by Pete Hautman
Roni refused to stop until they were back on Highway 35, heading out of Pepin. Once she was sure they weren’t being followed, she pulled into a wayside rest and parked.
“Where’s your helmet?” Roni asked.
Brian’s hand flew to the top of his head. “I think I lost it at Doblemun’s place.” He grinned. “Want to go back and get it?”
“No way.” Roni shuddered.
They sat on the low stone wall that circled the parking lot. A hundred feet below them, on the other side of the railroad tracks, was Lake Pepin, a twenty-mile-long wide spot in the Mississippi. Several small boats—some with sails, others powered by engines—traveled up and down the busy waterway. Some of them might be heading for the Gulf of Mexico. It all looked so peaceful—Roni found it hard to believe that only minutes before they had nearly been run over by a drunk in a pickup truck.
She said, “That was brilliant when you called him Pop.”
“I just wanted him to let go of you.”
“So do you think he was?”
“Was what?”
“Your pop.”
“Not in a million years. There wasn’t a single molecule of pop-ness in him.”
“Not even one molecule?”
“I never saw the guy before in my life.”
17
darwin, again
Hillary’s front wheel had not mended itself during their short rest stop. Every time Roni tried to speed up past twenty miles per hour, the noise would go from a mildly distressing squee-squee-squee to an outright alarming skreeeeeeeonk!
Brian, at his irritating best, shouted his theories into her right ear.
“I bet it’s a bent axle!”
“Shut up!”
“Or it could be the bearings. If the bearings get too hot, the wheel could fall off.”
“Shut UP!”
“Maybe the tire is rubbing on something. You should—”
That was when Roni snapped her helmeted head back and bonked him on the nose. Brian let out a yelp. She was immediately sorry she’d done it, and said so.
“After I save your life and everything, you bonk me,” Brian said.
“Just don’t talk about my wheel falling off while we’re rolling,” Roni said. “It’s bad luck.”
“I think you broke my nose.”
“You’ve survived two encounters with homicidal bushes this week—what’s a little helmet bonk?”
“I should bonk you.”
“Not while I’m driving.”
“Fine. I owe you one bonk.”
When they finally limped into Bloodwater, Roni drove straight to Darwin’s garage. He was not happy to see them again.
“You kids got to learn to treat your machines better,” he said, shaking his head as he examined the front wheel. “Just ’cause you got a brand-new tire up front don’t mean you can go banging into stuff. It’s disrespectful. Now you’ve gone and bent the axle.”
“Told you,” said Brian.
“You told me it was about six different things,” Roni said.
“Lucky you didn’t kill yourselves doing whatever it was you done,” Darwin said.
“Can you fix it?” Roni asked.
“I can fix anything. Don’t know when I’ll have time, though. Got a letter from the mayor’s office yesterday telling me to clean up my backyard.”
“You mean your junkyard,” Roni said.
“Apparently, some citizen called and complained.”
“It wasn’t me,” Roni said.
“You know how long it took me last time to straighten up my valuable auto parts inventory? Not to mention cutting those weeds back. I’ll be back there for days!”
“So when can you fix my bike?”
Darwin frowned, shaking his head. “You might want to find yourself alternative transport for the next couple-few weeks.”
18
the foundling
Brian was tired of all the guessing games. He planned to question his parents at dinner. He wouldn’t stop until he got the whole truth out of them, once and for all.
But like many of his best-laid schemes, nothing went quite the way he planned.
First his mom called and said she would be late.
“How late?” he asked.
“Oh, I don’t know. You two go ahead and eat without me.”
“We’ll wait for you,” he said. If she knew they were waiting, she might get home sooner. “We’re making a surprise dinner.”
“Oh…how nice!”
The strain in his mother’s voice reminded Brian of the last surprise dinner he and his dad had prepared.
“No Catfish Banana Surprise this time,” he promised.
“Thank you. And please, no flammable desserts,” his mother added before hanging up.
Now all he had to do was come up with an edible, fire-safe surprise that contained neither catfish nor bananas. Brian flipped through some of his mom’s cookbooks until he found a picture of something that looked tasty. He brought the book to his dad, who was in his office peering at the windowsill through a powerful magnifying glass.
“What are you looking at?” Brian asked.
Mr. Bain jumped, almost dropping the magnifying glass. “Oh, hello, son,” he said with a sheepish smile. “I was looking at the dust gathered on the sill. Fascinating stuff, dust.”
Brian plunked the open cookbook down on the dusty sill. “For dinner,” he said. “I told Mom we were making her a surprise.”
Mr. Bain frowned. “You know how your mother feels about surprises.”
“She likes them if they taste good.”
“Yes, but…chocolate soufflé? For dinner?”
“Why not?”
“Isn’t timing rather critical in making a soufflé? We never know when your mother will arrive home.”
“True. Maybe we should create a new hotdish.” Every once in a while he and his dad would try a new combination of food products to make a new hotdish. The clam-and-spinach hotdish had turned out okay, but the pumpkin-pecan hotdish had been nearly as inedible as the Catfish Banana Surprise.
Mr. Bain checked out the cupboards while Brian looked in the refrigerator. One of the rules of their collaborations was that they couldn’t go to the store. They had to use what was on hand.
Brian came out with jar of olives and some pepperoni; his dad held up some rigatoni and a can of tomatoes.
His father boiled the rigatoni noodles while Brian sliced the olives and pepperoni. Then they mixed it all together with the canned tomatoes, added a little garlic and oregano, topped it with a cup of cheese, and put it in the oven on low.
Two hours later, Mrs. Bain showed up. She looked closely at Brian’s face and said, “Do I detect some fresh scratches on my precious child?”
“The bushes are out to get me,” Brian said. He did not mention that the latest bush had been in Pepin, Wisconsin.
“Hmm,” his mother said with a frown.
They hauled the hotdish out of the oven. Brian served up a big mound of it on each of their plates. It looked okay.
They all took a bite.
“Mmm,” his mother said while chewing.
“Not bad. Maybe another gram or two of salt,” his father said.
“It tastes like pizza,” Brian said. “Pizza hotdish.”
“I think this one goes in the repertoire,” his mom said.
In that short lull after they had all finished eating, but before they jumped up to clear the table, Brian asked his question. “Okay, so when and how did you adopt me?”
“Brian…,” his mother started.
“I’m serious,” Brian said. “What’s the big secret? I mean, it’s my life.”
“He’s right, dear,” said Mr. Bain.
Mrs. Bain sighed and seemed to sink into her chair.
Mr. Bain said, “Brian, as you have already deduced, we were not the first couple to adopt you. You came to America and were adopted by a couple named Owen and Janice Samuels. The Samuelses were part of a group o
f Minnesotans who arranged to adopt homeless children from Korea. You were about five months old when they brought you here.”
“Here? You mean like here in Bloodwater?”
“No, the Samuelses lived in Cannon Falls, twenty miles away.”
“What happened to them? Why did they give me up?” Brian felt his eyes getting wet. He didn’t care.
“Son, there was an accident. A car accident. Both Owen and Janice were killed. You were at home with a babysitter the night of the accident. You were only three.”
Nobody spoke for several long seconds.
“What about Sniffer? Did I really have a dog?”
Now his mom started crying. Brian looked at his dad. If his dad started crying, too, he was afraid the world would end. But Mr. Bain maintained his usual slightly distracted, slightly puzzled demeanor.
“You did have a dog, son. He went to live with another family.”
“So how did I end up with you?”
“We knew the Samuelses,” said Brian’s mother, suppressing a sob. “Janice was a school friend of mine. We knew you, too. You were such a sweet child. Janice and Owen were so happy when you came into their lives. They told us that if anything ever happened to them, they hoped we would adopt you. So when…when they died, we did.”
“Because you told them you would?”
“Because we wanted to.”
“Why didn’t you ever tell me?”
“You were so unhappy, son,” his father said. “You missed the Samuelses terribly, and you didn’t understand why you couldn’t see them.”
“You looked for that little dog every day for weeks on end,” his mother added. “Wandering through the house calling, ‘Sniffer? Sniiiiffer?’ Over and over again. It about broke my heart.”
“Eventually you seemed to forget about them, and we just didn’t want to remind you. We decided to wait until you were older…and now I guess you are.”
Brian wiped his sleeve across his eyes. He hadn’t even realized he had been crying.
Mrs. Bain said, “I’m sorry we kept this from you, Brian. You deserve to know about your past. It was just so easy to put off telling you. We didn’t want to hurt you.”
“Is there anything else you haven’t told me?” Brian asked.
His mother sat back in her chair. “What else do you want to know?”
“How come my Korean mom gave me away?”
“We don’t really know, Brian. You were a foundling. You were left on the steps of a police station in Taegu City, South Korea.”
“I was dumped?”
“Most likely your mother was very poor, son,” his dad said. “She probably left you because she hoped you would be adopted by a family that could give you a chance for a better life.”
“She must not have been a very good person,” Brian said. “What kind of mother would dump her own kid at the police station?”
“Not a bad place to leave a kid,” said his mother, who was very proud of her chosen profession.
“Yeah, but…so even if I wanted to, I could never find out who my real mother is?”
“I’m afraid not,” his dad said.
Brian nodded, trying to accept the cold, hard facts, when something hit him like a fist to the gut.
“So we don’t even know for sure what day I was born!” he said. “I don’t even have a real birthday?”
“Of course you do,” his mother said.
“We just don’t know exactly when it is,” his father added.
19
the art of the whine
Roni usually got along pretty well with her mother. Except when Nick was being unreasonable.
“Mom, it’s only three dollars each to download articles from the Star Tribune, and I only need to order a few—but I have to give them a credit card number. I’ll pay you back.”
“I don’t know, Roni. I’m just not comfortable letting you use my credit card online. Besides, you already owe me forty dollars for that motorcycle tire.”
“It’s not a motorcycle. It’s a motor scooter. And this isn’t for Hillary, it’s for research.”
“Nevertheless—”
“How will I learn fiscal responsibility if you don’t give me a chance?”
Roni whined all during breakfast. She whined as she washed the dishes. She whined as she watched her mother pack her briefcase to drive downtown to the mayor’s office. She was following her mother out to her car, still whining, when Nick Delicata made a sputtering sound with her lips, pulled her wallet out of her purse, and held out her Visa card.
“Not one penny more than twenty dollars goes on this card or I’ll have your hide.”
“Thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you!” Roni said. “You’re the best mom in the world.”
“You have to promise me one more thing.”
“Anything!”
“I want two solid weeks without once having to listen to you whine. About anything. I don’t know how you can stand to listen to yourself sometimes.”
Roni snatched the card. “Deal.” She ran back into the house, thinking that there was a very good reason why kids whine.
Because it works.
Brian remembered his dreams. He had dreamed about the big laughing man, and the smiling woman with the red hair, and the little dog—but now he knew they weren’t just dreams. The Samuelses were real. It made him feel more real, too.
He waited until after noon to call Roni—she could be cranky in the morning. When she answered the phone, he said, “Guess who I am.”
“Tiger Woods.”
“Why Tiger Woods?”
“I think he’s cute.”
“Actually, I’m Brian Samuels. At least that’s who I used to be.”
Roni didn’t say anything for several heartbeats. “That sounds portentous.”
“What’s portentous?”
“It means, like, ominous and full of meaning.”
“Meet at the marina? End of the pier?” Brian said.
“Give me half an hour,” Roni said. “I’m reduced to travel by foot.”
“Ah, yes. Poor Hillary.”
“Poor Roni, you mean.”
Roni preferred it when she was the one to deliver earth-shattering news to Brian, not the other way around, so before leaving, she printed out three of the articles she had found in the Star Tribune archives. First was an article about the abduction, showing a photo of the three-and-a-half-year-old Bryce Doblemun. The second article, dated a few weeks later, was a short human-interest piece about the Doblemuns’ house burning down. Lawrence Doblemun was portrayed as a tragic figure who had lost his wife, his child, and now his home. The article included a photo of a younger, beardless Lawrence Doblemun standing in front of the burned-down house.
The third article, several months later, said that Lawrence Doblemun had been charged with burning down his own house to collect the insurance money.
20
pebbles
“So, you see, there’s no mystery,” Brian said after telling Roni what he had learned from his parents.
Roni stared at him. “No mystery? Are you crazy?”
“Nope. Perfectly sane.” They were sitting on the endmost dock at Bloodwater Marina, looking out across the Mississippi. Brian threw a pebble into the water. A gull sailed low over the widening ripples. Sometimes people threw pieces of bread, or fish guts, or some other delicacy. This time, the gull was disappointed.
“You don’t even know who you are!” Roni said.
“I am Brian Bain, formerly Brian Samuels.”
“Yeah, and you were found on the steps of a Korean police station. Who were you then? And why did your parents lie to you?”
“I guess I was pretty messed up after the Samuelses died. They just thought it would be better for me to forget. It’s not like there’s some huge conspiracy.” He tossed out another pebble. The gull returned, once again hoping for a scrap of food. “It’s kinda sad. I mean, I knew them, but I didn’t know them, i
f you know what I mean.” He threw another pebble. This time, the gull ignored the splash.
“Give me a pebble,” Roni said.
“Why?”
“So I can have fun teasing the seagull, too.”
“I told you to pick some up as we were crossing the parking lot, but no, you couldn’t be bothered, and now you can just sit there and watch as I toss my pebbles and watch the ripples move out from them in perfect concentric circles.”
Roni held out her hand. Brian made her wait a couple of seconds, then slowly counted out two pebbles and placed them in her hand as if they were gold coins.
Roni tossed out both pebbles at once, but even the double splash did not entice the gull to return. The ripples faded into the river.
“So I guess that’s that,” Brian said.
“What’s what?”
“The great doppelganger mystery is over.”
“Not by half. We still don’t know what happened to Bryce Doblemun—”
“Vera Doblemun abducted him to get him away from her creepy husband. Besides, the police have had the case for ten years and gotten nowhere.”
“—or why he looks so much like you. And what about the orange-haired lady?”
“What orange-haired lady?”
“Darwin said there was an orange-haired lady asking where you lived.”
“There was?”
“I didn’t tell you,” Roni said.
“Why not?”
“I forgot. Oh, and I might have seen her. I mean, I saw this orange-haired lady at the library a couple of days ago.”
“And she was asking about me?”
“I don’t know. She was talking really loud, and Ms. Paige sort of ignored her, so she took off in a huff.”
“Why would she be looking for me?”
“I don’t know. Maybe it’s something to do with the paper-airplane article.”
“Weird.” Brian tossed out his last pebble, stood up, and picked up his skateboard. “If I see her, I’ll ask her what she wants. As far as Bryce Doblemun’s concerned, we don’t even know what he looks like now, or even if he’s still alive. That age-progressed picture is just somebody’s guess. In ten years he could have gotten fat or thin or have really bad acne or weird crooked teeth or who knows. But at least I know I’m not him.” He started to walk away.
