“Sorry for writing him?”
“Hairballs, Lida. I’m sorry for everything. I’m sorry that hearing this hurts you and that I kept it secret so long. I’m sorry that we didn’t talk about him more. Or less. Or not at all. I don’t even know. I’m sorry I got to know him because he’s going to die soon and I don’t know how I’m going to feel about that. I’m sorry I’m not a nice enough daughter for it to just plain gut me and I’m sorry I’m not a nice enough daughter to do a happy little jig. I’m sorry I don’t remember Barbra very much and I’m sorry she did what she did to him. And I’m sorry he’s such a colossal fuckup, excuse my French. I’m sorry I lied to you, or misdirected, or whatever. I’m sorry I didn’t think to let you get used to the idea of the baby before we told the whole family and I’m sorry it’s coming into a family that’s so messed up. And I’m sorry because I ran a stop sign on the way over here and I’m sorry for that time I was twelve and stole a twenty from Frank’s wallet and I’m sorry for—”
“Did you visit?” Spring break, junior year: I’m seeing Trish’s family in San Diego. Senior year: a whole bunch of us are driving to New Orleans.
“No. I never have. He asked, but it’d be too much.”
“You should have come to me if you were afraid. We wouldn’t have stopped you writing him. Right away you should have come.”
“I’m here now. I’m afraid now.” She fished in her purse again. I recognized that flimsy Stemble paper. She waved a single sheet, inked on both sides. “This came yesterday. I always wait to read them till the morning. Otherwise they keep me up nights. This is going to keep me up nights. This is going to keep me up forever.”
“It’s paper. He’s a paper father. If he frightens you, just stop writing.”
She shook her head. “He’s got a girl. Here in St. Louis. She’s gone completely off her nut. She’s been writing him all this mushy-gushy stuff for months. I was glad, right? The more people he has the less hard it is on—”
“It’s prison. It’s supposed to be hard.”
“Less hard on me. If he has other people I’m not the whole banana. But it turns out this girl’s a complete wacko. He says her last letter was totally different. And scary. She took him to town for what he did and she knows way more than just names. She’s crazy angry. She goes on and on about how she wants him dead.”
Maisie Keller. “It’s nothing, Pam,” I said. “And if he was even half a father he wouldn’t want you worrying. They have guards in Stemble. It’s not like she could just waltz in.”
“But she’s here. And she’s crazy. She knows all about me. Blue too. She’s seen me around town. She’s following me.”
“Maisie never told him that.”
Pam stared, jaw set. She shook her head. “He’s not the only person in the world to have done a bad thing. You’ve got these blinders.”
Relief. She hadn’t caught my idiot slipup. Maisie. I was a fool. “He probably thinks it would be fun to scare you.”
“My father would never do that.”
“Nothing’s going to happen to you.”
“He says she knows where I live. He said to get out of the house. Get someplace safe.”
And she’d come to me. Like she did when she was small. I drew her close. Her hair was batted down where she’d worn the cap. She’d probably put it on so Maisie wouldn’t spot her. “You’re here. You’re safe. I’m not going to let anyone near you.”
“I’ve been taking Thursdays off so he can call me. Don’t look at me like that. You get to be right—yay! There was something weird that day in the apartment. I’m pants at lying.”
“You could have said.”
“It’s only been these past few months. I told the center it wouldn’t be forever. Only until—”
“Until it’s over.”
“Yeah. And he’s going to want to know I’m okay if they let him call today. And I know it’s crazy but I don’t want to go back to the apartment without Blue and I don’t really want to talk to him right now because I’m pissed as anything, beg pardon, that he let that girl—”
“We’ll sort him out. We’ll sort out both of them. But it’s all paper, trust me, it’s just paper.” Nearest I could ever come to explaining. Maisie Keller cast no more shadow than the swooping birds of Pam’s night terrors. “No way paper can hurt you.”
“’Cept paper cuts.”
I pretended I hadn’t heard that wisecrack shell click back into place. I pretended I couldn’t feel nerves or guilt or anything complicated. I held Pam. She’d hardly mentioned the terrible linner. I pretended I wasn’t relieved. I pretended I wasn’t triumphant. “I’ll head over to the apartment for you,” I said. “I’ll be there in case he calls.”
35.
“This is an AZ-D.O.C. authorized collect call from inmate: Lusk, Clarence, 58344. All inmate contact may be monitored and/or recorded. This is a call from an inmate. Do you accept the charges?”
“Yes. I do.”
The longest click I ever heard.
“ ’lo, Pam?” Your voice had a rasp in it that I had not remembered. “I don’t know if you got my letter but you need—”
“This isn’t Pam.”
Beat. “Maisie?”
Fear in your voice. I hadn’t expected that. I thrummed at the marrow. “It’s Lida. Lida Stearl. Barbra’s sister.”
“Where’s Pam? What’s happened? Tell me she’s okay.”
“Don’t you tell me what to do.”
“I’m her father.”
A pause. “If Pammie were hurt, if she so much as stubbed her toe over this, do you think I’d waste my breath on you? She’s fine, no thanks to—”
“Thank God.”
“Scared out of her gourd, but not harmed.”
“The things I’ve been imagining, the terrible—”
“You always did have the nastiest mind.”
“Is Pam home? Let me speak to her.”
“Say please.”
I heard you swallow. “Please.”
“Pamela came right to me. I promised I’d come over and take this call, tell you she’s fine though it’s more than you deserve. She’s safe at home.”
“So put her on.”
“My home. Scared but safe as houses. Unless you told your psychopath all about me too.”
Click.
This is a call from an inmate.
Click.
“I never even told her Pam’s name. I was careful, I swear. I’d never put my daughter in danger.”
“Please. It’s me you’re talking to. Me. Not some nitwit cashier. You killed a man in front of your daughter. You ran down a cop.”
“Pamela doesn’t remember any of that. One of the only things I’m grateful for.”
“She’s always had nightmares about giant birds.”
“I don’t see what that—”
“Of course you wouldn’t. You can’t for a minute think how the world looks to anyone else. Tell me something. When you hit him, Georg Ring’s arms jerked out, right?”
“I’m not talking to you about that. Not on the phone. Not ever.”
“They jerked out and they jerked wide. Wide as wings, I’d bet. A little girl in the backseat would have no idea what that meant. Easier for her to see a bird. Huge and dark in his uniform, bouncing right off Daddy’s hood.”
“I said I’m not talking about it.”
“You arrogant man. What you’re saying is, I’m right.”
“The only thing you like to hear.”
“You don’t know a thing about me.”
Silence. Pam and Blue kept their kitchen very cold.
“I know you care for Pam. You know I do.” You paused. “We should just talk—”
Murderer. “Don’t you pretend to be reasonable.”
Click.
This is a call from an inmate.
Click.
“Look, she’s not some little kid for us to snap over. She’s all grown up.” Your voice broke a little. “She’s having a baby.”
“I know that. Of course I know that. Did you think she wouldn’t tell me?”
“I’m just saying, since we both—”
“She told us all together. Everyone who was family. A real celebration.”
“Everyone who could be there.”
“We were all so happy for her. It was really something special.”
“You’re loving this, aren’t you?”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“It’s your big chance, Lida. Swoop in and save. Do what you do best—”
“I’m a good woman to know in a crisis. And you—”
“Don’t start.”
“You risked your daughter on a handful of floozy letters.”
“And you’re the one who’s falling apart because Pam’s got her own life and you aren’t the most important part of it anymore. Pam says—”
“I’m a whole world closer to her than you’ll ever be.”
“Maybe. But I’m happy for everything she’s got in her life. She’s okay—”
Click
This is a call from an inmate.
Click.
“—even with everything Barbra and I did to fuck over her chances. She’s going to ride this out better than anyone. Pamela’s happy and if you weren’t being so nasty about it I’d say you did good by her.”
“I did absolutely right by Pam. It’s me, me she came to afraid.”
“You aren’t so right for her these days. She tells me things.”
“You’re in no position to judge me. You’ll never be in a position to judge me.”
“I’m not judging, I’m telling. My last appeal’s coming up. I know how you hope it turns out and I don’t much care that you think it. But before, during, and after, you better go easy on Pam—”
“Don’t you tell me how to love her.”
I shouldn’t need telling, not from you.
I shouldn’t need telling.
“What I’m telling you is how to treat her. I’d never tell you how to do the other. Not with the mess I make of loving people.”
“You love Pam.”
“More than breath.”
“She was afraid when she wrote you.”
“I know.”
“She’s afraid now.”
“I’m sorry.”
A fine lot of good your sorrys did. “She’s right back where she started. Nothing with you ever ends up better than it started.”
Click
This is a call from an inmate.
Click.
You said nothing.
“Was this girl of yours worth it?” I asked.
“No. Not ever.”
“Did you love her?”
“I don’t have anything in here.”
“You had Pam, you greedy thing. You ruined her. She came to me shaking. She wore a hat to hide from your girlfriend. Tell me you at least loved her.”
“I thought I loved—”
“You loved nothing.”
“I loved that she didn’t know me. She wasn’t touched by any of this.”
“Until you touched her with it. Young girl like that, no wonder she lost it. You stay away from Pam.”
“She’s all I have.”
She was all I had, Clarence. I felt threadbare. “Did you love my sister?”
“I’m not going to talk about her.”
“I could tell Pam you just made this person up. You were bored and wanted to see how bad you could scare her.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“Did you love my sister?”
“Be fair.”
“Did you?”
“Yes. Badly.”
“You killed her. You shot her and she died.”
“I did. Yes.”
“I want to know why. No. I want to know what made you think you could.” Could and did, could and did, singing in my head like a cricket.
Click.
This is a call from an inmate.
Click.
“This operator. It’s hard to get a word in edgewise.” The roughness dropped from your voice. It was smooth now, thick as cream.
“I’ll tell Pam you gave your girl her address. I’ll tell her you gave out her social security number.”
“I don’t know her social security number anymore.”
“She doesn’t know that.”
“You’re only going to scare her worse, Lida. You really make a mess of loving too.”
“Go to hell.”
“I don’t believe in it.”
“I wish I did. Tell me.”
“I’m never going to. Some things stay between a man and his wife.”
You hung up on me. You actually had the gall. The dial tone blared like any other dial tone. Now every disconnect would jerk me back to this: Pam’s kitchen, my chest tight, my own mute sense of smallness building with the dial tone like a siren in my ear.
36.
Pamela answered that old nature or nurture question, and thoroughly. Like her aunt, Pam proved a good woman to know in a crisis. She and Blue updated their cell phones. They insisted I go in on the plan. As long as that psycho was loose, everyone was to check in when they were going someplace and to touch base again when they got there safe. She and Blue started house hunting. They would need more space when the little one came anyhow and Pam felt safer doing it sooner. They found a three-bedroom condo in Clayton. Kath and I went in on new cabinets as a housewarming gift. On my advice, Pamela would use a P.O. box now to write you. On my advice, she would be judicious with what she shared. She said you understood. She had you send a description of the girl and you did. I wondered, briefly, why you didn’t pass the Polaroid along. But only briefly. Meifen was lovely and you didn’t have much in Stemble to look at. Pam circulated your description—Asian girl, slight build, pink hair, not too tall—at linner, nudging everyone to be aware and to be careful. All this fuss over a girl I’d designed to have no mettle. I couldn’t say it though. I couldn’t comfort. I’d accrued a wealth of things I could never say. I was glad none of the Claveries frequented Green Mother Grocery.
And then one linner over sherbet, Kath told me she was worried about Pam’s grandmother. “With that girl about, somebody ought to warn her.” Kath hadn’t a clue Pam was in earshot. Kath was a friend, Clarence, so that was something I absolutely believed. But Pammie heard. She was in fine spirits. The doctors said all was healthy and the unexpected violet she’d selected for her new living room worked well with the blond wood after all. She sidled over, voice buoyant.
“I don’t think there’s anything she can do to her,” Pam said, thinking of Ma, naturally enough.
Ma never had a saying for if you’re about to get caught in a whopper, own it first, and loudly, and fast. Still, that’s the best way to comport oneself. “Kath means your father’s mother,” I said, giving Kath eyes that would mean quiet in any language. “Her name is Marjorie. She was unkind at the funeral. Kath and I have talked about it. I don’t always like to bother you with these things.”
An inscrutable look from Pam. I worried she’d seen the hush now glare I’d meant for Kath.
“It was many years ago,” I said. “I don’t even know if she’s alive.”
“He never mentions her,” said Pam. And then: “It’s weird actually talking to you about what he does and doesn’t say.”
“I’ll see if I can track her down,” I said.
Behind Pam’s back, Kath Claverie mouthed sorry.
I let two days elapse before announcing I’d found Marjorie. Any less and Pam would be suspicious. Any more and she might poke around for herself. That was so fast, Pam gushed. Lida, you can do anything. You were wasted in dentistry. You should have been a superspy. Pam laughed at her own jokes more than ever before. It had to be the hormones.
Pam wanted to visit which I supposed was inevitable. And a part of me was glad. It’s a funny old world. I wanted your mother to know about the baby. I only hoped that Call-Me-Art at the desk was a professional,
that he wouldn’t greet me with Kath! or long time no see, that he’d be aware that no one visiting Riverview wanted commentary on how infrequently they stopped by. Waiting for Pam and Blue to pick me up, I practiced my shrug in case Call-Me-Art was indiscreet. In case your mother had more than cassava to say. A second word could be disaster. If it were Lida, maybe, or no, or leave. I practiced my shrug once more. It’s hard to look mystified instead of defensive, but I think I had it down. It’s all in the casual tilt of the head. Pam and Blue were three minutes late, then five. They were seven minutes late all told. They’d already installed the baby’s car seat. Between me and it Seshet had very little space. I’d printed directions to Riverview off the Internet and I read from them aloud. Another reason they’d believe me when I insisted I had never been to the facility before.
Pamela parallel parked in a space that would have taken me three tries at least. We unloaded. Pam wasn’t showing yet, not really, but she wore a maternity castoff from the collective Gs, collared by a floppy bow. Blue fussed with Seshet’s harness. He took her leash in one hand. Pam took his other one. She held mine too. Seshet led us forward, proud, like she was the superspy that had found Marjorie. Between my last visit and this one, Riverview had installed great stone urns to mark their entryways. They erupted with plastic geraniums.
We went in. Pam let go of my hand to fuss with her bow.
“Nervous?” I asked.
She shrugged.
“It’s just your grandmother.” That Blue. Earnest as a child. “Of course she’s going to love you.” Pammie hadn’t let go of his hand. My life would be so much better if I could only notice less.
Call-Me-Art waved, cheery, but Pamela wasn’t thrown. For all she knew he was merely exuberant. I waved back with Miss America enthusiasm and Pamela cringed beside me, embarrassed, like she was thirteen again. “The Claveries are here to see Marjorie Lusk,” I said.
Call-Me-Art nodded. Pammie looked irritated. She was a grown woman. She didn’t need me speaking for her. But grown or not, Pam had no idea how clever her old aunt was. I couldn’t outright lie, not with her standing there, but it was hardly my fault if Call-Me-Art kept right on thinking I was a Claverie too. And Blue could only help matters. Call-Me-Art was a good kid; he had to be, why else would he take a job ushering people in and out of a nursing home? He wouldn’t pay any attention to me, not when he saw there was a blind man here to help. “I presume it’s okay to bring his guide dog in here,” I said, just to make sure he noticed.
The Done Thing Page 16
