The Orphans of Race Point: A Novel

by Patry Francis

  I’m thinking all this stuff as I’m walking down the stairs and out the front door, quietly enough not to alert Eileen. Outside, I break into a run down the walkway, waving the letter in the air.

  “Thanks for the personal delivery, but you can tell our mutual friend the religious impulse has passed, and he can keep whatever hard-earned wisdom he got in ‘the hole’ to himself,” I say when I reach her car.

  “The hole?” the doctor repeats, and she looks so genuinely pained that for a minute I feel sorry for her. Then, all of a sudden, it comes to me who she is. Dr. Maddox, they called her in the newspaper reports, though she introduced herself as Costa when she first called me.

  “You’re the girlfriend, aren’t you?” I ask. “The one who testified at his trial.”

  “I haven’t been anyone’s girlfriend for a long time.” She squints at me, indicating end of subject. “So you want me to tell Gus you’re no longer interested in visiting him?”

  For some reason, I can’t speak so just nod.

  “Okay, then.” She gets into her car. And that’s it. No goodbye or anything.

  “It was a phase,” I yell after her, feeling a little offended that she doesn’t even ask me why. “Call it my ‘make friends with an inmate period.’ Anyway, I’m over it.”

  She slams the door, and rolls down the window to dump the remains of some coffee on the ground. I try to say something else, but she puts up her hand to stop me. “No need to explain, Mila. To tell you the truth, I had no idea why Gus wanted to see you in the first place.” And without looking back, she starts the car and disappears up the road.

  By then I’m so pissed I go inside and rip his letter into little pieces. Then I do the same thing to the envelope with his handwriting and the underlinings that tricked me into opening it. I throw it all back into my metal waste basket, and before I get the urge to try to tape it together, I add a lit match. All it makes is a few scrappy flames, which I blow out when I hear Eileen calling me.

  I don’t answer right away, so she knocks at my door. Of course I’m not about to open it, because then she’ll smell the fire. “Your friend Ethan is here,” she says, when I still don’t respond.

  “Tell him I have PMS or something.” It’s the first time I can ever remember consciously lying to E.

  For a long time, Eileen just stands there outside the door, breathing. Then she says, “Do you want some Tylenol?”

  So I fling open the door. “I want to be left alone if that’s all right with you.”

  Then, realizing that I sound exactly like the truculent little brat the good doctor obviously thinks I am, I’m even more annoyed. “Did you hear me? I said. Leave me alone!”

  That brings E running up the stairs. He stands behind Eileen holding the newspaper that undoubtedly got him rattled up earlier. “You okay, Frida?” he asks, using the name he always calls me and proving that even geniuses ask dumb questions.

  “Go fight the world somewhere else, E,” I say. “I want to be left alone.”

  Then he tells me to get over myself, which is probably the best advice I’ve had all day. But all I can think is How dare he? So without thinking, I tell him to fuck off. And he does.

  Afterwards, I’m engulfed in misery. When you’ve only got one friend, you really can’t afford to tell him to go fuck himself. That night I skip dinner, which causes Eileen to panic and alert the Bug.

  He comes home early from the restaurant, toting a carton of carrot ginger soup (my favorite). By then I’m absolutely starving, but I refuse it. I pretend I’m Gandhi on a hunger strike. The only problem is, I don’t know what my demands are or who is supposed to meet them. Maybe I’m boycotting myself.

  I don’t tell the Bug any of this. If I did, he’d probably threaten to drag me to a psychiatrist. Then all I’d have to do was call his bluff and agree—which is the last thing he’d want. See, the Bug fears embarrassment more than death, and he’s already lived with a wife who was murdered by her priest boyfriend. A daughter with mental-health issues would be the last straw. So I decide to spare us both the aggravation. I tell him to leave the soup; I’ll eat it later.

  “Are you sure you’re all right?” he says, standing in the doorway with his usual funeral director’s face (This way to the coffin . . . )

  Just the sight of him makes me morph back into bitch girl. Is it any wonder I’m screwed up, living with that face all these years? I want to scream. But instead, I just say, “It’s a headache, Dad. Not a brain tumor.”

  For once, he doesn’t drag out the usual dusty lecture about “respect.” He just shakes his head and shuffles away, leaving me to my own pathetic company.

  That night, I don’t sleep at all. I get up and walk circles in my room. I take off my pj’s and open my window to let in the stars, the moon, the cold night air. Ben Franklin, or maybe it was George Washington, one of those founding father dudes, said that if you can’t sleep, you should strip naked and stand before an open window. Then, when you get back into your warm bed, you go right to sleep. Doesn’t work for me, though. Sorry, Ben.

  For one thing, I’m too hungry to sleep. Even the cold soup congealing on my nightstand looks like a feast. But I refuse to eat until I figure out why I chase away everyone I care about. Will I end up in my own castle somewhere, walking around with a face like the Bug? Or will I turn out like my mother—another victim straight out of a made-for-TV movie? I’m not sure which possibility scares me more.

  Around three I realize I’m probably going through the same thing Gustavo Silva did after my visit. The pacing. The horrifying look into my own black heart. Out of nowhere, I’m desperate to read his letter one more time. I go to the metal waste basket where I turned it to ash, looking for something—a scrap that survived my bonfire of fear and anger. I’m looking for the wisdom of “the hole” encapsulated in one secret message meant just for me. But the only piece I manage to dig out contains the words “offered to drive”—obviously referring to the doctor.

  Okay, I admit it. I’m sleep deprived, hungry, and overdosing on self-pity, but I take this as a sign. Something like a divine message. The words that survived my fire are clearly telling me that I have to go to the prison and see the priest one more time. After all, the good doctor did offer to drive.

  Without further thought, I go downstairs and pull out the phone book. Hallett Costa, M.D., 535 ½ Commercial Street, Provincetown, is not hard to find. I pour myself a mixing bowl full of Cheerios and milk, gulp it down, and dial. I know 4 a.m. is not the best time for a phone call, but if I wait for the perfect time I’ll change my mind.

  The phone rings about ten times before the doctor picks up, sounding sleepy and disconcerted—and just a little scared—the way people always do when a ringing phone slices the night in two.

  “Hello?” she says. “Hallie Costa here.”

  “It’s me, Doc. Mila Cilento. Remember? You made a house call on me today?”

  The line goes completely silent.

  “Señora? You there?”

  “It’s four-oh-eight in the morning. Could you tell me the reason for this call? And, Mila? It better be good.”

  “From what I understand there’s visiting hours this Saturday at the prison. I was thinking you could pick me up—say, around two-ish?”

  “Oh, is that what you were thinking? Well, what I was thinking is something I wouldn’t say to a child,” she says before she slams the phone in my ear.

  A child? Excuse me?

  But even though she obviously isn’t too impressed with my character, I’m very impressed with hers. In fact, I’m so impressed that I’m sure she’ll show up at two o’clock sharp. I don’t know her very well, but I can already tell that she’s one of those people who always come through. I mean, she’s still running errands for her old boyfriend.

  After that, I have another big bowl of Cheerios. Then I go upstairs and sleep like a baby—as if I’ve got something resolved, though I’m not sure exactly what it is.

  Chapter 34


  dear ava,

  i seem to have lost my last friend in the world so once again i’m left with u, good old dead mom. that’s right: e hasn’t spoken to me in 4 whole days—not since i told him to go fuck himself. he walks right past me in school without even a glance in my direction, dragging his 50 pound pack of books on his back.

  seriously, i wish u could have met e. not to brag, but all my life people have been telling me i’m pretty smart. my guidance counselor even said i’d probably make valedictorian if i weren’t so antisocial. but next to e, i’m practically a moron. he’s hot, too, tho he does have this acne problem, not to mention being totally skinny. ok, so probably, no one else in the entire world wd call him hot, but he’s got great black hair & these incredible navy blue eyes. i even like the slouch he got from carrying around all those books.

  don’t get me wrong. it’s not like i’m in love with e, but if i was ever in this lifetime going to fall in love, it would be w/ someone like him. someone w/ character and a brain in his head. not an old man who hasn’t smiled since lincoln was president. no offense, but how could u? i suppose the answer is obvious. the bug’s, well, a BUG w/ a nasty temper, but he was rich enough to build a castle around u.

  after the letters i sent to u last yr, i made a vow i would never write to u again. for one thing, if anyone found out i was carrying on a correspondence w/ my departed mother, they’d probably lock me up. and besides, how long can u keep up a one-sided conversation w/ someone u don’t even know?

  let’s face it, ava: i slipped thru yr body to life & air, but since then, u’ve never been much of a mother. that may sound harsh, considering the circumstances, but i doubt we were ever very close. all i know of u is the soft feeling of yr pajamas when i wear them to bed & yr european featherbed. i know how the sun filters thru yr gauzy curtains in the morning, gently waking me up. sometimes i even picture u in that delicious bed feeling the same delicate sunlight on yr face & i wonder what u were thinking about the last time u slept there. was it the priest w/ the gorgeous eyes?

  i guess that’s the real reason i’m writing to u. i wanted u to know i’m going to see him again. don’t worry, tho. our secrets are safe—both the big one we share and the smaller one i told u about the last time i wrote. i know it’s pathetic, but if i shared them with anyone—even e washburne—it would cut the last—the only—thread that connects us as mother & daughter.

  mila

  After I finish the letter, I tell Eileen I’m going shopping. In Eileen’s eyes, shopping is the safest, most normal thing I do. In reality, nothing could be further from the truth. I’m such a shopping addict that when I come home weighed down with bags, I know exactly how a heroin addict feels when the needle first pops the skin. It’s like totally letting go and exhaling a huge satisfying Yessss! Tell me how healthy that is.

  The good thing about being with E is that on some days he makes me totally forget about the shopping rush. E hates “consumerism” and video games, texting, and practically every other thing that normal kids do. What he likes to do after school is to take the B bus to Hyannis, pick up some coffee at Dunky’s, and hang out on the village green with the street people.

  On this day, however, I seriously need to go to the mall. Eileen drops me off near the Macy’s entrance. As I walk toward the heart of the complex, my sense of mission takes over. I need something totally provocative to wear to the prison on Saturday. My intention is to press every button on Dr. Costa’s keyboard. It takes me an hour of intense hunting before I find exactly what I want: a skirt that is about a foot long, a pair of stilettos that make my calves muscle up, and one of those little shirts that rattled him the last time. The whole effect is very un-Frida, and I personally don’t like it. But that’s okay, cause it’s not for me, anyway.

  When I clomp downstairs the next day in my prison-visiting ensemble, a familiar little furrow appears between Eileen’s brows. “New clothes?”

  “Yeah, I’m meeting a couple of girls from school,” I say, pulling out my high-powered ammo.

  “Really?” The furrow irons itself out. “Well, I suppose that’s how kids your age dress.” Her voice is still doubtful, but I know she’s not about to do anything to jeopardize my chance of making friends.

  I’m almost out the door, my red purse in hand, when she is assailed with one final concern about her job security. “That skirt is awfully short, Mila. I don’t know what your father—”

  “Dad’s already seen it,” I say, then give her a fluttery little see-ya! wave, and slide out before she has the chance to call the Bug and check out the veracity of my statement.

  The truth is the Bug would probably freak the way he does when he’s forced to deal with any hint that I might be a sexual being. He acts like he doesn’t even know I have my period yet. Once when I asked him to pick up some Tampax, he looked at me like I was speaking a foreign language, and ended up embarrassing us both.

  Anyway, it isn’t two yet when I set off down the street in my cute little skirt and my red bag to wait for the doctor’s car. By two-fifteen, I’m starting to get pretty cold standing out in the wind in a skirt that barely covers my ass. It’s April, but spring comes late on the Cape, if at all. Usually, the gray old winter drags into May, and then bam! It’s straight into tourist season. So I’m practically shaking from the cold—and, okay, I admit it, I’m a little nervous, too. I mean, the doctor didn’t actually say she was coming. In fact, she made it pretty clear she never wanted to see me again.

  By the time her car rounds the corner, I’m glad to see her—though I do my best to look nonchalant—like I just got there, too. She pulls up and looks me up and down like she’s deciding whether or not I’m good enough to get into her cheesy car.

  “Nice outfit.” She pops the lock so I can climb in. “For a hooker.”

  “Ba-da-boom,” I say. Then I turn on the radio to let her know I have no intention of making conversation.

  After a while, it’s like she forgets I’m there. At first, I find her obliviousness a little insulting, but then I realize, she’s thinking about him. She’s got that fizzy, distracted look you get when you have a boy on your mind. It’s so bad I consider asking her to pull over so I can give her the benefit of my not-quite-sixteen-year-old wisdom. I’ve already got my three-point lecture ready to go:

  1. From what I’ve read in the paper, you were the lucky one. You got away. You ought to respect that.

  2. If you want to meditate on something while you drive, think about the one who isn’t here. She’s everywhere, and nowhere. She sits between us in the car. She’s in the fields we pass. You can ignore her if you want (believe me, I’ve tried) but she’s always there.

  And 3. Jeez! You’re like thirty-five already! Aren’t you a little old for this crap?

  All of that is way too personal, though, so the two of us implicitly agree to ignore one another and occupy ourselves with whatever’s rattling around in our own heads for the rest of the ride. But once we get there, she starts acting all motherly. She gets so pissed at the way some of the guards are looking at me that she gives them this hard, focused look. I really can’t describe it, but somehow it works. Oh, they still look at me—her, too. Even if she’s old and doesn’t make much of an effort, she’s still a stunner. But no one dares to come near us or say anything nasty like they did the first time I came. I’d never admit it, of course, but it feels kind of nice to be, well, protected.

  We revert to ignoring each other again during the long wait. When they lead me into the visitor’s room, I’m surprised when she gets up and follows. “I know this is your visit, but I just want to say hello,” she says, trying to act like it’s no big deal. As if I can’t see her hands are shaking when she opens the door. She steps into the corner, and allows me to sit in the chair facing the glass.

  When Gustavo Silva is finally brought into the visiting room, it’s nothing like the last time. That day I had his full attention. Now all he sees is her. And though it’s obvious that she’s trying to keep i
t together, she can’t. She doesn’t gasp, or collapse, or even cry, but from ten feet away, I can feel her doing all those things inside. It reminds me of the first time I visited. All I had to go on was a photograph from the newspaper, but I was pretty shocked by how much he’d aged. And well, just how he’d aged.

  Finally, he picks up his receiver. “Hello, Mila,” he says. “Would you mind if I talked to Hallie for a minute?”

  I quickly pass her the grimy phone and stand aside, feeling seriously pissed.

  He does all the talking. Every time she tries to speak, he looks at her with so much love or forgiveness or whatever that it’s just embarrassing. He covers his mouth so I can’t see what he’s saying into the phone, but it must be pretty intense because she can’t keep it back anymore. She starts to cry. Or maybe he just has that effect on people. At one point, he reached out and touched the glass with his hand, which earned him a rebuke from the guard.

  For a minute I almost feel something like jealousy on behalf of my mom. I mean, I still hate her, but my mother obviously loved this psychopath so much she put everything on the line for him—including me. And here is the guy looking at the doctor like she’s the sun and the moon. I clear my throat to remind them that they’re not exactly alone.

  The priest says something else, and then the doctor asks if she could visit again some time. Alone. Apparently he agrees, because she mouths the words “thank you.” Then she hands the phone to me.

  By that time, I’m breathing fire. I mean, what is she thanking him for? For ruining her life? Or mine? Or probably every life he ever touched?

  “I noticed a coffee shop a few miles back. I’m going to go and grab a cup,” she tells me in a shaky voice. “When you’re ready, I’ll be parked in the same area.”

  “Wait,” Gus says. He’s talking to me, but he is looking directly at her. And she at him. “Before she goes, there’s something I need to give to her.” He signals a guard, who promptly unlocks the door and without a word hands the doctor a brown paper bag.