Look Closely (20 page)

“Oh, that’s right off Canyon Road,” said the woman at the car-rental desk when I gave her

S. Singer’s address. “That’s where the majority of the gal eries are.” The woman circled the area on the map.

It took me only twenty minutes to reach the Canyon Road area. Along the way, I passed adobe houses that blended with the red-dirt ground and the mountains in the distance. Even the gas station and pharmacy I drove by were rounded adobe buildings. I turned up Canyon Road and saw that the woman at the rental desk had been accurate. The street was lined with art gal eries, a café or two sprinkled into the mix.

WhenIreachedthestreetwhereS.Singerlived, I turned again, and easily found the smal house. It was also adobe, the color of sand, with red-painted trim along the top. A large cactus served asthecenterpiecefortheotherwiseplainfrontyard wherestragglesofgrasstriedtogrowinthedryclimate. Although it was far from fancy, the house looked neat and wel cared for. I glimpsed a smal pinkbicycleleaningagainstasidewal .Myniece’s, Ithought.Thatbikebelongstomyniece.
Myniece, my niece, my niece,
I repeated in my head.

I walked slowly across the quiet street, no passing cars to stop me from reaching the other side in a second, and then there was nothing to stop me from walking up the short path to the unadorned wood door. A bronze knocker in the shape of bul ’s horns hung high on the door. I raised my hand and used it. Once, then again and again. My anticipation had been running high, but I felt it flatten. No one was home. God, I hoped they hadn’t left town since I’d cal ed and hung up this morning. I looked up the street, then the other way, wondering if I should ask a neighbor. No, I decided. I didn’t want to tip off the woman that I was looking for her.

It was stil light out, so I decided to take a strol .

Narrow

concrete

walks

flanked

either

side

of

Canyon

Road,

and

I

made

my

way

from

one

gal ery

to

thenext,studyingthelifelikepaintingsoftheSouthwestlandscape,pickinguptheNativeAmericanpotteryandjewelry.Everysooften,Ipul edoutmycel phone and dialed the number for S. Singer, which I now knew by heart. Stil , the woman wasn’t home.

A gal ery owner recommended that I have dinner at Celebrations, a smal restaurant across the street. I sat at an outside table next to others fil ed with couples or bunches of friends. I was overly aware of the fun going on around me. My eyes kept straying to the front sign and the name of the place—Celebrations. My mood was anything but celebratory. Every time I got excited that I might soon meet my niece, that I might gain some information that would bring me closer to my brother, I would recal my dad, sitting across from me last night at the Van Newton Guild, looking me in the eye, tel ing me lies about my sister, and God knew what else. I picked at the food. Final y, I threw some money on the table and left.

The sun was lower as I approached the Singer house again, and I saw lamplight in the windows. My pulse picked up. When I reached the front door, I raised my fist and gave a quick rap.

I heard the patter of feet inside, and then the door swung open. I let my gaze fal and met the light brown eyes of a girl with curly chestnut hair that hung to her chin. She must have been about six years old. I searched the girl’s face—ful pink lips, a smal smear of something that looked like chocolate at the corner, high cheekbones and a smal , button nose. She wore pink shorts and a white T-shirt. She didn’t resemble Dan exactly, but I came back to the short swing of bangs on the girl’s forehead and below that her eyes. Round eyes, the color of coffee after milk is poured in it. The exact color and shape of my mother’s eyes. This was Dan’s daughter. This was my niece.

“Hi,” I said. “My name’s Hailey. Is your mom home?”

The girl looked me up and down, and gave me a bashful grin, fol owed by a nod. “Mom!” she cal ed, not turning her head away from me.

“What’s your name?”
This is my niece. Family.

“Annie.” The girl said. She shrugged, as if she wasn’t quite sure.

“Wel , it’s nice to meet you, Annie.” I held out my hand.

Annie stared at it for a moment. She turned her gaze up to me, then back down again. At last, she reached out her arm and clasped my hand. Annie smiled shyly. I smiled back, liking the feel of the girl’s smal , warm hand next to my skin.

“CanIhelpyou?”Thewoman’svoicewassharp.

I dropped Annie’s hand as if I had been caught touching the girl inappropriately. I looked up to see a woman, probably ten years older than me, who resembled Annie except that the woman’s eyes were muddy brown and her wavy hair was cut close around her face. She wore khaki shorts and a black, sleeveless sweater designed to show off her tan, toned arms.

“Who are you?” the woman demanded.

“I’m Hailey. I spoke to you on the phone earlier this week.”

The woman made a bitter sound. “Oh, for Christ’s sake. Annie, go to your room.”

Annie shot me another bashful grin before she took off in a run toward the back of the house.

“You cal ed me about Dan, didn’t you?” the woman said.

“Yes.”

“You’re the girl from the bar. I knew he was probably off the wagon.”

“No.Itriedtotel youthatday.It’snotlikethat.”
Offthewagon?
DidDanhaveanalcoholproblem?

I thought a moment. I hadn’t exactly planned out everything I would say, and it didn’t appear this woman would give me a chance if I didn’t grab her attention soon.

“You know what,” the woman said. “Just get out. I don’t have the—”

“I’m his sister,” I said.

The woman’s mouth opened, like she was about to say something, but then it stayed open and silent as if she had forgotten what words to use.

“Caroline?” she said, her voice somewhat tentative now.

“No. I’m Hailey.”

The woman narrowed her eyes. “Dan doesn’t have a sister named Hailey.”

I wanted to cry. He hadn’t even mentioned me to her, the woman he had a child with.

“You look like him, though,” the woman continued. “I didn’t notice it at first.”

I nodded, then held out my hand again. “I’m Hailey Sutter.”

“Sutter. Right. Dan’s old name.” The wariness on her face seemed to soften. “I’m Sharon. Maybe you should come in.”

The house was furnished simply but neatly with ruddy Aztec-print sofas and rustic wood tables. A few prints hung on the wal s—charcoal drawings of mountain plains.

“Did you get those on Canyon Road?” I asked Sharon, gesturing toward the drawings.

She handed me a glass of water and laughed, almost under her breath. “No. They’re mine.”

“They’re great.” We both sat, me on the love seat, Sharon on the couch.

“It’s just a hobby. Not much time to do it with my sales job.”

Sharon’s voice was level and conversational, and I wondered what had caused the sudden shift.

“So you’re in sales?” I wanted to keep the discussion mundane for now, establish some kind of rapport.

“Pharmaceutical sales. It’s how I met Dan.”

“Oh.” There was Dan’s name, sitting between us now. “And you’re obviously not together any longer?”

A rueful smirk took over Sharon’s face. “Divorced about five years now.”

“Did he always use the name Singer? I mean, as long as you’d known him?”

Sharon nodded, and I noticed how quiet the house was. Somewhere in the back, Annie was playing, but there were no sounds to confirm this, andalthoughSantaFewasacity,Icouldn’thearany passing cars or blaring horns. No shouts or sirens.

“He changed his name from Sutter to Singer when he moved to Santa Fe. Something about wanting to cut ties with his family. It was symbolic for him. Not that I knew this back then. It only came out when we got divorced. I kept the Singer name for Annie’s sake.”

I tried to ignore the bitterness that had crept back into Sharon’s voice. “And he never mentioned me?” I said.

“Dan didn’t mention much. That was part of the problem. He always kept secrets from me, and it made me crazy. I only found out about Caroline because I found a receipt that showed he wired money to her. I went nuts. I thought he was cheating on me, but then he tel s me that he has a sister named Caroline in Portland who needed cash.”

“When was this?”

“God, it had to be the first year we were married.” She put her water glass down on a rough-hewn side table and gave me an appraising look. “You’re obviously younger than Dan.”

“Ten years younger.”

“And so, are there any other brothers and sisters I should know about?”

“Just Caroline and me.”

Sharon gave me that appraising stare once more. “There’s no estate battle or something like that, is there?”

“What do you mean?” A breeze blew through the open windows behind my head. My hair lifted and swirled into my face. I grabbed it with one hand and pul ed it over my shoulder.

“I’m not Dan’s biggest fan anymore, but as I said, he is Annie’s father. I don’t want to hurt him or anything. So if you’re here to dig up dirt for some legal battle or something…”

“No, no. It’s nothing like that. I’ve just never known Dan, or Caroline for that matter, so I want to get in touch.”

“Wel , I wish I could help you, but like I told you on the phone, we haven’t heard from Dan in weeks.”

“And is that typical?”

Sharon

shrugged.

“It’s

not

total y

out

of

character.Heusedtohaveameandrinkingproblem,and

sometimes

he’d

disappear

for

days,

but

since

we

splitup,he’snevermissedadatewithAnnie.Every Wednesday and every other weekend and one holiday a year, he drives up from Albuquerque like clockwork. So I am getting a little worried now.”

“I’m flying out of Albuquerque tomorrow, and I was thinking of stopping by his house.”

“I can give you directions there, but you’re probably wasting your time. If he was home, he’d pick up Annie. I know that much.”

“Have you cal ed his friends to see what they know?”

Sharon laughed. “You real y don’t know him, I guess. Dan doesn’t have any close friends.”

Just like Caroline, I thought. “Why?”

“Oh, he’s got lots of acquaintances. He’s got the typical sales personality.” She made a wistful face, as if remembering something. “So he’s got buddies in the business. I know some of the guys at his company, and I figured if he didn’t show up tomorrow again, I’l give them a cal on Monday.”

“What’sthenameofthecompanyheworksfor?”

“Rider Pharmaceuticals.”

I nodded. I knew of it. It was a large, publicly traded corporation. I thought of Dan and how alone he must feel sometimes. No wife, a child he saw only on prescribed days, no real friends.

I wondered if he stil wrote the way he used to, fil ing those lined notebooks with his stories. I asked Sharon if he was stil a writer.

“You know about the writing, huh?” Sharon said. She sipped her water again, her face suddenly sad. “I think I might be the only person he let read those stories.”

“What were they like?”

“They were usual y about men or boys who ran away from home and experienced freedom on the road. They used to piss me off.”

“Do you have any of them?”

“No. He let me read them, but he always kept them close. Too close. I was always tel ing him to send them to literary magazines, but he never would. He did write a short essay for one of the papers in town.”

“Do you stil have that?”

“I think I might. Do you want to wait while I look for it?”

“Yes, thanks.”

Sharon began walking out of the room. She stopped under the door frame and turned around. “Would you like to see some pictures?”

“Oh, that would be great.” I could hear the excitement in my own voice.

“There’s an album right there,” she said, pointing to the lower shelf of the coffee table.

I leaned forward and found a smal , maroon, leather-bound album. Photos of my family.

The room had grown dimmer as the darkness outside crept in. A light was on in the kitchen, and a lamp was lit across the room, but I stil needed to switch on the barrel lamp on the end table.

In the first photo, Dan stood with his arms at his sides, smiling into the camera. It must have been moving day, because he was in the very room where I now sat, but none of Sharon’s drawings hung on the wal and no drapes covered the windows. Dan’s hair was much shorter than I remembered it, his blond bangs pushed up in front. I stared at his face, the white flash of his teeth and the dots of his eyes, but the photo had been taken at least ten feet away from him. So while I tried to read something there, al I saw was a man I once knew, who looked very pleased to have his own house in Santa Fe.

The next few pictures were of Sharon and Dan together. Some were clearly taken at a wedding or some other function because they were both dressed up, Dan in a suit. The others appeared to have been taken around Santa Fe—at sidewalk cafés or parties where there were crowds of people in the background. Those were closer shots, and I noticed that Dan was smiling in each, his arm usual y tossed over Sharon’s shoulders. The smile never real y left his mouth, though. Instead, his lips seemed set, while the rest of his face was flat. Had he always made such a face in pictures?

I moved on through the album, the rest of it devoted to the decorating of their house and the birth of Annie. She had been an adorable baby, with fat, rosy cheeks and curly tufts of hair.

Her light brown eyes, my mother’s eyes, had been large at birth, making her look startled.

“That’sme,”Iheard,andInearlyjumped.Annie had come into the room and was standing at the other side of the end table, peering at the album.

“You were a very pretty baby.”

Annie just nodded as if this was obvious.

“Doyouwanttolookatthesepictureswithme? Youcouldtel mewheresomeofthemweretaken.”

Annie nodded again. She climbed onto the couch and settled in next to me so that our legs touched. I tried to act as if this happened al the time, as if I sat this close to a child to whom I was related. But in reality, I’d had little exposure to kids. I felt inadequate around them.