The Ring

by Florence Osmund

  “You’re still there, right?”

  “I said I was.”

  Her mother took a closer look at the items in the back seat. “Tell me you’re not living out of your car.”

  “Of course not.”

  “Then where are you living?”

  “I told you, with Marcy and her family.”

  “How long are you going to be there? What have they said to you?”

  “Would you stop with the third degree?”

  “Calm down, Jess. And be careful! You’re going over the yellow line.”

  Jessivel said nothing more until they were seated in the restaurant, where the pleasant aroma of fresh-baked bread helped to alleviate the tension that had built up inside her.

  “We can’t go on living like this. I want us to be a family again. I’m willing to get a job to help with living expenses.”

  “What’s changed your tune?”

  “I just said that I want us to be a family again. Live together, so Kayla has her nana back. She misses you.”

  “And what else?”

  “What do you mean ‘what else’?”

  “You’re living out of your car, aren’t you?”

  “No. We’re—”

  “Admit it, Jess. You and Kayla are living out of your damn car!”

  Embarrassed by what the people at nearby tables might think, Jessivel asked her mother to lower her voice.

  “Admit it,” her mother whispered.

  “It’s temporary. I was hoping you would consider—”

  “I don’t have enough money saved up to put down a deposit on an apartment yet. I can’t do anything right now. I’m in survival mode.”

  “What do you think I’m in?”

  “There’s one big difference.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I’m surviving.”

  Chapter 13

  This day at the office should have flown by, given Paige’s full agenda of working with her IT specialist on a website revamp, preparation for an Illinois Realtors board of directors meeting, plus consideration of a new satellite location in Streeterville. But her heart wasn’t in it, and by four o’clock, she’d lost all ability to concentrate and canceled her last two appointments.

  Thinking back to her suspicion about her father and Margo, she had a hard time picturing him as someone who was deceptive, doing unconscionable things behind their backs, and even more disturbing, having some kind of liaison with a woman half his age. In her mind, he was nothing but trustworthy, virtuous, and sincere, the man who would wake her up after returning home late from one of his business trips to give her some trinket he’d bought for her. The man who had given her horsey rides and read bedtime stories to her when she was little. Was there a side of him she hadn’t known? She reflected on the tribute to his life at the memorial service. Had all those laudatory remarks been a sham? And her own eulogy—the accolades she had given him and the tears she had publicly shed for him. Had she been that ignorant? Had there been people in attendance who knew a different Ryan West than she?

  Paige recalled being suspicious of her father once before following an incident she had never been able to get out of her mind. It had happened the summer following her senior year in high school. Paige and a few of her friends were coming home from the mall in the red Ford Mustang Paige had received from her parents as a graduation gift, when she spotted her father’s car parked on a road adjacent to a park. It had been odd to see it there because she knew her father to be out of town, which meant his car would have been at the airport. But she was sure it was his vehicle due to a rather large dent on the driver’s side door that hadn’t been yet repaired. She drove around the block to see if she would spot him somewhere, but when her friends in the car became restless, she moved on. Days later, when he came home, she overheard him telling her mother all about his trip.

  And then, of course, there was the crumpled-up note.

  She considered sharing her suspicions with her mother, but it never seemed to be the right time. And there would likely never be a right time. She figured she had two choices—take her mother’s advice and forget the whole thing or continue pursuing her father’s indiscretions without her knowledge. The latter option felt far more satisfying.

  Still conflicted about what to do, Paige drove to her mother’s house to see if she could surreptitiously extract information from her. She practiced her spiel during the car ride—knowing her mother was not one to be easily fooled.

  For the first half hour of their visit, Paige was upbeat as she tried to get her mother to talk about old times, especially her marriage. And to a point, her mother was receptive. But this didn’t last very long.

  “What are you up to, Paige?” her mother finally asked.

  Unable to hide her ulterior motive any longer, Paige brought up all the little things her father had done or said that may have led to his having a secret life—vague explanations about his trips, missed family events, sudden changes in his schedule, things he said in the letter.

  “A secret life? That’s ridiculous,” her mother said.

  “He traveled so much, Mom. Did his job really require him to be gone that often and for long periods of time? And on weekends? And you said yourself that you didn’t always know where he was.”

  “I didn’t have to keep up with his schedule. If I needed him, he was a phone call away.”

  “And how did Margo end up with his ring?”

  “It was stolen, remember?”

  “We don’t know that for sure. That’s just when you noticed it missing.”

  “Maybe you should join your author friend in the fiction-writing business. You have quite the imagination.”

  “Where did he get that ring anyway?”

  “I don’t know. He wore it for as long as I can remember.”

  “Probably meant a lot to him then.”

  “He could have misplaced it, thought it would eventually show up.”

  “Then how would she have gotten hold of it?”

  “I don’t know! Stop with the ring already.”

  “And here’s another thing. Remember that woman who came to Dad’s memorial service looking for her sister?”

  “Not really.”

  “It’s just one more thing that makes me think... I’m going to get to the bottom of this.”

  “No, you’re not,” her mother said with more conviction than Paige had ever heard from her. “You’re going to drop this nonsense. In fact, I forbid you to take this any further. Your father was a good provider. He was always here when we needed him. Let him rest in peace. And me too. Let me get on with my life without him. This hasn’t been easy for me, you know.”

  “I know that.”

  “And what if you’re wrong? What then? How many lives are you going to destroy? You have no proof to back up anything.”

  “Not yet. And I’m not going to destroy lives, Mother. That’s being a bit melodramatic, don’t you think?”

  “I’m warning you—be prepared to ruin someone’s life.”

  “And just how would I ruin someone’s life?”

  “Anything can happen when you start digging into someone’s past. And what about me? Do you even care about what your snooping might do to me? Think about it, Paige. Bringing up painful memories only brings up pain.”

  “I’d want to know the truth, if I were you.”

  “Well, you’re not me.”

  Paige drove home, and on the way she tried to understand the situation from her mother’s perspective. She had been happy in life with her husband, at least it had appeared that way on the surface. He died, she was still grieving, didn’t want to tarnish his name, and wanted to remember the good times. She got that. Surely, her mother’s sensibilities had to be considered. But waiting until a more appropriate time to discover the truth seemed counterproductive. Yet, if she continued with her search and found nothing to corroborate her theory, then she and her mother could rest easy. She didn’t believe the latter to be very real
istic, but she had this to consider too.

  Paige arrived home and checked in with her office before preparing a list of all the soup kitchens within a ten-mile radius. Then, she drove to each facility to see if she could spot Margo’s car. Having had no luck with this undertaking, she retraced her steps and visited each one again just to make sure. Still nothing.

  She sat in her car at the last soup kitchen thinking of ways to find Margo when her phone rang. The sellers had finally accepted Gary’s offer for the Washington Park property. She called him.

  “I knew you could do it,” Gary said.

  “Thanks to Melodi. She did all the negotiating. On another subject, how do you go about finding someone who doesn’t want to be found?”

  “There are ways. It depends. Who do you want to find?”

  “Someone who is homeless.”

  “A family member?”

  “No. Why?”

  “It’s easier when it’s a family member because government agencies are more likely to offer assistance. So for you, it’s just a matter of looking in the obvious places.”

  “Like?”

  “Like churches, bus stations, shelters, community health centers, soup kitchens. Even college campuses and libraries. Under viaducts. Anywhere they can get food and shelter.”

  “That could take forever.”

  “Did they do anything to break the law?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “So we can’t do a BOLO on them.”

  “BOLO?”

  “Be on the lookout. Are they over twenty-one?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you can’t force them to do anything. What do you want with them?”

  “Just talk.”

  “Good luck.”

  “You can’t help me with this, can you?”

  “Officially, no.”

  “How about unofficially?”

  “Do they have a car?”

  “Yes.”

  “I can keep an eye out for the car. Is it by any chance the one registered to Crystal Kick?”

  “Yes.”

  “When do I get possession of the storefront?”

  “It’s empty, so as soon as you close. The attorneys will work that out.”

  “See what you can do to speed it up, okay?”

  “I’ll do my best,” Paige responded, knowing there was probably nothing she could do. “What are you going to do with this building anyway?”

  “You ever heard of PAL?”

  “No.”

  “The Police Activities League. LA started it, I think. Policemen get together with kids, usually in poorer neighborhoods, for a variety of activities. If we reach them early enough, we can make a difference in the community. It’s what I want to do full-time when I retire.”

  “Nice.”

  Paige hung up with a new admiration for Gary.

  On an exceedingly wild hunch, and to remove one specific outlandish notion from her mind once and for all, Paige drove to the address at which Jessivel and Crystal Kick had been living, hoping to see the same neighbor sitting on her porch. When she didn’t, she parked her car and knocked on the neighbor’s door. The same woman answered.

  “Hello. You may not remember me. I was here a while back looking for—”

  “I remember.”

  “May I show you something?”

  “Sure. Go ahead.”

  Paige pulled from her purse a recent photo of her father and showed it to the woman. “Do you recognize the man in this photo?”

  “Sure. That’s Wayne from next door. I thought you said you didn’t know him.”

  “You’re sure.”

  “Looks just like him.”

  “Thank you.” She wanted to keep the conversation going, but the impact of the woman’s response kept her from delivering any more words. She turned and mindlessly walked down the front steps toward her car. Once inside, she sat for a long minute, staring straight ahead at nothing in particular.

  That’s Wayne from next door.

  Paige drove home—a swarm of unconnected thoughts running through her mind. Once there, she poured herself a glass of wine, settled into her favorite chair, and attempted to pull it all together.

  It didn’t take long for enough of the puzzle pieces to fit for her to understand the essence of the picture, and while disconcerting, seeing the pieces come together was extremely satisfying.

  Chapter 14

  Jessivel and Kayla drove in silence to the west side of the city where she was to meet with the “HOW” representative, short for Housing Opportunities for Women. This being the third government do-gooder she was forced to reach out to, Jessivel felt like just one more loser being jerked around by the “social services system.”

  They scurried two long blocks from a remote parking spot through the depressed neighborhood and entered the storefront building under the guttural cooing of several pigeons that had congregated on the low roofline. Jessivel whisked Kayla through the door—the last thing she needed was having to go through this lousy ordeal with bird shit in her hair.

  Jessivel flipped through the “Help is Here” brochure while they sat in the dismal waiting room. She tried not to focus on the dusty French fry lying under one of the folding chairs nor the crumpled up, fast-food sandwich wrapper next to it.

  “You qualify for our FIT program,” a woman named Phyllis Paredes told her in a room separate from where Kayla met with another counselor. “Families in Transition. I have an opening in Englewood, a two-bedroom apartment in the same block as an elementary school.”

  “Englewood? That has to be the worst neighborhood in Chicago!”

  “Well, not quite. Anyway, I’ll be the first to admit there are bad parts of Englewood, but we have found this building right by the school to be safe. I wouldn’t send you and your daughter to an unsafe area.”

  “I’m not living in Englewood.”

  “That’s the only opening we have right now for you.”

  “Well, I’m not going there.”

  The woman’s pinched expression revealed her obvious annoyance with Jessivel. “What do you see as your options, Miss Salter?”

  Jessivel stared at the woman before speaking. “There must be other places for me to live…temporarily.”

  “There are a number of shelters, but not for women with children.”

  “Well, you’re wrong there, because Kayla and I were in a shelter together.”

  “You were at St. Mary’s Family Safe Haven, a state-subsidized shelter where you had a maximum of thirty days to find more permanent residency. Do you have a job lined up?”

  “No.”

  “When do you foresee getting one?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “I can help you there too. We have counselors who will assess your skills, help you with a resumé, locate opportunities, and help you with the interview, clothing if you need it,” she said in a matter-of-fact tone.

  “Look, lady, I haven’t worked outside of my home a frickin’ day in my life. I have no skills. Who’s going to hire me?”

  “We help people like you every day of the week. Don’t sell yourself short. In all likelihood, you have skills you don’t even realize you have. That’s another service we provide—job training. And as far as someone hiring you, we work with many companies who don’t care what your background is. All they want is a reliable worker who can do the job.”

  “Fine,” Jessivel responded. This woman had an answer for everything.

  An hour later, Jessivel had three more appointments lined up—one of which was with someone about renting an apartment in Englewood, Chicago’s murder capital from what Jessivel had heard. Reluctantly, she drove there with Kayla.

  “Looks boring, but at least we’ll be able to sleep in a bed,” her daughter said when they arrived at the sprawling faded-red brick structure.

  They walked together toward the stark building, void of any landscaping, careful to not trip on the crumbling sidewalk. The main door had a bullet
hole in the lower right panel. So much for the safe neighborhood, HOW lady.

  Once inside, they located the office where a young man greeted them. Shorter than Jessivel and fifty pounds lighter, he introduced himself as Hercules Popovich.

  “I know. I know. You’re wondering where I got my name,” he said laughing.

  She wasn’t really. She just wanted to get this over with.

  “My mother was obsessed with Kevin Sorbo before I was born.”

  Jessivel and Kayla stared at him.

  “Kevin Sorbo…Hercules, the TV series.”

  “Sorry, don’t know him.”

  “You have to look him up! What a dude.”

  What a dork.

  “Could we just get on with the tour?”

  Hercules explained details about the building and the neighborhood and continued his pitch while they rode a slow elevator to the fifteenth floor.

  “It’s one of the nicer buildings, and safe too,” he said. “You won’t have to worry about going to your car at night here. Well, I guess you have to be careful wherever you are, but not any more so here. And if I’m around, I don’t mind walking girls to their cars.”

  He didn’t appear to be capable of fending off much.

  “We have a laundry room, vending machines, and a community room where we show family-oriented movies every night. I’ll show you all this after we see the apartment.”

  Jessivel couldn’t find too much wrong with the apartment—the rooms were small but clean.

  “It comes furnished?”

  “Yes. Kayla, would you like to see your bedroom?” he asked.

  Kayla’s face lit up. “Sure.”

  While Hercules showed Kayla the smaller of the two bedrooms, Jessivel scanned the apartment. She couldn’t ask for anything more for the money—which was zero for the first three months. Feeling more trapped than comforted, a veil of numbness swept over as she stared out the narrow living room window that overlooked a parking lot. Several people were leaned up against cars, smoking cigarettes, frequently gesturing while they talked. She wondered if she would eventually become one of them—nothing more than some sorry-ass projects dweller, unable to escape the maze of poverty.

  Still not over the fact that her father had left them nothing, Jessivel wondered now more than ever how she could find out what he was worth and who got it. He always had money to buy them things. And what about his car, his brand-new SUV? Who got that?