Sister Mine (26 page)

“‘A different use?' I said to her. ‘You think selling a dozen pieces of bony in an overpriced doodad store is going to take the place of burning millions of tons of coal every day? Little girl, do you know who I am?' She said she didn't. I explained to her and afterward she was very nice and accommodating, if you know what I mean, but I had her fired anyway.”

I sip at my drink. When I sit back in my chair and look at the ceiling, the room seems to spin around me. I concentrate on the green and brass banker's lamp on Cam's desk and everything seems to slow down.

“I started selling off pieces of my dad's coal empire as soon as he died ten years ago. I'm fairly well diversified at this point but most of the capital has gone into the family's oil interests.

“Almost all coal companies are owned by oil companies anyway. My dad always used to say, coal and oil are incestuous: They fuck each other from time to time but they're still part of the same big happy family.”

He smiles broadly at his father's wit and wisdom. It's not exactly a maxim I expect to see Sophia Bertolli cross-stitch on a pillow.

“Everything's going to be held under one umbrella corporation. I already have the name picked out: Camerica.”

I'm beginning to feel genuinely sick.

I put my unfinished drink on the edge of his desk and stand up slowly.

“Why did you ask me to come here? I don't care about the lawsuit. I don't care about Camerica.”

“You don't care about this lawsuit?” he asks me, the same humorless smile he used when I mentioned China appearing on his lips again.

“I think you're gonna care. As things stand now, the investigation cleared me of any criminal wrongdoing. Reckless disregard for human life. Depravity and indifference. All that bullshit. But anyone can sue anyone in civil court.

“I'm not going to let that happen. Have those five miners tell a packed courthouse what it was like being trapped. Their teary-eyed wives and mothers on the stand yanking at the jury's heartstrings. Their lawyers bringing up my previous history of unaddressed safety violations and being able to dig into all my business dealings related to J&P. They might even be allowed to dig into my personal life and try and cast aspersions on my personal self. I won't have that.”

He comes and stands directly in front of me. He still has the same shampooed dog smell I remember from when he was younger, only tonight I detect the underlying odor of a slow, sweaty decay.

“The Jolly Mount Five found out today from their lawyer that if they go through with this and sue J&P, J&P's going to declare bankruptcy. I'll close the mines I have left. There's at least a half million dollars worth of equipment belongs to the company I'll have to sell and give to them. But the land and the mineral rights are mine. They belong to my family personally, and they're grandfathered airtight.

“If they sue, mining is over in Laurel County. It's over. I'll plant goddamned trees and flowers and turn Jojo and Beverly into wildlife refuges where tofu-eaters can come have picnics and look for Bambi. No hunting either. No hunting. No mining. See how those boys will take to that.

“Now maybe they won't care about the mines. Maybe they're only out for themselves and the money. If that's true, then there's nothing I can do. Let them come after me. I can tie this thing up for years in the courts with my lawyers and my money.”

“You can't do that,” I tell him, trying to keep my voice steady. “You still employ a couple hundred men in Jolly Mount. You're the only source of employment we have.”

“It's not up to me. It's up to them. Let's see what they're made of.”

He's standing so close I think he might try and kiss me. I brace myself to smack him as hard as I can.

“But none of that's why I asked you here. I want to talk to Clay.”

I knew this was the reason, but hearing him say my son's name as if he knows him or has any right to know him hits me with an unexpected intensity. I feel like I've been told I only have a week to live. Maybe I do.

“No,” I say automatically.

“No?” he laughs. “It's not up to you, precious. I can pick up this phone right now and call him and have him over here in ten minutes. I know he's a deputy. Good-looking kid, too. Not surprising.”

I suddenly remember my gun in my purse. Nobody knows I'm here. Nobody knows I have any reason to be here. Nobody knows I have a tie to him. He has tons of enemies.

“Why? Why after all these years? You never tried to see him or have anything to do with him. Why now? He's twenty-three years old. He just had his birthday two days ago.”

At the mention of his birthday, a sob blocks my throat.

I'm instantly buried beneath memories of other birthdays. His fifth when he wanted a party with his friends where everyone acted like a dog. We made paper ears for all the kids and they ate their cake and ice cream out of little bowls we decorated to look like dog dishes. On his sixth we had just moved to D.C. and he didn't have any friends yet so we spent the day together, just the two of us. We went to the zoo and had spaghetti and meatballs for dinner, his favorite.

It used to make my heart ache seeing how alone he was that first year after we moved, but he persevered in his earnest, uncomplaining way and before long there was a group of boys constantly showing up at our apartment who he made sure were always dressed warmly on cold days and had memorized the map posted in the stairwell showing the nearest emergency exits and fire escapes.

“Stay away from him,” I say, my voice breaking on the final word.

I can't cry. I won't cry. I don't cry. Don't cry, I start chanting inside my head. Don't cry. Don't cry in front of him.

He puts his arm around my shoulders.

“There's nothing to get upset about. You never came after me. I respect you for that. That's why I'm doing you a favor. You understand that? I'm not going behind your back. I'm giving you a chance to explain to him before he meets me. I'm even allowing you to come with him and be present when we talk. Tomorrow. Same time, same place.”

I need to get out of here. I wonder if this is how E.J. feels when he has one of his panic attacks, when he believes he's back inside his solid black tomb.

“I have to go,” I announce and make my getaway without looking at him again and without looking back.

I don't remember running, but I think I must have because I'm winded when I reach the bottom of the stairs. I'm disoriented, too, and I turn away from the front doors instead of toward them and find myself face to face with a larger than life-sized, full-length portrait of Stan Jack.

It must be eight feel tall. I have no idea how I missed it when I came in.

There's a definite family resemblance between the man and his son, but Stan has the fire of ambition and intellect burning in his dark eyes and a firmness in the set of his jaw that Cam lacks.

I never met his dad. My dad worked his whole life for him and never met him either. But I do know that the miners respected Stan more than his son and that was because Stan had some respect for the miners. Cam never understood why this was important.

He knew that his father had given them jobs and built their homes and schools, but he also saw that it was the miners themselves who gave their children and grandchildren a chance at a better life. He didn't know if he should admire or hate them for this.

He asked me about it during our one night together, but I was a kid and didn't have an answer for him. I still don't. I've never been able to figure out for myself if the Jack family is the enemy or some mercenary kin.

Chapter Twenty-Four

I
STEP OUTSIDE THE BUILDING
and blink up at the black and gray streaked and smudged night sky that looks like it's been wiped with a dirty rag. The clouds are so thick not a single star or the moon is able to shine through them. They make the sky seem heavy and near instead of endless. I feel another wave of suffocation pass over me.

Not much happens in downtown Centresburg these days: shopping, dining, even banking have all moved to the mall and the roadsides leading to and from the Super Wal-Mart. The only activity that remains is drinking.

I tell myself I'll just have one drink at the Golden Pheasant and then I'll drive home and do the rest of my drinking at Jolly's.

I'm within a few blocks of the bar and beginning to doubt my decision to drink in public when a very distinctive couple leaves the establishment. They're both atypical for Pheasant patrons. She's extremely pregnant, and he's clear-eyed, sharply dressed, and carrying what I believe is called a man-purse in some circles. Around here we call it an-invitation-to-get-your-ass-kicked.

She laughs at something he says and they walk off in the opposite direction without seeing me. I realize instantly that it's Shannon and Kozlowski, but the shock of seeing them and seeing them together keeps me from reacting right away.

I recognize Shannon's car parked down the street. I run back to my own car wondering how I'm going to clandestinely tail someone while driving the only yellow Subaru within the tri-state area.

Fortunately it's dark, and as long as I keep a fair distance behind her, she'll only notice a pair of headlights.

I swing around the block and wait in a nearby alley where I have a good view of them.

It's taking a little time for Shannon to ease her bulk behind the steering wheel. My original theory about Kozlowski's lack of a license must be accurate. Otherwise, I can't imagine him not taking over the driving duties.

I follow her out of town, keeping well behind her. It doesn't take me long to realize she's taking Kozlowski back to his motel.

She pulls into the Comfort Inn parking lot, and I pull into the Uni-Mart next door. She doesn't drop him off. She gets out of the car, too, and goes inside with him.

I give them a few minutes to get situated.

I know Kozlowski's room number from when I picked him up on Saturday. He had a few more phone calls to make before we went out, and invited me up while I waited for him.

“Who is it?” he calls out when I knock.

“I want my sister.”

There's some hurried, hushed conversation behind the door.

“Now,” I say loudly.

Kozlowski opens the door. Shannon is sitting propped up on the bed with a couple pillows behind her and one under her feet.

“Hello, Gerald. Shannon,” I greet them. “Isn't this cozy? Maybe I should call Pamela and the Russian and we can all sit around with our guns and checkbooks and wait for the baby to arrive.”

“The Russian?” Shannon asks.

I point at Kozlowski.

“He sent him after you.”

She pushes herself up off the pillows.

“You sent that crazy motherfucker after me?”

“I didn't send him after you,” he replies calmly. “He came to me. He called me and said he was looking for you on Mickey's behalf. Somehow he heard you were pregnant again and was hoping he could buy this baby. I began to think maybe we could get Mickey to offer more money than the Larsons, and we could get a bidding war going. Technically, Mickey does have a vaguely legal claim to one of your babies, since you ran out on the previous contract. I thought we could use that information to scare the Larsons. And since I also needed help finding you, I thought Dmitri's call was a godsend. I knew if anyone could find you, he could. I told him what I knew about Jolly Mount, and by then I also knew about your sister.”

Shannon gets off the bed and lumbers toward a chair where her purse is sitting. She starts rummaging through it.

“I didn't run out on anything,” she tells him coldly. “I changed my mind. It's a mother's prerogative. Mickey's wife is nuts.”

“You're the one who made her nuts,” he tells her. “Sending those photos of aborted fetuses was really over the top. Who's Pamela?”

She takes out a pack of cigarettes and starts to light one.

He tells her to put it out.

“Shut up, Gerry,” she snaps at him as she tosses her lighter back in her bag. “When have I ever failed to produce a less-than-perfect baby?”

“So Dmitri is the Russian's name?” I ask.

“No, Dmitri is the fucking Chinaman,” she snaps at me.

I maintain my cool.

“Do you want to explain Pamela to Gerry?” I counter sweetly.

She narrows her gold-brown eyes at me.

“How do you know Pamela?”

I shrug.

“This is bullshit,” she says grabbing her purse and her coat. “I'm leaving.”

“No, you're not. I'm going to have a talk with Gerry here, then I'm taking you home with me. You're grounded until the baby's born.”

“Like hell I am.”

She starts toward the door. I don't move out of her way.

“What are you going to do?” I ask. “Make a break for it? You really think you can out-waddle me?”

“You're not funny.”

I reach into my purse and pull out my handcuffs. I always keep a pair with me. Restraining individuals was one aspect of my job I simply could never give up.

“What are you doing?” she cries as I grab her arm and clap one cuff around her wrist. “What the fuck are you doing?”

I drag her into the bathroom and connect the other cuff to the pipes under the sink while she continues to protest.

She has no choice but to lower herself onto the cold tile floor. I don't help her. I pluck the cigarette out of her hand and flush it down the toilet.

Kozlowski smiles upon my return.

“Shannon said she could handle you. I guess she was wrong.”

“Listen, Gerry.”

“I prefer Gerald.”

“I don't care. I'm not in the best of moods this evening. These past few days have not been very pleasant ones for me. I've been very worried about my sister and her unborn baby. And this Russian prick you put on her tail did this to me.”

I pull my hair away from my face so he can get a good look.

“He could have done it to her. A pregnant woman,” I add.

Kozlowski shakes his head.

“He wouldn't have hurt her. He knows not to hurt her.”

“You lied to me.”

“I never lied to you,” he interrupts. “I may not have been forthcoming with some facts, but I never lied.”

I stare at him and wait for an example of his honesty.

“I've represented Shannon in a few adoptions. I get a substantial fee. She ran out on this one. I came after her.”

He shrugs and holds out his hands, palms up, as if this is the kind of situation I should be running into every day.

“Do you always take off in person after girls who run out on you?” I ask.

“I've never had it happen before.”

“What made you come to Jolly Mount?”

“I told you the truth. She told me this was her hometown. It was a hunch. That's all. Running into you was pure coincidence.”

“But how did you find her once you were here?”

“Easy. She has an insane bacon craving. It's a small town. There are only two restaurants that serve breakfast all day: The International House of Pancakes and Eatn'Park. I went to both and showed her picture around to the staffs and promised a cash reward to anyone who called me if she showed up. One of the waitresses at Eatn'Park said she thought she had already seen her there that morning with another woman. I assumed it was you. A few hours later I get a call from the IHOP. Who's Pamela, by the way?”

“You'll have to get Shannon to tell you. Good luck.”

I start heading back to the bathroom.

“I don't wish Shannon any harm,” he says. “I just want my money.”

“I've already figured that out. The part about only caring about money. Once the baby's born she's on her own again,” I explain. “I'm not going to interfere with any of her decisions. But for now I'm taking her home with me, and you're going to go back to New York and leave her alone. I'm not going to make you promise because I don't trust you, but I will make sure you've checked out of here tomorrow and that you haven't checked in anywhere else.”

“And what if I don't leave?” he asks.

He offers what I'm sure he considers a very persuasive smile but his eyes are hostile. I think about what Vlad, or Dmitri, told me: that he finds girls and convinces them to get pregnant solely in order to sell their babies.

“If you cause any problems for Shannon or try to get in touch with her in any way while she's staying with me, I have friends around here who will be happy to hurt you for me, once I explain who and what you are. I could do it myself, but I wouldn't feel right since you're a customer.”

He laughs.

“Shannon told me you used to be a cop. Is that what you're implying? Are you telling me the cops around here are actually stupid enough to think that they can beat up a lawyer from New York City—an officer of the court—as a favor to someone and get away with it?”

“I'm not talking about cops. I'm talking about coal miners.”

I turn my back on him and join Shannon in the john, closing the door behind me so we can have some privacy. Shannon looks extremely uncomfortable on the floor, although at her stage of pregnancy I doubt any position is comfortable.

She's sitting against the tile wall between the sink and the toilet with her legs sticking straight out in front of her and spread slightly apart. The mound of her belly forms a ledge for her breasts to lie on. Looking down at her from this angle, I figure it would be easier to pull the baby up through her throat like a rabbit from a top hat than to try the traditional route.

I take a seat on the edge of the bathtub.

She has taken off the small plastic lids from the shampoo and moisturizer samples and is whipping them against the wall opposite her, where they hit with a click and fly back at her.

“What happened to you?” I ask her.

“Spare me,” she says dully without looking at me. “Don't think you can give me a lecture because you kept your baby. We all know you're so fucking wonderful.”

“What the hell, Shannon?” I respond angrily. “Is that what this is all about? I got pregnant and I kept my baby so you had to get pregnant and not keep yours? What kind of twisted sibling rivalry is that?”

“I assure you nothing I've ever done in my life has anything to do with sibling rivalry. And I'm not twisted.”

“And I'm not fucking wonderful.”

“Sure you are. Everybody's wonderful in this situation except for me. I'm sure you think people like Pamela who adopt these babies are so wonderful, too, because they want the baby. Oh, they must be such amazing, loving people because they're willing to spend all that money and go to all that worry over this baby, and I'm a monster because I don't want the baby. They spend the money because they have it. Big fucking deal. They don't give any more thought to the baby than they do to buying a yacht or a golden retriever. It's one more thing for them to acquire, one more thing they can buy to fill up their stupid empty lives.”

I can't stand the tone of her voice, the complete lack of feeling in it. I think about what Isabel said, how she thought Shannon had some disorder that kept her from loving people. I think about E.J.'s uncharacteristic display of emotion as he insisted she never cared about me or anyone else. I think about Jimmy not saying anything, because he agreed with them but he didn't want to hurt my feelings.

But I also can't stop thinking about my little sister, snuggled up next to me, sitting on Mom's rag rug, looking at books filled with pictures of places we were still young enough to dream about seeing but already weary enough in our souls to know we would never get to. I think about her crying softly in her bed after Dad had finished beating me. Pretend you're asleep, I always told her. And even after he's gone, don't come to me. Don't risk making the floorboards creak. I think about the way I'd find her standing next to my bed the following morning, watching and waiting: the smile and the hug I'd get once she was sure I was still alive.

“So how can you do it?” I ask her. “How can you give your own child to people you hate?”

She winces as she shifts her immense frontal weight.

“Making babies is the only thing I'm good at. It's my profession.”

I don't say anything, but I must be making an expression of disapproval because she says, “Don't look at me like that. What's the difference between rich people paying men to work in their coal mines or paying a coal miner's daughter to have a baby for them?”

I don't have an immediate answer for her.

“Miners like Dad ruin their health,” she says. “They get killed. They give their blood for a salary. I'm doing the same thing. I do all the work. I take all the risks and face all the danger. In the end I get paid, and it may seem like a lot, but it's not compared to what I'm giving them.”

“So what are you saying?” I ask. “You're a baby mine?”

She begins to absentmindedly stroke her belly.

“But it's not the same thing,” I insist. “If a man decides to work in a coal mine, he's making a decision about his own life. You're making a decision for someone else. An innocent little person.

“How can you give your child to Pamela Jameson?” I continue. “What if it's a little girl? She'll have to color-coordinate and earn an anti-stress badge.”

She smiles a little.

“I guess you have run into Pam. I have to admit I was impressed she followed me here. She has an unnatural fear of anything natural.”