Forgotten

by Catherine McKenzie

  “What was he like?”

  “John? He was handsome.”

  “Is that all?”

  She gets a faraway look in her eyes. “No. He was smart. You get that from him. He could be very funny sometimes. He was . . . confident. Self-assured. He had a way of making you feel that he was in control of things. Like nothing could go wrong when he was around.”

  “A fatal vision,” I murmur into my wineglass.

  “What’s that, dear?”

  “It’s what Macbeth says when he’s psyching himself up to kill the king. ‘Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible / To feeling as to sight? or art thou but / A dagger of the mind, a false creation / Proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain?’ ”

  “I don’t think such morose thoughts are helpful.”

  “I know. Tell me, what were they like together? Were they happy, at least at some point?”

  She raises her glass to her lips, sipping slowly. “I wouldn’t say they were very happy, no, particularly as the years went on. I don’t think they were a great match, but he did love your mother, very much, I think. Maybe too much.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, sometimes, dear, loving too much can be a problem. It didn’t matter when it was just the two of them. You see, your father was a needy man, or at least, he was with your mother. He needed her attention, and she was happy to give it to him. But then—”

  A lump forms in my throat. “I came along?”

  Sunshine gives me a sad smile. “Yes, dear. Your mother was devoted to you, and I think your father felt left out. He wanted to be the center of her attention, and he wasn’t anymore. That’s not to say he didn’t love you, in his own way. And maybe I’m wrong. I wasn’t around much.”

  “I don’t think you’re wrong. It makes sense. Sort of.”

  “Enough sense to forgive him?”

  “You think I should?”

  “Of course not, Emmaline. Not if you don’t want to.”

  “Would you?”

  She pats my hand again. “I forgave him a long time ago, dear. As did your mother.”

  I shy away from this. And yet, it doesn’t really surprise me. Forgiveness was in her nature, and I never heard her speak badly about him except the one time I provoked her when I was fifteen. There was some father-daughter day at school I couldn’t participate in, and I shouted and stomped, and eventually she admitted she hated him, just as I did. Hours later, she climbed into bed next to me and said she hadn’t meant it. “I don’t want you to hate him,” she said. “Hate is so hard.” I told her I’d try to do better, and she stroked my hair until I fell asleep.

  But I kept on hating him. I just kept it to myself.

  “I know she did,” I say to Sunshine. “I never understood why.”

  “To put it behind her, I think. And because of you. She couldn’t hate him without feeling like she was hating you.”

  “Why?”

  Sunshine lifts her hand to the side of my face. “You look very much like him, you know.”

  I pull away. “I wish I didn’t.”

  “I understand. But whatever you do, you can’t change that.”

  I don’t know about that. They can do some pretty impressive things with plastic surgery these days.

  “What would you do if you were me?”

  “I’d do what felt right. But then again, I wouldn’t ask washed-up old hippies for advice.”

  He sued,” Matt says to me the next morning, appearing in my doorway without warning, holding a thick sheaf of paper in his hands.

  Yet another reason why no one survives the Ejector: Matt’s cat feet.

  “I think you just gave me a heart attack.”

  “Nonsense. You’re too young for that. Besides, no one’s left here on a stretcher yet.”

  His eyes twinkle at me. An answering smile creeps onto my face. “There’s a first time for everything.”

  “I’ll try to make more noise in the future. Victor Bushnell’s attorneys just served this.”

  He hands me the lawsuit. I flip to the conclusions. Victor Bushnell is demanding twenty million dollars plus punitive damages from Mutual Assurance and the Concord Museum.

  “That was quick.”

  “Apparently they got wind that Mutual was considering denying coverage and decided to force our hand.”

  “What did the client say?”

  “They’re pissed, but they’ll pay out if they have to. Craig’s meeting with them and the museum’s president later today. Any chance you’ve figured out a way to get them out of paying?”

  “Not yet.”

  “What angle are you working?”

  “Sophie covered off voiding the policy. I’m trying to see if we can blame the museum for having inadequate security.”

  “Do you think that’s going to fly?”

  “I doubt it. Whoever took the painting knew what they were doing. Even the police are stumped.”

  “That doesn’t sound promising.”

  “Agreed. Our best bet is probably to negotiate a settlement.”

  He nods. “Probably, but I don’t want to go there until we’ve exhausted every avenue, given how much money’s on the line.”

  “I’ll keep digging.”

  “Have you been to the museum yet? Something might occur to you.”

  “That’s a good idea.”

  Matt gives me an expectant look. “No need to say that if you could get Mutual out of this somehow, it’d be a great coup for us.”

  “No need to say it.”

  “You’re doing well, Emma. Keep it up.”

  “Thanks . . . and maybe you could hold off giving me any more work for a couple of days?”

  His eyes twinkle again. “You’re the first person who’s ever had enough guts to ask me that.”

  “You mean, all these years, all I had to do was ask?”

  “That’s right.”

  Maybe this office will be the Phoenix, after all.

  At lunchtime I take a break to go visit Peter and Karen. They’re back from Tswanaland and already working on their next project—setting up a community center in a row of old red-brick houses by the river.

  They talked about the project a lot when we were building the school. They’re partnering with Habitat for Humanity, which did the major renovations while they were away.

  The three old houses now have sparkling windows and gleaming sandblasted brick. The central house has a glossy black front door. There’s a shiny plaque on the wall next to it that reads THE POINT YOUTH CENTER. The walkway is well shoveled. The three steps up to the front door are protected by a woven fiber mat.

  I climb the stairs and turn the shiny nickel doorknob. In contrast to the neat, clean exterior, the inside is chaos. The drywall is up and the resanded floors are being protected by thick cardboard, but there’s dust everywhere and no paint on the walls. A single bare lightbulb hanging from an ornate rosette on the ceiling casts a gloomy light in the lobby.

  I ask a man in dusty coveralls where Karen and Peter are, and he points toward the archway leading to the house on the right.

  I find them in the room that was the kitchen but is now a makeshift office. There are several large drafting tables pushed against the walls. Fax machines and printers sit on the old kitchen counter. Karen and Peter are standing over one of the drafting tables, flipping through a large set of blueprints.

  “Hey, guys.”

  They look up. Matching smiles light up their faces.

  “Emma! Glad you could make it,” Karen says. Her curly black hair is woven into braids held back from her high forehead. She’s wearing a pair of blue painter’s coveralls, and there’s a smudge of white paint across the bridge of her flared nose.

  She places her strong, capable hands on my shoulders. “I would hug you, but I don’t want to get paint on your gorgeous suit.”

  “Don’t be silly. I don’t care about the suit.”

  I give her a hug. Turpentine tingles my nostrils. “The place looks gr
eat.”

  “Thanks. It’s mostly Peter’s doing.”

  Peter laughs. “Get that on tape, will you?”

  I look at Peter affectionately. Neat, small dreads cover his large, round head. His dark brown eyes brim with intelligence. He’s wearing an identical pair of coveralls, with matching paint stains.

  Karen flaps her hand at him. “Please. You’d just play it over and over until your head got big.”

  He gives me a devilish grin and pulls me into a bear hug. Peter is six foot two and muscular; a hug from him can have consequences.

  “Will you give me a tour?” I ask when the breath has returned to my lungs.

  “Of course.”

  He hands me a yellow hard hat, and they show me around the building. The top floor has been made into several large dormitories for teenagers who need temporary housing, while the second floor is divided between a day care and a few administrative offices. The first floor is for the after-school program and the legal clinic.

  “Come check out the backyard,” Karen says, leading me out a set of doors behind the central staircase. “You can’t get the full effect right now, but when the snow clears, it’ll be amazing.”

  I follow her outside, and I can see what she means. Beyond the small wooden porch, the three backyards have been combined and replaced by a concrete basketball court. There’s a net at either end, and it’s surrounded by a high chain-link fence. Two teenage boys are shoveling a thin layer of wet snow with large, curved shovels, their breath swirling around them.

  “This is amazing.”

  Karen smiles broadly. “I know. I feel happy every time I come out here. Those public courts are just a recruiting ground for the slingers. But here, the kids will be able to play almost year-round without being bothered.”

  “How did you arrange all this?”

  “We set most of it up before we left,” Peter answers. “But—and despite Karen’s praise back there—we have a great team, and the people from Habitat for Humanity are amazing.”

  “When are you going to open?”

  “Probably in a month or so. We’re having a fund-raising gala in a couple of weeks. Will you come?”

  “Of course.”

  “And persuade your firm to sponsor a table?” Karen asks in her forthright manner.

  “They owe me that much at least.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Oh, nothing. It’s just been an . . . adjustment coming back.”

  She looks sympathetic. “Stephanie was telling us.”

  “She was here?”

  “Yesterday.”

  “Right, I forgot. She told me she was going to come see you.”

  Peter picks up a basketball from the rack on the porch and passes it back and forth between his hands. “She’s quite a girl, that Stephanie. She already has all these ideas about how we can get corporate sponsorships, and she wants us to host some kind of dating-service thing here at night.”

  “That’s Stephanie, an idea a minute. But I’d listen to her; she’ll put you on the map.”

  “We don’t need to be on the map. Staying afloat will do.”

  “Nah, you’ve got to think big. Think world domination.”

  Peter laughs. “That’s your department, isn’t it?”

  “Speaking of which,” Karen says, “we could really use some help setting up the legal clinic.”

  “My pro bono hours are yours.”

  “We were kind of hoping you might do more than that.”

  “Oh?”

  Peter bounces the ball onto the hard concrete. The thwap! thwap! echoes around the yard. “To be frank, Emma, we’d like it if you’d run the clinic. Be our corporate counsel, that sort of thing.”

  “But I have a job.”

  “I know,” Karen says, an intense look in her eyes. “But this is an opportunity to do something more important. This is about helping real people, changing lives.”

  “Well, duh,” I say in a joking tone.

  “So you’ll do it?”

  “I don’t know, Karen. I have to think about it.”

  “Are you working on anything right now that would be as meaningful as this?”

  “I’m trying to figure out who stole a painting, actually.”

  Karen makes a dismissive gesture with her hands. “You see? I’m talking about making sure that people don’t get evicted, or that they keep custody of their kids.”

  I look at Peter. He’s watching us, bouncing the ball in a distracted way.

  “What do you think?” I ask him.

  “I think you could be a real asset here,” he says mildly. “And that you’d find it fulfilling in a way your current job never was.”

  I know they mean well, but do they have to make me feel guilty? And since when did it become open season to psychoanalyze me? Why does everyone suddenly have an opinion about what will make me happy?

  “What’ll it be?” Karen asks.

  “I don’t know. I really would have to think about it.”

  “I thought you’d be excited. I didn’t think I’d have to convince you.”

  “I know. I’m sorry. I’m flattered you asked me, and I will think it over, but . . . look, I know this is going to sound shallow, okay, but I like what I do.”

  At least I did before Africa, and the Ejector, and Craig.

  Karen looks down at the porch. Peter bounces the ball rhythmically.

  “Please don’t be too disappointed in me, Karen. I can’t take it.”

  “All right,” she replies. But she won’t look me in the eyes.

  “And I’ll make sure that TPC sponsors at least two tables for the gala,” I add lamely.

  “That’ll be great, Emma,” Peter says. He bounces the ball hard against the ground, pivots, and tosses it toward the basket. It catches the rim, jerks backward, and falls to the ground. “Not our lucky day, I guess.”

  Karen shrugs. “Maybe that dating thing will work out.”

  In the cab on the way back to the office, I keep the wave of disappointment emanating from Karen and Peter from enveloping me by cocooning myself in indignation.

  I mean, it’s not like I made them any promises. And just because they’re perfect and selfless doesn’t automatically make me a bad person if I don’t make my whole life about charity, does it? Of course not.

  Arg! Visiting Karen and Peter was supposed to make me feel better. I thought we’d hug, talk about old times, have a few laughs, and make plans to have dinner sometime soon. But like everything associated with Tswanaland, it didn’t go according to plan.

  My cab screeches to a stop at a red light and I fly toward the plastic separator, stopping myself with my hands just before my head hits the Plexiglas.

  “Will you watch it?”

  “Sorry, lady. I didn’t want to hit the kids.”

  I look out the window. There’s a line of small children wearing bright snowsuits crossing the road. They’re holding on to plastic handles attached to a long rope. Their teacher is at the head of it, leading them toward the steps to the museum.

  The light changes before the kids have finished crossing.

  “We can go in a minute,” the cabbie says.

  “You know what, forget it. I’ll get out here.”

  I toss the cabbie a twenty, climb out, and cross the street to the museum, following the children’s trail. The wide stone steps end at a set of huge and intricately carved wooden doors. Two smaller doors have been set into them, modern slabs of thick glass that should be out of place but fit in an odd kind of way. The whole building is like this—a mix of the very modern and the very old. A new archway held up by an old pillar. An old master in a new frame. The museum’s benefactor had posterity on the brain when he gave them a large part of his fortune, and it shows.

  After I get through Security, which is definitely heightened since the last time I was here (a stern-faced security guard even wands the kids), I walk around the cavernous gallery where the reception was held. Winter sunlight strea
ms through the glass ceiling. The room is mostly empty except for the boisterous kids, now free of their snowsuits and climbing onto the bases of the naked Greek statues.

  “Emma?”

  I turn around, a knot forming in my stomach. Craig is standing there in his camel winter coat, a red plaid scarf knotted at his neck.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “What’s with the hostility?”

  “Nothing in particular, I guess.”

  “Is this your default setting now?”

  “Don’t do that. Don’t use things from our past against me.”

  “I was only making a joke.”

  “I’m not sure we’re ready for jokes.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “What are you doing here?” I ask again.

  “I had a meeting with the museum’s president and our client about Bushnell’s lawsuit.”

  “Oh, right. Matt said.”

  “And you?”

  “I thought I’d take a look at the gallery.”

  “Mind if I join you?”

  “I can manage on my own.”

  “I am the client contact on this one. We’re going to have to work together.”

  “Okay, fine. Whatever. Let’s get this over with.”

  We walk through an archway. After several more lefts and rights I’m thoroughly turned around and almost grateful that never-been-lost-in-his-life Craig is by my side.

  “What did the museum brass say?” I ask.

  “They don’t understand why Mutual doesn’t just pay up.”

  “What did you tell them?”

  “The usual bullshit. We have to complete our investigation before we can pay out such a large sum of money, blah, blah, blah.”

  “Did they buy it?”

  “They’re talking about getting separate counsel.”

  “They’re expecting us to blame them?”

  “It’s the obvious play.”

  We walk past a gallery full of paintings of the Crucifixion. The forlorn face of Jesus stares out from a wall of canvases heavy with varnish.

  I shudder. “Ugh. I hate those paintings. Where is this gallery, anyway?”

  “It’s through there.” He nods toward a set of glass doors on the left. The words VICTOR BUSHNELL GALLERY are set out in shiny chrome letters above it.