The Borrower (17 page)

Walking back to the table, I felt irrationally angry at the Drakes for not being home. Had they gone out to dinner? They were probably at a prayer meeting. A candlelight vigil. But still. What if that had been Ian himself calling, and they’d missed their chance? Or maybe they were screening their calls, tired of well-wishers and people offering casseroles. But it helped to have a reason to be angry with them. (Another one, on top of the Pastor Bob issue.) I was looking for all the justification I could find.

Ian had stuck all four frilly toothpicks into one quarter of his
BLT
, and he was telling Glenn about his Ultimate Symphony. Glenn looked like he was in pain. “And then what would be even cooler, would be that you rent out this huge room, or like a stadium or something, and you have a hundred Big Ben clocks all the way around, and then they all play it at once. Only it would have to be computerized, right? Because otherwise if just one guy messed up, it would sound very awkward. Would that be illegal, to use the Big Ben theme song? Do you think they would sue me?”

Instead of answering, Glenn flagged down the waitress and ordered a martini.

I made a valiant effort to change the subject. “There was a girl in my high school orchestra who fell asleep once in the middle of a concert. She was a flute player, and she just fell asleep with her head on the music stand.” She had been on drugs, of course, but I figured it made the story less interesting. Ian spent the rest of dinner pretending to be narcoleptic.

On the way out, he grabbed two handfuls of red and white mints from the counter and shoved them into his pockets. I wondered if we could live on them in an emergency.

Glenn was under the impression that we were dropping Ian at his grandmother’s that night, but I explained that he would stay with us in the hotel, because she wouldn’t be ready for him until the morning. At the front desk I asked for three separate rooms, and Glenn didn’t stop me. Presuming that I accomplished the break tonight, he’d need a place to sleep away from me. I went to my room to brush my teeth and plan the attack, but before I could even spit out my toothpaste Glenn was knocking on the door.

“What?” I said.

He walked right by me and sat down on the edge of the bed, on the peach-flowered bedspread, and said, “Lucy, what the hell is going on?”

I turned the desk chair to face the room and sat down. “The mother is very sick,” I said. “What do you mean?”

He shook his head like he was trying to get water out of his ears. “I was sitting there in my room thinking, and the more I think, the weirder it gets. For starters, you come to Chicago and don’t pack a single change of clothes? And the kid is going to live with his grandmother, right, but all he brings is one backpack.”

“He’s just staying with her,” I said. “For a week or two.”

“No schoolbooks? And why isn’t he calling his mom?”

I stood up. “You think this is a detective novel? It’s really not all that fascinating. And I’m sure he’ll call from the room.”

“
Then
,” he said, like a prosecuting attorney with a cornered witness, “at dinner, you say ‘this girl at my high school.’ I thought you said his mom went to Latin. So you’d say ‘
our
high school,’ or you’d just say ‘Latin.’”

“Are you trying to make a citizen’s arrest? You’re being ridiculous.”

He lay back on the bed like he owned it and looked up at the ceiling. “I mean, is he your kid or something?”

I practically shouted, but more out of relief than anger. I was almost laughing. “You think he’s my
son
?”

“It would make sense. Maybe he lives with your parents, you went to pick him up, you’re taking him to see his dad, I don’t know.”

I really was laughing now. I was laughing so hard that I wanted to flop on the bed, but not beside Glenn, so I sat back on the chair. “You think my sixty-year-old parents are raising my son while I live in Hannibal, of all places? And then you think I dated you and kept him a secret. And he calls me Miss Hull.”

He propped himself up on his elbows. His face was scrunched into an angry-little-boy expression. God, he was
jealous
. “Then what the hell is the deal?”

I said, “You’re not in a thriller movie, Glenn. His mother is very sick, but that’s as far as the drama goes. Look, if you’re really this worked up, maybe we just need some breathing room. Maybe you should let us do our own thing tomorrow. You could go to the art museum by yourself while I drop him off.”

“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, that’s probably best. I mean, I’ll ride with you into the city, and then I need some time to clear my head.” I’d still have to figure out how to ditch him for good tomorrow, but this was a decent start. He stood up and walked out of my room without saying good night. I wasn’t worried about him grilling Ian tomorrow, because I knew he’d just sit there sulking, more of a ten-year-old than the actual ten-year-old.

I tried to open my window and couldn’t. It was a smoking room, though, so I lit the first cigarette of the pack and sat on the chair, as far from the flammable bedspread as I could get. I’d forgotten how the smoke can almost burn your throat, how you really are inhaling something hot. The room turned clear and smooth and vibrant, and my fingers and feet buzzed. I turned on the TV and found, of all things, the movie version of
The Fugitive
. I watched the second half and imagined what would have happened if Ian and I had decided not to take Glenn with us, if we had run instead all over Chicago, across the green-dyed river, hiding in skyscrapers. I fell asleep and dreamed the same thing.

Y
ou are alone in a strange hotel. Next door is Ian, a child you’ve inadvertently abducted. Down the hall is Glenn, who is starting to get suspicious. Under your bed is a shoebox filled with Lord knows what. You are expected in Pittsburgh. If you choose to run away in the night, go to number 1. If you choose to stay put, go to number 2.

1.
You flee on foot, leaving your car behind so Glenn can more conveniently turn Ian in to the authorities. After hitching a ride to the Cleveland airport, you face the ticket agent with your father’s cash in hand. If you decide to fly to Alaska, go to number 3. If you choose St. Louis, Missouri, go to number 4.

2.
You wake in the morning to Glenn pounding at your door, accompanied by two police detectives and a reporter from the local
NBC
affiliate. You are trapped. If you choose to seduce the
NBC
reporter and elope with him to Alaska, go to number 3. If you decide to let yourself be handcuffed, go to number 5.

3.
Alaska turns out to be quite cold in March. You are reminded of your grandfather, vanishing into the Siberian wilderness. Suddenly, you become aware of a man staggering toward you across the tundra. It is your grandfather, calling to you in Russian. If you choose to embrace him, go to number 6. If you panic and get on a plane back to Missouri, go to number 4.

4.
There are cops all over the St. Louis airport, and your photo is on every wall. In your absence, Ian has been reunited with his family, and is being interviewed on the
Today
show. A man in livery is holding a sign that reads
HULL
. If you go with him, skip to number 7. If you throw up your hands and surrender, go to number 5.

5.
You receive a reduced sentence in exchange for turning in your father and his shoebox full of plutonium. Your years in prison aren’t pleasant, but you do get a lot of reading done, and Loraine isn’t around to ask why your shirt is wrinkled. You could do worse. The end.

6.
Your grandfather is dead, and so are you. You have crossed over to the other side, which looks and feels remarkably like a large, snowy field. Fortunately, you are wearing your puffy orange coat. The end.

7.
Your chauffeur whisks you away. When he takes off his cap, you realize he is the most handsome man in the universe. He invites you to his vacation home in Alaska. If you accept, go to number 3. If you order him to take you to Ian’s house, go to number 8.

8.
Ian is not as pleased to see you as you hoped. Tuna the guinea pig bares her fangs, and Larry Drake has you in his rifle cross-hairs. After your arrest, Janet Drake displays her Christian mercy to the world by convincing the judge that instead of jail time, you be sentenced to five years of rehabilitative therapy with Pastor Bob. The five years start tomorrow. The end.

9.
Your hard work has paid off. The treasure you collected in Florida is worth millions, and the noise in the street turns out to be your ticker-tape parade. Ian’s adoption by Tim and Lenny is now official, and the Hull Library will soon be complete. Congratulations!

T
he next morning, we all piled into the car with doughnuts and coffee and orange juice from the table in the lobby. I was wearing my new red shirt, and it felt like a clean, soft cocoon. Glenn just stared out the window, and Ian seemed to be asleep in the back. A few miles onto the highway, though, he said, “I can’t wait till Dude leaves, because then I can sit in the front.”

“No you can’t,” I said, although I’d let him before. I hoped he wouldn’t bring this up right now.

“You’re too short,” Glenn said. “Look what would happen.” He pulled the shoulder strap higher up on his own body and mimed falling forward into it with his neck. He made a choking noise and stuck his tongue out.

Ian said, “My mom lets me if I put the belt behind my head. And also I’m in a very high percentile for height. Look, this is from last summer and I was already four foot six.”

I wondered what on earth he could be handing to Glenn that was from last summer when I remembered the pool pass, the one with his name on it and “Hannibal Public Pool” across the top, and an orange-tinted photo of Ian with wet hair and steamed-up glasses, droplets of water still clinging to his shoulders. He was holding it there between the seats, waiting as Glenn reached for it.

I jerked the car half a lane to the right. It wasn’t intentional, just what happened when I tried to yank my hand back to swat the pass away from Glenn without letting go of the wheel. We didn’t hit anyone, but we barely missed a Jeep lagging a few feet behind us in the right lane, and by the time we got straightened out we were all hyperventilating and Ian was screaming. The angry honks escorted us down the road for the next five seconds, like the other drivers were building walls of sound to control us, to keep us in line.

“What in the hell was that?” Glenn said.

I said, “
Please
don’t swear in front of Joey.”

Glenn grabbed a napkin and scrubbed at the coffee that had run down his white oxford. When I looked in the rearview, Ian was zipping his backpack. He grimaced into the mirror to let me know he realized what he’d done and had put the pass away.

After that, I put on the radio as loud as seemed natural for that early in the morning. I was already sick of every song on frequent DJ rotation. When I’m ninety years old, if someone asks me what songs were popular that March, I’ll still be able to rattle them off.

We pulled up to the art museum at about 11:30, and Glenn ripped his bag out of the trunk like I’d stolen it from him. I’d gotten out to help him, and Ian stayed in the backseat doing a book of invisible ink puzzles.

I still didn’t quite know how to get rid of Glenn. My throat was burning from last night’s cigarettes. I said, “Look, I’m not sure how long this is going to take.”

“Right.”

“I mean, I might need to stay there with them. And then, honestly, if I go back to Chicago, it’ll be to help my friend. She might need a bone marrow donation, and I’ve been thinking about seeing if I’m a match.” Glenn had never asked what was specifically wrong with Janna Glass, and Ian hadn’t given him the movie-of-the-week version.

He sighed and stared over my shoulder. “Let’s make this easy. I have friends here I can probably crash with. I’m in a weird head space right now. How about we do the romantic weekend sometime when you’re not babysitting.”

“That’s good. You’ll call me?” I couldn’t have engineered it better—he was staying away from Missouri for now, and he didn’t completely hate me.

“Yeah.” He slung his bag strap over his shoulder and kissed me on the cheek. “Stay out of trouble. Don’t drive crazy.” He disappeared through the museum doors.

When I got back in, Ian said, “Can’t I sit up front again? I seriously am tall enough,” and I was too exhausted to say no. I was actually relieved not to have him next to my father’s shoebox, which this morning I’d tucked back under the driver’s seat, after sleeping with it under my bed. Ian had been using it as a lap desk for his invisible ink book all morning, though, and now it was just sitting on the middle of the backseat. Maybe it looked less suspicious there. I wasn’t so much concerned for the safety of the contents as terrified that someone would see that sad old beagle, intuit what was in the box, and slap the cuffs on me—not for the crime I’d actually committed, but the ones my father had.

An hour later, and an hour closer to Pittsburgh, Ian was loudly composing a song called “States You Can Say Without Closing Your Mouth.”

“Oh, Iowa, Ohio, Oahu, Hawaii!”
he sang.
“Ooh, yeah! Uh-huh! Hi! Woah, Hawaii, wow!”

He took his feet off the dashboard and looked at me. “Do you think I could use
Rs
? You don’t really close your mouth—your tongue doesn’t touch anything. Especially if you had an English accent.”

“Sure,” I said. “Definitely.”

“Where are you, Ohio?”
he sang with a British accent.
“Oh, here! Oh, Iowa, Ohio, Oahu, Hawaii!”