Glory Days

by Irene Peterson

  Liz broke the spell. “Hey, kiddo. Don’t you have school tomorrow?”

  “Oh . . . yeah, as a matter of fact, I do. I guess I’d better get going upstairs. My uniform is ready, but I don’t know what else I may need. I put stuff in my backpack on Friday. They’ll give me a little leeway, don’t you think? First day and all? I hope. So, all in all, I guess I’m ready.”

  “Would you like me to go with you to the bus stop?” Liz offered, then rolled her eyes.

  “Thanks, but no. It’s just around the corner, practically, and Father Mike said he’d be there. Nothing can happen to me just going around the corner. I’ll be fine.”

  Flo patted Carly’s hand. “You’ll fit right in. You’re a sweet girl. They’ll take to you right away, so don’t you worry about it.”

  “Thanks, Flo. I appreciate you saying it.”

  “Good night, then, kiddo,” Liz said. “In case you want breakfast tomorrow, I’ll open up the grill for you at about six. Or maybe just a doughnut?”

  “Jelly . . . and a carton of milk.”

  Jelly!

  The way the kid said it, the tone of voice set psycho butterflies dancing in Liz’s stomach.

  It sounded so much like John.

  Regaining control over her temporary madness, Liz reached out and squeezed Carly’s hand. “Don’t worry. Sleep tight.”

  Liz doubted she would.

  Chapter 15

  Mr. Preshin was awake. She had heard him walking around in his room, the slight thud of bureau drawers opening and shutting, but he had yet to show his face.

  She didn’t have much more time before she had to leave for the bus. Her uniform, rolled at the waist to an appropriate level above her knees, itched. So what else was new.

  Why wasn’t he coming out? Didn’t he want to wish her good luck?

  It was his idea to get her into school anyway. What was bugging him? Her eyes went to the clock once more.

  The clock glared back at her. She had to go if she wanted to say good-bye to Liz and Flo and get that doughnut.

  “I’m leaving, Mr. Preshin,” she called out, trying not to sound too hopeful.

  The bedroom door opened a crack.

  “You all set?”

  Why didn’t he stick his head out?

  “Yeah, I’ve got everything.”

  “Know what to do?”

  “Yes. I’ll go to the church and get the bus. How hard can it be?”

  “Right.” The door clicked shut.

  Swell, she thought. Nice way to send a kid off to school. Have a good day, Carly! Be careful crossing the street, Carly! Do you have your lunch money, Carly?

  Muttering, she made her way down the narrow stairs to the kitchen below. She spied the jelly doughnut and carton of milk on the back counter. At least someone had thought about her.

  “Carly, take care now,” Flo called from the luncheonette. Liz, busy at the cash register, gave her a hurried wave then turned her attention back to the customer before her who counted out change in his hand. Carly caught Liz’s eyebrows going up in exasperation, her hands planted on her hips. She didn’t blame Liz for not seeing her off.

  John, she blamed.

  He could have stuck his head out and looked her in the eye. He could have wished her good luck, or a good day.

  Maybe he was still pissed at her from the other night.

  Carly steamed off in the direction of St. Boniface’s. Maybe Father Mike would have a kind word for her.

  John groaned as he slid his sock over his foot. He hated having to leave his bed, but he had important work to do before leaving for the nursing home. Sleep had eluded him most of the night. Now he had to go through the day feeling like crap because he’d been thinking about the kid.

  Carly.

  She’d been a hit with his parents and the rest of the family. They’d taken her in as if she were one of their own. Telling her stupid things about him. Detailing family stories from way back. Talking about his great uncle blowing up a cow with a firecracker and how this same guy had been in jail for bootlegging. Great. Tell the kid about all their skeletons.

  What would they have done differently if they’d thought she was his daughter?

  Another Preshin.

  Probably nothing. But there would have been lots of questions. And his family would not have stopped asking until they’d had answers.

  Wouldn’t do. Carly more than likely, absolutely could not be his kid.

  He grunted as he tugged his jeans on and fastened his belt. Liz and Flo more than likely had given the kid breakfast. Yeah, he could even see Liz’s early morning scowl change to a smile as she watched Carly leave through the kitchen. Yeah. Hmm. Good enough.

  If he had a conscience, any left at all, he would have felt bad letting the kid go this morning the way he did. But he was getting too attached. She was like a stray puppy. If he allowed himself to really care, it would bother him when she went away with her father.

  But, in reality, the chances of him finding the kid’s father were getting slim. He’d ruled out all but the one remaining candidate. As he looked in the bathroom mirror, he decided that he didn’t really need to shave, though the stubble was a couple days old. Gave him a more tough guy, hard as nails look. His hand rubbed against the dark growth and the scraping sound drew a harsh laugh from him.

  He didn’t have to be pretty for this day’s work. It wouldn’t help.

  Mother Superior had had years to practice that look. With one narrow glance, she’d summed up John Preshin and found him wanting in every possible way. And she didn’t have to say a word for John to know this. The pinched lips spoke volumes.

  For this confrontation, he should have shaved and worn slacks, not jeans. But he was working and he worked in exactly what he was wearing now.

  “I’m a busy woman, Mr. Preshin.”

  She fiddled with the business card in her fingers and kept her eyes lowered.

  “I thought you might be interested to know that Carly Snow is staying with me until I can locate her father.”

  The woman slowly raised her head. He caught a tiny spark of interest in her eyes before she blinked it away.

  “And what is it you want from me, Mr. Preshin? Carly Snow left St. Hedwig’s of her own volition.”

  He cleared his throat. They both knew that wasn’t exactly the truth.

  “Carly was unable to tell me much about how she came to be at St. Hedwig’s. From my understanding, this isn’t an orphanage.”

  “It is part of a system, Mr. Preshin. We have rules we must follow.”

  John felt his impatience growing into anger but realized he could not display it in front of this rather fierce old woman. “So, you cannot tell me anything about Carly’s mother? How the girl came to live in the convent when most kids go into foster care?”

  “Carly was a special case. Arrangements had been made for her care.”

  “By whom?”

  Mother Superior set the business card down on her desk and folded her hands in front of herself. “I am not at liberty to tell you anything about Carly, Mr. Preshin. She’s out of my hands now. I don’t even have her records any longer.”

  A pain shot through John’s forehead. How convenient! Carly leaves and her file gets trashed. How had she been able to see it then if it was such a confidential thing? Something was definitely fishy about all this.

  “Is that policy?”

  The old nun, her gray hair short and cut close to her head, stood. She avoided looking at him now, though, and that was a tell all its own. “It’s my policy. There are files relating to Carly somewhere in the state bureaucracy, I suppose, but I no longer have access to them since she turned sixteen and left us.”

  Feeling dismissal close, John took a stab at a guess, hoping to elicit a reaction from the nun.

  “So, these confidential files just happened to contain a list written by Carly’s mother, naming men who might be her father? And a bank deposit book? The kid told me she happened to see it on her birthda
y. Right here in your office. Monthly deposits to St. Hedwig’s, yet in her file folder. The one with the list, and the hundred dollar bill in an envelope with her name on it.

  “But they’re gone? You don’t know where they are?”

  This time the woman looked him directly in the eye when she answered.

  “It is unfortunate that Carly happened to see the folder. I will not deny what she saw, but I’m afraid I cannot tell you anything. This is all confidential, all our records are. For you to come in here, expecting to see them, well . . . Mr. Preshin, I can’t help you.”

  “Can’t or won’t?”

  His hand shook slightly until he clenched it into a fist at his side. Nuns. They were incredible. The government should use them as spies. No one would get any secrets from them, and the enemy would come away feeling guilty as all hell for having asked.

  He stood and took a few steps toward the door. “You know what I think, Sister?” He turned to face her, wanting to see her expression as he delivered his little speech. “I think you know a lot more about Carly than you let on. I think you know her mother. I think you or St. Hedwig’s was paid to take care of the little girl, probably by Carly’s grandparents or their lawyer. Yeah, more than likely their lawyer. And I think that Carly shouldn’t feel guilty about reading that file, or taking the list or the money. But she does. But you know what? I think it was her right to see it. And I think you left the folder there deliberately, but of course, you wouldn’t admit to it.”

  The Mother Superior shrugged her shoulders. The weight of her omission must have been exceedingly heavy, he thought. If he could just get her to admit he was right. At least he could tell Carly not to feel bad about what she’d done.

  “Carly is a headstrong young woman. She took it upon herself to leave St. Hedwig’s and go in search of her father. When she stepped out of that front door, she ceased to be my concern.”

  He recognized a master of control when he heard one.

  “In that case, I don’t suppose you care, but Carly’s in good hands and I am going to find her father. I am also going to find out who her mother was. You can take that to the bank, Sister.”

  Her lips pressed into a tight, thin line, the nun glared back at him and wished him good day.

  Why, then, did he have the impression that she was not disturbed but pleased by his threat?

  Lunch rush over, Liz leaned against the back counter and wiped her hand across her forehead. Did she have time to hit the bathroom or were there more customers lingering outside, finishing off their cigarettes before entering the luncheonette? Had she ever felt this wiped out?

  She wondered how Carly was making out on her first day of school.

  Flo poked her head around the opening to the kitchen. “Sweetie, the mail came. There’s something for you, looks like it’s from your lawyer. Want to read it out there?”

  Liz shook her head. “I’ve got to take a break, Gram. I’ll look at it out back.”

  Slowly she made her way through the crowded space between the service counter and the work counter, snagging a dirty plate as she did. Her lawyer? What could he have for her?

  Nothing good. No additional settlement checks. Certainly nothing from her ex. Nada of real interest to her, she was positive. But she took the large envelope from her grandmother and walked into the apartment they shared. As her fingers touched the deep yellow packet, her sense of dread grew.

  She carried it into the lavatory and tore it open.

  Out came a smaller envelope, thick with something inside, the return address being that of her ex’s lawyer. Hmm. The dread intensified.

  Inside, a small, plain white envelope, addressed in the bastard’s hand to her. Her fingers trembled as she peeled away the flap.

  And stared with disbelief at the contents.

  A birth announcement.

  He’d had a baby boy.

  Liz read the words, horror filling her to the point where she bent over the john and vomited so hard she found herself on her knees by the time she stopped.

  He’d given his new son their baby’s name.

  Some of his favorite nurses were on duty this afternoon. He strode up to their station and leaned one elbow on the counter, flashing a rakish smile he knew made women melt.

  One by one, the ladies looked at him. Their eyes gave them away. Something was wrong. He’d never seen the normally cheerful women turn to stone.

  “What gives, ladies? Are you going to keep me away today, or can I sneak by you?” From behind his back, he produced a bouquet of gaily tinted daisies.

  Instead of showing their tolerant pleasure, they looked away.

  Long seconds passed in awkward silence until one, the one he’d pestered the most from the time Dutch had been moved to the facility, stepped toward him and asked him to follow her.

  They went in the opposite direction of Dutch’s room. A nervous chill skittered up his spine. “What’s up, Millie?”

  She held open a thick door and asked him to go inside. After shutting the door carefully behind her, she bid him sit in one of the straight backed chairs of the nurses’ break room.

  He sat, hoping she would sit also.

  Instead, she stood before him, hands clasped in front of her.

  “Jesus, Millie . . . what’s wrong? Why all this? What’s . . . .” Slowly, her silence reached him through the walls of protective oblivion he had raised years ago.

  “Dutch. What’s happened to Dutch?”

  Millie unclasped her hands and placed one on John’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, Mr. Preshin, but your friend isn’t with us any longer.”

  John started to rise. “Where did she put him? Is it because of me? What’s going on . . . tell me!”

  The nurse, her colorful scrub top unsuited for this moment, cleared her throat. “Mr. Van Horne passed away last Thursday.”

  John fell back in the chair. She might just as well have reached into his chest and pulled out his lungs and heart.

  Dutch! Dutch, gone?

  “Barbara . . . his wife. Di . . . Did she say anything about,” he choked over the words, “funeral arrangements?”

  Millie shook her head. “It all happened very quickly. Mrs. Van Horne had his body removed as soon as he was pronounced. She seemed to know exactly what she had to do and your friend was out of here within the hour.”

  Stunned, John tried to accept this news, tried to make sense of it. “Why wasn’t I informed?”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Preshin. I wasn’t on duty until after the body . . . Mr. Van Horne . . . was removed. Mrs. Van Horne and the gentleman with her left explicit instructions that no one was to inform anyone outside of the nursing home of Mr. Van Horne’s demise.”

  John shook his head. “Let me guess . . . especially me.”

  “When I came on duty, I figured you’d already been notified by the family. I’m sorry.”

  John stood. “Where was he taken? Can you at least tell me that?”

  “I’ll have to look at the file, if you care to wait.” Millie left the room. John stood there, every muscle in his body filled with rage and regret. He wanted to pick up a chair and smash it through the window, but somehow, his arms weren’t cooperating. His hands, fisted so tightly he felt his nails digging into his palms, began to shake as the adrenaline coursed through him.

  The nurse returned within seconds, stepping quietly into the room. “Mr. Van Horne’s body was taken to McKaskie’s.”

  “McKaskie’s?” John didn’t recognize his own voice as he whispered the name.

  “The crematorium . . . in Neptune.”

  John turned away from the pity he saw in the nurse’s eyes.

  “We all liked Mr. Van Horne, Mr. Preshin. And you were a good friend, coming here all the time. None of us wanted to keep you away, you know. But we had to follow orders.”

  John snarled, “Following orders. Everybody is always just following orders.”

  Then, before he continued, he stopped, rubbed his hands over his eyes and apolog
ized to Millie. “Sorry. I . . . I’m not angry with any of the nurses. I understand.”

  Millie’s lips quivered. Her hand went out to touch John’s sleeve, but he pulled away.

  “Sorry, Mr. Preshin. I’m so sorry.”

  John stumbled out of the room.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “I think it’s time you left.”

  John leaned toward the bartender. “Why?”

  The man on the stool next to him muttered, “’Cause you’re a white man making a fool outta himself in a black man’s bar, peckerhead.”

  John found this remark uncalled for. “What’s goin’ on here? Can’t a man have a refreshing drink in this place? Play a little pool?” He cracked his knuckles for emphasis.

  The bartender’s hands searched under the glistening wooden bar and clenched around the baseball bat kept there for emergencies just like this one. “I’m asking you nicely to leave. Look, you’ve proved your point, Mister. But I don’t want any trouble, and you keep beatin’ these boys at pool, there’s gonna be trouble.”

  “What’s the matter? Can’t anybody here play pool good enough to knock me off the table?” He raised his voice in challenge over the murmurs of the guys nursing their beers at the bar.

  “Anybody in here know this white guy?”

  From further down the bar, an old man called out, “Yeah, I think I saw him talkin’ to Curtis at the newsstand. Over on the main drag, you know the one I mean.”

  Behind him, John heard deep voices agreeing that Curtis was a good man. But the voices got louder and he found a distinct tone of disapproval in them. Especially from the younger men he’d already eliminated in an impromptu pool tournament who now formed a militant arc behind him. Their faces, reflected in the mirror behind the bar, were not welcoming.

  He itched to punch one of them. He knew how good it would feel for his fist to make contact with flesh as he put everything he had into it. But, even if he wasn’t seeing double, there had to be twenty men in the bar. And he stood out like a marshmallow in a coal mine. The odds of him coming out alive were not good.