by Julie Hyzy
“Ouch.”
“Yeah. Ouch.”
William let the words sink in. I half-dreaded what he might say next, but I had to know.
“She came back to see you?” I asked, a gentle prod.
“Actually, she came to see you. But you were long gone by then, so the staff directed her to me.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be. Once she calmed down, she really was a good interview. Had a terrible experience and is quite … animated … when she speaks.”
“I’ll bet. I really am sorry. She was just so—”
“Incorrigible?”
“Pretty much.”
“And is that how you usually treat incorrigible guests?”
I was certain his lips twitched that time. It was a gentle rebuke, one I deserved. “No,” I said, genuinely sorry now. “That was unprofessional of me. It’s just—” I stopped myself.
The truth was I’d been frustrated with my failure to find my adoption records, with losing the Milla story to creepy little Fenton, with bad hair issues, with Dan, and with knowing I still had to disappoint my sister. It all weighed heavily on my mind, but William didn’t need to hear the history of my sorry life. I wasn’t making a very good impression on this fellow and yet a niggling feeling in the back of my brain was telling me I ought to try and remedy that. “Just a bad day,” I finished. Wow, that sounded lame. Bet I impressed him.
He gave a short nod, as though in absolution.
“So … Alex.” It was the first time he’d used my name to address me. Hearing it gave me a tiny wave of pleasure. As unexpected as my reaction to his earlier grin. “Is that a nickname?”
“Yep. Short for Alexandrine.”
“That’s an unusual name. I like it.”
“Thanks, I do too,” I said, smiling myself, hoping to coax another one out of him. I was a glutton for punishment.
“In any case, about Tammy Larken …”
I heaved a mental sigh. Back to business so soon.
“She told me her story. And it was pretty intense.” He glanced down at his notes. “She seemed like a good candidate for the camera, too,” he added, answering my next question. “But I thought you might want to make that assessment yourself. I didn’t want to step on your toes.” He looked at me. “Although I almost did that out in the hall just now.”
Tiny smile that time. My heart gave a little lurch in response. He did have a sense of humor.
“Thanks. I appreciate that. More than you know. I’ll give her a call.”
“Actually, she’s stopping by again today. If you’re free around one-thirty, I’ll walk her over.”
“One-thirty?”
“I offered to take her to lunch,” he said, getting up. “Figured it might help to smooth her ruffled feathers.”
“Oh. Sure. Lunch was probably a good idea.” I nodded to William as he left, and wondered why all of a sudden I felt a whole lot less ebullient than I had just a moment before.
Jordan popped her head inside the doorway. “Angela Cucio’s here.”
* * * * *
With the name Angela Cucio, I’d expected a raven-haired Italian beauty. I wasn’t even close. She turned out to be short and stocky, like someone had jammed a full-grown woman into a kid-size body. Her frizzy strawberry-blonde hair hung past her shoulders, an unusual style for a woman in her mid-fifties. Everything about her gave me the impression she hadn’t had an easy go of life. As she came in and took a seat, I caught the unmistakable scent of stale cigarettes. Judging from the wrinkles around her mouth and the yellow of her teeth when she smiled, I would have to guess she nailed at least three packs a day.
Where the other two women had been dressed to the nines, accessorized and polished, Angela wore snakeskin cowboy boots, low-slung jeans and a peasant blouse. When she shifted in her seat, the hem of her shirt came up enough to let a roll from her belly hang over her silver “Harley” belt buckle.
Jordan brought in two bottled waters and set them on the desk, held up from walking out again by Angela’s hand on her arm. She looked up at Jordan, “Don’t forget to call now, y’hear?”
While she didn’t have anything even remotely resembling a southern drawl, the “y’hear,” suited her. Jordan gave the woman a solemn nod, then headed back to her desk. I’d have to find out later what that was all about.
“I really appreciate you rescheduling on such short notice,” I said, by way of an opening.
She brushed aside my thanks. “Not a problem,” she said, the word coming out “prollem.”
She seemed so unlike the other two that I couldn’t help myself asking. “So, how do you know Gabriela?”
“Gabby? She’s my niece.”
“Really?” I said, astonishment apparent in my voice. “She didn’t mention that.”
“Yeah, well, I’ll betcha she didn’t want me to mention it neither.”
“No?”
She uncapped the water bottle. “Nah … you know Gabby. She knows I’d get a kick out of being on TV even if it is for something like this. And she prolly’d figure that if it got out I was her Auntie, then everybody’d start accusing her of playing favorites.” Grinning at me, she recapped the bottle, without having taken a drink.
“Auntie Angela—” I had to say it out loud.
“Call me Angie. Everybody does. Haven’t been called Angela since I was a little plaid-skirted brat back in grammar school. And back then it was Angela O’Toole.”
“Cucio’s your married name?”
“Well, yeah. My last one. Been married twice. Won’t likely do it again, but both were fun. While they lasted.” She took a deep breath as she sat back in her chair and I worried for a moment that I was about to be treated to a play by play of her love life.
“So Angie,” I said, easing back into interview mode, knowing I’d have a hard time keeping the unbelievable idea that she was related to Gabriela out of my mind, “you had a bad experience in a hair salon?”
“Oh yeah,” she said, her voice taking on an amused growl. She uncapped the water bottle again, and took a long drink, making a glugging sound as she downed the liquid. I waited till she finished. “Happened a long time ago,” she said.
“I gathered. Your hair seems to be a good length …”
“Yup.”
She put the bottle on my desk and skooched herself forward, close enough to lean her forearms against the edge and to look comfortable doing it. “Fifteen years ago last August I decided to try a new place everybody was saying was the best. It was real high-priced, real chi-chi pooh-pooh, you know what I mean? They didn’t just cut your hair, they ‘designed’ it. I know everybody uses that term nowadays but back then it was still like some big deal.”
The fifteen years ago caveat troubled me. While a hair emergency is a hair emergency, I didn’t know if the distance of time would be an issue. Maybe Gabriela was playing favorites by putting Auntie Angie up here. But the woman oozed genuineness. I liked her already. A rough and tumble woman, you could see her participating in an athletic event, not winning, but having the biggest cheering section in the stands.
Her eyes were so light, I couldn’t tell if they were green or blue. I imagined that could change depending on what she was wearing. All earnestness, she continued, “This place was known for its ‘different’ approach to styling hair. They didn’t use hairspray or mousse. Too common. They used seaweed and mud and the essences of exotic plants … whatever that means. I thought it was a bunch of hooey, of course. Just a creative way to milk more money out of gullible people, you know?”
“So why did you go there?”
“Honestly? I can’t remember. Been too long. But I think I had a mind to show all those folks who raved about the place what goofs they were for falling for such crap. I got the money, so high prices didn’t bother me none. I wanted to come out and say, hey, I been there, I done that, and I don’t want the T-shirt.”
She smiled at that, amused by some sort of private joke.
“Did you have a bad reaction to some of their unique methods?”
“Bad reaction? Not exactly. This place, they’re a franchise now—believe it or not—they also specialized in advanced techniques, and shit like that. Well, they didn’t use scissors, not much at least. They were ‘artistes’ and they only cut using razors. Gave me the worst cut of my life.”
“But it grew out,” I said.
Angela smiled, and her face went all craggy as she did, but I sensed she was amused. “Nope,” she said. “Never grew back. Never will.”
With that, she lifted up one side of her hair and showed me her perfectly slashed right ear. The entire curved top was missing.
She laughed. “Not exactly Van Gogh, huh?”
Chapter Eight
I grinned at the expression on Dan’s face when he answered the door. All of a sudden the long trek up Lake Shore Drive with a senior citizen behind the wheel didn’t seem such a bad way to have spent the morning. I’d had second thoughts about the ride, knowing Uncle Moose’s proclivity for hanging in the right lane doing twenty miles under the speed limit. But I felt like I was going into hostile territory and I wanted him there, both for moral support and for the use of his big-trunked Cadillac. Even though that meant I had to ride shotgun to Mr. Magoo.
“Hey, Dan,” my Uncle Moose said, fairly bulldozing his way into the condo, using the empty boxes in his arms as a battering ram.
“Joe,” he said, and I swear he stammered the single word. “What’s up?”
I followed Uncle Moose in, enjoying myself. Though they’d only met a couple of times, Dan, Mr. Schmooze himself, never seemed entirely comfortable with my former wrestling champ uncle.
Standing dead center in the living room, Uncle Moose affected a look of pained curiosity. Working at it, I could tell. Trying to look as obvious as possible.
Still in relatively good shape despite his advanced years, he was just short of six feet tall, with broad shoulders and a full head of hair that he kept dark by working used coffee grounds through it every night before bedtime. I wondered how my aunt handled it. No wonder she could doze off in a heartbeat. Smell that every night of your married life and boom, caffeine ain’t gonna bother you anymore. “How long you lived here?” he asked Dan.
“Five years.”
“Five, huh.” Uncle Moose wandered through the spacious area, his head swiveling this way and that, taking it all in. Dressed in his old blue jeans with bright red topstitching—a popular trend back in the seventies—he scratched the side of his head. Total affectation. I had to admit, I was enjoying the show. “The place look like this when you moved in?”
I saw the condo through my uncle’s eyes. He of the patterned fuzzy rocker that reclined with the touch of a button and accompanying mechanical “thunk.” Dan’s home, with buttery brown leather sofas imported from Italy, and jacquard draperies whose precise fringes framed the room-width windows, was a little out of my uncle’s league. Far below, Lake Michigan rolled in with tiny white-tipped waves and I could see north up the Drive. For just a moment, I remembered how much I enjoyed the movement of headlights and taillights shimmering below on rainy nights. Raindrops would glisten against the glass, blurring the view till it looked like a Tom Lynch watercolor.
And then I remembered how much more I enjoyed those evenings when I’d been up here alone.
“No,” Dan said, with a bit of a huff. “It was a brand new building. I saw to the decorating myself.”
“Ohhh,” Uncle Moose said, drawing the word out into two syllables and rolling his eyes at me.
My beeper went off, forestalling further comment. Which was good. I sensed, looming, a delicate question, indelicately put.
The voicemail was from Maria. A Chicago cop and friend of mine since high school, I’d called her the day before to put the word out on Matthew’s disappearance, despite Sophie’s objections. It wasn’t an official missing persons’ report, but I needed to do something. I listened to her terse message. “Got your call. I’ll see what I can find out, but I need some information. Give me a ring. I’ll be here till noon.”
“Work?” Dan asked.
“Kinda,” I lied. With a smile, I led Uncle Moose to the second bathroom. The one I’d used. Dan had commandeered the master bath and I made it a point never to encroach on his territory. It was one of those unwritten rules he had. Still, even in this bathroom there were a couple of things that belonged to him. “Pick out all the girly stuff, okay?” I got a huge kick out of Uncle Moose’s low whistle as he took in the Roman Bath-themed room.
“You sure this guy doesn’t … you know …”
“What?”
“Swing both ways?”
I patted him on the shoulder. “Don’t forget. Just the girly stuff. But …” I winked at him, “if in doubt whether the girly stuff’s mine or his, go ahead and take it.”
He nodded, then glanced around to make sure Dan wasn’t in the immediate area. “I always wondered about that guy.”
Dan touched my arm as I emerged. He shot a wary glance toward Uncle Moose and backed away from the room, pulling me along. “Listen. I think I’m gonna go out for a while.”
“Sure. Want me to leave the keys somewhere?”
“No. Use them to lock the deadbolt. I’ll get them from you later. We’re still going to see each other, right? Occasionally?” He winked.
I knew he meant it to dazzle in that sort-of “let the poor thing down easy” way. But it did nothing for me. Nothing. Surprised, and suddenly giddy with that realization, I grinned back at him. “Sure,” I said.
He chucked me under the chin. “Good. That’s my girl. Nice to see you smiling again.”
“Oh, yeah,” I answered, but my sarcasm was lost on him.
I grabbed one of the boxes I’d brought, and headed to the bedroom, pulling out my cell phone again. I got Maria on the first ring. She was rushed so I got straight to the point. I gave her Matthew’s description and a short synopsis of the events leading up to his disappearance. Swinging the door till it was nearly closed as I chatted, I moved to the closet and began pulling out armloads of clothes.
Maria listened, asking questions at such intervals that I could tell she was taking notes. “Hey, one other thing,” I said before we hung up. “These people knew the murdered girl, Milla Voight. Sophie works at the same place she did. I don’t know that there’s any connection, but I figure it doesn’t hurt to mention it.”
Maria’s voice was tight. “You’re right. It might be important. And I’ll see what I can do. But I gotta go. My partner’s giving me the evil eye. I’ll touch base later.”
Just as I hit “end,” movement outside the bedroom door caught my attention. I figured it was Uncle Moose, not sure what to take, what to leave, and reluctant to interrupt my call.
Throwing open the door, I looked, but he was nowhere to be seen. “Uncle Moose?” I asked, heading toward the central living room. “Oh.”
Dan was pacing the Persian area rug, making footprints in the deep pile. He looked up at my entrance, with a question in his eyes.
“What?” I asked.
“You’re still on the story, aren’t you?”
“What? No.” Then realization dawned. “You were listening in on my phone call, weren’t you?”
“It’s my bedroom. I have a right to be there.”
“So you did listen.”
“You lied,” he said with an expression that strove for “hurt” but came off as “pissed.”
“I didn’t. I am off the story.”
“Then explain that phone call.”
“I don’t have to explain a god damn thing to you.”
We hadn’t shifted positions since the conversation began. He stood in the middle of his expensive rug. I was at the entrance to the bedroom corridor. Uncle Moose’s sturdy frame suddenly appeared in the opposite hallway.
“Everything okay, honey?” he asked me.
“Just ducky,” I said, staring at Dan.
He looked
over to Uncle Moose, licked his lips, and scooped up his keys from a nearby table, affecting a tiny swagger. “You know, maybe we won’t be seeing much of each other after all.”
I felt a bubble of laughter work its way up my chest. “Well,” I said, in a mock-serious tone, holding back as long as I could. “I’ll try to control my disappointment.”
The giggles started and I couldn’t stop them. Not for anything. Not even when he stormed out of the apartment and slammed the door.
* * * * *
Aunt Lena was there when we got back, to help me sort and settle in. I whispered a prayer of thanks that the house was decent. My family and I often joked that we had to get the house “Auntie Lena Clean, “ before we’d let her visit. Today, it wasn’t quite up to that standard, but at least it wasn’t a pig sty.
I didn’t really need the help setting up, but she enjoyed taking over the motherly role. Both of her kids lived out of state and since my folks did too, it was a good fit for both of us. Close, but not too close. Before she left, I gave her a rundown about my unsuccessful trip to Springfield, knowing she’d keep that tidbit to herself. A long time ago I’d asked her about my roots, hoping she knew some of the secrets, hoping she’d share. But no luck.
I was six when the light had finally dawned on me that I’d been adopted. It came less of a shock than a feeling of a cog settling into place. My parents hadn’t been secretive about the origins of my birth. They told me that I’d been “chosen” when I was only two days old. But, despite their attempts to be open, there came the moment when I finally understood what they meant.
They say that the age of enlightenment is seven. I don’t subscribe to the Catholic Church teaching that at age six you can’t sin, but just wait till that seven-candle-birthday and whammo, you’re in the big leagues. At seven, you can not only commit venial sins, but mortal sins are now on your agenda as well. Bunk. We’re all enlightened at different ages. And though I might have grasped the significance—and had my eyes opened at age six about my adoption—I’m still yet to be enlightened on plenty of other topics.
