Three Weeks to Say Goodbye

by C. J. Box

  “This is what happens when you travel for a living and you ask your neighbor to feed your fish and he forgets and goes skiing ‘because the powder was awesome, dude,’ ” she said angrily. “You come back to a tank full of dead objects.”

  I told her my situation had grown much worse since I’d seen her last, and I needed to cancel my scheduled trip to World Tourism Bourse in Berlin in a week.

  That stopped her cold, and she stood there with a pale and dripping angel fish in a little net.

  “So you want to send someone else to WTB, then?”

  “Yes.”

  “Whom do you suggest?”

  Our department consisted of the two of us. I suggested Rita Greene-Bellardo, a new employee who served as executive assistant but seemed to have little to do.

  “Pregnant,” Linda said. “I just heard. She’s gonna have her baby and take the maternity leave and quit. I heard her telling a girlfriend that was her plan. We can’t depend on her to follow up.”

  I floated the name of Pete Maxfield, who headed the media-relations department. Pete sometimes worked with international journalists and might have some experience he could use at the show. Linda didn’t like Pete, though.

  “Honey,” she said, “Pete is a hound dog. He’d spend the whole time drinking German beer and trying to get some deaf, dumb, and blind German girl to come to his room at the hotel, or he’d blow the entertainment bud get on prostitutes. This is our biggest and most important market. We don’t just send people for the sake of sending someone. The only choice we have is me, and you know it.”

  I did, but I didn’t want to ask.

  “I’ll be in Taiwan,” she said. “I can’t be both places.”

  I knew where this was headed.

  “You need to have that big meeting with Malcolm Harris,” she said.

  Malcolm Harris was the iconic UK owner of a travel company called AmeriCan Adventures—a play on America and Canada—which sent thousands of British tourists to North America on custom-designed package tours. AmeriCan was the number one tour operator to Denver and the Mountain West, and thus a very important client. Our marching orders were to treat him like a god, despite his reputation as being quarrelsome, cantankerous, and smug about his claims that he knew more about America than practically any American he’d ever met. He expected to be fawned over, wined and dined, and he was. Any requests he made were immediately first priority in our office and across destination promotion bureaus throughout the region. Linda was infamous for attaching herself to him like Velcro when she worked the European market, hanging on his every word, laughing at his asides, and beholding him with what was described by one of her detractors as “Nancy Reagan eyes.”

  She said, “As you know, he’s thinking of establishing a U.S. reservations office and call center to handle his tours.” “We’re talking hundreds of jobs. He’s looking at three cities—New York, L.A., and Denver. We’re the front-runner because of our location. If we got that office here, the mayor would love us because he could say our tourism efforts not only bring in tourists but jobs. I’m sure he’s meeting with reps from L.A. and New York. If you just don’t show up in Berlin to convince him to choose Denver, we may lose out on this.”

  There was an uncomfortable pause. I said, “Does the mayor know about this, then?”

  “It was in my report to him last month. His chief of staff sent me an e-mail about it last week, asking if we’d landed AmeriCan yet.”

  I let her go on.

  “Honey,” she said finally, “do you realize that every time the city gets a bud get hit, and they’re looking for places to cut, someone always suggests international tourism promotion? We’re the easy ones to dump because they think we have these glamorous jobs and jet all around the world. We’re easy to dump, you know? Tab Jones has no love for us, but he sees us as a means for him to travel the world, so he’s not given the department the ax. But every time there’s a budget crunch, I go to the mat and fight for us. I show them facts and figures, and this time when we were on the chopping block I told them about the possibility AmeriCan might open up a company here. Tab and the mayor got all excited about that because tourists are ghosts, but a building and jobs are something he can take credit for. Are you hearing me?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “If you don’t go, honey, we can kiss this department and your job goodbye. And I need this job.”

  “I do, too.”

  I wasn’t kidding. Since Melissa had quit her job to stay home with our daughter, we were literally one paycheck away from not making our mortgage payment. The loan we had was one of those bad ones, one of the worst decisions we’d made. We had no cushion. If I lost my job, Jesus, I didn’t know where we’d be. Especially given the situation we were in, possibly trying to prove in court what great parents we were. My job was everything.

  She stepped back, sized me up, said, “So you understand me, then?”

  “Yes,” I said. “I’ll be going to Germany and meeting with Malcolm Harris.”

  “Good man, Jack,” she said. “I knew you’d come around. Let’s get going on those leads now.”

  As I gathered up the work and stuffed it into my briefcase, Linda said, “Aren’t there other babies out there?”

  “Not an option,” I said back with heat. “It’s not like trading her in for a new model,” thinking: How can she not understand?

  She waved dismissively, “Well, good luck with the baby thing.”

  THE BABY THING.

  We had tried everything to get pregnant. Melissa studied up on the medical literature, threw herself into reproductive studies with a single-minded will as only she can do, reading everything from the library, on the Internet, becoming as well versed in the subject as any doctor and better than most. Having sex became my second job. Melissa drew pink hearts on our wall calendar to chart our couplings. There were a lot of hearts. We had sex every morning for three weeks straight and every other evening in one magnificent stretch run. Once, when we were able to have lunch together downtown, she showed up with bare legs in a dress and told me over sandwiches that she wasn’t wearing underwear and that she’d rented a dayroom in a hotel next door. I could barely eat. I was equally aroused and alarmed, pointing out to her (tepidly, I admit) that with my job at the CVB it was possible someone might recognize me and assume the tryst was something it was not. She laughed and shook it off, then led me outside by the hand. In the elevator on the way to our floor, she started disrobing. I got hard, and she squeezed me through my pants. She said, “So you’re getting into it, then?”

  But it was never about me not getting into it. I was. And I was, and am, wildly attracted to my wife. She’s my ideal. That she seemed to think—deep down—that she no longer did it for me and for some reason that was why we couldn’t conceive was as startling as it was desperate. I told her repeatedly she drove me wild. She said, “Then why can’t we have a baby, Jack?”

  THE DOCTOR’S NAME WAS KIMMEL. He was thin, athletic, and fastidious in appearance. When we finally sat down with him at the clinic to review the tests, he confirmed what she had already determined: It was me.

  “Let me put it this way,” the doctor said, turning slightly on his stool in my direction but not really facing me. “Imagine, if you will, that you are a machine gunner but not a good one. In fact, a lousy one. The worst one in the entire Corps.”

  Kimmel paused to let that sink in.

  “So I’m shooting blanks,” I said. “Thank you, Mr. Bedside Manner.”

  He nodded, first to me, then to Melissa.

  I felt Melissa’s eyes brush across the side of my face.

  “There are alternatives, of course,” Kimmel said. “In this day and age, there really isn’t male infertility anymore. We can isolate a single sperm.” He explained procedures, drugs, in vitro fertilization.

  We were hopeful. We tried them all, one after the other. For years. Melissa had three miscarriages. Our marriage became tense and our time together frustrating.
There were long, silent meals and times we would be in the same room for hours and not look at each other. She secretly blamed me, I secretly blamed her. Her emotions were raw and increasingly close to the surface. Sometimes I caught her looking at me as if she was assessing my manhood and character, and I’d lash back with something sarcastic and cruel that I immediately regretted. I suggested once that maybe if we didn’t try so hard, maybe if we didn’t make our entire life’s mission to conceive a child, we could be happy again. She didn’t speak to me for weeks after that. I thought she might even leave me.

  Finally, she said, “Let’s adopt.”

  We really didn’t discuss it. I trusted her judgment, and adoption is a good thing. And I had my wife back, and the clouds that had been building for years in our lives broke up and sunlight poured through.

  Julie Perala at the agency explained to us that there were three kinds of adoption: international, closed, and open. We chose open. But there were levels of openness as well, from meeting the birth mother (our preference) to agreeing on visitation with the birth mother and her family.

  The birth mother was a fifteen-year-old named Brittany. She was pale, freckled, and slightly overweight even before the pregnancy. Every other word from her was “like,” as in, “I’m, like, gaining weight,” or “It’s, like, a drag to get morning sickness.” The reasons she gave the agency for choosing us included the fact that we were fairly young, childless, and we looked “calm” and “outdoorsy.” We overlooked Brittany’s arrogance at times. She knew she had what Melissa wanted. Brittany was fertile, and she assumed Melissa wasn’t, so she took on a superior air. Once, though, when Melissa left the room, I leaned toward Brittany and said, “It isn’t her. It’s me.”

  Even though, frankly, with our unexplained infertility it was most likely both of us somehow. But I didn’t tell Brittany that.

  Terms regarding adoption are something we’re both sensitive about now, especially Melissa. Often, the wrong thing is said in all innocence, but it can cut deeply. For example, Brittany is the birth mother, not the “real” mother or the “natural” mother or the “biological” mother. Melissa is Angelina’s mother. Period. Brittany didn’t “give her baby up for adoption,” she placed the baby with adoptive parents. People have a natural instinct to pry. I try not to hold that against them when they ask, “Where did she get those dark eyes?” (since mine are blue and Melissa’s are green) or “Her hair is so thick and dark!” when mine is reddish brown and Melissa’s is light brown. We’d learned to answer, vaguely, “It runs in the family.” We weren’t lying. We just weren’t saying whose family.

  In retrospect, we could have asked more questions about the birth father. But we were assured by the agency and from Melissa’s discussions with Brittany that the boy was no longer in the picture. Brittany wouldn’t even say his name other than to call him “Sperm Boy” and say he refused to take her calls. She never mentioned that he was out of the country, which led us to believe she hadn’t known where he was. He meant nothing to her, she told Melissa. She’d been drunk and in the backseat of Sperm Boy’s nice car. One thing led to another.

  Angelina turned six, seven, and eight months old. She was healthy, cheerful, loving. She began to form the words “Ma” and “Da.” She loved Harry, our old black Lab and my last carryover from bachelorhood, who began to sleep under her crib to protect her. Everything was right with the world.

  Then it wasn’t.

  THERE IS AN ABSOLUTE irredeemable beauty to pure routine, for if there wasn’t, I’m not sure we could have gotten through that evening when I finally got home.

  We ate, I’m sure.

  We might have watched television.

  I do remember halfheartedly playing with Angelina on the floor. She loved her Fisher-Price barn set. Angelina got all of the other animals as well as the farmer and his wife, and I was the cow and the cow only. Angelina’s menagerie spent all of their time telling the cow what to do. The cow spent all of his (her?) time trying to make Angelina laugh. But my heart wasn’t in it.

  I also remember a disjointed, fierce “They’ll never take her away” discussion Melissa and I had. We were in the midst of it when Melissa walked over to the telephone in the kitchen and hung it up on the receiver to check and see if there were any more messages. I watched her eyes widen and her mouth purse, and she pressed the speaker button.

  The voice was male, mature, and sympathetic:

  “Jack and Melissa, I hate to place this call. This is Judge John Moreland. I know you’re aware of why I’m calling and believe me, this is just about as difficult for me as it is for you. No one ever in his or her life expects to be in a situation like this. For that I am deeply, deeply sorry. But I hope you appreciate the situation my family has found ourselves in as well. Angelina is our first granddaughter, and my son’s child. I assume you are checking messages, even though you aren’t picking up the phone. We will be at your house tomorrow at 11:00 A.M. Don’t worry—we’re coming simply to meet you and to talk. There’s no reason to panic or overreact. It’ll be a conversation among adults who find themselves in a bitterly tough situation through no fault of their own.”

  Melissa and I exchanged glances. I could see relief flood into her face, and her shoulders relaxed.

  Then he said: “The county sheriff is aware of my visit tomorrow. I’m sorry I had to contact him, but I thought it best for all concerned—especially the baby—that our meeting be under the auspices of the authorities. Don’t worry—he won’t be with us. But he’ll be available if the situation turns sour. Not that I expect it to. I admire and respect you both. And I think a reasonable solution to our dilemma is at hand. I hope you’ll hear me out, and I hope you will welcome our visit.

  “God bless and good night, and we’ll see you tomorrow.” Click.

  THAT NIGHT, as we lay in bed not sleeping, I slid out of the bed and padded over to the closet. On the top shelf of our closet, hidden by a ball of loose old clothing, was my grandfather’s single-action Colt .45 Peacemaker revolver. The Gun that Won the West. I wish I could say he gave it to me in some kind of intergenerational ceremony loaded with symbolism and meaning, but the fact is I stole it while I helped my father move Grandpa from his house in White Sulfur Springs to a nursing home in Billings. He never knew it was missing and never asked about it at the time. Later, as he slipped deeper into dementia, the nurses said he called out for his weapon, but they had no intention of locating it for him.

  The revolver was blunt and heavy, with a six-inch barrel. It was loaded with five ancient cartridges. The firing pin rested on an empty cylinder to prevent accidents. The handgrip was made of ash, polished smooth by years of handling. The cylinder was rubbed clean of blueing from being drawn and put back into a leather holster hundreds of times.

  “What are you doing?” Melissa asked.

  “Nothing,” I said.

  TWO

  ON SUNDAY, MELISSA LOOKED both beautiful and scared. She had a smattering of freckles across her nose and cheeks I’d always found girl-like and attractive. Her hair was shoulder length and the cut sophisticated. She’d spent hours wondering what to wear, trying on outfit after outfit to find a combination that would give her confidence and strength. She’d agonized over whether to wear panty hose but decided against it. She’d chosen a simple white sleeveless top, a sweater, and beige skirt. Her legs looked long, firm, and tan. She wanted to look nice, but not too nice. Not so nice that the birth father would hold it against her, she said.

  I wore jeans, a dress shirt that showed some wear, and a navy blazer. Nice but not too nice. Melissa had asked me to change from my old cowboy boots to loafers, saying she didn’t want them to think me a redneck. When it comes to such matters, I learned long ago to defer. I think that deferring is one of the secrets to a happy marriage.

  Angelina was in a white ruffled dress with red polka dots. She looked like a doll—jet-black hair, creamy skin, chubby cheeks, and those startling dark eyes. I loved it that our new baby loved me,
and looked at me without a hint of what was going on around her, about her.

  “Those bastards,” I said, “putting us through this.” My voice was harsh, and Angelina balled her fists and took a breath, ready to cry.

  “No, it’s okay, honey,” I cooed. “It’s okay.” But it wasn’t. Nevertheless, she relaxed. She believed me as I lied to her, which broke my heart. Melissa took her upstairs for her morning nap. I hoped that when she awoke our lives would be normal again, that she’d never have to learn about what almost happened.

  OUTSIDE OUR HOME, a blue late-model Cadillac SUV slowed to a crawl on the street and swung into our driveway. I could see two people inside.

  Garrett Moreland, son of the judge and supposed birth father of Angelina, got out first and looked at our house with an expression I can only describe as amused disdain.

  GARRETT MORELAND WAS DARK, tall, chiseled, with raven-dark hair and striking eyes like brown glass marbles balanced on a whalebone shelf. Seeing Angelina’s eyes mounted in this man-boy’s face made my heart clench, and I could taste a spurt of something rotten in my mouth. Garrett had an abnormally long neck and prominent Adam’s apple that bobbed up and down as his jaw muscles worked like taut cords while he surveyed the front of our home. His skin was pale white, his mouth a thin-lipped red cut that looked like a razor slash a second before it oozed blood. He was dressed like an eighteen-year-old forced to go to church—chinos, loafers, an open-collar button-down shirt and a slightly too-big blazer that was probably his father’s. As he stood there he bent slightly forward, rocking on the balls of his feet, with his hands held at his sides and the crown of his head bent so he was looking at the house from under his eyebrows and I thought, He looks demonic.

  John Moreland was tall as well, and movie-star handsome. In his mid-to-late forties, he had a pleasant boyish face and longish brown hair combed in a long comma over his forehead. He looked like a hip Presbyterian minister, a man who was used to being noticed, a man supremely comfortable in his own skin; he was the deacon, the Rotary president, the former Peace Corps volunteer still remembered and worshipped back in the third-world village. His tan suit draped nicely, and he wore a cream-colored dress shirt. He was lightly tanned and had a mole on his cheek where a model would pencil a beauty mark. There was confidence in his attitude and walk, and a significant exchange of … something … as Moreland and Garrett Moreland glanced at each other before knocking on our door.