Learning to Swim

by Sara J. Henry

  Simon’s plane was six minutes late. He strode down the corridor briskly, a small black duffel and briefcase slung over his shoulder—no dorky roller bag for him. He was tall and thin like me, with a patrician nose like mine, unlike the button noses of our mother and sisters. He wore his dark blond hair in short curls that drove women crazy, and somehow innately knew how to choose clothes that looked good on him. Today he wore crisp black jeans and a cotton pullover.

  I threw my arms around him and hugged, tighter and harder than usual. We were more of a hug hug pat pat kind of family on those rare occasions when physical contact was required. He pulled back to look at my face. “You okay?”

  “Yep.” Of course you’re not going to announce in an airport corridor, I’m crazy about this intense little boy, the police seem to suspect me, and his father is … oh, never mind.

  “Let’s get something to eat; I’m starving,” he said cheerfully.

  “You’re always starving,” I told him, but drove to a Great Canadian Bagel. Because when you’re in Canada it’s just wrong to go to Burger King or Wendy’s.

  Simon chose a carrot pineapple bagel with cream cheese, which seemed a revolting combination. But I put crunchy peanut butter in my oatmeal, so I guess I can’t judge. He let me elbow him aside to pay with loonies and toonies from my stash of Canadian change.

  Because the one-dollar coin has a loon on the back, Canadians call it a loonie, so when the two-dollar coin came out it of course became a toonie—Canadians do have a sense of humor. They also figured out that people change only when they’re forced to. In the States, dollar coins failed because we didn’t have the sense to simultaneously phase out dollar bills.

  “Tell me everything,” Simon said as we sat down.

  I did, step by step, and he didn’t speak until I stopped. “You saw no one on the other ferry?”

  I closed my eyes and took myself back there, on the deck, feeling the boat moving, seeing the small body fall toward the water. I almost shivered. I shook my head. “All I remember is seeing him falling. That’s it.”

  Simon had his eyes narrowed, which meant his law enforcement brain was ticking. He’s as analytical as I am, but better at compartmentalizing it. He finished his bagel and was neatly folding the paper it came on.

  “The Ottawa police are handling this?”

  I nodded. “The Montreal police are officially in charge, but now they’ve pretty much handed the investigation off to the local guys. I know they can pull in the RCMP, especially if they think the child has been taken out of Canada, but in this case they apparently didn’t.”

  “Do they think Paul was kept in Burlington?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t think they know. He said most of the television he heard was in English, but that could be anywhere.”

  Simon pointed at the menu board. I followed his gaze. “Bilingual,” he said succinctly.

  It took a moment, and then I got it: the McDonald’s meals Paul had gotten while held captive. I said aloud what Simon was thinking. “If he was kept in Canada, the stuff printed on the box would be in both French and English.”

  He nodded. I hadn’t thought to ask Paul this, but surely the police had.

  “So do they have any leads?” Simon asked.

  “Don’t think so. They tried to suggest I was involved, but after they talked to Paul I assume they gave up on that.”

  “I’m sure Dumond is on their list—the first suspect is always the spouse. Plenty of people try to get rid of their spouse or ex-spouse and sometimes kids, too, in one fell swoop.”

  I shook my head. “I was there when Philippe saw Paul for the first time in Saranac Lake, Simon. You can’t fake that kind of emotion.”

  “Being crazy about his kid doesn’t necessarily mean he didn’t arrange to have his wife kidnapped. Maybe the kid wasn’t supposed to have been taken. Maybe the wife wasn’t supposed to have been killed. He could have set up a kidnapping, fake or real, and things went wrong.”

  I must have looked aghast, because Simon softened his tone. “I’m not saying that’s what happened, just that those are possibilities. Does Dumond talk about his wife?”

  “Not much,” I admitted. “Just the bare essentials.” I didn’t mention that there seemed to be no trace of her in the house; he’d see that soon enough.

  “And the body was never found?”

  I shook my head.

  “Any other relatives in the picture? Girlfriend?”

  I shook my head. “Not that I know of.”

  “What about the nanny?”

  “Elise? She’s Mary Poppins, only in her sixties, and French. She’s devoted to Paul; she’d never put him at risk.”

  “They managed to keep this out of the news?”

  “Yep.”

  Simon drummed his fingers on the tabletop, thinking aloud. “The kidnappers got rid of the mother right away, because she was harder to keep captive—they’d probably planned to kill her all along. They kept the child to send proof of life, and demanded ransoms until Dumond stopped paying.”

  “He couldn’t keep it up forever.” I knew I sounded defensive. “And by then he was convinced Paul was gone.”

  “No, of course he wouldn’t keep paying, and they knew that. They just wanted to get as much money as possible. But then they kept Paul, what, a month or more after Dumond stopped responding?” He nodded toward the car, and as he dumped his trash I pulled out my keys. In the car he asked quietly, “Do you know if Paul was sexually abused?”

  I shook my head. “The doctor said no.”

  He thought. “Then who knows? They hid their faces, which means they hadn’t originally planned to kill him. Maybe they planned to sell him and it fell through. Maybe they were going to try for more ransom, but they thought police were closing in, so they dumped him.”

  I winced.

  “Definitely cold-blooded,” he admitted. “Especially when they’d kept him alive so long. Do the police think they may come looking for him?”

  “Not unless someone learns that Paul is back. But they’re assuming the kidnappers were from Montreal.”

  As I started the car he asked, “Do the folks know you’re here?”

  “I emailed them I’m out of town, in case they call.”

  Although we both knew they wouldn’t.

  If not for Simon, I would happily have assumed I was one of those switched-at-the-hospital babies brought home to the wrong family. We were both unplanned—our sisters had been eight and ten when Simon arrived. But Simon was the male heir that completes the southern family, and he was attractive and outgoing and personable and more than competent at all the things he was expected to do: football and baseball, Scouts and Cotillion.

  By the time surprise number two, me, arrived less than a year later, the baby novelty had worn off. Judging from the pointed reminders my mother made to new mothers, my conception had resulted from the belief that you can’t get pregnant while nursing. Apparently, you can.

  If either Suzanne or Lynette had wanted a baby sister, let’s just say I wasn’t it. I hated the frilly, fussy clothing they and my mother chose—I buried one particularly hated outfit in the backyard—and instead snagged Simon’s clothes as he outgrew them. I wouldn’t play with Barbies and their pointy heels and tight outfits. I tagged around after Simon and his friends when I could, and read and rode my bike when I couldn’t. I didn’t do Cotillion. I didn’t do Junior Miss. I didn’t go to school dances or football games.

  What I did was bury myself in books, discover bicycle racing, out-score everyone at my high school on the SATs, win a scholarship to Oregon State, and skip my senior year of high school. Which pissed off my family, who expected me to live meekly at home and go to Vanderbilt, where our father is a physics professor. But Vanderbilt reimburses part of faculty children’s tuition at other schools, and my scholarship and part-time jobs covered the rest. Otherwise, besides health insurance and occasional plane tickets home (and twenties my dad slipped me when my mother wasn’t looking
), I’ve been supporting myself since I turned seventeen, soon after I arrived at university.

  I don’t go back to Nashville often.

  We drove in silence, Simon’s brain working on the case and mine wondering how this weekend was going to go. My brother had never visited me at someone else’s house, let alone in the aftermath of a kidnapping.

  In the driveway I rolled down my window and punched in the code Philippe had given me. As we waited for the gate to open I could see Simon surveying the house.

  A low whistle. “Nice digs, Sis,” he said, raising his eyebrows. I made a face. I hadn’t mentioned that Philippe’s income level far exceeded that of our usual circle of acquaintances. But kids and wives of poor people don’t often get kidnapped, I suppose.

  ELISE CHATTED ANIMATEDLY AS SHE SHOWED SIMON HIS room, apologizing for its size, although it wasn’t exactly tiny. At least I didn’t get bumped from my room in his honor, which my family would have done.

  Paul and Philippe arrived soon after, looking weary, Paul with a pinched look on his face. I automatically reached for him and hoisted him onto my hip, and just as automatically he rested his head on my shoulder. Philippe gave a tiny Gallic shrug that meant he didn’t know what was wrong, didn’t want to talk, or would tell me later. And I realized from a fleeting expression on Simon’s face that the three of us were acting very much like a family unit.

  I made introductions, and Philippe and Simon shook hands with that slightly formal air guys have when they’re sizing each other up.

  So you’re the suspicious policeman brother of the woman who rescued my kidnapped son.

  So you’re the father of the kidnapped child whose wife was murdered and who my sister has known less than a week.

  It’s tough enough to have family meet your friends in normal situations. Apparently I like to load the deck.

  “Paul,” Philippe said, putting his hand on Paul’s shoulder. “I think Simon would like to see your room.”

  “Maybe set up that racetrack in your closet,” I added, swinging Paul to the floor. “Simon likes those.”

  “Sure,” Simon said, perfectly willing to pretend he adores toy racetracks. There’s a reason he can manage our family so well. Paul looked at us uncertainly, but when we smiled encouragingly he led Simon down the hall.

  “Paul didn’t do very well with the sketch artist,” Philippe said once they were out of earshot. “He kept saying he didn’t remember what the men looked like, although they came up with something eventually. They had to coax and coax to get him even to look at the computer screen. And finally he started crying and wouldn’t stop.”

  “I guess he just wants to forget about them.” It was, I figured, a normal reaction for a six-year-old.

  “I know, but it’s frustrating, and I hate to see him so upset.” He grimaced. “I’ll ask the psychologist about it at his appointment this afternoon. I have to make some phone calls for work. Are you okay for now?”

  I nodded, and headed down the hall to Paul’s room. Simon was on the floor operating a car and making sound effects from deep in his throat, with Paul lying on his stomach watching. They offered me a turn, but I declined, and watched them play until Elise called us for lunch.

  Elise had outdone herself: crisp green salads and tiny delectable homemade pot pies with flaky crusts. Simon had no trouble eating despite the bagel he’d polished off not long ago.

  “Do you know anything about home security systems?” Philippe asked Simon as he finished his pot pie.

  “Sure,” Simon replied affably.

  “Would you mind taking a look at mine?”

  Simon nodded. This, I figured, was guy code to go off to talk—fine by me.

  Philippe ran his fingers through his son’s hair as he passed. I looked at Paul and patted my lap. “Why don’t you come sit here awhile?” I asked, and he climbed up and curled against me. “Did you want to go with your dad and Simon? Veux-tu aller avec ton père et Simon?”

  He shook his head. I rubbed his back rhythmically. “You know you’re going to go talk to someone this afternoon?”

  “Mmm.”

  “It won’t be like talking to the policemen. This will be a nice woman in a nice place, for no more than an hour, and you won’t have to talk if you don’t want to.” I translated into French.

  Paul stirred. “Pourquoi? Why talk?”

  “It might make you feel better. You might want to talk about things you don’t want to talk to us about. Maybe this person can help you not to worry about things—about the bad men.”

  He said nothing. “You know you’re safe now,” I whispered in his ear. “Your papa won’t let anything bad happen to you.” He let out a long sigh and snuggled closer. I held tight, wishing I could make his world bright and clear again. Wishing the kidnappers would be caught and locked in a small room for a very long time.

  After a few moments he squirmed around to look at me. “You go, too?”

  “No, your father will take you. Seulement ton père. I’ll stay here with my brother, so he won’t get lonely. But you’ll be back soon. And maybe you could get your dad to get you an ice cream cone—un cône de glace.” His eyes brightened at the words.

  When Philippe and Simon returned, Paul announced, “Papa, it is necessary that we buy ice cream,” and threw me a look that was almost smug. God, I loved this kid. I loved the spirit that had him working his dad for ice cream this soon after he got home.

  Philippe laughed. “A conspiracy. Certainly, we can have ice cream when we go out, but Elise will be unhappy with me if you have no room for dinner.”

  After they left I led Simon to the library, and he ran his fingers over the spines of the books, just as I had. “This is a nice place,” he said.

  “Yeah, nice. More like stupendous. So what did you guys talk about?”

  “Locks and things. He wants to make sure the house is safe, so I was telling him things to do, little changes to make.”

  “So you just talked about locks?”

  “Maybe not all. Maybe I asked him what his motives were toward my little sister.” I made a face. “Seriously, Sis, what’s going on?” His tone was somber.

  “Nothing. Nothing at all. I’m here because of Paul. I found him, he trusts me, and Philippe thinks it will help him to have me here.” He gave me a look. “Simon, the man’s just gotten confirmation that his wife is dead. He’s just gotten his kid back. And look around.” I waved my arm. “People like him date movie stars or beauty queens, not someone like me.”

  I said it without rancor, but Simon had been there in high school. Guys had liked me just fine when they needed help with calculus or English papers, but for dating they headed for the pert girls who wore makeup and knew how to toss their hair. Things had improved somewhat since then, but men still had a tendency to steer, like lemmings, toward glamour and a certain something I didn’t possess. I’d been out with Kate and her friends enough to know that when I was with them I was invisible to male eyes.

  “Mmm,” he said, wisely not commenting. “How long are you going to stay?”

  “It depends on how long Paul needs me and what the psychologist says. Probably until Paul gets into school, gets into a routine.”

  Simon looked at me. “You aren’t his mother, Troy. And you can’t fix everything.”

  “I know.” My voice cracked. “But I can’t … I can’t leave him yet.”

  Simon started to reply as the speakerphone at the gate buzzed, and we could hear Elise scurrying to answer it. She appeared moments later, looking worried.

  “What is it, Elise?”

  “It’s a policeman. At least, he says he’s a policeman. He says his name is Jameson and he wanted to see Monsieur Dumond. I wasn’t sure if I should let him in.” She was wringing her hands, the first time I’ve seen anyone actually doing this.

  I followed her. In the viewing screen I could see a dark car outside the entrance and a man behind the wheel who looked like Jameson. I motioned to Elise to buzz him in. He got out
of the car, as rumpled as yesterday and now seeming quite irritated. Probably not at all what Elise thought a policeman would look like.

  I swung the door open.

  Jameson’s mouth tightened at the sight of me. “Miss Chance,” he said, without expression.

  “Detective,” I replied, equally tonelessly. I’d have preferred open suspicion to this deadpan demeanor. “Philippe and Paul are out right now. Did you want—”

  He interrupted, waving a large brown envelope. “I brought these sketches by for him.” His gaze swung behind me, where I could sense Simon was standing.

  I stepped back awkwardly. “This is my brother, Simon Chance, from Florida,” I said. “Simon, this is Detective Jameson of the Ottawa Police Service, whom you spoke to on the phone.”

  More hand-shaking, more male taking-measure. Elise, flustered that she’d left a genuine police officer waiting, herded us toward the library and brought glasses of iced lemonade on a heavy lacquered tray.

  “When did you arrive?” Jameson asked Simon.

  “Just flew in a few hours ago. Can you tell me how the investigation is going?”

  A small shrug. Jameson sipped lemonade slowly, deliberately, and set the glass on a coaster. “We’ve sent the sketches to the Vermont and New York police, and of course the Montreal police and the RCMP. The Vermont and New York police both considered Miss Chance’s phone call a prank, although they did report it to the ferry offices in Burlington.”

  I worked hard at not squirming.

  “I was curious,” Simon asked. “The McDonald’s meals Paul got—were the bags or boxes printed just in English or also in French?”

  For a beat I thought Jameson wasn’t going to answer, but he did. “He says it was English.” Which meant that Paul had been kept in the States, most likely in Vermont.

  “No leads from the original investigation?” Simon asked.

  Another shrug, which could mean No, nothing or Nothing I want to talk about. Jameson asked Simon about his work, and they slid into general police talk. I’ve overdosed on this brand of conversation around Simon and his law enforcement pals, so I tuned out and was thinking about Paul at the psychologist’s when Simon nudged my knee.