Sister Mine (32 page)

I can tell by her expression that she doesn't.

“Sorry,” I tell her.

“This father. How do you know about him?”

“I met him.”

“He was here?”

I start dumping packets of sugar into my coffee.

“Yep.”

“Was he attractive?”

“In a dark, menacing, Cold War sort of way, yes. Definitely attractive. I can't say for sure if he has all his toes, though.”

She doesn't seem to get my joke.

She falls silent and begins to absentmindedly finger the several braided strands of coral wrapped around her neck.

I imagine she must be sad. Hurt, probably. Regretful, maybe. Disillusioned? Disappointed? Livid? Suicidal? Or preoccupied with thoughts of a spring trip to the Caribbean? I can't tell, since her face shows so little expression and her eyes have gone blank.

I think about Shannon's description of the nice ladies, well dressed and smelling good, who came to visit her at the home for pregnant teens and then abruptly stopped coming once the baby was gone. I wonder if they ever thought about her again.

“Let me ask you something. Just out of curiosity. I know right now you're angry at Shannon and rightfully so—she stole a lot of money from you and broke a promise that broke your heart—but while you were together, did you care about her at all?”

She stops playing with her necklace and folds her hands in front of her on the tabletop.

“Of course I did. I was very fond of her. And I'm sure I'll be fond of the next one, too.”

“The next one? After what you've been through, you're going to try again? Aren't you afraid the same thing will happen again, or something worse?”

“Every time I go through this I learn something new. Eventually I'll get it right.”

“How many times have you been through it?”

“Let's just say several.”

The waitress returns with my cinnamon bun. I start pulling it apart and popping pieces into my mouth.

Pamela can't watch. She turns her attention out the window again but continues talking to me.

“With any adoption, there's always the fear of the knock on the door someday. Maybe the biological mother has found a way to contest the adoption, or she's shown up with the father and he's going to contest it for her, or she has no intention of contesting anything but simply wants to ruin the life you've established with your child by planting an idea in his head that he was stolen from her or some other equally damaging story.

“There are always risks,” she finishes, “but if it's something you want badly enough, you're willing to face those risks.”

I nod my agreement while I finish chewing and swallowing.

She begins to stand up.

“I hope you don't mind if I don't stay. I really want to get back home. It's a very long drive.”

“No, I don't mind at all. But let me ask you one more thing before you go. You said you learn something new every time you go through this. What did you learn from Shannon?”

She picks up her purse off the booth—the one that matches Shannon's—and slips it onto her shoulder.

“The only way to be absolutely sure an adoption is safe is to make sure the biological mother is dead,” she answers me.

She holds her hand out to shake mine, sees the sticky condition of it, and thinks better of it.

“It was nice meeting you, Shae-Lynn. Good luck to you and your son. Here. Let me pay for this. I insist.”

She leaves twenty dollars on the table, reconsiders, and puts down another twenty.

“Thanks, Pamela,” I call after her departing back. “Good luck to you, too.”

I pocket the two twenties, smiling to myself. It's a five-dollar breakfast.

Chapter Thirty-Two

K
OZLOWSKI IS WAITING FOR ME
outside the Comfort Inn when I swing by around noon.

He looks exactly the same to me as he did when I picked him up at the Harrisburg airport a few days ago: same clothes, same bored expression on his featureless features, same stance with his black jacket hooked on a finger and thrown casually over one shoulder.

He comes walking toward the car, and I get out to stop him.

“I'm afraid I'm not going to be able to take you to the airport, Gerald. Something's come up.”

“I have a flight to catch.”

“I know. I'm a professional. I would never leave a client stranded. I've arranged another ride for you. A friend of mine. You'll be in good hands.”

He looks skeptical.

“I admit to not being overly fond of you and what you do, but I'm not a judgmental person. I try to see life from inside everyone else's shoes. I have a feeling your shoes weren't always six-hundred-dollar Prada loafers, and I also have a feeling you used to have an accent you were embarrassed by—Polish, maybe, or maybe it was your dad who had the Polish accent you were embarrassed by and yours was from Brooklyn or the Bronx—regardless I'm going to cut you some slack. I'm disappointed in how you turned out. You're obviously a smart guy, an ambitious guy, a resourceful guy. I think you should have used your powers for good instead of evil. That's all.”

He watches me blankly the entire time I'm speaking. Once I've finished he takes his time perusing my outfit: black Caterpillar work boots with yellow laces, black jeans, a tight black tank top with
DUMP HIM
written across the front in silver glitter block capital letters, a red satin Kansas City Royals baseball jacket, and my pink Stetson.

“I was just thinking that you dress like my neighbor,” he comments. “My gay neighbor. My male gay neighbor.”

He checks his watch.

“I'm going to be late.”

“You're going to be fine.”

“Are you sure Shannon was traveling with Dmitri?” he asks me.

“They left together but in separate cars. Whatever that means.”

“I don't understand. It's so out of character for her. Shannon gets pregnant from one-night stands. That way she never sees the father again and he has no way of ever knowing she was pregnant in the first place.”

“So not only are you creating innocent little lives for the sole purpose of selling them, but you're also making fathers out of men who will never know they're fathers and will never know their children.”

“And would never want to know them. Trust me.”

“I'd rather not,” I reply disgustedly.

He unzips the outside pocket of his bag and takes out a bottled water.

I reach into my pocket and take out what was left of my Eatn'Park cinnamon roll wrapped in a napkin. I couldn't finish everything at the time, but I'm getting hungry again.

“She met Dmitri over two years ago when she was pregnant with the baby before this one,” he explains to me as he unscrews the cap, watching me uncertainly. “It's hard to believe they've had a relationship all this time.”

A happy thought occurs to me.

“Maybe she's planning on keeping this baby. Maybe she and Dmitri really are having a relationship and—”

“And what?” he interrupts me with a laugh, the bottle hovering in front of his mouth. “They're going to settle down and buy a house in the suburbs and raise a family?”

My optimism disappears.

He takes a long drink and returns the bottle to his bag.

I finish eating and lick icing off my fingers.

“Didn't you say they had a fight over him wanting his cut of the money?” he asks me.

“It wasn't specifically over the money, but I'm sure that's what he meant. He said he wanted a say in who adopts the baby.”

“So she must still be planning on selling the baby, but to whom? The only possible advantage of knowing the identity of the biological father is if he signs the adoption papers. Then the adoption is airtight. Otherwise, as long as he's out there—even if the mother claims she doesn't know who he is—there's always the possibility he can show up and contest it.”

“That doesn't make sense either,” I say. “She ran out on him before she got his signature.”

“Knowing Shannon, she was trying to rip him off, too, and not pay him his share, but she knew if she didn't get away with it she could still pay him off and get his signature and make the adoption fail-safe. But I don't know why she'd want to mess with any of that. It's easier to get pregnant by a stranger you'll never see again.”

“I think that's the new motto for the Pennsylvania Domestic Abuse Hotline,” I tell him.

An old pickup truck pasted in peeling red, white, and blue bumper stickers and in need of a new muffler comes rumbling into the parking lot.

I smile at Kozlowski.

“Here's your ride now.”

Choker pulls up in front of us.

Kozlowski doesn't move.

“Hey, Choker.”

I wave at him.

He puts his truck in park, gets out, and comes walking over to us to help Kozlowski with his bag. I told him this was a job and I expected him to act accordingly as a representative of my cab company.

“Sorry I'm a little late,” he tells me when he arrives in front of us. “There's a big wreck on Electric Avenue and traffic's all blocked up.”

Kozlowski comes out of his self-induced trance of denial and smiles pleasantly, trying to make the best of a bad situation.

“Electric Avenue? What a quaint name for a street. Is that where all the excitement is? The nightlife? Restaurants and clubs?”

Choker watches him suspiciously then spits a brown stream of tobacco juice beside him on the sidewalk.

“It's where the electric company is,” he explains.

I step between the two of them and clap one hand on Choker's shoulder and the other on Kozlowski's.

“Choker's an ex-con,” I tell him, my smile widening. “And you're a lawyer. How perfect is that? You'll have two hours alone together in the cab of a pickup truck to discuss the inner workings of our fine American judicial system.”

Choker narrows his eyes first at me then Kozlowski then back at me.

“You didn't say nothing about him being a lawyer.”

“Professionalism, Choker. Remember we talked about that? The customer is always right. Plus he's going to pay you a shitload of money.”

Choker appears appeased. He goes to grab up Kozlowski's bag. Kozlowski moves to stop him then changes his mind.

“This is going to be fun for you, Gerald,” I whisper to him before I depart. “You get to sit on the side with no ear.”

         

I GET A CALL
for a job back in Jolly Mount. On my way there I have to pass Dusty's restaurant. I'm hoping he's not here today. I hope Jimmy was able to convince him to go home and try again with Brandi but even from a distance I can see his black Range Rover parked beside the big purple block. Next to it is another car, a white Honda Civic with a Marine Corps bumper sticker.

My instinct makes me stop even though I'm not immediately sure what's going on. At first all I can think about is my encounter with the Marine in the backseat of my cab. Now he's hanging out with my son's best friend.

I can't get past the personal element to see the professional one.

I park and walk inside the restaurant.

Dusty and the Marine are sitting at one of the booths. The tabletop between them is covered with pamphlets and papers bearing American flags and saluting soldiers.

Dusty looks a little better than he did yesterday. He must have shaved at Jimmy's as well as showered. He doesn't smell like a brewery anymore either, but his eyes are bleary and red, and rimmed with dark circles.

The Marine is immaculate in his uniform. The bright blue, pristine white, and regal red and gold is impossible to look away from and seems to have absorbed all the remaining light and color left in the dingy, forsaken room, leaving it entirely in shades of gray like a grainy black-and-white photograph.

Both men are surprised to see me, to put it mildly.

They both stand up at the same time.

“Hey, Miss Penrose,” Dusty fumbles.

“Hi, Dusty,” I say. “Hello,” I begin to say to the Marine then realize I never got his name. “Sergeant,” I finish.

He clears his throat.

“Ma'am,” he greets me.

We all look at each other awkwardly.

“Could I talk to you for a moment in private?” I ask the Marine.

We continue to look at each other awkwardly.

The Marine doesn't make a move to do anything but Dusty starts for the door.

“I'll go get some air,” he says.

“How are you?” I ask the soldier once Dusty's out of earshot.

“Good,” he says and smiles. “Small world.”

“Small town,” I reply. “Do you mind if I ask who sent you here?”

“What do you mean?”

“Someone obviously told you about Dusty specifically. If this had been his idea, he would have gone to the recruiting office, and I highly doubt you found him in front of the high school. Maybe the mall. Is that what happened? Did you pounce on him in the mall parking lot and came back here to talk further?”

His face turns to stone. He takes a step away from me and stands very stiffly with his hands clasped behind his back.

“I don't pounce.”

“I'm sorry. Bad choice of words. I'm just concerned. I've known him his whole life. I'm just looking out for him.”

“Which means keeping him out of the Marines?”

“For him? Yes. Yes, it does.”

“It might be the best thing that ever happened to him.”

“Look, I don't want to argue about the pros and cons of military life or even about what's best for Dusty. I'm not trying to steal a recruit from you. This is about something completely unrelated. This is about someone being a colossal jerk. As a favor to me, please, can you just tell me how you ended up here with him?”

He considers my question. I hope our time in the backseat of my cab was memorable enough to merit a favor.

“I received a call from a man who said he knew of a young man who used to work for him who was in need of employment. He said he could vouch for his character and his work ethic and thought he'd make a fine soldier. He gave me his cell phone number. I called him and we set up an appointment to meet here. No one twisted his arm.”

“That son of a bitch,” I say under my breath. “He was supposed to give him a job with J&P.”

“Pardon me.”

“Nothing. It's nothing.”

“Is something wrong? Is there something I should know about?”

“There's something wrong, but it doesn't concern you. Excuse me for a minute.”

I find Dusty standing at the edge of the parking lot whipping gravel sidearm across the road like he's skipping stones on an invisible pond.

I walk over to him and grab him gently by his arm.

“Dusty, what are you doing talking to this guy? Have you given any real thought to this? Have you talked to Brandi about it?”

“I haven't talked to Brandi in days. Besides, she'd be happy about it.”

“I don't think so.”

“We need the money. It's good pay.”

“Sure it's good pay. And all you have to do to earn it is leave your wife and children and risk getting killed.”

He shakes loose from my grip.

“Don't start on me about how dangerous it is. I already had a job where I could get killed any day and I almost did.”

“That's true. You could have been killed, but you never had to kill anybody else.”

He tries to walk away from me, but I grab him again.

“Do you think you can do that?” I ask him. “Do you think you can kill people? People who haven't done anything to you?”

“Lib did it,” he shouts at me.

“Lib didn't have a choice.”

“And I have a choice?” he continues shouting.

He throws his hands out to his sides, and his eyes fill with tears.

“Tell me, please, what are my choices?”

“Okay, Dusty. It's okay.”

He looks like he's going to collapse. I reach out and give him a hug. He resists at first, then crumples against me and starts shaking.

“I don't know what's happening to me,” he cries into my shoulder.

“It's okay,” I tell him rubbing his back and rocking him against me. “You need help. We're going to get you some help.”

I wait for him to calm down then I pull back and hold him at arms' length, waiting for him to look up from the ground and meet my eyes, the way I used to do with Clay when he was at that in-between age where he was embarrassed to cry in front of his mom but still needed to do it from time to time.

“There's nothing wrong with being a soldier,” I tell him, “but it's not right for you. You were supposed to be a rock sailor.”

He shakes his head.

“But I can't be one anymore.”

“Do you know how many astronauts never actually make it into space, and those who do usually only get to go once or maybe twice if they're lucky?”

“Yeah, I guess I know that. What are you saying?”

“I'm saying you had your mission. And it was a spectacular one that had the entire world on the edge of their seats. You survived. You made it back home. Now maybe you could do something on the ground. Not above it and not below it.”

“I already tried that.”

“You tried to do something on the ground that had nothing to do with being a rock sailor. You tried to run a restaurant. That's not you either. You're a hero, Dusty. You have so much respect within your industry.”

“My industry?” he sniffs, looking a little more interested in what I have to say.

“Yes, your industry. The mining industry. You're a part of it. A valuable, knowledgeable part of it. You still are even if you're not a miner anymore. There are still things you can do.”