Slipping Into Darkness (27 page)

 

Francis nodded. The mask of normality. Not exactly an unknown concept to a boy who’d lost his mother at nine or a man losing his eyesight.

 

“You know what’s strange, Francis?”

 

“What?”

 

“The
anxiety.
For years, I’d get panic attacks whenever I walked past a coffee shop or a movie theater where I’d been with her. But why? The worst that can happen already happened. Hasn’t it? I buried my own child. So after that, what is there?”

 

Francis said nothing, thinking about Shackleton facing the white sea.

 

“And of course, in the end, there’s the
guilt.
”

 

“The guilt?”

 

“You keep asking yourself, what did I do that was so bad? Why are you punishing me? It must be something I did.”

 

“I’m not sure it works like that.”

 

“Don’t give me that, Francis.” She glared at him. “You can’t fool me. I remember how you said it yourself for what happened to your mother . . .”

 

“I told you about
that?
” He cringed. He must have really fallen off the wagon, commiserating with her around a bottle of Jameson’s. He thought he never got down on that level with anyone, except maybe at the Farm.

 

“You were very kind,” she said. “I haven’t forgotten. But most people go on with their lives, don’t they?”

 

“I suppose they do.”

 

He watched an old woman with a torn down coat and a shopping cart rattle by, carrying a raft of cans and a long stale-looking baguette.

 

“Well, I
didn’t,
” Eileen said. “I just kept waking up in the middle of the afternoon with more and more empty bottles around me. I thought I was losing my mind. At one point I decided I was going to have myself committed, but then I realized I’d have to go to Bellevue first. Right around the corner from where she worked.”

 

“I can see how that might’ve bothered you.”

 

“So instead I just took all those pills and ended up in the emergency room.”

 

The woman in the down coat started tearing off pieces of bread and throwing them at the blackened pigeons milling around the steps.

 

“Jesus Christ, Eileen, I never heard about that,” Francis said. “You couldn’t have picked up the phone and called somebody?”

 

“And told them what? That I was about to OD on Valium and cheap merlot for the third or fourth time?” She smiled, tired of her own drama. “Tom was always finding me and dragging me to one hospital or another to get my stomach pumped. I used to joke that’s how he got interested in selling medical supplies.”

 

The birds jostled for scraps like a bunch of addicts fighting over a few stray crumbs of crack.

 

“And then one afternoon I was in Fairway and I heard her.”

 

“She
spoke
to you?”

 

“I was right in front of the pomegranates and she said, ‘It’s okay, Mom.’ She must’ve been right behind me. But when I turned around, she was gone.”

 

Francis started shaking his head. “Eileen, come on. . . .”

 

“It was her, Francis. Sure as I’m standing here, talking to you.”

 

His scalp started to contract.

 

“And then it happened again, about a month later. When I was coming out of the Apthorp Pharmacy on Broadway. That time, she was watching me from the bus shelter across the street. It was raining. By the time I got to her, the bus had pulled away. She left me standing there, soaking, watching her through the back window. ”

 

“And you’re sure it was Allison?”

 

“Well, I don’t have any other daughters out there, far as I know,” she said in an earthy rasp, as if she were the sensible one in this conversation.

 

Francis held back on the commentary. One thing he’d learned from being a detective was how to keep his mouth closed and his mind open. You could spend seven hours in the box, listening to some drooling lunatic babble on about microwaves from Uranus and JLo bearing his two-headed love child and then casually mention how he’d tossed the gun he’d used to kill his cousin off the Willis Avenue Bridge.

 

On the other hand, this was a woman he’d cared about. Someone who reminded him of what he’d lost in his own life. Hearing her go on this way, he pictured her turning into someone like the pigeon lady with the baguette and the stuffing coming out of her down jacket.

 

“Just the other day, I saw her in a cab. She calls me on the phone sometimes too. To hear my voice. . . . But she never says anything —”

 

“Let me ask you something, Eileen,” he gently interrupted. “If Allison really was still alive, why would she pretend to be dead?”

 

She looked startled, as if the question had never occurred to her.

 

“Things got between us,” she said quietly.

 

“Such as?”

 

“You have children of your own, Francis. They’ve never pushed you away?”

 

He thought of Francis Jr. halfway across the world, on an army base in Korea. Signed up four months after 9/ 11 and never said a word to his father about it ahead of time.

 

“We were talking about Allison,” he reminded her.

 

“There were things going on in her life that she knew I didn’t approve of.”

 

“What are we talking about here?” asked Francis. “A boyfriend? Drugs?”

 

“I’m sorry, Francis.” Her eyes began to get glassy. “I can’t talk to you about this. You couldn’t possibly understand.”

 

“Oh, don’t worry about me. I’ve been to beyond and back.”

 

The glass started to melt and leak out of her eyes. “They have secrets, you know.”

 

“Who does?”

 

“Children.” Tears ran down both sides of her nose. “When they’re young, they seem so open to you. But they always keep parts of themselves hidden.”

 

“Eileen.” He produced a handkerchief from his breast pocket and gave it to her. “I have to tell you that what you’re saying doesn’t make any sense. Allison is gone. We have no choice but to accept that. The best we can do is to make sure what happened to her never happens to anybody else.”

 

She took a moment to absorb what he was saying, blowing her nose and watching her granddaughters climb down from the mushroom, the pair of them tired of waiting for her to start the chase once more.

 

“It won’t happen again,” she said abruptly.

 

“What?”

 

“I’m saying, you’re right.
I won’t let it happen again.
”

 

“Eileen?”

 

Nimbus clouds seemed to drift across the sky-blue eyes. Useless, he realized. She was probably too far gone to be of any real help. The pigeons flew off, having picked the paving stones clean. The best he could do here today was get a sample of her DNA without being intrusive, so they could at least clear up the confusion at the lab.

 

“You just have to
act
sometimes.” Her jaw locked. “A thing doesn’t stop just because you pretend it isn’t happening.”

 

“Because
what
isn’t happening? You’ve lost me here, Eileen.”

 

She glanced over, the clouds clearing a moment, coming back to her senses with the rebuke.

 

“I’m sorry, Francis, but I’ve been neglecting the children.” She shook herself, gave him a fleeting smile, and folded up his handkerchief. “What would you like me to do with this?”

 

 

29

 

 

 

THE BUZZING IN Hoolian’s mind that had started about halfway through his conversation with Ms. A. was just starting to die down when he turned from the Starbucks counter and saw that same curly-haired girl with
Les Misérables
sitting at a centrally located table with her ankles twined balletically around a chair leg.

 

He gave her a wide berth as he navigated back toward Zana by the window, balancing two lattes and a slice of caramel cheesecake on his tray.

 

“Ah, my Mystery Man returns.” Zana put down her sketchbook. “You are trying to make me into the Fat Chick.”

 

“Hope you’re in the mood for something sweet.”

 

He glanced back at the curly-haired girl, changing his mind and half hoping she’d notice that in fact he was there with another woman today.

 

“My
nene
would kill me if she saw me eat this. She’d say, ‘
Zana, ndale! Ndale!
In America, everyone wants to be skinny-skinny supermodel.’ But I tell her what Sir Mix-A-Lot says.”

 

He looked at her blankly.

 

“‘I like big butts and I cannot lie . . . ,’” she chanted.

 

He smiled, pretending to know what song she was referring to. Twenty years of popular music he’d missed, except for snatches drifting out of other people’s cells. Whole trends had come and gone without leaving a trace and he was still trying to adjust to the fact that they weren’t selling vinyl in most record stores anymore.

 

“G’head then. I like a woman with a little meat on her bones.”

 

She put her fork aside and let her gaze roam free across his face again. “So, please, can I ask you something?”

 

“Sure.”

 

“Why didn’t you give me your phone number before?”

 

“I dunno.” He jogged his shoulders. “Isn’t it usually the man that calls?”

 

He’d already thought through the scenario of her calling the halfway house and getting Cow or one of the other lowlifes he lived with on the line.

 

“I’m wondering, is there somebody you don’t want me to talk to maybe?”

 

“Yeah, my roommate. He doesn’t take messages.”

 

Her eyes seemed to get bigger, as the rest of her face got smaller. “I don’t know about you.”

 

“What don’t you know?” he said, trying out the playful teasing tone he’d heard other men use on women.

 

“How come you’re a man this age who has a roommate and isn’t married?”

 

“Guess I never met the right lady.”

 

She puffed out her lips and sulked. “You sure you’re not a big-time liar with a wife and seven children somewhere?”

 

“There’s nobody else, far as I know. See any ring on me?”

 

He held up the unbandaged hand and tried to look innocent. But he knew full well that if she hadn’t been new to the country herself, she might have asked some of these same questions sooner.

 

“But where have you been all this time that you don’t have a normal job or a special lady friend?” she asked, clearly having reviewed some of their earlier conversations. “Why you haven’t seen
Nightmare on Elm Street,
one, two, three, four, five, or six?”

 

“I told you. My father died and I was upstate, studying the law,” he replied, strictly adhering to the facts. “I didn’t get out to see a lot of movies.”

 

“There’s something else you haven’t told me.” She turned her fork over. “I feel this in my
zemer.
”

 

He put one hand over the other, covering the gauze that had started to feel damp while he was talking to Ms. A.

 

“Well, what about you?” he asked, trying to reroute her. “You’re always asking me the questions. How come you don’t have a boyfriend?”

 

“Oh, don’t start on me, please,” she said. “I am the refrigerator magnet for bad men.”

 

“Hmm, what’s that say about me?”

 

“I don’t know.” She pinched her bottom lip. “That needs to be determined.”

 

“You didn’t leave somebody behind in, ah . . .”

 

“Kosovo.” She rolled her eyes.

 

“Yeah, what happened there anyway?”

 

“Ucchh, Americans. The rest of the world doesn’t exist for you until it flies an airplane into one of your buildings.”

 

“All right, I’m an idiot. Tell me.”

 

“No one who wasn’t there could understand,” she said.

 

He massaged the scar under his beard, having thought the same thing when he was in prison about 150,000 times. “Try me.”

 

“You heard of ‘ethnic cleansing,’ haven’t you?”

 

“Uh, yeah, of course.” Once more, he realized he was trying to stand up in the deep end of his own ignorance.

 

“You cannot believe it’s possible for human beings to act this way, except in history books. And then you come home one day and your neighbors are in your house, stealing your mother’s jewelry. They killed our cat and sprayed its blood on the walls to drive us away. That was a totally animal thing.”

 

“We’re all animals,” he said, dropping the bandaged hand down to his side self-consciously.

 

“Yeah, sure. Okay. Of course. This is another banality. But it’s one thing to know it and another to see it.”

 

He liked the way she talked to him, all bright-eyed and intense, like they were both students at the kind of highbrow university he never got to go to.

 

“Oh, I’ve seen it.” He picked up his latte. “From time to time.”

 

“How? Are you a secret Kosovar?”

 

“No, but I’ve been . . . around.” He took a sip. “You know.”

 

She studied his face over the rim of the cup, examining each feature one by one, to see if she’d missed anything the first time she’d drawn him.

 

“I guess people could do anything.” He dabbed his mouth with a napkin. “Under the right circumstances.”

 

“No, I don’t think so.”

 

“Why?” he asked. “You don’t think somebody who’s basically an all right person can get pushed into a corner and do something they wouldn’t normally do?”

 

Her eyes moved a fraction of an inch, as if she were just noticing something behind him.

 

“Sometimes,” she allowed. “But there are some things that should disqualify someone from the human race.”

 

“Like what?”

 

He realized he was testing her a little, trying to see where her edges were. The undefined time was ending. The hard lines were forming.

 

“The soldiers who did this thing to my cousins,” she said. “They weren’t human.”

 

“Why, what’d they do?”

 

Something small and shaky in her voice made him sit up a little, like a dog hearing the word
bone.

 

“They stopped the car and they take my cousin Edona out to the barn and two of them rape her. Slap her face and ask each other, ‘Why you treating this whore so good?’ Then they came out and shot her little brother in the head, so he wouldn’t grow up to revenge on them.”