* * *
A few blocks down the main street they found the Viking Cafe, a brick box with round windows like portholes and a Coca-Cola sign. A bell rang when they pushed through the door. Wooden broadswords decorated the walls, and a model of a Nordic longboat dangled from the ceiling. A short, fat waitress stood at a booth at the front, gabbing with four old men talking loudly about fish. Jon and Gail walked the long aisle to the back and slid into the last booth. Jon pulled out his laptop and pounded the keyboard. Gail unbuckled Maya from the car seat without a word and started to feed her. She knew to give Jon a few minutes to regain his equilibrium.
Although it was nearly empty and looked completely different from the diner where they first met her, something about the place tugged Gail’s mind back toward Carli. It was probably the ribbed-glass saltshaker on the table. Gail remembered Carli fidgeting with the salt that first time they met. She had also played with the salt the first time Gail took her to lunch after a checkup. And that time after the twelve-week ultrasound, when Gail couldn’t stop thinking about her miscarriages, Carli had made a mess with it. She had grabbed the salt, poured a pile of it onto the table, and pushed it into lines and squares and circles while she talked to fill the silence. She told Gail that giving up the baby made it so important that she do something with her life. She wanted to do something that she could be proud of but something that would give her some flexibility. For when I have kids of my own, she had said, drawing a smiley face in the pile of salt. Somehow Carli managed to say those words unselfconsciously, without irony, as she sat there, three months pregnant, across the table from the woman who would take her baby. Kids of my own.
“That’s a little cutie.”
Gail looked up to find the waitress, her stomach brushing the table, her sausage-like fingers gripping a pen. “Thank you.”
“Whatcha havin’?”
After the waitress took their order and drifted away, Gail said, “I’ve never been in the back of a police car.”
This coaxed a slice of a smile from Jon. His college years had been a bit more volatile than Gail’s, and she knew that he couldn’t say the same.
“What did you think?”
“There were no handles on the inside of the back doors. And that cage.”
“Nice work, by the way.”
“Huh?”
“With that cop. Distracting him. I was running out of answers.”
“Ballet costumes are a scam.” Gail poured a tiny pile of salt onto the table. “What were you doing just now?”
“Checking emails. And messages from that guy. The passports were sent. Birth certificates and driver’s licenses, too. It should all be in Grand Forks by tomorrow at ten.”
“What else?”
“What do you mean?”
“Any other messages?”
Jon straightened the silverware in front of him. “Paige is looking for us. Confused and alarmed. So far no mention of the cops.” He glanced at the laptop and then back at Gail. “And your dad. Wondering where we are.”
At the mention of her dad, Gail brushed the salt onto the floor, dusted the grains from her palms.
“Can I check my email?”
“Sure. I’ll log you on.” He clicked and typed and spun the laptop her way. “Don’t respond to anything.”
Eighteen emails crowded her in-box. Nine were spam. Paige sent six, Cindy two, her dad sent just one. None from her mom, which made her angry and relieved at the same time. Paige’s all read pretty much the same: Where the hell are you? Cindy didn’t seem to know that they were gone. Her dad’s was short, but Gail read it three times.
Gail,
I’m really worried about you. Call me as soon as you can.
I love you.
Dad
Gail closed the browser and then folded the lid of the laptop. She pushed it back across the table. “I need one of those phones,” she said.
“What for?”
“I need to call my dad.”
For a moment Jon said nothing. He looked from Gail to his backpack and then back at Gail. Finally, he said, “Should we wait until we get across the border?”
“I need to tell him we’re safe. That we’re OK.”
“You sure you’re ready?”
Gail nodded. She needed to hear his voice.
Jon reached into his backpack and pulled out a phone. He hesitated before handing it to her, and she could see him decide not to argue.
“Please don’t say where we are or where we’re headed.”
* * *
Gail found a bench on the sidewalk and sat. She dialed quickly, before she could change her mind. Her dad answered after the first ring.
“Hello?” He sounded bewildered. Lost.
“Hey, Dad. It’s me.”
“Gail,” he said, her name a sigh. It sounded like a please and a thank-you and a prayer. “Are you OK?”
“I am.” She stared across the street at the barbershop. “We are.”
“Where are you?”
“I—I promised Jon that I wouldn’t say.”
“But—but you’re safe?”
“Yes. We’re safe.”
Another long breath released. “I guess it’s probably best that I don’t know.”
“It is,” she whispered.
“A cop is coming by in a few minutes. To ask some questions. He said it was about a kidnapping.”
A kidnapping. That word had been nagging at Gail, fluttering into her thoughts like a moth toward light, but hearing it from her father felt like a slap in the face. “It’s not like that, Dad.”
The long silence before he spoke again told Gail that her dad thought it was exactly like that.
“So you’re just going to run? That’s your plan?”
“We’re leaving the country. Jon is getting us fake passports.”
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.”
A Fergus Falls policeman drove by, and Gail had to remind herself that she was still just another woman sitting outside a diner on a cell phone, that she looked as innocent as anyone else.
“Gail. Are you sure this is the right thing to do?”
“Dad. Don’t.”
“This is killing me, Gail.”
No mention of her mom. Her dad had learned long ago not to speak for her mom.
“I know.”
“When can I see you again?”
“I don’t know.”
“Family is family, Gail. This makes my chest hurt.”
“Maya’s our daughter,” Gail said. “She’s part of our family now, too.”
A long silence. Gail leaned forward on the bench, tried to decide how to end the call, wondered if she could.
“What about Carli?” he finally asked.
“Dad—”
“I talked to Paige this morning. She said that Carli’s torn up by all of this.”
“Don’t do this, Dad.”
“She’s the baby’s mother, Gail. I’ve always taught you to do what’s right no matter how hard it might be.”
Gail shivered. Do what’s right, her dad’s mantra. But this wasn’t an invoice dispute or lost knives or a wrecked van.
“She promised.”
“Gail—”
“No. She promised that I would be Maya’s mother, and then she broke that promise. Tell me what’s right about that.”
Gail could hear her dad’s ragged breath. Although she’d never seen him cry, she thought that he might be crying now.
“I know this is hard,” he whispered. “But you’re going to live with this the rest of your life.” He coughed, cleared his throat. “Feel the balance of it, Gail.”
Gail gripped the phone, her eyes squeezed shut. Feel the balance of it. Her dad always said that you can never tell a good knife just by looking at it. If you’re not careful, the fancy flourishes might fool you—the choil, the fuller, the granton scallops. Good steel is most important. And a full tang—when the blade extends all the way through the handle—provides strength and co
ntributes to the balance. Balance. Above all else, a good knife feels right in your hand. Pick it up, he would always say. Hold it and feel the balance of it.
“I have to go, Dad.”
“I love you, Gail. More than you’ll ever know.”
Gail’s throat burned, and a sob escaped with her reply. “I love you, too.”
After she hung up, she sat on the bench and looked across the street at the barbershop for a long time. Her mind tried to shrink from the truth—that she’d never return home, that she might never see her dad again—but she forced herself to lean into it. It hurt, but she had to trust the pain. She had to trust that the hardness would come.
Jon
The bell above the door rang when Jon entered the shop. From the garage, he could hear men talking and the muffled clunk of metal tools dropping on concrete. He knew he’d been too aggressive earlier about the tow truck, so he forced himself to sit down and wait.
Gail had talked a long time with her dad. Afterward, her eyes were bloodshot, and she wiped at her nose like a coke addict, but all she would say while they ate was that her dad was worried. When she asked for the phone, Jon had thought about pressing her to wait, but he knew that look on her face too well. He checked his watch. Ten minutes had passed and there was a bell right there on the counter, so he stood up and rang it.
“Give me a goddamn minute,” someone barked from the garage. Jon sat back down. Five minutes more until the same grease monkey from earlier limped into the waiting area, wiping his hands on a rag. He was in his early twenties with sparse whiskers on a wide, round, scowling face. He walked behind the counter but just stared at Jon with his mouth open a little so that he could breathe.
“Listen. I’m sorry about earlier,” Jon said. “I lost my temper.”
Will—if the stitching on his coveralls was to be be-lieved—waited.
“You called and said my car is here.”
“Which one’s yours?”
Jon tried to figure out if he was stupid or just still pissed off. He reminded Jon of the guy in the trailer next to his mom’s. The guy who owned that pit bull. “The Camry? You just towed it in?”
“The one from Illinois.” Will looked up at the clock. “Tomorrow.”
“You’ll have it fixed tomorrow?”
“No. We’ll look at it tomorrow.”
Jon glanced at the clock. Quarter after one. He did his best to stay calm. “There’s no way you can look at it today?”
“Nope.” Will stood impassively, still wiping his hands with the rag. “Probably won’t get to it till tomorrow afternoon.”
Jon reached into his pocket for his wallet, opened it, and looked for the right bill. “Can I pay you another expediting fee?”
“Nah. Keep your fucking money.”
Will walked back into the garage, still wiping his hands on the rag. Jon stood at the counter, his wallet open, his head pounding, trying to decide whether to ring that bell again. If they looked at the car tomorrow afternoon, there wasn’t a chance they would fix it until the day after. Which was the day after their passports would arrive in Grand Forks, the day after he planned to cross into Canada. But the grease monkey held all the power, and the grease monkey hated his guts.
* * *
The bell on the door of the Viking rang too loudly when Jon pushed through. A group of blue-haired women looked up from their coffee. Gail looked up. Maya started crying. Jon slid into the booth, working the angles, searching for the seam. His fingers ached for his guitar or his banjo.
“What’s wrong?”
“They’re not even gonna look at it until tomorrow.”
“Is there another—”
“Just Roy’s. I called on the walk back. Number’s disconnected. I think there’s a shop in Carlisle, but that’s thirty miles up the interstate.”
Gail looked down at Maya. “So they fix it tomorrow.”
“Maybe. But I doubt it.” Jon rubbed his face, looked out the window. “My buddy Will does not seem to like my attitude.”
“So. What do we do?”
“We can’t rent a car—not without a license. Not that there’s a Hertz in this shithole. We can buy another car, but that’ll take a big chunk out of the cash we have. We can try to get our car to Carlisle, but in the time it would take to work all that out, that wanker would probably have it fixed.”
Jon wondered if there was a bus to Grand Forks. And then he thought about high school. He thought about what his friend Eric had taught him that night they took his neighbor’s Firebird for a joyride. “Or we could wait until dark and lift one.”
Gail looked at him sharply. “You mean steal one?”
Jon shrugged. “Borrow it for a while.”
Gail’s lips disappeared, and she looked down at Maya. “That’s the dumbest idea I’ve heard in a long, long, time.”
Jon bristled. “So, what? Should we wait four days for that douchebag to fix our car?”
“Should we rob a liquor store? Maybe cook some meth?”
“You have a better idea?”
Gail looked toward the front of the diner and then down at Maya. She stood, put on her jacket, and lifted Maya from the car seat.
“What’re you doing?”
“We’re going to see about the car.”
Marla
Marla left the house—she had to leave the house. She couldn’t just sit there and wait for somebody to call her, pacing the living room like a caged animal. She couldn’t go back to the warehouse and clock back in—she had told her boss that she was sick—so she just drove. She drove down by the river and then up through Minooka and found herself in Shorewood. She wasn’t planning to stop at Holy Family, but the car seemed to pull itself over to the curb in front of the church, so she put it in park and got out. And she didn’t expect the enormous wooden doors to pull open, but when they did, she stepped into the dusty, cool dimness. She walked past the holy water without dipping her fingers and slipped into the last pew. Three old ladies were scattered throughout the church, kneeling, heads bent. They fingered the well-worn beads of their rosaries, pestering a God who didn’t give a shit, for favors he wouldn’t deliver.
Marla flipped her lighter through her knuckles. She wouldn’t be praying today. If God existed, she had concluded long ago that he was a mean son of a bitch—careless at a minimum. She hadn’t seen the inside of a church for almost twenty years, since before she finally left Sean. But churches had always calmed her, allowed her to clear her head and think.
The woman in the first pew stood up, genuflected, and shuffled down the center aisle. She smiled and nodded at Marla. Marla did not smile back. Her gaze drifted from the woman to the windows. It was the windows that did it for Marla. The way the light filtered through the stained glass and littered the pews with blues and reds and greens that glowed in the gloom. That and the candles with their milky stink allowed Marla’s breathing to slow, her fists to unclench. They allowed her to push past the Durbins; past that fucking cop; past the sleepy, stupid look on Carli’s face, to feel the gentle weight of that baby again. Those eight pounds reminded Marla of what she had missed. She had missed it while she was cleaning up Sean’s puke and icing her bruises. She missed it while she was working three jobs to pay for their apartment and food after she left him. By the time she got her shit together, Wendy and Carli were more or less grown and had started calling her Marla instead of Mom. She’d missed everything, and she wasn’t going to miss it again. And she wouldn’t let Carli.
She thought about calling the cop to tell her about what she’d found in Gail’s notebook, but she would want to know how Marla found it, and they still wouldn’t do anything. Cops worked for people like the Durbins, not for people like her. She was considering a backup plan, for when Fox News didn’t call. She was thinking about Larry again, when her phone rang loudly into the quiet of the church. A downtown number.
“This is Marla.”
The two remaining pope lovers turned in their pews to scowl at her.
“I’m Carli’s mom.”
“Oh. This is Dean Thompson from Fox News Chicago. Can I speak to Carli?”
“She’s sleeping right now. She’s awful upset. I could probably answer your questions.”
For a moment, Marla thought that she lost him, but finally he spoke. “So this email says a baby was stolen?”
“Right. Carli put her baby up for adoption, but she changed her mind.”
“After the Durbins had the baby?”
“But she didn’t sign the final consent.”
“The final consent?”
“Right. Nothing was final, and when my daughter changed her mind, the Durbins took the baby and ran.”
“Ran? What do you mean ran?”
“They were supposed to give the baby back yesterday, but instead they disappeared.” Marla flicked the lighter, let the flame burn briefly in the gloom. “They’re headin’ to Canada right now. With my daughter’s baby.”
“I saw that in the email. How do you know that? About Canada?”
“They told me. I called ’em when the adoption agency said they disappeared. They said there wasn’t nothin’ we could do about it ’cause we can’t afford the lawyers.”
“Did they say that?”
Time to make it simple for him. Time to write the headline. “They think they can just take my daughter’s baby because they’re rich and we got nothin’.”
“They said all that?”
“Pretty much.”
“Have you talked to the police about this?”
Marla laughed bitterly. “Yeah. Told us that they’d call us in a week. Maybe. But they won’t do shit. Cops don’t listen to people like us.”
The line fell silent again. The worn wood of the pew in front of Marla glowed purple and red. “I can’t promise anything,” he finally said. “But I’ll make a few calls. Give me the names and phone numbers for the adoption agency and the policeman.”
Bingo. “It was a lady.”
“I’m sorry?”
“I’m not even sure she was a real cop.”
Other People's Children Page 18