The Fox's Choice

by M A Simonetti

  There was a lot for me to sort out. It was hard to believe that only three days previously my biggest concern was how to get elephants to Jorjana’s birthday party.

  I helped Aunt Betty clean up the kitchen. I promised to call her after I met my father. I swore that I would visit again soon and with enough notice that the entire family could see me. I got out of the house before she made me promise to move back to Clarkstown and into my old bedroom.

  The street that I grew up on was separated from the grounds of the Catholic Church by a wide grassy park. I left Aunt Betty’s and crossed the park. I remembered racing my cousins down the length of the grass and then collapsing in laughter at the end. There were always cousins with me. We ran like a litter of puppies around this part of Clarkstown, in and out of each other’s houses, roller skating on the streets, climbing the trees. We never told our mothers where we were because we were always within eyesight of one aunt or another. In many ways, it was an idyllic childhood.

  And yet.

  Recess at Our Lady of Rosary Catholic School separated the boys from the girls. The boys raced to the basketball hoops behind the Church while the girls skipped hand-in-hand to the parking lot out front. The younger girls drew hopscotch squares on the blacktop. The older girls gathered in circles to play dodge ball.

  I was ten and bored with hopscotch. Dodge ball looked like a lot of fun and I thought I could keep up with the sixth grade girls. I certainly could run as fast as any of my older cousins.

  I decided to give it a try but as I approached the sixth grade circle one of the girls signaled to the others to keep me out.

  “Don’t let her play. She’s a spoiled brat,” the girl said. She was new to the school and I didn’t know her name.

  “Shut up! She’s a Clark!” This from an Outsider whose father worked for my grandfather in the almond orchards.

  “No she isn’t. Her last name is Bennett.” This from the new girl who was plenty sure of her facts.

  “You dummy, her mother is Rosalie Clark.”

  “She is? Well, she’s an only child so she’s still spoiled.”

  I froze in my tracks. The comment that I was a spoiled brat took my breath away. It was so unfair. It wasn’t my fault that I didn’t have any brothers or sisters.

  I was unsure of what to do. Should I turn around and walk away or walk past them as if I hadn’t heard. Maybe they were done and I could join in anyway.

  They weren’t done.

  “My mom said her parents are d-i-v-o-s-i-n-g.”

  “They are?”

  All the girls turned to stare at me. In that moment I realized that I could become a two-part curiosity at Our Lady of the Rosary. Not only would I be the only Only Child, I could be the only kid with divorced parents.

  “Are they being mean to you, Teresa?”

  My older cousin Donna arrived and spared me pointing out that the new girl did not know how to spell divorce. Donna was in eighth grade and everyone knew the eighth graders were to be obeyed. What was more was that Donna had sprouted boobs over the summer so she was effectively a grown-up.

  I instinctively took cover under Donna’s outstretched arm.

  “If you have a problem with Teresa then you have a problem with me, Nancy.”

  Donna addressed the new girl but all the sixth grade girls looked ashamed.

  The new girl was still pretty sure of herself.

  “She’s a spoiled brat, Donna. We don’t want to play with her.”

  “She is not a spoiled brat.”

  “She is too. She’s an only child and she has everything. Name one thing Teresa Bennett doesn’t have.”

  “She doesn’t have brothers or sisters,” Donna said.

  That shut Nancy and the other girls right up. Only child or not, I knew that as irritating as their siblings were, none of the sixth graders could imagine life without them.

  “But she does have cousins,” Donna said. “And all of them are Clarks.”

  There was no mistaking what she meant.

  I found myself in the cemetery at the far end of the Church property. I walked to the center and stood by my grandparents’ headstones. They were buried side by side under an enormous Valley Oak. Someone had recently left fresh flowers. It was quiet there- still and peaceful. An old habit caused me to make the sign of the cross. I then blew a kiss to each of them and walked to my mother’s grave.

  Her spot was in the sun, as she preferred. She’d picked the site when she turned twenty-one. It was a Clark tradition to pick out your burial spot and reserve the one next to it for your spouse. An empty space separated my mother from my Aunt Mary. I wondered if the empty spot was now meant for me.

  Someone in the family would know.

  But would they tell me?

  The story of my childhood had dark corners that I only learned of in the last three days. I grew up believing that my father was the bad guy and That Woman was the Devil incarnate.

  And now, well, now the story had changed. It hadn’t made the painful memories any easier. One clearly defined enemy was easier to hate than a dozen aunts and uncles keeping the truth at bay.

  By the time my parents really did divorce, I knew how to handle an insult like the one aimed at me by Nancy. And some of the times I didn’t end up in the principal’s office. How different would it have been if my father had been allowed to see me? Would my childhood have been happier? Would I have ever known Sister Bridget so well?

  My mother eventually spent more time with her Carlo Rossi wine than she did with me. She was sober enough to drive my girl cousins and me to high school in the mornings but one of my aunts always picked us up in the afternoon. Without questioning it, I did my homework and ate dinner at someone else’s house. I brought a plate of food home for my mother.

  On Saturdays I would leave the house as soon as I heard her pull the wine out from under the kitchen sink. Because the half-gallon Carlo Rossi bottles were too big for our fridge, my mother kept her wine unrefrigerated. She would pour the warm white wine into an iced tea glass and add ice cubes. She then wrapped the glass with Kleenex to absorb the moisture that formed on the outside. She would sit on our front porch listening to Frank Sinatra albums playing on a turntable. I am sure she thought she fooled everyone into thinking she drank iced tea from that glass.

  While my mother drank herself into a stupor on Saturday afternoons, I walked to the Italian-Chinese store and bought food for our dinner. I taught myself how to cook out of necessity. As much as I loved my extended Clark family, I was always aware that I was a cousin, not a sibling. Weekdays were chaotic enough that an extra plate on the table was not problem for any of my aunts. Often, there were assorted cousins at the dinner table depending on what sport was being played and whose parents were the chauffeurs.

  Sundays the entire extended family ate at my grandparent’s big house.

  Saturdays were for immediate families to sit down at their tables together. My immediate family was just my mother. How would that have changed if my father were allowed to visit me in Clarkstown? Would my mother stayed sober? Would my aunts and uncles turned their backs on me if I spent time with my father? Would the fights on the playground lessened?

  One thing was for certain. I would never know.

  I would also never know why my mother refused to move thirty miles up the road to Sacramento. I suspected that she was afraid to leave the safety of her hometown. Clarkstown was the kind of place where everyone knew everyone else and if you forgot to bring money to pay for the tamales at the barbershop, you would be told to bring the money the next time. Sacramento was not a big town but the Clark name would not get you tamales without the cash to pay for them.

  And my mother was stubborn. I suspected the same tunnel vision that got me a scholarship to UCLA also kept Rosalie Clark from agreeing to a life anywhere but in Clarkstown.

  All things considered, I couldn’t bring myself to be angry with my mother or my extended Clark family. I knew in my heart that they acted out o
f loyalty. And while their actions were questionable, I knew they never intended to harm me.

  The Clark family secrets may have altered the course of my childhood but they never hurt me intentionally. The same could not be said of my father and his family. Because my father’s grandson had drugged me and stolen all my money, I found myself standing next to my mother’s grave and learning about long-buried family secrets.

  I pride myself on my sense of self-preservation. I’ve had the ability to look out for myself for as long as I can remember. I learned to stand up to playground bullies. I learned to cook. I found out how to get a scholarship to a college as far away from Clarkstown as I could get. I married a man who had everything I wanted- blue eyes and a trust fund. I used the trust fund to built a business. And I divorced the husband when he lost his mind and insisted on having children. I did this all by looking forward, not back.

  It was in my best interests to confront the Bennett family and their secrets. I needed to look forward again.

  I rummaged around in my bag for my phone and texted Richard to come and get me.

  Chapter Twenty

  “I can’t decide if Clarkstown is charming or creepy,” Richard said.

  He rolled down the window of the SUV and waved as we passed the Italian-Chinese grocery store. Folks eating BBQ at the picnic tables waved back to him like he was a Clark.

  “Who are those people?” I asked.

  “I’d need a spread sheet to keep it all straight,” Richard said. “Suffice it to say every one of them is related to you in some way. Except the guy making the burgers. He’s an outsider.”

  “Spoken like a native.”

  “It’s an odd town, Alana. It’s hard to imagine that generations of one family have stayed put. How did it go with your aunt?”

  I told him. It took a while since I had to fill in the back-stories on everyone. By the time I finished, we were nearly to Sacramento.

  “Did you get the answers you wanted?” Richard asked when I finished.

  His question took me aback. I’d gone to Clarkstown to verify what Bradley and Linda told me. I got the verification. But answers? I wasn’t even sure what my questions were at this point. I needed time to prepare myself to face my father. I told Richard this.

  “You’ll have time tonight to reflect on everything. God knows, there’s been a lot,” Richard said. “Right now we have to meet Jim. He has some news about your money.”

  I prayed the news would be good. For a change.

  The driver let us out in Old Sacramento- a section of old warehouses along the river that had been renovated into restaurants and shops. Richard led the way along a raised wooden walkway past storefJimts trying their damndest to look like nothing had changed since the Gold Rush. If that were true, the gold miners wore a lot of neon T-shirts.

  We crossed the street towards the river and took a ramp leading up to an enormous wooden riverboat. A sign welcomed us to the Delta King Hotel and Restaurants.

  The Delta King was painted white with a giant red paddlewheel. It had been restored since its glory days. Black and white photos hung on the walls of the entryway documenting the process. The transformation of the boat was impressive-from a half-sunk wreck to a five star hotel. The renovation maintained the original charm, much to Richard’s aggravation. He had to duck to clear the doorways.

  We found Jim Schilling seated at a table overlooking the river. His jacket was draped over his chair and a stack of papers sat in front of him. There was no laptop in sight. He looked naked without it.

  The table was set with a linen tablecloth and gleaming china. A bottle of wine chilled in an ice bucket.

  “I didn’t know if you’d eaten so I went ahead and ordered a bunch of stuff that we can share. And wine.”

  I could have kissed him. Aunt Betty’s coffee cake went untouched and I was famished.

  Jim stood as I took a seat. He reached for the wine to pour a round. But as the bottle hovered over my glass an image of my mother and her Kleenex wrapped glass of Carlo Rossi burst into my mind. My mother and the endless repeats of Frank Sinatra songs. My horrible first attempts at cooking. Washing the Saturday night dinner dishes as my mother snored on the couch in the living room. What would have happened if she had stayed sober?

  I put my hand over the glass.

  “I think I will stick to iced tea right now,” I said.

  Jim didn’t miss a beat.

  “Here ya go.”

  He put the bottle back into the ice bucket. Behind the bucket was a pitcher of tea. He poured the tea into the wine glass and then added a slice of lemon.

  I took a sip and the image of my mother and Carlo Rossi slipped away. And was replaced by an image of my Aunt Betty and her teapot.

  I held the glass up and considered it. It somehow felt festive.

  Jim smiled at me.

  “I know. Sometimes I just feel like I want the party without the hangover, ya know? I think it is the shape of the glass that makes the drink special. I can order soda if you want something bubbly.”

  “This is fine, thanks, Jim.”

  A party without the hangover. A festive glass. I felt a new habit forming.

  A waiter appeared with a platter of grilled naan and bowls of hummus.

  Jim wasted no time. I barely had the first bite of hummus in my mouth when he started.

  “So here’s what we have,” Jim said. “You transferred your money to an account in the Cayman Islands.”

  He saw the look on my face.

  “Yeah, yeah, I know. You were drugged. We’re working with the bank on that but they’re being stubborn. I doubt we can keep the FBI out at this point.”

  “But that’s good, right,” I asked. “The FBI, I mean.”

  Jim scoffed.

  “They have to follow the rules. We don’t have to. The only thing the FBI will do at this point is slow us down.”

  “I thought you were good guys.”

  “We are but we aren’t the government good guys.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Suffice it to say, we can proceed, um, differently than the FBI.”

  He must have seen the confusion I felt.

  “It is best that you don’t know the details, Mrs. Fox. All you need to know is that we followed where your money went. It has stopped transferring and has been in one spot for almost twenty four hours.”

  I couldn’t believe my luck. Or how relieved I suddenly felt. I could have cried.

  “That’s great! How do I get it back?”

  “That’s the problem. Since the transfer of the money was technically legal it isn’t yours anymore. We’ve found out where it settled but you can’t have it.”

  “How can this be?” I barely got the words out. Something like a sob got in the way.

  The waiter returned with a platter of crab cakes. They looked delicious. But I felt like I was going to throw up.

  Richard was seated beside me. He put his arm around my shoulders. He held his hand up to get Jim to shut up. And then he tried to make me feel better.

  “Alana, now that Jim knows where it is, we have to wait.”

  “But Zane is dead,” I cried. “Why can’t we just tell the FBI or whoever fixes this stuff that we found where he sent my money?”

  “Because the original transfer from your account to the Cayman’s was legitimate,” Jim said. “As far as the bank is concerned, anyway.”

  “But I was drugged!” I said this louder than I intended. A couple seated nearby turned to look at me with their wine glasses halted in mid toast.

  “We’re drawing up the documents that are needed to present to the bank,” Richard said. “The lab tests from Dr. Coshow, the police report and all the other details that we need to prove you were under duress. This is why the FBI must be involved.”

  “But it is going to take time,” I said with as little irritation as I could manage. Which wasn’t much.

  “It’s only been a few days, Alana,” Richard said as he pulled
his arm away from my shoulders.

  I looked at him. Richard’s jaw was tight like he was biting down on one of those x-ray slides at the dentist. There were circles under his eyes. He gazed through the windows to the water flowing outside like he contemplated jumping in and going for a float down river. It occurred to me that in the last ‘few days’ Richard had done everything in his power to help me. Everything from bringing on Jim and his high-tech detectives to flying me to Sacramento to confront my father. And driving me to Clarkstown- a visit, which was probably more than he bargained for. And then sitting through a second lunch with me after eating BBQ with all my relatives.

  I told myself to try being grateful for once.

  “I’m sorry, you guys,” I said to both Richard and Jim. “I appreciate everything you are doing for me. It’s just…it feels like a lifetime has gone by in the last couple of days.”

  I paused. And then I told the truth. For once.

  “And I’m scared.”

  Richard’s jaw unclamped.

  Jim drew in a sharp breath.

  “We’ll get the money back, I promise,” Jim said.

  “Why don’t you tell Alana what you learned about Zane,” Richard said, changing the subject.

  “Yeah, it’s some interesting stuff,” Jim said. “Just don’t ask me where we got the info.”

  He pulled up his phone and pounded away.

  “The kid didn’t have two nickels to rub together and then suddenly he gets a deposit of six grand just before he started at the technical school- which is the amount of the tuition by the way. This money was deposited in cash and it continued in smaller cash amounts every six weeks or so. We suspect that someone was bankrolling him while he was in school. A couple of months ago larger wire transfer deposits started showing up- three grand or more a pop. We did some digging and those deposits coincide with reports of women getting drugged and their bank accounts emptied.”