The Drowning Game (19 page)

“Good morning,” I said.

“Hey,” he said, sleepy.

“You ready to get going?”

He rubbed his eyes. “Something you need to know about me,” he said. “I wake up slowly. You need to give me about thirty minutes before you try to talk to me.”

“Okay,” I said.

I was antsy, anxious about going back to the Village at Xanthia. I couldn't just sit there and wait, so I got over my self-­consciousness and did push-­ups, sit-­ups, squats, lunges, tricep dips.

“You make me feel lazy,” Dekker said.

“Nineteen,” I said, “twenty, twenty-­one . . .”

I was halfway through my strength exercises before I realized that I'd dreamed Dekker and I had been lying on that bed, kissing for hours. I was appalled by how uncontrolled my brain was—­why hadn't Michael Rhones told me about this, trained me to manage my subconscious?

Suddenly, I was afraid Dekker could read my thoughts, see into my head, and shame engulfed me like a tidal wave. I'd only ever had dreams like that about actors on TV, never a real person. It was as if I had violated him, done things to him without his permission, like when Randy had attacked me a few nights before. I knew it wasn't the same thing, but I was still disturbed and felt like apologizing to him. But I knew that would be inappropriate.

Would Dekker be able to tell that I'd dreamed about him? Would it show on my face somehow?

And did I want to kiss Dekker?

I pushed this thought out of my head and went back to my workout, pushing myself, doing more reps, imagining Michael Rhones shouting at me to try harder. Even so, I could feel I wasn't getting the oxygen I needed, because I hit muscle failure long before I normally did.

“How does anyone breathe this air?” I said. “There's nothing to it.”

Dekker stretched and yawned. “Yeah, but isn't it kind of nice not feeling moist all the time?” He startled, as if he'd said something wrong. “I mean, feeling like you're wet? The humidity, I mean. I don't miss it. That's what I'm saying.”

I took a shower before dressing in the bathroom, and then Dekker took his turn in there while I watched TV. The thought of visiting my grandma again made me fidgety and nervous. What if she still couldn't talk? How were we supposed to find my real dad? This whole trip would be for nothing, and then what would I do?

I reached for Mom's silver necklace and realized I'd forgotten to put it on. When had I taken it off? It must have been the night before. But where did I put it? I couldn't remember. The necklace wasn't in my shoes, the Walmart bags, or in any of my pockets. I felt around on the bed and peeled back the sheets and blankets, then felt around on the floor. I brought the lamp off the nightstand and looked under the bed for it. It was gone.

Dekker came out of the bathroom, bringing a cloud of steam with him. “What are you doing?” he said.

“My mom's necklace,” I said. “It's gone.”

“I'll bet you lost it in the tornado,” he said as he folded yesterday's clothes.

“No,” I said. “I had it after that.”

“Are you sure? Maybe—­”

“Yes. I had it yesterday.”

I was annoyed that he didn't seem to understand how important this was to me. The necklace was the only thing of my mother's I had, and I'd only had it for two days. I mourned its loss.

“It'll turn up,” he said. “You ready for this?”

We walked out the door. It was chilly, but the dazzling morning sunshine made me squint. Frost covered the Buick.

I walked to the passenger door then stopped and stared.

“Did you roll down my window?” I said.

“What?” Dekker said. “Why would I—­oh, shit. Oh, no.”

When he got to the driver's side, he went limp then started jumping up and down. “Shit!
Shitshitshit!
”

I went around to where he stood and saw that someone had scratched CRAKER into the paint on the door. I looked around the parking lot and saw faces peeking around terry-­cloth curtains, shaking their heads. I went back to the passenger side of the car and opened the door. Glass dropped to the ground and there was more on the seat. I brushed it off before I got in.

Dekker sat rocking in his seat, pulling his hair with both hands. It was then I saw the radio had been wrenched out of the dash. And the glove box was open.

“What does ‘craker' mean?” I said.

He banged the heels of his hands against his forehead.

“Did they mean to write ‘cracker,' like white trash?” I thought about the run-­down, jerry-­rigged house I'd grown up in and the crappy trailer homes in Saw Pole, and I figured the key artist was pretty accurate.

“Will you shut up?” Dekker said. “Don't you see what happened here? We were robbed!”

“We didn't really listen to the radio anyway. We just need to find some cardboard and duct tape to shut up this window.”

“No! They stole my money!”

“Your money?”

“It was in the glove compartment.”

Why had he put his money in the glove box? “What? How much of it?”

He didn't say anything.

“How much, Dekker?”

“All of it.”

 

Chapter 21

W
E GOT OUT
of the car.

Dekker paced. “Why me?” he wailed at the sky. “Why?”

“Because you left all your money in the glove compartment of a fairly nice car in a terrible neighborhood,” I said. “I've got just fifteen hundred left.”

He glared at me.

“You know,” I said, “I may not know a lot about how the real world works, but I know enough never to leave a thousand dollars in a—­”

Dekker strode toward the motel office. I followed him. He threw the door open and banged on the bell on the counter. “Hello?”

The old man came out of the back. “Can I help you?”

“Yeah, you can help me,” Dekker said. “Somebody broke into my—­our car last night, stole the stereo and some cash. And then they keyed the door.”

The manager pointed to a typewritten sign fastened to the wall with scotch tape:
NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR VANDLE OR LOSS IN CAR.

Dekker didn't say anything for a moment before turning to me. “Was that there yesterday?”

“I didn't see it,” I said. Regardless, this was Dekker's fault and no one else's.

He stormed back out the door to the Buick as he lit a cigarette, and I followed him.

“The no-­refunds sign was there yesterday,” I said. “I remember it, so—­”

“Shut up! That's not helpful.”

Why was he mad at me? I actually was trying to help.

He slumped. “I'll pay you back. Whatever expenses for the rest of this trip, I will reimburse you.”

I shrugged. “I'm just sorry you had your money stolen. Let's forget it.”

We drove back over to the nursing home with the chilly, dry wind blowing in through my window.

A different nurse was at the reception desk, and Dekker used a different set of names for us to sign in with. Today it was Richard and Elizabeth Burton.

I had all kinds of plans for our visit today. I'd watched hundreds of hours of interrogations on cop shows, so I felt like I knew the techniques pretty well. Obviously I wouldn't start yelling and throwing furniture if she didn't give the answers I wanted, but I thought I could get the job done.

We walked down the hall to Room 3B, and Dekker knocked on the open door. Mrs. Krantz was sitting in her chair, but Mrs. Davis's bed was empty, and I got a pang of fear.

“Mrs. Krantz?” Dekker said.

She turned her head and smiled when she saw us. “Back again, eh? Come on in! Did you bring me my treat?”

She was sharp, just like she'd said.

“We sure did,” Dekker said, holding out the box to her.

She clasped her veiny old hands together and reached for the box. “Thank you, dears.” She carefully opened it, pulled out one of the candies and ate it. “Would you like some?”

Dekker and I shook our heads.

“Where's Aunt Jeannie?” he said.

“As I predicted, she's much better today, so she's down in the TV room socializing.”

“How are they?” Dekker asked, pointing at the open cherry box.

“Nothing tastes as good as it used to,” Mrs. Krantz said. “But they're still pretty good.” She looked at me. “Doesn't this one ever talk?”

“She's very shy,” Dekker said.

Before the last few days, I'd never been required to talk to ­people other than to say “That'll be five dollars” to dump customers, and in fact had been discouraged from it. I obviously needed to say the kinds of things I'd seen on TV and heard Dekker say to ­people.

“Hi,” I said. “How are you today?”

“My arthritis is acting up. I can always tell when a change in the weather's coming. My arthritis tells me.”

“Sorry to hear that,” Dekker said. “We're going to go down and say hello to Aunt Jeannie, and then we'll pop back in afterward. Do you need anything? Can I get anything for you?”

She held up one of the cherries and waved him away.

“Which way to the TV room?”

She pointed. We walked out in that direction. My heart fluttered as we walked down the hall. I heard a television up ahead and saw many old folks sitting in chairs around the large screen. I scanned the old faces and then I saw her. Today her hair was done and she was wearing makeup and a nice pink pantsuit. She stood and walked toward us, and I was afraid I would faint. It was like she was a different person altogether.

“There you are,” she said. “I've been waiting. Let's get away from this loud TV so we can have a real conversation.” She strode farther down the hall. Dekker and I shrugged at each other and followed her.

She stopped at a table and hugged us both. We all sat just as she reached out to touch my hair. I drew back. Impatiently, she made a beckoning gesture with her hand. So I leaned forward again, and she touched my hair.

“What did you do different?” she said.

“I—­I don't know what you—­”

“You know I don't like your hair hanging in your face, but I like the new color.”

“Thank you,” I said, a flash of unreality surrounding me, as if she actually knew I'd dyed my hair two days ago.

She looked around and then leaned forward and whispered, “We need to talk about Glenn.”

“Of course we do,” Dekker said.

“Who is—­”

Dekker squeezed my leg under the table, and I knew he meant for me to shut up and go along.

“Your father's tried. He told Glenn if he doesn't propose soon, Michelle is going to leave him for good. But you know him. He's the expert. So I'd like you to talk to him. Sometimes he'll listen to you when he won't listen to anyone else.” She turned to Dekker. “Or maybe you. Maybe he needs to hear it from a man his own age.”

“Sure,” Dekker said. “I'm happy to do it. I've always liked Michelle.”

She sat back, satisfied, her arms crossed, and then she sat forward again, looking around and under the table.

“Does Annie have preschool today?” she said.

I looked at Dekker, wondering who she was talking about. Luckily, he was good at thinking on the fly.

“Yeah,” he said. “We knew you wanted to talk about Glenn, so we wanted to be undistracted.”

“All right,” Jeannie said. “But next time, bring her. Yes?”

Dekker and I nodded.

She nodded too, like it was all settled.

“Yes,” she said. “Good. Now . . . I wanted to tell you something but I can't remember what it was.”

“About Glenn?” Dekker said.

She pressed her fingers to her lips, shaking her head.

“About . . . Annie?”

“No, but do you have any new pictures for me?”

Dekker patted his shirt pockets and held up his hands. “We gave you one last week.”

“That's right,” Jeannie said. Then she smiled at me. “Do you remember what you used to say when you wanted me to tell you stories about when I was a girl?”

Dekker squeezed my leg again.

“No,” I said.

“Series one ladle.”

I sneaked a glance at Dekker. I was irritated with myself for being so tongue-­tied. Here I'd thought I would be such a smooth interrogator because I'd spent my life watching TV. This proved I didn't really know how to do anything, not even talk to my own grandmother.

She laughed, reached across the table and grasped my hand. I had to force myself not to pull away. “What you meant was ‘stories when little.' ”

Dekker and she laughed. “Say, Jeannie,” Dekker said. “Why don't you tell the story again of when she was born?” He pointed at me.

“There was a blizzard when I went into labor. I was at home and Bart was out of town—­he traveled for work of course in those days—­so I had to get Mrs. Fletcher to drive me to Porter Hospital, and it took three hours with the roads the way they were. When we got there, I was ready to push.”

She smiled at me. I stopped breathing.

“You were almost born out in the parking lot, Marianne.”

 

Chapter 22

“A
ND WHAT DID
she look like?” I asked Jeannie.

“Full head of black, black hair,” she said. “Came out squalling. She was mad she'd had to wait, I guess.”

“When did Bart get there?”

“It wasn't until three days later he could get a flight in.” She reached out and touched Petty's face, and to Petty's credit, she didn't pull away. “You had him wrapped around your little finger from the first moment he saw you.”

“What about Glenn?” Dekker said.

“He was a hard one, since he was my first,” Jeannie said. “We didn't think he would ever come out. Two days I was in labor. They wanted to use forceps to pull him out, but I screamed. I wouldn't let them because of what the forceps did to Cousin Erin's face. I suppose that was all the incentive I needed to push him on out!”

I wondered who Cousin Erin was and where she was now. I wondered how many relatives were out there that Petty might never be able to find.

“Do you remember when Annie was born?” I said, taking a stab that she meant Petty. Michael had changed his name; it only made sense that Petty wasn't her real name either.

Petty looked askance at me.

Jeannie shoved at me girlishly. “I do. Do you?”

I laughed. “Of course.”

“One of the best days of my life. The most precious baby. Wouldn't make a sound, not a peep! Quiet as a church mouse, remember? Full head of black hair, just like you,” she said to Petty. “They had to slap her feet so many times to get her to cry, remember, Michael?”

“I remember,” I said. “She was beautiful, that's for sure.”

Petty blushed.

I forced myself back into this interrogation disguised as conversation. “Do you still have the photos we gave you?”

Jeannie looked at me like I was crazy. “Of course I do.”

“I'd love to see them again,” I said. “Wouldn't you, Marianne?”

“Sure,” Petty said. Her face was very white, and I hoped she could keep it together. I hoped I could.

“Where are they, Jeannie?” I asked her.

“They're in my room, of course.”

“Shall we go down there and take a look?”

“That woman might be in there.”

“Mrs. Krantz? That's all right. She's very nice.”

Jeannie rolled her eyes. I rose and helped her to her feet. I threaded her arm through mine and looked back to make sure Petty was following us. The three of us walked down to Jeannie's room.

“Thank God she's not here,” she said.

“Now, where are those pictures?” I said.

“What pictures?”

“Of Annie when she was a baby.”

“Oh, that's right,” she said. She opened a cabinet and pulled a photo album out.

Petty's eyes shone, her expression hungry.

Jeannie sat in her chair and held the album on her lap. Petty and I pulled up two chairs side by side. Jeannie handed the photo album to me, and on the cover was a photo of an infant with black hair and a thin, birdlike face. Below it, it said,
Anne Marie Rhones.

I read it aloud. Petty had been named after her mother. I got chills, looking at it.

“Oh,” Petty said, but it was more like a sigh. She smiled at me, a sad smile, and I felt my sinuses back up.

I opened the album, and it was a shock to see a picture of someone who looked just like Petty, sitting on a hospital bed, holding a newborn baby, with a huge proud smile. And next to her, a young, beaming Michael Rhones. Which confused me. In the letters, he'd been furious that Marianne was pregnant with the other guy's baby, although he also said he'd raise the baby as his own if she'd just come back to him. It appeared that they'd reconciled. Maybe the birth had brought them close again. I'd heard of that sort of thing. Still, it seemed odd.

I turned the pages, looking at the photos of baby Petty lying on the floor with toys around her, Marianne reading colorful board books to her, baby Petty with bunny ears on her first Halloween, Petty smiling dimply and toothless. This was shocking too, because I'd never seen her smile like that. Toddler Petty with water wings in a swimming pool, Michael Rhones pulling her around by her arms, Petty squinting against the bright sunlight.

So when had Marianne finally left Michael for Petty's real father?

“That's weird,” Petty said. “Dad and I never went to the pool. I never did learn how to swim.”

“What are you talking about?” Jeannie said, indignant. “You were on the swim team, for God's sake! And your father took you to the pool hundreds of times when you were little. You don't remember?”

“Oh, right,” Petty said. “I meant that—­it just seems so long ago, that's all.”

“Do you have any other photo albums?” I asked Petty's grandma.

Jeannie got up and pulled a wedding album out of the same cabinet. She handed it to me.

I opened it up and there was the same photo of Michael and Marianne under the snow-­covered gazebo that was in the album from the box in Dooley's office. Petty nodded at me, obviously recognizing it too. On the next page was another eight-­by-­ten of them standing on the altar of a church with a big cross behind them, Marianne looking up at Michael. She had on a large sweeping white dress with a long train, and she was absolutely beautiful, radiant.

“He looks so . . . normal,” Petty murmured.

“Who does?” Jeannie asked.

Petty smiled at me and said, “Michael does.”

We went through the album, Jeannie commenting on this or that detail. She pointed out Glenn, Marianne's brother, and I remembered Michael had lied to Petty about that too—­he'd said neither he nor Marianne had siblings.

I wondered how deep the lies ran.

“Tell us your favorite memory of our wedding,” I said. “What was the best part?”

“The expression on your face when you saw Marianne walking down the aisle on Bart's arm. I never saw a happier ­couple, and that's the truth. I was so mad when they wouldn't open up the terrace for the reception, remember? Just because it had rained.”

Petty nodded, in a daze.

Then Jeannie's face darkened. “But why you had to go and invite that man to the wedding, Marianne . . . What were you thinking?”

My spidey sense tingled. “What man?”

“Don't pretend you don't remember,” Jeannie said to Petty, as if she'd been the one who asked. “The ex-­boyfriend.”

“Right,” I said, looking at Petty. “The ex-­boyfriend. The one we both worked with, right?”

Jeannie glared at Petty. “I don't want to talk about it.”

“Everything's okay,” I said. “I can't seem to remember his name. Can you remember it?”

It was like performing delicate heart surgery. I took the photo album out of Petty's hands and set it in Jeannie's lap. I needed to proceed with caution.

“I'd like to look at his face to remind myself how smart Marianne was for choosing me over him. Are there any pictures of him at the wedding?”

Jeannie stared down at the album. “At the wedding?”

“Right. Remember? Marianne invited him. Are there any photos?”

“I—­I don't know. Did he come to the wedding?”

“I thought that's what you said,” I said, feeling as though my patient was slipping away, flatlining. “Maybe I was mistaken.”

“Did I dream that, do you suppose?” Jeannie said. She looked down, frowning, and was silent for a while. Then she smiled at Petty. “Your bridesmaids were all in navy blue. I wanted you to wear a veil, but you had to have everything your way. It was
your
day, you kept telling me. And I kept reminding you who was paying for
your
day. You wanted to wear red nail polish! So tacky. But I couldn't stop you from doing that, could I?”

Petty shook her head, her eyes glazed.

Jeannie turned again to me. “And I didn't like you at first, Michael. Remember?”

“How could I forget?” I said. “But you never did tell me why.”

She glanced around and leaned in to whisper, “Of course it was all that mental illness in your family.”

I looked at Petty then back at Jeannie. “Mental illness?”

“Don't play coy with me, young man! You know exactly what I'm talking about. The suicide. The insane asylum. All those things.”

Whose suicide? What insane asylum? I wondered. That would explain a lot about Michael Rhones. I wanted to ask more about it, but I knew it would seem strange. I decided to go back to the ex-­boyfriend again.

“Jeannie, can you help me remember that ex-­boyfriend's name? The one Marianne invited to the wedding? We can't remember his name. Can you?”

Jeannie stared and then wrinkled her brow. “The ex-­boyfriend? You mean Marianne's ex-­boyfriend?”

“Yes. You said you didn't know if he had actually come to the wedding or not, and you know me, I can't remember what I had for breakfast this morning. So I wondered if you remembered his name.”

Jeannie stared. “If he's the one I'm thinking of, it was an Eye-­talian name.”

Petty jerked beside me. Her mouth dropped open. “It wasn't . . . Bellandini, was it?” she said in an airless voice.

Where she'd pulled that out of, I could only guess.

“Yes! That's right!” Jeannie said. “I remember, because I told Bart it was a ridiculous name. A wop-­greaser name.” After the initial excitement at having remembered something important, Jeannie's face fell. She covered her mouth with her hands and stared.

“I'm sorry,” Petty whispered.

“I don't want to talk about it,” Jeannie said from behind her hands. “How could this happen to
our
family?”

“It's over,” I said. “It's all right.”

“How could this happen to our family?” Jeannie repeated in a whisper.

It appeared that Jeannie knew something horrible had happened but couldn't quite remember it. So the question remained: Where was Petty's mom? It wasn't like we could ask Jeannie, since she thought Petty was Marianne, and that Petty was a toddler, and that it was nineteen-­ninety-­something.

Tears filled Jeannie's milky eyes. “Where did it go?”

Where did what go?

“I'm sorry,” Petty said again.

I reached for Jeannie's hand. “It's all right. It's all in the past.”

“All in the past,” Jeannie echoed. “I'm so tired.”

“Why don't we leave now and let you get some rest.” I stood, and Petty did too.

Jeannie sat staring for a moment more, then went and sat on her bed. She had nothing more to say.

“We'll see you soon, Jeannie,” I said as she lay down, turning away from me and Petty.

“Goodbye,” Petty said.

I led the way into the Colorado afternoon and immediately lit a cigarette. I thought about asking Petty if she wanted one to calm her nerves but knew she'd throw a rod. So I leaned back against the car and smoked while she paced in front of me, her fingers at her lips.

I waited until we were buckled in the car. “Where in the hell did you get the name Bellandini? How did you know? Did you remember from when you were a little kid, or what?”

“No,” Petty said. “When I was in Mr. Dooley's office going through the box, there was a file folder marked ‘Bellandini.' Now I wish I took it.”

“Your dad—­I mean, Michael Rhones—­kept a file on him? Now, that's twisted.”

“Yes.”

“She thought you were your mom,” I said, excited. “Yesterday, she wasn't saying ‘Mama.' She was trying to say Marianne.”

“I know.”

“Bellandini has to be your dad's name.”

“Right.”

“What's the matter? Why aren't you as excited as I am?”

She didn't answer right away.

“I am,” she said. “But there's all this other stuff going on inside me. Like—­and this is going to sound crazy—­I feel bad for my dad. For Michael Rhones. He loved my mom. You could see it in the pictures. You could feel it when you read the letters. And it drove him insane.”

I stayed quiet, even though I wanted to dance around. We'd done it. We'd cracked the code. And it was largely thanks to my steering Jeannie in the direction we wanted her to go. No way could Petty alone have gotten the information we needed.

As soon as I thought this, I realized how selfish my excitement was. It wasn't about finding Petty's family, it was about my cleverness. But this wasn't a puzzle, it was Petty's life. The seriousness of this situation hit me, that and how ill-­equipped I was to handle it. Shame washed over me.

“Petty, this must be awful for you.”

“What if this Bellandini guy is worse than Michael Rhones?” Petty said. “I don't know what I'll do. I really don't.”

“But there's only one way to find out. We've come this far. Let's go back to the motel and we'll call information.”

I started up the Buick and drove to Motel 9. When we were in our room, Petty paced up and down, wringing her hands.

There was a knock on the door, and she looked at me, alarmed.

I went to the door.

“Who is it?” I called.

“Management,” came a voice, but it didn't sound like the old guy.

“What is it?”

“There's a problem with the water. Can you open up?”

I did.

A tattooed young man stood there.

“Hi,” he said. “We have to turn the water off until tomorrow morning, so you won't be able to shower or flush until then. Okay?”

“Okay,” I said. “Thanks.”

The guy held up a hand and walked to the next room as I shut the door.

“No flushing,” I said to Petty.

“That's weird,” she said.

I picked up the phone and dialed information. The recording asked me for city, state, and name, to which I replied “Colorado. Bellandini. Can I get the address too?”