by Sarah Wathen
“Irony?”
“As if he were saying another name in his head. Mentally correcting himself when he said ‘Sam.’”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“What’s ridiculous is not being able to find one shred of information on a person—anywhere—in the information age.”
“Some people are more private than others—”
“So, I decided to check out that tattoo on the inside of his wrist.”
“The mermaid?”
“Not just a generic mermaid. Stylized and detailed, encircled in type. And so small, it’s more like a crest. A stamp.”
“Yeah…so?”
“And why would a person put a stamp like that on the inside of his right hand wrist?” John stood up and extended his right hand to Candy in the gesture of offering a handshake. When she didn’t accept, he seized her hand and turned it over, exposing her wrist. “So certain people know who you are. And you know them. The stamp is the crest of an old neighborhood up north. A rough neighborhood. It’s a gang crest.”
Her heart was hammering, her mind buzzing with Sam’s half-understood idiosyncrasies. She had no idea where he came from. Candy waited, ready to listen.
John was ready to tell; he dropped her hand and crossed his arms over his chest. “Why is the neighborhood important? Because, when I found ‘Sam’ there, he finally appeared on the grid. Only, his name isn’t really Sam Castle.”
“What is it?”
“That depends on how far you want to trace it. Which city. In that one he was Stan King.”
“He told me his mom has moved them around a lot, and he’s from nowhere. That’s not his fault.”
“No. He grew up in New York City,” John challenged, daring her to disagree.
Sam wouldn’t just out and out lie, would he? Candy was starting to realize that she didn’t know the answer to that question. “Well…I know he’s had an unconventional upbringing.”
“He’s done some time in juvenile detention centers, too. But that was when he was Shawn Kent. Luckily, they take mug shots for juvie.”
Candy tried to swallow, but her throat felt dry. What could she say?
John went on, “Once I had a few points on the map—to triangulate the data, if you will—all sorts of interesting information came into focus. The guy sure tries to keep a low profile, but his girlfriends don’t. And he’s had a lot of those. They sure like taking pictures with him, too. Whatever his name is.”
Candy remembered how Sam dodged Erica’s request for a picture at the music show. “Well, that’s not so unusual.”
John rounded on her. “The name swapping, or the girl swapping?”
“Now you’re just being mean, John. I’m sure he’s met plenty of chickadees throughout his life. Like I don’t know that.” She didn’t know if she was defending Sam, or herself, but she knew her hands were shaking. “Look, I’m not his girlfriend.”
“Yeah? Good, because he’s dangerous, Candy.”
“Dangerous—don’t be so dramatic.”
“He’s got a rap sheet that you can check yourself.” John shrugged, moving away from her as Antonio returned, chatting with her father about hoses and belts. Candy looked at them, stricken, and John finally registered the anguish in her eyes. He sighed and grabbed her hand to pull her outside into privacy. “I’m only telling you this because I care about you.”
“I will ask him,” she said, yanking her hand out of his. She didn’t believe a word.
“Do. Just be sure to use his real name. You know, the one he was born with?”
John was baiting her, and he knew she couldn’t resist. She tried to, she really did. “Okay. What is it?”
part three:
hello &
good-bye
chapter thirty-one
Candy said the name to herself as she walked up the dirt path to Rachel’s studio. Sam had his back to her, cupping his hands around his lighter to shield the flame as he lit a cigarette.
Please don’t turn around. Please let this all be John’s imagination. “Sasha.”
Sam turned his head—a knee-jerk reaction, as if he’d heard the name since infancy. Candy’s stomach turned over.
“Hi.” He closed the door on the sound of Mazzy Star’s “Fade Into You,” lilting out of the cavernous workroom, and collapsed on a timber and cinderblock bench. He brushed his hair out of his eyes, calm and clear.
So green and perfect, with coal-black lashes—stop it! Get your head together, Candy. “Your name isn’t Sam, is it?”
“Sasha’s a girl’s name in the States; do you expect me to go by that?” He raised his palms in supplication. “My father is—”
“Russian.”
He pursed his lips in a rueful smile and nodded.
“Some kind of Russian gangster, Sam? And you’re from New York?” Her whisper turned into a shrill hiss. “Who are you?”
“I’m exactly who you think I am, Candy.” He looked at her, unflinching. As if he had always known the confrontation was near.
“Not Castle either, or King,” Candy challenged. “What was the other? Kent?”
Sam raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Guess I’ll have to be more careful about who posts on goddamn BroadcastMyPicture.com.”
“I can’t believe that all this time I haven’t even known your name.”
“Hey, they’re just names. My mom isn’t that creative with them. We keep our own castle, king and queen. We had to take care of ourselves alone. We wouldn’t be controlled by—” He stopped, like he’d said too much. But Candy didn’t understand a word he said. “People. And, stupid shit…” He let his voice taper off, defeated. “Don’t judge me by my family. Family ties tie you down, remember?”
She was instantly chastened, slapped by her own words. His humbled expression made it worse. She almost felt a tinge of remorse for him before, believing him to be fatherless, but the truth seemed even worse. What did she know about his life before she met him? She slumped down next to him on the bench. “I thought you said you were from nowhere—everywhere? I don’t understand.”
“I am. Ever since my father went to prison when I was a kid, my mom’s kept us on the move. Vegas, New Orleans, Phoenix, Houston, wherever she could make a buck when I was little. Lately, wherever she thinks she can get the best state help.” He fell quiet again. Always editing. “Small towns are easier to hide in; with all you disconnected country bumpkins.”
They both laughed at the obvious error; even Shirley County was connected enough for his life story to come tumbling out in a matter of months after moving there.
“You never told me your dad was in prison.” She strained for encouraging; she desperately needed to know the full story and she needed Sam—Sasha?—to talk.
“Well, it’s not really something I like to spread around,” he said, lighting a new cigarette. They watched the trees across the clearing together, in silence, as the breeze picked up and shivered through the branches. Rachel’s studio backed up to a sharp decline in the landscape, with a spectacular view. A million shades of green mixed with splotches of gold, blood and rust so shocking it was almost indecent. Candy watched the forest dance from top to bottom in the shimmying wind. When the air finally met them on their sunny perch, it was cooler than she expected, and goose flesh stood up along her arms. Autumn was on its way, screaming in the leaves but lurking in the lengthening shadows. She remembered that same tingle up her arms, tickled by Sam’s breath.
She cast around for some way to help instead of criticize, “Are you guys in danger or something?” She thought she already knew the answer, though; why else would Sam’s mother be trying to hide him?
“We’d rather not be around when my dad gets out. Let’s put it like that.” Sam regarded her with a face of steel: and that’s all you get.
“Well...” Candy looked up at the sky and s
ighed hard.
“I understand you need to know more, but I don’t really know much, myself. I was just a kid the last time I saw my dad.”
“Well, when does he get out?” Candy persisted. Sam put up his hands again and shrugged. Candy cocked her head, bewildered, “Doesn’t that freak you out? Having some vague, possible peril looming sometime in the future?”
“Well, yeah,” he laughed bitterly. “What am I supposed to do about it, though?”
“Something.” She shook her head, puzzled. Looking around, she saw Ender’s Village preparing for a party. Folding tables were stacked alongside buildings. Doors that were usually shut tight were open, the lights and smells and sounds of activity within trickling outside. Oh, right. First Thursdays. She was unable to feel excited about one of her favorite events in Shirley.
She kicked a couple pebbles away from her flip-flops. Sam blew impressive smoke rings that floated over their heads like a Walt Disney dream sequence. After smiling graciously at the show for several minutes, she frowned at him, ugly and hard. She needed something more. Surely he understood that.
“Look. My name is Alexander Volkovski Koselov. But, I’d appreciate if we kept that between us.”
The blood drained from Candy’s face. Another name? “Alexander? I thought it was Sasha.” She sang the girly name in a taunt, suddenly furious and needing to injure. She jumped up with her hands on her hips, her black eyes smoldering.
“Candy…”
She hated being lied to. It made her feel like such a fool, her head completely twisted and jumbled. “You have so many names I can’t keep track of them all. Why don’t you get your stories straight if you’re gonna bother lying in the first place?”
“I can’t take this anymore,” Sam said, sounding tired. He stood and turned away. Avoiding her eyes, he stalked down the side of the corrugated metal building to retrieve a broom. “I’ve got to get back to work.”
“So, that’s it? I get nothing else? Nothing?” Candy balled her fists at her sides.
“Sasha’s a nickname for Alexander,” he said, narrowing his eyes in a resentful green gaze as he brushed past her. “Thought you did your research.” He winked and clicked his tongue on the side of his teeth, before disappearing back inside.
chapter thirty-two
The heavenly aroma of garlic sautéed in butter greeted John as soon as he snuck into the kitchen. People were already arriving around the other side of the restaurant. When he walked up, he heard doors slamming in the parking lot and people hollering to friends that loitered around the front entrance, so John went in the back. He had been studying in the café and would’ve rather kept doing that, but there was no way he could miss “Italian Night.” James Robinson’s first event as restaurateur, Antonio’s welcome party, was a big deal on many levels.
More than anything, he was hoping for a sample. He found Rosa brushing fresh loaves of sliced Italian bread with one hand, and sprinkling minced oregano with the other, with all the finesse of wrapping a present.
She saw John inching nearer with shoulders scrunched and hands poised for picking. “Don’t even think about it,” she warned him with a throaty giggle. Rosa was a sweetie; she slapped his head, but then tweaked his cheek. “You see how perfect these are laid out?”
“You’re killin’ me, Rosa.”
She brandished the little brush in his face. “Get outta here, go on and help your papa.”
“Alright, alright.” John pushed through the swinging kitchen doors. His dad had just opened the front doors by the look of it, and he was already having trouble.
“For heaven sakes, I’m starving,” he heard someone whine.
“It’s about time you opened up, Jamie. I was wondering if we bought tickets for nothing.”
“I’m glad I waited to take my pill, my stomach can’t handle it without some food…”
“Don’t worry, everyone—there’s plenty of food. Good food.” Dad held the door open, and bowed to the elderly Shirleynarians wandering in. Their faces were screwed up and their eyes were strained, as if they had never been to Big Joe’s in their long lives. “The early birds can be harder to stomach than the worms,” was Grandpa’s sage advice. “The old farts always arrive early and ravenous, hoverin’ by the door like vultures.” Dad thought the idea he found online of making two separate buffet lines, to split up the crowd and keep people moving, was expert. He had lectured, “Serving the cold meats, fruits, cheeses first is more in keeping with the Italian diet.” John wasn’t so sure that authenticity mattered so much.
A senior patron looked at the first buffet table and then at Dad, aghast. “This is all there is—salad?”
“This is the antipasti, ma’am—the main course is on the patio,” Dad assured her.
“What’s anti-pasta?” someone else asked. A younger woman (though at least sixty herself) took her by the elbow leaned close to her ear, “Mom, you like this stuff. Look: salami, cheese, tomatoes, melon. That’s just olives and peppers; you don’t have to try those.”
Dad kept his calm, but John heard the edge in his voice. “Folks, you can either start here at the antipasti buffet—which is really just Italian-style appetizers—or you can head out to the patio and dig right into the main course. Theresa, would you mind.”
“Welcome to The Kitchen’s Italian Night, everyone.” The new hostess, dressed in traditional black, took over. She started shunting people gently yet forcibly into proper corrals as soon as they walked in. The pretty smile and long blonde hair helped. More dubious older folks were sent straight to the patio buffet, assured they would find familiar dishes there (bread and meat).
Escape to the patio sounded good to John, so he wandered in that direction before his dad could enlist him. As he turned away, he heard a shaky, confused voice ask, “We’re eating in the kitchen, not the dining room?” John kept walking. Poor Dad. Probably shouldn’t have introduced the new name tonight, although he had to admit “The Kitchen” was far superior to “Big Joe’s.”
The band was already setting up their gear outside. The spot his father had chosen would set the musicians’ backs to the cool breeze and rushing river below. It was a beautiful night and they would be comfortable there. Also, anyone milling around the immediate area of Shirley’s downtown would be able to hear the music. If they hadn’t already planned to attend the party, the sound of music or the smell of roasting meat would reel them onto the deck. That was the idea, but John didn’t think Shirleynarians needed reeling in for an event at the only restaurant in town, whatever the name. People were already hiking up the stairs to the patio, bypassing the clogged bottleneck at the front. He wondered if the hostess stationed at the entrance had sold them a ticket first.
“Better make sure they know about the rogues,” John mumbled to himself, then headed back inside.
He found his dad talking with Mrs. Jameson, the PTA president John had started thinking of as The Bobkitten. That nickname was the height of irony; there was nothing kitten-like about Mrs. Jameson, though she played the role and wore the costume and thought she had everyone fooled. The two parents were so absorbed in conversation that they didn’t notice John’s approach. He tuned his ears in their direction.
“…and you could have waited for me, before traipsing off across the world,” she was saying.
James Robinson ran a hand through his hair, always his first gesture of discomfort. “You would have wanted to join me across the world?”
“Maybe.”
“Why did you start screwing Mike Jameson the minute I left, then?”
She put her hand on her hip. “Why did you leave the minute after graduation?”
Dad mumbled something John couldn’t quite hear.
“Don’t be silly. You’re all I ever wanted, Jamie.”
“Mike Jameson, of all people. After that time when I passed out.” He was pissed.
“
Oh, come on,” she said. Her knuckles grazed his chin like they were just old buddies, but her smile said the opposite. The Bobkitten was practiced at coy; John had seen her use a similar tactic on half-a-dozen male faculty members. “You know that was just an evil rumor.”
Dad finally caught sight of John, and his expression went from confused to relieved in an instant. “Well there he is.”
John put an arm around him. “Hey, Dad.” He offered his hand, “Hello, Mrs. Jameson.”
“Hey there, John.”
Shoulders went rigid under John’s arm. “You two have already met?”
“Of course. Mrs. Jameson practically runs Andrew Jackson.”
“Oh, John. I’m just the PTA President.” She grinned, clearly pleased with the honorable mention. “I always have a lot to do around the school, especially in the first few weeks of classes.”
“Well, I have to do the formal introductions,” James broke in, not willing to let the moment pass so unremarkably for some reason. “Stephanie Sherman—Jameson, sorry—I would like for you to meet my beloved son, John Robinson. He’s my pride and joy.”
“Aw shucks.”
“It is lovely to meet you formally, John.” She patted his cheek and broadened her smile, Vaselined teeth gleaming.
“And you, as well, ma’am.”
The Bobkitten looked from John to his dad, all innocence. “So, where is Amy, anyway?”
“Uh…” John searched his dad’s face. Snippets of his parents’ hushed arguing over the phone trickled through his thoughts. “Mom’ll probably be in for a visit next weekend, I think. Right?”
“That’s what she said.”
“She’s not coming to stay, Jamie?”
“Well,” James began awkwardly. Most people in Shirley would view the fact that his wife was not attached to him as strange in the extreme. The supposition that the couple might be living apart for some time raised questions.
John rescued him, “Mom, leave Memphis? You’ve gotta be kidding me.” Imagining his mom there in the country, especially at the ‘Italian Night,’ gave John the willies. He actually enjoyed meeting all the strange civilians, teasing out their shady histories and discerning their twisted connections, but he knew his mother would have lost patience days after arriving. She had only visited sporadically through the years, putting in an appearance every other holiday or so, to keep face.
