Lucky

by Marissa Stapley

  September 2008

  BOISE, IDAHO

  “Cary! Where are you?”

  Her panicked voice brought Cary downstairs, his footsteps pounding. “Are you okay?”

  “Betty is gone! I let her outside a few minutes ago, in the yard. And now she’s… she’s just gone!”

  The two of them spent hours walking up and down the streets of their neighborhood, calling Betty’s name. They printed signs and taped them to telephone poles. Cary had to go back to the restaurant eventually; Lucky sat at home, waiting by her phone, staring down at the papers she had procured to take Betty to Dominica with them, crying endless tears. Just like the loss of the baby, this was her fault. She had been preoccupied, too focused on the money they were moving offshore. She ignored the voice that told her she hadn’t done anything wrong, anything different from what she did every day.

  “It’s like someone took her,” Lucky said to Cary when he got back. “Like someone stole her. Betty would never run away.”

  “Maybe she sensed we were about to leave, and she didn’t want to go. You have to try not to worry about it, okay? You can’t fix this. We have to keep moving.”

  “How can I not worry about her? She’s all I—” She had been about to say, She’s all I have. But this wasn’t true. She had Cary. They had the money. She had to start believing that the things she actually still had in her grasp mattered.

  Betty didn’t come home. Days passed, and then it was time for them to leave. “What if someone finds Betty, though? Can’t we delay our departure? Just a few more days?”

  “We can’t stay here,” Cary said. “We’re going to get caught. The stock market has gone even lower. How many clients called you today, asking about their money?”

  “Too many,” Lucky admitted.

  “Babe, it’s time. We have to get out of here. We’ve waited too long already.”

  But it didn’t feel right. It felt like bad luck to leave on this note, like if they left like this, any chance they had of ever having a happy life would be lost. And she was still holding out hope. Someone would call about Betty.

  “I have an idea,” Lucky said. “What if we go to Las Vegas? What could be more fun than that? And it’s safe there; we know how to go incognito.” It felt like exactly what they needed to do, all of a sudden. Like the perfect way to hit the reset button on her life, and buy a tiny bit more time. “We’ve lost so much. We need to do something special—go out in a blaze of glory. Don’t you think? Before we leave forever?”

  Cary took her in his arms, looked down at her. “Will it make you happy again? Because I hate seeing you sad like this.”

  “Yes, it will.”

  “All right,” Cary said. “What’s one more night in America, I guess? No one will find us in Nevada.”

  The next day, they got in their silver Audi, and they started to drive.

  February 1982

  NEW YORK CITY

  Margaret Jean went back to bed the night the baby cried on the steps of St. Monica’s cathedral and the man with the shiny shoes stared into her eyes and said, “This is my child.” But she couldn’t sleep. When dawn broke, she went to the sisters and asked about her aspirancy. They told her they had indeed decided she could join their order, and she felt something unexpected: relief so deep it was almost rapturous. All at once, this was what she wanted. To redeem herself, and to redeem others.

  It was weeks later when Sister Margaret Jean—as she was now known—heard there was a young woman in the parish asking about a baby left on the steps.

  “You didn’t hear anything that night you were on watch, did you?” the sisters asked her.

  “No, of course not,” Sister Margaret Jean said, and they believed her, because who would lie about such a thing? Poor girl, the nuns all said. Poor thing, she mustn’t be in her right mind.

  Sister Margaret Jean immediately knew that was true: the young woman was indeed out of her mind, with grief. And, in this new incarnation of herself, as helper, as redeemer, as someone different from the woman she had been before—someone who had bilked people out of their money and then hidden herself away so she wouldn’t have to pay for her crimes—she was going to help her.

  When she reached the steps, the young woman was at the bottom, walking slowly, shoulders sloped downward, a portrait of dejection. Her hair was red, like a flame, so she was easy to follow. Sister Margaret Jean walked along behind her, trying to think of what to say. Finally she was close enough that she could reach forward and touch the young woman’s shoulder.

  “Get your hands o—”

  “No, no, I don’t want to hurt you,” said Sister Margaret Jean. “I want to help. Please, come with me.”

  There was hope in the young woman’s eyes—eyes that were an unusual green, like emeralds, or the lime-flavored hard candies Margaret Jean used to buy for pennies as a child.

  “Do you know where my baby is?” the girl said.

  “Let me buy you breakfast. Let’s talk.”

  They went to a café Sister Margaret Jean remembered from her life before the parish, when she had spent her time befriending people who were sick or old and lived alone. She would work her way into their lives, and then into their wills. It was systematic, and became an addiction. She got more money than she knew what to do with. She had told herself the harm she was doing wasn’t real, that she was in fact making people’s final days happy. But if there was one thing she had learned at the parish with all that Bible reading, it was that stealing was stealing was stealing.

  The young woman was silent, her eyes haunted and wide, so Sister Margaret Jean ordered for both of them: pancakes, eggs, potatoes, fruit, coffee, orange juice. The young woman was obviously famished. Sister Margaret Jean watched her eat, then finally asked her name.

  “Valerie Mann.”

  Sister Margaret Jean noticed that the front of the girl’s shirt was wet, and she took off her cardigan and gave it to her to cover the leaking milk. She wanted to ask her who she was, where she came from, and why she had left her child on the steps of the parish—but asking her this would give Sister Margaret Jean away; the girl would know she had seen the baby and allowed her to be carried off by some stranger. She wanted redemption—but she did not want to get caught. So she did something she was good at: she made up a story.

  “I…” Sister Margaret Jean paused, then began again. “I am known for my holy visions. And I had one about your baby. I saw her in a long and vivid dream. She is a beautiful baby, with hair like yours, and a determined, hearty cry.”

  Valerie put down her fork. “You saw her,” she said, her green eyes now laser intense.

  “In my mind,” corrected Sister Margaret Jean. “In a dream.”

  “So you believe me, that I brought my baby to your parish?”

  “I do. I know she was there.”

  “So, what else? Do you know where she is now?”

  “She is safe,” Sister Margaret Jean said. “She is loved.” She closed her eyes, as if seeing the child. The only way to get people to believe the things you said was to really believe in them yourself. “She is with a family. They found her on the steps, and because they had prayed for a baby they thought she was a miracle. So they took her home. You don’t need to worry about her. She is safe, and she is taken care of. I know this for a fact.”

  Valerie sat still, her fork now abandoned. “So someone just took her?”

  “A family. She is safe.”

  “Do they live in a nice home? My parents threw me out when they found out I was pregnant. My boyfriend moved to Texas.”

  “She is healthy, well, and loved, I promise.”

  “Could we call the police? Could we try to find them?”

  “Is that what you want? To find her?” Sister Margaret Jean watched the girl, watched her look away, afraid.

  “Abandoning a child is a crime. If I try to find her, I’ll have to admit what I did.” One of the young woman’s tears plopped down onto the Formica table.

 
Sister Margaret Jean despised herself. But she was too deep into this now.

  “Where do you live, girl?”

  Valerie looked up. “I’m living in a shelter,” she said, then sighed. “I wanted so much more for myself, you know? I was determined to keep my baby, to do right by her—but then, after she was born, and I was alone, with no one, no money, no nothing at all, I just—snapped. Saw my life and what it was going to look like. Saw all the other women with children living in the shelter and how bleak it was for them. Suddenly I decided my daughter—I called her Julia—should have a chance at something better.” She put her face in her hands, and her shoulders shook for a while. Her crying was silent but intense, like an inward scream. It didn’t draw attention. “I got so scared. I made a mistake. I thought maybe—I had this idea that I could leave her with someone who would find her a good life, and I could still finish high school and go to college and be someone—that we could both be someone, even if we had to do that separately. I decided that if she stayed with me we would both be no one. That maybe we would even starve. I decided I was making a sacrifice and that it was for her own good. I believed it—but how could I? I woke up this morning and I realized I was never going to be anyone without her. So I came back—and she’s gone.”

  Sister Margaret Jean said, “I’m going to help you.” She was thinking fast now, talking fast, too, so she couldn’t change her mind. Thinking of the money she had in a bank account she had never told anyone about, the money she should have given to the church but had not. This was even better. “Find an apartment, come back to the parish, bring me to see it, and I’ll pay the rent. Finish high school. We’ll meet weekly until you do and figure out the plan after that.”

  Valerie’s green eyes were wide. “But why? Why are you helping me?”

  “My visions are always a call for me to do something. I’m going to support you. Ensure that in giving up your child you were not sacrificing your own life. That you are indeed going to be someone.”

  For a moment, Valerie narrowed those brilliant green eyes. Sister Margaret Jean thought she might begin to question her motives, but she didn’t. She just nodded and went back to her breakfast.

  “What would you most like to be?” Sister Margaret Jean finally asked Valerie.

  “I’ve always wanted to be a lawyer,” Valerie answered, her eyes still on her plate. “Maybe even a judge, or a district attorney, or, I don’t know. Something big.”

  “Don’t let go of that dream,” Sister Margaret Jean said. “See about the apartment. We’ll meet back here on the first of every month. Do we have a deal?”

  Valerie nodded. “Yes,” she said.

  And so it began.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Someone was shining a bright light in Lucky’s face. She opened her eyes with difficulty. Her head felt like it had been hit with a mallet. The bright light, she realized, was the sun. She had fallen asleep in one of Gloria’s deck chairs. She looked down and saw that she had dropped her wallet. Everything had spilled out across the deck. She picked up Reyes’s card, the fives from the grocery store cashier, a few of her ID cards. Then she got down on all fours, suddenly panicked, and started scrabbling around. Her lottery ticket. It was gone.

  “Gloria?” she called out, standing. She checked inside her bra, turned out her pockets, but the ticket wasn’t there.

  “Hello?” She knocked on Gloria’s door, but there was no answer. She tried the handle; it was unlocked. Inside, all was dim and quiet. It smelled like peach room spray. Gloria’s bed was unmade and empty. There were dirty dishes and wineglasses in the sink. A liquor bottle on the counter that said “100 proof” on the label.

  Lucky ran to the office trailer, but it was empty, too. She picked up the phone and tried Gloria’s cell phone but it went straight to voicemail.

  With a shaking hand, she dialed Reyes’s number.

  “Hello?”

  “It’s me.”

  “Hey, I’ve been trying to call you at the camp! I spoke to Gloria a few times, but she always said you were busy. Did she give you any of my messages?”

  “No. She didn’t.”

  “How are things going?”

  “Not well,” Lucky managed. The room was spinning and she thought she might throw up. She gripped the counter.

  “Listen, I’m actually only about two hours away. And I’ve got your dad with me. They let him out! I’ll explain everything soon. See you in a bit.”

  * * *

  Betty’s barking alerted Lucky to their arrival. She stood and left the office trailer, a little steadier on her feet now after drinking half the contents of Gloria’s water cooler.

  Reyes got out of the SUV and Betty followed, bounding forward, delighted. Lucky leaned down and greeted her, feeling relief for a moment. But it didn’t last.

  “Your dad’s fallen asleep. We’ve been on the road for days. He’s exhausted. Let’s let him rest. You can catch me up on how things are going here.”

  “Come inside, then. I’m going to make coffee.”

  Betty stayed by her side. Inside, Lucky found the Folgers tin and spooned coffee into a filter, turned the machine on, kept herself busy in the corner of the office, trying to figure out what to say to Reyes. When the coffee was ready, she poured two cups. “We don’t have milk or even sugar. Black okay?”

  “Sure.”

  They went outside and sat in rickety lawn chairs that had been abandoned in front of the office. Betty curled up at Lucky’s feet.

  “So, tell me how things went with Gloria.”

  “You tell me first, what happened with John?”

  “It was so fast,” Reyes said. “I got a call right after I dropped you off. The court date was the next day.” Lucky shot a glance at Reyes’s SUV, where her father—no, not her father, where John Armstrong—was asleep in the front seat, his head tilted to one side, his mouth open. He looked like a very old man. Like a stranger. Which was what he was to her, now. “It was quickly determined he’d done his time for his actual crimes already, and the third-strike clause was waived. So, there he is.”

  “Great,” Lucky said.

  “You don’t sound all that happy. Are you okay?”

  “I found out that he’s not my dad,” she said.

  “What?”

  The SUV’s door opened. Betty barked. John was awake, and had exited the car. He was looking around, bewildered. Reyes stood up. Voice low, she said to Lucky, “I don’t know what you’re talking about, but it might be best not to tell him what you just said to me right now. He’s really slipping, is confused a lot of the time. He needs to see a doctor, but he wanted to see you first.”

  Reyes turned and jogged toward the car. “Hey, John! It’s all right. I’m right here. And look, I brought you to Lucky!”

  His face lit up the moment he saw her. All the anger Lucky felt dissipated for a moment. She heard Cary’s voice in her mind now, telling her that when John finally did get out of prison he would be a different person, completely lost to her. But in this moment, with his eyes lit up like that, he was the man she remembered.

  And then, he wasn’t. Because she knew the truth now. He was lost to her. And Gloria was gone, and so was the lottery ticket. She couldn’t handle it. She was finally broken. She had to choke back a sob.

  Lucky got up from her chair and started to walk, fast, toward the river. Betty followed along.

  “Lucky, wait up, it’s me, your old dad! They sprung me! You aren’t happy to see me? Why’re you running away? Are you crying?”

  She kept walking until she was at the edge of the riverbank. Betty reached her side first, then John. “Lucky. It is you, right? I haven’t been myself lately. It is you? You’re acting like we’re strangers.”

  “Do you realize where we are, John? Do you know what this place is?”

  He turned in a slow circle, taking in his shabby surroundings. “Not… really?”

  “Devereaux Camp. You told me about it, when I visited you in jail just a few weeks ago
. Remember that?”

  “Oh, ah, right, I did.” He looked startled. “Reyes said so. She was telling me, reminding me. Shit. You met Gloria. You sought her out. I told you not to, but you did.”

  “I did. I met Gloria and I made a fool of myself, telling her I was her long-lost daughter when it turns out… it turns out you stole me from some fucking church steps?” She had been trying to stay calm, but her voice rose.

  “Not stole,” he said, shaking his head. “You were abandoned! I saved you—”

  “You lied to me my entire life! You aren’t my real father. And Gloria was never my mother.”

  Reyes had started to approach, but now she backed off, gave them their space.

  “So you think I’m no good? Just because I tried to hide that one thing from you? What’s wrong with you? You think you’re so perfect?”

  “I’m a criminal,” she said, her voice lower now. “You raised me to be one. And the man I thought I loved was a criminal, and now he’s—” She almost sobbed, but swallowed it back. “He’s probably dead, and I’m going to be held accountable for everything we did, and then some. And my one chance, the only thing I had—Gloria has the lottery ticket now, and she’s disappeared.”

  “That lottery ticket! Where is it, where is Gloria? Get it from her. I can cash it, and I won’t take a cent, not a goddamn penny, because you’re right, I did you wrong by lying to you, but I swear, if you’ll let me make it up to you, I will make things better. I’ll go cash it for you. I’ll get Reyes to take me right now. All that money, you can do anything! The police will never find you—”