Long Bright River

by Liz Moore

  Georgia is now leading a wailing Carlotta out of the restaurant by her arm. She looks back at the rest of us and holds up a finger stiffly: one minute.

  —But will she come back? Thomas says to me, placing both hands on my folded arms, hanging there, uncertain.

  —I think so, I say, but the mistake I made, inviting them here, is settling onto me.

  It is Lauren, finally, who claps her hands together, breaking the spell.

  —I don’t know about you guys, she says, but I’m hungry for a Big Mac.

  I look at her.

  —I freaking love Big Macs. My guilty pleasure, she says to me seriously, and I want to say to her thank you, thank you.

  —I love Big Macs too, says Thomas. My guilty pleasure, too.

  * * *

  —

  After we order, the four of us—Lauren, Lila, Thomas, and me—find a table for six and sit down to eat together. Georgia and Carlotta return and Georgia furtively hustles her daughter back to the indoor playground, where she will play by herself until the meal is over.

  Lauren is sitting across from me, and at first I’m not certain what to say to her. I’ve never been good at making conversation, and especially not with someone like Lauren, who, I imagine, must not know anyone on earth like me or my family. I have always suspected that people like Lauren consider people like me and my family trashy, or scary, or too much trouble and burden to deal with. All of us with our many, many problems, a line with no beginning and no end.

  But Lauren is nonchalant, holding her soda lightly and loosely, teasing her daughter when she spills ketchup on her shirt.

  —This shit happens constantly, right? she says, rolling her eyes at me. I hadn’t expected the curse.

  Another way I misjudged her: Lauren has a real job, one that requires her to get up and go to work every day. She’s a producer for Philadelphia’s public radio station. She majored in broadcast communications, she says. Thought she’d go into television reporting. (She’s certainly pretty enough.) Ended up, instead, constructing segments for the radio.

  —I like it better, she says. Don’t have to get up at the crack of dawn to spackle makeup on my face.

  For fifteen minutes, we make conversation with remarkable ease, our children next to us, eating contentedly the food that Carlotta’s mother has deemed unfit for her daughter. Thomas’s little face is lit up with pleasure and excitement, his hands moving quickly over the table to touch his Big Mac, and then his french fries, and then his shake. He is counting his winnings. He is having a happy birthday.

  It is only a short time later that I see my son’s expression change.

  —Thomas? I say.

  Before I can stop him, he leaps up and runs across the space between our table and the cash registers.

  I stand and turn.

  As I do, I hear Lauren say, Does Thomas know that man?

  It’s too late: Thomas has thrown his arms around the legs of the man in question, whom I can only see from the back.

  It’s Simon, of course. I knew that it was Simon before I even turned around. Despite everything, despite his behavior, and the way he has treated both me and my son, I am momentarily drawn to him. I suppress some childlike urge to run to him, to follow Thomas, to instantly forgive him of all his sins.

  I am battling this impulse when I notice, standing next to Simon, a woman. She has long dark hair, pin-straight. Her stature is small.

  On a dime, my emotions lurch toward rage. I watch as the scene plays out across the room: as Simon turns and looks down on Thomas, as he stares at him blankly for too long, not recognizing him, not recognizing his own son, whom he hasn’t seen in a year. And then, at last, Simon understands, and he looks at the woman before he looks back at Thomas, more concerned with her feelings than with his.

  Thomas is bouncing on his toes, now, his arms stretched up toward his tall and handsome father. Thomas’s expression is one I recognize from the last time he saw Simon: adulation, worship, pride. Quickly, Thomas glances back at Lauren and Lila, and I can read his thoughts: He wants to show Simon off to them. He wants to introduce his friends to his father.

  —Daddy, he’s saying. Daddy. Daddy.

  He thinks, I realize sickly, that his father is here to surprise him.

  Thomas can’t yet imagine that his father won’t acknowledge him, won’t reach down his large hands and lift his son up to his chest, the way he always used to do.

  I stride toward him. I want to carry him away before he understands.

  As I do, Thomas notices me, at last, and turns, his face still full of joy, and says, Mom, Daddy’s at my birthday!

  The woman next to Simon turns around, too.

  I see her face. She is so young that she could be a teenager. She’s tiny and pretty, with two cheek piercings that also speak to her age.

  And in her arms she is holding a baby, eight or nine months old, a small baby girl in a pink jacket.

  Simon is shifting his gaze in a frantic triangle between the three of us: to Thomas, and then to me, and then to the woman next to him.

  Thomas has given up on being held, now. He’s lowered his hands to his sides. His face is crumbling. He still doesn’t understand.

  —Daddy? he says, one last time.

  —Daddy? the young woman repeats, staring at Simon.

  Simon is focused on me now. Michaela, he says. This is my wife, Jeanine.

  In a flash, the last year of my life is explained.

  Jeanine is gone before Simon can say another word. She has taken the baby with her. Simon stands there for a minute, his arms limp, his gaze on the floor. Thomas stands near him, unmoving.

  At last, Simon walks to the windowed entrance of the place and watches as his dark Cadillac backs out of the parking lot too quickly.

  It occurs to me, finally, that I need to go to Thomas. I scoop him up, big though he is. He puts his head down on my shoulder.

  I don’t know what to do next. I want to yell, to scream at Simon, to hit him once, hard, across the face, for ignoring Thomas the way he did. For hurting Thomas’s feelings so badly. On his birthday, of all days.

  But I won’t give him the satisfaction. Instead, I walk Thomas over to the table where Lauren and Lila are seated, and say to Lauren, Would you mind keeping an eye on Thomas for one second?

  —Of course, says Lauren. We’ve got you, Thomas.

  Then I walk over to Simon, who’s now on his phone, texting furiously, and I stand silently in front of him. He looks up, finally. Puts his phone away.

  —Look, he begins, but I shake my head.

  —No, I say. I don’t want to hear anything from you.

  Simon sighs.

  —Michaela, he says.

  —Just stay away from us, I say. That’s it. I don’t need anything from you except for you to stay away.

  He looks puzzled.

  —You found me, he says.

  —Excuse me?

  —At work. You found me. Remember?

  I’m shaking my head. I don’t know how you got my address, I say, but I don’t appreciate the visits.

  He crosses his arms.

  —Mick, he says. I have no idea where you live.

  And for the first time in years, I believe him.

  He leaves. Presumably to pick up the pieces with Jeanine, to refocus himself on his new life. At my request, he doesn’t say goodbye to Thomas, and Thomas dissolves into sobs. It’s better, I think. A clean break. A Band-Aid ripped. No sense prolonging a permanent goodbye.

  * * *

  —

  The party is over.

  —I’m sorry, I say, quickly, to Lauren and Georgia. I hand to their children the small bags of favors I bought at the dollar store.

  Georgia, who didn’t see what transpired, is looking at me in confusion. Lauren is looking at me in sympathy. She’
ll fill Georgia in, I think. She’ll give her the gossip. The situation was, no doubt, clear.

  * * *

  —

  All the way home, Thomas cries.

  —I’m very sorry, I tell him. I’m so sorry, Thomas. I know it’s difficult to understand right now, but really this is for the best.

  —The world is a hard place, I add, after a while.

  But my words don’t seem to console him.

  I am distracted from my attempts to comfort him by a feeling of deep unease that is descending upon me in response to the following question: If Simon has not been the man making visits to my home—who has been?

  I’m so lost in thought that when my phone rings, I swerve, and Thomas yelps.

  I answer.

  —Officer Fitzpatrick? a voice says. Female, older.

  —Yes, I say.

  —This is Denise Chambers from the Internal Affairs division of the PPD, the person says.

  —All right, I say.

  —Sergeant Ahearn passed some information on to us that we’d like to investigate. We should schedule a time to meet.

  * * *

  —

  Monday is the day we select. I am both surprised and relieved. Maybe Ahearn, against all odds, is doing the right thing.

  * * *

  —

  At home, I set Thomas up at the TV and then I run down to Mrs. Mahon’s front door. I knock.

  When she answers, she is blinking, as if she has just woken up from a nap.

  —Mrs. Mahon, I say. I was wondering. Can you tell me any more information about the man who’s been stopping by for us?

  —What kind of information? says Mrs. Mahon.

  —Well, I say. Age? Race? Height? Weight? Eye color? Hair color? Any other identifying characteristics?

  Mrs. Mahon adjusts her glasses. Thinking.

  —Now let’s see, she says. His age was difficult to tell. He was dressed very young, but his face looked older.

  —How much older? I say.

  —I’m bad at that, says Mrs. Mahon. Estimating ages. I have no idea. Thirties? Forties? He was tall, as I said. He was handsome. Well-proportioned features.

  —Race? I say.

  —White.

  —Any facial hair? I say.

  —None to speak of, says Mrs. Mahon.

  —Oh, says Mrs. Mahon. He did have a sort of tattoo, I think. Something in script on his neck, just below his ear. Very tiny. I couldn’t see what it said.

  —What was he wearing? I say.

  —A sweatshirt, says Mrs. Mahon. The kind with a hood and a zipper.

  I flinch. Many people, I remind myself, wear sweatshirts of this variety.

  —Both times? I say.

  —I think so.

  —Did the sweatshirt have any writing on it? I say.

  —I can’t recall, says Mrs. Mahon.

  —Are you sure? I say.

  —Very sure, says Mrs. Mahon.

  —All right, I say, after a while. Thank you. If you think of anything else, let me know. And Mrs. Mahon, I say.

  —Yes?

  —If he ever comes back. Have him leave a message. And please call me right away.

  Mrs. Mahon looks at me, assessing things. I worry that she’s going to be put out by these requests. She doesn’t, after all, want ‘trouble’—she has always made sure to emphasize this to me.

  But all she says is, I’ll do that.

  Then, slowly, she closes the door.

  The Roundhouse isn’t the official name of the Philadelphia Police Department’s headquarters, but it’s the only thing I’ve ever heard it called.

  The building is, of course, round in places, and Brutalist in style, and constructed of a yellowish-gray concrete that darkens in the rain. There is talk of moving out of it soon, and it makes sense to: the PPD is running out of room. The building now looks dated and severe. But I can’t imagine the Roundhouse not being the home of the PPD, just as I can’t imagine the Tracks not being the home of the people who frequent them. As of last week, Conrail and the city have finally begun to pave the area over. But chaos will always prevail, even when its home is taken away.

  Inside, I recognize two officers in the lobby, and nod my hello. They give me strange looks: What are you doing here, they imply. I wish I hadn’t been seen. Meetings with Internal Affairs are always causes for gossip and, sometimes, for mistrust.

  * * *

  —

  Denise Chambers is friendly, fifty-something, and plump, with gray hair and blue glasses. She welcomes me into her office and tells me to sit down across from her in a new-looking chair that positions me at child height.

  —Cold enough? says Chambers, nodding out her window to the thin winter air outside. We’re several flights up. From here, I can see Franklin Square, its carousel at a standstill.

  —It’s not so bad, I say. I don’t mind the cold.

  I pause, waiting, while Chambers finishes something on her computer. Then she turns around.

  —Do you know why I asked you to come here? she says, cutting to the chase. In her question, I hear a faint echo of the way I talk to suspects on the street: Do you know why I detained you? Do you know why I pulled you over?

  For the first time, a flicker of doubt runs through me.

  —You said Sergeant Ahearn passed on some information to you, I say.

  Chambers assesses me. Seeing what I know. Yes, she says slowly.

  —What did he tell you?

  Chambers sighs, folds her hands on the desk in front of her.

  —Look, she says, this is a difficult part of my job, but I’m obliged to tell you that you’re under internal investigation.

  It comes out before I can stop myself. Me? I say, dumbly, pointing to my own chest. I’m under investigation?

  Chambers nods. I have a sudden memory of Truman’s warning to me to get some allies in the district. Politics, Mick.

  —For what? I say.

  Chambers extends her fingers, ticking off items as she speaks.

  —On Tuesday of last week, you were seen with an unauthorized passenger in your car. You were also seen outside your assigned PSA. On Wednesday and Thursday you were seen without your radio and out of uniform while on your shift. On Friday, you failed to respond to any calls for a block of two hours. In general, your productivity this fall has decreased by about twenty percent. You’ve also run searches on two civilians in the PCIC frequently and without cause. Finally, we have reason to believe you’ve been bribing a business owner in your district as well.

  I look at her.

  —Who? I ask her, incredulous.

  —Alonzo Villanueva, she says. And we believe you’ve been keeping a change of civilian clothing in his store for unauthorized activities during work hours. And that on at least one occasion, you stored your department-issued weapon there, unsecured.

  I’m silent.

  Everything Chambers is saying is, technically, true. And yet I am shocked. It’s also embarrassing to know I’ve been watched: I scan my memories of the last week, thinking about what I’ve said, what I’ve done, while in a police vehicle. Wondering whether they gathered information through audio or video recording, or simply through having someone from Internal Affairs tag me on my shifts. Anything is possible.

  —May I ask what triggered this investigation? I say.

  —I’m afraid I can’t tell you that, says Chambers.

  But I know.

  It was Ahearn, without a doubt. He’s never liked me. It’s true that my productivity has been in sharp decline since Truman went on leave, and my activity logs no doubt reflect that. Sometimes this alone can trigger internal monitoring, a request for surveillance. But I also think, aside from that, he’s been looking for a way to get rid of me for years.

  —Did Sergeant Ahearn tell y
ou anything else? I ask. Did he tell you about Paula Mulroney? Did he tell you about the accusation she made against at least one officer?

  Chambers hesitates. He did say something about that, she says. Yes.

  And all of a sudden I know: Ahearn poisoned the well. He played down what I said. He told Chambers that I would be making a complaint, but that I was untrustworthy.

  —And what are you going to do about it? I say. Has Detective Nguyen been informed?

  —He has been, says Chambers. He’s looking into it.

  —Look, I say, a little wildly now. Ahearn has never liked me. I’m not his friend. But I’m honest, and I’m telling you that one of our officers—at least one—has been accused of using his power to demand sex from women who are not in a position to say no.

  There is silence in the room, briefly.

  —And, I continue, emboldened now, that this person was spotted on video following one of our victims.

  Chambers’s gaze wavers for a second. The fact of our gender—two female officers, one older, one younger, sitting across a desk from one another—lingers in the air between us, just briefly, like smoke.

  —Did he tell you that part? I say. Or did he leave it out?

  But Denise Chambers will say no more.

  I walk out of the Roundhouse with paperwork in my hands. It informs me of my rights and responsibilities during the suspension I’ve been placed on, pending investigation.

  At least, I think, I won’t have to worry anymore about who will watch Thomas on snow days. At least there’s that.

  In the lobby, I keep my gaze on the floor.

  The only person I wish to speak to, right now, is Truman.

  I get into my car and take out my phone. I’m about to call him when a thought takes hold of me. Whether or not this is paranoia, I can’t say. But if Internal Affairs knew as much as they did about me, it does not seem out of the question that they have received permission to tap either my phone or my personal vehicle. I glance up at the ceiling, at my dome light, at the backseat, at Thomas’s booster seat in the middle. I don’t know what actions are within their rights. And I don’t wish to get Truman in trouble, too: he’s done enough.