Not in the Heart (19 page)

“You don't think that will be difficult to explain on the campaign trail? A grieving family. The governor who had the chance to do something good. Liberals will make hay out of the conservative who has little compassion and even less of a spine.”

“Either way, if I get down in the mud on this one, I'm getting dirty.”

“You're already in the mud, Governor. And the blood. Take the high road. This guy is begging. Ellen and I are too.”

The governor sighed heavily and I could see the little refrigerator opening and someone pouring Dewar's over ice. “Truman, I didn't call you to the house last night to make some hollow pronouncement. If I don't have a confession, Aiden doesn't get a heart.”

“And if you make Conley do this, you don't have one.” I let that sink in, taking my exit and hitting traffic headed into the city. “Everyone will know about this, Governor. Before election day. They'll either see you as a man they can trust, who makes tough decisions on principle rather than what it does to him politically, or as just another politician on a power grab.”

“You don't want to do this, Truman.”

“You're right. But you know I will. I'll do it for my son and for Conley and to make you pay.” My words hung there and I could hardly believe I said them in such measured tones. “But I don't have to. Nobody has to pay, except for Conley.”

“Good-bye, Truman,” the governor said.

C
HAPTER
29

Abigail sat in a plastic chair in the waiting area of Mane Street Hair and Nails. In front of her was a coffee table from Walmart with four screw-in legs. She knew it was from Walmart because she had purchased the same table a few months earlier for Philip's apartment.

An older stylist with bright-red lipstick and Doublemint gum returned to the front, her arm skin jiggling as she walked. “He'll be with you in a minute, hon.”

Abigail thanked her and pulled out her purse, her cell phone ringing with Philip's tune, “On Fire.” The other stylist, the one that talked with a thick, Eastern European accent and wore black eye shadow and a tongue ring, glanced at her. The waiting room was empty except for Abigail.

“Hey,” she said into the phone. “What's up?”

“That's what I was going to ask you.” That voice. There was something warm and comforting about it, but it had an edge today. “Why haven't you called?”

“Things are a little crazy. My brother's not doing well. Just kind of hanging on, you know?”

“Are you at the hospital?”

“No, a hair salon. I'm applying for a job.”

“What? Abigail, I thought—”

She cut him off. “It's a long story. I promise I'll tell you all about it. Now's not a good time.”

He paused and the silence frightened her. When she had left school, they had spoken every day. Almost every hour. But as the days increased, it felt like they were growing apart.

“I'm worried,” he said. “About you. About us. That you're going to find somebody to take my place.”

He sounded like a hurt puppy. Like a lost little boy who needed his mother or a blanket. Abigail hated that sound. She loved him because he was strong and confident. She was attracted to him because he was different from other guys who needed a girl to complete them. Philip wasn't vulnerable. He was the most whole person she had ever met, so hearing this side of him sent a shiver down to some hidden place in her soul.

“There's nobody here. There's nobody in my heart but you. I'm just on the edge, trying to figure out how to take another breath. I don't think I can take care of you right now.”

The strength returned. “I understand. I guess I just needed to hear your voice.”

A stocky man approached her, the floor vibrating with his footsteps. The first glance was the scariest. Dark eyes. Dark hair. Hairy arms and chest—the top button undone on his shirt. He walked like an alligator wrestler, arms out from his body, swaggering.

“Sorry, Philip. I have to go,” she said and flipped the phone closed.

Curtis Tompkins's hand was pudgy and soft, and he took hers gingerly. “Nice to meet you, Cheryl. Come on back to the office.”

She followed him, avoiding piled-up hair, and entered a musty, dimly lit room with exposed ceiling and water pipes overhead. He held the door for her and closed it as she sat in a slightly nicer plastic chair in front of his desk.

“I'll probably ask you to lose the cell phone if you work here,” he said as he wedged his way around the desk. “Last thing I want customers seeing is a Chatty Cathy. Eye contact, a smile—that's what I'm looking for. Invite them in. Make them feel welcome. A cell phone makes them feel they're intruding.”

“Oh, I understand completely. I was just talking with . . . my ex-boyfriend. You know how that goes.”

“Problems with your love life, huh? Pretty girl like you? That doesn't make sense.” He smiled and leaned back. “How long were you dating?”

“It's been more than a year now.”

“Serious. You'd probably already moved in with him.”

“Fortunately I didn't have much furniture.”

“Only important piece of furniture is a bed.” He laughed and his eyes twinkled. “What school do you go to?”

“State. But I had to leave because of money problems. My dad wasn't able to pay for the last year, so I thought I'd work and save up.”

“What's your major?”

“Communications. Journalism.”

“That's good. So you have typing skills.” He put his hands together and stared at her like she was meat hanging in a butcher shop. She sat up straight.

“You could be a model, you know that?” he said. “Just gorgeous. I should take some pictures of you and hang them in the front. People will be knocking us over to get in the door.”

She laughed nervously, pulling her hair behind an ear.

“I might know other ways you can pick up some quick cash, too. Help you out with your school bills.”

“Really? Like what?”

He grabbed a clipboard from a filing cabinet that looked like it had been used in WWII. “We can talk about it later. Let's get your information first. Just fill out the front and back of this.”

“You mean I got the job?”

He smiled. “Absolutely. You're exactly what I'm looking for. A bright spot at the front of the store. Great smile. Great figure. What's not to hire?”

She looked at the page, complete with Social Security number and address. “Um, do we have to do it this way?”

“What way is that?” he said.

“You know, with taxes taken out and everything. I'd rather get less money and not have to deal with all of that government stuff.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Now you're talking my language.” He took the clipboard back.

“How much would I get an hour?” she said.

“Minimum wage. But as I said, if you're in a tight spot and need extra cash, we might be able to work something out.”

“When do I start?”

“How about now? Come out to the front and I'll show you the register.”

He showed her how to run the credit card payments, pointed out the security cameras that recorded every moment of every transaction so he knew she wouldn't steal from him. “You wouldn't want to do that,” he said. “Believe me.”

He got a little close, brushing against her from behind. He put his hand on her shoulder and she tried not to recoil. The phone rang and Curtis answered, gesturing for her to listen as he correctly spoke to a customer. He showed her how to transfer a call to his office and gave her a short list of numbers and names he wanted to avoid.

“For any of these people, I'm not here.”

He left and she settled in, her mind exploding with questions. An hour later he returned and asked how she was doing and if she wanted to grab some lunch.

“Sure.”

He opened the door and Abigail noticed the blank stares of the stylists as if they'd seen this happen before. Many times.

They walked to a sandwich shop that advertised a five-dollar special for a sandwich, chips, and drink. Curtis said it was on him, and Abigail wondered how much obligation a five-dollar sandwich was. There wasn't one thing about Curtis that attracted her and she wondered if somehow Diana had been lured by the prospect of easy money.

Booths were taken, so they sat at a tall table and Curtis tried to get comfortable on the stool, but he kept tipping to one side every time he picked up his pastrami. He asked how she liked the shop, if she had any questions, small talk designed to allow him to nod and chew and listen. She wanted to run. Her stomach turned as she watched him chew and the oil run down his chin. Every time the door opened and an ambulatory female walked in, he ogled her. Then she thought of Aiden in the hospital and Mr. Conley in prison. And her father. She didn't understand it, but she felt drawn to this scene. The fact that she'd gained employment and the man's confidence so quickly made her think there was a deeper purpose. Not that God was directing her, like her mother believed, but more like fate was drawing her to its dinner table.

“What are the chances I could make more money, like you were saying? How long would I need to wait to find out about that?”

He laughed and winked at her, wiping his hands with a napkin but still missing the chin. “All in due time. Patience is a virtue. You've heard that before, right?”

“Yeah, but there's no virtue in being broke. I can get patience later. Right now I need to pay my rent and the electric bill.”

“Hey, at least you have a place to stay. Where do you live?”

She hesitated. “At some apartments near the university. If I get kicked out of there, it's on the street or back with my parents, and that's not going to happen.”

He seemed to like that answer and took a long draw on his soda. “Let's get to know each other a little better. But I promise, with your brains and looks, you could make plenty of money.”

“How could I use my looks to make money?”

“You ever dance? You move like a dancer. I got a friend who has a couple of clubs. I bet you could pick it up fast, smart girl like you.”

She felt her stomach clench and wasn't sure if it was the black olives on her vegetarian sub or the look in the man's eyes. “You mean, like, stripping?”

“That's such a crass term. Your mother and father probably called it that. It's an art form. Entertainment. It's not as bad as you think.”

“I don't dance,” she said. “Is there anything else?”

“Don't knock it till you've tried it,” he said, crunching a chip. “Some of his girls make a grand a night.”

“A thousand dollars?”

“Think about it. Say you work three nights a week. You clear twenty-five hundred easy. You could do that. Ten weeks you'd make twenty-five grand. Forty weeks you'd be at a hundred thousand.”

Her jaw dropped, feigning wonder and awe.

“And it's safe,” he continued. “He runs a clean place. Lots of security, especially for the girls. But that's just one option.”

She was playing it well, trying to act interested and not repulsed. Not that the $100K didn't sound good. It did. But she instinctively knew this was not a guy to trust.
Make eye contact. Smile. Make him think you're interested, hungry, need money.

“So you have a car, right?” he said.

She nodded, her turn to take a bite and listen.

“Is it dependable?”

“It's old but the engine runs. Why?”

“Just wondering.”

She wrapped up the rest of her sandwich and stashed it in her purse. “Why are you being so cryptic? Don't you trust me?”

“Trust you?” He laughed. “In my business, you have to build trust. That takes time.”

“You mean in the hair business?”

“Hair is only part of what I do. It's the day job. The less glamorous way of making a living.” He rose and tossed his trash, then held the door for her. “But it still pays the bills, especially for the stylists. I try to have multiple income streams.”

“So you have the hair place and the dance club?”

“I don't own the club. I just help my friend find new talent.”

“And is that all you do?”

He navigated the undulating sidewalk, great slabs that had moved upward over the years. “I do a little
consulting
. A little video work. But we have to get to know each other better before we get into that.”

“And how am I going to be able to do that?” she said, stopping on the crest of one slab and crossing her arms, striking the attitude pose.

“Have dinner with me tonight and we'll hash it out.” He pulled out a card and wrote something on the back. “Meet me here at nine. You can see the club and I'll answer all of your questions.”

C
HAPTER
30

I drove back to the hospital and without gathering much fortitude managed to ride the elevator to the eighth floor. Somehow the hospital had lost its imposing edge. Of course, I could still feel the money draining from the hole in my pocket as I passed the business office.

Aiden lingered in a drug-induced coma. No change in his condition. His heart was beating. That was the good news. The bad news was he was still in the hospital and probably wouldn't come out with that same heart.

Ellen wouldn't leave his side. Her pastor was there again, which made me want to leave. They were in the corner, heads down, eyes closed, asking God to invade, I suppose. I stepped back into the elevator and got some lunch in the cafeteria. By the time I returned, the pastor was gone.

Ellen asked how it had gone with Conley and I told her he was thinking about the confession, which I'm sure was true to some extent, but that if she had any pull with Oleta, now was the time to use it. I worked my way to Aiden's room so she wouldn't press me. She followed, telling me to touch him and talk to him, explaining that studies have proven those in a persistent vegetative state can sense things. She talked about some other study on the effects of the human voice but I couldn't hear any of it. I was struck by the sight of my son.

I touched his lifeless hand. Not the temperature of icicles—more like a lizard on a desert night. I leaned down and whispered in his ear, “Hey, bud, there's a young nurse who's been trying to get your phone number. If you don't get out of this bed fast, you might miss your chance.”

Nothing. Not even a blip on the EKG. No eyelids fluttering or squeezing my hand or wiggling a toe. Just chilly skin and a day's worth of stubble on his face.

“Hang in there, Aiden,” I said, patting his arm.

In the hallway, Ellen asked again about Conley and I gave her a more accurate picture. As usual, she was a step ahead of me.

“Did you speak with Reginald?”

I smelled a dead fish, my journalistic antennae fully extended. “Did he call you?”

She nodded. “Then Carlton called.”

“Wow, you're more popular than I am. I had to hang up in order to get a call from the governor.”

“Tru, he said there's nothing more he can do.”

“Yeah, that seemed to be the talking point coming from the mansion. Or limo. I don't buy it.”

She stood in front of me, her brown eyes piercing. “What are you going to do?”

“After the Townsend call, I got a flash of inspiration. How this thing might play out in our favor. I called Gina and left a message.”

“I thought she dropped you. She's not your agent anymore.”

“Yeah, but things can change. I explained the way this is playing out, the political ramifications, the life-and-death struggle. I think she'll bite. And we might get some money for the Conleys.”

“Truman, this isn't about the money—”

“It's always about the money. And if Gina sends out a blast, maybe she can get a bidding war going between a few publishers who see the merit of the story. By then the press release alone will ramp the pressure up on Townsend.”

“The last thing we want to do is cross him. We want him on our side.”

“Exactly. And he's not on our side. He's not on Aiden's side. He's on his own side.”

“It's too big of a risk.”

“Ellen, sometimes the only way to get people on your side is to play hardball.”

She shook her head. “I don't think that's the way to go.”

“Trust me, I've done this a long time.”

“Yes, you have,” she muttered. “And look where it's gotten us.”

The nurses at the station were nervously eyeing their computer screens. I walked Ellen into a corner closer to the elevators and lowered my voice.

“Here's the deal. Townsend is not going to take this risk because of his generosity. I'd love for him to use his power for good, but he only understands political viability. If it serves his interests, he does it. If it doesn't, he makes a speech or sends an apology. I guarantee you, he'll send a big wreath of flowers for the funeral. Maybe he'd even show up if he could get some press coverage.”

“You're sick.”

“I'm right and you know it. We have to figure out how to convince him that it's in his best interests to make this happen. He has to see it as counterproductive to block the transplant.”

She turned her head away and I sat beside her, trying to pull her back. “What? What do you know that I don't?”

“Tru, I have a feeling about this—and I know you don't share these types of things—but it tells me to wait. Humble ourselves. Let this come to us.”

“Is that what the pastor said? Or did Townsend try to convince you to talk sense into me?”

“This has nothing to do with anyone but you and me. I have an impression. I feel like God wants me to stop fighting. To give him control.”

I cocked my head sideways and tried not to let the feeling inside show on my face. But incredulity leaks. I turned her to face me—not hard, not manhandling, just guiding her face back to my eyes.

“Are you sure you're my wife? Because my wife has been fighting for the last eighteen years for my son. She's been there when I wasn't. She's carried the ball I dropped.”

Ellen had tears in her eyes. “There's a difference between fighting and striving. Between reach and overreach. I've been thinking that maybe . . .”

“Maybe what?”

“Maybe this is as far as it goes. Maybe Aiden is tired. Maybe he's hanging in there for me. All the pain and the procedures—he hates it. Maybe it's time to think of him instead of myself.”

“How can you say that?”

“There's more to life than
this
life, Tru.”

It sounded like something she'd heard on the radio. “So you're giving up? Isn't that a sin?”

“I've never given up hope.”

“Then stand with me and fight.”

“I've been fighting. It's time to let him go. I don't want to put him through any more.”

I ran a hand through my hair and it stuck up in the back. “And what if your
impression
changes the day after the execution?”

She put a hand on my chest and held it there. “I'm asking you to trust me. You don't have to agree. Keep writing. Keep going with the story. If Gina can sell it, great. But I've stopped striving about this.”

She leaned close. “Tru, it's like I'm floating down a river. Untethered from the world. Swirling in a river I didn't know was here. I've had to let go of everything I've ever known or understood. I don't know what's ahead. I don't care what's behind. I just know I'm where I'm supposed to be.”

It sounded like she really needed sleep. Or maybe coffee. Maybe these long stays in the hospital had done something to her head. Maybe she needed a break, a vacation from nurses and medication and eighteen years of stress. I suggested she go home and crawl into bed, but she smiled condescendingly, like Christians do when they're staring into eternity and you're looking at a picture on a wall.

“I know this seems weird,” she said. “But I'm not scared anymore. I'm not afraid of what's going to happen, what might happen. I'm settled, and that's what I want to give Aiden. No worry and concern, but peace.”

Resignation,
I thought. “What Aiden needs is somebody with strength who can pull him through, not somebody pushing him toward the light.”

She nodded. “I understand. And if you want to be that person, his bedside is empty. I won't fight you.”

I wanted to probe more, but I knew I would get Scripture verses and glimpses of heaven and tears wiped away and all that unconditional love of God stuff that can't be true because he
is
conditional. If he's up there—which is a big if—he's enjoying the view: humans scurrying about trying to make sense of life and death and pain while he enjoys the divine entertainment.

That's what I was thinking. But instead of lashing out, I gathered her in and held her. Not in a lover's embrace—I had lost that a long time ago—but the embrace of two travelers, coming from differing paths and headed for different destinations, who meet for a strange season.

My cell phone buzzed and I saw it was from Abby. I answered and held the phone close to Ellen.

“Dad, great news.” Her voice was animated like I hadn't heard in a long time. Like she'd just found a puppy and wanted to bring it home. She squealed, “I got the job!”

“What job is that?”

“At the salon. Remember, I told you. And I just had lunch with Tompkins. You wouldn't believe some of the stuff he said.”

“Abigail, this is not a good idea.”

Ellen punched me in the arm.

“I mean, this guy could be dangerous,” I corrected.

“Exactly what I was there to find out. And he's a player, no doubt. Personal questions. Inappropriate. The guy's a creep if there ever was one.”

“Where are you now?”

“I'm in a restroom down the street from the salon.”

“You need to get away from there. If he finds out your connection with me, things will get ugly.”

“Dad, that's the best part. This evening I'm having dinner with him at this club.”

“A club?” Ellen said. She was leaning closer. She reached for the phone when Abigail said, “Dad, I think I know what happened to Diana.”