by Cat Porter
“I know she will.” I slid my chained wallet back in my jeans.
He led me outside and handed me a small bouquet of big dark pink flowers. “Take these for your lady friend. Dahlias are always a favorite.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“Please. I appreciate your help with those wheelbarrows. Have a good rest of your day.”
“Thanks. You too.”
There was nothing more to see. Unless, of course, Lenore had bodies buried out back in Steve’s vegetable field or under his greenhouses. I’d have to come back at night and do my digging.
It wouldn’t be wise to ask Steve if he knew Lenore. He might think I was after her for no good. He’d taken in my colors when I’d first approached him, that eye-widening thing happened for just a sec, but it happened. I expected it to happen, and I always liked it.
Twenty minutes later I arrived at Lenore’s house. I left the bag with the mugs by her front door.
Years ago, she’d pulled a gun and a knife to protect me and had killed people who were threatening my life. The other night she pulled a gun on me. What the hell was she protecting now? What the hell was in Pine Needle?
I took out my pen and wrote, “Look what I found - F” on the garden center business card, and I tucked it into the dahlias, sliding the ends of the flowers into the bag with the mugs.
I’d set my fuse and looked forward to a spectacular explosion.
62
Seamless stillness.
At one with the one. At one with the one.
“Let go of me, dammit!”
Her voice.
A ripple pushed through me, my pulse tripping over that voice. Meditation had never been better interrupted.
“It’s all right, man. Let her through,” said Catch.
Deep breath in. Breath out. One eye opened. The other. Dull light pressed in on me. The lines of my desk, the burgundy carpet beneath me.
“I need to see him now. Where is he?”
That voice, her voice, splitting everything in two, pulling the breath from me. A smile tugged at my mouth.
I uncrossed my legs and stood up. A single knock on my door, and my shoulders pulled back and released.
“Hey, Prez. Sorry. It’s Lenore from Meager,” came Catch’s voice on the other side of my door. “She wants to see you.”
Slowly rubbing my hands together, I focused on my door knob, re-familiarizing myself with the curves and angles of physical reality and unlocked the door. Flanked by Catch and a prospect, Lenore stood before me, her blue green eyes dark teal and icy. My gaze rode down her long, fitted black blouse, the studded seam of the low V revealing the delicious swells of her body and that mysterious ink. Tight black jeans and high leather boots completed the picture of perfection.
Oh, how I’ve been waiting for you, baby.
I stepped aside and she charged into my office, my world. Catch pulled the door closed.
“What are you doing?” came the voice, smooth as steel and just as hard.
I didn’t answer. I took her in, her spicy sweet scent of flowers of the night settling over me, her jaw taut, those full lips that I could feel on my skin, the grace and adamance of her stance that only she could pull off.
She was here. Finally. She’d stormed into my club the way I’d always imagined. Taking prisoners, demanding. My skin heated. Shit, she turned me on.
“Finger?” The steel wavered.
“You liked the mugs, huh baby?” I asked, my voice low, calm.
Her throat moved as she swallowed hard.
She drilled herself into the floor. “Why? Why did you go there?”
“Why is that place inked on you?” My index finger brushed over that compass on her chest, lingering there. “Why, baby? Why there?” I whispered. “What’s there other than pretty pots and mugs, flowers, watering cans, and great big bags of soil?”
Her breathing got rougher with every trace I made on her flesh. My hand wrapped around her neck, my thumb rubbing down her throat. “You going to tell me or do I got to dig deeper than just chatting with Steve and shopping at his store? He invited me back. Looking forward to meeting his wife.”
Lenore’s eyes widened. The ice was gone, molten swells of precious aquamarine simmered in their place.
Then she did something I never expected.
Her long fingers with the short mint green painted nails cradled my face, her eyes swimming in a turbulent emotion I couldn’t name. She drew me close, her body pressing against mine, clinging to me, and kissed me. Lenore kissed me with a sweet ferocity, lips demanding, tongue searching. My arms whipped around her like chains pulling tight. She consumed us both with her mouth, my hunger blazing, her heat lighting me on fire.
She pulled back slightly, her thumb rubbing over my lips. Taking in a breath, she leveled her eyes with mine. She’d made a decision. “Come with me, and I’ll tell you everything.”
The hairs on the back of my neck lifted at the firm determination in her tone, yet there were sparks of vulnerability moving across her face.
“Lead the way,” I said.
I unlocked my door but she stood still, studying me. Were we about to enter a new world and leave the old one for the final time? She strode through the door, me behind her. The small crowd of my brothers broke, and we passed through.
“Drac, take care of shit. This might take a while.”
“You got it.” Drac tipped his head at me.
On my bike, I followed Lenore in her vintage Mustang to the Garden Center in Pine Needle. She got out of her car and stood perfectly still, her eyes on the store.
“We shopping for fruit trees or pumpkins today?” I asked.
She shot me a hard look and without a word, turned and moved toward the entrance to the nursery. A blonde lady looking to be in her early sixties and wearing a parka vest waved, greeting her. Lenore’s features instantly smoothed into an equally warm greeting. Steve wasn’t here, neither was his truck. Was that his wife?
Leaving my gloves on, I followed Lenore into the cavernous store. She didn’t look back at me. She kept moving slowly through the aisle of oversized pots, the aisle of weed killers, the aisle of fertilizer and plant food to the main greenhouse.
Loud music blared, a dance pop tune sung by some screechy young starlet who moaned in between verses. Pots of rosemary, basil, thyme, baby pine trees in small wood barrels, paver stones for patios and borders, the wheelbarrows. A short girl in glasses and a ponytail wearing a purple windbreaker danced at the end of the aisle. Her body moved and jerked off rhythm, like she was trying to keep up with it, but couldn’t and didn’t really care anyhow. She was smiling ear to ear, singing along loudly, her eyebrows wavering on her face as she moved with plenty of drama. She pivoted, swinging her arms up and around her head, as if she was copying moves she’d seen on a music video but also adding her personal twirl to it.
“Lenore!” She waved at Lenore as she did a hop and popped out a hip to the side in a big finish, her ponytail bouncing behind her.
“Hey, Zoë!” Lenore raised her hands in the air and the girl squealed and high-fived her. “Looking good, girl!”
Zoë wiped strands of her hair from her face. “Daddy’s on a delivery and Mommy’s busy up front, so I turned up the music.” She giggled, tapping on her cell phone.
“You really like that song. You were playing it the last time I came,” Lenore said.
Zoë’s full face blushed. “It’s my favorite.” Her slanted, small eyes lifted and landed on me. She seemed Asian, sort of. “Hello.” Her full smile grew wider, enlivening her face even more.
“Zoë, this is my friend Finger.”
Zoë giggled and scrunched her eyes. “That’s a funny name.” She raised a hand and waved it at me even though we were two feet apart. “Hi, Mr. Finger.”
“Finger, this is Zoë. Zo�
�’s parents own the nursery.”
“Hi. Nice to meet you, Zoë. I met your dad yesterday.”
“Daddy’s not here now.”
“Finger bought me your blue mugs,” said Lenore.
“You did?” Zoë giggled again.
“I brought Finger back to show him those clay tiles you made,” said Lenore. “The ones you’d showed me the last time I came. Do you remember?”
Zoë’s lips parted. “No.” She shook her head. “Oh, oh—yes, yes, I remember. You liked them even though most of them came out c-c-crooked.” She wrinkled her nose.
“That’s why I like them, because they’re made by hand. Your hands. Since Finger is so strong he’s going to help me lift them and put them in my car and get them into my house.”
“That’s good. You shouldn’t do everything all by yourself. Men help ladies. My mommy taught me that.”
Zoë studied me, transfixed on my face. She pointed at me with her index finger. “Lenore—weird m-marks on his f-face.” Her voice stuttered, the words stumbling thickly out of her mouth. She turned her head to the side dramatically.
“I know, honey,” said Lenore. “It makes Finger look different, but he’s just like you and me underneath. You know how that is.”
“Yep, I know.” Her heavily lidded eyes crinkled, her mouth pulling up into an immediate full smile, her shoulders lifting. She continued studying me with no sense of embarrassment or shyness, seemingly oblivious to a third wall of manners with strangers. “People look at me funny sometimes, but I’m used to it now.”
“They look because you’re so pretty.” Lenore’s voice had softened considerably, and I glanced at her.
“Pretty and born different,” said Zoë.
“Born special,” said Lenore, her tone breathy.
Of course, Zoë had Down Syndrome. The slanted eyes, the thick features. But she was a far stretch from what they used to call “retarded” when I was in school. I remember the disabled kids in special classrooms and on their own small school buses. Zoë wasn’t like them from what little I remembered. She communicated clearly. She was a live wire.
Zoë snuck another look at me, pointing at my face. “Those scars are scary. Do they hurt?”
“No, no, they don’t hurt,” I replied. “They did once, but that was a long time ago. I don’t remember it anymore.”
Zoë let out a sigh. “Oh, that’s good. I’m glad. I have scars like that on my heart.”
“On your heart?” I asked.
“I had heart surgery when I was a baby, and I don’t remember it either. Did you have surgery on your face?”
“Yeah, something like that,” I said.
“They didn’t do a good job,” Zoë said.
“No, they didn’t,” I murmured.
“How’s Mark?” Lenore asked, her voice slightly loud, almost off key.
Zoë’s face beamed. “Mark is the best boyfriend in the whole world.”
“You’re so lucky,” said Lenore. “Zoë has a birthday in a couple weeks, right, Zo?”
“Twenty-one!” A huge smile streaked across Zoë’s face. “Mommy and Daddy got me an early present since I’ve been doing such a good job at school and here at the store. Look, it’s a new cell phone. I play lots of games on it and play my music, take selfies. Mark and I Skype all the time. He sends me funny emojis. Here. Look.”
Zoë showed Lenore her text messages with her boyfriend.
“Aw, Mark’s so sweet,” said Lenore.
They both peered at the cell phone screen as Zoë tapped at it.
“Which emoji is your favorite, Zoë?” I asked.
Both their heads turned up at me, and my breath caught, a chill ran up the back of my neck, like an icy whisper, a whisper telling me something important. And I couldn’t avoid it, ignore it. I couldn’t look away. It pierced my gut and twisted up my body, crushing my lungs, pounding in my chest.
In the sudden stream of sunlight hitting the two of them from the skylight above us, Lenore and Zoë’s eyes shined at me. The same distinct eye color. That rich, unique blue green of Lenore’s. Zoë had her eyes even if they were shaped differently, slanted differently.
Numbers, numbers ran through my head.
Zoë let out a soft laugh. “My favorite is the emoji face blowing kisses. That’s my f-favorite. The k-k-kiss.”
Zoë turning twenty-one. Subtraction, addition.
I’d gotten Lenore out twenty-five years ago. Lenore and I were together in Chicago for four years, then I got sent to prison, and Lenore had disappeared.
She’d disappeared.
Twenty-one.
Twenty-one. Twenty-one. Twenty-one.
The coordinates Lenore had tattooed under the compasses all over her body marking every event of her life and of mine. And yet the mystery one remained for this garden center. For this house.
The one tattoo over her heart. The big flaming N for North. Her North.
For Zoë.
Blue-green eyed Zoë. Zoë with hair the color of mine from when I was her age. That dark brown, not black, not chestnut brown. Dark coffee.
My pulse raced along with my thoughts that came faster and faster, shuffling in front of my eyes, rearranging, scraping under my skin, scratching at my heart.
I’d gone to jail and Lenore had taken off. Left Chicago. Hidden from me. Mishap couldn’t find her. A thousand electrodes went off in my veins, all of them short-circuiting, flaring. Lenore had set her own fuse.
Was Zoë our kid?
My heart brawled in my chest. I raised my right hand, reaching out for fuck knows what, somehow clasping Lenore’s upper arm. She covered my hand with one of her own, gripping it tight, taking in a breath of air while she continued listening to whatever Zoë was saying.
Emojis, bitmojis, makeup apps, fashion apps, selfie sticks, YouTube videos.
I staggered, and Lenore pulled up next to me, sliding her arm firmly around my middle.
My heart spiraled.
I focused on Zoë’s voice thudding over vowels, catching on consonants, those eyes of hers dancing under the glory of Lenore’s full attention.
“Are you helping Lenore, Zoë honey?” asked the blonde woman we’d seen outside. She stepped up next to Zoë, hands firmly clasped together.
Lenore’s back straightened. “Hey, Gail. I had to come back and get those pretty tiles Zoë had shown me last time I came. I haven’t been able to stop thinking how perfect they’d be on my porch with the lavender and the hydrangeas.”
Gail’s gaze settled on me.
“Gail, this is Finger,” Lenore said. “Finger, this is Zoë’s mom, Gail. She owns the nursery with her husband, Steve.”
Zoë’s mom. Zoë’s dad.
“Hey,” I managed. “I met Steve yesterday.”
“Ah, yes,” Gail replied, her smile softening her face. “You helped him with the wheelbarrows, right?”
“Right, yeah,” I said.
“Is Mr. Finger your boyfriend, Lenore?” asked Zoë, her forehead wrinkling. “You should have a boyfriend. I keep telling you that.”
“Easy there, Zo.” Gail laughed. “Let’s get Lenore her tiles. How many you need, hon?”
“Fifty should be good to start with.”
Gail guided her daughter towards a stack of colored small square tiles at the end of the aisle. Lenore and I stood in silence, our grip on each other deepening. Somehow we made it to the cash register, and Lenore paid for her tiles. I grabbed the box from the wagon Gail and Zoë had put it in, slamming it against my chest.
“Bye bye, Lenore.” Zoë waved at us. “Bye, Mr. Finger.”
I heaved in a breath, forcing my chin to raise a few degrees, forcing a hoarse “Bye” out of my dry mouth. My grip tightened on the box, the rest of me numb. I shoved one foot in front of the other.
I followe
d Lenore to her car, my vision blurred. She opened the trunk, and I set the box down. She shoved down the door, her eyes darting back to the nursery, to me.
I spit out, “What the fuck have you done?”
63
Somehow we made it to Lenore’s house. I don’t remember how. I just functioned. Keeping clear of obstacles, passing trucks, watching for turns. Exits. Stop signs. Downshifting.
Parked.
We walked into her house and I stood there, an astronaut with no flight suit, a surgeon with no scalpel, a hawk with no wings.
A glass of liquor got shoved in my hand. I stared at the dark caramel liquid, the fumes prickling my numb senses. I drank.
She went to a small red velvet box decorated with aqua beads and tassels which sat under a funky candelabra on a console table, and pulled out a suede pouch. My grandfather’s pouch for the compass. She took the drink from me and put the pouch in my hands. I opened it, and the broken pieces of my compass stared back at me.
“When Motormouth found me he ransacked my place, stole from me, broke your compass, tried to rape me. He was going to bring me back to Med and get a reward for it or kill me, because Med had gotten rid of his girlfriend and he was angry and upset. I was almost three months pregnant with Zoë at the time. I’d just found out that day, in fact. There was no way I was ever going back,” she said. “Especially not with our baby inside me.
“When Motor found the pictures of us, he told me he and Scrib had always suspected you of getting me out but they’d never told Med. Now, he was going to tell him. I couldn’t let that happen.” Her eyes were that cool blue now, her tone even. She regretted nothing. “I had our baby inside me. Ours. And she deserved to live a beautiful life. And I would do whatever it took to protect our child and protect you. But if I’d contacted you in jail and told you the truth, you would’ve suffered there trying to get to us somehow, and they would’ve come after us and gotten to you. I couldn’t take that chance.”
She was right.
Motionless, I stared at her, listening, not listening, raging, burning, the compass pieces heavy in my hand.
