Somebody Else's Daughter (32 page)

Moreover, how well did he know his own relations? He had met Cat's mother only once, when he'd gone to tell her that Cat had died. He'd tracked her down in a trailer park in Sacramento. She lived alone, long divorced. She'd cooked him supper, and packed all of Cat's childhood mementos in a suitcase for him. “You knew her better, ” is what she'd told him. He'd taken a train back east, a seven-day journey across the country. He recalled the ride as an excursion through purgatory, shooting dope in the train lavatory as the world flashed by through the tiny window, the smell of urine in his nostrils, the sound of the train cutting up the air.

At six sharp, as instructed, he pulled the van up in front of Sunrise House to wait for Willa to come out. It was already dark and the air was cool. When the door to the house opened, he saw a brightly lit foyer, four small children at Willa's hips hugging her good-bye. It choked him up a little and he coughed. She climbed into the back. “How'd it go?” he asked.

She seemed upset. She told him a story about a prostitute who'd come in wearing a Pioneer skirt. He waited for her to go on, but she didn't. He watched her in the rearview mirror and saw that she'd begun to cry.

“What's up, what's the matter?”

“It's not fair. How people treat each other. It's very sad.”

He didn't know what to say to her. The things that came to mind were all clichés and would do her no good. The world was full of pitiful people—he himself had been one once—and she was getting her first taste of it. “People can change,” he said, but the words sounded false—platitudes from a clueless man.

“I don't know,” she said. “I'm not so sure.”

“People get into stuff. For a while it defines them. Drugs and stuff. It gets the best of them. But it can end.”

She said nothing. The car swelled with silence. At last she said, “I just want to go home.”

They drove the rest of the way in silence. He thought of the letter he'd written to her on the afternoon he'd given her up. It was after her mother had died, after they'd taken the body away. For several hours, he'd sat in the car outside the Goldings' home, unable to move—stuck—and he'd found the paper and a pen and started writing. When he'd finally finished it, he'd felt a little better. He'd gotten out of the car and walked to the door and it was like walking halfway around the world, his body weighed down, as if with sand, and he caught a glimpse of them through the window, the new parents celebrating their baby, holding her up, cooing at her, doing all the silly things parents do around babies—and he knew it was time to go.

It was Candace who'd come to the door, wearing an expression of confusion, of feral determination, as though she would do whatever it took to keep the baby—and he shook his head that, no, he hadn't changed his mind, nothing like that, he only had a request, and he'd held up the letter in his trembling hand.

It's the truth, he'd said. One day, their daughter would need to know it.

Maybe that day had come.

He turned onto North Street then circled around to Solomon's Table where the group of sophomores was waiting out front. They climbed in and he drove them all back to school, the whole noisy lot of them, where their parents waited in the muddy horseshoe driveway in their respective cars. He watched Willa as she ran to her father's car. Although he didn't want to, although he knew it was inappropriate, he felt a tug of jealousy when she got in and kissed Joe Golding's cheek and they drove off together, father and daughter, oblivious to their remarkable good fortune.

Halloween was a big deal in Stockbridge. The Hopper Inn had a party every year. It was a grand old place, boasting the extravagant architecture of the twenties. It sat on ten pricey acres at the end of a long gravel driveway on Main Street. Larkin had told Nate that the inn's owners, a married couple in their forties, were amateur trapeze artists and had set up a trapeze in their backyard. Every year on Halloween night they put on a trapeze show and everybody in town was invited. Nate had a few drinks at Hardy's then walked over to see what was going on. A big crowd had gathered in the backyard to watch the act. Torches had been staked all around the property, giving off the smoke of kerosene, and there was a woman in circus clothes leading a baby bear around on a leash. Small tents had been set up with people doing tricks: there were card tricks, a snake charmer, a fortune teller, a man swallowing a sword. A band of drummers, maybe fifteen or twenty in all, were drumming a tribal beat, and Nate could feel the vibration in his feet, coming up through the grass. They were known in the area, bare-chested men with bongos and women too, in long skirts and halter tops, their bellies showing, their bodies gleaming in the cool night air.

She was there. Claire. She was sitting in a lawn chair drinking something out of a paper cup. In the torchlight her face had an orange glow, and her eyes shone and glittered. He went over to her and sat on the ground. “Trick or treat,” he said.

“Where's your costume?”

He thought she looked pleased to see him. “I'm wearing it.”

She cocked her head. “Don't tell me.” Squinting. “You're a struggling writer.”

“You're good. What gave it away?”

“The beard, of course. Can I touch it?”

“Be careful, something might jump out and bite you.”

She grinned. She reached out and tugged on it.

“Ow.”

“I thought it was part of your costume.”

“Very funny. What are you drinking?”

“Punch,” she showed him. “It's black.”

“That's a surprise. What the hell is it?”

“Here.” She handed him her cup. “It tastes like ouzo.”

He took a sip. “It's actually pretty good. Are my teeth black?” She grinned. “Are mine?”

They both had black teeth.

“Look,” she said, “they're starting.”

The beat of the drums got louder, faster, and all eyes were on the scaffold. The man and woman climbed up on opposite sides to their platforms. They were wearing skeleton costumes, black leotards with glow-in-the-dark bones stitched into the fabric. There was a net below, yet it vanished into darkness, compounding the sense of risk and danger. The woman began the act, perched on her little swing like an exotic bird. She did a few tricks, hanging upside down, doing somersaults the way kids do on the monkey bars in a playground. Then the man started swinging. He did some tricks too, then hinged at the knees and hung upside down. Simultaneously, the woman dropped through the air, swanlike, and he caught her around the ankles. The crowd ooed and ahhed in terror and Claire gripped his arm. Delighted, Nate looked over at her and she smiled, gratefully, he thought, and he held her gaze, and then suddenly everyone was cheering. The man and his wife were back on the platform. “I think I need a real drink,” Claire said.

They went to Hardy's. She ordered scotch, and he had a beer. “That was amazing,” she said. “Talk about trust.”

“Yeah, I know what you mean.”

“Imagine just flying through the air like that? Trusting someone to catch you?”

“I know.” He shook his head. “I couldn't do it.”

“If that's not true love, I don't know what is.”

He watched her as she looked around the room, her eyes like magnets, pulling at life, drawing it near. There was a crowd at the bar. It was peak leaf-watching season and the place was packed with tourists, some of whom were in costume. They took their drinks to a small table in the corner. It was too noisy to talk; they had to shout at each other across the table. She finished her drink and glanced at her watch. “I need to get home. I gave Teddy a curfew. Can you give me a lift?”

“Sure.”

They walked outside, down the sidewalk with its leering jack-o'-lanterns. “I have a confession,” he told her. “It's about my truck.”

“Your truck? What about it?”

They walked over to it. “Does this truck look familiar?”

She walked around the truck looking it over. “My father had a truck like this.”

He told her how he'd bought it from Otto. “I'm pretty sure it was your father's.”

“Oh, my God, that's so weird.” Excitedly, she started pointing out things she recognized, a tiny dent on the rear panel, the remnants of a bumper sticker that had some antiapartheid slogan on it. “I put that on right before I went to college. This is so amazing. Can I get in?”

“Please.” He opened the door for her and she climbed up onto the seat, jumping around like a kid, opening the glove compartment, unrolling the window. He pulled down the visor and showed her the photograph. “It was right there when I bought it,” he explained. And then added, a bit awkwardly, “I didn't feel right about taking it down. And then of course I met you.”

She sat back, shaking her head. “Life is so weird.”

“I wasn't sure how to tell you. I thought it might seem very odd.”

“What's odd is that my father and I weren't close, we hardly spoke to each other, that's the truth. I would never have thought he'd do something like this.”

“You were his good luck charm.” He handed her the picture. “Here, you keep it.”

She studied the Polaroid, shaking her head. “I made that skirt. We had Home Ec back then—sewing. I made it out of my favorite pair of jeans. Look at me. God. That's my rabbit, Bonnie. She had hundreds of babies. You'd walk out in the back field and see all these fluffy white bunnies, like snowballs in springtime. It was crazy.”

He watched her face, her eyes shining even in the darkness of the truck.

“You know what they say? Things happen for a reason.”

“I know. I believe that.” She looked at him.

“It's got to be fate. There's no other explanation.”

“Fate or coincidence,” she said, grinning.

“Ah, you're a skeptic.”

“I guess it all depends on how you look at it.”

“I'm going with fate.”

She looked down, almost shyly, and said, “I'm glad you are.”

He would have liked to have kissed her then, but he had no right. She gave the picture back to him. “Keep it up there, okay?”

“Are you sure?”

She thought for a moment. “Unless you mind?”

“No. I don't mind. I've gotten kind of used to you up there.”

He slid the picture back under the elastics. Then he started the truck and took her home.

29

They stole pumpkins from Maynard's pumpkin field and you had to carry the heavy thing back into the little clearing, through the alley of hulking pines, and you carried your pumpkin like a baby. Hers was fat and round and orange and she was already in love with it. Marco had handed out the pills that his friend so and so had sent him all the way from Seattle, and the pills made them feel wicked and bright and toxic all at once, buzzing up in her head like neon, and they were all viciously happy.
Dear mother, dear mother, dear mother. Ha ha ha ha ha ha!
So the object of the game was to roll your pumpkin to the finishing line, and the grass was thick and wet and terribly green and you could smell the dark earth beneath it, the cold funk of mushrooms, and she got down close to her pumpkin with its cold bumpy skin and wished it good luck. Whoever won the race got to use the ax. Teddy had brought the ax from his grandfather's barn and had made a show of it, dragging one of his feet like the hunchback of Notre Dame. The pumpkins were wet and slippery and it wasn't easy rolling one through the grass. The pills had turned them into ravenous donkeys, braying and snorting and laughing all the way up to the finishing line—
finishing line or firing squad,
Willa thought, drifting behind because she didn't
want
to win. Ada would be the winner. Ada couldn't help winning; it was what she did best. Ada stood up in her Ugg's and smoothed out her clothes. The laugh burst out. “Ada gets to use the ax,” Teddy declared, his eyes bugging out maniacally. “But first we have to decorate.” He handed out Sharpies and everyone drew faces of people they hated on their pumpkin, mostly teachers, emphasizing various imperfections like Mr. Miller's hooked nose, or Mrs. Riley's mustache, or Mr. Jernigan's horse teeth, or Ms. Hancock's unibrow, and Willa did Mr. Heath, because she
did
hate him now for what he'd done to her, she hated him terribly, and Teddy did Mrs. Heath, because her every waking moment seemed dedicated to making his life miserable, and when they were done they backed away and appraised their work, guffawing because it
was
terribly funny. Teddy went for the ax, walking in his loping way, and handed it to Ada and said, “It's up to you, Ada.” Ada seemed uncertain, as if she now regretted winning, and she studied the pumpkins carefully, trying to figure out which one to pick. Not one but
both
her parents had been represented, the Lord and Lady of their illustrious school. Ada staggered forward like some deranged princess, the ax a burden in her scrawny hands, and everyone started to cheer her on.
Chop, chop, chop!
She chose a pumpkin, putting her foot down on top of it, and you could tell it was Mrs. Heath because of the mole Teddy had drawn on it—he'd made the mole unnecessarily bulbous, with a few hairs shooting out of it like porcupine quills— and everyone went silent because it was a surprise and not a surprise that Ada would pick her own mother. In a way everybody hated Ada's mother and in another way they loved her too, because she was a really good teacher and everybody did pretty well in her class, aside from Teddy, who couldn't read very well and refused to use punctuation and talked back to her every chance he got—but
she
had done well, she had gotten A's, and if you had a problem like you didn't feel well or couldn't concentrate, Mrs. Heath always let you out. She would say something like, “Go and sit in the sunshine for a few minutes, maybe you'll feel better.” And so Willa felt sorry for Mrs. Heath because her daughter didn't appreciate her and her husband was a creep. Ada brought up the ax and swung it down, but the blade missed and curled open a hunk of grass and it heaved open like a gash. Undeterred, she brought it up again, heavy in her arms like it might pull her over backward, wobbly-legged, and
whoosh
it came down again through the air into the pulpy flesh of the pumpkin.
Thwack.
It made a dull sound when it hit, like a body gushing open, revealing its glittering belly of seeds, the pale, slippery jewels, and little pieces of pulp flew up into their eyes. Ada hacked that pumpkin up and she laughed and laughed and she hacked it up and up and up some more and she laughed again.
I hate you I hate you I hate you!
she cried. She cursed it. She muttered terrible things.