ALSO BY JOANNE DEMAIO
Snowflakes and Coffee Cakes
Blue Jeans and Coffee Beans
Whole Latte Life
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Copyright © 2014 Joanne DeMaio
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www.joannedemaio.com
For Mary, always
One
THE WISHING FOUNTAIN SPRAYS SILVER water droplets arching high above it, looking like liquid stars. Grace wants to toss in a coin, eager to watch it loll back and forth down through the water until it settles with the other coins below. In that pool of shimmering wishes, small hopes and secrets are gathered together. Amy lifts her onto the low stone wall circling the fountain and wraps her arms around her daughter’s waist. She bends, her mouth near Grace’s ear, her breath tickling loose wisps of hair. Her fingers find Grace’s palm and press a penny into it. “Make a wish,” she softly says. There is only the sound of falling water then as Grace drops the penny in, silently captivated by its descent, and Amy wonders what she might wish for, if she even knows what a wish is.
They linger at the fountain, and Grace reaches up to touch the misty spray before Amy takes her small hand. Together they walk across Addison’s town green to the library and find fairy tales and animal stories, each illustrated to bring the words to life.
“Can you give the lady your book, Grace?”
Her daughter lifts a storybook about kittens onto the counter, her fingers staying there, splayed lightly on the edge, waiting for the book to be in her hands again. “Kittens,” she says, turning back to Amy. “My kittens.” She looks uncertain, and worried. This is something new: When anything she loves is out of her sight, out of her grasp, Grace comes close to tears until it is returned, until her arms hold it near. It’s funny, what we keep from sadness, from loss. Grace only wants to hold her father again, Amy just knows it. She takes the new stack of books, part of the stack of stuff she uses to fill her daughter’s life, and they leave. So grief whispers in again, like it does sometimes, until the library door opens onto the spring day and birdsong as they walk to the SUV outside.
“Swing? Want to swing,” Grace says from her car seat.
“We will, sweetie. After the bank, I promise.” Behind the wheel, Amy puts the key in the ignition and adjusts her denim skirt beneath her legs. A song is in her head, one about sunshine and happiness. Maybe she’ll get a coffee-to-go after the bank and have it at the playground. The sand pail is in the back, in case Grace wants to play in the sandbox. It’s good for her to be near other children, to socialize.
With a few minutes to spare, Amy takes the longer route, driving past the old stable and the pretty horses grazing; cruising by imposing historic colonials with potted purple and yellow pansies sitting on the stoops. Finally she drives into the bank parking lot early, like she does every Monday morning, pausing to listen to the end of an easy love song on the radio. “Come on, Gracie,” she finally says as she puts her keys in her purse. “You can draw with the pencil now, okay? Julie will be waiting for you.” She gets out and opens the back door, unlatches Grace and tightens one of her daughter’s ponytails before lifting her out.
* * *
A driveway winding through a thicket of white pines sets the condominium complex far off the road. George Carbone checks his watch at the living room window. When his brother’s gray sedan approaches, he slips into his windbreaker jacket, the glimmer of his father’s ruby ring catching his eye. Clothes make the man his father always said, tugging the white cuffs of his shirt. Then he’d take George’s mother in his arms and dance her around the room tenderly, the same way he loved her. He had set the bar high on marriage, on caring. George wears his father’s ring today for luck.
“Ready to beat the odds?” Nate asks when he reaches across the front seat and clasps George’s hand in a quick shake.
“To a point. What’s with the gloves?”
“You like them?” Nate holds up a hand clad in a thin black leather sport glove. “Driving gloves. Everybody’s wearing them.”
“Yeah, they’re all right.” George sits back while Nate adjusts the rearview mirror. A bead of perspiration lines his brother’s face. Morning rush hour has passed and traffic is light. George turns his father’s ring on his pinky, thinking he’ll risk a hundred on the slot machines. “We meeting the others for coffee first?”
“Not today,” Nate answers, adjusting the rearview mirror again, tapping its angle.
“Why not? We always do.”
Nate shakes his head. “I’ve got to run a quick errand so we’re catching up with them at the casino. We can stop for coffee on the way.” He unzips his black sweatshirt and shifts in the seat.
“What’s the matter?” George asks. His brother’s fingers drum incessantly while they wait at a red light. “You planning on dropping a barrel of money at the tables?”
“The usual. You know.”
The light changes and Nate precedes every turn, every lane change with the proper signals. Every stop sign warrants a complete stop. The speed limit is respected. It is almost exaggerated, the care he takes driving early this May morning.
“But maybe it’s time to up the ante today, take some chances,” Nate adds. “What do you think?”
“Not me. I’ve got a couple hundred to lose, tops, and I’m done. Have a nice steak dinner and call it a day.”
“Come on,” Nate insists. “Live a little. You’ve got to loosen up sometimes.”
A quick smile crosses George’s face. “Loosen up? Cripe, you’re the one wound up today.” He looks out the window when Nate pulls into a local shopping plaza. “Hey, there’s no coffee shop here. And nothing’s open until ten, except the bank.”
“That’s where I’m going.” Nate cruises down the sloping parking lot and stops the car near a small Italian restaurant and a fireplace accessory shop two storefronts beyond the bank.
“Why are you parking so far away? Get closer, let’s get a move on.”
Nate pauses, then reaches over to the back seat and hands George a black sweatshirt. “I’m blocking the view. Here, take this.”
“Blocking the view. Of what?”
“Of witnesses.”
George lifts the large hooded top before dropping it back in his lap. “What are you talking about? Witnesses?” His eyes stop then on a forty-five caliber gun his brother lifts from beside the seat. “Jesus Christ, Nate.”
“Okay.” A nondescript black vehicle drives slowly behind his parked car. “Look. We don’t have much time. Something’s going down here and I’ve got all the bases covered. Just go with me on this.”
“What’s wrong with you?” George asks.
“With me?” Nate looks long at him, as though gauging a decision. “Nothing,” he
says, then jumps when his cell phone rings. “Everything’s good.”
The cell rings again at the same time that an armored truck turns into the parking lot, heading directly to the front of the bank.
“She just pulled in?” Nate asks, glancing up toward the entranceway at the top of the sloped parking lot. “Okay, let me know.” He slips his phone into his pocket and reaches beneath the seat, pulling out a handful of what looks like hosiery of some sort. “Shit. This is it.”
“Whoa, whoa, what the hell?” George asks as Nate hands him leather gloves and a nine-millimeter handgun while rapidly reciting orders. Something about George being a show of strength, he only has to look the part and stand near the armored truck when they give him the word. Keep his face covered with those nylons. The gun is loaded, but don’t worry. He only has to stand there. And don’t talk, at all. Don’t do anything that will identify him. George’s mind reels as it puts together and resists what is happening. His eyes never leave the armored truck.
“So put the gloves on and get ready to pull those nylons over your head,” Nate continues, his voice monotone. He’s come under a spell, one George recognizes as Nate checks the mirrors and wipes his brow. He’s seen it before when the pot grows large or the game slick and the gamble courses through his veins. “They’re tight, but you get used to it. Your face always has to be covered, George.”
George tries the door handle, joggling it roughly when it doesn’t give. “Unlock the God damn doors.”
But Nate’s trying to keep up with the perspiration, swiping at his forehead. “There’s no time. No time! We’re taking down that truck and you’ll be set for life. Do you hear me?”
“Is this a joke? What happened to the casino? Are you crazy?”
“The casino’s happening, too. Later.” He wipes his face, his eyes, the perspiration coming like tears. “Put on that sweatshirt. And the gloves, damn it, the gloves.”
“Nate. Nate. Cut the shit now. I don’t believe you. You’re not doing this. Not you. I own a business. I’m in the Chamber of Commerce, for God’s sake. I’ve got a good life. And so do you.” He tosses the sweatshirt and hosiery on the floor, sets the nine-millimeter handgun on the seat and pulls and shoves at the locked door.
Nate looks up from stretching out the hosiery he is about to pull over his head. “Don’t you get it? It’s too late.”
George follows his gaze to the black car, where two passengers sit in the front seat. “This is for real?”
The cell phone rings again.
“Leave it,” George says so quickly, Nate pauses. “Just leave it. Let’s get out of here. Now,” he persists, still in disbelief. “It’s not too late. We’ll leave together. We can blow them off.” He thinks he might convince him, that Nate wavers. His eyes change. George sees, in the flash of seconds, Nate travelling back in time to riding bicycles together with baseball cards clipped to the spokes; to tagging along with George in high school hallways; to paddling the old rowboat through the lagoon at Stony Point, a fishing line dropped in the salt water; to playing on the same baseball leagues during hot summers, dust rising around a stolen base. In those seconds, Nate will listen, he has to, and he’ll start the car and take off with his big brother, maybe laugh about it when they get on the highway toward the casino, like they planned. A day playing cards and the slot machines with their poker friends. All he has to do is turn the key in the ignition. “Let’s book.”
When the cell phone rings again, George fumbles with the door lock, but Nate grabs his arm before he gets the door open.
“They won’t let you go, George. Trust me.” There is regret in the lowness of his voice, as though on some level Nate knows he has gotten in too deep and there’s no climbing out.
George looks at his brother, trying to understand what happened to this day that started so normal, so mundane. They do it every few months, spend a day at a ballgame, or fishing, or at the casino, having a good meal, a few laughs. “No one gets away with a crime like this.” He yanks his arm from his brother’s grip.
“You’d be surprised,” Nate says. “And those two won’t let you walk away now.”
“I can at least try. You coming with me?” He tosses the leather gloves aside and gets out of the car, then leans back—half in, half out, ready to bolt. An occasional car drives by far up on the street, unnoticing, distracted with cell phones and coffee and talk-radio. “You can’t do this, Nate.” But his brother is lowering the hosiery over his face. The distortion of his features, flattened and twisted beneath it, is appalling. George backs away.
“George!” Nate yells, his voice muffled through the nylon. “Just do it, man. Put on the sweatshirt and cover your face. It’ll be okay. All you have to do is stand beside the truck, right against the gun port. That’s it. If they see you walking away and messing this up, they won’t like it. I told them you were game.”
A motion catches George’s eye. When a uniformed man steps out of the armored truck and walks to the door of the bank, it’s clear that innocent people are connecting the dots of some crime about to happen. Some strange bullet’s already been discharged and he’s not sure he can stop it. He feels oddly cold and glances down at his shirt. It is soaked through.
And then it just happens, his legs begin backing away, his hand held up signaling he will not listen any longer. “Leave with me, Nate. Come on. Those guards will never give up that truck. They’ll use their weapons before they turn it over. You know that, don’t you?”
Nate leans across the seat, looking up at him through the open passenger door. “Not with the right bait, they won’t.”
“Bait?” They are moments away from some godforsaken act and George has no clear way out. He has to take a chance and walk. Maybe his brother will come to his senses and follow him, tag along like he used to, a step behind always. Start the car and pull up beside him to leave together. He turns, zips his light jacket and heads across the sloping parking lot toward the sidewalk up along the street as though he is nothing more than a passing pedestrian. Except there is no way a pedestrian hears his own heart beat the way he does.
“Just do it,” Nate calls quietly. George turns as his brother releases the safety on the semiautomatic gun in his lap. “Come on. It’s time,” Nate insists, lurching with the force of the words. “Are you in?”
How many times has he heard that line? How many times has Nate called him to put together a poker night? Are you in? How many times has his brother dealt the cards, waiting for his call? You in? George looks back to the bank. A woman and her young daughter walk toward the door. His eyes drop closed for a moment when he whispers, “No, no.”
If he leaves the scene and calls the police, is there time enough to stop what will happen in the parking lot? Because it’s happening already, he’s just not sure how. But it’s all unfolding. So does he owe that woman and her child fair warning? Or is he wrong? Maybe they won’t be a part of it. Maybe the worst thing he can do is yell and wave his arms at them to hide, to go inside the bank and stay there, to run, damn it.
His whole life comes down to this one moment, weighing the odds of surviving the crime as he helps the others right now, against the odds of leaving quietly and staying alive, calling for help once he’s safely away from the scene. One moment, one decision.
* * *
When she’s handed her deposit receipt and money, the teller asks Amy to count it. “Just to be sure,” she says. So Amy quickly fingers through the bills, all the while hearing Julie make easy small talk with Grace sitting at her desk, squiggling a pencil across blank paper.
“Say bye-bye now,” Amy says, looking over to her daughter as she puts away her money.
“She’s such a good girl,” Julie tells her with a smile. “You come and visit me anytime, Gracie. Next week, I’ll have a lollipop for you.”
An armored truck worker says hello to Grace as he walks past them on his way outside. He holds the door but Amy waves him off, stopping first at the self-service table and taking a h
andful of deposit slips. She opens her purse and neatly tucks them in beside the envelope of cash. Grace stands near her, touching her leg, holding her pencil drawing. They always touch, somehow. If not one, the other.
When they leave the bank, it is into a suffusion of clear morning sunlight. Amy pauses, letting its soft warmth rest on her face until Grace shifts beside her. Her fingers clasp tightly the small hand of her daughter. The child must still sense the loss of her father and shadows her constantly. Amy checks the time on her gold watch, the one Mark had given her for their first anniversary, having no idea those hands of time would count down a limited number of hours of their life together.
“Come on, Grace.” Looking down at their daughter, Amy sees the rays of morning sun touch her honey-blonde ponytails. The light dances delicately through the fine wisps of her two-year-old tresses and Amy lets that light reach her own heart. “Let’s go to the playground,” she says as they walk off the curb. The step down is steep for Grace’s legs. Amy carefully looks past the red armored truck parked there to be sure no cars approach in their path. Grace lags a step behind, her little legs working fast to keep up, so Amy slows and turns only to see a blur, a dark shadow sweeping toward her and pulling her daughter from her hand. There is sudden commotion, pressing unexpectedly close. Grace’s pencil drawing flutters to the pavement.
Two
ARE YOU HURT?” THE DRIVER asks.
Amy shakes her head, watching the street where the armored truck drove off. “My God, they took her. They just grabbed her from me!” She is shaking and wraps her arms around herself. Arms that feel hollow and empty without Grace. She looks down at those arms and sees her gold watch. Three minutes have passed since she walked out of the bank holding her daughter’s hand. Three minutes.
“Quick, let’s get you inside,” the other man from the truck says, taking her elbow to lead her to the bank. “Your legs are all cut, you sure you’re okay?”
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