“Maybe I don’t want to do this,” Naomi said weakly, squeezing the sides of her seat.
“You’ve been talking about it for days.” Karen glanced at the clock. “He’s waiting for you. We’re later than we said we’d be.”
Naomi’s shoulders fell as she peered up at the apartment building.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to come?”
She turned around, white as a sheet. “No, thanks.”
“Okay, but if you need me, I’ll be right here.” Karen wanted to reach out and hug her, but that seemed too dramatic. It wasn’t like she was going to lose her again, but what if she came back disappointed? Or even worse, more troubled than she already was? Karen reminded herself that things were the way they were, and no matter what happened Naomi would work through them. If she needed help, she would ask.
“I’ll be alright, Mom. Stop worrying.” Naomi slipped on the pair of sandles she had kicked off earlier, stepped out of the car, and walked toward the building.
XXXII
NAOMI EXPECTED JAMES’ APARTMENT TO BE filled with books. What she didn’t expect were piles of books. Everywhere. They were stacked in every corner, on every piece of furniture, even on top of the refrigerator.
“Sorry for the mess,” he apologized as soon as he invited her inside. “But it’s always like this. Make yourself comfortable.”
He rushed to the sofa to clear away a stack of magazines as she stood in the entryway, completely stunned, and not just by the apartment. James was a spitting image of Jesse, only older. He had the same deep red hair curled against his forehead, the same pale skin, scattered freckles, and most importantly, behind a pair of wire-framed glasses, the same green eyes.
He straightened and looked at her, those eyes staring into her own, as if Jesse was standing right in front of her. She tried to erase the stupid look from her face.
“Thanks for letting me come,” she stuttered, not sure what else to say. She was still tense from the car ride with her mother. All that talk about Jesse and the obvious fact that her mother hated him. She couldn’t understand. Nobody could. Except maybe his father.
“No problem.” He motioned her to the sofa. She stepped forward, looking around the small living room. The walls were lined with book-stuffed shelves. On one wall was a pair of tall windows, both cracked open with several stacks of books on the windowsill. She made it to the middle of the room, timidly sat on the cleared cushion, and crossed her legs.
“Do you want something to drink?” James asked as a breeze rushed through the cracked windows. It fluttered across several open books, swishing their pages like butterfly wings. Naomi blinked as a flash of November sped through her mind—orange leaves falling from a branch as Jesse held her close and kissed her,
The Awakening
open at her feet, staring up at her like the desperate eyes of her mother.
“Uh, Coke?” she stammered. This room was exactly what she would expect Jesse’s own home to look like—if he had one. She wondered if he had grown up here.
“Sure thing. Jesse told me that’s what you like.” He gave her a nervous glance and turned to walk through a wide entryway into the kitchen.
Her heart raced. Had Jesse spoken with his father since he had let her go? She hoped so. It was one of the reasons she had wanted to come, because somewhere in her heart, beating wildly, was a glimmer of hope that James might be able to tell her where Jesse was, if he was okay, if he missed her. Maybe it was silly to hope for such things, but Jesse always seemed so close to his father.
She looked up to see him standing in the kitchen, his back to her as he opened a can of Coke and poured half of it into a clean glass filled with ice.
He wasn’t exactly as she imagined. Maybe, she thought as she looked at him closer, he didn’t look just like Jesse. He was taller, his hair darker, almost auburn. His face was longer and more pronounced. He was as nice as she imagined—gallant and calm, like his son.
He poured some soda for himself, lifted both glasses, and entered the living room with an awkward smile. After handing her a glass he sat down in a tattered armchair across the room. It was probably the chair he always read in, because it was surrounded by books—more than any other piece of furniture in the room.
He set his Coke on top of a volume of Anne Bradstreet’s poetry and clasped his hands together as he peered at her through his glasses. Now that all the formalities were out the way, she noticed him tapping a finger on his knee as he shifted his weight in the chair.
“I have to say, first of all,” he said slowly, “that I’m incredibly sorry for my son’s—for Jesse’s—actions. You know, everything he did to you.” He stared down at his lap. “He says he never hurt you in any way besides holding you captive, but it’s hard for me to imagine you never felt threatened. Terrified, even.” He looked up with an apologetic frown.
Unsure of how to respond, she tried to give him a smile, but it only came across as a shaky twitch. He didn’t need to apologize. It seemed so long ago that she had felt threatened, buried deep in the past. It didn’t matter now, but it obviously mattered to James. His own son. His own flesh and blood. She sensed his shame from all the way across the room.
“I think I understand how you feel,” she said carefully. “But honestly, it’s okay. Really.”
He smiled, looking slightly relieved as her lips turned upward. “Well,” he said quickly, “that said, I’ve been looking forward to meeting you. Your friend, Brad, is in my class. He’s told me a little about you.”
She gripped the cold glass in her hands and peered into the fizzy, brown liquid. She hadn’t really wanted a Coke. She tried to smile at the mention of Brad, but couldn’t manage it. She looked up with a wrinkled brow. “Did you tell him you’re Jesse’s father? How did he know?”
“Oh, several of my students asked me about it as soon as they saw the news reports. We look a lot alike, and I think I’d mentioned him in class before I knew what happened.” He reached for his glass and took a long sip.
“I’m sorry. I hope they don’t give you a hard time about it.”
“Oh, not at all.” He took another sip and leaned forward. “So, is there a specific reason you wanted to see me? I mean, this is alright, don’t get me wrong, but you look nervous. Is there something you need to know?”
She nearly dropped her glass. Not so soon. She wasn’t prepared to ask him yet. Her mouth shaped words as she stared into her glass and shifted her eyes to a pile of books on the cushion next to her. Bills were lying on top. One of them was for Jesse—specifically, Jesse James Sullivan. She looked back up.
“Is Jesse’s middle name really—”
“James?” He laughed. “Yes—ironic, huh? I couldn’t keep myself from doing it. His mother left before his birth certificate was filled out, so it was up to me to name him.” He peered into his glass. “A lot of things were left up to me. Guess it wasn’t the brightest idea to name my only child after a notorious American outlaw. Quite foolish, actually. I made a lot of mistakes raising him.”
She noticed the frown spreading across his face and turned her attention back to the bill. It was for a magazine subscription, something to do with architecture. She took a sip of Coke and slid her eyes to the stack of books beneath the bills. She nearly choked.
“Is something the matter?” James asked with concern.
She looked up, realizing that she didn’t have to ask him if he had recently seen Jesse. She would have recognized that book anywhere—an emerald green cover imprinted with the title
The Great Gatsby
and F. Scott Fitzgerald. She knew that if she opened the cover the print date would read 1925.
She swallowed, unable to stop herself from looking at the book again, knowing without a doubt Jesse had brought it back, probably not too long ago judging from the fact that it was on top of a pile and not at the bottom. She clamped her mouth shut and tried to think of something to say, but nothing came and she took another sip of Coke. It burned its way down her throat.
Maybe Jesse was here right now.
“Are you okay?” James asked again. “Have I said something wrong? Sometimes I make thoughtless remarks.”
She shook her head and glanced down the hallway leading from the kitchen. It was dark and empty. “I think I have to ask you something,” she finally managed, her voice scratchy and dry. Why was this so difficult? He must be expecting her to ask.
“Yes?”
She glanced at the book again, cleared her throat, and made herself look him in the eyes. “Do you know where he is?”
He blinked, then set his glass back on the books and leaned back in his chair. “No, I don’t.” He glanced out the windows and took a deep breath. “I don’t want to know or need to know. He’s smart enough not to tell me. The feds come by here at least once a week.”
Her heart sank as she stared at the book with blurry vision.
“Ah, you’ve noticed the books I let you borrow.”
She looked up again, this time with more courage. “Will I ever see him again?”
He stood and walked to the windows with his hands clasped behind his back. “Why do you think he let you go?”
Another salty breeze swept through the room. “I don’t know. He tried to explain it, but I still don’t understand.”
James shrugged. “Why do you think he’s done all of this? You know as well as I do that with some patience and planning he could have had anything he wanted—even you. He didn’t have to get your other kidnappers caught, either. He could have warned them somehow, given them the chance to run once you were free, but he didn’t, and not because he was angry with them. Jesse doesn’t have a mean bone in his body.”
She knew that was true, right through to her core.
“It’s a shame he’s managed to get himself mixed up in all this theft business,” he continued. “He’s always struggled to find the correct outlet for his brilliance, but he, well, he made some foolish decisions in the past. He also made extremely worthless friends. He’s managed to land himself in a mess too big to handle, and I think he’s still trying to hide from it all. I’m not sure why he’s still hiding, but I think things will peak soon.”
She watched his fingers tighten around each other, his voice tense but calm as he continued to speak, still staring out the window.
“So you
have
talked to him? You’ve seen him since he let me go?”
“Yes, I have.”
Her heart leapt. “Did he say anything about me?”
He turned around and smiled. “Of course he did.”
Her heart racing, she almost stood up, a million questions on her tongue. None of them would come out.
“He told me a lot about you and your mother.” He walked to a shelf near the front door. He stood in front of the books for several minutes, tapping his foot until he pulled a thin paperback from the top.
Her throat constricted. She already knew what it was. She didn’t want it. He turned and headed to the sofa where she twisted around to face him.
“It’s
The Awakening
, isn’t it?” she asked stiffly.
His eyes widened. “Yes, it is. Jesse brought it back. He said it belonged to the people he was living with.”
She turned around and stared at her hands gripping the glass. “If you’re going to give it to me, don’t bother.”
The familiar anger she had experienced off and on since the moment Jesse drove off without her rushed through her body. She had been trying to figure out why she was so angry all the time, but it was complicated, like a woven net all tangled up. Jesse had left her, and although a part of her was screaming that he loved her, all the facts pointed away from those hopes.
She looked at the books surrounding her, the anger still dilating within her as she thought of the others and what she had done to them. How could she have let them slip into so much danger? She cared about them no matter what they had done, and now they were faced with years in prison, far away from Italy and Evelyn’s dream. Her heart sank at the thought of Evelyn in a cold, gray cell. Alone. Her dream of Italy vanished, her husband and brother torn away from her. It was almost too much for Naomi to swallow.
James walked around the couch and stood in front of her with the book dangling from his hand. “Don’t bother giving it to you, huh? Jesse said you might feel that way, but I think I’ll give it to you all the same.”
She pursed her lips and remained still as he placed the book in her lap. Trembling, she took a sip from her Coke and stared at the title, wondering what it meant to her, and for the millionth time, why her mother had said it was her favorite book.
“The woman kills herself at the end,” she muttered out loud. “She abandons everything important, just like my mom did to me.”
The words were bitter on her tongue. She took another drink, trying to wash away the taste, but it still remained. Finally, she understood why the book in her lap was so revolting, and surprisingly enough, her anger began to melt away. She wanted to cry, but she wasn’t going to. She was stronger than that now. She had to be. She bit her lip to fight back the tears.
“Jesse told me about that too. He said it was one of the reasons you stayed so long with him.”
She looked up. “Exactly how much has he told you about me? You know a lot.”
He gave her an apologetic smile and shrugged. “He’s told quite a bit, yes. You know how he is.”
“Yeah, I guess. I’d like to know him even better.”