Long Bright River

by Liz Moore

  —Alonzo, I say, I’m so sorry to trouble you, but I was wondering if I could ask you for a favor. Is there any chance I could leave this bag here briefly?

  —No problem, he says again.

  I hesitate, and then leave a ten-dollar bill on the counter for him.

  He tries to push it back to me, but I don’t pick it up.

  —A tip, I say.

  * * *

  —

  It’s eighteen degrees out. In any other neighborhood I would look ridiculous running the several blocks to Mr. Wright’s store in a T-shirt. Here, no one blinks.

  When I arrive at Mr. Wright’s at 2:40, I open the door, grateful for the warmth inside. A little bell rings. No one seems to be there.

  I stand there silently for a while, until I hear the soft closing of a door from the rear of the store.

  Mr. Wright eventually emerges from an aisle, ducking around a stack of hula-hoops to do so.

  He looks at me but says nothing, and for a moment I wonder whether he even recognizes me, whether he remembers me from this morning.

  He takes his time returning to his place behind the register, lowers himself painfully onto a high stool.

  Finally, he speaks. Not here yet, is what he says.

  —Dock isn’t? I say.

  He says, Now who do you think I’m talking about?

  —All right, I say. I’m not certain, now, how to proceed.

  I look at my watch. It’s 2:50 now. I’m risking my job, I believe, to be here, out of uniform, apart from my radio. I wonder if I can blame it on a malfunction if it comes to that.

  —May I ask you something? I say to Mr. Wright.

  —You can ask me anything you want to, says Mr. Wright. I might not answer.

  But for the first time there is a twinkle in his eye.

  —Does this person come in every day? How certain are you that—

  The door opens then, and Mr. Wright raises his eyebrows and tilts his chin, very subtly, toward the man who comes through it.

  I turn.

  The man is my height, maybe, and skinny. I recognize him from the picture I saw on Facebook. He wears a bright orange jacket, zipped tight, and jeans. His hair is chin length now, and so unwashed that it’s difficult to ascertain its natural color. Light brown, most likely. He’s very handsome. Heroin does a lot of things to a body, but one thing it can do is streamline it, knock off weight, make the features stand out sharply in the absence of flesh. Bright eyes, wet eyes, a rush of blood to the face that alters its color.

  The man says nothing, but eyes me sideways as he walks over to Mr. Wright at the counter.

  Then he turns around.

  —Were you waiting, he says. He doesn’t know me. He wants me to leave the store before making the arrangement he’s here to make.

  I wait to see if Mr. Wright will introduce us, but he stays out of it.

  —No, I wasn’t waiting, I say. And then, Any chance your name is Dock?

  —No, says the man.

  —No? I say again.

  I’m usually better at this.

  —Nope.

  The man stares at me. He crosses his arms around his middle. Taps his toe a few times on the ground, making it clear that he’s waiting.

  —Okay, I say. It’s just that you look like him in a picture I saw once.

  Dock shifts. What picture? he says.

  He glances every so often at Mr. Wright. At the moment, I am the one standing between him and the key that will grant him a fix. Clearly, he needs one badly. He begins to shift his weight from foot to foot.

  I try a different tactic. Listen, I say. I’m looking for Kacey Fitzpatrick.

  Dock pauses, finally, and puts his hand on the counter.

  —Ohhhhh, he says, softly. Oh. You her sister?

  I have a sudden memory of all the times I fished Kacey out of houses she shouldn’t have been in, when we were younger. All the men who eyed me while asking that question. And I ask myself if the decision I have made, to do it all over again, is correct.

  —I am, I say.

  There’s no hiding it. Despite other physical differences, Kacey and I have nearly the same face. When we were younger, people used to comment on it frequently.

  —Mickey? says Dock.

  —Yeah.

  Mr. Wright keeps his eyes down.

  —She always talked about you, he says, and my body flashes cold for a moment. Talked sounds like someone who’s dead.

  —Do you know where she is? I ask him abruptly.

  He shakes his head. Nah, he says. She left me a couple months ago. Haven’t heard from her since.

  —So you were—I say.

  He looks at me like I’m an idiot.

  —You were together? I ask.

  —Yeah, he says. Then: I have some business to attend to here. Let me know if you hear anything from Kacey.

  —Can I have your number? I ask him.

  —Sure, he says. And he gives it to me.

  To make sure he gave me the right one, I call him right away. From inside his pocket comes his cell phone ring: the sound of a song I vaguely recognize, something popular when I was a child. I didn’t know the name of it then, and I don’t now.

  —All right, I say. Thanks.

  On my way out, Dock says, Hey.

  —You’re a cop, right? he says to me.

  I hesitate. Yes, I say.

  He says nothing. Mr. Wright says nothing.

  —Anything else? I ask.

  —Nah, says Dock.

  He keeps his eyes on me until I leave the store.

  So, says Truman, on the other end of the phone.

  —So, I say.

  I’m half walking, half jogging in the direction of Alonzo’s store. I’m out of breath. I’m chattering all over in the cold. My left arm is wrapped tightly around my midsection. I want to get to my radio and my gun. They feel like children I left behind: like Thomas felt to me, when I first went back to work. I wish, now, I could sprint.

  —What happened? he asks.

  I tell him.

  —What’d you think of him? asks Truman.

  —I think he’s dishonest, I say, after thinking. And untrustworthy.

  Truman says nothing.

  —What are you thinking? I ask him.

  —Sounds about right, I guess, Truman says. He hesitates. I know why: agreeing with me too strongly means bad things for Kacey. I mean, who knows, he adds.

  —Thank you again for your help, I say.

  —Will you stop that, says Truman.

  I return to Alonzo’s, retrieve the bag from him, head into the bathroom, and get my uniform back on as quickly as I can. I check my phone compulsively, half expecting texts from other officers: Where the hell are you? Ahearn’s looking for you. But none comes in. I thank Alonzo again and head for the door before having a second thought. I weigh the bag in my hands, full now of my civilian clothes.

  —Alonzo, I say. Any chance I could leave this here for the time being? Is there someplace out of the way I could keep it?

  * * *

  —

  As I run to the car, I can’t shake the thought that Sergeant Ahearn will be there, waiting for me, when I turn the corner onto the little side street where I parked. Checking his watch.

  But no one’s there. I breathe. I open my trunk and retrieve my possessions. A call comes over the radio. Theft from auto: nothing urgent.

  Gratefully, I respond.

  On my way home, the gravity of what I’ve just done settles onto my shoulders. And I am suddenly struck by a sense of anger, the kind I used to feel with regularity, the sort of anger that led me to stop speaking to Kacey. When I made this decision, my life instantly improved. The thing is: I do have a temper. Simon used to tell me I was the calmest person he knew, until I
wasn’t anymore.

  What is making me angriest, at present, is the fact that today’s episode imperiled my profession, which I largely enjoy, and my livelihood, and my ability to earn a salary and benefits for myself and my son. Imagine, I think, if I had been caught and fired for my behavior today. Imagine if I had jeopardized everything I’ve built for Thomas, the modest but respectable life I have made for us both. And for what? For someone who probably does not want to be found, who has perhaps intentionally gone missing, for someone whose every decision has been a self-serving one, who has rejected out of hand every attempt others have made to set her on a better path.

  Enough of this, I vow. Enough. No more. Kacey’s life is her own to protect. Not mine.

  And then, just as quickly, comes a vision of the woman we found on the Tracks. Her blue lips. Her hair slick against her head. Her clothes translucent. Her eyes wide-open, innocent, unprotected from the rain.

  * * *

  —

  In Bensalem, I pull into the driveway. As I round the house, I look up: Thomas, lately, has been keeping watch for me from my bedroom window. Yes, there he is, two hands on the panes, his face pressed to the cold glass, his expression distorted. He grins and bolts to greet me at the door.

  Inside, I pay a bored-looking Bethany and ask how Thomas was today.

  —Fine, she says, and no more.

  When I left them this morning, I gave Bethany money to take him to a bookstore and let him choose a book. I bought her a booster seat for her to use in her car, but I have never once seen it installed.

  —What did you do?

  —Um, says Bethany, we read books.

  —How was the store? I ask Thomas.

  —We didn’t go, says Thomas, darkly.

  I look at Bethany.

  —It was so cold out, she says. We read books here.

  —One, says Thomas. We read one book.

  His voice has taken on a petulant edge.

  —Thomas, I say, warningly—out of obligation, not conviction.

  But my heart is heavy.

  * * *

  —

  When Bethany has left, Thomas looks at me, wide-eyed, his small hands at his sides, palms forward. Look what you’ve done to me! he seems to be saying, with this expression.

  Thomas is very intelligent. I realize it is incorrect to say that about one’s own child, but I base this on evidence: he began to speak quite young, and was putting together puzzles by one and a half, and could say all of his letters and numbers before two, and so on. He borders at times on perfectionism, a tendency I monitor to ensure it does not devolve into compulsiveness, or, worse, addiction. (Thinking about our family, I often fearfully consider the idea that addictive tendencies may be hiding someplace in his genes.) Mainly, though, I think he is simply, well, gifted—that word that Gee disdained so much when it was once used about me.

  When Thomas was two years old, I did some research to make certain I was correct in my assessment that he was advanced for his age, and when I had confirmed it, I prevailed upon Simon to help me enroll him in Spring Garden Day School, which was close to my precinct, very well regarded, and far too expensive. It mainly serves the gentrified neighborhoods of Fishtown and Northern Liberties, and it costs so much that the entirety of Simon’s monthly checks went to Thomas’s tuition. But I convinced myself that I could afford it. Thomas quickly made friends there—about whom he still speaks longingly—and I took solace in the idea that he was learning things that would prepare him for a long and successful educational career that would conclude, I dreamed, only when he’d achieved a graduate degree. Medicine, maybe. Law. I had named him for Thomas Holme, the first Surveyor General of the state of Pennsylvania under William Penn, and the individual responsible for the beautiful, rational design of the city of Philadelphia, so sometimes I daydreamed that he would be a city planner or an architect. Holme was a particular favorite of my high school history teacher Ms. Powell.

  When, a year ago, Simon’s checks abruptly and mysteriously ceased to arrive, I struggled for a time to keep Thomas enrolled in his school, to keep paying the old part-time babysitter who stayed with him on B-shift weeks, to keep paying the mortgage on the house in Port Richmond, and to keep eating. For a brief, tense period, we held on—living on canned tuna fish and spaghetti, never buying clothing—and then in December there came a sewage leak from the basement to the street that cost ten thousand dollars to repair, and the balance tipped, and everything came crumbling down.

  That was the day I drove to the South Detectives building to demand an answer from Simon, who had not only stopped sending checks but had failed to pick up Thomas on two separate occasions, and had changed his telephone number, and had even, apparently, moved. I discovered this after driving to his house in South Philadelphia and ringing the doorbell, on one of those days that he had failed to show up. Thomas, who loved his father, was bereft. The day of the sewage leak, when everything was falling apart, I decided I had no other recourse than to pay Simon a visit at his place of work. So I left Thomas with his then-babysitter and drove to the headquarters of the South Detectives. Now, this was very unusual for me. Neither Simon nor I wish to be gossiped about. We never talked about our relationship at work, probably due to its somewhat unconventional beginnings. And though my colleagues in the 24th know I have a son, they do not know who the father is; and I suppose I have always made it clear that this is a question I would consider unwelcome.

  The day I went to Simon’s building, therefore, I strove for anonymity: I was wearing sunglasses, and a hooded sweatshirt with the hood up.

  I recognized his car, a black Cadillac sedan he had bought used and then restored, parked fifty yards away on the street, and pulled in not far from it. Then I waited for the end of his workday.

  I will not recount in its entirety the ugly exchange we had when, at last, he emerged, and he spied me and tried to turn back toward the station. In brief, I got very angry, and probably shouted, and Simon put his hands out in front of himself defensively, and I told him that if he failed to send a check within one week I would take him to court, and he told me that I wouldn’t dare, and asked me if I knew how many friends he had in the system, and told me if I took him to court he would take Thomas away from me like this—here he snapped his fingers—and that I was being unreasonable by keeping Thomas enrolled in such an expensive school, anyway. Who did I think I was? he wanted to know. Who did I think we were?

  It was then that I made a certain decision, in my mind. I got very quiet, and I may even have smiled a little, and I said nothing further, and I walked away. I got into my car and drove north, not looking once in the rearview mirror, and then I called the realtor who sold me my house in Port Richmond, and I told her I intended to list it. Then I called the director of Spring Garden Day School and told her that, sadly, I would have to take Thomas out of school. This was, for Thomas and me both, a heartbreak.

  The next day I talked to my colleague whose brother was moving out of the apartment above Mrs. Mahon’s house—I had heard this colleague complaining that he had to help with the move—and I also placed an ad on a childcare website seeking a sitter near Bensalem with a great deal of flexibility.

  I never told Simon where I was moving.

  If he had anything new to say to me, I thought, he could locate me at the station. And if he wanted to see Thomas again, he could start sending checks.

  In this way, I started our life over.

  * * *

  —

  Since then I have made great sacrifices in order to retain my independence, and to protect Thomas. Largely, I think my decision has been correct.

  But at the end of each workday, when I look my son in the eye, and see from his gloomy expression that he has spent another day in boredom and solitude while Bethany scrolls endlessly through her phone—I have to admit that I waver in my certainty.

  No
w, he disappears down the hallway while I begin to make dinner.

  When it’s time to eat, I find him in his room and see that he’s coloring something large and bright on the back of a piece of poster board he brought home last year from school.

  I watch him work in silence for a while.

  —What are you making? I ask him eventually, and he regards his work.

  —A picture for Ashley, he says.

  —For Ashley?

  —For Cousin Ashley, he says. For tomorrow.

  I blanch.

  Tomorrow is Thanksgiving. It crept up on me.

  Thomas, perhaps sensing some hesitation on my part, looks up at me, worried.

  —We’re still going, he says. A statement, rather than a question.

  His picture, I determine, is of a turkey and a can of something—beans, perhaps, or corn. I am embarrassed to say that most of our daily vegetable intake comes out of cans, these days.

  —Of course, I say.

  My voice falters, and I wonder if Thomas can sense my uneasiness.

  But my son is nodding, satisfied.

  —Good, he says. He is happy now. He returns to his work, relaxed for once, delighted to have something to look forward to.

  Then he looks up again. I know what he will ask before he says it.

  —Will Daddy be there?

  The mood in the room changes quickly. And for what feels like the thousandth time this year, I must tell him no.

  I find, over the course of the next morning, that I am very nervous. For me, it takes an extraordinary amount of emotional stamina to go to any O’Brien family event, let alone one where I am not expected. Last night, I briefly considered phoning Ashley to let her know Thomas and I were coming, but I think an element of surprise will be useful—especially when it comes to talking to my cousin Bobby, whom I have decided, after at least five unreturned texts, is definitively avoiding me. My goal is to make some quick rounds, to ask everyone I can about Kacey, and to leave without incident.