A Measure of Blood (19 page)

There is nothing wrong with Jan and Arthur. They're great. Zacour just seemed … right.

His heart pings in his chest—little twinging pains that remind him of how closely the body listens to the mind.

In spite of his promises to himself, an hour later he gets into his car, telling himself he must check on the Philips kids again now that school has started. Are Shadyside Academy and CAPA working out? Is Alison Philips home at all?

It's Laurie who answers the door again. She seems less frightened than before.

“I came to see how school is working out.”

“It's okay. Kind of like last year for me. The same.”

“My teacher is better this year,” Susannah says. She has a tumble of golden brown curls that he loves to look at.

“And your stepmother is where?”

“Working. At Peanutz.” Laurie gives the name her signature comic sound.

“Does she get home soon?”

“She works through dinner. They feed her.”

“What will you have for dinner then?”

“I think meatballs and pasta. Meg is getting good at that.”

“I'll bet. What did she say about the kid she babysat last weekend?”

“Oh, she liked him.”

Just then the door opens and Meg herself comes in, bustling, calling out, “Change your clothes. Tell me what you—” Then she sees Christie. “Oh. Oh, hi. Is everything all right?”

“Yep.”

“Matt is all right?”

“This is just a visit. To see how you are.”

“We're pretty good. Alison is working,” she hurries to say.

He wishes he'd thought to take them along to Lake Arthur last Monday. He feels sure they never get to do anything like that. He'll have to come up with something else for them. Something. “How do you think the job with Matt is going to work out?”

“We got along,” Meg says.

“Will you be working with him again?”

“Actually, yes. Saturday. After the … cremation. Mr. Morris wants to pick me up. I said yes. The idea is that I talk to Matt.”

“Mr. Morris must trust you.”

“I guess.” Meg smiles, her hopeful look.

When Christie leaves the Philips kids, he goes to Peanutz. Alison is working. She looks both little-girlish—something about the way she's pinned her hair back—and old, too, tired out.

“How's it going?”

She makes a face. “This is my life.”

He sits in his car for a long time. He's made mistakes. He's moved too fast and not been vigilant enough.

He sits back in the car and closes his eyes. And thinks about things. He goes back to the office and calls Potocki to him. “I'm leaning on you a lot. I know. Nobody beats you at the computer stuff.”

“I'm okay. I've made contact with folks in Ohio and West Virginia to help with the DMV searches. This guy … we don't have anything much. I'll keep at it though.”

“I know you will. Close the door.”

Potocki closes the door.

“I
want
you to keep at it. But when it breaks, if it breaks, when you have time, I want you to do something personal for me and to keep it confidential. Can you do that?”

“Yes.”

“Well. Sit. This is a bit odd. Would you do a comprehensive search for Richard Christie—” Potocki almost says, “You?” Christie hurries to say, “It was my father's name. We lived in Akron many years ago. I don't know where he went. My mother told me he died. I realize I never saw anything—obituary, place of the burial. I've been thinking about it lately. I want some details. When you have time. Not while you're searching for Maggie Brown's killer. I don't know anybody who can do it as well as you. Would you do that for me?”

“Yes.”

“John … ?”

“I'm not a talker.”

Christie thanks him and lets him go.

NADAL CHOOSES
a
different place, across the street from the theatre, at the tables in the plaza where he buys a bagel sandwich and sits with his book open. The evening gets cooler. He doesn't have a jacket. He sees his son go in with a woman. Some people want the chairs from his table to add to another table.

“Take them,” he says angrily. He buys a cup of bad coffee, so he can keep sitting there. He tries to work out how he can do what he needs to do. At one point, his son comes out of the big doors walking with two college-age students. The students talk to each other and also to his son—one of them puts a hand on the boy's head. He watches them cross the street. They go into the 7-Eleven. After a while they come out, carrying drinks and bags of something. Food, candy? He puts his book in front of his face and waits. At eight thirty the black Volvo parks outside the theatre building, with emergency blinkers on. The man goes into the building and comes back out with his son. So. That's the pattern.

Thursday

NADAL'S CLASS,
which he is not prepared for, starts at five forty-five. That's done, that's dead, he's not going to go; he has more important things to do. It's five thirty. He chooses a different table, from which, unfortunately, the view isn't as good because of heavy foot traffic. Still, he pretends to work, opens his backpack, takes out his laptop. Cash. He keeps all of it with him now. He's broken five of the big bills down to twenties and tens. He's ready. In case.

He is getting glowering looks for having commandeered a whole table to himself. He glowers, too, not wanting anyone to take a seat and block his already limited view. The other tables are full. He's not moving.

The Volvo has pulled up while people were passing in front of him. The woman gets out of the car first and goes around to the back door for the child. There are moments of talk, kissing between the adults, before the car pulls away.

The woman laughs at something and takes the boy's hand. A college-age person comes up to them. All of them talk together and then they walk toward the theatre, stop, talk some more, and reverse their steps. They cross the street and go into the 7-Eleven. After a few minutes they come out, holding candy, drinks.

His phone rings, and he picks up because it's so loud.

“Didn't you get my voice message?” she asks softly.

“I have class right now.”

Friday

LEAVING FALK SCHOOL,
Jan tells Matt, “Watch all this mud. What a mess!” But her voice is happy.

The backseat of the car is warm from the sun. Jan smiles at him and makes sure he gets his seat belt on before she gets into the front seat. After she buckles up, she reaches back and squeezes his leg. “Your teacher tells me you're doing well.”

“School isn't hard yet.”

“That's good. If you need more of a challenge, let us know.”

“What will you do?”

“Get you more things to read. Talk to her about other assignments.”

“Are we going home?”

“No. Next we go to my office. I'm having a session with one of the actors. She's panicking she can't do the role. Then we go to dinner. Then rehearsal.”

“Why is the girl worried?”

“Thinks she doesn't have enough experience to get Shakespeare's language right.”

“What will you do?”

“Help her, talk to her. For a little bit, an hour.”

Soon he is up at Jan's office, reading one of the new books they've bought him. It's for ages eight to twelve and it's called
Powerless
.
Arthur is in a corner, reading a manuscript bound in black, like a binder, except without rings—it's a dissertation. Matt can almost hear Jan working with the actress next door. He can hear her voice, then the actress's voice, though he can't hear what they are saying. It's called a coaching session. It means working one on one.

“She always finds time when someone is worried,” Arthur says.

They're okay, Jan and Arthur.

He misses his mother. Sometimes when he turns a corner or drops something and hears her voice, it's as if she's right there, saying something she said to him.
Oh, Matt, pick that up.
Or,
Nothing for dinner in the house, not a thing.

He dreamt about her once. He dreamt about that man, too, who says he's his father. In the dream, the man wasn't mean, just talking.

A funny sound surprises him. He stops reading and realizes it's the sound of snoring. Arthur has fallen asleep sitting on Jan's office couch, reading. At first he looked dead, but his head bobs. His chest goes up and down. Sleeping.

Matt reads.

Still sleeping.

His new laptop is at home, but Jan's computer is on. He'd rather mess around with that. He could play a game if he mutes the sound.

He goes to the computer.

Arthur doesn't move. He's out.

Ping
goes the computer sound and a new message comes up on email.

It says: Forward: Matthew: TPR.

He doesn't know what
TPR
means. Maybe it means … he doesn't know.

Arthur twitches, snores. The dissertation falls to the floor. Arthur jumps in his sleep. Matt waits, pretending to look away from the computer out the window to the buildings across the way. He turns back. Arthur is still sleeping.

The message on the screen is about him. It's from the lawyer. He knows how to do email because he messed with his mother's. He clicks, reads.
Good news. I have heard from Matthew's father.

His heart stops.
Matthew's father.
What does that mean?
He keeps reading, stumbling only briefly, making out all the words.
I'm forwarding his note. See below. The TPR is attached.

He reads what's below.

Dear Att. Blackman,

This situation has upset me greatly, but I realize I must give up my parental rights to Matthew. I was a very young man then and a good deal has happened to me since. I have signed the form for Termination of Parental Rights. I hope my son will be well and well cared for.

Yours sincerely,

Ziad Zacour

P.S. Please send any hard correspondence to my office address:

Ziad (Thomas) Zacour

Peabody Institute

Music A 120

1 East Mount Vernon Place

Baltimore, MD 21202

He looks to his new father. He can still hear his new mother's voice next door. He reads the letter again. And again. He stumbles only over
termination
and
parental
, but he gets them. The other words are easy.

The person who wrote the letter is his father. He has a name. He works in a music building, and he doesn't want him.

He stares at it for a long time. A funny name. Two
Z
s. Is this his father?
Ziad
.
Zacour
. Two
Z
s. Baltimore.

Is this the man who hurt his mother? Why is nobody capturing him, putting him in jail? Only writing letters back and forth?

Matt's heart is beating wildly. He wasn't supposed to look, but he's glad he did, even if they hate him for it.

Arthur is snoring regularly.

He wants to read it a fourth time, but he thinks he hears Jan coming. He closes the message. But Jan does not come and he hears her voice again at a distance. He opens the message again, about to click on the attachment. Jan's voice changes. Now it
is
coming from the hallway. He opens up Google. He asks Google for games. And when some games come up, he chooses the first one he sees:
Rescue the Little Hero.
It's loading, loading. Jan's voice is still in the hallway.

His father doesn't want him.

Matt is staring at the screen when Jan comes in. She takes in the scene, Matt playing, Arthur asleep. “I guess he's tired,” she says with a laugh.

“I guess.”

Arthur starts to move, coming awake.

“And you, Matt? What have you been up to?”

“Games.”

“Aha. Games again.”

Arthur comes awake. “Oh, man, I was out. Sorry.”

“Let me shut down and then we can go to dinner.”

Matt watches closely as she shuts down her computer without reading anything.

“Let's go eat.”

At dinner he is supposed to order anything he wants even if it's eight packs of sugar. He feels like he's going to cry, but he doesn't know exactly what everything means. Why are Arthur and Jan being so nice to him? Why do they write notes about his father? A cushiony softness surrounds Matt, and he can't think.

He tries to smile so they don't know what he saw.

THAT SAME AFTERNOON,
Potocki comes to Christie and says, “I have something—if you have a moment.”

“I have a moment. You don't mean … ? Already?”

Potocki closes the door and sits. Somewhat reluctantly, leaning forward, concern on his face, he says, “I believe I've found him. All the particulars fit. I took the liberty of making a few calls. Look, Boss, I'm so sorry, but straight out, the news is bad. He's in a hospital—well, a nursing facility—but it's terminal care. They don't give him long; he's
non
compos mentis
according to them. I don't know how hard they try to make him sentient, but he's on heavy drugs, so that could be part of it.”

Christie tries to stay calm. His dead father not dead, only almost dead. Like the dream. He slumps in his seat. “I feel very foolish that I never checked before.”

“I can't see any reason to. A boy believes his mother.”

But I'm a detective, Christie thinks. I'm trained to be naturally suspicious. Potocki, he sees, isn't sure what to do. He sits patiently, waiting, looking occasionally at the papers in his hands.

“Where?”

“Ohio. Akron.”

“I grew up in Akron and then Canton. He didn't go far away, did he? She might have known.”

“Maybe. Maybe she didn't want to know.”

“Do you have the name and address of the place?”

“Yes, Boss. Here's everything I have. I wrote it up.”

Christie didn't have time to go, and yet, time was everything now. He took the sheets of paper from Potocki. Overnight? Friday to Saturday? “Anyone know you worked on this?”

“I did it mostly early this morning. I told no one. Absolutely no one.”

Christie studies his face, hates and loves the compassion in it. And he believes him.

JAN ASKS MARINA
to lead the warm-ups. She's worried for Matt. The cremation is tomorrow and he's very different tonight, more distracted than usual. Sad.

Marina runs them through vocal exercises and some physical exercises. She moves to the meditative part of the warm-ups and Jan participates, gets down on the floor, too, next to Matt.

Marina takes them through the details of practicing diaphragmatic breathing. Soon Jan and the students are working to relax a foot, ankle, leg, calf, thigh.

After about five minutes, they reach the part of the exercise where the mind is supposed to put the day's cares aside. Not so easy. Jan will try. They are breathing deeply—she is, anyway—and Marina instructs them to choose a place where they were happy. And then very slowly they are to let in smells, sights, sounds until they are—and without computers—
virtually there
. Jan eases herself into the exercise. A gate. She presses in a code. It creaks open. She unlatches the second gate—just a farmer's back gate latch—and starts down the steep dirt path, careful to get a decent purchase in her sandals. Another gate, the slow opening, the groaning sound it makes. Steps going downward, downward, brick, dirt, plants everywhere. Suddenly she is in the house without having walked to it. The house is full of everything—eight hedge clippers, fifty dinner plates, twenty-five jugs, books on every table and in every corner, and who could count things, really? It is also full of photographs, some of old folks, clearly ancestors, but mostly, mostly of children. Then memory makes its way in. Jan smells ripe bananas, oranges. “You can hear children's laughter here,” Arthur says. “In every corner.”

She climbs the steep stairs as she did the first time she visited the place. Oh, yes, one whole room with bassinets, cradles, toys—evidence of children and grandchildren and those cries of laughter and excitement that Arthur was able to hear.

They thought they would not have a child. And then they got Matt.

“You'll have to begin saying good-bye to this place,” Marina tells them. “One last look. One last smell or sound. Enjoy it. Let yourself love it. Keep breathing. When you feel ready, open your eyes. Slowly. Slowly. And when you feel ready, move a little until your body wants to get up.”

Jan wants to joke that her body creaks like the gate did. She sits up and beside her is Matt. His eyes are wide open. “Did you do the exercise?”

“It was okay.”

Careful with him, careful. “Can you tell me where you went?”

“Jade's house.”

“Good, good. We're due for a visit. I'll tell you where I went too, later.”

“Where?”

“France. A place with a pool and a big house. We were just there, and it's beautiful. I want to take you.”

He frowns.

“Think you'd like it?”

He wags his head.

She hates to turn from him but she has to work now, the actors are waiting for her. “We should talk about it.”

She starts rehearsal because she has to. It's the fourth night of rehearsal. They're on their way.

CHRISTIE CHANGES INTO
A
comfortable polo shirt and jeans, and then puts his dopp kit and a change of shirt into an overnight bag. He's hardly eaten dinner, a cold chicken breast and some vegetables Marina left him. Can't eat. Can't think. He'll get something on the road, maybe, if it isn't too greasy. One way or another, his stomach is going to act up.

He doesn't know why he couldn't tell Marina the truth when he called her. “An old case,” he said. And she didn't question him because she was busy starting warm-ups.

The “old case” was very old all right.

Oh, he has been full of error lately, he can feel it, and perhaps the stars have lined up in his disfavor—what they call sand in the works, or Mercury in retrograde. He jumped the gun with Jan and Arthur, wanting to give them what they wanted and at the same time to make Matt safe
right away
.
He never counted on seeing, only days later, the person who should be persuaded—and, oh, Christie can be persuasive when he needs to be. He could have worked on Ziad Zacour. The right age, the right look, the right personality for Matt. Instead, he thought of the disapproval of Judge Gorcelik and toed the line like a miserable schoolboy.

He tried to tell himself all this week that Zacour was young, dreamy, irresponsible; but he knew perfectly well that young and dreamy and irresponsible often snapped to in a second and revealed a mature human being capable of love. Of … naturalness.

So here he is, lying to his wife and sneaking out of town. Even though it is too late, probably, to speak to his father, reportedly near death in a nursing facility. End-of-life care. And what can he get out of this visit except to look at someone he hardly remembers, a person absent in his presence those first seven years.

He checks the back door twice, the windows, the front door as he leaves. Then he goes back in and writes a note for Marina.
Shouldn't be too late home tomorrow. Supper with you. Love you.

As he drives off, he wonders what he will say to the figure in the bed.

Photos, the few he has seen, showed a semi-ragged-looking young man, not bad looking, medium height and weight, but in each photo not any hint of a square gaze into the camera, so somehow unseeable.

His plan is to find a motel that's not too horrible, rest up, watch some TV, maybe order in something to eat—maybe a drink, too, a tribute to the old man.

He'll try to sleep, get up early, and spend a good part of the day at the nursing home, looking, talking to the nurses, finding out if there are any other contacts, any other family hidden away, any other people in his father's life.