Maddie covers her face, laughing. “My mom yells
“She sounds like a big fat jerk, too.”
“But know what I do?”
“What?”
“I go in the closet and take off my clothes.”
“What? Why do you do that?”
“That’s where the hamper basket is. I stand in the basket and my clothes fall right in.” She smiles and so do I; I picture her standing in the closet in a Rubbermaid bin.
“You’re pretty smart, you know that?”
“I am. Really.” She rubs her nose with the palm of her hand.
“Do you love me?” the doll asks.
Maddie reaches over and arranges a strand of the doll’s too-red yarn hair. “Yeah.”
“Then tell me your secret!” the doll explodes, jumping around frantically. “RIGHT NOW!”
“All right, all right! Calm down!” she says, a tenuous cross between laughter and true concern. “The secret is that Grandma smokes.”
“What?”
“On the porch. During
“That’s the secret?” I try not to sound disappointed, although I didn’t know my mother did this. She’d told me, with an absolute straight face, that she holds off for three hours. A good liar, from years of practice.
“Isn’t it a good secret?”
“Yep. You got any other secrets for me?”
Maddie looks up, thinking. “Nope.”
“I’ll tell you one.”
“Okay.” She straightens out her knees in the tub.
“My mom gets so mad sometimes that she hits me. Like this.” I squeeze the doll and bounce her head off the ledge of the tub. “Like this and this. Owww!”
“Really?” Maddie’s eyes grow wide and she looks at the doll for confirmation. I make the doll nod.
“Really. It hurts.”
“That’s mean.”
“I know. She does it when she’s mad or when she drinks.”
“Drinks?”
“Like a beer. Like wine or whiskey. Does your mommy do that?”
“No.” Maddie shakes her head, mystified. “She just yells.”
“Does your grandma?”
“No.”
“Never?”
“No.”
“Do you ever see her drink anything?”
“Water.”
“No whiskey? It’s yellow.”
“No. She just smokes. It comes out her nose like a dragon.”
“Yuck.”
She nods gravely. “Yuck.”
I feel my pulse return to normal. So the unimaginable didn’t happen, and my daughter is safe in her grandmother’s care. It’s just the past I have to deal with. My past.
I’ll get to it right after I’m finished with the present.
22
It’s Sunday, and Bernice, Ricki, and I sit on the bottom row of the hard steel bleachers, watching Ricki’s favorite son play soccer. Ricki’s eyes remain glued to Jared while I tell her how Shake and Bake turned out to be Winn and about my father. She looks at me only when I tell her about the hit on the head in front of the courthouse, but I think that was because Jared took a water break.
“Way to go, Jared!” she shouts, cupping her hands to her mouth. “Did you see that? He almost scored!”
“He’s the messiah. I’m convinced.”
“Hey, watch it.”
I look around the lush suburban field almost reflexively; my paranoia hasn’t diminished, even though the Italian stalking my daughter turned out to be her grandfather. Apparently, there’s nothing to be worried about here. Bryn Mawr, where Ricki lives, is one of the wealthiest communities on the Main Line. No killers here, only color- coordinated parents watching their kids kick the shit out of each other. I’m safe as long as I stay off the field.
“Are you gonna see your father again?” Ricki asks.
“Not if I can help it.”
“You should, you know. I think it’s very healthy.”
“Give me a break, Rick. It’s a horror show.”
The wind blows a strand of hair into her lipstick and she picks it out. “I like that he came forward and found you. He’s dealing with it, or trying to. Credit where credit is due.”
“Please. The guy looks like Elvis. On the stamp they didn’t pick.”
“You should talk to your mother about what happened when you were little.”
“Another winner. Masquerading as Rose Kennedy. What a joke.”
She watches Jared kick the ball to his teammate. “Nice pass, honey!” She covers her mouth. “Damn. He told me not to say that anymore. Anyway, talk to her.”
“I have bigger problems.” I think of Armen. His killer is still out there, and this is my only Sunday without Maddie, who’s at Sam’s.
“You mean the judge?”
“I told you it wasn’t suicide, Rick. Even the FBI thinks so.”
“Don’t be unbearable, please.”
“You mean because I was right and you were wrong?”
“Yes, already.”
“Do you say
She claps loudly. “Way to go, Jared! Way to go!”
“Sometimes a train really is a train, Ricki. Trains and bagels, bagels and trains.”
“Go, Jared, you can do it!” She claps. “All that matters is you getting out of that mess. You’re right to let the FBI take over, it’s their job. You should never have been involved in the first place.”
So I lied. It was a white lie, a little white lie. Why worry her?
“I don’t know what made you think you could investigate a murder all by yourself. With the Mafia yet.”
Silly me. “Uncle,” I say.
“Maybe I’m finally getting through to you. All that free therapy, paying off.” She smiles at me, then gets distracted by the action on the soccer field. “Hey, ref, what about it? Wake up, you jerk!” The woman next to her glances over. “I heard on the radio about that death penalty case.”
“Yeah, the Supremes still have it. They haven’t decided yet.”
“Go, Jared, charge him!”
I think of Hightower, sitting alone. I read they moved him from death row to a special cell near the death chamber. The death warrant runs out tomorrow morning at 9:03. I wonder what Mrs. Stevens is doing today. How many mothers know the exact time and place of their child’s death? Besides the Gilpins?
