It was strange the way the relationship with the Benjamins had worked out. At first Zoie had been reluctant to intertwine her life and Nikki’s with Elliot’s parents, but their love for Nikki and interest in her welfare seemed genuine. The couple was always delighted to see Nikki but avoided looking Zoie in the eye and certainly never mentioned their son, Elliot, in Zoie’s presence. The Benjamins’ other child, a daughter, had converted from Judaism to Catholicism right after high school. Much to her parents’ dismay, at age twenty-one she joined a convent. Elliot’s declaration that he didn’t want children threatened to seal-off the Benjamin bloodline—until Nikki came along.
In a moment of weakness, Zoie consented to give Nikki the Benjamin name. Nothing required it. Certainly not the years she and Elliot had lived together. Certainly not Elliot’s actions. “This was your doing,” he said to her, the day he moved out. His stance on child support was simple. “I’m not paying. This wasn’t supposed to happen.”
Elliot walked away that day as if she and Nikki were something he could scrape from his shoe. Anger saw her through Nikki’s delivery and the months after. It wasn’t as if Zoie needed financial assistance to raise a child, although every bit helped. It was the principle of the thing. She was prepared for a court battle over child support when Elliot’s parents stepped in with an informal arrangement. Thereafter, support checks appeared as reliably as moon phases, all handled with discretion by a third party, on behalf of Elliot.
It was time for her daily call to Ohio. Zoie selected the Benjamins’ number. It rang several times.
“Hello.” It was Celeste’s high-pitched voice.
“Celeste, it’s Zoie.”
“Oh…hi Zoie…I thought it might be you.”
Celeste sounded distant, more so than usual. No matter how many times the two women talked, awkwardness always loomed.
“How’s everything going? How’s Nikki?”
“Fine. Fine.” There was a pause. “We went out for dinner. Nikki had chicken fingers.”
“Oh, good. I’m glad you took a break from cooking.”
“I don’t mind cooking, really. Just that there’s a fair in town…that’s where we’ve been all day. Didn’t get a chance to cook.”
“A fair!” Zoie exclaimed, feigning enthusiasm. “I bet Nikki loved that.”
“She sure did,” Celeste said.
There was silence.
“Celeste, Nikki’s not wearing you out, is she?” Zoie asked. A six-year-old in constant motion could exhaust anyone.
“I’m keeping up. You know we love having Nikki.”
“Let me talk to her.”
She heard Celeste call Nikki to the phone. Zoie knew something was up. Something was different in Celeste’s tone.
An out-of-breath little girl took the phone. “Mommy, Mommy, I knew you’d call.”
“Don’t I call everyday, baby?”
“Yeah, but I couldn’t wait. I’ve got so much to tell you.”
“Have you been running?”
“Yeah, a little,” the child said. “I was in the basement with the puppies. Nellie has five of them, you know.”
“That’s wonderful, sweetie.”
“Yeah, Mommy, and you know what’s even more wonderful?”
“What, baby?”
“Grandma says I can have a puppy. Isn’t that wonderful, Mommy? My own puppy!”
Puppy! Puppy! Visions of newspapers on the floor, chewed furniture, and late-night walks in the cold swirled in Zoie’s head. Nellie, a sweet dog, was a black lab. Her cute puppies would grow large—large and hairy. Their lives didn’t have room for a dog. And Celeste had no right to make such a commitment without checking first. Now what? Nikki was thrilled. Saying no was going to be difficult, especially saying no long distance.
“I don’t know, Nikki,” said Zoie, unable to muster anything else. “Mommy has to think about it, sweetie. You know a puppy takes a lot of care. And we’re not home all day.” Zoie bit her lip, waiting for her daughter’s response.
“I know, Mommy,” the child moaned. “But I’ve already picked the one I want.”
“Mommy said that she’d think about it.” It was Zoie’s weak attempt to credit the probable no to a third-person arbiter called “Mommy.” It wasn’t that Zoie didn’t like pets. She just wasn’t ready to be responsible for an animal.
“Well, Mommy, you got to think hard,” the child commanded. “I named my puppy Biscuit ’cause I know he’ll like biscuits when he gets bigger.” The child giggled in the bubbly way she did when something thrilled her.
“Okay, I will.” Zoie sighed, her irritation with Celeste growing. “So what else did you, Grandma, and Grandpa do today?”
“Well, we went to the fair. I rode the Ferris wheel with Grandpa. And I had some cotton candy.”
“Cool.”
“And guess what, Mommy!”
“What, sweetie?”
“Daddy’s here.”
“Huh?” Zoie thought she’d heard the word daddy—which was a foreign term to her. Whose daddy? Her daddy? Nikki’s daddy? A daddy hadn’t been part of any picture in Zoie’s life for a long time.
“Mommy, are you listening? Mommy, did you hear me? I said my daddy is here.”
“Oh, he is?” Blood rushed to Zoie’s ears.
“And you know what, Mommy? Daddy’s new wife is here too.”
The word wife slipped into Zoie’s brain just as her ears were shutting down. “Oh.”
The child continued. “Daddy says I’m going to have a new brother or sister.”
So that’s why Celeste sounded so strange. She never mentioned that Elliot would be visiting. Elliot lived in California. He actually hated Ohio. Elliot in Ohio?
“Nikki, let me talk to your grandmother,” Zoie said, rubbing her neck. Heat crept from the base of her skull up to the top of her head, the way it did when she stayed too long in the sun. Everything in the kitchen took on a pink-tinged blur.
“But, Mommy, what about my puppy?”
“Mommy’s still thinking about it, Nikki. Now please let me talk to your grandmother!” said Zoie, fighting to control her anger. There was going to be an outburst, but it was wrong to direct her anger at Nikki.
“Grandma! Grandma! Mommy wants to talk to you! Grandma, Mommy is thinking about the puppy!”
Zoie closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She promised herself that she wouldn’t scream at the woman. It seemed like forever before Celeste took the receiver. Zoie could hear voices in the background, but she couldn’t make out to whom the voices belonged. When Celeste finally picked up the phone, Zoie concentrated her anger into a harsh whisper. “Celeste! What’s going on? What’s this about Elliot? You know I don’t want him around my child!”
“Zoie, he just showed up. I swear, I didn’t know he was coming,” Celeste pleaded.
“People just don’t show up in Ohio all the way from California.”
“When he called, they were already at the airport. What could I do?”
“Celeste, how could you? I trusted you with my child.”
“Zoie, calm down. Nikki’s fine. They’re getting along.”
“Getting along! That bastard shows up to say hello to a child he hasn’t set eyes on since she was three months old, and you tell me that Nikki’s just fine!”
“Zoie, you’re not being fair. We can’t control Elliot’s comings and goings. After all, this is his home.” Celeste’s last remark hung in the air like a breath on a frosty morning.
“Celeste, I’m coming to get Nikki this weekend. I’d like you to have her packed and ready.”
“Zoie, please don’t take this out on Nikki. Let the child stay as we planned. Elliot’s leaving tomorrow.” Then Celeste’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Zoie…I can’t talk right now. Nikki just came back into the room. They’re in the living room.”
They? Remnants of Nikki’s information streamed back from Zoie’s subconscious. Nikki had mentioned a wife. And a new brother or sister. Elliot married?
A pregnant wife? A child on the way? Elliot never wanted children. Not wanting children had been his reason for walking out on her. The nausea that often accompanied thoughts of Elliot hit Zoie full force. Elliot was having a child with another woman and sneaking to see the daughter he didn’t want. Or had Celeste been staging these reunions all along? No, Celeste couldn’t have pulled that off. Nikki was too bright a child. Nikki couldn’t keep secrets.
“Celeste, expect me on Saturday.” Zoie slammed down the phone. It had occurred to her that one day Eliot might try to contact Nikki. She’d filed the thought away, never expecting it to happen. Now he’d reentered Nikki’s life, only to put her in second place, behind some new baby—one he obviously wanted.
Silent tears streamed down Zoie’s face. Faint childhood memories emerged, bringing that familiar sinking sensation. In the shadows of her mind, she could see her father. He was walking away again, growing smaller as he moved down a narrow corridor. “Daddy, Daddy!” she called. He didn’t turn. He just disappeared. Memories she’d kept carefully locked away overflowed. Zoie sank to the kitchen floor. She felt like a child again, deserted and unloved by the man most important in her life.
It was dark when Zoie moved from the kitchen floor. In the morning she would check on flights to Toledo. Better still, she would arrange for a rental car. It was an eight-hour, 475-mile drive to Perrysburg. Having a car might be wise, in case she needed to bring home a puppy.
CHAPTER 3
Thank You, Brothers and Sisters—God Loves You
The sidewalk in front of the bank building on Fourteenth Street was unoccupied. From a distance Maynard scoped out the area. No one loomed near his target spot. Satisfied that the path was clear, he bolted the hundred yards up the block, his shopping cart in tow and shifting wildly. Everything he owned was in that cart: flattened cardboard stuffed lengthwise, three pill-covered blankets, an empty red coffee can, several green trash bags that bulged against their knots, and his binder, innocent looking with its frayed cover. Having any more stuff would have made his life more complicated. The few things he owned already proved cumbersome, especially when events required him to move with speed. More things meant more to track. More to protect.
He sorted through his cardboard collection and selected a folded piece with faded red letters that read Fragile. He spread the cardboard on the sidewalk, forming a four-foot pallet on the warm pavement. Then, with his jagged nails, he picked the knot of a plastic sack, freeing a bottle of water, a blackened banana, and a partial roll of toilet paper. He arranged these items along one side of his makeshift seat and placed his coffee can and a crude placard against the bank wall. In heavy black lettering, the placard read, “Thank You, Brothers and Sisters.” His rigorous testing proved that that message inspired people to give more than the message on his alternate placard, which read, “God Loves You.” Maynard never understood why the mention of God upset some people. In his many conversations with heaven over the years, he’d found the Almighty to be quite reasonable, though sometimes downright pushy. Demons were the real problem.
Yesterday had been a good day. Situated in the same spot, he’d collected over twenty-five dollars, a decent sum, though by no means what he could collect on his best days. His best days came at Christmastime. Filled with holiday spirit, people sometimes dropped a twenty-dollar bill in his can, smugly believing their charitable act would buy them passes for their souls.
Situated on his pallet, Maynard leaned into the wall. The bank’s digital clock read 8:30 a.m. It was too early for tourists and already hot. No matter the temperature, he remained clothed in his dark hooded sweatshirt and navy skullcap. Ignoring the legs passing in front of him, he didn’t see the little girl approach until he heard the clang of coins hitting his can. She was no taller than his cart. Biting her finger, she stared at him. When he lifted his hand in a gesture of thanks, a rather large woman in white shorts snatched the girl away by the shirt. “But, Mommy, you said I could put the money in the bucket!”
“I know, honey. You did good. Now we’ve got to go.”
“Mommy, why is that man so dirty?” the child asked, as her mother dragged her down the street. They’d moved away so fast that Maynard never heard the mother’s answer.
Although it was only morning, his thoughts shifted to where he’d sleep that night. Warm weather made for more choices. He settled on Franklin Square, right up Fourteenth Street, with its benches, grass and trees, and druggies, dealers, and thieves. It was still better than most shelters. Having his stuff stolen by other residents was the least of his worries. During his last stay, the Shelter staff had taken his binder, and he suspected that they had poisoned his food. Why else would he have puked his guts out all that night? Several times they called him by his full name, Maynard Frick—a definite red flag. Being called Maynard or, even worse, Mr. Frick always signaled that something dreadful was about to happen—a nightmare complete with hypodermics and barred windows. Years at St. Elizabeth’s had taught him that much.
The staff at the clinic where he’d received his risperidone therapy (which lasted until six months ago) called him Mr. Frick. The medication made his voices go away. It had been lonely without God, and as frightening as they could sometimes be, he missed the other voices too. The voices made him do bad things, like the time they told him to pee on the Chinaman who’d shooed him from the back of the restaurant. There was no use hiding. No matter where, those voices would find him.
Simon called him Maynard, but he didn’t mind. The truth of it was that Simon never said much of anything. Sharing a corner with Simon was fine. Somehow the younger man attracted the cash. When Simon was around, which wasn’t that often, donations picked up. Maybe it was Simon’s bold approach—he would go right up to people as they passed—or the fact that he didn’t look disheveled. Then, at the end of the day, Simon always went his own way. Simon had been there on the day of his largest take. No, he didn’t mind Simon at all. Simon might be somebody whom Maynard could tell about what happened at the Shelter. Simon won’t breathe a word.
Maynard wiped his hands with a wad of wet toilet tissue and then stuck the dirty tissue ball under the edge of his mat. He pulled four more sheets from the toilet roll and placed them on his lap as a napkin for his black banana. The clanking of metal hitting metal caught his attention. He looked up to see whom to thank, but the person was now just a shadow of a rear end. As he stuffed the banana mush into his mouth, a familiar, gritty voice filled his head. He swallowed and frowned.
Maynard you need to make a copy of all the material in your binder and hide it.
“How?” Maynard answered aloud. “Copies of all that paper? Huh. And if I did, where in the hell am I going to put it?”
You’re a smart boy, Maynard. How many degrees do you have? Figure it out!
Maynard winced at the loud voice in his head. “Yeah, that’s money. Copies cost a bit. So does a safe-deposit box,” he mumbled under his breath.
Don’t get fresh with me, boy! Did I say anything about a safety-deposit box, nummy? I said hide it! Don’t you know they read your notes! They know that you’re on to them. Don’t be stupid!
Maynard wished that he hadn’t been at the Shelter that night and that he hadn’t overheard their conversation. He couldn’t go to the police. The police would lock him up again, as they did when he told them about the plot to poison the cherry trees on the Mall. That was serious business. Imagine DC’s big tourist attraction dying off. He couldn’t risk St. Elizabeth’s again. No, telling was too dangerous. Maybe they didn’t have time to read what was in his binder. The binder had been out of his sight for only a minute…or had it been hours?
Maynard leaned forward, scanned the street, and shrank into the wall. Those Shelter people cruised in vans, picking folks up from the street, just like the cops did. Isn’t that how it started with the Jews in Poland? He hid his eyes in his hands.
Have you been listening at all, asshole? You blew it!
“I didn’t know.”
Of course you didn’t know. You’re too fucking stupid to know!
“Please don’t call me that.” With eyes closed and knees to his chest, he used both hands to cover his ears. “Please don’t call me stupid!”
Okay, then how about dumb ass? Maynard is a dumb ass! sang the voice.
“No! No!”
Maynard felt pressure on his shoulder. Someone or something was touching him. He opened his eyes to see dark trousers and a light-blue shirt. It was a woman, and she was using her baton to push his shoulder.
“Eeeek!” he screamed and jerked backward, knocking his head on the bank’s outer wall.
“Mister, are you all right?”
There it was—that mister. Was it the mister that preceded Frick? Maynard’s bottom lip quivered. Through his gooey eyes, everything was blurred.
“Mister, do you hear me? Are you all right?”
Ooh, that mister again! Maybe it’s that anonymous mister. Mr. Anybody.
His breathing slowed. They hadn’t found him, but it was close. The woman standing over him was nearer than anyone had been to him in days. He could see the radio attached to her shirt, and the gun holstered at her hip. He kept his head low so that their eyes couldn’t meet. He tried to make himself small.
“Sir, do you need assistance? Do you want to go to the hospital? I can call the shelter to come pick you up.”
Thank God. She was now calling him sir and not mister. “No! No! I’m fine,” he said.
“Well, you really shouldn’t be here. I’ve got to ask you to move on.”
What Simon Didn’t Say Page 2
