Familiar Strangers

by Jackie Walsh

  Feeling his warmth, I think about what it must feel like to have a baby, bring a life into the world. I wonder what Mom thought, cooing at little Becca while I slept in her arms. What were her wishes for me? I bet she didn’t wish for me to get sacked, or wind up embroiled in a murder case. Or develop Alzheimer’s before I even get married. I wonder if Josie Reilly got the results of that blood test? Just because she dropped me from the clinical trial, with no real explanation, doesn’t mean she didn’t get the results. Maybe I should pay Dr. Josie Reilly a visit.

  Liam’s eyes open, blue pools of innocence flickering with interest. He gurgles wet bubbles onto his lips. Watching the bubbles burst, I think about what it would be like to have a baby of my own, a little peach like Liam. But not yet.

  * * *

  Joanna didn’t complain much about the birth, took it all in her stride. Unlike Danny, who waffled on like she was the first woman ever to have a baby. But it was great to hear the delight and excitement in his voice, he has been so edgy lately. It must be something to do with the cops. He’s expected home any minute now from the office that can’t survive without him. The smell of whatever is happening in the pot is making me hungry. I should be hungry, all I ate was a couple of cookies this morning.

  ‘How’s life with you?’ Joanna asks, stirring the contents of the pot.

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘How was your mom yesterday? I heard you called in to tell her the good news with your dad.’

  ‘Yeah, she seemed happy, she smiled when Dad told her Liam’s name.’

  As he wriggles in my arms, I sense Liam’s discomfort. ‘I think he might need to be changed,’ I say.

  The pot is pushed to the back ring. Joanna, rushes to her duty.

  ‘I’ll do it,’ I say.

  ‘No, thanks,’ she says, smiling at Liam as she takes him out of my arms.

  I’m in the bathroom when I hear Danny’s car pull up outside. The king of the castle is home and I’m nervous. I haven’t been in the same room as him since he warned me off asking about Katie Collins. I’m going to have to tell him what’s been going on, that Katie Collins came to Boston looking for me, that Turner is questioning me like I’ve something to do with her death. I wonder, should I tell him now, while he’s in good form, or should I let him enjoy this moment?

  ‘Hi Becca,’ Danny says, pushing past me into the kitchen with a lightness to his step. New dad syndrome. His voice sings Liam’s name when he sees the crib. Devoted, standing there all coos and aahs, Danny cradles Liam close to his chest. Liam’s eyes are blinking at his daddy. I haven’t seen Danny this happy in a long time. I don’t want to ruin it.

  But I ruin it. We’re all sitting down at the table slurping Joanna’s bolognese when Danny walks over to the pile of gifts stacked in the corner of the room. He’s picking something out of his teeth with a toothpick when he says, ‘Some amount of gifts.’

  Instantly I look to Joanna. Did you hide it, Joanna? Please say you did. I nod my head at her, my face red from the blood I can feel rushing to my head.

  I mouth my question. Is it still there? But I know by Joanna’s nervous expression that it is. She didn’t get rid of it yet. Closing my eyes and crossing my fingers I pray that he doesn’t see the pink coat.

  God must be busy. After checking out two other presents, he sees the Ziploc bag. Joanna’s eyes flash at me, teeth clenched, hoping like me that he doesn’t investigate it.

  No such luck.

  At first Danny says nothing, staring at the jacket with a strange expression on his face. His skin burns red. His eyes seem frozen open, unable to believe what he is looking at. Then he turns to Joanna, his lips moving but no sound, like he’s miming at her. Eventually he shouts,

  ‘Where did you get this?’

  Joanna rushes over to where Liam is lying in the crib, saying, ‘Danny, take it easy, the baby.’

  ‘Where did you get this?’ he repeats, gripping the old baby coat tightly in his hand.

  Joanna looks at me, then back to Danny. She doesn’t know how to explain it.

  ‘Bert sent it,’ I say. Danny is speechless again, eyes wide with madness. Why is he so upset? It’s only a baby coat. Why is it freaking Danny out so much?

  ‘He didn’t mean for it to upset anyone,’ I say. ‘It’s old, it belonged to someone in his family. He thought he’d pass it on.’

  Danny is looking through me now. Jesus, it’s only a coat.

  ‘He told you that, did he?’

  ‘Yes. I thought you’d all laugh at it, see the funny side. It’s no big deal, Danny…’

  Danny clearly doesn’t agree with me. With the wretched coat still in his grip, he walks over to Liam, who is now fast asleep, his soft baby breath the only comfort left in the room. Looking down at Liam, Danny wipes his eyes. Is he crying? Fuck, what’s going on? What is with that stupid smelly coat?

  There’s something more to this baby coat, something Danny knows about. That’s the only explanation for his completely irrational reaction. I know he doesn’t like Bert but the poor man was only trying to be nice… Or was he? Maybe he did it on purpose, to upset Danny, to undermine the occasion. Maybe they dislike one another more than I know.

  * * *

  I leave Joanna with a big hug and apologize that I had ever brought the stupid thing to her baby shower… into her life. Joanna being Joanna, says not to worry, that it will blow over, that Danny was wrong and will eventually see the funny side of it.

  I’m not so sure she’s right.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  New Orleans is a great place for lunatics. Bourbon Street is fantastic, music blaring from every bar, the street busy with tourists, performers, drinkers. Jeff looks like he’s on a day trip to heaven. His friend’s hotel is fine – high ceilings and dodgy balconies, but it will do the job. I’m glad to get away from home, especially after last night – Danny seeing the coat and then Turner showing up like that, standing outside Jeff’s apartment when I arrived back. Lenny had told her where to find me when she didn’t get an answer at my apartment. More questions, no answers. The woman is convinced I know more than I’m saying. I don’t. Not yet. Hopefully after this trip I will.

  I told Jeff I can only stay one night. If I go missing for two it might set alarm bells ringing and I’m in enough trouble with Danny as it is. And Turner. God only knows what she’ll do if she finds out I’ve come looking for Katie’s husband.

  The plan is to get a ferry to Algiers in the morning, sniff around, see what we can find out. Hopefully we will get to speak to Thomas Collins. Until then we will savor the atmosphere of this amazing city. Dance the dance.

  I’m nervous about tomorrow, about how I’ll approach Thomas Collins. I might be the reason his wife is dead. Thomas Collins might think I’m the enemy.

  ‘What are you having to drink?’ Jeff shouts over the riffs of blues guitar, breaking in on my worries and forcing me to enjoy myself.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I say, scanning the selection of bottles on display. I don’t think Jeff appreciates my indecisiveness; he’s shaking his head, tapping his fingers. ‘Whatever you’re having.’

  Which leaves me drinking some sort of bourbon with lime, and boy, is it potent.

  ‘What do you think?’ he says, slipping up onto the stool beside me.

  ‘It’s strong.’

  ‘It’s supposed to be strong.’

  Jeff turns to watch the band. The heat of the bourbon snakes through my body, making me relax, feel good. I’ll take it easy though, maybe have just the one or two, because I need my wits about me for tomorrow.

  * * *

  The following morning, I wake feeling like a baby being pulled with forceps from the womb. Ouch. My head is caving in. Oh, the pain.

  Dragging myself into a sitting position, I glance around the room. Jeff is sprawled out, fully dressed, his leather jacket keeping him warm on the bed opposite. Well, that’s something; at least I didn’t hook up with him. I hope. My memories of last night are keeping Mom’s
memories company, floating out there somewhere in the solar system. We moved from bar to bar, from drink to drink. Most of it bourbon. Some of it poison. I think I fell at one point. Or was that Jeff? One of us fell, I know that. Someone must have been watching over us to get us back safely into the convivial beds of the Blues Bay Inn. That’s one blessing used up.

  Where’s my phone? Shit, I hope I didn’t lose it. Jumping out of bed, I pat my jacket and jeans, but there’s no sign of it. I search under the bed, still no phone. In the bathroom – a small dark room with a cistern that requires the pulling of a rope, its mismatched wallpaper peeling off the walls – I see it. It’s on the floor by the toilet. Sighing with relief I bend down to pick it up when my nose is assaulted by the putrid smell of vomit. I’m afraid to look, I know what’s in there. I must have puked for liberty last night. Grabbing the rope, I pull, expecting the toilet to flush, but no, it’s not that easy. There were instructions handed out when we got the room but I didn’t bother listening. Christ, how will I flush it before Jeff sees? I grab the rope again, this time pulling on it quicker. Still no flush. Out in the bedroom I hear Jeff waking up.

  ‘Oh Christ,’ he groans.

  I stay silent, wondering what to do.

  ‘Are you there, Becca? That was some session.’

  I pull on the rope again but only a gurgle of water drops into the bowl.

  ‘Don’t forget to release the silver catch at the top of the rope,’ Jeff shouts from the bedroom.

  ‘It’s after twelve, Jeff. We’re late,’ I say, coming out of the bathroom, relieved I buried the evidence.

  ‘Okay, give me a minute,’ Jeff goes to the bathroom arriving back after a few minutes. If he knows what went on in that room last night, he’s choosing not to mention it.

  ‘This is not going to be easy,’ he says. ‘I can’t remember the last time I felt so bad.’

  ‘Take these,’ I say, handing him two Advil.

  Twenty minutes later we are on our way to Algiers, ready to bulldoze through the mission. There’s a cool breeze on my face, making me feel a bit more normal than I did earlier. Standing at the ferry’s rail I watch the Mississippi flow by. Jeff brought two coffees on board, which we sip quietly, and I pray, pray it stays down, that I don’t throw up all over the deck in front of all the sensible people who are not pickled in bourbon.

  * * *

  Algiers is quaint. The fresh air blowing in from the Mississippi keeps it alive, awake. Walking down a small hill that brings us to the edge of the town, I hear music. More music, like we didn’t have enough last night. A festival of some sort is taking place in a field by the river. People are gathered, watching, dancing, as the band playing on the back of a truck blasts out ‘Sweet Home Alabama’. Burgers, ribs, po’boys and all kinds of food stalls send their authentic scents into the air, making my stomach turn. Jesus, Becca, don’t puke now.

  ‘Do you want something to eat?’ Jeff says, heading straight for one of the stalls.

  ‘No, thanks.’

  ‘Well I’m going to try something.’

  Jeff gets himself a po’boy, which is basically a bread roll loaded with stuff. I can’t even look at it.

  The crowd continues to celebrate. I find myself looking at their faces, looking for Thomas Collins. There’s a fat guy in the baseball jersey slurping a beer by the burger tent? A skinny, freckled guy slotting baby doughnuts into his mouth one by one? A tired looking guy pushing a buggy? No one resembles the Thomas Collins I seen in the photo.

  Jeff puts his wrapper in the trashcan and wipes his face with his hand.

  ‘That’s just what the doc ordered,’ he says, his eyes focused on the guitar. I’m beginning to feel my nerves twanging. All these people, strangers; why did I come here?

  ‘Where should we go?’ I say. Jeff seems more interested in the fender on the truck than our mission.

  ‘What?’

  ‘What do we do now?’

  ‘Oh yeah,’ Jeff turns to me. ‘We’ll go to a bar,’ he says, looking up the street opposite.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Yeah, it’s the best place to start.’

  I’m not sure I agree with his plan but with none of my own, I go along with it.

  ‘People expect to be asked questions in bars,’ he says, walking away from the fair. ‘They talk more freely with the booze on board.’

  ‘But it’s only two o’clock. There’ll hardly be anyone in the bar.’

  ‘We’ll see.’ We walk past a big old red building with a sign proclaiming it to be the local courthouse, and on towards a bar a few streets away.

  ‘It’s festival day, Becca. There will be people in the bar.’

  * * *

  The grey door of the Goose Inn creaks when Jeff pulls it open. A crowd of people, swallowing beer like it’s the Fourth of July 1776, turn to stare at the new arrivals. The smell of yesterday’s beer lingers amidst the musty scent of age. It reminds me of Mattie’s, only with daylight. The furniture looks like it was picked up at a bring-and-buy sale; nothing matches or looks like it started out life here. Even the customers have a haphazard look about them. They’re odd.

  We move to the empty bar stools by the counter and sit down. Everyone is still looking at us.

  ‘They mustn’t get many outsiders around here,’ Jeff says, looking over the counter, pretending to be interested in what beers are for sale. At least, I hope he’s pretending; I couldn’t go through another night like last night. Eventually a woman comes down to us from the far end of the bar, chewing something, looking like she just got out of bed. She wipes the counter with a cloth she keeps tucked into the top of her jeans.

  ‘You looking for something?’ she says.

  Jeff stalls a bit, inspecting the shelves.

  ‘Two large beers.’

  When the woman moves away to the taps, Jeff notices the fear on my face.

  ‘Trust me,’ he whispers.

  ‘You’re not from around here,’ the woman says, putting down the two beers.

  ‘No, just visiting,’ Jeff says.

  ‘Anyone in particular?’

  ‘Not really. Just checking out this beautiful place.’

  The beer is cool and refreshing and bound to make me vomit shortly. The woman walks back to a guy at the far end of the bar.

  ‘What are we going to do?’ I say, leaning in close, noticing Jeff’s bloodshot eyes, smelling last night’s poison ooze from his breath.

  ‘Well, first thing we’ll do is sit here and drink our beers.’ He nods in the direction of a middle-aged woman who looks half shot, sitting alone near the door, a pack of cigarettes on the table. ‘Then, when that lady goes out for a cigarette, you’re going to join her.’

  ‘But I don’t smoke.’

  ‘That doesn’t matter. Just take your drink outside, she won’t notice.’

  Soon the woman’s craving re-appear so I follow her outside like Jeff suggested and sit at the table beside her. I can see Jeff winking at me through the window. Struggling to get her lighter to work, the woman looks at me as if I might offer to help. Move, Becca, move.

  ‘Are you looking for a light?’ I say in a posh sounding voice, don’t know where that came from.

  ‘You got one?’ she says, watching as I rummage in my jeans pocket.

  ‘Hang on, I must have left it inside.’ Walking back into the bar, I rush over to Jeff.

  ‘Have you got a lighter?’

  He does. I hurry back outside and hand it to the woman.

  ‘Thanks,’ she says.

  Speak, Becca, speak. Ask her something, anything.

  ‘Are you from around here?’ I say.

  She puffs on the cigarette a few times before taking it out of her mouth.

  ‘Why do you wanna know?’

  ‘I was just wondering about the place, it seems a nice place to live.’

  ‘It’s a shithole.’

  ‘Oh.’ What can I say to that?

  ‘Spent thirty-five years of my life serving beer to beggars in th
is shithole.’

  I move my chair closer to her table.

  ‘So you must know everyone who lives here,’ I say, taking a sip from my glass.

  ‘I know most folk, all beggars and liars.’ Wow, this woman does not like her neighbors. Something hard has bitten her soul. ‘I have twelve guns,’ she adds, wriggling her shoulders, real proud.

  ‘Wow.’

  ‘Yep, twelve guns. Plan to use them all before I die.’

  ‘Oh,’ I say, craning my head to see if Jeff is watching. ‘Hope you’re not planning to use one on me,’ I chuckle, but she just glances at me and goes back to her cigarette.

  ‘Did you know the girl who died?’ I say.

  ‘Which girl?’ she says. ‘Everybody dies.’

  ‘The girl who died in Boston. The colonel’s wife, Katie Collins.’

  ‘The murdered girl.’ Clearing her throat of phlegm, she struggles to catch her next breath and says, ‘Not everyone gets murdered.’

  I’m remembering her twelve guns and her plans to alter the statistics.

  ‘I knew her,’ she says.

  ‘You did?’ My heart jumps, my stomach joins it. I’m completely focused.

  ‘Sweet girl, I spoke to her once.’

  ‘Where did she live?’

  ‘Someplace down at Houston Street, I think. Lived with a bastard. I might use one of my guns on him.’

  ‘And where is Houston Street?’

  ‘Why’re you so concerned about this kid? She a friend of yours?’

  ‘No, I just…’

  ‘You the media?’

  ‘No, I’m not the media, I… I’m just interested.’

  ‘I hate the media, bastards. Tells the lies they do, tell the lies.’ She stands up from her chair to leave. I stand too.

  ‘Well, I can assure you I’m not from the papers or anything, I’m just—’ but before I can finish, she walks back through the door into the bar, muttering, ‘Tells the lies, tells the lies,’