answer to that. Just go back to whatever it is you do now, knowing you’ve helped your country once again. Be proud. You’re a good patriot.” It would have been a nice thing to say if not for the sneer on his face. I grab him by the arm when he tries to stand up.

  “Are you going to get him back?” I ask. I don’t understand why it matters. I’m sure if the roles were reversed, Gray would not give a second thought to my being tortured to death by a bunch of indignant terrorists with an agenda hand-delivered by God. But before Simon vanishes into the Friday morning sunshine, I have to know the answer to my question is yes.

  “Sally,” Simon says, peeling my fing
ers from his jacket, “he’s the director of the United States Agency for Weapons of Mass Destruction. What do you think?”

  Maybe it’s the caffeine surging through my veins or his non-answer but all at once I’m quite sure Simon does not care if Gray lives or dies. Simon is here because he suspected a connection between Righteous Liberty and Richard Yoder. And something about Yoder makes him crazy. Saving Gray has nothing to do with it.

  “Simon, you need to do something,” I say, aware of the odd desperation leaking through. “Those extraction guys, they’re amateurs. They’re washed-out soldiers. They always make things worse.”

  Simon gives me a funny look. “Really, Sally, why do you care?” he says. “Gray never liked you anyway.”

  And with that he walks out of the shop, cackling in a way that would make the Wicked Witch of the West jealous.

  7

  Saturday mornings are soccer mornings. At 7 A.M. Theo, already in uniform, is jumping on my bed with his cleats on the wrong feet. The mud from his last game leaves perfect round circles of brown dirt all over my white comforter.

  “Theo, no shoes on the bed,” I mutter from my position half buried under the blankets. I’m not ready for the day. I can’t shake the sound of Simon Still laughing as he left the coffee shop. Every time sleep tried to come waltzing in, that dreadful sound chased it right out again. My eyelids feel heavy and crusty.

  “When’s the game?” Theo asks, kicking off his shoes and continuing to jump. I’m getting seasick. Would it be wrong to just knock him off the bed? Of course it would be, but I am tempted nonetheless.

  “The game isn’t until ten o’clock. We have a lot of time. Where’s Daddy?”

  “He’s downstairs.”

  “Why are you not downstairs with him?” “He’s working,” Theo reports. “He says he needs five more minutes.”

  “Well, go downstairs and tell him Mommy said the five minutes are up and he’s not allowed to work on the weekend, okay?”

  “But I want to stay up here with you,” Theo says, jumping up and coming down on my thigh with his hard little knees. I groan.

  “I bet girls don’t beat up their mothers,” I say.

  “Yes, they do.”

  “No, they don’t. Go and find your father right this minute.” In response, Theo snuggles up next to me, now all sweetness and warmth. In one hand, he clutches the faded Polaroid. A rush of adrenaline propels me up to sitting.

  “Theo, where did you get that from?”

  He holds up the photograph. “It’s really old,” he says solemnly. “I found it when the LEGO guys were in there.” He points at my bureau. “The drawer was home base.”

  It’s not unusual for me to find LEGO men stashed in the toilet paper roll, the refrigerator, in my shoes. Why I thought my underwear drawer would be off-limits is beyond me. I’m rusty in more ways than one. Slowly, I remove the photograph from Theo’s hand. His fingerprints blur the already fading image.

  “This is Mommy’s,” I say. “Okay?” He shrugs. As I go to slide it between the pages of the novel I’ve been reading, my eyes drift over the faces and then back to Theo, now attempting to burrow under the blankets like a mole.

  I have a fleeting sense of something big, an idea that will change everything, passing me by, like a ghost that has decided not to stay and haunt me after all. My scalp tingles. I want to grab whatever it is before it disappears forever, but I don’t have time because Will appears in our bedroom door and the thought is gone. In one hand, he holds a cup of coffee and in the other, his open laptop. A wireless headset is fastened to his ear. To look at him, you’d think my husband would be equally comfortable living the life of a ski bum in Colorado or wearing a ten-thousand-dollar suit to the corner office of his investment bank. His blond hair is always a little too long and his blue eyes seem to dance with amusement at things the rest of us don’t even notice. He’s very good-looking for a workaholic. It helps.

  He chatters into the headset, talking to someone else but looking at me.

  “Yes, I know, Dad,” he says. “I heard you the first time. He’s great. Okay. Gotta run. Yes. Yes. Okay. Good-bye.”

  There are things that are unusual—being eaten by a shark, for example, or hit by an asteroid. A casual Saturday morning phone call from Will’s parents used to be the equivalent of being eaten by a shark while at the same time crushed to death by the asteroid. Which is to say, you could comfortably rely on it never happening.

  Will’s parents aren’t bad people, but they’re very different from their son. They live in the Hollywood Hills in a six-bedroom house with a four-car garage, a heated pool, and staff to make them dinner, fold the sheets, and wash the floors. And from the outside, they appear to live this life guilt free, which is really more than their nature-loving, hybrid-car-driving son can handle. If they were to single-handedly replant all the clear-cut acres in the Brazilian Amazon, it still might not be enough to offset their weekly carbon footprint. After they bought their second Cadillac Escalade, Will basically stopped talking to them.

  There was also the issue of me. What their well-bred son was doing with a person from nowhere, with no past and no paper trail, was beyond comprehension. If I represented a late-stage rebellion, they thought at least Will would have the good sense to know when to quit. But apparently, he didn’t because, much to their shock and horror, he married me. In their world, a person from nowhere was just one step above criminally insane axe-murderer. And it was not a very big step.

  When Theo was born, my in-laws made a brief effort to be grandparents but as it turned out they didn’t like the sticky, snotty, dirty parts of infancy and, honestly, when you take that away, there’s not much left. I overcompensated for Theo’s lack of an extended family by creating as rich a life for him as possible and slipping him the occasional plastic toy made in China, probably by slave labor. It was the best I could do. I couldn’t conjure loving grandparents out of the ether.

  But then one day about a year and a half ago, I was sitting in the Java Luv watching the rain come down and discussing the finer points of a Muni fare hike with Leonard, who was trying his best to convince me that all transportation should be free.

  “People need to soar, man,” he said, absentmindedly filling sugar dispensers. “You can’t keep them down. Their spirits need to fly and be free.”

  “You sound like a bad seventies song,” I said, watching the yellow door with one eye and the growing mountain of sugar on the floor with the other. “Someone has to pay for the soaring spirits.”

  “A tax on cigarettes,” Leonard said with complete conviction.

  “Leonard,” I said, “I think you might be the only person who still smokes in this city. Honestly. It is practically a crime to light up here. And by the way, you’re spilling all the sugar.”

  “Cool,” Leonard said, which was his standard response when he had totally lost the thread of the conversation. He stared at the sugar in his hand and all over his shoes as if he were having an out-of-body experience.

  Before I could offer him some useful advice on how to clean up the sugar before the ants invaded and carried us all away, the bell over the door jingled and in walked Will, looking ten years older than when I had last seen him two hours before. He had never come into the Java Luv on a weekday morning. Not once. Someone had to be dead. Or close to it.

  Will sat down at my table and stared past me out the window at the rain. He was a man drowning in regrets.

  “Dad wanted us to go with them to their place in Maui last year,” Will said, before I could ask him what he was doing here, rather than in his office, when the world did not appear to have ended. “I never told you. I just said no. I didn’t even consider it.”

  “Will, what’s going on?”

  Leonard, sensing drama, pulled a chair up to our table and straddled it. He still held the half-full sugar container in one hand. Will gave him an odd look but Leonard just leaned in closer to make sure he didn’t miss something important.

 
“Leonard,” I said.

  “What?”

  “Go clean up that sugar.”

  “Why?” he asked, in all sincerity.

  “Ants,” I said. “Lots of ants. You’ll lose your job.”

  “Oh yeah. Right. The ants.” He pushed back from the table.

  “Will?”

  “My father has pancreatic cancer. The doctors give him three months to live.” He looked up at the ceiling as if tilting his head in that way would send the tears back from where they came.

  “Okay,” I said without pause. “Let’s go and pull Theo out of school and head right down there.”

  I understood action. I understood motion. Sometimes, it was the only choice. Will nodded his head and pressed in closer to me. His eyes closed. I didn’t want to tell him it would be fine, that everything would work out, because oftentimes it didn’t.

  “Thank you,” he whispered. The weight of their years-long conflict diminished him. I wanted to take the pain and pull it into myself, free him of the burden. I knew I could handle it. I had survived much worse.

  But three months later, William Hamilton II was still very much alive. Better yet, he seemed to be cured, baffling even his doctors.

  “A gift,” one of them said.

  “He has something to live for,” another said, looking at Theo clinging to my leg.

  And that turned out to be very true indeed. My father-in-law exited his brush with death a changed man and when he looked around at his life, his gaze settled on his only grandchild. Will II and Rose Marie suddenly started showing up at our house about as often as the mailman.

  “We were in the neighborhood,” he would say, pushing past me toward Theo. Rose Marie would trail behind him, looking angry. She had not confronted her mortality and decided her life was lacking and she was clearly bitter Will II had done so without consulting her. Sure, she was glad he was alive, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t getting on her nerves.