After her mother hand flung the last shreds, Alex grabbed Pigeon, hustled her sisters out of the room, put them to bed, and once again called Aunt Peggy. By the time Peggy arrived, dressed in a mink coat over a size-sixteen nightgown, Alex and her mother were sitting at the kitchen table pretending to eat canned tomato soup gone cold. Peggy nodded her head toward Alex and joined them—she neither asked a question nor offered a remedy.
* * *
Worth's cough brought Alex out of her memories. She wasn't ten or eleven anymore; she was thirty, with her own almost-successful marketing company. Saying no was an option.
"What's this person's name?" she asked.
"Kara Lawrence." He lifted his body up on his elbows. "I don't know her adopted name."
He gave her our name?
"It shouldn't be too hard to find her."
Why should she do this?
"I told Martin Dawes to expect your call." Mr. Dawes was the very proper family lawyer: hooded eyes, tight-collared shirts, subdued ties, sparse dark hair clipped short. "He can give you her grandmother's name and address."
"Why can't he find her?"
"I need you to. I want her to be receptive, to know that I'm sincere. That I care."
"I have to think about this, Daddy."
Another coughing spasm wracked his chest. "Better not take too long."
* * *
Alex walked out of the CCU, her head down and shoulders slumped.
"Well?" Her mother approached her. "What did he want?" She was already suspicious.
"To see you." In truth, he had drifted into a fitful sleep, but Alex needed to speak with Aunt Peggy alone.
The moment her mother was out of earshot, Alex asked, "Did you know he had another child?"
Aunt Peggy's lower lip quivered. "I knew." She tugged at her suit jacket. "What did he tell you?"
"That he has an illegitimate child out there somewhere. He sounded sad and ashamed—well, maybe ashamed. In a way, I think he blames Mom." Alex heaved her shoulders. "I think he was more embarrassed to tell me than about what he did." She looked at Peggy for confirmation but she said nothing. "She was adopted and now," her voice rose, "he wants me to find her."
"I never heard any of this from your father. You'd think he would have told me something so important."
"He was probably trying to protect you."
Peggy snorted in disbelief.
"He made a mistake and did what he thought best. It's not like he could bring her home to Mom." As a kid, Alex envied her friends whose fathers were home every evening, who did what her dad did on those rare times he was around: kissed their children goodnight, read them stories, listened to their prayers.
"Wait, if Daddy never told you, how did you find out?"
"From your mother, of course."
"Mom knows?" Alex was incredulous. She had thought her mother had no boundaries when it came to complaining to Alex about her father, but obviously she had kept something hidden.
"She said he paid child support for years. That's how she discovered his grand deception." Peggy pulled out a hankie and patted her throat. Specks of linen caught in the creases. "Evidently, she found e-mails between your father and that lawyer, Dawes somebody, trying to find evidence of some new misdeed, no doubt."
"She never said anything to me."
"Remember when she took a whole bottle of vitamin pills and ended up in the hospital with acute diarrhea?"
Alex closed her eyes for a second.
"You remember, you were maybe six. She had run out of Valium and tried to kill herself on One A Days."
Alex sat down next to Peggy. She chuckled, but soon it blossomed into a full-throated, hysterical roar. She didn't remember the vitamin suicide, but it sounded just like something her mother would do. "Oh, Aunt Peggy, what a mess we are."
"Not so much."
"A hot mess. Why can't we be a normal family?"
"I'm not sure there is such a thing."
"He wants me to find her, this other daughter, before he dies." She quickly added, "Of course, he's not going to die."
"Absolutely not."
"I don't want to search for her."
The two women sat in silence for several minutes. Every few seconds, Peggy patted Alex's leg or rubbed her back. Then something else occurred to Alex. She peered at her father's only sibling. "Did you say he paid child support for years?"
"A good deal of money."
"I thought they put her up for adoption."
"Oh, that was much later. No, he did the responsible thing and sent the woman money for the child's education and upkeep. Your mother found the e-mails and called that lawyer."
"Martin Dawes. He's supposed to help me find her."
"He was the one who explained everything."
"But why adoption after . . . how many years?"
"The woman died."
"Her mother died and Daddy thought adoption was best?"
"When you say it like that . . ."
"How else could I say it? Jeez, Aunt Peggy." Alex stood up and paced. "What do you know about her, the kid?" From the expression on her aunt's face, Alex knew she sounded angry again. "Sorry, I didn't mean to yell at you. This is just so upsetting."
"Of course it is. Shameful. Anyway, I don't know anything more."
"All he told me is that her name is Kara and she was born in DC. You have to know something else about her."
"Your mother never gave me any details." Peggy pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose. "It's not like he didn't have tons of affairs from the day they were married."
"Tons?"
"I'm sorry, Alex."
Other women from day one? Alex sat down. Did he ever even love her mother?
"I do know that the child was born the same year you were, and that infuriated your mother even more than the affair."
How much worse could this story get?
Peggy pursed her lips and continued: "She's black—African American, I guess I'm supposed to say, you know, to be politically correct." She made air-quotes around the words.
Alex cringed. Both Aunt Peggy and her mother had a list of people they didn't like. When Alex brought home friends from school who were Asian, Latina, or black, she lived in dread that either would say something stupid, and they usually did. After a while, Alex stopped inviting friends over.
The photograph in the desk drawer flashed into Alex's mind; the one of the black woman and the little girl with honeyed skin and long braids. "Did Daddy visit them? Did he ever take me?"
"I wouldn't know."
That woman seemed happy in the picture, and her father was laughing. There was something familiar about the girl: her wide-set eyes, shaped like Alex's, just a different color—Alex's were violet like her father's, Kara's were brownish-gold. Even her eyebrows arched like Alex's, and the high cheekbones were definitely a Lawrence trait, as if someone had snuck into a Native American's bed back in the day.
Peggy cocked her head to one side. "What are you going to do?"
"Find her, I guess," Alex replied, surprising herself. Then she realized her response was no surprise at all. "He's counting on me."
CHAPTER FIVE
Kara watched Zach push his way through the crowd and go out the door. Damn. She drank the last of her wine, shrugged into her coat, settled her eyeglasses in place, and left the bar. Taxi drivers didn't like fares to Harlem. All too often, she'd end up in an argument with drivers who refused for no good reason other than their ignorance, even though Harlem was as safe as any other place in the city. Moot point. A taxi home would cost the same as three lunches, but there was no sense in sharing that with Zach, especially if she wouldn't let him help her. He offered often, but she always said no—even when her bills piled up on her nightstand and her bank account held less than a hundred dollars. Kara headed for the subway.
The icy drizzle had stopped but now a stiff wind had picked up and the street was empty. Perhaps that was why she noticed the man. Or was it because he seemed
familiar? He was walking in the opposite direction from her, about Flyer's height—two inches taller than Kara—with ruddy cheeks from the weather or genes. He wore a wrinkled raincoat and a baseball cap pulled low over his eyes. Just as quickly as he registered, she put him of her mind and continued walking fast toward the station.
The night air felt heavy with moisture as if it were going to rain again, or even snow. Kara fastened the top button of her coat. Damn it. She snapped her fingers in recollection, realizing she had forgotten her novel at the bar. Turning around, she found herself staring at the man in the baseball cap. Although she couldn't quite make out his face, he appeared startled by the encounter. She sidestepped so that they wouldn't collide and hurried back toward the bar.
After about two blocks in her high heels, Kara decided the book wasn't worth it. The mystery was just so-so and she'd already guessed the ending. Plus it was late, and she had a long way to go before she'd reach the Times Square station. She stopped and pivoted. Once again, she walked directly into the path of the man with the baseball cap.
Her heart rate quickened as she peered into his face.
The man mumbled something, tugged on his cap, and moved away.
He had to be following her. Why else would they have had three encounters within five minutes? In spite of the cold, she began to perspire; her breath came in short bursts as if she'd been running. Could he be a stalker? Was he the person she'd felt watching her for the last few days? Was he at the cemetery this morning? Was he the same man she had seen in the bar staring at her from the entranceway? She pulled her coat tight against her throat and tried to calm down. Why would anyone be following her?
Kara walked as fast as she could, and as close to the streetlights as possible, until she reached Times Square. Finally she made her way down to the subway platform.
By the time her train came, she decided she was just on edge. Big Jim's death and all the memories it brought back had unnerved her, plus the two glasses of wine had clouded her judgment. Now, she checked the platform before stepping into the subway car—no sign of him. She squeezed into an empty seat between a rotund man and a teenager listening to his iPhone; no one seemed to notice her. When the train stopped at 135th Street, she stepped onto the platform, glancing at the people around her. A man just to her right got off the train as well. Not that white men and women were unusual in her neighborhood, but he still seemed out of place in a dark business suit; an inside-out raincoat hung from his arm. He was hatless with a short, graying military haircut. Kara didn't think it was the same man, but she couldn't be sure.
Taking the stairs two at a time in spite of her heels and pencil skirt, Kara reached street level and looked around. The Schomburg Center and Harlem Hospital anchored Lenox Avenue and 135th Street. The museum had long since closed for the night, but there were still lots of people going in and out of the hospital. The stranger was nowhere in sight. As a precaution, Kara stepped into a convenience store and studied the rack of magazines, peeking over her shoulder. People moved past the shop, almost all black and brown. No white man with a crew cut or baseball cap in view. She stepped back onto the sidewalk.
Kara walked fast, her tote tucked securely under her arm. Both too exhausted and revved up to stop for a chat, she acknowledged her neighbors with a friendly but not inviting nod. Finally she reached the weathered brownstone where she rented two rooms and a bath. She loved this old, tall, narrow house with bay windows on each of the four floors. The brownstone stood in a stately row of similar buildings, but this one had terraced flower boxes—empty now, waiting for spring planting—edging the steep steps that led to the front door.
Kara surveyed the block. In spite of the damp night, many people moved along the tree-lined street. The hooded boys and flirting girls gathered in clumps as they listened to music, laughed, and teased. With another quick look around, seeing nothing suspicious, Kara unlocked the carved wooden door. She pushed it open and glanced over her shoulder for one last check. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a man in an open raincoat rounding the corner of Lenox, moving fast.
She stepped into her entranceway and peered back up the block, but he was gone, so she closed the door and locked it; the clunk of the bolt provided a measure of solace. An adrenaline crash followed as the full impact of the events of the day hit. Her head ached, and she could feel the pain in her teeth and jaw.
A light from the kitchen welcomed her inside as she bent down and took off her pumps. Steam hissed from the radiators; the grandfather clock chimed ten times. Mrs. Edgecombe, the seventy-something owner of the house, was usually up until midnight, but maybe she'd gone to bed early. In case she was asleep, Kara tried to walk softly on the wooden floors. A part of her, however, wanted to make noise so Mrs. E. would come out of her bedroom and ask Kara about her day, offer her some sweet she'd baked and a hot cup of tea.
When Kara arrived on Mrs. E.'s doorstep almost a year before, fresh from a painful breakup, eyes bloodshot from nonstop crying, a crumpled introductory note from Kara's principal in hand, the older woman had welcomed her. Mrs. E. invited Kara in, brewed a pot of chamomile tea, and made her laugh with funny stories about her days as a math and science teacher in the public school system. It turned out they had a fair amount in common. Although Kara didn't share her past, she learned Mrs. E. had taken in many other young people, who, like Kara, Tuesday, and Flyer, had aged out of the foster care system with no money, no family, no prospects, and nowhere to live.
Now, still walking on tiptoes, Kara moved past the shrouded living room, the largest of the three rooms on the first floor. The home was a classic brownstone, with ten-foot ceilings, parquet floors, and plaster walls. To her left, she could see the outlines of Mrs. E.'s lace- and photograph-covered piano, the rocking chair, overstuffed sofa, wing chairs, and the huge fireplace mantle against the wall. Graceful, if a little world-weary, the house exuded the comfort of one hundred Christmases and thousands of family meals. Just breathing in its smell made Kara feel better.
She let the day's events replay in her mind. There had to be a relationship between the feeling she had at the cemetery, the man she thought she saw in the bar, and the stranger in the raincoat. But what? Could it have something to do with Big Jim? Could the state finally be investigating? Did one of his foster children file a complaint? Flyer, Tuesday, and Kara never talked about going to the authorities. In fact, they never talked at all about what had happened to the girls. Just thinking about it now sent sharp pains to her temples. Kara had almost brought it up when the Catholic priest scandals surfaced; all those men came forward and spoke of the sexual abuse they'd experienced.
The three of them had met for breakfast, the front-page headlines staring up at them from the New York Post. Their shared truth sat on the tip of Kara's tongue, but Tuesday's gaze bore into Kara, her eyes screaming as loudly as the headlines, and Kara had swallowed her words. If you say it aloud, it makes it real.
With a wave of her hand, Kara banished the memories. She climbed the stairs to her apartment, one floor below Officer Danny Waters's rooms. There weren't any physical demarcations between the different apartments. Mrs. E. lived on the first and second floors. Until a bad fall last winter, her bedroom was up one flight. Since then, she made the first-floor sunroom, with its jutting bay window, her bedroom. A friend had added a prefab roll-in shower stall to the small powder room. Guests now had to use the less lovely powder room off the kitchen.
Danny lived on the fourth floor and Kara on the third. The open staircase, with no doors or other indications it was a multifamily dwelling, allowed Kara and Danny to have the run of the house. This was home, her sanctuary. She suspected that Danny felt the same.
Maybe he was home . . . not that Kara would confide in him. Sharing troubles brought complications. It would be good, though, just to have a normal conversation about a whole lot of nothing. That's what she thought she'd be doing with Zach. Well, that and other things. But there was no sense in dwelling on it. Sad thoughts j
ust led to more headaches and sleepless nights. Once again, she waved her hand in front of her face to wipe away her negative thoughts and dragged herself up the last flight of stairs to her room. She dropped her keys on the whatnot table and put her shoes and tote down. Marty, her rescued three-legged feral cat, came out of the hall closet to say hello. How pitiful that he was her only confidant.
* * *
Every night before going to bed Kara pulled out the picture of her family. Often, she imagined playing with Alex as a child in a house they shared. Sometimes the house was on Long Island near the water, sometimes it was a tucked-away refuge with a garden lush with irises, roses, and chrysanthemums—her mother's favorites. Saved from the devastating cancer by a miracle cure, her mother called them to dinner just as their father came home from work. In most of her fantasies, she had Flyer and Tuesday with her, adopted by her mother and father. Reveries with her and Alex as adults were less frequent but equally compelling: a knock on the door, Kara's dad standing there, his eyes filled with remorse, Alex shyly waiting for an introduction. Kara never mentioned her fantasies to anyone, but they comforted her. Tonight her fantasy was dinner with her father, Alex, and Zach. Zach had left his wife and gotten custody of the children. Her dear landlady Mrs. E. was babysitting.
The intrusion of Zach into her imagination left her edgy instead of calm, and she placed the photograph next to her tote. The envelope Zach had asked her to deliver in the morning poked out. There was nothing written on the outside, and it was sealed and taped closed. Why not deliver it himself? He made it sound like people were watching him. The same people watching her? This wasn't productive. Kara rose and walked to the bathroom. It was time to get ready for bed—she'd think about the envelope tomorrow. Marty trailed her, his thunder-rumble purrs making their own music.
The bathroom had a shower stall barely wide enough to turn in, a sink, and a toilet. On the open shelves over the toilet, Kara kept lavender potpourri and purple towels. Rows of plastic pockets hung on the back of the door like a shoe caddy. Each pocket held a different necessity—shampoo, makeup, tampons, lotion, comb, brush. She shed her clothes.
Getting It Right Page 3
