by Lynne Hugo
“I’ve got to drive,” he pointed out.
“Yeah, better not, then.” It was just as well. I’d made the tea and knew if he got stopped he’d get a DUI just for breathing in the vapors. An extra half tablespoon per cup this time.
“Listen, Mom, I am still looking for Gracia’s mother. To give her back, I mean. I can’t just . . .” He waved an arm in the air, which added nothing.
I thought I had an opening to remind him that I wanted to raise Gracie. “Gary, who is the mother? Have you even heard from her?” It was obvious he hadn’t, but he’d need to admit that.
“I’d . . . rather not go into it.”
Louisa struggled to get out of the recliner with the baby, and I got to her and took Gracie, sensing what was coming. I moved to the dining room with her as Louisa erupted over Gary. “Oh, really now! You’d rather just screw around, have a baby, lie about it, and then when your charade collapses, say, I’d rather not go into it? I imagine this is all part of your church work . . . Extremely holy. Are there extra points involved from Jesus if you found a Virgin?”
I’ve mentioned, haven’t I, that we are Masters of Sarcasm? Louisa was about to go after our annual Best Display Award. Damn, if Gary didn’t one-up her, though, and he didn’t even have any special tea to help him along. Not a bit, but he managed to stop her cold. He started to cry.
Gary
He was ashamed and shamed. Gary put up no defense to his mother’s attack. He was guilty. He thought he should take the baby with him, but she wouldn’t let him. “You don’t have a thing for her. It’s all here. We’re the ones she knows,” she said. Another truth.
It had been embarrassing, his eyes and nose running the way they had. Using the back of his hand in that little-kid motion to wipe them. Trying the other hand. Best to just leave. He was too upset then to even walk to the door, though. He’d sort of folded in half, like his chest was trying to collapse against his thighs and sank back onto the couch, sobbing like he was five years old. It wasn’t only the shame, though, that hit him first, his mother’s words as well-aimed as any bullet. The second wave was that she had been right all along about Brother Zachariah. His father had said the same thing before he killed himself, when Gary first emptied his savings to donate so he could be Saved. What did it all mean? He really wasn’t Saved or forgiven at all? What about his church? He’d taken his whole life and put it into the faith basket to survive after Cody died. He’d fallen for a scam?
CarolSue came near. He sensed a presence and, head still on his knees, opened his eyes. His vision was blurry, but those sure weren’t his mother’s shoes. The dark beige carpet looked tired, worn as the earth. It had been there as long as he remembered. Maybe it was really him, though. He felt a hand on his shoulder. She stuffed some tissue next to him, half under one of his thighs. “I brought you some water,” she said. “Can you drink some?”
Gary couldn’t look at her. He kept his head averted and shook it slightly. But he was getting the sobbing under control.
She patted his shoulder a couple of times. “You’ll get through this,” she said softly. “Breathe.” Gary thought it was the kindest anyone had ever been to him since he’d been married to Nicole. Good God, how he missed Nicole, the black hole of her absence a permanent landmark on his being.
Gracia was fussing, and his mother was soothing her with little tsking sounds. He could hear it mixed in with the noise of his headache and congested air-sucking that was his breathing. CarolSue’s shoes left his side and went toward the baby.
“She needs to be changed. And she’ll get hungry pretty soon. Let me take her now. You should . . . you know.” She was speaking so quietly he wasn’t sure he’d heard right.
Someone sighed. Footsteps crossed the room and went into the hallway toward the bedrooms. Gracia wasn’t crying now, or he couldn’t hear her.
His mother sat down next to him. He knew it was her, the old, familiar nearness of her body from childhood maybe. A saved memory from when he was not a huge disappointment to both of them.
“I shouldn’t have been so harsh,” she said. “Please forgive me.”
“My fault.” His voice was hoarse, a croak.
“I want to ask you questions but I think this isn’t the time. Am I right?”
He couldn’t even answer that. What right did he have to say no? But he couldn’t. And he didn’t know, anyway. From under the window, yellow eyes accused him. Marvelle.
She went on without an answer. “Okay. So, leave her here. CarolSue was already nutty crazy over that baby. Myself . . . I’m just going to have to know something about what’s going to happen. I can’t have another grandchild gone.” And he heard her grief rise again, as it had and would again over and over and over, and he took it in and took it on.
“My fault,” he said. “Cody. My fault.” The weight of it was stone pressing until he could not breathe.
There was a silence between them. It lasted like despair, the distance between the unbearable and the unknowable. Then his mother took in a breath.
“Son, listen to me. We all limp through life. We do the best we can, and it’s never good enough. Everyone’s got their secret despair, terrible regrets they carry from one year to the next. Everyone. You didn’t know Cody was going to be killed. All you can do is to keep stepping back and trying to see as best you can—and know that you’re still at least half blind. Try to pay attention when you do something right as well as when you do something wrong. Because there are those times, too, and it’ll help you stay sane.”
Gary exhaled, a long shudder.
“Sit up, honey,” she said. “Here, drink some of this water. Personally, I’d go for the special tea, but CarolSue brought you water.” She rubbed his back a couple of times. “I’m trying to figure out myself which we all need first, to be brave—or strong. Take your pick. Maybe either one will do.”
Gary raised his head, took the water and drank. His mother put one arm around him, and he rested his head on her shoulder.
“I don’t know what to do,” he said.
“Yeah. None of us ever do. Guess your best and try it.”
He sat that way a few minutes longer and then stood. “I’m going to go now, Mom. I’ve gotta see about . . . things.”
“Okay. Please. We’d like to know. We need to know.”
“Yeah.”
He went to the back bedroom, where his father Harold was still as present as he’d been in life. His glasses, his shoes. His toothbrush, for God’s sake. And here now, a bassinet, a changing table with drawers stuffed with clothes, a basket of toys. Baby stuff everywhere, and his own tarnished Glitter Jesus overseeing it all. He shook his head.
CarolSue was on the bed with the baby, who had a pink pacifier stuffed in her mouth. He saw his aunt had her surrounded by rattles and bright toys. He wondered if his mother knew CarolSue put the baby on her precious spread? What if Gracie leaked? Not only that, the dog was up there, too, curled next to them. The memory would be enough to make him smile, maybe later.
“I just want to give her a kiss,” he said. Needing permission.
“Of course. You okay?”
Gary shrugged. He bent and kissed Gracia’s head where her hair met her face—was that the start of a little widow’s peak?—and smoothed the curve of her cheek with his forefinger. She was making those little baby babble sounds and smiling when someone played with her. Maybe she did look a little like his father. “You be good for Aunt CarolSue,” he whispered. “I love you.”
* * *
He could have told his mother and aunt about Rosalina. Once he was in the rattletrap church van, with its cracked upholstery and magnetic sign on the side (How had he been so proud?) he confessed to Jesus out of habit as the road stretched between fields of withered, brown stalks of yet-uncut field corn.
It hadn’t been the entire truth when he told his mother that he didn’t know what to do. He knew some of what he was going to do, and that was talk to Gus. Now that Gus wasn’t all involved
with extra work, Gary had to ask, even beg, him to help look for Rosalina. For one thing, Gary had seen the news. A lot of undocumented immigrants had been arrested at work. That had been over toward Elmont, and he doubted that Rosalina had been involved, mainly because he’d checked all the churches, all the shelters in the area. He hoped she was nowhere around and feared the same thing. She couldn’t just leave the baby like that! Nobody would. How desperate would you have to be to just leave your own child? What could possibly justify doing such a thing? But Gus could double check, couldn’t he? Just make sure she hadn’t been arrested.
And if she had?
How had this come to pass, that he’d made such a mess? It hadn’t started out this way, not at all. He tried to trace the intentions of his heart with Rosalina. He’d started pure. Damn. He’d started pure.
His mind drifted toward Jesus and he jerked it back to the task at hand. He couldn’t think about what would happen to his church. He couldn’t think about what was a scam to make him feel forgiven, to make him feel hope, and if there was anything that wasn’t.
Chapter 28
Gus
Well, it was predictable: Gary was blowing up Gus’s phone. Louisa must be shitting a brick—Gus knew she’d not exactly been a charter member of the Brother Zachariah Fan Club. No sensible person ever was. Barnes preyed on the wounded, the grieving, the sick, the dying, making ridiculous promises—oh yes, Louisa said he’d promised Gary would definitely not be Left Behind at the imminent Second Coming, but go straight to Heaven, no detours, and be reunited with Cody as he was suited up playing Football for Jesus. As The Quarterback, doubtless. His father, poor Harold, would watch in the stands with Gary—probably ready to hand him a welcoming beer and catch him up on the score. But all this was possible only if Gary bankrupted himself by donating all his savings to Brother Zachariah’s “ministry.”
Gus wasn’t one to mock anyone’s beliefs. He believed in freedom all the way. It wasn’t the beliefs; it was the scamming, the manipulating, the advantage taken. Hard to prove criminal intent previously. Extortion would be much easier. Brother Zachariah Barnes had done Gus a rather large favor. The prosecutor was pleased.
Still, he knew that Gary was likely devastated. And what about his little church? It had been his reason for living after Cody. All predicated on Barnes’s word. And he’d convinced the people who had joined, too. Convinced them enough that they’d look at glitter art in an old barn week after week, month after month. No harm in that, Gus guessed. But would they find out about Gary’s baby? How would that play? For sure, everything was FUBAR, like his father had used to regularly pronounce the state of the world. Fucked Up Beyond All Reason. Or was that Beyond Any Recovery. Gus couldn’t remember.
He considered his father’s acronym while he let another call go to his voice mail. He’d already taken care of booking Barnes. No reason he couldn’t go home and have a beer, wait until morning to listen to messages. Gus didn’t see how he’d been pulled into this quagmire. It had all started with the napping, which he now recalled was something Rhonda had warned him could result in a mess.
Rhonda had also frequently advised that “Things will look better in the morning.” She’d chirped cheery aphorisms regularly to balance out her dire warnings, and while they popped up in his mind often, Gus had found that occasionally they were dead wrong. Today, for example. Nothing looked better in the least, plus he had a beer hangover and should never even have looked at that carton of Chunky Monkey ice cream after the frozen pepperoni pizza. He belched loudly, glanced at Rhonda’s framed picture on his dresser, and gave her the finger for the remonstrations she was aiming his way.
He used an elbow to prop himself on the bed (no top sheet on it since Rhonda died and didn’t come over to do his laundry, just a tan puffed quilt he’d had for years), picked up his cell phone from the bedside table, and groaned when he scrolled through the list of messages. “All right already,” he muttered. “Let me pee, for God’s sake.” When he did, he swore off beer. He really did better on Louisa’s Wild Turkey. Oh Lord. Louisa. He’d almost forgotten he was mad at her and for good reason.
He needed coffee, which meant he had to get dressed. He got down three aspirin with water, suited up in his uniform without showering, brushed his teeth, wet down his hair, and headed out into the too-bright daylight.
Coffee and a bagel had done some good. But not enough, apparently.
“You look like death,” Connie announced. “What the hell happened?” Her hair looked bigger than usual, but it could have been his eyes not working quite right yet.
“Not a thing.”
“Right,” she said, giving him the side-eye. “Musta been some party night. That coffee is fresh,” she said, swinging in her chair to point at the pot with her chin. Then a call came in on the nonemergency line and he heard her switch to her professional voice: “Dwayne County Sheriff, how may I help you?” He waved a dismissive hand in her direction, poured himself a mug, and walked into his office. He scrolled through his email, almost hoping there was something he needed to attend to, something that would let him avoid a decision. There wasn’t.
Instead of his cell, he used the office phone so he could maybe keep it short. It truly was his only reason. And he called the church, not Gary’s cell phone, for exactly the same reason.
“Gary, Gus here. Look, the Feds arrested your baby’s mother. She’s being held at the Justice Center . . .” He left the message, was going to explain more, and then changed his mind. “Just give me a call back when you get to work. I’m in the office.”
He’d wait for Gary to call and leave it up to him. But Rosalina kept creeping into his mind. He’d told her that she could think it over, and that he could help her get her baby back. That she should—it was only right. What if they were fast moving her for deportation?
* * *
An hour later, he was at the Justice Center signing in. “Immigration lawyer’s been seein’ the ones that ask,” the clerk said, as Gus checked in his sidearm. “Pro bono, like a volunteer?”
Gus rolled his eyes. It was a new kid, early twenties, skinny, with acne. The hours and pay were shit, and respect was an illusion here. As he tagged Gus’s pistol, Gus asked to see the list of detainees the lawyer had seen.
“Dunno if we got that.”
“Of course you got it.”
“Not sure I’m supposed to . . .”
“Screw that. Lemme see.” The kid was right, but his uniform didn’t even fit, and Gus knew his way around.
Rosalina’s name was on the list. So she’d known enough to ask for a lawyer. Or someone had told her to. He told the kid to have her brought to a room.
“She lawyered up.”
“Yep. I know. It’s about her kid. Tell her that and see if she minds not having her lawyer present. If that’s not too many words . . .” He needed to watch how snotty he got. Staff could force you to take the long way most anywhere. But the kid was new enough that he could be pushed around.
“I’ll have ’em explain,” he said. “But most are getting moved soon. Louisiana, likely. Court, and, y’know, out.” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder.
“Y’know, you’re pointing t’ Canada,” Gus said. The kid only looked confused, though.
As Gus had guessed would be the case, a few minutes later, he was waiting in an interview room when Rosalina was let in.
“You remember me?” he said by way of greeting.
She nodded.
“You mind talking about your baby without your lawyer here?”
This time a head shake. She didn’t look any better than she had last time. Still the circles under her dark eyes. He shouldn’t be surprised by that. “You thought about it?”
“Yes. I will sign papers.”
“What? What’re you signing?”
“To make sure Gracia can see doctor, go to school. Stay here. I will sign.”
“You’re not going to take her back?”
“Keep her safe.” She cou
ld scarcely speak. Damn, he’d not thought to bring either water or tissues and he could have.
“Did the lawyer tell you to do this?”
“No.” She was shaking her head and crying now. “No.”
“Damn. Who talked you into this?”
“No. She can be safe. No gangs. Not raped or stolen. Have food, go to school.” She was breathing in sobs now, but Gus didn’t stop.
“I can help you.” He kept saying that because surely this was all wrong and he should step in. He wasn’t supposed to touch a detainee, but Gus reached across the table and briefly touched her hand. Then he pulled it back, assuming the guard in the hall would be checking through the glass, even though he was a cop. “I can help you,” he said again. “You don’t have to do it. We can say you didn’t understand.”
“No,” she said. And said it again. “No.” She got up and went to the door. Put her face against the glass, as if the cool of it could soothe her. The guard opened the door.
“Wait,” Gus said. “Do you just want to see her to say goodbye? I can have Gary bring her to see you. Do you want that? Do you want a picture?” When she saw the baby, surely she would change her mind.
A light came in her eyes for the first time. She nodded, and the guard took her away.
“That was fast,” the kid said when Gus checked his gun back out. “Have a good day.”
Gus didn’t bother with an answer. The kid was earnest and trying. Rhonda would have been disgusted that Gus couldn’t bring himself to be nice to him.
Back at the station, Gus tried to figure out what Rosalina would sign. This was not his bailiwick, even though rural as the county was, too often he had to fill a social service function. But that usually involved a wellness check or a referral. This was above his pay grade. He wasn’t a lawyer or a social worker, damn it, nor did he want to be.
It took some time at the computer to even figure out the right question to put in the search bar, and there were several interruptions—routine calls, questions from Connie here and there. And he had to fill in the schedule for the second half of the month when Floyd wanted an extra weekend off for his nephew’s wedding at the same time Billy would be on his fishing trip. That meant Gus would have to schedule himself so there’d be a competent adult to oversee Jimmy, who wasn’t ready to be on duty alone. Not yet and maybe never.