What I wouldn’t give for an older sister like that.
“But then she got pregnant. Our church is pro-life—zero tolerance on that one. Stella was seventeen. She had plans for college and a career and though she thought she was pro-life, it turned out she wasn’t. Long story short, she had an abortion and, on my mother’s orders, was banished. It is forbidden to mention her name. Anyone caught contacting her risks the exact same punishment. My story, I guess, is about a guy who had no problem believing what people who loved him told him, until he realized what that could cost. I ache every day. I go to sleep every night wondering if Stella hates me because, after all she did for me, I turned away.”
“And to double down on the plot,” I say, before I even realize I’m talking, “if you do go to her, you lose seven other people, all family.”
Mark massages his forehead. “And Jesus,” he says finally.
“Let’s hold off on Jesus,” Layton says. “As our fearless leader has always said, To Kill a Mockingbird is a whole different story if Boo Radley tells it. See, I go to church, too, and the Jesus I know would treat your mother like a money changer, no offense to your mother.”
“No offense to money changers,” Leah says.
Up goes the hand of Seth. “So, you start your story with the abortion, tell half of it in flashbacks, and fix the ending in a way that suits you. Who’s next?”
Mark bursts out laughing.
Sharon’s face is in her hands. When it comes up you can see she had the same reaction as Mark. “As abrupt and devoid of empathy as that may have sounded,” she says, “Seth might be onto something. Almost all writers will tell you they struggle with endings. The one they think they were working toward suddenly doesn’t work because of unexpected events that snuck into the story. Sometimes those unexpected events make the author think maybe she or he doesn’t know enough to tell that story, that more research is needed, either life research or library research. In the end, the more they discover—the more they know—guides them toward a truthful ending. By that I mean an ending that could really happen.”
Oscar says, “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying it’s possible Mark doesn’t know enough yet to bring his story home. It’s possible he sees the same choices Annie sees. But it’s also possible there are outcomes he hasn’t thought of because he doesn’t know about them, and maybe this is one of those stories he puts in a folder, while he catches up.”
“And,” Layton says, “as our Divine Librarian might say, Mark is not only the author of this story, he’s the author of his life.”
Sharon gives her knowing nod.
“Which means,” I say, not without a sense of personal irony, “if he changes his life, the story could go with it.”
A tear runs down Marks cheek.
Sharon says, “And Mark can’t leave the story in the folder too long because Stella needs to read it.”
It’s after midnight when my head hits the pillow, having obsessed most of the evening on Mark. I swear, family pulls through impenetrable barriers, barriers that seem to leave us no good choices. I picture his mother banishing (God, I hate that word) his sister from the family and I’m actually grateful I have an ignorant narrow-minded mother rather than a smart narrow-minded one.
Sweet dreams, Annie Boots.
ChapterTwelve
“Really like to thank you for meeting with me,” Walter says, extending his hand.
“Any friend of Annie’s . . .” Wiz says.
“. . . is usually a pain in the butt,” I say before he can finish. “But this is different.”
Wiz says, “That’s because most of your friends are at an age where they couldn’t possibly be bearers of good news.”
“I don’t know about good news,” Walter says. “But I do have news.”
“At this point,” Wiz says, “almost any news would be good. Swear this department is buried . . . in caseloads, in paperwork and . . . what . . . an incapacity to help kids.” He shakes his head as if to throw out cobwebs. “Sorry, Mr. . . .”
“Call me Walter.”
“You have news.”
Walter nods slowly, glances sideways at me. “I know where Frankie Boots is.”
In unison, Wiz and me: “What?”
My first thought: “Is he . . . ?”
“He’s fine,” Walter says. “And safe. Has been all along.”
I’m stupefied! “Where? When did . . .”
Wiz puts up a hand. “Annie. Let the man talk. Go ahead, Walter. Where is he?”
“I’ve got him,” Walter says.
“Where did you find him?”
“I took him.”
Wiz sits forward. “What?”
“I took him,” Walter says. “From the park.”
The two men look at each other in silence for a sec, while I try to close my mouth.
“I came to see the swim contest,” Walter says. “I was tagging behind talking to a guy wearing one of those vet’s baseball caps when the craziness broke out. I saw the boy running in circles with his fingers in his ears, hollerin’ like somebody was beating him. He saw me and ran right at me, held onto my leg like a drownin’ man. I picked him up and clear as day, he says, ‘Help me, Grampa.’ He calls me that sometimes, even though it puts his mother in a real bad state. Don’t even know where he got the word; I sure didn’t saddle him with it.”
Wiz takes a deep breath. Sits back, chin in one hand, staring, then, “Where is he?”
“He’s with somebody safe; that’s a promise.”
“Walter,” I say when I can find my voice, “you let me think. . . .”
“I’m sorry, Annie,” he says. “I know how scared you’ve been, but until I figured out what to do, I couldn’t take any chances.”
I’m so glad to know Frankie’s okay, I don’t know whether to feel
