Coming Home (11 page)

Casey glanced again at the tearstained letter in her hand and questioned
what kind of mother her sister would be.  Colleen was a spoiled, self-involved,
boy-crazy teenager with a strong aversion to all domestic chores and less than
zero interest in anything baby-related.  What possible chance would this baby
have, with a mother like that?

But it wasn’t her place to question.  The damage was already
done.  She had no power to change the past, and it was too soon to determine what
the future might bring.  Colleen would muddle through somehow, and Casey would
settle for being the best aunt in the world.  That was her place in this disastrous
scenario.  She would offer love and support, and keep her pain to herself.  In
the meantime, she would intensify her efforts to move Danny’s career forward, for
at the end of his rainbow lay her own pot of gold.

She took a ragged breath, squared her shoulders, and pulled open
the kitchen drawer in search of a writing tablet and a pen.  At the kitchen
table, as the morning sun poured in around her, she paused to think for a
moment, then began to write.

Dear Colleen,

Of course you can wear the dress.  I wouldn’t have it any other
way.  Mama would be so proud!  Danny and I wish you both the very best.   We
are beyond thrilled about our new niece or nephew.  There is no blessing more
precious than a new life.  If you need any help with anything, you know where
to find me.

Love always,

Casey

Anxiously examining her reflection in the mirror, Casey adjusted
the navy suit and tried to settle the butterflies cavorting in her midsection. 
With the suit, she wore a white tailored blouse and a single strand of pearls
that had belonged to her mother. Her navy pumps matched the suit, and she’d
pulled her hair up into a sleek bun atop her head.

The cool, professional woman who looked back at her from the
mirror seemed older than her nineteen years.  She wore the clothes with a flair
that said she’d been born to money and elegance.  Nobody looking at her would
have guessed that she had bought the suit at a thrift store, or that the pumps
were borrowed from Rob’s sister Rose.  Or that she was so nervous, she felt
like throwing up.

She was well prepared.  She had spent days in the library,
devouring the entertainment sections of two years’ back issues of the
Globe
,
the
Herald
, the
Phoenix
, making photocopies of any mention of
Danny Fiore and his band.  She had spent more hours listening to local radio
stations, tracking programming patterns and analyzing play lists, acquainting
herself with on-air personalities, targeting the stations and jocks she
believed would be most receptive to new local talent.  She had rehearsed her
spiel so many times, she could recite it in her sleep. 

At a knock on the door, she gave herself a final cursory glance
and went to let Rob in.  He took a look at her and let out a long, low whistle.

Casey smiled ruefully.  “I’ll take that as a compliment.” 

He was wearing a red paisley shirt and an Army jacket that had
passed disreputable eons ago.  Rob always looked like a rag picker beside Danny,
who, even in Levi’s, always managed to look as though he’d stepped from the
pages of
Gentlemen’s Quarterly
.  “The shirt has to go,” she said.  “And
the jacket.  Let’s see what we can find.”

She found a green silk shirt in the closet, and a charcoal tweed
jacket.  “Try this,” she said.

Although Rob was tall, he was whippet-thin, and Danny’s shirt hung
off his bony shoulders as if it had given up all hope.  Casey found a green
striped tie to go with it, and he stood like an obedient little boy as she knotted
and adjusted it for him. 

“There,” she said, patting it for good measure.  “You’ll do.”  She
paused to study the results of her work.  “You should wear green more often,”
she said.  “It brings out the color in those nice green eyes of yours.”

He flushed and quickly changed the subject.  “What’s our first
stop?” he said.

“WBAC.   Rocky Harte, boy-wonder programming director.  They play
primarily Top 40 and have been known to give airplay to unknowns.”

The WBAC studios were located in one of downtown Boston’s elegant
older buildings.  The elevator glided silently to the fifth floor, the doors
slid open, and they found themselves in an ornate, cavernous hallway.  “Hell of
a dump,” Rob said.

She took a deep breath to steel herself as they approached a glass
door painted with WBAC’s call letters.  “Just back me up,” she said.  “No
matter what outlandish thing I say, just play along and back me up.”

“I’m with you all the way,” he said.  “Ready?”

She took one more breath, letting it out slowly, relaxing her features
to erase her nervousness.  “Ready,” she said, and together they went through
the door.

The receptionist gave Rob a cursory glance.  “Hi,” she said to
Casey, and snapped her gum.  “Can I help you?”

“Yes.  My name is Casey Fiore, and I have a ten o’clock
appointment with Rocky Harte.”

The girl looked doubtful, but she picked up the intercom and held
a brief, low-keyed conversation before covering the mouthpiece with her hand. 
“I’m sorry, Miss Fiore,” she said, “but Mr. Harte says he doesn’t have a ten
o’clock appointment.”

“That’s impossible,” Casey said.  “It’s written right here in my
book.”  She opened the briefcase she’d bought on sale at Filene’s and took out
her leather-bound appointment book and opened it to a blank page.  “It’s right
here.  I—oh, damn.”  She closed her eyes.  “I did it again.”

Rob, who had been unhurriedly studying the Warhol print on the
wall over the couch, scowled at her.  “You didn’t,” he said.

“Oh, Rob,” she wailed, “I did.”  Turning to the receptionist, she
said, “I have the wrong day.  I’m so embarrassed.”

The receptionist looked from Casey to Rob and then back.  “What
day were you supposed to be here?”

“You dragged me all the way down here on the wrong day?” Rob
said.  He ran a hand through his disheveled hair.  “Jesus, woman, can’t you
ever keep anything straight?”

“I’m sorry!” she hissed.  “Do you think you could keep it down? 
I’m embarrassed enough as it is!”

The receptionist, still holding the phone, gave him a nasty look
that spoke volumes.  “Hang on,” she told Casey.  “Maybe there’s something I can
do for you.”  There was another quick, whispered conversation, then she
smiled.  “If you’d like to sit down, Mr. Harte will be with you in a minute.”

“Thank you so much,” Casey said.  She cast a quick glance at Rob,
who had returned, scowling, to the Warhol.  Leaning toward the girl, she
whispered, “You saved my life.  When that man gets angry, he’s a beast.  An
absolute animal.”

The receptionist sent a frosty look at Rob’s back.  A door opened,
and a wiry, dark-haired man emerged.  “Casey Fiore?” he said.

She offered her hand.  “Mr. Harte,” she said.  “I’m Casey Fiore. 
And this is my business partner, Rob MacKenzie.”

The two men shook hands, and Rocky Harte ushered them into his
office and shut the door.  He perched on the edge of a battered walnut desk and
picked up a Styrofoam coffee cup.  Turning it in his hand, he said,  “I don’t
know who the hell you two are, or why you’re here, but I appreciate a good
bluff as well as the next guy.”  His gaze left the coffee cup and fell on Rob,
then on Casey.  “That’s why instead of having you thrown out I’m giving you
exactly five minutes to tell me what you want.”  He checked his watch. 
“Starting right now.”

It was all the opening she needed.  From the briefcase, she pulled
out a white-jacketed 45 record.  “This,” she said, “is why we’re here.”

They spent nearly an hour with Rocky Harte, leaving with his
promise of two weeks of airplay, more if there was enough demand.  Stomach
churning, Casey left Rob waiting for the elevator and dashed for the nearest
washroom and threw up.

And then they hit the next station on her list.

***

Like most children, Benny Juarez was tougher than he looked.  He
bounced back from chemo with amazing resiliency, surprising everyone when the
doctors declared that his cancer appeared to be in remission.  Casey obtained
special permission from Dr. Harris to take him out for an afternoon, and they
spent it at the zoo, where Benny stared in open-mouthed amazement at the
monkeys and the llamas and the elephants.

But his favorite animal, by far, was the peacock.  When the flashy
bird strutted across his pen, his brilliantly-colored tail feathers splayed for
the benefit of the peahen, Benny squealed with delight.  It was all Casey could
do to drag him away when it was time to leave.  In the gift shop, she bought
him a single peacock feather that he clutched in his grubby little hand as
though it might disappear if he loosened his hold.

Danny met them for dinner at McDonald’s.  He offered Benny his
hand and said solemnly, “So this is my competition.  It’s nice to meet you,
Benny.”  Benny said nothing, but his gaze never left the blue-eyed giant who
bought him a Happy Meal and treated him like an adult.

After dinner, they returned Benny to the hospital, and while Danny
waited in the car, Casey carried the child to the ward and undressed him.  His
head flopped from side to side in exhaustion as she untied his shoelaces and
pulled off his shoes and socks.  He fell asleep immediately, a smile on his
face and the peacock feather still clamped in his fist.

Danny was double-parked outside, and she scooted for the Chevy
through a light misting rain.  Slamming the door behind her, she said, “It
looks like he’s smitten.  I’m jealous.”

Turning on the windshield wipers, Danny said, “He’s probably just
lacking a strong male role model.”

“Thank you, Dr. Freud.  You took one psychology course in college
and now you have all the answers.”

The next day, Ruth Mendez, the hospital social worker, called
Casey into her office.  “Shut the door,” Mendez said, “and have a seat.”

Curious, she took a chair near the window.  “What’s up?”

“I’ve heard that you and Benny Juarez have a special
relationship.”

Defensively, she said, “He’s a wonderful little boy.  I can’t help
loving him.”

Mendez nodded.  “I imagine you know a little bit about his
background, but let me fill in the gaps for you.  Benny’s mother was fifteen
when he was born.  Since then, she’s been married and divorced twice, she’s had
three other children, and now she’s living with a boyfriend who has a history
of abusive behavior.  She’s decided she can’t take care of Benny.”

Casey’s heart skipped a beat.  “Meaning?”

“Meaning,” Mendez said, “she’s decided to turn his custody over to
the Department of Child and Family Services.”

“She doesn’t want him?” Casey asked in disbelief.

Mendez’s mouth thinned.  “I’d prefer to be kind and say she’s
overwhelmed.”

“What will happen to him?”

“He’ll go into foster care.  If he’s very lucky, he’ll find
adoptive parents.  But the odds aren’t in his favor.  He’s four years old, he’s
Hispanic, and he has a life-threatening disease.”  Mendez drummed her fingers
idly on the desk.  “There aren’t many people out there willing to adopt a child
with that many strikes against him.”

Casey had to hunt for her voice.  “Why are you telling me this?”

Mendez smiled.  “Just playing a hunch,” she said.

She worked her shift that night in a daze.  If she’d read Ruth
Mendez correctly, what the social worker was suggesting was an impossibility. 
Danny would never agree to taking in a child.  He would have an arsenal of
arguments, reasons why it wouldn’t work, and every one of them would be valid.

But her heart ached for Benny, and when her shift ended at eleven,
she took the T directly to the Back Bay to talk to Danny.

***

With
Heart of Darkness
getting heavy airplay, her telephone
had rung incessantly all summer.  As
pro bono
booking agent for the
band, she’d actually had to turn down several lucrative offers because the boys
were booked solid.  This weekend, like the past two, they’d packed people like
sardines into a Boylston Street watering hole known as The Bull Pen.  Casey
could hear the throbbing of the music while still on the sidewalk, and when she
opened the door, sound poured out over her in a rolling wave.  She warmly
greeted the black giant who stood in the foyer.  “Hello, Dud.  How’s it going
tonight?”

“Hot.”  He flashed her a wide, white grin.  “Very hot.”

She checked her coat and purse and began working her way through
the crowd, murmuring vague apologies and smiling distractedly at the men who
turned to give her a second glance.  She could feel it tonight—something loose
in the room, some magic that spread like wildfire through the tangle of bodies
and bound them together.  It didn’t always happen.  There were good nights and
bad ones, receptive audiences and apathetic ones.  But Dud was right.  Tonight,
the electricity crackled in the air.