Crossroad

by W. H. Cameron

Celeste rolls her eyes in an exaggerated manner. In a stage whisper, she says, “Please excuse my friend. She thought she was doing anal.”

  Her friend huffs, then emits a braying laugh.

  Under other circumstances, I might have laughed too. Now, I force myself to draw a deep breath. “This is going to sound weird, but did anyone here lose a baby?” Jeremy can say what he wants, but I’d like to hear it from someone nearer the source.

  “Not me.” Celeste pats her round belly. “Gemma?”

  The girl on the swing examines her nails. “Still working on it.”

  Celeste shrugs. Then her eyes widen with recognition. “Wait. I heard about you.” She breaks out in a broad grin. “You’re that undertaker lady who found the newborn.”

  My skull suddenly feels like it’s full of bees.

  “You probably want to talk to the director. She was in her office a little bit ago.”

  I latch on to the word director like a castaway to a life ring. “Yes. Thank you.”

  Celeste guides me through the doorway. A girl is reading on a couch in one of the sitting rooms, a baby in a sling on her chest. There are changing stations everywhere I look. The air smells of pine cleaner. On the wall behind the desk is what I guess is the school’s motto, rendered in party-store letters.

  We continue into a long hallway. Somewhere in the building, an infant cries. Wall posters encourage healthy sleep habits and pre-natal exercise. We pass recessed doors marked “Group Study,” “Quiet Study,” “Media,” and “Lactation Clinic.”

  Halfway down the hall, Celeste raps on the frame of an open door. “Ma’am? I have a lady here who thinks she found one of our babies.”

  A slender woman with white skin and brown hair pulled back in a ponytail appears.

  “Come in, please.” She smiles at my guide, then inspects me top to bottom, her eyes pausing on my T-shirt. There’s nothing printed on her plain, white one. “Thank you, Celeste.”

  “No problem.” With a quick wave, Celeste returns the way we came.

  The woman leads me into an office with an oak desk and three walls of bookshelves that stretch to the high ceiling. Stacks of papers and folders cover the desk, almost hiding a laptop and telephone. In the corner, two chairs face each other across a small round table.

  “I’m Lydia Koenig.” I remember Danica mentioning her name. She offers me her hand. Her fingers are smooth and cool. “Excuse my appearance. I wasn’t expecting company.”

  “I wasn’t expecting to be company.”

  She laughs as if I’ve made an actual joke. “You must be Melisende Dulac.”

  I go stiff.

  “I read about you in the Ledger.”

  I hold my breath, waiting for her to add, “You just left the baby lying there?” But she smiles like I’m an old friend she hasn’t seen for too long.

  “I’m hoping my fifteen minutes are about up.”

  That nets me another laugh. “Please, sit down.”

  I drop into one of the chairs as she takes the other. The wide window behind her desk looks out onto a courtyard between two wings of the school. A trio of girls sits at a table, one breastfeeding an infant.

  Koenig follows my gaze. “I take it you’re not familiar with the Hensley School.”

  The seat cushion feels a little sticky. “I’m starting to catch on.”

  “Well, as you can see, we’re a school for teen moms. Specifically, we offer a year-round residential education program for high school girls who are pregnant or have recently given birth.”

  “So you must be crawling with babies.”

  “Not so many that we’d misplace one.”

  “Not even on purpose?”

  Her lips tighten. Then her smile returns, if not so wide. “All our girls are here voluntarily. Some will offer their children for private adoption, but many intend to keep them. Whatever they decide, we help them stay on track with their education through the process. Our goal for our girls is on-time graduation, with each well prepared for whatever she chooses to do next. They’re not just young mothers, but young women with a future.”

  She sounds like she’s reading from a brochure. “Do they ever change their minds?”

  “Sure. And when that happens, we address the situation according to the needs of the individual. But before you ask, no, they don’t sneak off to abandon their babies in the desert. They attend Hensley so they won’t feel the pressure to do something like that.”

  “Maybe that wasn’t the plan. Maybe one of your girls called her boyfriend, and he came to get her, but on the way out, something went wrong. She went into labor, or … I don’t know.” That might explain why their car was stopped, and even why the Cadillac was there. Hell, maybe Tucker and Uriah pulled over to help.

  Her lips remain upturned, but the smile leaves her eyes.

  “We’re no more missing one of our students than one of our babies. As for your boyfriend theory, well, our girls have limited, well-monitored access with the outside world. No cell phones and no internet except for what’s required for school assignments. The girls write letters or have scheduled phone calls with their parents or guardians only. Visitors must be preapproved, and boyfriends rarely are.”

  She sighs. “Listen, I understand. As you put it, we’re crawling with babies. Our current census is fifty-eight students, about half postnatal. We also have strict procedures. We’re a state-accredited facility, with many girls here under an Oregon DHS contract. If one of our young moms snuck off or somehow lost track of her baby, we’d know—and so would the authorities. For what it’s worth, the sheriff came here the morning you found the infant. I believe we were his first stop after he left the scene of the accident.”

  Just as Jeremy claimed. But something still troubles me.

  “Don’t you think it’s weird, though? About the baby at the crossroad, I mean.”

  She nods thoughtfully. “And tragic, though thanks to you an even greater tragedy was averted.”

  She means it as a compliment, but all I can think about is how everyone reacted afterward. I change the subject. “What will happen to her? The baby, I mean.” As if I could have been talking about anyone else.

  “They’ll try to find the parents, of course. If they do, what happens will depend on the circumstances under which the child came to be left in the desert.”

  Jeremy thought the baby had been dumped.

  “So they haven’t found anyone.”

  “Not that I’ve heard. But there’s no reason to inform me if they had. Just because I’m director of this school doesn’t mean I’m responsible for every baby that passes through the county.” I listen for the reproach, but her tone is bluntly factual. “I’ll read about it online, same as everyone else.”

  “Right.” My fingers tangle in my lap.

  “Is there anything else?”

  “Uh, yes, actually.” The original point of my visit had slipped from my mind. “I was looking for someone who came to the school. Kendrick Pride? He’s an attorney from Portland.”

  She looks up, thinking. After a few seconds, she shakes her head. “The name isn’t familiar, but I’ve been away at a conference and just returned this morning.” She glances at the desk. “In fact, I should get back to work. The only reason you caught me in the office on a Saturday is I needed to catch up on a few things.”

  “I expected to find him here now,” I say before she can rise.

  “I assure you, I haven’t seen him.” Her tone has taken on a peremptory edge. “And my staff would have informed me of any visits by attorneys.”

  “His car is in the parking lot.”

  Her brow creases. “By chance was it the outer lot?”

  “Yes.”

  “There’s a trailhead out there.” She nods as if that settles it. “The outer lot belongs to the Forest Service, not us.”

  I wouldn’t peg Pride for a hiker—not that Lydia Koenig would know that.

  “Is there anything else?” Her tone carries a note of finality. I�
�m being dismissed.

  “I guess not.”

  She escorts me all the way to the front door, as if to ensure I’m really leaving. We pass a long row of photos on the corridor wall, formal eight-by-ten portraits, under a plaque that reads “Hensley School Trustees.” All but one are men. Helene would have opinions about a girls’ school run by dudes, but Lydia Koenig strikes me as a woman who can stand up to them just fine.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  No Distractions

  When I step out onto the porch, Celeste waves from the swing.

  She’s alone now, with a book propped on her belly—Watership Down, one I’ve read myself more times than I can count. I feel dizzy from the scent of baby lotion and the distant sounds of babies and their mothers. How many, I wonder, are here because they want to be, and how many because they had no other choice?

  Celeste sets the book on the swing. “Well, what do you want to know?”

  I consider the question, then say, “What’s the name of the boy who would look better embalmed?”

  She smiles. “Trae.”

  My face grows hot. “Fowler?”

  “No. Alcobendes.”

  Of course. Her Trae is from Springfield, not Gresham.

  She arches one eyebrow. “Is Trae Fowler the daddy of that baby you found?”

  Good question. “I don’t know. He was one of the people who died in the crash at the crossroad.” Her expression is blank. “Where I found the baby.”

  “We don’t get much news. I mean, the other day cops were here for hours asking about your baby. But no one mentioned a wreck.”

  Lydia Koenig said the girls had limited access to the outside world, but Celeste makes it sound like they’re completely cut off. I shake my head.

  She seems to read my thoughts. “It’s cool. We’re supposed to focus on school and our babies and learning how to balance the two. No outside distractions.”

  “‘Make Motherhood a Mother Habit.’”

  “You saw the sign!” She grins. “Ms. Koenig says we’re here to learn a new set of skills and priorities. Childcare, self-care, life care. We can figure out if there’s room for Snapchat or Xbox when we get back to the world.”

  “When will that be?”

  “I graduate in December. My little guy will be around three months old, depending on when he decides to pop out.”

  “You’re—” I stop myself, but she guesses my question.

  “Yeah, I’m keeping him. Nobody’s lining up to adopt mixed-race black and Latino babies.” Her smile takes on a hint of sadness. “My mom’s gonna help, though. It’ll be good.”

  “Have you picked a name?”

  “Clinton. It’s my mom’s maiden name.”

  Definitely not Trae. I smile, then have another thought. “Do the girls have their babies here at the school?”

  “Most, sure. There are birthing suites in the clinic wing. Some have to go to the hospital in that little town, though.”

  At first, I think she’s referring to the urgent care in Munro, but she must mean St. Mark’s in Samuelton. After more than a year here, the county seat feels like a big city. But it’s small compared to Lowell where I grew up, a blip next to Boston. “Samuelton is a long way if something goes wrong.”

  “We’ve got nurse-midwives here twenty-four-seven and a doctor on call. They keep an eye on us.”

  For all her confidence, the school’s isolation leaves me uneasy. The drive from Crestview to Samuelton takes at least twenty-five minutes, and that’s in addition to however long it takes Fire and Rescue to get here. But I don’t want to worry her. Besides, what do I know? The school has been around longer than I have. With sixty girls at any given time, no doubt they’ve seen it all.

  I shift gears. “Earlier you said you were on the desk. What does that mean?”

  “Bell desk in the front hall. Someone is on duty during open hours in case of visitors or emergencies. That’s eight to six most days, and till nine on Fridays and Saturdays. Sometimes girls go out with their families for dinner or whatever.”

  “That seems like a lot to put on you.”

  “There’s staff around. Floor mothers, the duty nurse.” She reaches under her blouse and retrieves a small walkie-talkie. “Bell desk helps us learn responsibility.”

  Like Lydia Koenig, she sounds like she’s reading from a brochure. “Do you get a lot of visitors?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “Baby daddies?”

  That makes her laugh. “Parents, mostly. My mom and Gram come out at least every other weekend.” She regards me. “You think your Trae tried to visit?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Well, I’ve been here since April, and I’ve only seen one or two sperm donors.”

  Helene would like this girl. “The fathers aren’t popular, I take it.”

  “Not with me.” She makes a face, but then forces it back to a smile. “To be honest, I try not to think about Trae. He was such a prick, claiming the baby couldn’t be his, calling me a slut, that kind of thing. I got news for him, but he won’t believe it till we do the paternity test.”

  “Do all the girls feel that way?”

  “I guess.”

  “You don’t talk about it?”

  “Oh, sure. But, you know, just among friends.” She spreads her arms. “It’s like any school. We’re all teen moms, but that doesn’t make us all besties.”

  I can count the besties in my life with my thumbs, and one of them won’t take my calls. Back in my student days, high school and college both, I barely spoke to anyone. Not even the ones I had sex with. Even with Barb and Helene, I’ve withheld more than I’ve shared. Why should these girls be any different? Still, Celeste seems like a girl others might confide in.

  “Are you sure you never heard the name Trae Fowler? Or Nathan Harper, maybe?”

  “Sorry. Now, if you said Assface or Dickless, maybe I could help.”

  “Dickless?”

  She rolls her eyes. “Sometimes you just don’t want to know.”

  I smile. My gaze strays to the Forest Service lot. “Do you know if a man came to the school? Tall, dresses nice?” I point at Pride’s little blue hybrid. “That’s his car.”

  “What did Ms. Koenig say?”

  “That she’s been away.”

  “I don’t have class with her, but she did miss dinner in the dining hall the last couple of days.” She nods, as if that settles something. “Anyway, I don’t remember any tall guys, but this is my first desk shift since Wednesday.” She chews on her lip. “We aren’t supposed to talk to the hikers.”

  She picks up her book, universal symbol for done talking. I wish I could join her. The swing looks comfortable, and a breeze through the trees has eased the stultifying heat. I’d give almost anything for the chance to lose myself in the adventures of Bigwig, Hazel, and Fiver, to forget stolen corpses and search warrants. But I’d have to be ten years younger and “with child.” Not even Watership Down is worth that.

  Besides, I still need to find Pride, and his car is my only lead.

  “Good luck with your baby, Celeste.”

  At the foot of the steps I cut straight across the lawn. A mix of pine and oaks grow right up to the Forest Service lot. The ground at the edge of the forest is thick with leafy shrubs and alive with the chatter of birds. The sections of ponderosa forest Uncle Rémy walked me through were much more open and airy. Here, I can see only a short way down the steep hillside between the crowded trunks.

  It’s only been four or five hours since our awkward coffee klatch, yet Pride’s car looks like it’s been here longer. A splash of bird shit, cracked and dry, covers part of the windshield.

  Is it possible, in the middle of his investigation, he just up and decided to take a forest stroll? The idea seems unlikely, but the About Us page for Anders, Harper, Milton, and Pride hardly counts as in-depth biography. For all I know, he really is an avid hiker.

  According to the info sheet stapled to the plywood notice board under the trail
marker, this is the Hensley Stand of the Brother Drop National Forest—mixed ponderosa pine and Douglas fir with patches of white oak at the margins, last harvested in 1973. There’s a trail map beside the info sheet, along with sun-bleached warnings about cougars and black bears. From the parking lot, a short connector leads to the Palmer-Getcham Trail—a sixteen-mile “challenging” trek with a twenty-two-hundred-foot change of elevation. Or, if that’s too daunting, the Cerise Creek Trail splits from the Palmer-Getcham and loops around Crestview until it pops out of the trees behind me. Seven and three-quarter miles, with a four-hundred-foot change of elevation and breathtaking views.

  I’m not dressed or geared for a hike. Uncle Rémy always insisted we carry water and emergency supplies, even for short jaunts. I’ve got none of that, and even if I did, the chances of me finding Pride in the woods are slim.

  I return to the car and try the doors. Locked. I’m not sure what I’d do if I could get inside. Rifle through the glove box, feel around under the seats? If he’s anything like Helene was in law school, he’s a prodigious notetaker. I might learn a lot if I could get my hands on his portfolio.

  “You’re supposed to be clearing yourself of a crime, little sister, not committing one.”

  Looking through the windows, I don’t see the portfolio, but he did leave a manila folder on the passenger seat, a five-by-seven photo sticking partway out. The subject seems to be a girl. Her yellow top with rolled collar reveals light skin and slender collarbones. A fine silver chain around her neck disappears inside the collar. What little hair I can see is blond and straight, hanging off her shoulders. The backdrop is the blotchy bluish-white hallmark of school pictures everywhere.

  A friend of Nathan and Trae?

  Distant movement draws my eye, a figure coming out of the trees at the far end of the school lot. For half a second, I imagine it’s Pride. But when the figure moves from shadow to sunlight, my heart drops into my stomach.

  It’s Landry MacElroy.

  I drop behind Pride’s car. After a few quick breaths, I peek over the hood. Landry is trotting across the parking lot toward the Stiff. He’s dressed in shorts and a singlet—Barlow Con red and white—with a matching nylon waist pack. At the Stiff, he cups his hands to peer through the glass. After a moment, he straightens and looks toward the school building. One hand goes to his chin, then he turns my way, as if he senses my presence.