Moondogs (34 page)

“It doesn’t feel like anything, yet. Oh—” she jumped a bit when Reynato touched her lower back. She hadn’t noticed him join her at the seawall. His hard little fingers pushed up and down her spine like he was sewing crops. “I’m seeing the man’s son tomorrow,” she said. “I’m the one who has to tell him.”

Reynato made a sound like “piff-piff” and she glanced at him, turning the phone into her chest. His fingers were pinched before his lips, puffing an invisible joint, reminding her about the pot they’d discovered in Shawn’s room that morning. What the fuck—he was helping her parent now? She was working up to it.

Monique brought the phone back to her ear and came in on Joseph advising her how best to break it to the kid. “They should be the first
words out of your mouth. You should be direct and honest. It isn’t your job to console anybody. When my father—”

She cut him off by saying his name a bunch of times. Then, without letting him interrupt, she told him what she’d found in Shawn’s room. The new clothes. The cell phone. The pipe and baggies swollen with pot. Joseph was quiet for a while.

“I’m going to murder him.”

She laughed a little. “That’s exactly what I said when I found it.” Then she bit her lip, worried he might ask:
To whom?

“How could I have missed the smell?” he asked. “We know that smell. And the clothes. How did I not notice new clothes?”

“Don’t beat yourself up,” she said. “You were surrounded by new everything.”

“You, at least, had an excuse. You were so busy. I feel terrible, Monique.”

“You have nothing to feel terrible about.” Saying this threw her off balance. She’d been sure his first response would fall along the lines of I-told-you-so. But he was being generous and empathetic. And she was standing there with Reynato working his fingers up and down her spine, getting closer to her ass each time, leaving a just-touched chill over her skin. She felt good and rotten.

“It’s late,” she said. “I should go.”

“You want input on his punishment?”

“Let him explain himself. Depending on how he does, nuke him.”

“I thought I might go easy. He’s had a tough year, too.”

“This wasn’t a recreational amount, Joe. It was a distribution, expelled from school, me losing my job kind of amount.”

“Shit.” He almost never swore. “I will talk to him.”

They said good night and hung up. Reynato swallowed Monique in a hug, one hand still knuckling her backbone. He was shorter than her, so she had to bend down to put her face in the crook between his neck and shoulder. He smelled faintly of fireworks.

“It’s the Bridgewater boy, isn’t it? The one you’re seeing tomorrow?”

“You know about this?” she asked.

“I do. News like that moves quick around the department, especially when the victim is the buddy of a newly minted senator. Even more especially when the victim is a white American …” Reynato trailed off, the corners of his lips twisting bitterly. “You tell that boy his father’s going to be just fine.”

She brought her face up from his neck.

“How can you be sure?”

“Because I know he’s in trouble.” He emphasized the word
I
. “Tell the kid that he can bank on it.”

“I’m not making any promises,” she said.

“Well, I am.”

MONIQUE GOT ALMOST
no rest that night. She wrote out a script of what she’d say and practiced it for hours. When she finally got to bed it was nearly impossible to sleep for those goddamn animals making so much noise. She woke once to find the lovebird perched on the footboard, singing at her, and again some time later to see the gecko walking along the ceiling directly above, green and peach-colored feathers jutting from its leathery mouth like fingers. She thought it was a nightmare until the next day around noon, when she woke to find a dusting of beautiful feathers on the hardwood, a severed foot, and a blood speck no bigger than a lentil. The gecko was still on the ceiling, digesting, but managed to escape when she went after it with a broom. Her loathing for the gecko tasted like a mouthful of batteries.

It was a Sunday, but Monique dressed as though heading to the office. She wore a long-sleeved bolero—her blazers all needed cleaning—over a conservative, border-print skirt and blouse. She applied heavy makeup to cover the rings under her eyes and then washed some of it off, not wanting to look too severe or plasticky. Howard Bridgewater’s son wasn’t in when she arrived at the Shangri-La, so she waited, returning to his room every half hour or so to knock on it, hard. When he finally answered it was with a raised voice and a clenched fist, his hair standing up on end, looking crazy.

Benicio Bridgewater took the news of his father’s kidnapping better
than she thought he would—better, even, than she thought he
should
. She’d expected some glazed shock, sure. The kind of disbelief that paralyzes you. The kind of disbelief she felt when doctors told her that her son had died. But this didn’t seem like shock. Benicio Bridgewater sat on the edge of the bed and stared out at the hazy city. His eyes teared up a little and he wiped the tears away, as though embarrassed by them. Monique was embarrassed, too.

She talked through her script, which sounded so much lamer now. She gave him contact information and reading materials—a local crisis hotline, a support group for expats, a long privacy statement he’d have to read and sign before the embassy could say anything on his behalf. She promised to be available whenever he needed her, even though the thought of keeping that promise was unpleasant. She collected her things to go. “I can’t imagine how awful this feels,” she said, even though she was pretty sure she could. “And I know it’s a lot to take in, all at once. But are you sure you don’t have any questions?”

Benicio turned to her, as though realizing for the first time that she was still there. “I just have one,” he said. “This is going to sound a little stupid. Does it ever snow in the Philippines? I mean … even if it’s just a freak thing? Do you know if that ever happens?”

“No,” she said, flatly. “There are some mountains in the north that are pretty high, but I don’t even think it snows up there. That’s it?”

He turned back to the window. “I’ve got lots of questions, but that’s the only one for you.”

So she closed the door and left him there. And on the way home, she cried.

Chapter 21

Benicio saw the stuffy, overdressed embassy woman every day after that. On Wednesday they sat across from each other in a little sandwich shop just inside the security gates of Ninoy Aquino International Airport, quietly drinking too-sweet lattes from paper cups as they waited for Alice to deplane. He’d called to tell her the news a few hours after hearing it himself, waiting for daytime to move to her side of the world before picking up the phone. She’d been on her way to work and pulled off on the shoulder as soon as he said the word
kidnapped
. Hearing her cry made him cry a little bit. Later that night she called back to tell him that she had a ticket to Manila and was on her way up to D.C. to see if she couldn’t get a rush visa from the Philippine Consulate.

There was a bit of commotion on the other side of the security barrier as two photographers changed out their wide-angle lenses for telephotos. A reporter with curled hair and a short skirt tried to position herself so that Benicio and Monique would appear in the background of her segment. Just as Monique warned, the kidnapping had made the front pages of the
Inquirer, Star
and
Manila Bulletin
. They’d been followed ever since. Jeff—a security officer from the embassy who spoke with a drawl so long that it trailed on the floor after him—did his best to make the reporters’ jobs difficult. He leaned against the security barrier, screwing up their pictures. When the curly haired reporter began to tape her segment he took out his cell phone and launched into a boomingly animated conversation with his cable provider. She gave up and retreated a little ways down the terminal.

“It’s good of your girlfriend to come,” Monique said as she emptied yet another pack of no-calorie sweetener into her latte. “You’ve been together long?”

“A year. Not long.” He stared at the table as he spoke.

“Well, don’t let her go. It’s a good thing to have someone who’ll be there for you. Especially when there is this far.”

He nodded slowly, still not looking at her. They only knew each other because of what had happened to Howard, and the mere sight of her shoulder-padded lilac jacket, her peach lipstick and clumped mascara, set his stomach churning. She seemed to recognize this, and if she took offense, she hid it.

“Are we going to be on time?” he asked. The police commander tasked with his father’s case was supposed to brief them this afternoon.

Monique flipped her wrist so that her cuff fell below her watch. “We have a little over an hour. But don’t worry. He’ll wait.” Across the terminal the heavy jetway doors swung open with a loud clack and travelers began pouring out looking exhausted and lost. Benicio stood, fingers drumming against the back of his chair, weight shifting as he watched for Alice’s brown hair among the uniformly black and close-cropped. She was one of the last out, eyes red and watery, nothing but a bloated purse as her carryon. He rushed to meet her in the middle of the corridor, where they hugged tight, agitating the foot-traffic. Alice started to cry but stopped when she felt his whole body tighten. She kissed him.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“About what?” She gripped his shoulders and extended her arms; a kind of taking-you-in gesture that an older relative might do to a child that had grown since the last time they’d seen them. She looked exhausted and pink. For a quick moment she glanced at the cameras beyond the security conveyors, their flashbulbs reflecting in her bloodshot eyes. “About nothing. It’s a stupid … it’s a silly thing to say.”

Monique and Jeff joined them. They escorted Alice on the fast track through customs and out under the ugly concrete overhang where Benicio had waited for his father not a full week ago. Edilberto was out there, holding a handmade sign above his head that read
Mrs. Bridgewater
even though Benicio had been very clear that they weren’t married. Seeing the sign, Alice laughed a little. She loaded her bags into the Shangri-La car, but wouldn’t get inside herself.

“Screw that,” she said, “I’m going wherever you’re going.” She pulled a yellow steno pad from her purse that they used to keep atop his fridge
at home. The front page reminded Benicio that he still needed cilantro, red onions and boullion cubes. “I came to be useful.” She pivoted to face Monique and Jeff. “You two are coming with us? What are your names? Wait …” she fumbled in her purse for a ballpoint pen. “Could you spell that, please?”

ALICE SCRIBBLED NOTES
as they boarded the embassy shuttle—a boxy minivan with tinted windows and doors so heavy they were hard to open. She and Benicio sat in the back. She left her seatbelt unbuckled and shot questions at the front seat, filling her yellow steno with the answers.
Jeffrey Tober, Regional Security Officer, ext. 4415. Big guy, southern, green polo. Monique Thomas, Acting Chief, American Citizen Services, ext. 5656. Acting? Remember to ask B. Bright suit. Bright makeup. Going to E-R-M-I-T-A station for briefing by R. Ocampo. New to case. Green polo knows him. Doesn’t seem to like him
. Benicio unbuckled his own seatbelt so he could sit closer to her. “If you get too tired,” he whispered, “just say the word.” Alice didn’t answer him, but she wrote
not tired
at the bottom of her notes. She tapped the words a few times with the tip of her pen before crossing the
not
out. She wrote,
least I can do
, underlining the first word twice and then circling it.

They arrived a few minutes late and hurried into the station lobby, nearly slipping, the floors covered in runoff from a dripping air conditioner. A uniformed receptionist behind a chin-high desk directed them to wait on a pair of wooden benches sitting beneath a big clock ticking twice a second to catch up with the right time. Benicio sat and took Alice’s hand. Her notes lay ready atop her knees. He kissed her cheek and her ear. A few officers looked up from their desks and pointed. He did it again.

“Sorry I’m late,” boomed a big voice behind them. A short Filipino stood in the station entrance wearing frayed jeans, a white T-shirt and a blue baseball cap. If not for the polished badge clipped to his belt he would have looked like just some dude who’d wandered in off the street. “The traffic in this city! A nightmare, am I right?” He smiled and showed off a set of orthodontic braces that looked out of place on someone
already gracelessly pushing middle age. “The kind of nightmare you have every night. What’s the word for that? Fuck. Recurring.”

Monique got up from her bench and stepped forward to introduce herself. She seemed to wince as the man shook her hand, vigorously. “Tickled,” he said. “Delighted. You’re the son?”

She snapped her hand from his grip, and the force of it pulled him off balance and made him take a half step forward. His grin hardly slackened. “Jiff,” he went on, gazing past her, “a pleasure, as it sometimes is, to see you. I’m guessing you’re not the son, either?” Jeff stood as well and crossed his arms tight over his broad chest. “Well hell. It’s too early for police work, but here goes …” he pointed a finger in the air and let its aim drift until it settled on Benicio. “Elimination is the process.”