When She Flew (28 page)

“I—I was sick.”

“And are you still . . . sick?”

“What are you saying? That I don’t deserve my daughter because I have a few personal problems? Everybody has problems.”

“Maybe,” Jess said, “but you know what? You can’t be a drug addict and raise a child. That’s one of those little rules it’s my job to enforce. Are you still using?”

“What the . . . ? Fuck you! Just . . . just fuck you. You’re going to be sorry you spoke to me that way. The man at the station thinks I can get on the
Today
show, and maybe
Inside Edition
, and I’ll tell everyone what you said to me. He said they’ll probably even fly me out to New York, if I have Lindy with me. They’re talking about giving her a college fund, too. You think you’re in trouble now? You better watch out. When I’m through with you—”

Jess hit the OFF button, trembling. The woman might be Lindy’s mother, but she’d never gone looking for her before, not until someone mentioned money. Jess would be damned if she let her get even a glimpse of the daughter she’d given up on so easily. And she was definitely still using. Whatever kind of mother she’d been early on, she was too far gone now. Some effects of long-term drug use were irreversible, like brain damage.

Her phone rang again, with the same number. Jess ignored it, wondering how many times she’d call before she’d finally give up.

Crystal. Had it been Ray’s name for his wife, or Lindy’s? How much did the girl know about her mother? Jess wished she could go back over their reports from the day before, the statements Ellis had taken from Ray, to see what he’d called her.

Ellis was on duty now. Her pulse revved as she found him in her address book and hit SEND.

“Jenkins,” he said. From the background noise, she guessed he was in his cruiser.

“Villareal.” She bit her lip.

“V!” The concern in his voice brought tears to her eyes. “Where the hell are you? I tried your cell phone, but you never picked up.”

“I know. The press is calling constantly so I’m not answering,” she said.

“Are you okay?”

She blinked rapidly. “Mm-hmm.”

“Where are you? You’re not at home, I hope. You know, if you need, uh ...” His voice faltered, and Jess knew to take it as a kind gesture. It would be too difficult for him if she said yes.

“I’m good. Staying with a friend.”

“Listen, you know our friendship is solid, right? It’s not that. I just can’t be taking chances with my career right now. With my family.”

“I know.”

“Troy’s going to need braces next year, and Alison—”

“It’s okay, Ellis. I wouldn’t do that to you.”

They were quiet for a moment. His police radio crackled in the background.

Jess cleared her throat. “So, Officer Jenkins, I have a question for you. What name did Ray use for his wife? What did he call her when you were questioning him yesterday?”

“Uh, let’s see. Fay? Faith? Yeah, Faith. He was actually pretty respectful, considering. Why? Is he calling her something more appropriate now, Meth-head Momma?” He chuckled at himself.

“Read my notes from questioning Lindy,” Jess said. “When you get back to the office. Just in case this blows up into a custody battle. I think the kid’s got more street smarts than we suspected.”

“Yeah? What makes you think so?”

“You’ll see.” She paused. “I, um, haven’t had the courage to watch the chief ’s news conference. Without being too graphic, exactly how deep is the shit I’m in?”

“You didn’t watch? You’re telling me your job’s at stake and you didn’t watch?”

“I just said I didn’t watch, butt head, so tell me.”

“Oh, no. I’m not telling you. Turn on the damn TV. It’s playing over and over. And over. You can’t miss it.”

Ellis wasn’t a sadist. How bad could it be?

Bad,
she thought.

“Fine. Be that way. You gotta go, anyway. You’re on duty, and you’re driving. Haven’t you heard that driving a car and talking on the phone don’t mix?” She paused. “Thank you, Ellis. Say hi to Maggie and the kids.”

“You gonna be all right?”

“I don’t know yet,” she said. “I’ll let you know.”

29

P
ater keeps looking out the windows, walking from one to the other, hitching up his pants. He reminds me of a finch, all nervous and fidgety, eyes darting this way and that. He woke from his nap when a plane flew over, just one of the normal kind that flies up in the clouds, a big sound from far away, but he asked me to move away from the window.

Now we are sitting here, him staring into space, me writing. I don’t know what will happen. When he gets like this, it usually passes quickly, but we’ve been sitting here for a long time. When he first got up from his nap, I asked him if he wanted something to eat for lunch, and he shook his head no. I asked him if it was okay if I ate, and he looked like himself for a moment.

“Yes, of course. Go fix yourself something.”

I went to hug him, and laid my head against his chest. His heart was beating too fast.

“Don’t be scared,” I said. “I’m not scared, so don’t you be.” It was what he used to say to me when we first got to the forest and I was afraid of everything, of every twig snapping and insect buzzing. Back then I thought that every bug that flew was a bee that would sting me, but Pater showed me the differences between all of the flying insects, the shapes of their wings, the articulation of their bodies, the sounds they made. And like all of Nature’s creatures, bees don’t want to hurt you. They just don’t want to be hurt.

Mark and John have invited us for supper, but Pater said no, thank you. We’ve imposed enough as it is, he told them, and we just want to be left to ourselves.

I don’t want to be left to myself. I would like to eat dinner in that big house, sitting and talking and laughing at a table with other people. John told me Mark is a very good cook, even now that they don’t eat meat. I want to go collect eggs in the morning and find out what an omelet is. I told John I knew where to find mushrooms in his woods, and we’re supposed to do that, too. If I never get to go outside, I don’t think I’m going to like living here very much. I have to be outside to breathe, to move, to feel like myself, and I can’t even go near a window.

For now, all I can do is write.

30

J
ess wandered the confines of Chris’s apartment. While well stocked in dog chow, there was very little for humans to eat. He’d left her a pair of police-issue sweats and a

T-shirt on the dining table with a note: “I’ll pick up more food on the way home. Sorry. All I have is cereal and hot dogs.” He signed off with a smiley face. Jess rolled her eyes, but, yes, it was nice. He was nice.

She grabbed a Coke, poured a bowl of Cheerios—smelling the milk before using it—then sat back down. The five o’clock news would be on in a few minutes. She was glad she’d waited to watch; by now it might all be old news. Maybe some politician had been caught having a sex life. Maybe peace had broken out in the Middle East.

At the sound of the station’s fanfare, the roll of red and blue graphics, Jess’s throat constricted against the food she was eating. As the last graphic fell away, a sign appeared on-screen: “North Station House” in governmental white on brown.

“Great,” Jess said, mouth full, but as the camera zoomed out, it revealed a group of people standing on the steps in front of the building. Women mostly, but a few men. Twenty, thirty people maybe. She couldn’t be sure.

The female voiceover said, “Our top story tonight: public outcry in the case of the missing forest people and the police officer trying to protect them.”

Protect them?
Jess held her breath.

A few people held signs: “Support Our Troops—Even At Home,” “Leave Them Alone.” She reached for the remote and turned the volume higher, as though that might help her see more clearly, to examine the faces and expressions, to discern the words the people chanted in the background, behind the self-important voice of the anchor, who said, “. . . in what has become a movement by citizens to protest recent decisions made by the Columbia Police Department . . .”

Jess set down her bowl. Her stomach fluttered with nervousness and excitement. What was happening?

The anchorwoman sat at her blue Plexiglas desk now, her face as rapt as someone reporting a cure for cancer. “And now to our reporter on the scene in north Columbia. Paula?”

The image switched to the female reporter Jess had spoken with earlier, disheveled and tired, standing in front of the small crowd of mostly white people singing “We Shall Overcome,” like it was the 1960s or something.

Jess laughed, hand to her mouth.
Oh, Oregon,
she thought.
Oh, Columbia, city by, for, and of the people.
They were goofy— they would be viewed by the rest of the country as hopeless bleeding hearts—but damn if they weren’t a beautiful sight.

Toward the back she saw a towering presence with a shiny bald head, and next to him a regal silver-haired black woman in a clerical collar and robe. The Lord worked in mysterious ways, all right, she thought, wondering how she’d ever thank them. If this was all they could do, it would be enough, she realized, just this show of support, this voice against the empire.

“That’s right, Ann. The people of Columbia have a new cause tonight. And these people who’ve been gathering here all afternoon say they just want their voices to be heard.”

The image switched to an earlier taped interview of an older woman with frizzy gray hair and wearing a loose-fitting sundress.
Oh, god,
Jess thought.
Not a hippie.
But the woman was articulate and sounded sensible.

“We’d like to know why this family must be separated,” she said. “Too few of the children living in poverty in our country get the parental care they need, the education they need. So why do we allow that to happen, but persecute the struggling parent who is actually doing a pretty good job? Are we really helping that little girl by taking her away from her father?”

“Exactly,” Jess said. She wished someone were here to watch this with her. She hoped Everett was watching. She hoped everyone was watching. Not that it would change anything; she’d still be investigated—she had obstructed the department’s idea of justice, and yes, she’d been insubordinate. There was no doubt about it. Worse, they’d still try to hunt down Ray and Lindy. The wheels were rolling, and governmental wheels were hard to stop once in motion, even if people involved wanted them to stop. Rules were rules. It was all about perception—the perception of weakness if an organization admitted mistakes, when really, wouldn’t they look stronger by appearing to be run by humans?

A short clip of Chief Gleason came on next, and what had apparently become his sound bite: “We are not opposed to helping people. That’s our job. But we believe the girl is in jeopardy.”

The anchorwoman reappeared on screen. “A spokesman for the police department says this protest won’t change anything. The father and daughter involved will be located, and Officer Jessica Villareal, the policewoman who went against orders to keep them together, will face an investigation and remain on paid leave until further notice.”

Maybe Jess should have been watching all day, like those O.J. addicts and car-chase weirdos. She changed to channel seven, which had much the same scene of picketers, only from a different angle. A small black girl in a pink tutu held a sign. Not just any girl. It was Alison Jenkins, her little hand in Maggie’s. The sign read: