Kevin, the father testifies, and Gordon’s lawyer jumps up in protest, not wanting it allowed humanness or gender.What does its name have to do with the facts of that night? “Everything!” the father bellows back. Gordon burrows deeper into the stony silence of shame one newspaper describes as “an unflinching disregard for the victims. During testimony, the young man stares into the distance, making eye contact with no one, not even his own family.” But in the years since, he has found solace knowing the fetus was allowed that—at least a name in his father’s mind, if not a memory, a name on some brittle page of court transcript, a name never entered on a birth certificate, but perhaps carved into granite, a name to mark his existence. Kevin Walters, a fact in the eyes of the defense, not a being.
It was four o’clock and they still weren’t back. One more favor he’d owe Delores now. He wished he hadn’t called her, but when Jada returned later in the morning, the dull-eyed puppy panting and limp in her arms, Gordon panicked.
“He’s dying. Look at him, he’s gonna die, I know he is. His heart’s hardly even beating,” the girl wailed. “My poor sweet baby’s gonna die.”
He tried to explain over Jada’s sobs, tried to apologize for calling Smick’s, but there was an emergency. That’s all Delores had to hear. She didn’t even hesitate. Help was needed, so she closed the store and got there in less than ten minutes. Dr. Loop in Hilliard, that’s where she used to bring her mother’s cats, she called back as Jada’s long skinny legs folded into the front seat with the dog wheezing at her chest. “He’s really good!” Delores called before she drove off, leaving Gordon confused but strangely energized, as if there were a thousand things he might do, if only he knew what they were.
When they finally returned, Jada had four different kinds of medicine for the slightly livelier dog that was sniffing the leg on the coffee table. Delores told Jada he had to go to the bathroom.
“Here.” Jada grabbed a section of the newspaper and tossed it. Leonardo squatted, spraying the paper. The long yellow stream dribbled over onto the floor.
“Jada!” Delores said.
“What?” Jada said.
“You can’t let him do that in somebody’s house!”
“But he’s paper-trained,” Jada said as Gordon hurried out of the kitchen with paper towels and Pine-Sol.
“Here . . .” Delores took the roll from him and handed it to the girl. “Clean it up and then bring him home. Poor thing’s had enough excitement for one day.”
After a quick wipe of the floor, Jada gathered up Leonardo and his medications. She had already thanked Delores and said good-bye, but she lingered in the doorway. She asked Delores how long her nails had to grow before they could be manicured.
“I already told you—you gotta have some white showing. At least to the tips of your fingers,” Delores said.
Jada frowned over the dog’s head at her chewed nails. “How long’s that take?”
“Not long. You’ll be surprised,” Delores said.
“What if they don’t grow?”
“They will. And if you’d wash your hands once in a while, they’d grow even faster.”
“What if they all grow, then one breaks?”
“Then we’ll go anyway!” Delores laughed. “Now will you please leave now so that poor thing can get some rest?”
“Oh, yeah, you sweet little baby,” Jada murmured, nuzzling his ear as she left.
“Wow! Is she a piece of work or what?” Delores sighed, watching through the window.
“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have bothered you. I just didn’t know what to do,” Gordon said. He felt foolish for having dragged her into this.
“No!” She was glad he had called her. What she meant was that she’d never met anyone quite like Jada Fossum. Amazing—in spite of the neglect, there was still a sweet girl under all that craziness. “Do you know how long she’s been alone over there?”
He didn’t know she’d been alone.
“A week, anyway. Her mother’s in rehab somewhere, she said, but she doesn’t want anyone to know. She’s afraid of being put back in foster care, so she gets up every morning and goes to school, then comes home right after. Funny, huh, kid like that trying to do all the right things because her mother’s not around. The one she’s most afraid of finding out, though, is Ronnie Feaster. Every day he comes by looking for her mother.”
“He even asked me if I’d seen her.”
“Yeah, she owes him money, so now he wants Jada to work for him and pay it back.”
“That no-good bastard,” he muttered, then was embarrassed that he’d sworn, but she didn’t seem to mind.
“I know. I told her she shouldn’t be living alone like this, but she said her uncle comes by almost every day to see how she’s doing. She said he doesn’t like her living in this neighborhood, but she told him how there’s a real nice family across the street that’s always helping her out.”
“Really? What family’s that?”
“You.”
In constant motion, each child had the presence of three or four, halfway up a tree one moment, then crawling out from under the deck the next, now trying to throw tennis balls over the roof. Gordon didn’t want to be here. He had expected a children’s party, but most of the guests were friends and neighbors of Lisa and Dennis. The only one he knew was Delores, and she was busy helping Lisa. He headed toward the deck when he saw Delores come outside with a tray of toothpick-studded fruit wedges.
A tall, barefoot woman in a long gauzy dress was suddenly walking beside him. “We haven’t met yet. I’m Gretta Deacon.”
“Hello.”
“I live in the green house. We just moved in a few weeks ago. I’m still working, so I haven’t met too many neighbors yet. I’m not due till October, so I suppose I will then. I’m not going right back to work. Not until the baby’s a year old, anyway. At least! And then who knows, maybe I’ll—”
“Excuse me.” He turned, slipping into the cool shadows alongside the house. Snatches of conversation floated by.
“You try losing ten pounds in . . .”
“Lee and Kendra’s littlest boy . . .”
“. . . how they lost the entire front to grubs when . . .”
“And who’s got that kind of . . .”
“Hey! Hey, mister! Are you Jimmy’s uncle?”
Gordon nodded. The boy bit his lip, then glanced back at Jimmy and two boys watching from the hammock.
“Are you really?”
“Yes.”
The boy raced back to the hammock.
While everyone around him laughed, Dennis knelt at a croquet wicket, measuring his last shot with the mallet shaft. He and Lisa were playing with a couple whose names Gordon forgot the moment the woman said she’d been wanting to meet him for a long time. Why? What did she mean by that? What did she want? Relieved they hadn’t seen him, he came around the front of the house. The street was lined with parked cars. If he kept walking, he could be at the bus stop in twenty minutes, home in another twenty.
“Gordon!” Lisa hurried down the sloping lawn, followed by a chubby man in rumpled black pants and a short-sleeved shirt. “I’ve been dying for you two to meet,” she said, and introduced him to Father Henry Hensile.
“Hank,” the priest said.
“Nice to meet you.” Gordon shook his soft, moist hand.
“Father Hank used to be at St. Theresa’s in Collerton,” Lisa said, adding that he had been in Dearborn for the last five years.
“Oh. That’s good,” Gordon said.
“St. Theresa’s was Dennis and Gordon’s parish growing up,” she told the priest.
“It’s a great parish. Probably different, though, than the way you remember it,” the priest said.
“Yes,” Gordon said uneasily.
“Gordon works at the Nash Street Market. The Dubbin family owns it. You know Cindy, Father,” she said.
“Oh, sure! Yes. Of course. Without Cindy there’d be no Las Vegas Night,” the priest said.
“Las Vegas Night’s a fund-raiser,” Lisa explained to Gordon. “Actually, I think it’s the biggest one of the year, isn’t it, Father Hank? Maybe in the whole diocese.”
“Shh,” the priest said, looking around. “I don’t know how proud we should be of that.”
Lisa turned as a sleek black car came down the street. “My mom and dad are here!” she cried, then ran to the driveway. Mr. Harrington hugged her while Mrs. Harrington removed two elaborately wrapped gifts from the backseat. Lisa’s father was a portly, balding man, shorter than his slender wife and daughter. Lisa’s mother was dressed in white—shoes, pants, and sweater—with her silvery blond hair pulled back from her tanned face in a small, smooth ponytail.
“I wonder how their trip went,” the priest said, watching the reunion.
“I don’t know. I’ve never met them,” Gordon said.
“Oh, you’ll like them. They’re very nice. You’ll like them a lot.”
Lisa hurried her parents over. “Mother, this—”
“Father Hank!” Mrs. Harrington said, pursing her lips in concern. “How’s your mother? Poor thing, how’s she doing?”
“Holding her own,” the priest said.
“We lit a candle for her in Balaton, didn’t we, Tom? It was the most darling little stone chapel, stained glass—”
“Mom! Wait! You haven’t met Gordon yet. Gordon, this is my mom, Mitzi, and my dad, Tom.”
Mr. Harrington’s florid, freckled face was belied by steady, deep-watching eyes.
“Nice meeting you.” Gordon shook their hands.
“Yes, and it’s nice meeting you,” Mrs. Harrington said through a forced smile, her pretty face frozen with discomfort.
“You any kind of a golfer like your brother?” Mr. Harrington asked.
“No, sir, I’m not.”
“Smart man! But I’m sure Dennis’ll take care of that in no time,” Mr. Harrington said. “Speaking of whom, where is my favorite son-in-law?” he asked, then headed off with his wife in a bluster of eagerness to tell Dennis all about their trip.
“Don’t feel bad. They were just nervous about meeting you,” Lisa said.
“I understand,” Gordon said before she left to catch up with them.
“I suppose that’s happened a few times,” the priest said as both men started to walk. “People don’t quite know what to say, do they?”
“No, I guess not. But that’s all right,” he said, looking past the priest for his own escape.
“Well, I give you a lot of credit for coming back. It couldn’t have been easy. Most people in your situation wouldn’t have.”
“I don’t know.” He paused by the front steps. “If you’ll excuse me, Father, I have to go inside for a minute.”
“Oh, sure, go right ahead, Gordon. But can I just tell you something first? Lisa’s told me a lot about you these last few years. She’s very fond of you. And . . . well, there’s no point beating around the bush here, Gordon—she asked if I’d make a special effort to get to know you. And I’d like to do that, but I also don’t want to force myself on you. So I thought maybe we could go out for a cup of coffee—or something. That is, if you’d like sometime.”
“Well, I don’t know. Maybe.” Sometime. In the far, far distant future.
“How about Monday? Nine-thirty? Ten?”
“I work in the morning,” Gordon said, relieved.
“When you get off work, then.”
“I don’t know my hours yet.”
“It doesn’t have to be coffee. How about a beer some night?”
“I don’t drink.”
The priest paused in that unspoken assessment Gordon was getting used to. “Okay. All right, then. Here.” He slipped a card from his worn, flattened wallet. “Here’s my number. Just give me a call when you know your hours. Or anytime, for that matter. I’d really enjoy talking to you.”
No one was in the house. Gordon wandered through the dining room and living room. He had to be careful. He didn’t want to break anything. He had never seen so many pretty ornaments, ceramic dishes, Oriental vases, statues, gleaming lacquered boxes, leather-bound books, carved birds so perfectly painted that from a distance they looked real. In the cabinet under the window, Dennis’s collection of antique glass paperweights dazzled in the sunlight. On the piano was a framed wedding picture of Dennis and Lisa with both sets of parents. He leaned close. Obscured by shadows, his father’s face was bleak with illness, his eyes faint in their hollows. Gordon smiled at the image of his mother’s feisty happiness—Teresa Pratt, head high, chin out, glowing with pride. He started into the great room, then stopped, alarmed to see his brother at the other end of the kitchen.
“Come on in,” Dennis called before he could get away. He was filling a bowl with ice from the refrigerator-door dispenser. “Sure beats those old metal trays, remember?” Dennis said over the racket of cubes clunking into the bowl.
They both looked up with the gritty slide of the opening deck door. A perspiring, buxom woman leaned in to say Lisa needed the ice. “Not as much as you,” Dennis said, handing her the bowl.
“And Lisa says to take the cake out of the fridge,” she called as she left.
“Hey, will you look at this,” Dennis said, sliding out a cake decorated in the shape of a soccer field with goal nets, scoreboard, and miniature players kicking a ball. “Here, count the candles, just to be sure.” He held out the cake.
“Twelve? I thought he was eleven.” The card he’d bought said “For an Eleven-Year-Old.”
“He is, but one’s for good luck, right?”
“Oh, that’s right. Good luck. I forgot.”
“Hey, will you relax? Look at you, sweat pouring down your face, you’re a wreck. Those punk bastards, they’re not hassling you again, are they?”
“No. No, they haven’t been back.” He tensed, expecting more talk about that night, about Jilly.
“Good. You can’t ever show blood, Gordo. The least little thing and they’ll be on you like vultures. Remember that now.”
Gordon nodded, amazed. How did his brother think he had survived the vultures in prison? Was Dennis so blind about some things, or was it just a way of compartmentalizing his life? And wasn’t it the same for him, who wandered among these perfectly normal people as if he were every bit as decent as they were, as if no one knew who he really was?