A Measure of Blood (12 page)

Bitterness rises in Nadal as he watches them leave.

He spies a
Pitt News
somebody has left behind. He leaves the desk to pick it up. It has coffee stains on it. He starts to page through it anyway on the way back to the desk. Yes, yes, his ad is there. He had to go to the newspaper office yesterday to add more detail and to pay cash. But it's in.

A tense kid with bad breath gets right in front of him. “I printed out something fifteen minutes ago,” the kid says. He's very young, probably a freshman. “I don't think it went.”

“Let me look. Your username?”

“Vickers.”

“Vickers.” He goes to the lab and finds that indeed Vickers' paper did print. It's titled
bio for freshman seminar
. There are seven other printouts on top of it, so he takes them all to the large table in the corner and sorts them alphabetically as he is supposed to do, ignoring Vickers who hovers.

Back at his desk, he wonders if there are any existing emails on any account from the time years ago when he knew Maggie­ Brown. He's pretty sure he was using Hotmail then. And he deleted that long ago. Did she delete? What did he call himself back then—captainspockonboard­? And he always makes his numbers random. He remembers distinctly the messages he got from her. She had discovered he didn't live in Pittsburgh and she chewed him out.

He figured she dumped him because he had no money. And because of his foreignness. And his timidity. She said it was because he lied to her. He did lie but not … not big lies, little ones.

The first time he saw her, he didn't tell her he lived in State College because he worried she would say that was too far. He let her think he was local. He told her he worked as an engineer at Geo-Home, an inspection service for underground mines and land faults under residential properties because that was way more interesting than copying pages at Kinko's. She said he must have a very high IQ and he told her he didn't know his number but that he had high grades. The truth was, most terms he barely scraped by.

Back then, when he lied, because he lied, there were good moments. In the beginning they had a chance.

“I'm a lot older than you,” she said.

He was twenty-three. He said, “I'm thirty-one,” which is what he is now.

She said, “Oh. You seem younger.”

When they went back to her place, she began to cry. She said, “I'm almost forty. Sorry. I don't know why I'm crying.”

He liked her then. He loved her. “It's okay. Everybody cries.”

“You?”

“Yes.”

“I like that. I'm getting older. Fast. And I … still want to have a baby.”

“You seem like somebody who should have children.”

“You think so?”

He shakes his head, shakes off the memory. She wasn't worth it. She was a bitch who thought nothing of him, used him, got what she wanted, and dumped him and never told him he had a son.

Sean has still not returned to his job. Nadal is starving. It's past his time for a break, but no Sean. He goes to the laser printers and gathers the new material to be sorted—which he does slowly, slowly because he hates everyone who treats him like shit, students hovering to grab what is theirs.

JOSEPH TOKEY ISN'T
HOME
but Dolan and Potocki learn from neighbors that he runs a Uni-Mart in Shadyside and works long hours.

“Good chance he's there, then,” Dolan says. “Your turn, pal.”

The store looks newly painted; the lot has been paved; there are few customers; and the clerk points the detectives to the back office, where Tokey sits with a computer plus an old-fashioned adding machine.

The first thing that strikes Potocki is that Tokey looks like a guy who has not had a lucky deck. He once had terrible acne; his hair is thin; he has jug ears. There is a photo of a woman and children on his desk, though.

Potocki does the introductions.

“Is this your wife and kids?”

“My sister and her kids. I'm close to them.”

Potocki takes a breath. “We're here about Margaret Brown. We understand you knew her.”

“Briefly,” Tokey says. “Very sad.”

“Tell us about how you met her.”

He flushes. “Dating service.”

“Which service?”

“Yahoo!.”

“And you saw her for how long?”

“We never did. We met for coffee once and I called her but she didn't want to get together. She … wasn't interested.”

“So just for the coffee?”

“Yes.”

“Did she tell you she wanted to have a baby?”

Tokey looks puzzled. “We didn't get very personal. We just talked about work and that was about it. I offered to take her to a movie, but she said she was seeing someone else.”

“Did she say who?”

“No. There didn't have to be another person. She probably just said that. Look, you aren't investigating me, are you?”

“We're following the movements of people who might have known Margaret Brown.”

“Wow. This was a long time ago. I almost didn't even recognize her on the news. Then I did. A person I had coffee with.”

“Okay, so that's about that. Can you just tell us where you were this last Sunday? Six a.m. on.”

“Here. Where else? Here.”

“Anybody else working here?”

“That guy you see at the counter. He came in at eight.”

“Thank you, Mr. Tokey.”

Dolan goes out to the car while Potocki chats with the clerk. Yeah, the guy was at work on Sunday. All day. Potocki goes back and says good-bye to Tokey, who is hunched over, working away.

MATT CAN ALMOST
hear through the door. Some words come through.
Grief counseling
.
Father
. What are they saying about his father? He plasters his ear to the door, but he can't make out anything more.

And then just in time, he sits again, as his new mother and father come out of the office and the lawyer stands at the door, asking him to come in for just a few minutes.

“Just me?”

“Yes.”

He looks back to Jan and Arthur, who nod to him, and follows the man in and sits in a big leather chair in front of the desk.

The lawyer is old and a little bit fat. He doesn't say anything for a long time. The place is very messy. The chairs are nice chairs but there are papers everywhere.

“How are you doing, Matt?”

“I'm okay.”

“Hmmm,” he says. “If you wanted to not feel okay for a while, that would be all right, too. You've been through a lot. Most folks have to get old like me before they lose their mothers. Tell me, was your mother good to you?”

“Yes.”

“I'm glad to hear that. That makes for a good start in life. Your new folks seem like very nice people. Is that right?”

“I guess.”

“You should tell me if I'm wrong. If they have secret bad personalities they're hiding, you should definitely let me know.”

“I just met them.”

“Right. Make them take you places. Hockey games—you like hockey?”

“I guess.”

“The park. The zoo. Do you have a bicycle?”

“No.”

“You need a bicycle. A boy needs a bike. Activities. Friends. You have friends?”

“Yes.”

“Now these people want to be your parents officially. So we're going to give it a tryout, see how it feels. Okay?”

Matt pictures climbing onto Arthur's lap and studying his nose hairs. He pictures Jan bringing him food. Two parents.

“Tell me something good. Something you have now that you didn't have before? Think. Something good.”

“The play I'm going to be in.”

“Excellent. The play you're going to be in.”

“And the dog.”

“Good. Have a lot of fun with those two things. Tell me, you have your own room at their house?”

“Yes.”

“It has a bed?”

“Yes. But not mine. We're bringing my bed and dresser.”

“Oh, excellent. I like familiar things myself.”

Matt takes in his surroundings a little bit more. How can anybody have this many file folders and papers angled this way and that? What's in all those pages?

“What?” Blackman asks. “What's the question?”

“Do you have to read all of this?”

“Unfortunately, yes. But I cheat a little sometimes. Like a schoolboy.” He slaps the desk. “Okay, then. Wow, I'm tired and it's only afternoon. Matt, I'll be on your side if you do one thing for me. I want you to go to this place downtown—your parents will take you when there's a session. It's for kids like you who have experienced the death of someone close to them. You go to that, and I'm totally in your corner.”

“What do I have to do there?”

“Just go and talk a little bit and listen to people.”

“Okay.”

“Matt, one last thing. Is there anything you want that you don't have? Not that it's possible to have everything you want, but for the record, anything you want?”

His real mother back. His apartment back. “What do I call them? The people—” He points to the waiting room.

“What do you call them now?”

“Mr. Morris and Ms. Gabriel.”

“That's what you call them until you feel like calling them something else.”

“They said to call them Arthur and Jan, or Mom and Dad.”

“When it feels good, do it. Don't force it.”

NADAL IS HURRYING
down Forbes to get something to eat when he has to fish around in his backpack for his ringing phone. The car ad?

His mother. “You sound out of breath.”

“I'm walking. It's my lunch break.”

“If you have a minute, I need to figure something out. Violetta down in Florida wants me to come and visit. I don't know. I don't feel confident about traveling. It's a plane flight—”

“Do it. Go.”

“Do you have time to look up flights, Nadal? Because I'd want a good price.”

“I'll find you a flight when I get back to work. I'll call you back and tell you when it would be and what it would cost.”

“Probably from Pittsburgh, right?”

“Probably your best price, yeah.”

“Thank you, thank you.”

“Just promise me one thing. Don't turn into a servant for Violetta.”

“I don't know why you say that.”

Because his mother is always a servant. Always. But now that he's in front of the Qdoba, he hangs up. Students everywhere, moving without looking. They elbow past him and shove at him.

He buys a beef burrito and eats it walking back along Forbes.

That afternoon he finds his mom a couple of flights. Saturday, Sunday, and a Tuesday. He calls her back to report. She chooses Tuesday. She gives him her charge card number and he books the flight for her, promising to print out the boarding pass and everything.

When there is nothing more to do for his mother, he reads the
Post-Gazette
obituaries in case there is anything new about Maggie Brown. There are two new lines. Private memorial service to be held. Invitees only. Funeral arrangements by Freyvogel Funeral Home to be announced.

His pulse quickens. His son will be at the funeral. Whenever it is.

Late in the day, he gets out of work. He crosses the street to the same working pay phone in the dorm lobby. Using his higher voice, he calls Freyvogel Funeral Home. “I'm a friend of Margaret Brown,” he says. “I wonder if you know yet when the actual funeral will be.”

“There won't be a funeral per se. The people involved have chosen cremation. That date isn't set.”

No date set. How can that be? “Are you sure? About not having the date yet?”

“The coroner sometimes won't release when there is an investigation. They delay it.”

Delay
.
Investigation
. He turns the words over.

JAN HAS MARINA
onstage partnering with one actor after another reading the role of Bottom. All the while she's got one eye on Matt, who is beside her, and she's explaining her job to the student journalist for the
Pitt News.
Publicity is necessary, so she agreed to let the student come tonight, even though it's distracting.

The good thing is that Matt is alert, listening.

“Do you know who you'll cast yet?” the young woman asks.

“Well, Marina will be playing Titania, but I can't talk about the casting of Bottom until the cast list is published.”

“Pick that guy,” Matt says, pointing to the stage.

The student journalist laughs.

“Who's the Titania woman, Marina what?”

“Benedict. She's a pro. A teaching artist.”

“She's funny,” says Matt.

“Good. The role is funny. The character is sexy, selfish, foolish—a lot of things. It's Shakespeare.”

“Who's this cute little boy? Related to you?”

“My son.”

“Oh, wow, you should put him in a play one day.”

Jan winks at Matt.

“When you watch actors, you're looking for what?”

“Voice and movement and all that. Understanding. But also there has to be a lot of exchange, a lot going on. Between actors. The right combos.”

“Tell me about the next step after this. The rehearsals.”

Jan give a quick definition of blocking rehearsals and how long that takes, then work-throughs, then polishing rehearsals and run-throughs and tech rehearsals and dress rehearsals.

The student writes furiously.

Marina and Martin leave the stage chatting, but then they part and Marina approaches Jan and her companions.

“Oh my God,” the student reporter says. “You were great.”

“Thanks.”

“I already interviewed Dr. Gabriel. She said you'd have a headshot I could use?”

“Got it,” Marina says. She digs into her bag and produces one of her professional résumé shots.