We sat there for a moment in this overpowering silence.
“Would you please repeat what you just said to me?”
She started to open her mouth, but I cut her off at the pass.
“No. Stop. Don’t say it. Don’t ever say that collection of words in that order ever again.”
More silence. She was looking down at her lap.
“How do you know James has a mother in San Francisco? I didn’t even know that, and I knew James.”
“It wasn’t hard.”
“But I didn’t even know it.”
“You could have. If you’d wanted to.”
She pulled a folded sheet of paper from the back pocket of her jeans. More than a little bit dog-eared. Handed it over to me.
Now I would have to loosen my death grip on the wheel, answering the question about my hands. Just as I suspected, they were a little shaky.
I unfolded the paper.
In loopy, surprisingly legible handwriting, the kid had written, “He is survived by his father, James Stewart, Sr., of Reno, Nevada, and by his mother, Lorraine Bordatello, of San Francisco.”
“You found his obituary.”
“Yeah.”
“Did it say anything about brothers or sisters?”
“No, just a mom and dad.”
“Great. Nice to know it was their only child I killed. So you found this on the Web at the same time as you were getting directions to your grandmother’s.”
“Oh. I forgot that.”
“You never got directions to your grandmother’s?”
“Sorry. I got excited that James’s mom lived on our way. And I forgot.”
“Then how are we supposed to find your grandmother? Do you at least have her address?”
“Yeah. I know it by heart. We can get a map or stop for directions or something when we get to Bellingham.”
I handed her back the paper and she folded it up again and stuck it back in her pocket.
I watched my side mirror for a gap in traffic and then pulled onto the highway with a slight screech of tires. Trying to head north calmly. As if nothing had ever happened.
“Are you mad at me?” she asked a mile or two later.
“Oh, no more so than usual.”
“So are we going to stop and see James’s mom?”
“No.”
“Oh.”
About ten miles of silence. That I was hoping would last.
“Why not?”
“Why would I want to see James’s mother? She’s just about the last person in the world I want to see.”
“You could confess.”
“Ah. Now it sounds much more appealing.”
“It might help.”
“And when she screams at me and cries and says I murdered her only son? Tell me how this is going to help?”
“Because you can just look her in the face and say, Well, anyway, I came and told you the truth and that’s the best I can do. And then you’ll always know. That you did the best you could do.”
“Let’s not talk for a while.”
“Okay.”
We drove in blessed silence. We didn’t even talk when we stopped at a supermarket and bought a toothbrush and toothpaste, and trail mix for lunch and dinner.
I was attempting to wrap my brain around the sudden change in logistics. I’d just become marginally comfortable with the idea that I would somehow lead the kid out of her guilt and trauma. Even though I knew I didn’t know what I would need to know to lead anybody out of anything. But I thought it would dawn on me. I thought I’d get a brainstorm and pass it on. I fully expected to step up to the role of leader.
The idea that the kid knew more than I did about the subject was just plain irritating.
Turned out the juvenile delinquent came with a small consolation prize. A moving car tended to put her to sleep. Even in broad daylight.
It was just barely dark when I found us a Motel 6 in either Berkeley or Oakland, I’m not exactly sure which. I let her sleep while I paid for the room, running up a credit card bill I’d need a job to pay off.
Back when I had a mother, my mother told me that Motel 6 got its name because a room used to cost six bucks. I suppose it would be inconvenient for them to change their name now to Motel 46.95. But part of me felt like they owed it to me to try.
I had to actually go back to the car and poke her in the ribs to let her know we’d gotten somewhere.
“What?” she said. She had a bit of dried drool at the corner of her mouth.
“We’re stopping.”
“Where are we?”
“The East Bay.”
“What’s an east bay?”
“It’s a place.”
“But where is it?”
“On the east end of the bay. Hence the expression.”
“What bay?”
“The San Francisco Bay.” I’d been trying so hard not to say it. “Now will you please come in? I need to get some sleep before I go on.”
I opened the door to our tiny, cheap second-floor room. As promised, it had two beds. Besides that, I really didn’t care.
The kid flopped onto a bed immediately.
“Brush your teeth,” I said.
“Oh. Right.”
While she was gone I got undressed. Put on just a long T-shirt, from my little overnight bag, as pajamas. I don’t generally use pajamas, so I’d had to improvise. I pulled another clean T-shirt out of my bag and threw it on the kid’s bed.
Then I got under the covers. I wanted this night to be over before any more questions could happen.
She came out and stood over her bed. “Is this for me?” she asked, holding up the T-shirt.
“Yes.”
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
“So are we going to see Lorraine Bordello?”
That was just the question I’d been trying to avoid. I wanted to be pissed but ended up laughing at her mispronunciation instead. Just a little snort. I was tired and not filtering my reactions well.
“What’s funny?”
“It’s Bor-da-tell-o.”
“So? I was close.”
“Not really, kid. A bordello is…like a brothel.”
“What’s a brothel?”
“It’s like a bordello. Will you please stop asking so many questions and go to sleep?”
“Okay, okay. So in the morning we’re just driving on again?”
“I’ll figure that out in the morning. Now go to sleep.”
The good news is, she did. Almost immediately. The bad news is that, when sleeping on her back in an actual bed, the kid snored like a buzz saw.
FOUR
Grace
I woke up to find the juvenile delinquent sitting on the edge of her bed, fully dressed. Staring at me. She said, “It’s about time you woke up. It’s after eleven.”
“Well, excuse me. I didn’t get to sleep most of the way up in the car like you did. I also lay awake half the night listening to you snore.”
“I do not snore.”
“How would you know? You’re always asleep when it happens.”
“So where are we going today?”
“Grace Cathedral.”
“No, seriously.”
“I’m serious. Grace Cathedral.”
“How did that even get on the list? I thought it was either go to Bellingham or go see James’s mother.”
“I added a third option.”
“A church?”
“Not just any church. Grace Cathedral.”
“What’s so special about it?”
Truthfully, a great deal that I was not prepared to explain. But I had been going over it in my head during the many sleepless parts of the night.
The first—and, coincidentally, only—letter I got from my mother after she left was postmarked San Francisco. It had two photos in it from Grace Cathedral: one of the rosette-shaped stained-glass window in front, another of the labyrinth on the floor inside. She said she had taken
off her shoes and walked the labyrinth slowly in her socks, like a meditation, and it had changed her whole perspective. Awakened something in her. I don’t remember much more than that, detail-wise, but I could read between the lines. It was a huge and fascinating and beautiful world, especially compared to the one she’d left behind. Someday I’d see that and I’d understand. Maybe even forgive her.
I think she ran off with another man, but it’s just a theory.
“It has a labyrinth.”
“I don’t know what that is.”
“Like a maze. Only you can’t get lost in it because it doesn’t have sides. It’s just like a maze on the floor. Like a rug that has this complicated path woven into it. You walk this complicated, twisty path to get to the center.”
“So you have to, like, pick the right path? Like a lab rat or something?”
“No. There’s just one path. It just winds around and it always leads you to the center.”
“And then what?”
“Then you walk out again.”
A predictable silence. Yes, we were becoming predictable.
“Why?”
“It’s like a meditation.”
“Sounds incredibly boring.”
“Yes. Well, be that as it may,” I said, “that’s where we’re going.”
“Is it in San Francisco?”
“Yes.”
“While we’re there…”
“Do not finish that sentence. Go brush your teeth.”
“I just brushed them last night!”
“Wow. Your dentist would be so proud. If you had one. Go brush them again.”
Parking in San Francisco is a challenge. To put it rather simply. We drove around block after block waiting for somebody to pull out. Unfortunately, by the time somebody did, we’d managed to get ourselves about eleven blocks from Grace Cathedral.
So we walked.
“That’s a big church,” she said when it came into view. “I don’t think I want to go inside. I don’t believe in God.”
“I didn’t ask if you believe in God. For that matter, I didn’t ask you to come in.”
We climbed the stone steps together. The closer we got to the church, the slower she climbed. She was acting like churches bite. “Do you believe in God?” she asked.
“Um. Probably not the same way as the people who built this church did.”
“Are you trying to decide about James’s mother? Is that why you’re going in?”
“No. I’m going in to walk the labyrinth.”
“But you’re trying to decide?”
“I’m trying to avoid answering questions about it.”
“I thought maybe you figured God would tell you if you had to do it or not.”
“No. I don’t figure that. I figure I have to figure it out for myself. Are you coming in or not? You scared of a little old church?”
“It’s a big church. And I don’t believe in God.”
“Then it can’t possibly hurt you to come inside.”
I held the door open for her. She followed me in. But she looked a little spooked. So maybe she believed in God just a little bit.
The church floor was cool, a cool I could feel right through my socks. And solid. Well, of course it was solid. I realize that sounds pretty basic. But it was an almost exaggerated solid. Like a message to ignore what was in my mind, because what was under my feet was real.
Then I looked up. And you know what? The kid was right. It was a big church. For a split second I understood why she was so intimidated. There was something about the place that drew your eyes up. The sheer height of it. The massive stone pillars. The several-stories-tall windows that looked like elongated tablets for the Ten Commandments. The sheer size of the indoor space it created gave it a weight, an importance. And some authority over me. Light shone through the many stained-glass windows and made me feel unimportant and small.
I walked the labyrinth slowly. I think you’re supposed to walk it slowly. It was supposed to be a meditation. Right? So I had to go slow and think what I was doing.
Except I really wasn’t thinking at all.
I looked up at the rose window once. It didn’t have my answers. I saw my mother’s face once in my head. Which is interesting. Because I haven’t seen her in so long. I usually can’t remember it that well. She had no answers for me, either.
When I got to the center an eternity later, I looked up to see the kid staring at me. She looked curious more than anything else. Hopeful. Like she couldn’t imagine how this could help, yet she was willing to believe it could.
That’s when I realized I had to have an answer. By the time I retraced my path out of there, I would have to know. But I still had very few thoughts during the trip out.
When I saw I was running out of labyrinth, I got in touch with my fear. It came up from my gut and froze me all over. I was terrified of James’s mother. It was just suddenly there. Which is amazing. Because most of the time I have no idea what I feel.
Just like that, I had my answer: it didn’t matter if I was afraid. If it was the right thing to do, I had to do it. Fear or no fear. My fear was irrelevant. It did not exempt me. It was the right thing or it wasn’t. Painfully simple. Emphasis on the pain.
I stepped back into my shoes and walked straight out the door. The sunshine seemed violently bright. It made me squint. I flipped my cell phone open and sat down on a stone step, peering at the numbers until my eyes adjusted to the light.
Then I called 411.
While it was ringing, I was struck with a powerful and potentially liberating thought. She might not be listed. If she had an unlisted number, I was off the hook.
On came the automated voice. “What city, please?”
“San Francisco.”
“What listing, please?”
“Bordatello. B-o-r-d-a-t-e-l-l-o. First name Lorraine.”
A brief silence. Then a different automated voice. My esteemed cellular provider was connecting me with: I heard 415. Then the start of another number. It could have been any one of them. The guy had barely opened his computer-generated mouth.
I snapped the phone shut. Looked up to see the kid standing over me.
“Did you call her?”
“Not exactly.”
“Well, what exactly?”
“I called 411.”
“Did they have her number?”
“Yeah.”
“So you’re going to call her?”
“Not exactly.” Guilty pause. “I didn’t have a pen to write it down.”
“Do you remember it?”
“Not exactly. I hadn’t heard quite all of it when I hung up.”
She sighed dramatically. More irritating role reversals. “Gimme that,” she said.
Like the whipped puppy I had temporarily become, I did.
She stepped up to two middle-aged women who were standing at the cathedral entrance, talking. “Excuse me,” I heard her say. “I’m sorry to bother you. But do either of you have a pen I could borrow?”
Note to self: the kid can be civilized if she knows it’s in her best interests. Remind her of that when we get to Grandma’s house.
I watched miserably as she made her way back to me, dialing my phone as she walked. “Bor-da-tell-o, right?”
“Right.”
“You’re not going to tell me what a bordello is, are you?”
“Not for several years, no.”
“San Francisco,” she said. But not to me. “Bordatello. Lorraine.” I watched her write the number down on the inside of her left hand. She closed up my phone and handed it back to me. “What now, boss?”
“Now you go give the nice lady her pen back.”
“She said I could keep it.”
“Are you telling the truth?” It was a cheap plastic ball-point, so she probably was.
“Does she look like she’s waiting to get it back?” We both turned to look, but the women had gone inside the church or otherwise disappeared. “You never trust me.”
“And you’re so damn trustworthy.”
“Stop ducking the question. What now?”
“Now I guess I call her.” Or maybe we should go get an ice cream first. Or lunch. Or a stiff drink. Or five. Or a pack of cigarettes. Or an overseas vacation.
But I knew it was better right here, right now. In the figurative shadow of Grace. If I didn’t do it now, I might never. I would have to turn off my thoughts and feelings and just dial. Like I’d promised I would on the labyrinth. I didn’t know anybody who’d ever lied to a labyrinth. I wasn’t sure what exactly would be the penalty involved. I just knew in my gut that it didn’t sound like a wise option.
I held the kid’s left hand out to the proper reading distance and dialed.
James’s mother answered on the fourth ring. Which was hard. You know? Because that was right around the time I was experiencing the overwhelming relief of thinking it was going to go to voice mail or a machine. That wonderful, soul-satisfying rush of comfort, like a drug. Like nicotine. But then she answered.
“Hello-o.” She made it into three syllables.
I loved her immediately. She sounded like a mother. Not like my mother exactly, but maybe like my mother should have been. Like all mothers should be. Her voice was open. Strong. Emotional, but in a positive way. Like the tooth fairy, if the tooth fairy were real. Like Christmas, if Christmas were somebody’s mother. Then I thought, Don’t love her. If you love her, you won’t be able to bring yourself to tell her the truth. My heart was pounding. I’m not sure how long this thought process took.
“Hello? Is anybody there?”
“Um. Yes.”
“Who is this?” But still like Christmas. Not like I should have told her already. Even though I should have told her already.
I tried to focus off the fact that the kid was staring at me. “Um. My name is Theresa. You don’t know me.” A pause. As if it were her turn to say something. But of course it was still my turn. It took me a moment to accept that. “I was a friend of your son. James. Your late son. I’m sorry.”
For what, at this point, was unclear.
“Oh, Theresa. His next-door neighbor? Oh, how wonderful! James told me so much about you.”
“He did?”
“Oh, yes. Every time he called or wrote he talked about you. He thought quite highly of you.”
The Day I Killed James Page 12
