Tommy whispers something I don’t catch. I incline forward cautiously, without moving my feet. “What?” I ask.
“I hate you,” he says distinctly. He looks at my mother. “I hate her, too.”
So I know that he resents us, but I’m not sure why. It should have made me feel superior, but it doesn’t.
Before I can say anything, my grandmother comes into the room and hands my mother the tea. She holds it but doesn’t say anything. My grandmother comes up to me and puts her arm around my shoulders. I look at my mother; I’m not supposed to let strangers touch me. My mother isn’t looking, so I let the arm stay there. It feels nice. My brother makes a rude noise and turns his back.
“Cállate, Tomasito,” my grandmother admonishes him. “Now tell me, what do you like to do in school?” Her accent is heavy, but I understand her. Adults always ask you that.
“I like to draw,” I tell her.
“That’s nice,” she says with a smile. “Do you have a picture I could see?”
I give her one I’ve been keeping in my drawer, a vase with flowers. At my friends’ houses, the artwork is displayed on the refrigerator, but not here. My mother has never asked, and I have never suggested it.
“That’s pretty. Bonito. Your papa liked to draw when he was a boy.”
My mother has started to rise from the chair, and I look at her. She is glaring angrily at my grandmother. My grandmother drops the topic of my father, fast.
“Look,” she says, taking something out of a big bag she has brought, made of cloth and with lots of pretty colors woven in. I’d like to touch it, but I don’t. “I’ve brought you a picture to keep.” She hands it to me.
It’s a picture of Jesus, in a little frame. I’ve never seen anything like it. The figure is wearing the crown of thorns—I’ve seen that before—but the thorns have made big gouges in his skin. Blood—a lurid crimson—is dripping down his face onto his white robe. His eyes are rolled up, and he must be in pain, but he looks happy, too. I am too young to understand the emotion, but I am intrigued. In the corner is a satiny purple heart, out of the body, pierced by daggers.
I am transfixed. It is horrible, yet fascinating. My first piece of Latin American art.
“Thank you,” I say uncertainly. I am not sure why my grandmother has given me this token of suffering, but I am pleased by the attention.
“Burn it,” my mother says, after they have gone. That is all she will say. “I can’t talk about it,” she says, in response to my questions. “Don’t ask me.”
But I don’t burn it. In fact, I still have it.
Eventually, she told me the story. When I was about fifteen, I asked her again for a more complete version, but I never had the nerve to bring it up after that. When I grew up, I called my brother from time to time, but he wasn’t thrilled. He was polite enough, but if he wanted any kind of a relationship, he certainly never let on. My grandmother called me a couple of times a year until she died, and she gave me bits of the story I’ve related here. But she’d learned most of the story secondhand, so who can tell?
Tommy went to the police academy, married, and had three children. I wasn’t invited to any of the ceremonies, but I sent gifts anyway. I mailed him a wedding invitation and a birth announcement. He sent me a card both times.
Psychologists could have a field day with this one. Tommy resented me because he was given away and I wasn’t. He unequivocally rejected our mother and refused even to see her. I had the burden of being the one who stayed, who had to fill the empty place. I lived with constant anxiety that I might be abandoned, too; after all, it had already happened once. My mother’s act had turned me into a neurotic child, fearful of disorder. Trips to the shopping center were a nightmare; I refused to get out of the car at gas stations. At least my aunt and uncle had loved my brother enough to fight for him, while I was left with someone who scarcely could bring herself to touch me. Maybe she was afraid to love me, in case she lost me, too. Maybe her grief was so terrible that it didn’t leave room for any other emotion. But I wondered: which one of us—Tommy or me—was luckier?
After I had Andrea, I couldn’t help judging my mother. How could you do it? I wanted to ask her. How could you give up your child? I replayed the scene in my mind, as if revisiting it could rewrite the ending. Do something, I wanted to shout at her as she sat paralyzed in her chair, picking at the rip in the fabric. Don’t just sit there.
And worse: Why didn’t you stand up for yourself? How could you let it happen in the first place?
Now it was too late to get the answers, even if she’d been willing—or able—to supply them.
A less-than-promising family history, on the whole. Still, I was tempted to call my brother. Michael had urged me to mend fences years ago, and it seemed so futile, with my mother scarcely cognizant and my father long dead, not to at least try again. There was a lot of unfinished family business, and Tommy was the only family I had left, outside of my mother and Andrea. While my mother was lucid, it seemed cruel to reopen old wounds, but I thought she was safely beyond being hurt now. The Ivanova case had made me antsy about the status quo in some way that I didn’t completely understand but was willing to act on. Besides, it provided the perfect pretext, and if he wanted to, my brother might even turn out to be helpful in getting more information.
A day or so later, I worked up the nerve to dial their number. I got an answering machine and a garbled version of “Twinkle Twinkle, Little Star.” I couldn’t tell whose number it was, but even my incomplete knowledge of my nieces and nephews couldn’t be that far off. They had to be older than two. Why do people try to get cute with their messages? It’s worse than vanity license plates, of which L.A. is the undisputed capital. Everyone’s too chicken to talk to each other, so their possessions do it for them. While the brave mood was on me, I jumped into the car (no vanity plates, not even a bumper sticker) and headed across town on the freeway.
My brother and sister-in-law lived in a little white house with a nice square of lawn and a big pot of geraniums on either side of the door. There were lots of kids playing ball in the street, re-forming their games as soon as the car had driven through. I hoped nobody put a baseball through the windshield.
Tommy answered the door, holding a baby. I hadn’t seen him since Michael’s funeral, so I’m not sure he recognized me. He was forty-six years old, with a middle-age paunch and thinning curly hair streaked with gray. The baby was drooling, and he dabbed at its chin with a cloth. “Yes?” he inquired, with a touch of annoyance. It was Sunday, his day off, and he probably thought I was collecting for Greenpeace.
“It’s me,” I explained, poise deserting me. “Ellen. Elena.”
The planes of his face altered a little. “I know who you are,” he lied. “I recognized you.”
“I’m sorry to bother you,” I said, trying to think of how to get over this unpromising beginning, “but I’d like to talk to you about something. Could I come in?”
The baby made little cooing noises at me, and I smiled back. “Yours?” I inquired.
He shook his head. “Is this about your mother?” I noticed the stress, as I was meant to, on the your. He hesitated. “Did something happen?”
“No. She’s pretty much the same, I guess.” I’d felt honor-bound to let him know about her condition when she started to lose her memory. “It’s not about that.”
He swung open the door with his free hand, lifting the baby up with the other. “My grandson,” he announced. “I’m baby-sitting. Come in.”
The living room was full of knickknacks. Little framed pictures of the children at various ages. Flowered wall plates at the light switches. Afghans covering the couch. I could smell something homey and wonderful, like fresh-baked bread, in the kitchen. I couldn’t help comparing it favorably to the Jensens’ costlier but more sterile habitation. This was a home, at least.
A large-scale portrait of Jesus hung in the entryway, a restrained one with folded hands and a benevolent expression. St
ill, I detected the family influence at work.
My brother gestured at the couch. “Why did you come here?” he asked me, when I had sat down.
“I need your advice, Tommy,” I told him, prepared to launch into the entire story. “You’re the only policeman I know, so—”
He put up his hand. “Well, you don’t know me, so let’s not pretend you do. For one thing, I haven’t been Tommy for years. Just Tom.” He took a breath. “What I meant was, why did you come here? Why didn’t you phone first?”
I didn’t want to tell him I wasn’t sure if I even had the right number. Besides—did I really have to say it?—“I was afraid you’d tell me not to come,” I told him.
“Good guess,” he said grimly. He was going to be difficult.
“Fine. Now that we’ve gotten through the niceties, do you mind if I tell you what I want? Just so I don’t take up too much of your time, that is.” I knew I sounded snide, but it was either that or tears, and I wouldn’t do that. Not if I could help it.
He rolled his eyes, “Don’t get huffy, Ellen. And don’t get me wrong, either. I don’t have anything against you. We’re just from different worlds, that’s all. We don’t have anything in common. So what’s the point in having a relationship?”
My entire family history was based on never saying what was really the matter, or ever being direct about what it might take to make things better. It was now or never to lay those traditions to rest. “Bullshit,” I said. I felt like a dangerous rebel.
“What?”
“That’s bullshit,” I said. “We have the same genetic identity, and it’s nothing to be proud of.”
“Just because my father—” he began.
“Actually, I was thinking about our mother,” I told him. “But neither one was much of a prize. Anyway, that’s not the point. The truth is, you’re still mad about what happened. I don’t blame you, but I didn’t even know you existed till I was eight years old. It’s not my fault.”
“I agree with that,” he said calmly, “but I still don’t want you for my best friend.”
“Well, that’s not what I’m looking for, either. But I’m forty-four years old, and I think this stupid feud has gone on long enough.”
He looked amused. “It’s not a feud. You can’t have a feud if there’s nothing to fight about. What’s done is done. And why are you bringing all this up now?”
“I’m not sure,” I told him. “Maybe because my mother never talked about anything, and now she can’t. Maybe because my daughter’s going to be leaving home soon. Maybe because our grandmother would have wanted it.”
He winced. That was a low blow, and I knew it.
“Lots of reasons you’d probably need a psychologist to unravel,” I told him. “But actually, I do have something more immediate in mind.”
“So what do you want?” he asked warily.
“I want a relationship where I can come to my brother for information about a police matter if I need it.”
“And then what? Sunday night family suppers? Free tickets to the Policeman’s Ball?” Snideness ran in the family, obviously.
I shook my head. “I’d like to bring Andrea here to meet her cousins.”
He looked out the window. “I don’t know.” He looked back at me. “I’ll think about it.” He looked at me. “I know she’s a fine girl. It isn’t that.”
“I’d like something else, too.”
“What?” He sounded alarmed.
“I want to hold your grandson. He’s adorable.”
He reached into the crib and picked up the baby, pressing him close. He looked at me uncertainly.
“I’m a mother,” I assured him. “I know what to do. I won’t drop him.” Or run away with him, either.
“I’ll regret this; I know it.” He handed me the child. “His name is Alex.”
Alex drooled on my slacks while I told Tom about the Garcia trial and my tentative forays into investigation. My brother stiffened when I told him about the problem with the eyewitness phone call.
“Do you think the police report is wrong?” he asked woodenly.
“I don’t know,” I said, without thinking. “But something’s fishy. Either the report is wrong or the eyewitness lied or…or I don’t know what. But nobody checked it out.”
“People always think the police are lying,” he said heavily. “It comes with the territory. After the fucking OJ trial, half of Los Angeles believes the police force is incompetent.”
I couldn’t think of anything to say that wasn’t somewhat tactless, so I remained silent.
He seemed to read my expression. “Sometimes, they’d be right,” he said, “but not usually.”
“Can you help me get a copy of the report?” I asked him.
“You could get it yourself. Most of this stuff is public.” He sighed. “Okay, I’ll see what I can find out.”
“And maybe see what there is on Natasha Ivanova, too?”
“If I do, will you wait for me to call you next time?” I laughed.
“I’m serious, Ellen. I’m not sure I’m ready for this.”
“It’s a deal,” I told him brightly, to cover the chagrin I felt at having been, against my entire history and training, so aggressive as to make him ill at ease.
I handed Alex back to him and prepared to leave before I exhausted his store of benevolence for me and mine. “I’m sorry I missed Dorie,” I told him. I’d only met my sister-in-law once or twice, but I sensed she’d be an ally. When Michael died, she’d marched straight up to me after the funeral and given me a hug. I hadn’t even thought they would come. Tommy—Tom—had spent the entire fifteen minutes he remained at the reception trying to stay as far away from my mother as possible.
I had a thought. “How are…Aunt Teresa and Uncle Joe?” I inquired. They were, in effect, his real parents.
“Did you know them?”
I shook my head.
He folded his arms. “They live with my little sister in Arizona.”
“Your sister?” I was his sister. As far as I’d known, there hadn’t been any others.
He shrugged. “I think of her that way.” He took a breath. “Carrie’s my cousin.” I must have looked confused, because he added; “Teresa and Joe’s biological daughter.” He waited for this to sink in.
When it did, it was as if somebody had hit me in the stomach. “But I thought…”
“So did they. But obviously, they were wrong.” He looked embarrassed. “They never wanted you to know.” He peered at me. I must have been a little pale. “Are you okay?”
I could hardly answer him. It was so unfair, it made me gasp for air. My mother’s whole life blighted, and mine, and his, and for nothing. They’d had a child anyway. A surge of anger so strong it almost knocked me over raised my pulse rate through the roof. At that moment, I hated them for what they had done.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t think. I shouldn’t have told you, I guess. At least not like that.”
I shook my head, still hyperventilating. “No more secrets. There’s been enough of that. But it’s so…so…”
“Let me get you some water,” he said.
“They might have said something,” I said angrily, when he had come back from the kitchen.
“Like what?” he asked. “What could they say?”
“Like ‘I’m sorry,’ for starters.”
“And then what? Should they have offered to give me back?” He sat down beside me on the couch. “I wouldn’t have gone,” he said, very kindly but firmly. “I loved them, and they loved me.”
“My mother could have loved you,” I said. And I could have. “It would all have been different.” My eyes filled, but I brushed the tears away angrily. I would not cry about this, not in front of him. Not now.
He shook his head sadly. “But not necessarily better, at least not for me.” He patted my shoulder. “I don’t think we should talk about this anymore. It’s upsetting to both of us. Do you see why I didn’t want to sta
rt it up?”
I nodded and stood up. I didn’t know how to respond.
He moved me along toward the exit. He hesitated. “Have you been okay since…”
“Since Michael died?”
He nodded.
“I’ve managed,” I told him. Just not always exceptionally well.
“I’m sorry,” he said. I could see he was referring to more than Michael’s death.
“Thank you,” I said simply.
“I’ll be in touch, if I find out anything for you,” he said, in a more normal voice.
I sensed that my brother’s revelation had put our relationship on a new footing. I wasn’t sure what direction it would take. I thought there was better than an even chance that I’d never hear from him again. But at least I’d tried, and that made me feel good.
For better or for worse, I was going to have to deal with my past. I’d get around to it as soon as I’d dealt with the present.
10
Cynthia’s information packet was delivered by Federal Express, despite the fact that I lived less than three miles away from her. It consisted of two thick files bound with extra-large rubber bands that snapped and stung my hand when I picked them up, like a red ant. Appended to the exterior was a hot-pink Post-it: Please call me when you’ve read this.
I had to hand it to Cynthia; she was a good reporter. Or at least a thorough one. Everything you might want to know (and a lot you’d rather not) about dating and matchmaking services was catalogued in her beautifully formatted, easily understandable compendium. If I digested her notes thoroughly, it would take more time to get through them than through War and Peace (but still less than Proust).
It was enough to make anyone Scared Single.
Some of it had the lure of the exotic and improbable. On a page entitled “Unusual Dating Services—Background,” I discovered le Flashing, a device the size of a cigarette pack that beeps when it comes within close range of someone carrying another such instrument, a fellow subscriber to the electronic mate-finder service. The frequency to which it has been tuned identifies le Flashing’s bearer as homo, hetero, or interested in swapping partners with another couple, like some weird parody of Diogenes, raising his lamp in search of an honest man. I had been to Paris, where this service originated, in the mid-eighties, when it flourished, but I had never realized the city was full of hopeful beepers, casting their signals upon the boulevards in search of love.
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