Look Closely (21 page)

Annie clearly knew how to entertain herself, though, because she was soon pointing at pictures, naming people, tel ing me how old she was in various photos. As I listened to her, asking a few questions for clarification, I realized that my niece was a lot like myself, an only child who couldn’t rely on others for amusement, who had to learn to play by herself or not play at al .

“That was my fourth birthday,” Annie said. She gestured to a photo of herself in a pointed red birthday hat, Dan at her side, holding up a white frosted cake for the camera. “They were already divorced then, but Mom let him come to my party, even though it wasn’t a Wednesday or Saturday.”

“Oh.” I wasn’t sure how to respond to that. I had grown up without any siblings, just like Annie, but I never had to deal with warring parents. I wondered if having no mother at al was better somehow than having a father who disappointed you, who didn’t show up, who made you worry.

I

looked

closer

at

the

birthday

shot.

While

Dan

was

lifting

the

cake

for

the

benefit

of

the

picture,

hiseyeswereonhischildwithalookofadoration.

Hecertainlydidn’tappeartobeaparentwhowould go on a drinking binge and not show up or cal for weeks, but then what did I know? Maybe it was as simple as that. Yet in the corners of my mind, I knew it couldn’t be that easy. Dan had seemingly disappeared on the same day as Caroline, a few days after I’d received the letter, one week before I went to Chicago and Woodland Dunes.

“Do you miss your dad?” I asked Annie, to fil the silence of the living room. I had never been comfortable with open spaces of quiet, certainly not with a young girl who seemed so foreign and yet familiar.

“Yeah,” Annie said with a little tilt of her head. “But he’s fine. He’s coming back soon.” She sounded very sure of her words, and I wondered if she was mimicking the lines her mother had fed her since Dan failed to show up.

“I’m sure he wil .”

“Do you know my dad?”

“Yes. He’s my brother.”

She looked at me for a moment. She seemed to have her mother’s talent for appraising people.

“Wel , he’s probably coming home soon,” Annie said, turning another page of the book. “He won’t be gone very long. He misses me too much.”

She kept turning the photos over, not bothering to stop any longer to explain them.

Something about the deliberation of the girl’s movements, the precise way her little fingers with their delicate nails continued paging through the album, made me wonder. And after a second, I said, “How do you know?”

The

smal

fingers

kept

moving,

flipping

pages,

until

Annie

reached

the

end.

Without

a

word,

she

startedoveratthebeginningofthebookagain,with

Dansurroundedbyboxes,beforeshewasevenborn.

Ididn’tpush.IwatchedAnnieturningandturning the pages until she put her hand over one picture, as if saving her place on the page. She looked atme.“Promisenottotel ?”shesaidinasoftvoice.

I leaned closer. “Promise,” I said, matching her whisper.

Thegirlmovedtowardme,untilhermouthnearly rested on my ear. I could feel her faint breath. “My dad’s not drinking again. He’s just on a vacation.”

I tried to stay very stil as if Annie were a deer that could be startled back into the forest. I strained to hear toward the back of the house, for any signs of Sharon advancing to the room and finding me, again, in close physical contact with her daughter.

When Annie didn’t move, didn’t say anything, I turned my own head a little, so that I could angle my words toward her. “How do you know?”

“He cal ed me when Mom was stil at work. He had to take some time off, but he’l be back. He can’t not come back because he misses me. He’l only be gone a little while.”

Annie sat back away and smiled as if it were al just that simple.

I wanted to ask her—
When did he call? Where is he staying? Did he give you a number?—
but I only said, “Does your mom know?”

Annie shook her head. “She doesn’t like Dad much.” Her face looked stricken. “You won’t tel her, wil you?”

“No,” I said, the word coming fast. “Of course not.”

“I final y found it,” Sharon said, coming into the room. “And I wrote down the directions to Dan’s house.” Her face held a pleasant cast, but when she looked from me to her child and back again, her expression became more wary.

“Great, thanks.” I stood from the couch, the album fal ing off my lap. “Sorry.” I bent to pick it up, but Annie had already scooted to the floor and grabbed it. I stood again, and let my hands fal to my sides, flustered with Annie’s confidences.

Sharon watched me another moment before she crossed the room, holding out a fluttering piece of newsprint.

I took it, glancing at the title and byline. A Midwesterner Searches For Uncommon Beauty, by Dan Singer. It was a short piece with no accompanying photos. “Should I go somewhere to copy this and bring it back?” I asked Sharon.

“That’s not necessary. I had a couple of them tucked away.”

“Wel , thank you so much.” I didn’t want to leave Annie. I wanted to see the girl’s room and her treasures, to talk to her more about her dad, not just about his cal but what she knew of him in general, what she thought of Dan Sutter Singer, but Sharon stood stil , waiting, it seemed, for me to go.

“Thanks for everything,” I said.

“I’l tel him you’re looking for him,” Sharon said. “Whenever he turns up, that is.”

Both Annie and Sharon walked me to the door, Annie hanging back a little.

“It was real y nice to meet you both,” I said as I opened the door. Just then the phone rang from inside.

“You,too,”Sharonsaid,glancingoverhershoulder toward the sound of the phone. “Drive safe.”

Sharon turned and disappeared into the house. Based on her speed, I bet that it was a man cal ing, maybe someone she was dating.

“Bye,” I said to Annie, daring to ruffle the girl’s hair.

Annie smiled up at me, then crooked a finger, gesturing for me to bend down. I did so, and Annie

whispered in my ear, “He went to Orleans.” “What?” I said. “He went to Orleans,” she repeated in a louder

whisper. “New Orleans?” She nodded.

17

IgotlosttryingtofindmywayoutofSantaFe,my head too ful of information, senses, images, like Annie’s light breath in my ear, Dan’s adult face in the pages of the album, his cal to Annie from New Orleans. I wished I could fly there right now. But wherewouldIlook?WhowouldItalkto?Plus,I’d packed only a smal bag with a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, and more importantly, hadn’t done any work on the McKnight case. The other problem wasthatmyreturnflightwasn’tuntiltomorrowafternoon, and I was scheduled to fly out of Albuquerque, since I had planned on going to Dan’s housetomorrow.ButmaybeIcouldswitchandget a flight home tonight or tomorrow morning.

I cal ed the airline from my cel phone, while drivingincirclesaroundSantaFe,continual ywinding up, again and again, on a street cal ed Paseo.

“No available direct flights out of Santa Fe to New York until tomorrow night,” said the agent.

“How about to New Orleans?” I said.

A pause, the sound of fingers on a keyboard. “Not unless you want to pay a thousand dol ars. You’re better off just driving to Albuquerque and gettingtheflightthatyou’rebookedontomorrow.”

The night sky was total y black now, and I strained to read the street signs. Final y, I pul ed overataconveniencestoreandgotdirectionstothe hotel I had found on the Internet and reserved for

thatnight.ItwaslocatedroughlybetweenSantaFe

andAlbuquerque,aboutanhouraway.Iwouldstil

gettoseeDan’shousetomorrow,onSaturday,and

getbacktoNewYorkbytomorrowafternoon.Sunday, I would work, and Monday, I needed to meet with Beth Halverson at McKnight Corporation in Chicago. And maybe New Orleans from there?

As I drove away from the city, I was struck by a feeling of immense space. A few lights twinkled in the distance, occasional y il uminating the side of a mountain face, but otherwise it was sheer black. The desert stretched out al around me.

The Tamaya Hotel & Spa was a large property set in the middle of nowhere. I drove under a long portico and gave the rental car to the valet. At the front desk, a cheerful hotel employee had me checked into a club-level room in a matter of seconds. After the time spent with Annie, the thought of another impersonal hotel room left me feeling bereft. I asked the desk clerk to have my bag sent up to the room and got directions to the bar.

I ordered a Baileys and decaf and took my mug and purse to the limestone patio outside, where two adobe fireplaces stood on either end, deep chairs in front of them. One set of chairs was occupied by a couple who were kissing and laughing softly, a bucket of champagne in front of them. I felt a flash of envy. It had been so long since I’d been part of a couple like that. I stil

went

on

dates

here

and

there.

Maddysometimessetmeupwithfriendsoftheguys

she

was

dating,

but

they

were

usual y

much

older

thanI,andalthoughMaddyenjoyedthatagedifference,Ineverreal yconnectedwithanyofthem.Occasional y, I met men when I was out. Sometimes I dated attorneys I knew from my cases. But for the last few years, I had simply been more interested in my career than my love life. Now, though, with this searchintomyfamily,withtheseparationIfeltfrom my father, I wished I had a boyfriend or some familymemberwhoknewal aboutme,whowouldunderstand what I was doing, who would help me if I wanted, who would only listen if I wanted that, too.

I swear, as I sat there, craving companionship, craving family, I could almost feel the warmth of Annie’s hand in mine.
My niece, my niece,
I kept saying in my head.
Family.
And yet, when would I see her again? Would I
ever
see her again?

I sat in the low leather chair in front of the other fireplace and took a sip of my drink. Maddy, I thought.Ididn’thaveaboyfriend,Ididn’thavemuch of a family, but I did have Maddy. I reached into my purseandpul edoutmyphone,hittingthespeeddial. She wasn’t there, and she didn’t answer her cel , either. This was getting to be a habit, one that left me feeling lost out here in the desert by myself.

I took Dan’s article out of my purse, and moved my chair under an outdoor light.

A Midwesterner Searches For

Uncommon Beauty

By Dan Singer

When a Midwestern boy from Michigan relocates to Santa Fe, his definition of beauty changes. Beauty, once an obvious companion, becomes a playful vamp, one he must find in uncommon places.

No longer does he find beauty in the Midwest’s wrenching changes of season—the golden autumn crashing into three months of a white-covered world, which stumbles suddenly into a too-short spring and then a blazing hot summer. Instead, he looks for the subtlety of the Santa Fe weather. The flat stretches of dirt brown don’t change, nor do the salmon-colored curves of the mountains or their dotting of green bush. Instead, he keeps a watchful eye on the first prickling of vibrant blooms in early April, waiting for the flowers to dress up the Plaza like a woman putting on her makeup, when she knows visitors are about to arrive. And he waits for the crowd of canvases and sculptures to appear on the street, letting him know that the gal ery shows have started and summer has emerged. The August rains whisper in his ear, tel ing rumors of a coming fal , and when the wildflowers make their appearance, he knows the rains were tel ing the truth. Christmas, for him, isn’t symbolized now by pine and hol y but by the burning farolitos lining the rooftops.

The Midwestern boy can’t find beauty in his family any longer, for they lead different lives thousands of miles away. Now he watches his new wife lifting a pan out of the oven or arranging yel ow buds in a coffee can converted into a vase, and he thinks that this is more lovely than the family reunion he wil never have. The Midwestern boy and his new wife have created their own family during this search of his, and the baby girl who has entered their lives shines with an internal beauty, one her father hopes never dims, never has reason to.

His old Michigan landscape, hil y and forest green, crisscrossed with highways and roads and covered with lakes that reflect the navy blue of the sky, is no longer there for him. Now he turns to the single lonely byway connecting Albuquerque to Santa Fe. He finds comfort in the stil ness of the vast expanse, in the lighter blue sky that is bigger than he could have ever imagined, in the brown trickle of the Rio Grande.

He no longer looks for redbrick, black wrought-iron railings and patrician columns to tel him a house is beautiful. He turns, instead, to the rounded corners of squat blond adobe, to the flat roofs, and the blue window frames.

Santa Fe has changed the boy from Michigan. It’s changed his thoughts and the places he seeks comfort. It has told him of an uncommon beauty lingering in its corners, and in doing so, it has found him a home.

I read the article twice more, struck by the spare

loneliness, the use of the word
boy
to refer to him

self, and the mention that Dan had been searching for something. The article seemed intent on showing that he had found it, that he had located whatever he was looking for, but I didn’t quite believe it. I didn’t know my brother any better than I knew molecular science, but there was a lingering feeling there in the article, one of desperation, one that I thought I could relate to. I’d been trying to convince myself that I belonged in Manhattan since I moved there at the start of law school, and yet, I stil felt like an outsider, one who wanted badly to fit in. Maybe I did have something in common with my brother after al .