Final Appeal (16 page)

The camera focuses on Mrs. Stevens’s numb expression, then a commercial for Rice-A-Roni comes on.

“So Senator Waterman makes the national news,” my mother says, arching an eyebrow plucked into a gray pencil line.

“She calls these things press conferences, but she never takes any questions.” I get up stiffly and turn off the TV.

“Aw, can we leave it on?” Maddie asks.

“No, honey, not during dinner.”

“But we just watched during dinner.”

“That was special.” I sit down.

“I don’t see what the big deal is,” my mother says, half to herself.

Of course she doesn’t. When I was a kid, we ate dinner on spindly trays in front of a console television. At least Walter Cronkite didn’t hit us. “We’ve already discussed this, Mom.”

Maddie resettles sullenly on top of the Donnelley Directory. “Grandma lets me watch TV during snack.”

“I think it was a Chanel suit,” my mother says quickly, chopping her spaghetti into bite-size pieces. She refuses to twirl it: too Italian. “Did you see?”

“See what?”

“The buttons. That’s how you know it’s Chanel.”

“I didn’t see.”

“How’s your head?”

“Full of important thoughts.”

She frowns. “I still say you should report what happened. You were attacked.”

“It’s not worth it.”

Maddie shifts on the phone book. “Are they gonna catch the guy that did it, Mom?”

“I don’t think so, babe.”

“Why not?”

“They don’t know who did it.”

“Serves them right.” My mother snorts. “They’re the ones with all the guns—”

“Wait a minute. That’s enough,” I say, and she quiets; we have a specific understanding. I wouldn’t let her baby-sit for Maddie unless she agreed to suspend her two favorite activities: racism and smoking.

“What, Mom?” Maddie asks, confused. “What happened to the guy?”

“They think he ran away, honey.”

“Where did he run to?”

“Somewhere in the city. Not near here.”

Maddie nods knowingly and digs into her salad. “It’s dangerous out there.”

“What?” I laugh. “Where did you get that?”

“Don’t you know?” she says, with a mouthful of iceberg lettuce.

“Finish chewing and then talk, okay?”

She chews the lettuce like a little hamster.

“Don’t let her do that,” my mother says, but I wave her off.

“How’s that tooth, monster girl? Ready for the Tooth Fairy?”

Maddie swallows her food. “Almost ready. There’s only one of those thread things. Wanna see?”

“No. Please.”

Her face grows serious. “There are bad people, Mom, didn’t you know that?”

“Really?”

“Uh-huh.”

“What are you watching in the afternoons,
Dragnet
reruns?”

“
Care Bears
!” Maddie says, and grins at my mother. My mother winks back, and I decide to let them have their secrets.

“All right, so tell me how school was.”

“Okay.” She shrugs, shoulders knobby as bedposts in her white blouse.

“Did you have art?”

“Yeah.”

“Yes. Did you make anything?”

“Yes.”

“What did you make?”

“A picture.”

“What is this, a deposition? What was it a picture of?”

She perks up slightly. “Trees. You stick little sponges in the paint and then on the paper. It makes fake leaves for the trees. It’s scenery. It’s for our play.”

“You’re going to be in a play?”

Maddie nods and sips her milk, leaving a tomato-sauce stain on the rim of the glass and a milk mustache on her upper lip. Then she grabs her napkin in a professional way and wipes her mouth.

“What’s the play about?”

“Spring.”

“That sounds nice. Is it a musical?”

She rolls her eyes. “No, Mom. That’s in the olden days. We don’t do anything as dumb as that.”

“What a relief. Jeez.”

Maddie squints at me to see if I’m kidding. I squint back, and we squint at each other like moles for a minute.

“Maddie told me some good news today, Grace,” my mother says. She turns to Maddie. “Tell your mother how you made a new friend.”

“You made a friend?” It’s too much to hope for.

Maddie beams. “At recess.”

“Terrific!” I feel my heart leap up. “I propose a toast. To Maddie and her new friend.” I hoist my glass in the air, and so does my mother. The heavy tumblers clink loudly.

“She won’t tell me any more about it,” my mother says. “She says she’s only allowed to tell you.”

“Oh, a secret! So you played with this friend at recess? What did you play?”

“Digging.”

“Like with Madeline?” I think of the day I watched her near the edge of the playground.

“Yep. He likes Madeline.”

“Oh, he’s a boy, huh? Is he cute?”

She wrinkles her nose. “Kind of. He’s big.”

“How big? Like a second grader?”

“No, bigger than that. Almost as big as Daddy.”

My mother laughs. “That means fifth grade.”

“What’s his name?”

“It’s a secret. He’s my secret friend.”

I wonder if he’s imaginary. “But he’s real, right? Not like Madeline. A real boy.”

She looks confused. “He’s a man, Mommy, not a boy. He helped me and Madeline dig a hole. He’s strong.”

“What? A man?”

My mother puts down her fork in surprise. “Not a stranger!”

“Maddie knows not to talk to strangers.” I turn to Maddie. “Right, honey? He’s not a stranger, is he?”

Her face flushes red. “He
knows
you and that’s not a stranger.”

“Who is he?”

“He said it’s a secret. I told you. He knows you and your work. He knows your judge and the lady on the TV. That’s not a
stranger
.”

“What did he look like, Maddie?” my mother says, her voice thin with anxiety. “Tell Grandma.”

Maddie looks from my mother to me, becoming uncertain. “I didn’t do anything bad, Mom. He said he was my friend, and you said make a friend.”

“Of course you didn’t do anything bad,” I say as calmly as I can. “Which recess did he play with you, Mads? Recess in the morning or recess after lunch?”

“He knows things. He said it’s good to be careful, like you say. He said, Tell Mommy too.”

I feel my gut tense up. “Tell me to be careful?”

“Maddie, what are you talking about?” my mother says. “How could you—”

“Ma!” I snap at her. “Let me talk to her.”

My sudden anger makes Maddie’s lower lip buckle. “Mom, I didn’t do anything wrong.” Her eyes well up with tears.

“It’s all right, baby,” I say. I scoop her out of her seat and she burrows into my neck. I think of the man and my skin crawls. Is this for real, and does it have anything to do with this afternoon? “Can you remember what he looks like, Maddie?”

“No,” she sobs.

“That’s okay. It’s all right, now.” I hug Maddie close and catch sight of my mother over the top of my daughter’s tousled red head. Her face has gone gray and drawn with fear; her gnarled fingers shake as she reaches for her water glass. “You okay, Ma?” I ask her.

She looks up, startled. “Fine,” she says.

Later, after we’ve cleaned up and Maddie’s safely in bed, my mother makes coffee in silence while I call the principal at Maddie’s school and tell him what happened during a recess that’s allegedly supervised. He reminds me that the back field is huge, that there are only two playground aides for 350 children, and that Maddie was playing at the far end. I suggest politely that he hire more aides, then show my fine upbringing by not threatening grievous bodily harm, although I let him know a lawsuit is always an interesting alternative. Then I call Maddie’s teacher, who mentions that Maddie has a vivid imagination. Not that vivid, I say to her, before I hang up.

I call the police in my tiny borough to report the incident; they seem happy to leave their game of checkers to come over and do real police work, like on TV. One even has braces on his teeth. My mother lubricates them with hot coffee and I give them free legal advice, so they promise to cruise around the house tonight and the playground tomorrow and the next day. I decide not to tell them about Armen’s murder or what happened to me at the courthouse; it’s out of their distinctly suburban league.

But I’m getting the message the killer is sending, loud and clear. Someone is using everything they can—including my six-year-old—to warn me off, but it won’t work. It only makes me want to fight back harder. Where do they get off threatening my child? They haven’t met up with the fury of a single mother. Especially one who’s run out of alimony.

19

T
he phone rings after the police leave. “Grace.” It’s a man’s voice, almost in a whisper. “It’s Winn.”

“Who?”

“Winn. Shake and Bake. Get down here fast.”

“What? It’s eleven o’clock at night.”

“Please. I can’t talk long.”

“Listen, you, somebody tried to grab my daughter today. And somebody hit me from behind.”

“Are you all right?” He sounds stricken, but not as stricken as I am and only half as stricken as my mother.

“She’s fine, we both are.”

“Was she hurt?”

“No, but only because she was at school. I can’t have this, Winn.”

“I’ll protect her. I’ll get somebody on her.”

“Who, kindergarten cop?”

“I’ll make him a teacher. A janitor.”

“That’s not the point.”

“I can’t talk now, just come down here. It’s Artie. He needs help.”

“Artie? Where?”

“Northern Liberties.”

Not one of Philadelphia’s showcase neighborhoods. “What are you doing there?”

“We’re at Keeton’s. On the corner, at Third. There’s a sign.”

“Is Artie okay? In danger?”

“Nothing like that, but come now.” He hangs up.

I hang up slowly, looking at the phone. I hate to leave Maddie tonight, after what happened to her, nor am I excited about driving around, after what happened to me. On the other hand, it might help to talk to Winn, and Artie’s in trouble. There’s a caffeinated couple of cops driving circles around my house and a bulldog of a grandmother seething in the living room; my daughter has never been safer. I decide to go, mumbling an excuse to my mother, like in high school.

I drive into town with an eye on the rearview mirror, and no one appears to be following me. I reach the warehouse district in a half hour. The streets are wider here than they are in the rest of Philly and almost deserted. Trash mars the sidewalk, and the homeless beg from the traffic on the expressway ramp. One man, apparently crazy, is draped in a blanket despite the warm, breezy night. I look away until I remember that it’s an apparently crazy man I’m looking for. I look back, but it’s not Winn.

I drive around the block, past a graffiti mural on an electrical wholesale store, until I find a ratty tavern. An old-time window of thick glass block is stuck into a dingy brick facade. Over the black-painted door a pink neon sign glows
KE TON’S
. Artie is lying in front, passed out under a dim streetlight. Winn is propped up against the lamppost, fuzzy-faced and dressed in a raincoat, looking oddly like a degenerate Paddington Bear. I pull up to the curb and get out of the wagon.

Winn smiles vacantly when he spots me. “Harvard’s sick, Miss Rossi.”

I kneel over Artie. There’s stubble on his formerly handsome face, and his clothes are a mess. But then they always are. “Artie? You okay?”

Artie opens one eye, then covers his startled face with his hands. “It’s alive! Make it go away, Grace. It’s heinous!”

Winn smiles. “Harvard drank too much.”

“I figured.”

“I figured you figured.” Winn claps his hands. “I figured you figured I figured you figured.”

“He’s crazy as a fuckin’ loon, Grace,” Artie says, his eyes still closed. “Sarah was right.”

“Bye-bye, Sarah,” Winn says.

Artie looks up at me, his mouth curving down in Pagliacci’s exaggerated frown. “Sarah went bye-bye, Grace.”

“I’m sorry, Artie.”

“She was in love with Armen, she admitted it.” His eyes fill up with drunken tears. “She never loved me.”

Poor kid. “I’m sorry.”

“I knew it all along, Grace. She thinks I’m stupid, but I’m not.” He licks his dry lips. “I knew from the way she looked at him.”

I grab the folds of Artie’s denim jacket; it occurs to me that I have picked up a drunk before. This drunk budges only an inch.

“Armen was my friend, Grace. He was my friend.”

“I know, Artie.”

“I was right! I am a genius! I made law review!” he rails into the night, then his head lolls to one side. A piece of wax paper rolls over him like urban tumbleweed.

I struggle to move him but can’t. “Would you help me, Shake and Bake?”

“No.” Winn wags his head back and forth, ersatz autistic before my eyes. “I’m busy.”

“That’s funny, Shakie.” My lower back begins to ache; I’m too old for this and in no mood. I straighten up and glare at Winn. “Now get up and help Mommy.”

Artie’s eyes fly open suddenly, like a corpse reanimated. “Look, Grace! Look what I got!” He starts to unbutton his fly.

Oh, Christ. “I know what you got, Artie. Keep it in your pants.”

“No, no, Gracie! Something totally awesome! Look!”

I look down. Artie’s work shirt is yanked up to his neck. Directly north of his stomach, between two rather erect nipples, sits a basketball, regulation size. Its surface is brown and pebbled, and in the center, in familiar script, it says
Wilson
. “What is that?” I say, aghast.

“I got a tat! Isn’t it so
excellent
?”

“A tat?”

“Artie has a tat-toooo,” Winn says, singsong.

“No pain no gain,” Artie mumbles. “Today I am a man.”

“I got one, too,” Winn says, getting up. He brushes off his soiled pants, which does nothing to improve them. “Two tats. One for Harvard, one for me.”

“Terrific.”

“
Barukh attah Adonai
,” Artie says, “
Eloheinu meleckh ha-olam
. Let’s light the candles!” He waves his hand in the air, then it flops back against the cracked sidewalk.

“Want to see my tattoo?” Winn asks, standing a little too close for comfort. He smells like cheap beer and body odor.