by Jake Burt
“To tell you the truth, I’m not sure.”
I hold out my hand. “Can I see? I’ll let you know.”
She manages to work the engagement ring off her finger while keeping a hand on the steering wheel, and she drops it into my palm. I can tell she’s watching out of the corner of her eye.
“Hmm,” I murmur. “Not plastic, at least.”
Bringing the ring up to my lips, I slowly exhale across the gemstones. Then I hold it to the light. Swirls of wispy fog dull the glimmer of the stones, and I pass the ring back to Harriet with a click of my tongue.
“Yep, rhinestones.”
As she slips the ring back on and switches lanes to let a motorcycle pass, she says, “I won’t ask where you learned how to do that.”
I look at her. “You don’t know?”
“I didn’t read your file. They gave us one, of course, but Jonathan and I decided we didn’t want to know. We wanted to accept you for who you are, not for what you’ve been through.”
This is a revelation. On the one hand, it’s a little like a fresh start. On the other hand, what I’ve been through kind of is who I am.…
“But I’m supposed to keep you safe.…”
“No, Charlotte. I’m your mom now. I’m supposed to keep you safe. And get to know you—naturally. Your file might have told me your favorite color, but I’d rather hear it from you.”
“You know red plums?”
Harriet smiles. “Yes. The skin is a very deep purple.”
“Well, it’s not that color—not exactly. It’s the bloodish-reddish-crimsonish-purplish inside of the plum, right after you take that first bite. I like it because it’s a color, and a taste, and a memory. It just takes a while to explain. I usually just say purple.”
She nods as I speak. “See? I’m so glad I found that out by road tripping with you, rather than by reading it on some sheet of paper. You’re a fascinating girl, Charlotte. No file necessary.”
“Thanks. I appreciate that. And your trust.”
“Why,” she says with a mischievous grin, “is there something mysterious in your past I should know about? Are you secretly the daughter of the head of the U.S. marshals or something?”
Immediately a weird image of my dad wearing a marshals T-shirt pops into my head, and a surge of anger wells up in me. My face must be doing a pretty good impression of my favorite color, because Harriet notices immediately.
“I … I’m sorry, Charlotte. That was silly of me. Insensitive.”
“It’s okay,” I reply quietly. I close my eyes, aggressively trying to kick my dad out of my mind. If he had wanted to have these conversations with me … well, he had two years to figure that out. He doesn’t get to be here now, not even as a ghost in my thoughts.
“Maybe I should have read your file, Charlotte,” Harriet says after a while.
“No, no. I’m glad you didn’t. If you knew who my dad actually was, you probably wouldn’t like me very much.”
Harriet laughs. “Oh, Charlotte! I’m hardly in a position to judge people on their family background!”
Fair point. Still …
“I’d just rather not talk about him, if that’s okay.”
Fortunately, Harriet manages to change the subject, declaring that she needs a lavatory break. I actually like that she calls it a lavatory. She’s got a gentle, almost regal voice, and she moves that way, too, gesturing gracefully when she speaks. Even though her hands are slender and her fingers long like mine, they move in very different ways. Mine dart and weave like the heads of cobras. Hers move like silk scarves trailing behind a ballerina. Take the combination of the two, and she makes even a bathroom stop sound elegant.
“I could stretch my legs, too,” I add, and she points at the new phone sitting in the cupholder between us.
“Call the truck. Let them know we’re stopping, and see if they want to as well.”
I swipe over to her address book and find Jonathan’s number. I click it twice, and after three rings Jackson picks up.
“What?” he says gruffly.
“How’s your drive going, Sunshine?” I ask sweetly. Harriet smiles.
“Boring and pointless. Like you,” he mumbles, and I can hear Jonathan snap at him in the background. I line up a vicious retort, but I sneak a glance at Harriet first. She shakes her head to warn against it, and I tuck the comeback away for a rainy day.
“Cute,” I reply. “So, hey, I’m calling because your mom and I are going to stop at the next gas station. Do you or Jonathan need to fill up or anything?”
Though it’s hard to make out, I think Jonathan says, “We’re fine on gas, but it would be nice to get out and walk around a—”
“No,” Jackson insists. “We’re gonna keep going.”
And then he hangs up.
“Did you hear that?” I ask as I slip the phone back into the cupholder.
“Every word,” Harriet replies, shaking her head in exasperation.
“Maybe we woke him up when we called?” I offer.
“Don’t make excuses for your brother,” she says as she veers onto the exit ramp.
“Yes, Mom. Mother. Mama. Mom,” I fumble, trying on each name to see which one fits my tongue best. We’re about to make our debut in public, after all.
“I think Mom works.”
“Same,” I say.
We pull into the first gas station off the exit, our tires crunching on the gravel. Our northward journey hasn’t done much to dispel the heat, and both of us toss our jackets behind us onto our seats. Harriet keeps her hat and glasses on.
The screen door squeaks to announce our arrival. A scruffy man wearing a backward Atlanta Falcons hat waves a hand at us without taking his eyes off the TV mounted in the corner. Harriet finds the bathroom and asks for the key, which the man hands to her. It’s got a huge keychain on it, a rectangle covered in plastic that features a slogan: Yarn’s fer knittin’, a chair’s fer sittin’, tobacco’s fer spittin’, and this key is fer the restroom. Harriet rolls her eyes and says, “Classy keychain.”
“Heh. Thanks,” the man grunts.
“Indeed,” Harriet replies as she walks away. Once the attendant notices that the woman who just spoke to him is a pretty blonde, he smiles and rips his gaze from the television. He rubs his stubbly cheek as he watches her walk past the magazines and candy bars. I cough, and when he sees me, he hurriedly looks up at the TV screen. I give myself a little pat on the back and slip over to the magazines.
I’m checking out my horoscope—apparently, Venus and Mars are in opposition, so I should avoid impulse shopping—when the guy at the counter turns up the volume on the TV.
“And now more news out of New York City, where four bodies were found in the Hudson River overnight. Police believe the victims, all men between the ages of thirty and fifty, are linked to the investigation into the Cercatore crime syndicate. The chief of police also confirms that the bodies bear what he calls ‘significant markers’ suggesting connections to previous hits attributed to the Cercatore operation. Before being sent to prison, second-in-command Martin Cercatore infamously shouted in court that ‘a winter of retribution’ was coming. Whether these deaths were ordered by the Cercatores is as of yet unclear, but the NYPD is taking no chances.”
The anchor continues to offer some of the backstory of the trial. Over her right shoulder, the station is flashing pictures of the arrested Cercatores. I wince at several of them—they look just like Harriet … and more than a little like me. Midway through the report, Harriet emerges from the bathroom. She sees me staring at the television, and she glances upward, too. Soon she is paralyzed, left hand at her lips and the key dangling from her right. The attendant’s eyes are back on Harriet, so I act before he can start putting anything together.
“Mom,” I whine, “I really got to go.… Can I have the key?”
Harriet does a double take, as though she’s momentarily forgotten who I am. Then, though, she takes a deep breath, shakes her head to clear the c
obwebs, and nods. “Yes, Char … sorry. Got distracted. Here.”
Char? Cute touch. I grab the key from her and indicate the drink coolers with a tilt of my head. She walks with me, out of sight and earshot of the attendant. The newscast drones on, the anchor talking now about the local controversy surrounding the decision to move trick-or-treating to four in the afternoon.
“I don’t think he noticed anything, Charlotte,” Harriet whispers. “They’d never show my picture, and we’re a long way from New York.”
“Yeah, but you know what that story means, Mom. The Cercatores are still in business.”
“We figured that was the case. We wouldn’t be in WITSEC if there wasn’t a threat.”
She has a point. Still, it’s quite a shock to hear about them in a random gas station in South Carolina.
“So you’re not worried?” I ask.
“I’ll admit, I’m not thrilled to hear any news about my family, but I’m okay.”
I nod, though I do notice Harriet’s hands trembling as she opens the cooler and reaches for a bottle of water. My hands aren’t faring much better.
“I’ll be right back, Mom,” I assure her, and head for the bathroom.
I do what I have to do, but the smell of the place, the flickering light above the sink, and the paper towels strewn all over the floor aren’t settling my nerves. I hurriedly wash my hands, my skin prickling from the ice-cold shock, and I shake off the water droplets before pushing the door open with my foot.
When I come out, Harriet has grabbed a few other things and has them on the counter. I put the key back near the register and stand beside her. As the attendant is ringing us up, he says, “Any lotto tickets today?”
“No thank you,” Harriet replies.
He looks up at her and smiles, but then his eyes narrow.
“Hey!” he says suddenly. “Hey, have I seen you before?”
Harriet blanches, and I feel her right hand grab my arm. She squeezes tightly.
“No,” I hurriedly reply. “I really, really doubt it.”
“Yeah!” he exclaims, slapping the countertop. “Yeah, I just saw you on TV! I should call this in to the newspaper!”
I feel Harriet tug on my arm, as though she’s going to swoon. I can’t think of anything to say, though my feet slide slowly apart, into a runner’s stance.
“Yeah! You’re a ringer for that actress chick! News said she just separated from her husband. You could, like, do body doublin’ for her or some such!”
Both of us exhale sharply, not aware that we had been holding our breath the entire time. Harriet glances down at me, mouthing the word Sorry! as she pulls her fingers off my arm.
“And don’t worry, honey,” he says as he directs his attention to me. “You’re every bit as pretty as your mom here.”
“Thanks,” I reply. “I’ll be sure to tell my dad you said so.”
He sniffles and clears his throat. “Yeah, well … yeah. That’ll be fourteen twenty-two. Cash or credit?”
Harriet pays with cash and quickly snatches her change from the counter. The attendant murmurs, “But really, though. Spittin’ image.”
I offer a halfhearted smile as I grab our purchases. “Yeah, we get that a lot,” I say.
“Bye now!” he shouts after us. We don’t reply as we scurry to the car, shoes crunching on the gravel, dust clouds kicking up behind us, our hands clutched tightly around bags of dark chocolate.
CHAPTER NINE
The Old Homestead
We pass the North Carolina welcome signs around two in the afternoon; no more gas station stops for us. Despite our nerve-rattling interlude, we still manage to catch up with the truck. It turns out Harriet has a lead foot when she’s spooked.
North Carolina is beautiful; the leaves are starting to turn, and it’s still warm enough for us to roll the windows down. I’m letting my fingers swim through the air, playing the game where I pretend my fingertips are ever-extending lasers that can cut anything in two. Harriet has taken her hat off, and our hair is whipping around madly. With a piece of chocolate still pillowed on my tongue, the sun just behind us, and the road clear ahead, I think to myself that this isn’t a bad way to greet our new home.
We pass a bunch of exits: Gray’s Creek, South View, Dunn, Smithfield. There’s the odd Fuquay-Varina or Lillington thrown in there, but most of it sounds quiet and rural. I’m imagining general stores, old men playing cribbage, and county fairs. As we get closer to Raleigh, the signs get bigger, the billboards for Cracker Barrel and Fred Anderson Toyota come more frequently, and the traffic gets heavier. Route 95 turns into 40, which turns into 147, and like that, we’re there. I spend the last twenty minutes tinkering with the radio, reprogramming all the presets with anything that doesn’t sound like country music, gospel, sports, or news radio.
Twenty minutes, and I find two stations.
Not that Durham is a country town. Sure, it’s no New York City, but it’s a city, with a decent skyline and everything. We veer off the highway at the exit for Swift Avenue, and we’re almost immediately deposited on the campus of Duke University. I notice the trees first. They’re huge, sprawling, and so colorful that they’d give Mr. Jordanson’s considerable crayon collection a run for its money.
Harriet suggests we drive around a bit before getting to the house—“Jackson can just stew in the truck for a while,” she explains with a grin. Since it’s still early afternoon, I’m all for checking out the neighborhood. The more I see, the more confused this little city seems. They have a Whole Foods and little bodegas, massive plantation-style houses and paint-peeling housing projects, a glorious Gothic cathedral, a tobacco museum, and a gourmet popsicle place all within a couple of miles of one another. In a way, it kind of reminds me of me, the wholesome Ohio girl and the daughter of a criminal, the U.S. marshal and the New York pickpocket all in one.
We swing by Whole Foods to get a few necessaries, and I’m happy that Harriet agrees that mangoes and peanut butter are essential. She also picks up a bottle of shampoo, some toothpaste, and a holistic-medicine magazine. The guy who checks us out is wearing a rainbow-hued knit hat over a head full of dreadlocks. When he leans in to speak, his lip ring glints, and I’m expecting some sort of surfer drone to tickle our eardrums.
Nope.
“Y’all gun’ need a bag?”
Harriet nods, and the clerk—Vincent, according to the name tag—offers her a choice of a sack made of hemp or the old standby paper.
“What do you think, Charlotte?”
“Paper’s fine, Mom,” I reply, watching Vincent to see if he reacts to my calling Harriet my mother. He doesn’t. I suppose if he can pull off hippie-banjo chic, we can pass the mommy-daughter eye test; even with Harriet’s new hair color, we still look quite a bit alike. “We can use them as trash bags until we can get out to do a proper grocery run.”
“Reusin’. Purty good i-dee-ar. Paper it is,” Vincent remarks as he shakes open a brown bag. “Companies could save millions a year by reusin’ trash bags ’n’ such.” He holds up a book on the impact of the green movement on modern business. It’s got one of those yellow USED stickers on the spine.
“Oh, are you a student at Duke?” Harriet asks.
“Yes, ma’am. Econ major. Graduatin’ next year.”
Harriet and I both smile and thank him. As we walk away, Harriet says, “That’s a college town for you. All types.”
“This might be a pretty good place for us, then. We’re at least two types, and I’m sure I’ve got at least three more bouncing around in my head.”
Harriet laughs a little. “I’ve no doubt, Char.”
We load the groceries into the backseat and navigate out of the crowded parking lot. It takes us only three minutes to get to the house, and I make a mental note of the way.
“Here we go,” Harriet says excitedly. “This is our street!”
The trunks of the trees that line our avenue are twisted and thick, with impressive, knobby knots. It’s a sunny day, but
the light pours through the trees in scattered streams, running along parked cars, little lawns, and uneven sidewalks steepled by stubborn roots. The houses seem as old as the trees and just as large. Weathered, greening pillars lead to shady porch swings and mildewed shutters, and nests of leaves sprout from gutters like bristly eyebrows on wise old men.
I watch the houses roll by. When we slow down, I see the truck pulled into a driveway ahead. We ease to a stop just behind it, and I leap out, ready to get my first look at home.
It’s not the biggest place we’ve seen, but it’s still larger than any I’ve ever lived in. Two of those old oak trees flank the walk leading up to the porch, shading the front yard, and a sugar maple runs right up along the side of the house, forming a sort of trellis with its branches. It’s easily twice the size of the scrawny one we had in the playground at the Center. Chrissy would just die to see it: She absolutely adored playing with the little whirligiggish seedpods. I bet this one drops them by the thousands when the time is right, like a fleet of helicopters hovering around our new home.
Plenty of windows, all shuttered, sit behind that wraparound porch, darkened by the overhang of the second floor. The shingles are green, and the rest of the house is painted gray. On the whole, it looks pretty plain, with one very noteworthy exception: It has a turret. On the right front side of the house, where the porch curves around the corner, the roof tapers to a perfect point, atop which sits a polished brass weather vane, fashioned to look like a squirrel. Beneath that is a hexagon of windows, like the teetering top of an old wizard’s tower: something Hogwartsy, or Rapunzelesque. The sun breaks through the dwindling red leaves of the maple in just such a way that it hits those windows flush.
“It’s beautiful,” I whisper to Harriet when she joins me on the sidewalk.
“I suppose,” she replies, her eyes cast downward at all the leaves. “How are you at yard work?”
“Never lived anywhere that actually had a yard.”
“Neither have we.”
I nod, and together we stride up the porch steps. The U.S. marshals have trained me well, because I notice that the third step creaks, and my first thought is that it’ll be handy in case someone is sneaking up to the house.
