Evening Street (3 page)

“Shut down that dadburned noise, why doncha,” the stranger said. “I mean you all no harm. Just here to see my boy. Told you that, twice over.”

“It ain't visiting hours no more,” Ryerson said. His voice came out in a pinched, panicky squawk. “You can't go in.” He'd lowered his arms by now. He reached over to the wall and toggled off the alarm, so they wouldn't have to shout at each other.

“This's my only chance,” the man said. “I work over in Swinton Falls. Can't get away till this time of night.”

Bell stepped forward. “Your name, sir?”

“Jess Hinkle.”

“And you're unarmed?”

The stranger carefully spread his long, muscular arms straight out from his sides as if he was ready to perform a jumping jack. “I told your man here that he's welcome to search me.”

Bell turned to Ryerson. “And did you?”

“Well, ma'am, he looked to me like he was here to start a fight, and so I just—”

“Search him,” Bell said, interrupting. “And if he's weapon-free, like he says he is, I'll ask the head nurse if we can make an exception on the visiting hours, in light of his employment schedule.”

Ryerson did as he was told. Then he stood back and grunted. “He's okay.”

“Fine,” Bell said. She looked at the visitor. “I'll go check with Lily. No promises, though. Do we understand each other?”

“Yeah,” Hinkle said. “Oh—and ma'am. Since he set off the alarm, maybe you better call the sheriff. Tell her that there's nothing going on here. Wouldn't want her to waste a trip.”

Before Bell could answer, Ryerson spoke up. “Nobody's coming. Alarm's not hooked up to 911 or nothing. It just makes a big ole noise. Supposed to scare folks, is all.”

Bell winced. That wasn't the sort of information you wanted visitors to know.

Her general estimation was now officially confirmed: Ryerson was a fool.

She addressed Hinkle again. “What's your child's name? So I can ask the nurse if he's up for company.”

The man blinked and smiled. One of his front teeth was broken off just beyond the gum line. The other was gray. This was a hard man, and the smile didn't make him look any softer.

“Abraham,” he said. He said it proudly.

*   *   *

Despite the drama of his arrival, Hinkle's visit was quiet, calm, and short.

As soon as Lily checked the admission records, and made sure that Abraham's father was indeed listed as Jess Hinkle, and then placed another phone call to double-check the information, she let him come in.

“Unfortunately,” Lily explained, “you can't hold your son right now.” Bell and Hinkle stood at the threshold of the large room, well away from the small congress of basinets. Angie Clark wasn't present; she was in one of the back rooms, Bell assumed, running an errand for Lily.

“I can't?” Hinkle said.

“We have to be very careful to guard against infection,” Lily said. “We're often gowned and gloved ourselves when we touch the babies.”

“Roger that,” he said. “I'll just be happy to see him. You know? Just to have a look.”

Lily nodded. “Sure. I'll hold him up for you.” She pointed. “He's right over there. Second basinet from the right.” She walked in that direction. She reached into the basinet and lifted the infant as high as she could without jostling the IV line. It wasn't very high. The child didn't cry or move. Nor did he open his eyes.

Bell watched Hinkle as he watched his son. The man's eyes seemed to mist over. He pulled his hands in and out of his pockets, and in and out again. He licked his lips. His gaze never strayed from the scanty bundle held securely in the nurse's big hands.

Hard to believe, Bell thought, that someone as rough-hewn and hard-used as Jess Hinkle could have been involved in the creation of something as fragile and beautiful as this child. Hard to believe that there could be any connection whatsoever between the large, scarred man and an infant of such exquisite delicacy.

Only after Lily had tucked Abraham back down in his bed and walked away to check on another child did Hinkle address Bell.

“That's my kid,” he said. “That's Abraham.”

“Yes.”

She could sense a pent-up emotion in this man, an energy that seethed in him like the revving engine of a car stranded up on cinder blocks: It had nowhere to go. She noticed the insignia on his jacket and realized that he was in a motorcycle gang; that did not guarantee that he'd done bad things in his life, but she found it disappointing nonetheless. Some bikers simply loved the open road, and craved the crazy ride provided by the mountains of West Virginia, but others—too many of them—sold drugs, and instantly lowered the life expectancy of anyone who got in their way.

Even after Abraham was placed back in the basinet, and his father couldn't see him anymore, the man still stood there, breathing heavily.

“He's so little,” Hinkle said. His voice was gravelly, but it was also faint, which stripped it of any menace.

“Low birth weight is pretty common for children who have the kinds of problems that Abraham does,” Bell said. “I'm sure that was explained to you.”

“Yeah. They said—they said it was the drugs, right? The ones Tina takes. Nothing's gonna get her to stop.”

Bell made no reply. She knew it wasn't a question he needed an answer to. He already had the answer. Hinkle was thinking out loud.

“That shit,” he said. His voice had risen now, and gotten stronger. “Look what it done to my kid. Look.” He plunged his hands back in the frayed pockets of his jeans. “Told her. Told her it weren't right, specially once she was having a kid. Other folks tried to tell her, too. She wouldn't listen.”

Bell waited. She half expected Hinkle to blow up with rage; he seemed that upset. But it didn't happen. After a minute or so, his body relaxed. The anger drifted away.

“They're taking real good care of him here,” Hinkle said. “I can see that. And I'm real grateful.” He crossed his arms. The leather of his jacket made a creaking sound as he did so. “You never know how you're going to feel. When you have a kid, I mean. People can try to tell you—but it ain't the same. Hearing about it ain't the same as feeling it. As knowing. Then it happens and it's like—it's like—” He groped for words. “It's like there's a whole new idea about the world, living right there inside you now. And it's a new world, too. Fresh-made.” He gestured toward the basinet. “All on account of that little guy over there. Changes everything, right? He's all you think about. Night and day.”

Bell let him bask for a moment in his love for his son. The agitation in him continued to loosen up and spread out, like a rope being gradually uncoiled.

“So you and the child's mother didn't plan on becoming parents,” she said.

“
Plan
? Hell, lady, we barely knew each other's names.” Instantly Hinkle dropped his head. “Sorry. Sorry. No call for that kinda talk. Specially not here. I got to keep control of myself. Not go flying off no more. I got responsibilities now. See, I'm a lot older'n Tina. She's nineteen. I'm fifty-four.”

“Quite a gap.”

“Yeah. And Tina—she's wild. Always has been. Still is. But me? I'm ready to start acting my age. Ready to be a dad to my boy over there. Got a good job now—pushing steel over at the Macklin factory. I'm getting rid of my trailer and moving into an apartment. It's got a washer-dryer right there on the premises.”

Bell felt the beginnings of worry. Did Hinkle understand just how ill his child was? Did he realize that Abraham might not be coming home at all? She was certain that the doctors had explained to him the severity of the infant's condition. But sometimes, she knew, a river of words could wash right over you, and you never got wet. Because nobody hears what they don't want to know.

“So you and Tina won't be raising him together,” she said.

He shook his head. “We ain't a couple no more, if that's what you're asking. Ain't seen her for a while. She called me when Abraham was born, but that's about it. I'm gonna go see her in the hospital tomorrow. Tell her what I'm thinkin'. I'm gonna raise him up by myself. My mama's gonna help. No way Tina can raise up a child. No way. She's pretty much still a child herself, if you know what I mean.”

“And that job you have. It's full-time, right? With benefits.” Bell kept her voice casual, but she was asking as a prosecutor, as a protector, as someone who had responsibility for the welfare of a child in her jurisdiction.

The truth was, any child born at the Evening Street clinic would instantly qualify for the court's protection. A scarcity of resources, however, meant that Bell didn't have that luxury. She had to choose. She had to decide which children had the direst needs. If there was even the slightest chance that a parent or parents might be able to give a child a decent upbringing—then Bell had to let that child stay with the family. She had to save the county's money wherever she could. She thought of it as a grim kind of infant triage: The worst cases, the children who were likely to be future victims of the most egregious examples of parental neglect, got the county's full attention. With the others, you sent them home and you hoped for the best. That's all you could do.

Hinkle rubbed his chin. Bell could smell the tobacco on his hands. They were yellowy and gnarled; old as he was, he had the hands and face of a much older man. His habits had aged him. “Yeah,” he said, and Bell heard the pride in his voice. “With benefits.” He grinned, showing her the gray tooth and the broken-off tooth again. “I can take care of my boy, if that's what you're asking me. And I intend to.” He coughed, using the back of his hand to cover his mouth. The cough went on a long time. “So what's the plan here? When'll they let me have Abraham?”

“There's usually no set timetable. They're doing all they can for your son. They'll keep you posted on his medical condition.” Bell didn't traffic in false hope. In the long run, it never helped.

That seemed to satisfy him. “Okay,” Hinkle said. “Okay, good deal.”

“I know you work long hours. But next time, you'll have to come during regular visiting hours, okay? Maybe on your day off. Tonight was an exception. A one-time thing.”

“Roger that.”

He was ready to go. At that moment, Angie Clark emerged from the storage room in the back. Her arms were filled with supplies: IV bags, boxes of gauze, lengths of tubing. Spotting Hinkle, she slowed her pace a bit.

Hinkle hesitated, too. Something passed between the two of them, something silent but palpable.

“Do you know that nurse?” Bell said.

“No,” Hinkle said. His answer came quick. Too quick. “Thought I did, but I don't. Never saw her before.”

It was the first time tonight that Bell sensed he was lying.

*   *   *

There was something about Abraham.

Bell usually didn't come to Evening Street two nights in a row. Her schedule was too busy for that. And she also knew she had to pace herself; she couldn't be here too often, without a few nights in between to serve as a sort of emotional buffer. Otherwise, the sadness would start to work its way into her bones.

But here she was, one night later, back to see the tiny boy with the big name.

She'd once asked Lily Cupp how she managed it—being here day after day, or night after night, depending on her shift, and being in the presence of all the pain and silent suffering of these infants who had done nothing to deserve their fates. “You get used to it,” Lily had said with a shrug and a wan smile. “That's the only answer I have for you, Bell. You have a job to do and so you do it. And anyway—it's not like your work over at the courthouse is any bed of roses, am I right?”

She was right.

Bell had thought about Abraham off and on throughout the day. She had to know how the child was faring, and just making a phone call to the facility didn't feel right. It seemed too easy, too much like a bureaucrat going over a checklist with a sharp pencil, ticking off boxes. She needed to see for herself. To be there in person.

In the lobby, Delbert Ryerson put down his meatball sub long enough to wave her on in. The mess of beige paper wrapping on the desktop crinkled and shifted under the sudden return of the massive, dripping sandwich.

“That smells good,” Bell said. He'd spilled meat sauce on the front of his white uniform shirt. It looked like a wound.

Ryerson grunted back at her and hit the switch that opened the security door. As she walked past, she pointed to the spill on his chest. “You'll have to soak that,” Bell said.

“Dang!” Ryerson exclaimed, noticing it for the first time. He reached for a napkin and started to wipe at the spot.

“Don't worry, Delbert. If a meal's worth eating, it's worth wearing.”

Another grunt. He was back at his sub again, using two hands to wrangle it from the wrapper up to his mouth.

Lilly Cupp saw Bell right away. The nurse was standing by the supply cabinet, entering information into an iPad. “Be there in a sec,” she called, finishing off her words with a wave.

They sat for a moment, side by side on two black folding chairs. The facility was quiet now. That was less a function of the time of day—it was 9:45
P.M
.—and more a matter of happenstance. Day and night had little meaning here. The infants' needs were constant, and the moments of silence came as a consequence of the brief pockets of sleep into which these tiny patients dropped. Soon enough they would wake up, crying, thrashing, often inconsolable.

“Didn't think I'd see you here tonight,” Lily said. “Things must've been slow over at the courthouse. You were looking for a little excitement, right?”

“Yeah. Right,” Bell answered. Lily knew very well what a county courthouse was like: wave after wave of people arriving, hour after hour after hour, all through the livelong day, brandishing their problems and their troubles and their concerns and their complaints and their accusations, yelling and threatening and demanding satisfaction. It was, Bell had once told Lily, like a circus without the elephants. Or the cotton candy. Or the fun.