“No.”
“Need money?”
“No.”
His eyes opened wide. “You pregnant?”
“No! There is something on my mind, but it’s … there’s …”
She tried to push some hardness into her face, but her lip kept quivering.
“You in trouble, Rucy Trelaine. Yes?”
“Yes,” she answered, startled at how small her voice sounded.
“You tell now what’s bothering you, please?”
“You wouldn’t understand,” she said desperately.
“I surprise you maybe.”
“Why should you be interested in a poor little orphan girl? Why should anybody? I’m nobody, don’t you understand? And I’m practically thirty years old. I don’t have a thing to show for my life. Not a goddamned thing.”
Lucy struggled not to cry. She had always prided herself on being so tough, on being able to deal with any situation that came her way. Now she wept at the drop of a hat. What was happening to her?
“Harvard graduate, yes? That something,” Wing said gently.
Lucy stared at the desk top in front of her. She could barely breathe beneath the weight of accumulated shame. Wing was the only person in the world who seemed genuinely to care about her. And here she was, not even telling him the truth.
Lucy looked up. Wing sat with his hands in his lap, smiling expectantly. She might not be able to correct a lifetime of mistakes or bring Robert MacAlpin back to life, but at least she could level with Wing. She owed him that much.
“I didn’t graduate from Harvard, Mr. Wing,” she said miserably. “I flunked out. And I’ve been fired from nearly every job I ever had. I’m sorry.”
Wing’s eyes widened. He snorted, frowned, then spoke in a low voice.
“You trick me?”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Wing. I’ll go upstairs and pack.”
She started for the door, but Wing rose and held up his hand.
“Wait. Why you trick me?”
“I needed the job,” she said simply.
“You say you orphan?”
“Yes.”
“Wing orphan, too,” he said, still frowning. “Family killed by Japanese in World War II. Have many hard times. Now prospects dim again. Have friends, though.”
They stared at one another for a moment, then Wing stood and walked around the desk to her. Lucy was embarrassed, afraid that he would try to touch her, to give her sympathy. He did. He put his arm around her shoulder and hugged her gently.
“You have friends, too, Rucy. Not need Harvard degree to be big help to me. Everything okay. Okay?”
“Everything’s not okay. How can you say everything’s okay? You’re about to go broke.”
He shrugged. “Just money. You person. Wing live long time. Know what important in life. You important, Rucy.”
Lucy tried to keep her upper lip from pushing down and pressing her mouth into the smile she cried with. She couldn’t. Tears began streaming down her face.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Wing,” she sobbed.
“It’s okay, Rucy. Wing understand.”
“I just bring bad luck everywhere I go.”
“No, no, no. You good luck. Help with management. Wing not so stupid with bankers anymore. You okay. Wing accept apology. Everything hunky-dunky.”
“Everything not hunky-dunky.”
“No? More problem? Okay, tell what other problem is, please.”
“I can’t.”
“Yes, yes, yes.”
“I can’t,” she sobbed. Wing pushed her to arm’s length so he could look into her eyes.
“You not alone anymore, Rucy Trelaine,” said Wing, patting her gently on the back. “Now please tell what is wrong.”
Suddenly Lucy was spilling the whole story—the orphanage, the foster homes, seeing the ad, the meeting with the lawyer in Pittsfield, the brooch. The more she talked, the more she cried. Shoulders heaving, Lucy described the crash that had killed her mother, Theresa Iatoni’s story, and finally the letter from MacAlpin, the meeting, his claim of being her father, his ruined body splattered on the red marble floor, Fraser chasing her through the park.
Wing listened severely, interjecting gutteral ohs or ahs, patting her gently on the shoulder from time to time.
“Don’t you see?” Lucy said finally, pounding the cluttered desk with her fists. “I killed a man. Maybe he was my father, maybe not. It doesn’t matter. He was a person and I killed him. And my brooch is gone. And the police are probably looking for me right now. And I don’t even have a birthday. God, I want to die.”
“No die, no die,” said Wing. “Man killed accidentally. Police not look for you.”
“Fraser will tell them.”
“Not if he want to keep brooch. Yes?”
“I suppose,” she sobbed, afraid to look at Wing, ashamed of making such a fool of herself.
Wing stood silently for a few moments, letting her cry. Then he went around the desk and took out Hewby’s leash from a drawer.
“Come, Hewby. We go for walk.”
Hewby raised an eyebrow, then parked his chin back on the sofa. Lucy blew her nose and wiped her eyes with a Kleenex. Wing clapped his hands.
“Come, come, come.”
Hewby sadly raised himself up and jumped to the floor with a thud. Wing attached the leash and walked him to the front door.
“You come, too,” he said to Lucy. She followed, miserable.
In a moment they were out on the street. Hewby ambled down the sidewalk, sniffing at favorite trees and hydrants. Wing said nothing. He seemed lost in thought.
Lucy felt drained and empty, as if a plug had been pulled. But while some of her guilt seemed to be gone, nothing had replaced it.
After ten minutes Hewby had exhausted the neighborhood smells and was straining at the leash to get back into the house.
“You must go to Scotland,” Wing abruptly announced as they walked up the driveway.
“What would I do there?” said Lucy, struggling out of her daze.
“Check out clues.”
“I don’t have any clues. I don’t have anything.”
“Yes, yes, yes,” said Wing. “Two clues. One, name of unpronounceable town where MacAlpin was born and which appear on brooch. Two, name of Fingon—‘You Fingons all alike.’ So you go to unpronounceable town and look for people name Fingon.”
“I can’t,” Lucy said after a moment.
“Why not? You need money? I lend money.”
“Money’s not the problem. I have money.”
“So what stopping you?”
“Well, for one thing, I can’t get a passport. You need a birth certificate to get a passport, and I don’t have one. I’m not a real person. Everything about me is phony.”
Wing opened the door, frowning. Lucy followed him into the hallway. She felt like a bundle of wet rags. Wing bent down to release Hewby from the leash, but suddenly stood up and thumped his head with the palm of his hand.
“There is way! I figure out!”
Hewby woofed indignantly. Wing danced a little jig on the welcome mat. Hewby escaped down the hall, dragging his leash behind him.
“Tina! Tina!”
“Yes, Mr. Wing?” said Tina, appearing from the kitchen, wiping her hands with a dish towel.
“Get travel agent on phone. Quickly. Chop-chop.”
“Sure, Mr. Wing,” she said, heading toward the phone, obviously impressed with his excited tone. Lucy grabbed the little man’s arm and pulled him around to face her.
“What are you doing?” she exclaimed.
“Wing help you.”
“I don’t want to involve you in this mess,” said Lucy, feeling tears well up again. “I should never have told you. We have to make the loan presentation tomorrow. We should be working.”
“This more important. Must clear your name,” said the little man, bouncing up and down. “Must go to Scotland.”
“Didn’t you understand?” said Lucy, exasperated.
“I don’t have a passport.”
“No problem. You use Tina’s.”
Lucy’s jaw worked for several seconds before she managed to produce sound.
“You’re out of your mind,” she sputtered finally.
“Yes, yes. You same height, same weight. With haircut and brown contact lens, no one know difference.”
“She’s just a kid!”
“You Grandma Moses?”
“She has five earrings!”
“Wing pierce her ears, Wing pierce yours. You cut hair, wear Tina’s earrings, her glasses, no one know.”
“This is ridiculous. We would all end up in jail, instead of just me!”
“No problem. Custom people overworked. Not bother with little Tina. We fool them. Wing know how to talk to English.”
“When are you going to talk to them?”
“I go with you.”
“What?”
“I go to Scotland. With you.”
“Look, Mr. Wing. I’m a big girl. I can fight my own battles.”
“Wing not fight your battles. Wing take business trip. You think U.S. have only banks in world? Wing check out international financing. Scotland good place to start.”
Lucy felt a wave of hysteria approaching, but it quickly passed. She took a deep breath.
“I don’t know why I’m getting upset,” she said, managing a smile. “I’m not going to Scotland. And I’m certainly not going to let you go. It’s absolutely out of the question, and that’s final.”
SIXTEEN
“Now you be careful, Lucy, you hear?” said Neal Bell, bending down to straighten Lucy’s raincoat as Tina and Aunt Sally looked on.
Lucy nodded bravely, feeling like a little girl. It was strange having all these people fuss over her, but she didn’t resist.
Only a few days had passed, yet here she was at J.F.K. with five earrings in her left ear, her hair cut short, brown contact lenses in her eyes, and a ticket to the Isle of Lis in her jacket pocket. How had she let Wing talk her into this harebrained scheme?
“Don’t worry about a thing, girl,” said Tina, Lucy’s uncanny doppelgänger, giving her a pat. “You look great.”
“I’m not kidding, Lucy,” said Neal, a worried look crossing his face. “Don’t tell anyone who you really are. You be Clark Kent. Superman doesn’t have a secret identity for nothing, you know.”
“I made some sammiches for you, Lucy,” said Aunt Sally, shyly offering a paper bag.
Lucy took the bag and hugged the great hulking figure. Aunt Sally smiled and blushed. Lucy wondered again how she could let them do all this for her. Tina could go to jail if she got caught, for crissakes.
Tak Wing had finished supervising the loading of their luggage at the curb station and now swooped back down on the little group, opera cape flowing, teeth flashing, top hat cocked at a rakish angle. He seemed to be enjoying himself hugely.
“Mr. Wing,” began Lucy urgently, “I still think this is …”
“Uh, uh, uh,” said Wing sternly, shaking his finger. “Case closed. No more argument, please, thank you very much. You have glasses?”
“Yes, Mr. Wing,” said Lucy, patting her pocket. Tina’s spare glasses had lenses like the bottom of Coke bottles. Lucy was totally blind when she wore them.
“Wear glasses all the time.”
“Right.”
“Passport?”
“Yes, yes.”
“Okay. Time to go,” said Wing, shaking his pocket watch, then holding it to his ear as if the cold night air might have slowed it down.
“You be careful, Lucy,” Neal said, bending down and giving her a brief, unexpected hug. “You hear me?”
Lucy nodded.
“Bye-bye, Lucy,” said Aunt Sally and shuffled back toward the Cadillac, nervously wringing her hands.
“Do the Snicowskis proud, Lucy,” said Tina, embracing her tightly.
“Are you sure you can manage?” said Lucy, genuinely concerned.
“They spend whole life without us before, yes?” said Wing, tapping his watch again. “Come, come. Time to fly away.”
Lucy couldn’t understand how Wing could still be so jolly after their meeting at First Connecticut on Friday. The loan officers had practically laughed out loud at the Neat ‘n’ Tidy balance sheet. They hadn’t even had the courtesy to go through the motions of thinking it over.
“Frankly, Mr. Wing,” said one of them, picking lint off his lapel, “Brazil is a better credit risk than you.”
“New Jersey a lot closer.”
“No thanks.”
Wing had taken the rejection as gracefully as ever but Lucy knew the game was over. Wing wasn’t sacrificing his remaining chances of raising money by going to Scotland with her; no bank was going to bail out Neat ‘n’ Tidy. And Scottish banks certainly weren’t going to be any different. Scots were notoriously tight with a buck. Or so she had heard—she herself wouldn’t know.
An L-1011 roared into the air above them. Lucy put her hand on Wing’s arm.
“I still don’t understand why you’re doing this, Mr. Wing,” she said quietly.
“Wing your friend,” he sputtered. “This what friends do. We go now, okay?”
“Sure.”
Wing turned and headed toward the departure area.
“Bye, Lucy,” said Tina, tears welling in her eyes.
“Good-bye, honey,” said Neal. “Be lucky.”
Lucy impulsively kissed the old chauffeur on the cheek. She couldn’t see the blush on his face, but she knew it was there. Tina bit her lip and waved. Aunt Sally played with a stuffed animal in the car. Lucy turned on her heel and followed Wing into the terminal.
Half an hour later she was scrunched into a window seat flying over the Atlantic.
This Sunday-night flight was the first one they could take and make the connection to Lis. Lucy had wanted to wait and plan things more carefully—after twenty-one days she could also have gotten a cheaper fare—but Wing had been adamant.
“Timing is everything, Rucy,” he had declared. “Opportunity knocking now. No one home?”
It was true. Besides, if she had had more time to think about what she was getting herself into, she probably would have changed her mind. Still, Lucy wished Wing hadn’t insisted they fly business class. One would think the man was a millionaire the way he spent her money.
“Take, please,” said Wing, holding out an envelope, interrupting her thoughts.
“What’s this?”
“Two thousand British pounds,” said Wing. “Put in pocket.”
“Mr. Wing, I …”
“I get at Barclays. You must have cash.”
“I have everything I need.”
“Ha. You think Wing stick to you like glue? Wing have other fishes to fry. You cannot use Rucy Trelaine credit cards because you are Tina Snicowski now. You take, please. Advance on salary.”
“Thanks,” Lucy said and reluctantly took the envelope, hoping the exchange rate wouldn’t drop over the next few weeks, costing her more to pay him back.
“Take this, too,” said Wing, handing her a thin, odd-sized volume.
“What now?”
“Is guidebook. You read. One of us should know where we going. Wing once get stuck in Australia without guidebook, not know where to go …”
Lucy tried desperately to fight off panic. Wing went on talking, but she barely heard him. The thought of going through British customs on a forged passport with this flamboyant character was suddenly terrifying. Lucy had spent years on the road learning how to be invisible. Traveling with Wing was going to be like being center stage in a purple spotlight. Naked. If only she could just forget MacAlpin, the brooch, everything. But Lucy knew she had come too far. She had to find out the truth. She had to know who Lucy MacAlpin Trelaine really was.
Eventually dinner came. Lucy wrestled with her tray table and pecked at the airline dinner. Wing attacked his meal with gusto. She tried to listen to his tall stories, but couldn’t keep her mind on wha
t he was saying. The in-flight movie was a Mel Gibson film. Wing loved it. After the first killing, Lucy couldn’t bear to watch.
Wing finally dozed off, but Lucy couldn’t even think of sleeping. The seat was too narrow, the engines were too noisy, she was too excited, too afraid.
She tried to read, but the guidebook gave little more sense of Lis than french fries give of France: Lis was one of the larger islands of the Hebrides, between Skye and Mull in location as well as size. Its population had been falling steadily since the nineteenth century. Dr. Johnson had visited in 1773 and called Lis “a place of cruel beauty.” Boswell was less impressed, comparing it unfavorably with Rum and Eigg. There were mountains, wildlife, and some castles to see. There was a town called Dumlagchtat.
By the time the plane landed at Heathrow, Lucy had what seemed to be a permanent crick in her neck. Her watch said three o’clock in the morning, but local time was 9:00 A.M.
“Now aren’t you happy we fly business class? Much more comfortable, yes?”
“Yes,” Lucy agreed, looking at herself in the little mirror from her wallet. The dark circles under her eyes probably weren’t permanent. Her hair would grow back, of course, but now she would have to go through the rest of her life with five holes in her ear.
“I gotta be nuts,” she muttered to the window as she nervously filled out the check-in documents.
“You say something, Rucy?” said Wing happily. “I mean Tina.”
“Not me.”
Lucy had been practicing Tina’s convoluted signature for the last three days, but it still didn’t look right. It was too late to worry, however. The hatch was opening.
“Put on glasses, please.”
Lucy took them out of her jacket pocket and complied.
“You ready?” said Wing.
“No.”
“Good. Let’s go.”
Peering owl-like over the top of Tina’s thick glasses, Lucy hung on to Wing’s arm and hoped she wouldn’t walk into a wall. They followed the crowd to the baggage carousel, retrieved Wing’s suitcase and her two bags, then headed toward the exit station.
“Please, God, don’t let him make a scene in customs,” mumbled Lucy to her luggage, trying to follow Wing’s advice and expect a miracle. The little Japanese Chinaman was calmly combing his goatee with his fingers as if he smuggled orphans through customs all the time.
The Girl with the Phony Name Page 11
