Learning to Swim (8 page)

“And then I’ll keep him,” I said. My voice seemed to echo in the kitchen. The quartz clock was clicking away the seconds. “If I can get away with raising him here, I will, but if not, I’ll move somewhere and start over with a new name.” Never mind that I would be acting as judge and jury; never mind that the culprits would never pay for what they had done. This child would be safe.

I was showing Baker more of myself than she’d ever seen and admitting to things I didn’t want to admit. But a tiny part of me was aware that opening up like this was the only thing that could sway her into watching Paul while I went to Canada. There’s a fine line between sharing and manipulating, and part of me knew I was dancing close to that line—like a kid deliberately crying hard over a broken window so Mom won’t get mad. But I didn’t tell her about Janey, the little blond girl at the children’s shelter who had begged me to adopt her, and who one day was just gone.

Maybe I was manipulating her, maybe not. Sometimes I think Baker sees into my skull, past the bones and into my brain. She probably had a pretty good idea what was going on.

She looked at the clock and then at me. “If you’re going, go.”

If I were a hugging kind of person, I would have hugged her. I brought in the bag I’d packed for Paul, and we walked over to Holly’s so I could tell Paul I was leaving for a day or two and that he would stay with Baker and Mike.

He clung to me, his eyes glistening.
“Ne partez pas,”
he whispered.
“Ne partez pas, je vous en prie.”
Please don’t leave.

“I have to, Paul.
C’est nécessaire.
” And maybe my eyes were glistening, too. “
Ce n’est pas pour longtemps. Seulement un jour ou deux
. One or two days. No longer.”

But I had to go, and I couldn’t take him with me. He’d be fine here.

N
OW I WAS DRIVING NORTH TO OTTAWA, TRYING HARD NOT
to think about Paul’s face as I’d left.

It was a crisp spring day, the sky clear and a more vivid blue than I’ve ever seen anywhere. Trees were coming alive after the long winter, shooting out sheaves of green. You could see gaps in the tree line where acid rain had killed off trees, but the air still seems fresh and clean.

Did I know that what I was doing was risky? Of course I did. But so was jumping off the ferry, which had saved one small boy’s life.

I had built a comfortable world for myself here in the Adirondacks: rental house, rotating roommates, freelance work, family a thousand miles away, a sort-of boyfriend, friends but none I really confided in. Baker was the closest, and I’d let her see more of me today than I ever had. It was a simple and safe existence: no mortgage, no lease, no steady job, no committed relationship. Not a whole lot at risk.

It had seemed like a pretty good life to me, and I thought I’d been content.

But from the moment I sat on the rock at the edge of the lake with Paul on my lap, I’d felt a bond I’d never experienced. Something had changed for me, as if a switch had been thrown. I had taken responsibility for this small person, and now life from before the ferry seemed in the distant past.

I had distilled it down to two things: If Paul had a father who loved and deserved him, I would turn him over. If he didn’t, I was keeping him.

I’d brought along my voice-activated tape recorder and business cards I’d printed this morning with a fake name and fake address. Baker would most likely tell her husband, Mike, a slimmed-down version of the truth, that Paul was an abandoned Canadian boy and I’d gone to try to find his father because it was simpler than involving the authorities.

I’d dressed with care, assuming the closest I could to a businesswoman persona: cord slacks, pullover, Eastland leather shoes, and black linen blazer on the seat beside me. I’d braided my hair into one long neat plait down my back. Not precisely the image of corporate success, but I figured the blazer would make it work.

I hadn’t figured out how I would get in to see Dumond, but I had plenty of time to think on the drive. It’s about eighty miles to the Canadian border, and the route meanders through small towns so undeveloped that if it weren’t for modern cars and a few scattered Subways and Burger Kings, you could imagine it was decades ago.

When I spotted a FedEx drop box, I had my plan. I doubled back and opened the bin at the top of the box where labels and envelopes are stored. I was in luck: it held international labels as well as U.S. ones. I grabbed a label and envelope and addressed a label to Dumond, scribbling to obscure the first name and inventing a Boston address for the return. I slipped a note inside the envelope, sealed it, and inserted the label in the plastic flap. And drove on.

Now I was at the St. Regis reservation and passing the Akwesasne Mohawk Casino. The parking lot was nearly full, and I could see a bevy of plump white women wearing fanny packs making their way inside, heading for the slot machines. To me gambling on reservations is Native Americans’ joke on white Americans. We pushed them onto the least desirable land possible, and now flock to their casinos to gamble our dollars away.

Payback.

Gas is always cheaper on the reservation, so I stopped at the Bear’s Den to tank up. While a tall jean-clad Mohawk man with dark close-cropped hair pumped the gas, I headed for the restroom.

The border crossing at Cornwall was a brief stop while an inspector
glanced at my passport and asked a few rote questions. Apparently I fit no profile, because as often as I’ve crossed this border, I’ve never had my car searched or been asked more than the perfunctory questions:
Where are you going? How long are you staying? What is your citizenship? Are you carrying any liquor or cigarettes?
Once in a while they’d throw in
Are you carrying more than $10,000?
and I’d have to work hard not to retort, “Do I
look
like I’m carrying more than $10,000?” Apparently you can import ten grand without reporting it, but not a penny more.

Up highway 138, onto the Trans-Canada Highway, into Ottawa, exit into downtown. Traffic was smooth. My heart was thumping, my mouth dry.

It was comfortably before lunchtime. First step: Check to see if Dumond was in. If not, try in the afternoon, then maybe crash with people I knew in Perth and try again tomorrow. I found a parking space and then a pay phone. I thumbed in some of the Canadian change I keep in my car console.

“Dumond Agency, Colette speaking,” a pleasant voice said.

“Hello,” I said. “This is Doris Felton calling for Philippe Dumond.” I expected the stilted or bored
May I ask what this is concerning?
that you get from most businesses in the States, but Canadians are friendlier and less suspicious than their American counterparts. Or maybe I’d succeeded at sounding confident enough to be convincing.

She replied, “Certainly, just one moment,” and as she clicked off, I hung up, figuring they’d think the call had gotten disconnected. I’d found out what I wanted: Dumond was in his office. It was possible she had been shuffling me off to an assistant, but that was a risk I’d take.

I’d tucked the FedEx envelope into the black canvas Lands’ End satchel I use as a briefcase. As an afterthought, I ripped it open. Dumond would be more likely to glance inside if the envelope was open, and I didn’t want it sitting in a pile for hours. On the paper inside I’d written:
I may know something about your son, Paul
.

I breathed deeply, hitched the satchel up on my shoulder, and walked briskly toward his office building. If the entrance was keypad- or entry-card-operated, I’d slip in behind someone on their way in.

No keypad, no problem. The directory listed the Dumond Agency on the third floor. I stepped into the elevator. Deep breaths. I leaned against the brass railing and switched on the voice-activated tape recorder in my pocket. A drop of sweat trickled down my side.

I would, I thought, be facing one of two possibilities. Either Dumond would be clearly innocent, ecstatic with the news that his son had been found, and we would alert the police and arrange a happy reunion.

Or—and this was trickier—he would give off guilty vibrations, be evasive or insincere, or not admit his son had been kidnapped. Then I’d say I must be mistaken, show a photo of boy-who-is-not-Paul, offer apologies and leave, giving the fake business card if pressed. And make sure no one followed me to my car.

All too soon the elevator doors opened. And I was facing the glass doors of the office, with their heavy black raised lettering.

I learned a long time ago that if you can’t be confident, pretend that you are. I whisked in to greet the woman at the receptionist’s desk, and went into my spiel, sliding into the Canadian accent I automatically use when I’m up there. I’m no Meryl Streep, but Canadian English is easy. You enunciate a little more clearly, flatten your
a
’s, pronounce your
o
’s a bit differently. And say things like
zed
instead of z,
runners
instead of
sneakers, laneway
instead of
driveway
.

We’d gotten this FedEx envelope delivered to our office, I explained, where we had a Phyllis Dumond, and she’d accidentally signed for it and even opened it before seeing that it wasn’t hers. My boss was worried that we’d accepted someone else’s delivery, so she’d sent me over with it, and could she possibly check with Mr. Dumond to see if it was his?

“Of course.” She smiled in sympathy at my rolled eyes about my demanding and completely imaginary boss. “I’ll take it in to
Mr. Dumond right away.” She disappeared with the envelope, returned, and within a ten-count—
look up, accept envelope, open envelope, read note
—there he was.

Even I could tell he was wearing Armani, which on some people looks like a baggy suit, but on him looked like, well, Armani. He was tall and lean, his face sharply angled and his hair thick and dark, worn longer than most businessmen—a perfect match for the elegant woman I’d seen in the photo. Only a slightly crooked nose kept him from being impossibly handsome. He spoke to the receptionist, and his gaze locked on me as she motioned toward me. A nearly imperceptible hesitation, a moment of indecision so slight I nearly didn’t see it, and so brief I didn’t have time to think what it could mean. Then he was the consummate businessman, moving smoothly toward me.

“You brought this envelope for me?” he asked pleasantly, in smooth, cultured tones, without a trace of French accent. “May I ask when it was delivered?”

I cleared my throat. “Actually, it’s from me. It’s not from FedEx.”

For a fraction of a second the scene seemed to freeze, him with half smile and envelope in hand.

“Then I’d like to speak to you,” he said, eyebrows slightly raised. “In my office?”

I nodded dumbly. My heart was thumping so fast he had to be able to hear it. Where was the intuition I’d been so sure would tell me if he was guilty? Surely an innocent man would be more emotional, not cool and collected, as dispassionate as if inquiring about a dry cleaner’s bill.

I followed him into his office, passing offices where I could see people working, and registering the thick carpet underfoot. His office was exactly as I would have imagined it: rich cherry furniture, champagne-colored carpet, shelves heavy with books, brown leather armchairs.

I never saw him move. I heard the door close and suddenly I was flattened with my back against the wall, almost lifted off the ground,
his hand hard up against my throat, gripping firmly, his hip pressing lightly against mine. His face was so close I could smell the crispness of his aftershave, see the small pores on his face, feel the palpable fury that shimmered between us. His words were slow and harsh, almost whispered into my ear: “Tell me where my son is.”

F
OR A HORRIBLE MOMENT I THOUGHT I WAS GOING TO PASS
out or, worse, die here in this man’s impeccable office. It seemed as if I couldn’t get in enough air to make a sound, but I must have managed enough of a squeak that he realized he was slowly choking the life out of me.

He let go and whirled away, took two steps to his desk and propped himself on it, his back to me, breathing heavily. I leaned against the wall and rubbed my throat and breathed deeply. Air, as much as I wanted—stuff you take for granted until you suddenly can’t get enough of it. My ears were ringing. It was curiously like how I felt when I’d surfaced in Lake Champlain with Paul.