“I…I am?”
“Yes, you are.”
“But what about you? You were there too.”
“This is the world I live in. I’m part of it and I’ll take my chances. Think about it, Annie. This is an opportunity that will never come again. This is your chance to truly erase the past and start over.”
Annie slumped back on the sofa and stared at the television screen. She sat like that for a long time. Eventually, she said, “There are some Fritos left in the bag.”
“That sounds great.” Sammy jumped up to retrieve them.
* * *
And the news played on.
Night after night, they watched, caught up in the collective unconscious, as reporters wove fever dreams. Minutiae of the Italian vs. Chaldean drug mafias were parsed. Details of Chaldean gangs working between Detroit and El Cajon, California were revealed. The Honest Chaldean Grocer was contrasted with the Renegade Chaldean Criminal. Chaldean owners of party stores were queried about these men. The Chaldean Catholic faith was explained, Chaldeans’ status in their home country of Iraq was explored, and all things Chaldean became a subject of interest to the reporters of Detroit. Briefly.
In the end, viewers like Annie did not really understand the difference between a Chaldean and a Copt, and a further level of confusion was added with the Maronite Christians, still fleeing civil war in Lebanon, who, at that very moment, were pouring into nearby Dearborn. Locals, much like Annie, enjoyed dining in Detroit’s very own Greektown, loved grape leaves and kebabs, and therefore, felt that they understood the cuisines and cultures of the Middle East. Their interest did not extend much farther than that.
In contrast, the Italian American community felt less foreign and the Castigliones were favorite sons. Papa Vito’s pizzerias were lauded, the proud history of the family and its contributions to the city were extolled. Dismay was conveyed that the brothers had descended into drug deals when they’d had such a promising start in life. Collectively, Detroit put the veil of charity over their grandfather’s early days as the operator of a blind pig—Detroit’s special word for a speakeasy.
Human-interest stories abounded. Reporters waxed philosophical. The overarching concept of family honor among Italian Americans was analyzed by TV anchors. Everyone had seen The Godfather. The newscasters seemed genuinely sad when they reported that, after ten days, all three Castiglione brothers had perished as a result of the gunfire. Frankie and Vito had died instantly, there in Frankie’s living room. But Carmine, the recluse, the accountant, the one who rarely came out at night, took a bullet to the intestines. His death was the grisliest and took days to unfold. Nightly, for over a week, in dark living rooms in front of television sets, Detroit had been rooting for his survival.
No mention was ever made of Johnny Buscemi or Danny the Cop. Their attendance at the scene had been wiped out.
Occasionally, the companion story of the girlfriend who died in the car crash was raised. The reporters did not attempt to account for such a girl. They did not wonder why a pretty girl from a model suburb ended up dead on the side of the road. She was female. She should have known better. She should have kept her legs crossed and her screen door shut. None of this was spoken, but Annie knew that the overall moral of her story was that a girl like that got what a girl like that deserved.
One day, an exclusive appeared in the Detroit News, an interview with Sherry Hopkins, waitress at Frankie’s Disco. Sherry wished to speak, she said, because she was close with the players involved. She wanted to talk, she said, because she was best friends with the dead girl. She wanted the world to know that she was a player in this play.
Annie read it and scoffed. Sammy paid no attention. Sherry seemed so inconsequential.
53
Thursday, September 27, 1979
No matter how Annie and Sammy scrutinized the coverage, they never found a mention of Susan. They combed every news source, but no item appeared about a vanished college co-ed.
It became evident to them that Susan was not among the missing. As far as the greater world was concerned, one girl died that night and that girl was Annie Nelson. Overworked Detroit cops had no reason to dispute the identity of a dead girl found alone in her own car—especially given what had transpired at her boyfriend’s house that night.
Susan’s father would not question her whereabouts, either. Annie knew he hardly got out of bed anymore, didn’t talk on the phone, was rarely even awake. Susan had told Annie she had already said her goodbyes to him and planned to drive back to school before he woke the next day. She said she’d packed her car and left it in the garage.
It was strangely simple, this way, for Annie to get out of town. To avoid the Italians and Chaldeans who might associate her with the deal turned deadly and wish to eliminate her as a witness. To shake off her old self and, in one fell swoop, obliterate the loathsome person she had become.
As they developed their plan, Sammy and Annie first had to confront the existence of Susan’s beloved Le Car, ticking like a time bomb in her garage. Annie knew that no one else parked there—the nurse parked on the street. But eventually—even if not right away—someone would open the garage door and discover it, sitting packed and abandoned by its owner.
Sammy knew a guy who took care of unwanted cars for a price. His clients were generally insurance frauds, but the process was the same. Once they got the car out of Susan’s garage, it would go to a chop shop, one of the many scattered in city and suburb, alike, and it would never be seen again. Sammy’s cousin took care of the rest.
Faithful Jacob called the apartment once a day. He and Sammy established a series of rings and hang-ups, in patterns that varied from one call to the next. On one of those calls, Sammy gave the location of the car.
Jacob reported that the operation had unfolded like clockwork, in the dead of night, on Susan’s quiet street. Two men, dressed in black, had walked from the corner, up the driveway, and through the gate. Silently, they traversed the property and opened the garage door. One man shifted the little car to neutral and steered, as the other pushed it out to the road. There, they started the engine and drove away.
Arranging Susan’s leave of absence from college was easy. A quick call to the operator gave them the number of Lake Erie College. As Susan, Annie asked for the registrar’s office. Miss Marjorie Ainsworth got on the line herself. She’d tried to call Susan’s house, she said, and never received an answer. She said she was worried and asked Annie a series of questions.
Yes, Annie answered, her father was still ailing. Yes, she replied, she needed to care for him. Yes, she responded, she planned to return. A leave was all that was required—maybe only the fall, maybe the entire year. And that is exactly what was granted.
With Jacob’s help, Sammy took care of the documents. Driver’s license and passport were easily falsified since the entire contents of Susan’s car—of Susan’s life—were spread on the floor in front of them, neatly delivered by Jacob. It was all there, coldly tidy, in labeled banker’s boxes that Susan had packed before she died.
Sammy and Annie felt squeamish as they rifled through Susan’s life. Letters to her father were crisply bound with a pale pink ribbon. Ballet slippers were boxed next to leotards. A soft blue leather diary exposed her inner life, a matching phone book contained her worldly ties—doctors, dentist, lawyer. It was a veritable roadmap to Susan’s identity.
The journal also contained a thought or two about Annie. Annie had sobered up enough by this point to see the veracity of Susan’s words. Sitting on the floor of the apartment in Southfield, an apartment whose location she didn’t even know, she saw herself reflected in the clear-eyed writing of her friend.
It was not a flattering picture.
Susan wrote in the self-important way of the literary college student experimenting with her own voice—the voice she’d used to explain profiteroles and Paris to Annie.
It was the last page that got to Annie—that pierced any remaining trace of armor tha
t she had constructed against the truth. Annie felt a creeping sadness permeate her as she read Susan’s final thoughts, written the night of Wednesday, September 5th. The night that Annie would wake her and drag her out of the house.
Weds. 9/5/79
10 p.m.
Summer is over. In many ways, it never actually started. And yet it’s time to go. It makes me think of that funny old song my father always sang when I was a girl:
“Get out the way for old Dan Tucker,
He’s too late to get his supper.
Supper’s over and dinner’s cookin’,
Old Dan Tucker’s just standin’ there lookin’.”
Did I think that song was funny when I was young? I can’t remember. Now I think I’m the one who’s always standing there looking.
Not like Annie. She never stands by to watch anything. I don’t think she observes one single thing that doesn’t revolve around herself. She never even said goodbye.
I don’t understand what that friendship meant in my life. She seemed so warm and funny at first. The drugs explain a lot of it, but I also misjudged her. Is that the lesson for me? Choose my friends more wisely?
I don’t know why I followed Annie to work at Frankie’s Disco. I don’t know why I left Winkleman’s. I don’t know if she ever even really liked me. Maybe she just didn’t want to go to Frankie’s alone. Maybe she just wanted an audience. Maybe I’ll write about it someday: My Summer of Slumming!
I don’t know what will happen to her but she’s not going back to college. She says she is, but I don’t think so. I think she uses cocaine all the time now. And that boyfriend is scary. I’m glad I’m leaving tomorrow, for all of the obvious reasons.
Not for my dad, though. I am afraid to leave my dad.
And not for Sammy. What did THAT all mean? I like him so much. I thought that something special was happening between us. I thought we might even have a future. But then he said that thing about meeting in Paris a year from now. It’s depressing but, if all else fails, I’ll hold onto it.
And that was it.
The end of the journal. The end of Susan.
Annie sat on the floor, journal in one hand and her unholy loot in the other: necklace, watch, and the sealed white envelope she had taken from Johnny’s drawer. Like Justicia, blindfolded and holding the scales of justice in her hands, Annie could see clearly that both sides rendered her guilty.
She set down the objects, stumbled to the bathroom, and vomited.
54
Monday, August 18, 2014
Watch Hill
Time: 7:03 p.m.
The wind picks up, forcing Annie and Sammy to shout. The dogs bark and race after leaves and debris that dance across the lawn. The beaches are empty. The surfers have hauled their boards back to their cars. The beach staff have chained up the furniture and disappeared into the hotel. Sammy and Annie are alone, except for the almost human presence of the lighthouse. It sounds its horn and revolves its light—warning them to steer clear of the rocks, to lash themselves to the wheel.
The sky is darkest above, slightly lighter below, lending an unnatural glow to these forlorn stragglers.
“Why do you have to go back to Iraq?”
“I have some work to do there. Something I was hoping to avoid.”
“Are you involved in this endless war? Are you a soldier or something?”
“Or something. Look, Annie, I’m a Chaldean. Remember you learned all about the Chaldeans back in that apartment? It’s a hell of a time to be a Chaldean in Iraq. ISIS is slaughtering us and I’m working to help my people. That’s more or less what I’m doing.”
“Which is it, Sammy? More or less?”
“Let’s say more. But I came to see you because I wanted to do less. And one thing led to another and now I’m hooked back into doing more. And you, my friend, have been exposed. I’m sorry for that.”
“You and me both.”
“Annie, listen to me. We worked so hard to bring you back—to recreate your life. We did such a good job. Why would I want to undo it?”
“Fine, I believe you, but I’m still faced with the consequences. I’ve been meeting with the FBI. They’re pushing me up against a wall. They’re asking me to do things that I’m not sure I’m able to do.”
“Like what?”
“Like testify against someone. Publicly! Look, Sammy, this is an old world here. Watch Hill is a small town. This is not New York or Los Angeles where you can go to jail for two years and still get the best table at your favorite restaurant when you get out. My husband created something here. Something of meaning.
“Everything I have—everything Susan Ford has—is part of Jack Ford’s legacy. And it—I—am intricately tied up with my stepson. We run a company together, we share this house. We’re both members of this community. We’re linked in every way. And, right now, he’s reeling from the news that I’m not the woman he thought I was. Literally! I don’t know if he’ll ever be able to understand or forgive that. And if the whole hideous past were to come out in court records? In newspapers? On television? I wouldn’t know how to put the pieces of Mrs. Ford’s life together again.”
“I am sorry.” They both grow quiet. “Testify against whom?”
“You know what? I’ve answered every one of your questions and you’ve answered none of mine. What’s going on with you, Sammy? Why did the FBI arrest you, then let you go?”
“I cannot give you details, but please put two and two together.”
“We’re back to the Inscrutable East! Can you please stop talking in riddles?”
“You’re an intelligent woman. Why do you think the FBI would let me go?”
“I have no idea.”
“Think, Annie. Think.”
Annie stares at him for a long while, then slowly says, “You work for the CIA?”
“That would be a fair assessment.”
“But, if you’re a CIA agent, how could you be arrested?”
Sammy hesitates, then he says, “I’m an involuntary volunteer.”
Annie blinks. “Am I supposed to understand that? Is that the explanation?”
“I’m not formally recognized as an agent. There is no record of me. I don’t even exist. The FBI would have no access to my status.”
“Is this what you’ve been doing all these years?”
“No. It’s not. About three years ago, the CIA stopped me inside the border of Iran, doing something I wasn’t supposed to do, and they made me an offer I couldn’t refuse.”
“I still don’t understand.”
“Annie, I was dealing in guns. Smuggling. From Iran to my contacts in Iraq. I can’t make it any plainer than that. They detained me and threatened to lock me away if I didn’t work for them. That’s how it works with the CIA.”
“I’m learning that’s how it works with the FBI, too.”
“When I was on my way to you last week, the FBI picked me up without knowing any of this. Then, I called my contact at the CIA and he had me released.”
“But you came here for money to get out? To run away?”
“I did. But that was a mistake. I see that now. I would retract it if I could. I came here today to apologize.”
“What will they do to you?”
“Look, it was selfish of me to think I could just walk away. There are things going on over there—this war—it is bigger than me. Than any of us.”
55
Time: 7:18 p.m.
The rain comes in sheets. Annie, Sammy, and both dogs are instantly soaked. Annie re-leashes the dogs and, grasping Sammy’s hand, leads them off Lighthouse Point and back up Lighthouse Road.
“This way!” Annie yells, as she pulls Sammy and the dogs across a neighbor’s property. “This is a shortcut.”
On they run over an unbroken string of manicured lawns as the rain engulfs them. Without warning, lightning splits the sky into vertical slices as it cracks down to the sea. The thunder that follows is immediate and deafening. The dogs startle. Cal
manages to slip out of her collar and dashes back in the direction from which they’ve come.
“Shit!” Annie shouts, “Can you pick up Pliny? I have to get Cal! She’s old and gets confused!”
“I’m not going to let you go back there alone!” Sammy says as he hoists the remaining dog into his arms.
“No, you have to get him into the house. And I have to get Cal! Right now!”
Sammy persists, barely audible, though he is shouting over the raging storm. “You take this dog back and I’ll get the one that’s run away.”
“She won’t come to you!” Annie yells, “Sammy, I’ve got to go. We’re wasting time!”
And with that, Annie retraces the route to the lighthouse.
Another clap of lightning and peal of thunder cause her to look back at Sammy. The piercing noise has made Pliny yelp and leap from Sammy’s arms. The dog plops on the wet grass and starts to run in an entirely different direction.
Annie hesitates, about to run back, but then Sammy just manages to step on Pliny’s leash to stop him in his tracks. He walks his hands carefully up the leash to the body of the dog and picks him up again.
Annie sprints, slips, and stumbles back to the lighthouse to find her other dog.
The wind and rain have reached a fever pitch. She knows, from the strength of the storm that it won’t last long. She’s lived through many of these summer tempests that cartwheel across the sea. She is sure that this very moment is its peak, and in no more than fifteen minutes, it will be wreaking havoc over Stonington and Mystic to the west, leaving Watch Hill with a stunning sunset. Maybe even a rainbow. In the meantime, she needs to find her dog, who knows no such thing and is scared to death.
“Calpurnia!” Her voice doubles back into her face as she shouts directly into the wind. She makes a 180-degree turn. “Cal!”
There is no way that her little Calpurnia will come out from whatever cover she’s found. Annie prays that she didn’t stray back to the rocks, which are currently being pummeled by surging waves, slamming down and retreating with suction force.
Finding Mrs. Ford Page 22
