The View from Prince Street (9 page)

“What about the chemistry, Rae? What about the bow-chicka-wow-wow? Isn't that what makes the world go around?”

“I'll concede that sexual attraction is a key ingredient. But other factors must come into play, otherwise you just have two hormonal people who soon realize they're ill-suited. Eventually, the sex suffers and there is no glue to hold them.”

“I've had a couple of relationships like that. Sex was great, the project ends, and we go our separate ways. We promise to call and write, and
yada, yada, yada
. Two months later, it's gone completely. I've never been good at planning the future.”

“The past is safe. Its ending is known. Certain.”

She leaned back and grinned. “Could be.” She picked up her phone and typed in several notes. “Which reminds me, have you wondered why Patience wrote her mother so many letters? Normal to write Mom, but why not post the letters?”

“Perhaps they were returned after her mother's passing.”

“Solid theory.” She sipped her coffee.

When I first met Margaret on that hot day in July, she had irritated me. If not for Addie Morgan, I might have closed the door in her face, treating her like a solicitor. But now she was growing on me. And she could build a history of this family that might be of real interest to the boy.

“If you're free, you can come back on Saturday.” I could explain to Margaret that tomorrow was Jennifer's birthday, but I didn't want to crack that door yet.

“I was really hoping I could take the letters home. I'm a night owl and do some of my best work in the wee hours of the morning.”

“They've likely not left the property in generations.”

“If you don't want to lend them out, I get it. But I can tell you I'll move faster if I can work at home. And I'm a trained professional when it comes to this.”

I could imagine my mother stiffening at the idea of lending out the papers. My mother never, ever would have given Margaret the letters.

“That would be fine,” I said. “I know you'll be careful with them.” First, the kitchen remodel. Then, the stones. Now, the letters. No need for a Ph.D. to recognize rebellion.

She paused, the cup close to her lips. “Really? You're saying yes.”

“I am.”

“You aren't practicing sarcasm, are you, Rae?”

“No. I'm sincere. The letters are yours to examine. Though they're for your eyes only. I'd like to know what's in them before any information is shared with the public.”

“You bet. I'll keep them safe and show them to no one.”

“Then we have a deal,” I said.

She gulped the last of her coffee and absently tapped a ringed finger against the side of the cup. “And when I return on Saturday I'll bring you an assortment of cookies and prove that sugar and fat are vital to a healthy life.”

I calculated the average calories of a cookie and balanced the number against the calories burned during my Saturday morning run. “We shall see.”

“Sounds like a challenge.”

“When do you think you'll know more about Patrick McDonald?” I changed the subject. “If there were no formal adoption papers, then there can really be no real way to determine if he was Faith's or Patience's child.”

“I would argue that if Old McDonald—excuse the pun—had
wanted a son, he'd have seen to it that there'd be no way to prove the boy was not his. He'd want a direct line of succession. Maybe Patience hinted at the truth in her letters.”

“The McDonalds had another child that survived,” I said.

“The surviving child was a girl named Hanna,” Margaret replied.

“Real, as in biological.”

She cringed. “Poor choice of words. My sister Daisy is adopted and she gets a little tense when I say ‘real' in association with a parent.”

I'd not met Daisy, but she was an adult adoptee. She would understand some of what the boy might feel. “How old was she when she was adopted?”

“Three. Her birth mother abandoned her at the bakery.”

“Abandoned?” The word's nasty ring needled up my spine. “She didn't make a plan for her?”

“No. It was more like: here are some cookies, baby girl, Momma's gotta jet.”

“That's horrible.”

“But Daisy wasn't alone for more than two minutes before my mom swooped in and rescued her.”

I culled the interest cropping up among the syllables in my tone. “Did your sister find her birth mother?”

“Yeah.” Margaret shook her head. “Whoever said adoption reunions are all happy endings is full of it. They're complicated.”

If the boy showed up on my doorstep, would I welcome him? Or would I be so fearful that he might hate me that I'd reject him as I had almost all other feelings? “I'm sorry to hear that.”

“Daisy keeps trying to connect. She's stubborn, so maybe one day she'll get her reunion.” Margaret held up her empty cup to me and automatically, I filled it. She sipped, savoring the taste. “But common law back then stated property was passed to the eldest son with no rights for the daughter. Therefore, Patrick became the sole male owner of this farm.”

Margaret rubbed her hands together, her rings clinking together. “Don't you love digging up old secrets? God, I live for digging them up.”

“I imagine you're good at this.”

“I can hold my own, if I do say so myself.”

Patience and Michael McDonald's secret was so old, there was no one left alive for it to hurt. Time had long washed away the pain, rendering it safe to be exposed.

But other secrets . . .

Well, they were too powerful to ever see the light.

Dearest Mother,

The snows have arrived and the air has turned bitter. We spend most of our time inside the cottage. I still have not recovered from my loss and my head spins with grief each time I stand by the open hearth to cook. Daily tasks are impossible. After I burned the stew last week, Faith, without a word took over the cooking and now prepares all the meals for us. She is a good cook, and though Mr. McDonald has not said a word, he clearly relishes the hot fare waiting for him when he returns from the fields and barn. He enjoys the babes who lie on their pallets, fat and cooing. In the span of days, Faith has given Mr. McDonald everything I cannot.

Several times, I caught Faith staring at the empty cradle. Though she rarely speaks, her expression softens. Maybe even a witch can understand.

—P

Lisa Smyth

W
EDNESDAY
, A
UGUST
17, 9:00
A.M.

W
ith the
Hello, my name is Lisa
tag pressed to my shirt and Charlie at my side, I sat at the early-morning AA meeting fidgeting with the sobriety chips I'd collected over the past years. One year. Two year. Five year. Decade. After all this time, the process of staying sober should have been easier. I should have finally vanquished the demons. I should have this figured out. Wasn't sobriety like a muscle? The more I use it, the stronger it becomes.

God, if it were that simple.

But as strong as my convictions can be in one moment, they remain susceptible in the next. Each time my guard drops, they appear, singing promises of relief.
Drink and all will be forgiven.

Last night, after Charlie and I left the meeting, thoughts of Jennifer's death chased me all the way back to Prince Street. I was in her car again, bruised and bleeding, trying to undo my seat belt and then Jennifer's. She was unconscious, but alive, when I pulled her from the wreckage onto the damp grass. We were twenty feet from the car when
I saw the first flames rising out of the engine. Terrified, I ran to the road, hoping to flag down a car.

In the shadow of this memory, my sobriety lay before me, brittle as a dry leaf. Closing my eyes, I imagined the cool wine rolling over my dry tongue. Easing tension, unfurling knots, it promised bliss.

But of course, it lied. I remembered this hard-learned lesson about falling off the wagon the first time I tried and failed to get sober. On the heels of one glass of wine came another and another until I lost track. And bliss turned to guilt and to more self-loathing.

I didn't drink last night, but when I woke, Jennifer's presence, along with the cravings, was near.

“So are you a wine drinker?”

I opened my eyes to find an attractive blonde holding a cigarette to her lips and reaching for a lighter. “Excuse me?”

“I'm a beer drinker, and on special days I reach for the tequila. Those are the wild and dangerous days.” She grinned and held out her hand. “You look like a wine girl. Hi, I'm Janet Morgan.”

“I'm Lisa and this is Charlie.”

Janet tossed an apprehensive glance at the dog and made no move to pet him. “You're new to the meetings here. You recently move to Alexandria?”

“I'm visiting.” I sat a little straighter, trying to relax the tension banding my shoulders. I needed to open up and talk about what haunted me. Instead, I smiled.

Janet took a long pull on her cigarette. “I'm here for the duration. Both my kids are in Alexandria and I'm sticking around, even if it kills me.”

“Is this place so terrible?”

“It's not the place.” She stared at the glowing tip of the cigarette as smoke trickled out of her mouth. “It's me. I'm not happy anywhere, as it turns out. I'm always ready to jump to the next lily pad in the pond. Only this time, I've run out of pads. End of the line for me.”

“How long have you been working the steps?”

“Five whole weeks. Jesus, it doesn't sound like a lot of time but it feels like a lifetime. I've never seen the minutes move so slowly.”

“That, I do understand.”

Janet held my gaze for an extra beat, sizing me up. “So you come regularly to these meetings or is this kind of an emergency check-in?”

Mentally, I released the grip on my words.
Talk about them. Get them in the open and destroy them.
“Today's a bad day. A lot of memories. It's always a tough time for me. I like to visit a meeting on this day no matter where I am.”

Today was Jennifer McDonald's birthday. She would have been thirty-four if not for the car crash. Every summer since her death, I made a point to be as far away from Alexandria as possible, but this year I was at ground zero. “I'm going to the cemetery to pay respects,” I said.

The meeting leader began and we all introduced ourselves. There was a familiarity to the meetings that I'd encountered, no matter if I were in California, Kansas, Florida, or Virginia.

The meeting leader wore her thick gray hair back in a ponytail. Her dress was made of denim and hung loosely around her round body. Clogs, athletic socks. I refused to look at her legs to see if she shaved. TMI as far as I was concerned.

Despite her grandmotherly appearance, her attention was sharp as she moved around the room and listened closely, asking pointed questions. Grandma had a bite.

After introductions, most didn't have much to say. Newcomers spoke of struggles the old-timers knew all too well. There was comfort in knowing I wasn't alone.

Fortunately, it was promising to be a quick meeting. I felt a little more grounded and was ready to soldier on.

The leader zeroed in on me. “So, Lisa, what brings you here today?”

“Checking in,” I said as lightly as I could. Since I was originally from Alexandria, I wondered if someone in the room might recognize
me. “New city, new circumstances, and I always expect some new kind of trigger that could catch me off guard.”

Grandma folded her arms over her ample bosom. “What kind of triggers catch you off guard, Lisa?”

“A new bar. New people who don't know I'm an alcoholic. There's always a trigger.”

“Have you been to Alexandria before?”

Bracing, I didn't look away. “I was born and raised here, but haven't been back in a long time.”

“What brings you back?”

Not what drove me away but what brought me back. “My aunt is in assisted living. Her house needs to be sold. I need to handle all the arrangements. A bit overwhelming.”

“That kind of job comes with a lot of stress.”

“It does.” Absently, I rubbed Charlie's head.

“And what are you doing to cope?”

She wasn't so much digging into my life as she was trying to get me to share coping strategies for everyone else. I understood that. “Sitting here, right now.”

“What about your aunt's place?” Pale eyes darkened. “Free of booze?”

“I've searched the cabinets and tossed the usual suspects.” It had been a cursory search that lasted less than fifteen minutes. Normally, a new place received the entire once-over, but not this time. This time I'd been sloppy and quick.

She shook her head slowly, picking up the meaning between the words. “Sounds like you didn't put your heart and soul into it.”

“What makes you say that?”

A sly smile twisted the edges of her lips, and for a moment, I didn't see an old woman but a young hellion who had mastered every trick in the book. “A half-ass search means we're either complacent or we're thinking there might be a little hooch somewhere. Might be thinking if a rainy day comes it will come in handy.”

I sat a little straighter and announced, “I've been sober twelve years.”

“I was sober twenty-one and a half years. I woke up that morning in a great mood, had the world on a string. Next thing I know, I'm with friends from work and I'm belting back whiskey. It took me another two months and more Jack Daniels than I can remember before I hauled myself back to a meeting. Time away from the sauce is good, but it's a poor guarantee for a drunk.”

For a moment I didn't speak. Instead of spinning a lie that would set off this lady's BS meter in a blink, I said, “Sixteen years ago my best friend and I were in a car accident. She died. I walked away with bruises. Today is her birthday and I'm sitting here screwing up the courage to visit her grave and pay respects. I owe her that much, but I'm being a chickenshit about it.”

The woman smiled as if she had finally gotten to the truth. “Paying respects or asking forgiveness?”

“Both.”

“What do you think your friend would say to you right now if she were here? Would she still want to be your best friend?”

“That's irrelevant. My friend is dead.”

“Don't dodge the question, Lisa. Your friend is standing right here. What does she say to you?”

The weighted stares in the room shifted onto me. If anyone had come into the room with a worry or concern, it was tabled until I answered the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question.

“She hated self-pity.”

The group leader leaned toward me. “So she might be saying . . .” She left the question open.

Jennifer's laughter suddenly rang in my ears, and for a moment I thought she was standing right behind me. “She'd tell me to ditch the pity party and do what needed to be done.”

“Then what's holding you back?”

“Nothing,” I said. “As soon as this meeting is over I'm driving straight to St. Mary's Cemetery.”

“Good. Would your friend expect you to stand by her grave and beat yourself up with old memories?”

“No.”

“Good. But in case you do, we also have another meeting tonight.”

Pride demanded I tell her I'd be fine.
Don't worry about me. I got this.
Instead, all I said was, “Thanks.”

The meeting broke up and Janet came up to me as I moved toward the door. Fumbling for a cigarette in true chain-smoker fashion, she lit the tip of another about to burn down to its filter.

“You did a good job. Thanks for speaking up,” Janet said. “Nice to know I'm not the only one carrying barrels of guilt.”

“Here's to good days.”

“Amen. See you soon.”

“I'll be here.”

I didn't linger, no longer willing to scratch at a wound that had never healed. With Charlie in the shotgun seat, I slid behind the wheel of the Buick.

Sweat dampened the back of my neck as I drove through the wrought-iron gate at the entrance of the cemetery. Shifting in my seat, I tightened my hands on the steering wheel and followed the road to the left, winding past the gray tombstones that dotted the rolling green landscape. Many of the plots were decorated with urns filled with flowers, making me feel guilty that I'd forgotten to bring flowers. I should have brought some. “Who comes to pay homage without flowers, Charlie? Jennifer loved sunflowers.” The dog rose, sensing we were close.

“Shit,” I muttered as I shifted my dark sunglasses to the top of my head to get the hair out of my eyes. Irritation snapped through my body.

Charlie wagged his tail and barked.

“Maybe I should leave and buy flowers. I could be back within half an hour with a bouquet.” Charlie barked, his gaze trained ahead.

The flowers offered the perfect escape. I could leave now, find a florist or a grocery store. I could delay this meeting and keep carrying the all-too-familiar weights of remorse and guilt.

“Wuss.”
The word echoed in my head.

As tempted as I was to turn the car around and leave, I didn't. I was the master of delay tactics. I could find perfectly legitimate excuses to put off what needed to be done. Don't do today what you can put off until tomorrow. Or better, next month. Didn't matter if it were sobriety, developing the box of neglected glass negatives from last winter, or apologizing to an old friend for my role in her death.

Pushing on the accelerator, I drove deeper into the cemetery until I found the section I knew belonged to the McDonald family. I parked by a neatly trimmed curb and shut off the car. The silence hummed around me as the clouds overhead grew heavier and darker with rain. Jesus, more rain? What the hell was it with this city lately?

I closed my eyes, savoring the silence, wondering if this is what Alexandria sounded like centuries ago.

“Get it over with already,” the voice whispered in my head. “It won't be better tomorrow.”

Charlie barked. Nerves crawled up my spine, and I shook my head to clear it.

Refusing to delay another second, I leashed Charlie and we pushed out of the car. Charlie walked ahead to the moist green grass surrounding a large granite marker that read
McDonald
. Surrounding the primary stone were a dozen smaller headstones of various family members. Instead of walking to Jennifer's spot, which I knew was in the back on the right, I searched for Jeffrey McDonald. His simple gravestone was in the center, beside his parents. To his left was the marker for Stuart McDonald, two years his junior, and likely his brother.

A thundercloud clapped overhead, drawing my full attention to the task at hand. The clouds had darkened as if on cue. Soon, I'd be deluged. Hell, the first time I stood here it was raining. That day, I barely took notice. I was seventeen and still battered and bruised from the accident. Painkillers dulled my throbbing head but had done little to ease my guilt and heartache.

I had not wanted to be at the funeral, but my mother insisted I join the mourners. “You have nothing to hide,” she said. “You were her best friend and people should see for themselves that you're grieving for her. And if anyone asks you about the accident, I don't want you to say a word. It's between you, me, and our lawyer.”