by D. A. Keeley
“I never liked working with Border Patrol agents when I was a trooper up here. And I know that I don’t have to talk to you. I’m here voluntarily.”
She leaned back in her seat, folded her arms across her chest, and said, “Well, as I said, thanks for coming in. Want something to drink? Coffee, soda?”
He shook his head.
Sixteen desks were arranged nose to nose. Agents sat in pairs facing each other. It had been a big day when Washington had finally allocated a laptop for each agent. Everyone in the bullpen knew agents on the southern border were taken care of first, which, Peyton thought, was as it should be. Still, she’d been shocked to transfer north and learn she’d be sharing an eight-year-old desktop with Miguel Jimenez, who now sat at the adjoining desk. She wondered if he was actually doing paperwork or playing fantasy sports. She looked past Leaf Ryan’s left shoulder. Jimenez looked at her and smirked, enjoying watching the silver-haired man give her a hard time.
“So what do you need from me?” Leaf said.
“You worked here as a trooper?”
“Started out in Augusta. They needed help up north, so I offered to be finish up here.”
“Surprised our paths never crossed. When did you retire?”
“Two years ago. Kyle offered me a job, so I retired.”
“He hired you away from the state police?”
“Pretty much.”
“Must’ve been a good offer.”
“I was ready to go.” He looked around the room. Peyton knew he wasn’t comfortable discussing his financial status with a room full of Border Patrol agents. “But, yeah,” he whispered, “it was a good offer.”
“What do you do over there?”
“Typical security—patrol, run through surveillance tape, make sure no one has his hands where he shouldn’t have them.”
“Employees stealing?”
“Sometimes. Caught a guy taking parts last year.”
“Tell me about the surveillance tapes,” she said and opened a note file on her iPad, typed in the date.
He shrugged and looked bored. She guessed he had seven or eight years before Social Security and Medicare kicked in, but he seemed much younger. He had thick white hair but looked fit. No wedding band. He wore a long-sleeved Baxter State Park T-shirt, jeans, and Timberland boots. She could picture him in a leather jacket riding a motorcycle.
“When Kyle hired me, after the smuggling problem, I installed cameras.”
“Around the building?”
“Yeah. I thought the smuggling was taking place in the woods near the plant.”
“It was,” she said.
“Yup, and they were parking in the plant parking lot sometimes. The camera picks up who comes and goes. In fact, I saw you on the film recently.”
She nodded. “Just trying to help you guys out,” she said. “Kyle must have told you about the boy I found.”
He nodded. “I don’t need help.”
“This is why you really came here, isn’t it?” she said. “To tell me that?”
“I’d appreciate the professional courtesy of you telling me when you’re on our land.”
“I don’t have to do that. You must know that.”
“Professional courtesy,” he repeated.
“Do you have cameras near the border?”
“That’s almost five miles from the plant. These things cost a lot of money.”
“So you’re more concerned with what’s going on near the plant?”
“Wouldn’t you be?”
“McCluskey’s Processing can afford extra cameras.”
“I figure you guys can take care of the border. I’ll watch my building.”
“And a lack of cameras might give you more work.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“If someone’s smuggling on McCluskey’s land, it gives you something to do. And that’s job security.”
“Kyle does pay very well,” he said. “I wouldn’t want to lose this job.”
“I don’t blame you.” Leaf Ryan was becoming more annoying and less trustworthy by the second. “So what else has your video surveillance picked up?”
“Nothing this year. I did a presentation for the employees, showed them the equipment. It really curbed theft. Mostly parts that can be used on tractors and equipment. And tools too. But, like I said, that’s down this year.”
She nodded. It made sense. The people working the plant floor would be mostly men who could and did fix things themselves.
“Thanks for coming in this morning, Leaf. I appreciate your time.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it,” she said, and he stood and walked out.
She watched him go.
Jimenez looked across the desk at her. “That’s really it?” he asked.
She shook her head. “But it’s enough for this morning.”
“Guy seems like an asshole,” he said.
“I thought you were a better judge of character than that, Miguel. He doesn’t seem like an asshole. He is the genuine article.”
5:30 p.m., 12 Higgins Drive
Peyton was hosting dinner for her sister Elise, nephew Max, and niece Autumn. The March day had ended with a slate sky. Now it was dark. Elise was teaching middle school, having spent the last two years working and taking classes year-round at the University of Maine at Reeds to finish her degree following her divorce.
“Where’s Tommy?” she asked. “I haven’t seen him since Max and I got here.”
Peyton was at the counter kneading ground turkey and lean hamburger, while occasionally tossing in chives and mushrooms. This was her version of turkey burgers, and Tommy usually ate two.
“And you only saw him then,” she said, “because I made him get the door.”
“What’s up? He mad at me?”
“No. He’s mad at me.”
“Well, he’s supposed to be mad at you. You’re his mother.” Elise smiled, swiveled on her stool to face her sister, and sipped her chardonnay. “I want him to like me, though. I’ve been his favorite person since he was born.”
“Second favorite,” Peyton said, smiling, “but close.”
The sisters ate together once a week. The nights now shifted to fit the sisters’ schedules, but the weekly meals together remained constant. Elise had changed after school before coming over. She wore jeans and a cable-knit sweater. Peyton knew Elise would never dress so casually at work; her sister’s work wardrobe, like DHHS worker Susan Perry’s, made Peyton envious.
“What did you do to make him mad?”
Peyton told her about the situation with Stone and about her breakfast conversation with Tommy.
“Have you told Stone about Tommy’s reaction?”
Peyton shook her head. She was making burger patties now and paused to wipe her hands on a paper towel and sip from her bottle of Corona. Holding the bottle before her, she gently twirled it, watching the lime dance inside.
“How serious are you about Stone, Peyton?”
“I think I love him.”
The sisters made eye contact.
“You think?”
“I love him, Elise.”
“Then the three of you need to come to some resolution, sis.”
“Is that a news flash?” Peyton said.
Elise ignored her. “And you know what would be really helpful right now? We should call Mom and ask her for advice. She’ll come right over and tell you exactly what you need to do.”
“Oh boy, that sounds just great.”
Both sisters laughed.
“Thanks,” Peyton said, “but I think I’ll stick with you for advice. A few years ago you went through your own tough time, and you came out of it well.”
“Well enough.”
“Very well,”
Peyton said, referring to Elise’s decision to leave an abusive husband and come out of the closet. “I’m meeting Stone for breakfast,” Peyton said. “I need to figure out what I’m going to say before then. I’ll talk to Tommy tonight and see how that goes.”
She crossed the kitchen to the sliding-glass door, went to the deck, and, working beneath the floodlight, started the grill. Only half the deck had been cleared; the remainder was covered with snow. Tommy had offered to clear it, but much of the snow was frozen, and to chip it would mean gouging the wood. Now they’d have to wait for the spring thaw to shovel the other half.
“Hey, a new student was added to my class this week,” Elise said, when Peyton re-entered the kitchen, “and I think you know him.”
Max had climbed onto a stool at the counter and sat next to his mother, dipping carrot sticks into ranch dressing on the hors d’oeuvres tray Peyton had set out. Autumn, Elise’s adopted daughter, had pigtails tied with pink bows and played with a stuffed bear on the kitchen floor.
Peyton took a juice box from the fridge, put the straw in it, and handed it to Max.
“Thanks, AP,” Max said, using his acronym for Aunt Peyton.
Peyton raised her beer bottle, and Max grinned as they tapped drinks.
“Cheers!” he yelled.
“Agent,” Elise said, “do we need to teach my kindergartner to toast?”
“It’s a life skill,” Peyton said.
“Anyway, I think you know my new student. He’s living with Bohana Donovan.”
“Aleksei Vann?”
“That’s him. He is extremely bright. He read Crime and Punishment in Russian.”
“He’s thirteen.”
“Yes.”
“And he read Crime and Punishment?”
Elise nodded.
“I didn’t understand that book in college,” Peyton said. “I’ve read it again since and just barely understand it now.”
“The kid is a delight. Wants to learn everything. We talk about it a lot as teachers, but don’t see it often—a kid who cherishes the opportunity to learn.”
“Where he’s coming from,” Peyton said, “he probably didn’t get that chance.”
“Well, he has it now. And he’s drinking it all in. He struggles with English but asks for extra work. Asks questions all the time. When he told me about his trip, about a female Border Patrol agent finding him, I thought, Jeez, I wonder who that could be.”
“Actually,” Peyton said, “he found me. But, yes, I was the agent. And I don’t doubt that he’s serious about his education. That’s at least part of why his father sent him here. The pro-Russian separatists nearly killed his mother. He’s come to live with his aunt.”
“And his parents?” Elise asked. “Are they coming here too?”
“His mother requires serious care now, which his father provides,” Peyton said. “That’s how Aleksei would be granted political asylum. His parents need to be anchored to the Ukraine for him to be granted political asylum.”
“They can’t follow him here?”
“No. That’s one difference between what happened in Texas and this case. Aleksei’s parents can prove he is in danger if he stays in Ukraine, based on what happened to his mother. And the parents are not coming. His mother is badly hurt, and his father cares for her.”
Elise thought about that. “So Aleksei is really on his own.”
“He has the Donovans.”
“I heard Bohana is his aunt.”
Peyton nodded. “I think she and his parents believe he can have a better life here.”
“If that’s the reason for sending him, the reasoning is the same as it is for the illegal aliens crossing in Texas,” Elise said.
Peyton looked at her; she didn’t like where this conversation was heading. “Maybe. But there are differences. This trip was intricately planned and not likely to be repeated. This isn’t a simple border jumping. Aleksei also says his father is staying behind to fight Putin.”
“Yikes.”
“Yeah,” Peyton said, “I know. The boy might never see his father again.”
Tommy might have been eleven, but to Peyton he’d always be that five-pound eight-ounce baby she’d brought home from the hospital in El Paso, Texas, more than a decade earlier. She knew he hated it when she told him that, just like he hated it when she kissed his cheek in public, but that would never change. And if the worst thing she did on a daily basis was love him too much, she wasn’t doing too badly.
She entered Tommy’s room Wednesday after Elise and her children had left. There were three bedrooms and two bathrooms upstairs. Peyton’s first renovation had been the addition of her bathroom off the master bedroom. This allowed Tommy to have his own bathroom, and she routinely reminded him that she’d grown up in a one-bathroom home.
Moonlight pooled on the floor at the foot of his bed. He was reading a Percy Jackson book by nightlight.
She turned on the overhead light.
“How was dinner?” she said.
“Fine.”
“Just fine? Am I losing my touch? Usually you eat two burgers.”
“I wasn’t hungry.”
She sat on the side of his bed and looked out his window. He never drew the shades.
“Full moon,” she said. “I love nights like this.”
“I know,” he said.
She nodded. “I want to talk to you, Tommy, about this morning. I know I upset you before school. That wasn’t right. I shouldn’t have done that. I’m sorry.”
He set the book down. “So Stone isn’t coming to live with us?”
“I want to talk about that, sweetie.”
“He’s not my dad.”
“I know that, and he does too. He doesn’t want to replace your father. That’s not what this is about.”
“What then?”
She looked out the window again. It was a good question: Was this all about her? She couldn’t deny it. Sure, Stone would probably be more of a father figure than the biological dad Tommy had. Probably already was, in fact. But that wasn’t what this was about. Not if she was being totally honest with herself. She wanted to be happy. Was that selfish? Tommy had always come first. She’d given up her work on the southern border, which had lead to her BORSTAR promotion, to move to the safer northern border. The Border Patrol Search, Trauma, and Rescue unit was an elite group that, when called upon, rescued stranded aliens and agents alike, and she missed that work. The move had also been to allow her ex Jeff McComb access to Tommy, with hopes that he’d be more involved. Now Jeff was dating a woman with two sons, and Tommy had cried when he saw an Instagram picture of his father with those boys at a Red Sox game.
A cloud rolled past the window, blotting out the moon.
“Sometimes grown-ups want to be together, Tommy. They want to spend more time together. If Stone lived here—”
“What if Dad wants to live here sometime?” he interrupted.
Sometime. She watched his face. Heard the desperation in his voice. Saw tears pool in his eyes. Her son knew Jeff wasn’t coming back, and he was trying to come to grips with that, trying to figure out why. Kids blame themselves for adults’ problems. She knew it. Had done it herself.
She reached to touch his cheek, but he leaned away from her hand.
“Tommy, this is what you need to know: I love you more than anything. More than Stone. More than your dad. More than anything.”
“More than Gram?”
“More than Gram.”
“More than Aunt Elise?”
“More than her. More than everyone and anything. Stone is never going to come between us, Tommy.”
He rolled onto his side, and she looked at the back of his head. She knew he was crying silently.
She also knew he’d suffered a loss she could never comprehend. When her family had lost
the farm, she’d been embarrassed. But her loss, nearly a quarter century ago now, had been primarily material, the emotional tidal wave crashing only when she felt her father’s humiliation at trading his beloved farm labor for the green uniform of her high school’s janitorial staff. Tommy’s pain at living three miles from a father he never saw surpassed anything she’d dealt with at age eleven.
“Stone won’t change anything between you and your dad, Tommy,” she said.
“That’s the problem.”
“What do you mean?”
He continued to lie facing the wall, not looking at her.
“Tommy, what do you mean by that?”
He rolled over. His wet cheeks shone in the light. “If Stone lives here, Dad won’t need to come by. He’ll think he’s been replaced.”
“Sweetie, that’s not true. Your father knows he’s your dad. That can never be changed. And Stone knows that too.”
But Tommy was shaking his head.
“Tommy, this is a chance for you to have two grown-ups here for you every day. Not just me, but someone else too. I want you to think about that. But I also need you to remember that Stone isn’t your father, never will be. I know you have a father. Stone knows it too, Tommy.”
He didn’t speak. She kissed his cheek and left the room.
four
Thursday, March 6, 7:55 a.m., Gary’s Diner
“How are you?” Peyton asked, seeing the dark half-moons beneath Stone Gibson’s eyes, when she joined the breakfast crowd in Gary’s.
Gary’s still had the green metal roof from her childhood. She could hear the rain tap-dancing overhead.
“I’m okay,” Stone said.
“What time did you get here?”
“I couldn’t sleep.” He stirred sugar into his coffee and looked out the window at Main Street. “Yesterday the snow melted a little, but now the temperatures are dropping again. It’s supposed to turn to freezing rain. Roads will be icy.”
“And the heavy snow will make hiking a bitch,” Peyton said. “But you didn’t answer my question. What time did you get here?”
“You’re not easily distracted. Let’s just say I helped Shirley make the first pot of coffee.”
“Literally?”
He nodded. “You’re drinking from pot number three,” he said. “You missed the one I made.”
