by Midge Bubany
“We all do the best we can.”
Shannon’s first husband died seven years earlier; while out jogging he was hit by a drunk driver. She used to keep Chad’s urn on a shelf in her living room—a shiny black model—hard to miss. It may have made the move to my house with her, but I never saw it. When she moved back, it reappeared on the same shelf and now sat alongside Colby’s.
We sat in silence for a few seconds before I said, “I don’t know how much good these sessions with Luke will do. He seems hell-bent on hating me for trying to replace his dad.”
“Don’t give up on him. He needs one.”
I wondered if Donna knew Shannon was working on getting him one he might like better.
There was a buzz, Carole picked up the phone, then said they were ready for me.
Brett greeted me at the door with a smile and a handshake. He had a kind face and soft-brown eyes that made you think he wouldn’t judge you. He always wore khaki pants and dress shirts without a tie. His brown hair was as short as mine, and his mustache and beard were neatly trimmed into a Van Dyke.
Luke looked younger than his ten years sitting in the big chair, with his arms crossed and his hands curled into tight fists. He was staring at the bird feeder tied to a tree branch just outside the window. A male cardinal chirped, looked at us, ate a little seed, chirped again, then flew off. Luke’s eyes remained fixed on the feeder.
“Hi, Luke. It’s good to see you. I really miss going to your baseball games.”
The last one I attended, he took one look at me and walked off the field and made his mom take him home. Later, Shannon called to tell me I shouldn’t attend any others, or he wouldn’t play. I’m not sure she tried to convince him otherwise.
“I don’t want you there,” Luke said.
“Why do you think that is, Luke?” Brett said.
“Because I hate him and don’t want him watching me.”
“We need to talk about this more, Luke. But first, as we discussed, we need to focus on the morning of the accident. Luke, tell Cal what you told me about how you remember it.”
He didn’t speak for several seconds then said, “Mom and Cal…”
“Remember you’re speaking to Cal.”
“Mom and you fought. She said it was a mistake to marry you. You got real mad and shouted at her, and it scared us.”
“Speak only for yourself, Luke,” Brett said.
“You scared me.”
This conversation was obviously rehearsed.
“Then what?” Brett asked.
“Then you slammed the door and left. Mom cried for a while until Grandma Donna came and asked why me and Colby were still home. We missed the bus, so mom said she’d have to drive us to school.”
Donna was babysitting that day because our former nanny, Brittany, had the day off.
“So what happened next?”
“Mom said since we were already late and the coffee shop was on the way, she was stopping at the drive-through.”
It wasn’t on the way. It was way out of the way. If she had dropped off the boys first…
“Then?”
“Then she started driving to school, and that’s when she got a text from Cal. She told me to read it to her.”
“Do you remember what it said?”
“He asked her if she wanted a divorce.”
“Then what happened?”
“We got to the light, and she was crying.”
“You were stopped for a red light.”
“Yes.”
“Then what happened?”
“The light turned green. I told her to go, and she did, and that’s when the truck hit us.” He turned and shouted at me. “It’s his fault!”
His words were a punch in the belly.
“Luke, remember the rules?” Brett said.
Luke pulled his face into a defiant scowl, and his fists were so tight his knuckles were turning white against dark-red hands.
“Okay, now it’s Cal’s turn. Remember we look at him when he’s speaking.”
He slowly lifted his eyes to meet mine. My throat felt tight as I swallowed. This was it. I needed to say the right thing—if I only knew what it was.
“That morning before I left for work, yes, your mom and I did have words. And, you’re right, she did tell me she thought we made a mistake by getting married so quickly.”
“Did you hear her say that Luke?” Brett asked.
Luke nodded.
“Did you also hear me say I disagreed? I said we had four kids now and needed to stick together. My dad wasn’t around when I was growing up, and I know how hard that is on a kid.”
“You’re not my real dad,” he said.
“I adopted you. You are my son.”
“My dad is dead.”
“He is, and now I want to take care of you because I love you,” I said.
“Bullshit!” Spittle flew out of his mouth.
“No, it’s true.”
“Then why did Mom say you didn’t act like you wanted us in your house.”
I hadn’t realized he’d also heard the argument we had the night before.
Fueled by my hesitation, Luke screamed, “I never saw my mom cry before she married you and we moved into your house.”
“Your mom and I didn’t know you were listening. ”
“People say things they don’t mean when they’re upset,” Brett said.
Luke’s face said he wasn’t buying a word of it, but I continued. “That morning after I got to work, I texted her and asked if she really wanted a divorce. When she answered yes, I texted her to say I would fight for our marriage, but you wouldn’t have known that, Luke, because I understand that’s when the accident happened.”
“No, you said, you weren’t going to let it happen.”
“You’re right. That’s exactly what I said. I’d forgotten. So you saw the text?”
His face reddened.
Brett leaned forward. “Did you see the text, Luke?”
“Yes.”
Then it dawned on me. It was Luke who had the phone and answered my texts—not Shannon. He was the one who said he wanted the divorce. The texting was at the crux of the legal case. Clifford Emerson, the Estelle’s Candies truck driver, said the light had just turned yellow when he entered the intersection. Their company attorney argued Shannon was texting on her phone at the time of the crash, that even if the light was red, she could have avoided the crash if she had been attentive and looked before she entered the intersection.
“Luke, do you understand how important it is to admit it was you who was on your mother’s phone and answered my text?” I said.
“Why? So she will go back to you?” he said with a snarl.
“It was you who texted ‘Fuck you.’ Wasn’t it?”
Tears started forming in his eyes, he pushed his tongue into the side of his cheek as he looked out the window. I didn’t know if Shannon wasn’t even aware of what he had done, or if she was protecting him from being involved.
“Luke, answer Cal.”
“Yeah, I said it because I hate your guts and didn’t want to live with you anymore.”
Silence filled the room like the aftermath of a storm. Brett lifted his hand to stroke his beard.
I looked to Brett for help. He only nodded. I should say what was on my mind. What I wanted to say was, “You little shit.” But instead I chose: “I enjoyed having you live with me because I love you. The house seems empty without you and your mom.”
His lip quivered. “Can I go?” he asked.
“Well, we’ve accomplished a great deal today, so, yes, you can go now, Luke. We’ll meet again next week.”
Luke got up, stalked out, and slammed the door.
; My eyes slowly moved from the door to Brett.
He let out a breathy, “Whoa.”
“That went well,” I said.
“I think we made great progress today.”
“If you say so. Did you know he was the one who texted me back?”
“No. Didn’t you and Shannon ever talk about it?”
“What happened before didn’t seem to matter after the accident.”
“The good thing is his hostility is out in the open, which needs to happen before he can get past it. You do know you have similar feelings towards your own father, so you should get how he feels.”
“Only I really didn’t do anything to Luke to warrant his hatred, like my father did to me.”
“You and I both know that. You’re his scapegoat. He can direct all his pain toward you without much consequence. And by being stubborn and refusing to see you, he gets more of his mom’s attention. I’ll take it up with Shannon. And now, you and I should talk about your decision to divorce.”
“My decision? You do know Shannon has a boyfriend… Mac Wallace? She saw him years ago when he was still married. They split up because of it, and now that he’s divorced, they’re back together.”
“I wasn’t aware of any of this.”
“Neither was I. A mutual friend, thinking I knew, spilled the beans.”
“I appreciate knowing. So, Cal, we’ve spoken at great length about your father. Are you ready to relieve yourself of your own negative feelings for him?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why not?”
“Because what he did was reprehensible.”
“I want you to pretend to be him for a few minutes, and tell me in his words what happened.”
“He impregnated his wife’s sister, carried on an affair with her for years, then, when caught, they both split for California where they remained until Grace died. Then he comes crawling back, begging forgiveness for being absent for thirty years, offering me money.”
“That’s you talking. Change the he to I. Just try.”
I took a deep breath. “I fell madly in love with Grace. I didn’t mean for it to happen. When everything came down on us, I thought it best to get Grace out of Minnesota and have a fresh start. Her parents disowned her anyway. We lived happily ever after when we had our daughter, Angelica. We made up for our years of neglect by bequeathing a large sum of money to Cal. He should forgive me now.”
“Are you being entirely fair?”
“I think so.”
The look on his face reminded me of my grandfather’s face when I lied to him about putting a dent in his Olds.
“You must realize your anger is hurting you more than him. It affects everything you do and all your relationships—even your friendships and how you get along with co-workers.”
I’d heard it all before, but this time the words touched on something. He was right. My life was shit. My pent-up anger was affecting every relationship I had.
“How do I get rid of it?”
“I’ve been waiting for you to ask. Think about why you want to hold onto the anger.”
“It’s not because I want to.”
“But what does anger prevent you from feeling?”
“You tell me.”
He stared at me for a while making me squirm.
“Okay, it may prevent me from feeling other things.”
“Folks, we have a bingo. This week think about what those things are and we’ll talk about it next time.”
“Are you going to recommend the same to Luke?”
He smiled. “It’s different with children. I like to fly kites with them. We attach our problems to the tail to lift them away from our bodies.”
“Well, you better get flying.”
“I think we have more work to do before he’s ready.”
Chapter 17
May 30
Eighteen days missing.
At 4:00 a.m. sharp, Tamika lumbered her way to the Explorer. She put a small carry-on in the back alongside our equipment I’d pre-packed the night before, then dropped herself into the front seat with a groan.
She held her throat. “Coffee.”
I drove to the Quick Stop on the way out and bought two coffees that tasted like metallic sludge and two sticky muffins, then made my way to Highway 71 to catch I-94 at Sauk Center.
Yesterday, I had contacted Wynn’s parole officer, and he gave me a new Minneapolis address on Queen Avenue North. MPD had four patrol cars stationed on the street down from the stucco house at six thirty when we rolled up. We handled it like a raid, securing the scene before the search. I expected Wynn to be home, and I assumed he had weapons.
A woman who identified herself as Roseanna Martinez answered the door in a dingy white, extra-large men’s T-shirt. She had a baby bump of about six months. The officers went through the door first and secured the scene while Tamika and I stayed with Roseanna. The house was covered in a layer of grime and smelled like cigarettes and weed. Ants crawled on Coke cans, and crusted plates lay on the floor in front of the sagging sofa.
They came back down stating the only people present were two women, the other was in a bedroom upstairs. I asked Tamika to go keep on eye on her while I questioned Roseanna, Ginty’s girlfriend. Two officers stayed to keep watch while we did our business.
I showed Roseanna pictures of Raybern Ginty and Nevada Wynn and asked if she knew them.
“Yeah, they live here.”
“Who’s the woman upstairs?”
“Franchon Inman.
“Where’s Wynn now?”
“Working, I guess.”
“Were you in Vegas a couple weeks ago with Raybern?” I asked.
“Yeah, we went there on a little vaycay.”
I invited her to sit at the kitchen table. Ketchup stains spotted the formica top. I pulled over a Hustler magazine to set my iPad on. I touched the record button.
“Tell me about your Vegas vacation.”
“Ray-Ray came home and told me to grab my purse because we were going to Vegas. He bought me the clothes I needed at the airport and in the hotel.”
“Sounds like a special time,” I said.
“Was—until he got arrested. I had to pay my own way home.”
“What a shame. So tell me about yourself. What do you do for work?”
“Franchon and I are escorts.”
“Prostitutes?”
“Well, yeah.”
“Do you have a pimp?”
“Me and Franchon are independents. We work downtown, mostly Washington or Nicollet. We just work ‘til three, get the last-call boys after the bars close.”
She said in March, Ray-Ray and Snake moved in—they had once been their johns. A few days after the move, the two men kicked out Vickilee and Topaz, also hookers, because they were always late on their rent—they put all their money up their noses. The change in roommates was fine with Roseanna and Franchon because the men currently paid all the rent and utilities. It was all head-shaking stuff.
She knew Ginty was a drug dealer.
“It don’t bother me,” she said.
“Do you keep the product here on the premises?”
“No, just a little bit for us to use rec-crea-ationally. I’m no junkie.”
“How does Snake make a living?”
“He drives a delivery truck.”
“For North Cross?”
“Don’t know.”
How could an ex-felon like Snake get a promotion from the loading dock to truck driver, then get away with using the truck to transport his drugs? He was either that good, or someone at the company knew what he was up to and was in on the action.
“So, back to your Vegas trip. Did you go up to the desk with
Ray-Ray when you checked in at The Flamingo?”
“No, I hit the casino right away. It’s a real nice place, but next time, I want to stay at The Venetian. That was so beautiful. It was just like you were in Venice. Me and Franchon might even move out there after the baby’s born.”
“You ever think you might get out of the business when you have this baby?”
“Sure, all the time. I just don’t know what I’d do for money.”
“There are programs, grants. You could go to school, get a legitimate job.”
“I don’t know how to do all that.”
“Go talk to a Hennepin County social worker. They can steer you in the right direction.”
Her face fell into a contemplative look.
“Has Ray ever mentioned Michael or Paul Hawkinson?”
“Who?”
“Michael Hawkinson. You know… the man whose stolen credit card Ray used when you were on your vaycay in Vegas.”
“Oh, that.”
“Did you meet Michael or hear his name mentioned?”
“No, but at the bar when we bought our drinks, they said, ‘Thank you Mr. Hawkinson.’ ”
She should have been arrested too.
I called Tamika’s cell phone and asked her to bring down the other woman. Their footsteps were heavy and slow as they descended the wood stairs. Franchon shuffled in wearing frayed jeans shorts cut up to her buttocks and a short tank top with no bra. I know this because the outline of her nipple rings showed through her shirt. She had blond, straggly hair, dark at the roots. She was a skinny, heavily tattooed woman with more body piercings than anyone I’d laid eyes on: nipples, belly button, several up both ears, nose, several in her cheek, eyebrows, and I’m guessing there’s one or more below her Mason-Dixon line. Tamika escorted Roseanna out of the kitchen, and I asked Franchon to take her place at the table.
“That lady says you work in Birch County. Where that?”
“Do you know where Brainerd is?” I asked.
She shook her head.
“It’s northwest of here. When did you move to Minnesota?”
“I was born here.”
Okay then. Did she know what I meant by northwest?
Her face was prematurely wrinkled and spotted with scars and sores most likely due to heavy meth use. She had tattoos of roses up her forearms, a face of a young child inked on one upper arm, CiCi scripted underneath.
