by Allen Eskens
Jeremy didn’t stop, so I started singing You Got a Friend in Me, a song from Toy Story, his favorite movie at the time. I eased into it, my faulty notes seeping into his consciousness, slowing the velocity of his downward spiral. I was well into the second verse before the pull of the song overcame the turmoil in his head. He joined in, his three-note range nowhere close to being in tune; but that didn’t matter. He knew every word without fail, and singing them—out of tune as he was—brought Jeremy peace.
After I got Jeremy calmed down, I climbed to my top bunk and stared at the plaster swirls on the ceiling above my head, my thoughts drifting not to my mother, not to Jeremy, not even to Keith Rabbinau, but to my father, a man who wanted nothing to do with me. I had always known it, but before that day, I never understood how his cowardice branded me a bastard. I was illegitimate. I was inferior. He had done this to me.
My life came to a divide that day. Before my fight with Keith Rabbinau, I would sometimes dream of my father and imagine that he had been torn away from me, held at bay by forces beyond his means, a quiet hero who might someday fight his way back to rescue me from my mother. But after that day, I understood—my father chose to leave. His action made me what I was. He was the reason that I had gotten into the fight with Keith Rabbinau. He was the reason my mother yelled at me. My father wasn’t a hero, he was a villain, and I cursed him under my breath as the first tears of that day spilled down my cheeks. I vowed to myself that I would never give my father another thought. I would never seek him out. It was over. I would cram the shadow of this man into a box and bury him so deep in my memory that it would never again see the light of day.
As I grew older, and came to understand the power of Internet search engines, I held true to my vow. I never once searched the Internet for his name, which meant that I could never do a search for my own name. Like a recovering addict staring at a syringe full of heroin, I would sometimes find myself in front of a computer with my fingers on the keys itching to type in the words Joe Talbert, just to see where it might take me. But every time that urge arose, I beat it back. I had never once looked for my father.
Seventeen years after I made that vow, I found myself sitting at my station in the Associated Press office, a press release in my hand announcing the death of a man with my name. I took in a deep breath, and for the first time in my life, I typed my name into the Internet search box and hit Enter.
Chapter 4
My first Internet search for Joe Talbert Sr. gave me over four hundred thousand hits. I spent half an hour culling through those links, looking for something relevant, before giving up.
On my second attempt, I did an image search, looking for people named Joe Talbert and using the mug shot as a guide. In no time, I found another picture of the man, also a mug shot, but a slightly younger version. I clicked on the image, and it took me to a page where I read about Joe Talbert stealing corn from a grain silo. The picture was a grinning image of a man who looked like he had just shared a joke with the officer taking the picture, the kind of familiarity that comes with being arrested a lot, I suspect.
His face had a tougher veneer than mine did, but with a little imagination, I could see parts of myself in that old mug shot, especially around the eyes. He had an intensity that I’d seen in my own reflection on occasion. As I stared at this man’s face, it dawned on me that I now had mug shots of both my parents to add to the family photo album.
After hours of digging, using the Internet as well as a handful of databases I could access through the AP, I managed to compile a pretty good list of offenses for Mr. Talbert. In addition to the grain-silo fiasco, I found nine criminal convictions, including criminal damage to property, disorderly conduct, a restraining-order violation, assault, two threats of violence, and three DUIs. I was a little surprised, though, to find that Joe Talbert, Senior, had not been arrested in the past seventeen years, not since his last DUI arrest in Caspen County. That suggested that he either became a better criminal or had cleaned up his act.
As I wrote down the basic information from the Minnesota Court Information System database, I noticed that one of the older cases, an assault, happened in my hometown of Austin at a time when my mother would have been three months pregnant with me. That connection made my fingers twitch with energy as I tapped and clicked my way deeper into this man’s past.
MNCIS had no information about the specific facts of that case beyond the one-line descriptions of various court proceedings. I put a call into the Mower County Court Administrator’s Office and learned that the physical file would have been purged from the system after ten years. My call to the County Attorney’s Office yielded the same response. My last hope was that the Incident Complaint Report might still be retained by law enforcement. I crossed my fingers and called the Austin Police Department.
“I’m looking for an ICR for a case that occurred twenty-seven years ago,” I said. “Would that still be in your system?”
“Oh, heavens no,” she said with the politeness of a pastor’s wife. “Our records don’t go back that far. I’m not even sure we were on the ICR system that long ago.”
My shoulders sagged. There had to be some way to uncover the facts behind that assault. My mother would know, but if that was my only option—forget it.
“If you’re looking for something that old,” the lady continued, “I’d have to go to the archives and find it on microfiche.”
It took a second for me to catch up. “Wait. You have old police reports on microfiche?”
“Yes, we do.”
I wanted to tell her that she should have led with that. Instead, I said, “I’d really appreciate it if I could get reports from an incident that happened on…” I squinted into my computer screen to find the exact date.
“I’ll need a request in writing,” she interrupted. “I can’t give out stuff like that over the phone.”
I popped a page of Associated Press letterhead onto my computer screen and typed as we spoke. “What do you need in the letter?”
“Let’s see. I’ll need the name of the party and the date of the incident if you have it. If you don’t have a date—”
“I have a date,” I said, looking at the MNCIS report. “I also have a court file number if that helps.”
“No, just a name and date of the incident. I can’t give you anything if the case is still pending, but a case that old…”
“He was convicted, so it’s closed.”
She gave me an email address and told me that if there weren’t too many pages to the report, she might be able to send it to me within a few minutes. I thanked her and hung up the phone.
I grabbed a couple granola bars from a box I kept in my drawer, ate them in place of lunch, and was about to go back to my search when I noticed that I had an email waiting in my inbox. Too soon to be Mower County, I thought. I looked and saw that it came from the Legal Department of the Associated Press.
I froze, and again my stomach went queasy on me. I didn’t open it right away. Would the AP fire me through an email? I had no idea. I’d never been fired before. I looked at Allison’s office. Her door stood open, and I could see her at her desk. She didn’t seem upset—like she’d been fired. And if they hadn’t fired her yet, this email might not be bad news.
Finally, I clicked on the email and read it.
Hello Mr. Talbert. My name is Joette Breck. I have been assigned to look into the lawsuit recently served upon you and the Associated Press. I have reviewed the article you wrote and the Complaint of Mr. Todd Dobbins and have come to the conclusion that your interests and the interests of the Associated Press are joined. As a preliminary matter, I do not see a conflict of interest. As such, we would offer our services to you should you want them. I have attached a Waiver of Conflict of Interest form to this email. Please read the three-page explanation carefully. If you understand and agree, sign the form and send it back. After I receive that form, I’ll be in touch.
Respectfully, J. Breck
&n
bsp; I read the attachment she referenced, and most of it was blah, blah, blah. But there was this one line that stuck out. They informed me that representing me in the lawsuit did not preclude them from firing me. In fact, they could use any information gathered in their representation of me, other than privileged communication, to justify my dismissal. I had second thoughts about signing the waiver after reading that line, but I brushed those doubts away. I was getting a free attorney, and I wouldn’t be looking that gift horse in the mouth.
After signing, scanning, and sending the waiver back to Ms. Breck, I returned to my project, typing Joe Talbert into a search engine and adding Buckley, Minnesota, to the query. That search eventually led me to a news article. A photo attached to the article showed Joe Talbert with touches of gray now invading his crown and lines under his eyes that put his appearance closer to fifty. He stood at a podium with his mouth open, his face crinkled in anger, and his index finger pointing up as if he were about to fling it at someone. The story had appeared two years ago in the Caspen County Courier, and it chronicled a city council meeting where Joe “Toke” Talbert fought against the city’s decision to have his property declared a public nuisance due to the number of inoperable cars parked on his lawn.
“Toke?” I said out loud. His nickname was Toke—and he collected junked cars. Somehow that seemed fitting.
I read the rest of the article, but it gave no further details. Then I checked my email and saw that the Austin Police Department had responded to my document request. I clicked it open and read about a fight in a McDonald’s parking lot.
A man identified as Joe Talbert—this must have been before he came up with the slick nickname—had been seen yelling at a woman and shoving his finger into her face. A McDonald’s employee reported the disturbance, watching from inside the restaurant as the argument escalated. The employee could not hear the argument itself, but stated that he saw the man push the woman and then punch her in the stomach, causing her to drop to her knees. The report identified the woman as Kathy Nelson—my mother.
He hit my mother when I was in her womb.
The investigating officer questioned my mother, who confirmed that her boyfriend had gotten mad and punched her. When asked what caused Talbert to become upset, my mother told the officer that she was pregnant and refused to get an abortion.
He wanted to abort me. That son of a bitch! My cheeks grew hot, and for a moment the lawsuit and everything else shitty in my life melted away, leaving this piece of human waste alone in my spotlight. I didn’t know that I could detest Joe Talbert Sr. more than I already did, but now the notion that this man was found dead in a barn filled me with an odd sense of contentment. I don’t think Hallmark makes cards for families like mine.
I went back to my search, clicking on the next hit for Toke Talbert, and found an obituary for Jeannie Talbert, a forty-two-year-old woman who had died six months ago on her farm in rural Caspen County. The obituary read that Jeannie had been born Jeannie Hix and graduated from Buckley High School. She attended college at Mankato State University, where she received a degree in paralegal studies. After that, she returned to Buckley and went to work for a local attorney.
At the bottom of the article I read that Jeannie was survived by her husband, Joseph “Toke” Talbert, and a daughter, Angel Talbert. I stopped reading, my mind slowly wrapping around those last words: survived by a daughter, Angel Talbert.
I had a sister.
Chapter 5
By the time I got home, Jeremy had already finished his reading assignment and was sitting in front of the TV watching his new favorite movie, Guardians of the Galaxy, which Lila let him watch as a reward for making it through the day. There was a time when his reward was tied to Jeremy finishing his reading assignment, but he had grown to like reading his books. Now the greatest challenge for Jeremy was his new job, having moved from sorting bottles at the recycling center to cleaning classrooms at a nearby high school. This advancement came with a tangle of new stressors, and we were still in the process of getting Jeremy acclimated to his new routine.
For someone like Jeremy, consistency could be as important as food. He preferred dark clothing over light colors, green above all else. He ate his meals in order of meats first, then potatoes, then vegetables. If we served soup or chili, the biggest chunks went first. Cereal—cinnamon Life, nothing else. What would be a banal routine for most people was for Jeremy a dance, choreography that could move him from the beginning of the day to the end as smoothly as possible. With the disruption brought on by the new job, we had been giving Jeremy a little extra time with his movies.
When I came through the door, I said my usual, “Hey, buddy. How’s it going?”
He looked at me, a hesitant smile cracking across his face, and said, “I am Groot.”
I forced myself to laugh, and he briefly joined in before going back to his movie. He’d been greeting me that way a lot lately, mimicking the tree character from Guardians of the Galaxy who communicated a wide range of topics using only those three words. At first, I thought it was funny, even encouraging that Jeremy understood the concept, but lately, it had begun to wear on me.
I went to talk to Lila, finding her in her usual spot, sitting in the middle of our bed, books spread out around her, a tablet of notes resting against her knee and headphones on her head to keep the sound of Jeremy’s movie out of her ears. When she saw me she smiled, slipped the headphones off, and rubbed exhaustion from her eyes.
“How goes the battle?” I asked.
“I hate property,” she said. “If they ask an essay question on property, I’m screwed.”
I hovered over her, trying to figure out the best way to launch into the crazy left turn that my life had taken. I wanted to draw my presentation out, maybe make it a guessing game that she could never win. But when I saw how tired she looked, and knowing how the stress of studying could sometimes shorten her patience, I decided to abandon my game and simply hand her Toke Talbert’s mug shot.
“Who’s this?” she asked, only half interested.
“That’s Joe Talbert, Senior.”
She sat up straighter. “As in…your dad?” She looked at the picture, then at me, doing the same comparison that I had done a few hours earlier. “I don’t understand. All these years…I mean why would you…?”
“He died last night.”
Lila went quiet.
“I don’t know much about it, but the press release said they suspect foul play.”
“They think your dad was murdered?”
I took a seat on the bed beside her. “The press release didn’t give any details other than that he’s been living in Buckley, Minnesota.”
“Where’s Buckley?”
“About an hour north of the Iowa border, out in the middle of nowhere.”
She leaned toward me and put her hand on my forearm. “I’m sorry…I think…I’m not sure what to say here.”
“There’s more,” I said. “I have a sister—well, half-sister. Her name is Angel. I found an obituary from when her mom died. The mom’s name was Jeannie Talbert, and she died six months ago.”
“So if her mom died six months ago, and her dad died last night…”
“That would mean that my sister’s an orphan,” I said.
“How old is she?”
“I don’t know.”
Lila picked up her laptop and typed Angel’s name into a search. It took a little sifting to find the correct Angel Talbert, but we found her on a social media site, her profile light on both content and followers. She had a picture posted, a mousy image of a girl with hair the color of old hay that hung down in tangled strands, hiding much of her face. Her profile gave her age as fourteen.
I reached down and enlarged the picture, searching for a resemblance behind the fallen hair, and finding none. Instead, I found a set of deeply shadowed, furtive eyes. My sister, the orphan. Her brother, the bastard.
The most recent activity on her page was a post made that mornin
g. It came from a girl named Amber, and it read: Get well, Angel. We’re praying for you. Below that were some replies. Lila clicked on them.
Brandon:
Get well? Praying? What happened?
Amber:
They found her unconscious at her house last night.
Jayce:
I heard she died.
Amber:
Her dad died. She’s still alive, I think.
Brandon:
Does anyone know what happened?
Tyler:
OMG! First her mom then her dad. Does she have anyone left?
Amber:
Any relatives? I don’t think so.
Rob:
My mom’s an EMT. I heard her telling Dad that Angel tried to kill herself.
Jordan:
That sounds like Angel. She can’t do anything right. She even f’d up her own suicide. What a loser.
Tyler:
Stop being a troll Jordan. Have some respect.
Jordan:
You all need to stop being so fake. Stop pretending that you were friends. If she didn’t try to kill herself, none of you would give a crap about Angel Talbert. That’s the truth and you know it. I‘m just being honest.
Tyler:
This is Angel’s timeline, you dickweed. You want to be a jerk, DON’T DO IT HERE!
That was the last entry.
“Poor girl,” Lila whispered. “How could they be so mean to her?”
“No one down there knows that I exist,” I said. “No one knows that Angel might have a brother.”
“To blast her like that and call her a loser for a failed suicide attempt. How could anyone…?”
“I need to go to Buckley,” I said.
“Go to Buckley?” My statement seemed to catch Lila off guard. “What are you talking about? You can’t go to Buckley right now.”
“Angel might be my sister. She’s an orphan. I could be her only relative, and no one knows it.”
