Sam thought they were shopping for a baby stroller when, in reality, they were in the market for a birth certificate. It had taken Antigone a while to arrive at this point. First, she’d tried official channels, but there was no New York birth certificate filed for Irwin Cassius Butler.
Ryder wanted to forget the whole deal after that, but Antigone was obsessed with securing documentation of Ryder’s birth. She had explained that he would need it for all sorts of identification in the future. Eventually, Ryder caved. “I might know a guy who knows a guy.” That guy was Raul in New York, who understandably was cautious about doing business with a strange woman from North Carolina. But she nagged and pleaded in one telephone call after another; she was becoming quite good at badgering, just like a real mother. Finally, just to keep her from calling him anymore, Raul put her in touch with his “Southern connection,” Hector Bob.
Hector Bob had been equally leery, asking numerous questions and hanging up on her several times. But Antigone kept calling, and finally, they reached the stage of negotiation. She suggested a park for their meeting; he was adamant about the location, an alley behind a rundown building in Greensboro. He preferred doing business at midnight; she told him it was Saturday, mid-morning, or no deal.
“How will I recognize you?” she asked, when they’d finally nailed down the details.
“That won’t be a problem,” Hector Bob said. “And bring cash.”
AS SOON AS THEY had entered the city, Antigone had seen the shadow of change pass over Ryder. She felt him drawing on a mantle of alertness and suspicion, a posture she hadn’t seen in full bloom since they first met. She realized she had enjoyed watching Ryder relax in the months they’d been together. Some days she even saw the child in him again and felt inexplicably happy. This was city Ryder, and she hated seeing him return to that hard-shelled stranger. She wanted to hurry home, where he would become her Ryder again. Where the hell was Hector Bob?
As they sat in the sun, in the quiet warmth, Antigone thought: Mothers do crazy things for love. The mother of a Texas cheerleader once hired a hit man to eliminate her daughter’s competition. Mothers starve so their children can eat. They trudge in worn-down sandals so their teen-age daughters can add to their Ugg collections. Mothers will love and love and love—no matter the number of pierced body parts, forgotten birthdays, lame excuses, and silent nights waiting for phone calls. Maternal instinct is soldered onto the female soul and sometimes it just bypasses other instincts for fair play, for common sense, for survival; instincts like the one screaming inside her right now, “Get out of here!”
“This goes south, you gun it out and don’t look back. Forget the damn papers,” Ryder said, his eyes continuing to survey their surroundings.
Antigone tapped the steering wheel nervously. “Stop it. We do the deal, and we’re out of here. We’re not leaving without that birth certificate. I’m not going through this hell again.”
“Sam’s gonna kill if me he ever finds out I let you do this,” Ryder muttered.
“You let me? I’m the one who should have her head examined, dragging a kid into this. What was I thinking? I should have dropped you off at a Starbucks to wait for me.”
Ryder gave her a look that said get real and ignored her.
Tap, tap, tap on the steering wheel. “This is what bad mothers do. They drag kids to mysterious meetings in unsavory places with strange and probably dangerous men.”
“I’m an expert on bad mothers,” Ryder said. “You don’t even come close to making the cut.”
PRETENDING TO STARE OUT the windshield while she watched Ryder out of the corner of her eye, Antigone said, “Even though the clerk’s office didn’t have a birth certificate for you, they had one for your sister. Your mother gave birth to a girl named Angela. What happened to her, Ryder?”
“I don’t talk about Angela,” he said, slowly shifting in the seat, giving her his full attention. His eyes hardened. “She’s gone. That’s all you need to know.”
“Sorry.”
She waited.
After several long moments, he said softly, “She was sick from the beginning. We had to take her to the hospital.”
“So that’s why there’s paperwork on her.”
Ryder turned away, his arm propped on the door. “She gone, and she never coming back.”
Antigone nodded and turned back to watch for Hector Bob, who was already an hour late. “Where the hell is this documentation salesman?” she grumbled. “He’s probably watching us, making sure this isn’t a setup.”
“I would.”
“I wish I knew more about this stuff,” Antigone mumbled. “Everything I know about meeting people in deserted alleys I learned on TV.”
Ryder groaned. “This Disneyland all over again.”
Antigone stiffened. Over Ryder’s shoulder, she saw what could only be Hector Bob sauntering across the railroad tracks toward them. She caught her breath and clutched her stomach. Ryder’s head whipped around. Hector Bob was lanky and tall, his ill-fitting white summer suit hanging on him in a jaunty manner. He wore no tie, just a ribbon-collar shirt buttoned up all the way to his Richard Nixon Halloween mask. He reached the car, leaned against the convertible on Ryder’s side, and examined his fingernails.
“Good morning,” Hector Bob said, “and Happy Halloween.”
The alley just got quieter and creepier. Antigone searched the dark doorways of the abandoned buildings. Ryder edged closer to her, ready to spring if Hector Bob made a move toward her.
Antigone cleared her throat. “Hector Bob?”
“In the flesh.”
“Nice mask.”
“Thank you, but it’s hotter than hell.”
“It’s a little early for trick or treating.”
“What can I say? I like the holidays.” Hector Bob stepped back and examined the convertible. “Sweet ride.”
“Thanks,” Antigone said, wishing she were anywhere but here, wishing they were tooling down some wide open road. Her insides felt like a bowl of Cream of Wheat that had been sitting too long, full of lumps.
Ryder, who wasn’t one for chit-chat on a good day, interrupted. “Got the papers?”
Hector Bob patted the pocket of his suitcoat. “Got the cash?”
Antigone patted an envelope lying between the seats on the gearshift.
They exchanged envelopes, leaning across Ryder, careful not to touch fingers in passing. Hector Bob counted the money twice. Antigone took her time examining the fake birth certificate, pretending that she dealt in false credentials all the time. She was so nervous, the letters were practically vibrating. She couldn’t make out a single word. She passed it to Ryder.
“What do you think?” Antigone asked.
Ryder shrugged. “Everything’s spelled right. It’ll fool the DMV, the school.”
“It’ll fool God,” the documentation dealer drawled. “Hector Bob handles only the best products and services.” Even muffled by the mask, Hector Bob’s voice seemed to slither up Antigone’s spine. He was enjoying himself. She was not.
Antigone turned to Ryder and cocked an eyebrow.
“It’ll do,” he said, keeping his eye on Hector Bob.
Antigone wasted no time starting the engine.
Hector Bob ran his hand along the side of the Mustang as he slowly circled the front of the car coming to a stop next to Antigone’s door. Ryder edged closer to Antigone. “This sure is some nice wheels. You know, I don’t think I know anybody who’s been born on Halloween before. I wore this for you, boy.”
Ryder stared him in the eyeholes.
Hector Bob moved closer and casually leaned through Antigone’s side to get a closer look at the dashboard of the Mustang. More than anything in the world, Antigone wanted to hightail it out of the alley and get as far away as possible from this man who reeked of sweat and cheap cologne. But the man was crowding so close, she was bound to hit him, and she’d never run over a person with a car before. Just the thought made her squeamish.
And she knew for sure that good mothers did not make a habit of running down business acquaintances, at least not in front of children.
“Yessirree, this is some wheels. This color look good on me. What say we go get a drink? Celebrate our transaction. I’ll ride with you.”
It was ten o’clock in the morning, a little early for local taverns to be open.
“We gotta be goin’,” Ryder said.
Hector Bob tilted his head toward Ryder. Chuckling, he casually stepped back from the car, raising his hands in mock surrender. That’s when Antigone realized, at some point, he’d slipped on black driving gloves. He began to reach into his coat pocket then stopped and lifted his head slightly toward the alley entrance. At the same time, Antigone heard sirens, growing ever closer. Hector Bob and Ryder exchanged another long, intense stare. “Maybe another time,” Hector Bob said.
“Let’s go.” Ryder tapped Antigone on the shoulder. “Gun it.”
Antigone pressed her foot to the accelerator, unable to shake the feeling that they might have just escaped a long walk home to Mercy. As they sped out of the alley, spitting gravel, she saw Hector Bob in the rearview mirror, waving both hands in the air, fingers shaped in peace signs.
Chapter 10
Banana Cream Ambush
ANTIGONE BROWN FIGURED IF she could handle Hector Bob, she could deal with Irene. Besides, Antigone had talked Nancy into coming with her. Nancy was her backup. Her backup was thirty minutes late.
So Antigone sat in the Mustang under a tree in front of Irene’s house and waited. Finally, Irene opened her heavy oak front door with its black iron antique hinges and lion head knocker and yelled, “Are you stalking me?”
Antigone got out of the car and strolled up the walk. “You’re not my type,” she said.
“Well, come on in then.” Irene pulled the door wider then turned toward the kitchen. “I’ve pies in the oven.”
Antigone tugged the big door closed behind her. It weighed a ton. Maybe Irene just opened and closed the door as part of her fitness regimen. Irene prided herself on maintaining her size six figure. “You bake? I thought that was what Cecily was for.”
“Cecily can’t bake a decent pie crust to save her soul. She’s strictly a cookie person.”
Antigone had never been inside the Crump home. It had an echoey feeling. She stepped into the foyer and peered up into the cathedral ceiling, then looked down at the thick Oriental rug in rich colors gracing the travertine stone floor. The rug created a thick wool garden of exotic vines and flowers in luxurious reds, golds, and tans. The air was scented with a monstrous arrangement of lilies on a round table in the foyer. She passed Greek columns, holding nothing up really; they seemed to be guarding the entrance to an Architectural Digest living room. The living room in question was a controlled environment from the shiny baby grand in front of the big windows to the neat stacks of magazines on the coffee table. The fieldstone fireplace was large enough to roast a deer in, a thought that gave Antigone the willies.
Irene led the way past the perfect living room and into a no-less-perfect kitchen. With every step, Antigone thought of her house, with shoes dropped wherever someone walked out of them, cabinet doors standing open in the kitchen, window sills cluttered with her treasures—leaves, rocks, and pinecones she’d found while walking with the deer. She thought, when you took the time to really examine something, you paid it respect. And if you carried it around with you for a while, then it became a part of you. Every once in a while tidy Sam cleared off the window sills, starting the process all over again.
Three pies were sitting on the center island in Irene’s big, bright kitchen—a banana cream and two lemon meringues. Irene checked a restaurant-size oven. The smell of apples and cinnamon wafted out with a gust of heat. Irene motioned Antigone toward a U-shaped banquette that seated eight easily. Like the rest of the kitchen, it was all carved wood, painted white, with flowery fabric on cushions and pillows. Antigone couldn’t see the purpose in having pillows in a kitchen.
“Ice tea? Sorry, I can’t offer you some pie, but we’re having dinner guests tonight. Associates of Arthur’s.”
“No problem. I don’t want the little one to develop a sweet tooth.” Antigone tapped her tummy. “Sam read somewhere that whatever I eat is going straight to Junior. I mean if I eat nothing but spicy foods, the kid is likely to come out roaring fire like a dragon.”
“Well, I don’t know much about dragons, but I do avoid all spicy foods myself,” Irene said.
“Of course, you do. You seem like a sensible woman,” Antigone took a sip of tea from a Waterford crystal glass. “That’s why I can’t figure out what the hell is wrong with you, Irene.”
Irene, sitting across the table, paused as she lifted her glass. “Pardon?”
“This book business.”
Irene matched the kitchen: eggshell silk blouse and pants protected by a pristine floral bib apron with ruffles along the edge. She tugged at the bib and smoothed it. “What exactly are we talking about?”
“Just you stomping all over the Constitution with your fancy heels.” Irene glanced at Antigone’s scuffed hiking boots and raised an eyebrow. “I know about your little lists of banned books, Irene. I can’t believe you drew Nancy into this crazy scheme of yours. And it is crazy. Censoring books you don’t like. I don’t know how you can sleep at night.”
“I sleep quite well, thank you.” Irene sniffed and lifted her chin. “I’m protecting the children of this town. I’m doing something worthwhile, unlike some people I know who are only interested in running low-class tourist traps and linen outlets.”
“People love my tourist trap, and my sheets are eight hundred thread count.”
“I’m making a difference in our community.”
“You’re making a mess. Do you think you’ll get away with this? This is the United States of America! Americans get a tad irritable when people try to take our rights away. And we’re not a quiet people. The media, the Internet, they’re going to crucify Mercy.”
Irene rapped the table, using one manicured fingernail like a gavel. “I would think you would understand. You’re having a child. A good mother thinks of her children.”
Antigone stiffened. “I want to protect my child from the world, Irene. But I also want to protect the world for my child.”
“What a load of New Age liberal hooey.”
Antigone had learned long ago to counter power with stubbornness. You just didn’t give in—when the words seem to beat you, when the teacher doesn’t understand, when the kids won’t leave you alone. You dig in your heels so deep it’ll take a bulldozer to move you. And that’s what Irene and her overdeveloped sense of entitlement would need—one of Arthur’s bulldozers.
“I’m going to stop you, Irene.”
“I’d like to see you try. Nobody stops me.”
“Don’t make this ugly. Tell Nancy to put the books back, and we’ll forget this ever happened.”
The two women glared at each other like boxers in the ring. The timer on the oven dinged, and both of them jumped to their feet. Irene rushed to the counter, pulled on oven mitts, and removed two apple cobblers from the oven. She placed them on the cooling racks on the granite counter by the stove then turned to Antigone. “Go back to your little deer.”
Antigone knew this was a trick of the powerful: dismiss and patronize and watch your opponent slink off. She’d had a lifetime of people dismissing her. But when she came to Mercy, she had decided her slinking days were over. Her inheritance had empowered her, and now she ran a successful animal attraction and the only vegetarian restaurant within fifty miles. She and Sam also owned a textile outlet and a garage, both profitable businesses. Her eyes narrowed.
Irene smiled and leaned her hip against the counter, which featured a fancy floral motif you might find at Versailles. She crossed her arms, floppy oven mitts still on her hands.
“Think twice about taking this any further, Antigone. You would be better off taking care of you
r business instead of sticking your nose in mine.”
“This is my business.”
“The world is an unpredictable place,” Irene continued. “The textile mill could find another outlet for its seconds. The health inspector could take a special interest in your little restaurant. My husband could find another mechanic for his fleet.”
Suddenly, Antigone felt a roaring in her head; if she had been a cartoon character, steam would have erupted from her ears. She softly rubbed her stomach to quiet herself as much as the baby. “Don’t bring my family’s life into this. I’m warning you, Irene.”
“Or what?”
Antigone gazed around Irene’s prized kitchen. There was no evidence of spilt flour on the counter or measuring cups in the sink or mixing bowls scattered about. It was spotless. Perfect. So Irene.
“You like things neat, don’t you, Irene?”
Silence.
“Everything in its place.”
More silence.
Antigone wrinkled her nose and dragged her hand along the cool granite countertop of the center island. “Everything tidy, contained, in control. Well, control this!” and with a sweep of her arm, she knocked a lemon meringue pie off the counter. It landed upside down on the tile floor.
Irene gasped. She straightened. Her mouth moved but no words came out.
“Oops!” Antigone looked Irene in the eye and said quietly, “I’m not going to slink off and let you and your little club ruin this town. Leave the library alone and leave my family alone, Irene.” She paused, her hand dangerously close to another pie. “Back off, or things could get messy.” Then Antigone started out of the kitchen.
“Antigone!” Irene screamed. “This isn’t over!”
Book of Mercy Page 7
