Long Bright River: A Novel (21 page)

CARLOTTA AND LILA, Thomas begins chanting, as soon as he sees them across the McDonald’s. CARLOTTA AND LILA. CARLOTTA AND LILA.

We rushed to get here. We’re fifteen minutes late for Thomas’s own party. South Philadelphia is a half hour from Bensalem, and somehow time got away from me.

The girls run toward Thomas.

—Hello, I say to their mothers, and they both say hi. Lila’s mother gives me a hug, which I accept stiffly. I know them both vaguely from Thomas’s time at Spring Garden Day School, but I had to look up their first names before I called them.

They are two different types. Carlotta’s mother is older than me, probably in her mid-forties, with curly hair and a practical zip-up parka and mittens that look hand-knit.

Lila’s mother is around my age, early thirties. She has bangs and long wavy hair and she’s wearing a blue coat, clasped with a belt, and both are so beautifully made that I want to reach out and touch them. On her feet are boots with chunky heels and in her ears are delicate golden earrings that dangle almost to her collar. She looks like she works in fashion. Like she smells nice. Like she has a blog.

In my slacks and my white button-down, I probably look like a waitress.

Both mothers, in different ways, seem like they came from good families, went to good colleges.

Both of them, I realize sharply and belatedly, look like they have never eaten at a McDonald’s in their lives.

—This is so
great
, says Lila’s mom, Lauren. The kids are in
heaven.

But Carlotta’s mother, Georgia, appears mildly concerned. She’s scanning the play equipment as if looking for danger.

—I didn’t know they had an indoor playground, she says to me.

—They do, I say. It’s the draw. It’s the only one in the city, and Thomas loves it. I’m sorry you had to come all the way here, though.

—No problem at all, says Lauren. It’s not hard to get here. We just took Columbus down. And they have parking, she adds. What a luxury.

—No problem, Georgia agrees, after a beat.

We stand together in silence for a moment, watching the children play. Lila and Thomas have scaled the ladder that leads into a little elevated playhouse, and Carlotta is bathing in the ball pit, flailing her limbs wildly, as if making a snow angel. I glance at Carlotta’s mother, who, from the look on her face, seems to be wondering how frequently everything is cleaned.

—So how’s work? Lauren asks me. I never spoke to anyone at Thomas’s school about what I do, but I imagine both women used to see me picking him up in uniform sometimes, when I didn’t have time to change.

—Pretty good, I say. You know. Busy.

I hesitate. I want to ask them what they do, but there’s a part of me that imagines they might not work—that they might have the resources to send their children to nursery school for its enriching qualities, not because their livelihoods depend upon it.

I am still struggling with how to phrase this question when Georgia says, What’s going on with those murders in Kensington?

—Oh, I say, surprised. Well, there’s a lead. But nothing definite.

—Are they connected? says Georgia.

—Looks like it, I say.

—I hope you guys figure it out, says Georgia. I don’t like how close that whole business is to the kids’ school.

I pause.

—Well, I say. I don’t think preschoolers are what this person is after.

Both women look at me.

—I mean, yes, me too, I say. I think we’re getting close to apprehending him. Don’t worry.

More false comfort dispensed. More silence. I cross my arms around my middle, shift my weight from leg to leg.

—I hope everyone’s okay, says Georgia, looking at her watch.

—Who? I say. Confused.

—I mean I hope everyone can find this place okay. I got turned around a little bit myself.

—Oh, I say, suddenly realizing. Oh, this is it.

—Keeping it small, says Lauren. Smart.

—This is it? Georgia says, making a circle in the air with her hand.

Thomas comes over, ready with a list of things he wants to order. A shake and chicken nuggets and a hamburger and french fries and another shake. Lila and Carlotta are behind him, ready with their own orders. Clearly they’ve been plotting.

But Georgia kneels down and places her hand on her daughter’s shoulder. Carlotta, she says, we talked about this. We brought lunch, remember?

Carlotta’s eyes get wide. She begins shaking her head back and forth, incredulous at the injustice that’s about to transpire.

—No, she says. No, I need a hambirder. I need a hambirder and fries.

Georgia glances up at us quickly before standing and steering her daughter, now crying, ten feet away, where she crouches down again and speaks to her lowly, urgently.

I turn away, pretending not to watch, or care. But I can imagine what Georgia is telling Carlotta: This food is not for us, honey. This is not food that is healthy enough or nourishing enough for me to allow you to eat.

I imagine that she thought it would be a large party. That they could slip away unnoticed to eat their healthful, nourishing food.

—What’s wrong with Carlotta? Thomas asks, and I say, I’m not sure. Let’s give her some space.

Georgia is now leading a wailing Carlotta out of the restaurant by
her arm. She looks back at the rest of us and holds up a finger stiffly:
one minute.

—But will she come back? Thomas says to me, placing both hands on my folded arms, hanging there, uncertain.

—I think so, I say, but the mistake I made, inviting them here, is settling onto me.

It is Lauren, finally, who claps her hands together, breaking the spell.

—I don’t know about you guys, she says, but I’m hungry for a Big Mac.

I look at her.

—I freaking love Big Macs. My guilty pleasure, she says to me seriously, and I want to say to her
thank you, thank you.

—I love Big Macs too, says Thomas. My guilty pleasure, too.

After we order, the four of us—Lauren, Lila, Thomas, and me—find a table for six and sit down to eat together. Georgia and Carlotta return and Georgia furtively hustles her daughter back to the indoor playground, where she will play by herself until the meal is over.

Lauren is sitting across from me, and at first I’m not certain what to say to her. I’ve never been good at making conversation, and especially not with someone like Lauren, who, I imagine, must not know anyone on earth like me or my family. I have always suspected that people like Lauren consider people like me and my family trashy, or scary, or too much trouble and burden to deal with. All of us with our many, many problems, a line with no beginning and no end.

But Lauren is nonchalant, holding her soda lightly and loosely, teasing her daughter when she spills ketchup on her shirt.

—This shit happens constantly, right? she says, rolling her eyes at me. I hadn’t expected the curse.

Another way I misjudged her: Lauren has a real job, one that requires her to get up and go to work every day. She’s a producer for Philadelphia’s public radio station. She majored in broadcast communications, she says. Thought she’d go into television reporting. (She’s certainly pretty enough.) Ended up, instead, constructing segments for the radio.

—I like it better, she says. Don’t have to get up at the crack of dawn to spackle makeup on my face.

For fifteen minutes, we make conversation with remarkable ease, our children next to us, eating contentedly the food that Carlotta’s mother has deemed unfit for her daughter. Thomas’s little face is lit up with pleasure and excitement, his hands moving quickly over the table to touch his Big Mac, and then his french fries, and then his shake. He is counting his winnings. He is having a happy birthday.

It is only a short time later that I see my son’s expression change.

—Thomas? I say.

Before I can stop him, he leaps up and runs across the space between our table and the cash registers.

I stand and turn.

As I do, I hear Lauren say, Does Thomas know that man?

It’s too late: Thomas has thrown his arms around the legs of the man in question, whom I can only see from the back.

It’s Simon, of course. I knew that it was Simon before I even turned around. Despite everything, despite his behavior, and the way he has treated both me and my son, I am momentarily drawn to him. I suppress some childlike urge to run to him, to follow Thomas, to instantly forgive him of all his sins.

I am battling this impulse when I notice, standing next to Simon, a woman. She has long dark hair, pin-straight. Her stature is small.

On a dime, my emotions lurch toward rage. I watch as the scene plays out across the room: as Simon turns and looks down on Thomas, as he stares at him blankly for too long, not recognizing him, not recognizing his own son, whom he hasn’t seen in a year. And then, at last, Simon understands, and he looks at the woman before he looks back at Thomas, more concerned with her feelings than with his.

Thomas is bouncing on his toes, now, his arms stretched up toward his tall and handsome father. Thomas’s expression is one I recognize from the last time he saw Simon: adulation, worship, pride. Quickly,
Thomas glances back at Lauren and Lila, and I can read his thoughts: He wants to show Simon off to them. He wants to introduce his friends to his father.

—Daddy, he’s saying. Daddy. Daddy.

He thinks, I realize sickly, that his father is here to surprise him.

Thomas can’t yet imagine that his father won’t acknowledge him, won’t reach down his large hands and lift his son up to his chest, the way he always used to do.

I stride toward him. I want to carry him away before he understands.

As I do, Thomas notices me, at last, and turns, his face still full of joy, and says, Mom, Daddy’s at my birthday!

The woman next to Simon turns around, too.

I see her face. She is so young that she could be a teenager. She’s tiny and pretty, with two cheek piercings that also speak to her age.

And in her arms she is holding a baby, eight or nine months old, a small baby girl in a pink jacket.

Simon is shifting his gaze in a frantic triangle between the three of us: to Thomas, and then to me, and then to the woman next to him.

Thomas has given up on being held, now. He’s lowered his hands to his sides. His face is crumbling. He still doesn’t understand.

—Daddy? he says, one last time.

—Daddy? the young woman repeats, staring at Simon.

Simon is focused on me now. Michaela, he says. This is my wife, Jeanine.

In a flash, the last year of my life is explained.

Jeanine is gone before Simon can say another word. She has taken the baby with her. Simon stands there for a minute, his arms limp, his gaze on the floor. Thomas stands near him, unmoving.

At last, Simon walks to the windowed entrance of the place and watches as his dark Cadillac backs out of the parking lot too quickly.

It occurs to me, finally, that I need to go to Thomas. I scoop him up, big though he is. He puts his head down on my shoulder.

I don’t know what to do next. I want to yell, to scream at Simon, to hit him once, hard, across the face, for ignoring Thomas the way he did. For hurting Thomas’s feelings so badly. On his birthday, of all days.

But I won’t give him the satisfaction. Instead, I walk Thomas over to the table where Lauren and Lila are seated, and say to Lauren, Would you mind keeping an eye on Thomas for one second?

—Of course, says Lauren. We’ve got you, Thomas.

Then I walk over to Simon, who’s now on his phone, texting furiously, and I stand silently in front of him. He looks up, finally. Puts his phone away.

—Look, he begins, but I shake my head.

—No, I say. I don’t want to hear anything from you.

Simon sighs.

—Michaela, he says.

—Just stay away from us, I say. That’s it. I don’t need anything from you except for you to stay away.

He looks puzzled.

—You found
me
, he says.

—Excuse me?

—At work. You found me. Remember?

I’m shaking my head. I don’t know how you got my address, I say, but I don’t appreciate the visits.

He crosses his arms.

—Mick, he says. I have no idea where you live.

And for the first time in years, I believe him.

He leaves. Presumably to pick up the pieces with Jeanine, to refocus himself on his new life. At my request, he doesn’t say goodbye to Thomas, and Thomas dissolves into sobs. It’s better, I think. A clean break. A Band-Aid ripped. No sense prolonging a permanent goodbye.

The party is over.

—I’m sorry, I say, quickly, to Lauren and Georgia. I hand to their children the small bags of favors I bought at the dollar store.

Georgia, who didn’t see what transpired, is looking at me in confusion. Lauren is looking at me in sympathy. She’ll fill Georgia in, I think. She’ll give her the gossip. The situation was, no doubt, clear.

All the way home, Thomas cries.

—I’m very sorry, I tell him. I’m so sorry, Thomas. I know it’s difficult to understand right now, but really this is for the best.

—The world is a hard place, I add, after a while.

But my words don’t seem to console him.

I am distracted from my attempts to comfort him by a feeling of deep unease that is descending upon me in response to the following question: If Simon has not been the man making visits to my home—who has been?

I’m so lost in thought that when my phone rings, I swerve, and Thomas yelps.

I answer.

—Officer Fitzpatrick? a voice says. Female, older.

—Yes, I say.

—This is Denise Chambers from the Internal Affairs division of the PPD, the person says.

—All right, I say.

—Sergeant Ahearn passed some information on to us that we’d like to investigate. We should schedule a time to meet.

Monday is the day we select. I am both surprised and relieved. Maybe Ahearn, against all odds, is doing the right thing.

At home, I set Thomas up at the TV and then I run down to Mrs. Mahon’s front door. I knock.

When she answers, she is blinking, as if she has just woken up from a nap.

—Mrs. Mahon, I say. I was wondering. Can you tell me any more information about the man who’s been stopping by for us?

—What kind of information? says Mrs. Mahon.

—Well, I say. Age? Race? Height? Weight? Eye color? Hair color? Any other identifying characteristics?

Mrs. Mahon adjusts her glasses. Thinking.

—Now let’s see, she says. His age was difficult to tell. He was dressed very young, but his face looked older.

—How much older? I say.

—I’m bad at that, says Mrs. Mahon. Estimating ages. I have no idea. Thirties? Forties? He was tall, as I said. He was handsome. Well-proportioned features.

—Race? I say.

—White.

—Any facial hair? I say.

—None to speak of, says Mrs. Mahon.

—Oh, says Mrs. Mahon. He did have a sort of tattoo, I think. Something in script on his neck, just below his ear. Very tiny. I couldn’t see what it said.

—What was he wearing? I say.

—A sweatshirt, says Mrs. Mahon. The kind with a hood and a zipper.

I flinch. Many people, I remind myself, wear sweatshirts of this variety.

—Both times? I say.

—I think so.

—Did the sweatshirt have any writing on it? I say.

—I can’t recall, says Mrs. Mahon.

—Are you sure? I say.

—Very sure, says Mrs. Mahon.

—All right, I say, after a while. Thank you. If you think of anything else, let me know. And Mrs. Mahon, I say.

—Yes?

—If he ever comes back. Have him leave a message. And please call me right away.

Mrs. Mahon looks at me, assessing things. I worry that she’s going to be put out by these requests. She doesn’t, after all, want ‘trouble’—she has always made sure to emphasize this to me.

But all she says is, I’ll do that.

Then, slowly, she closes the door.