In the Bag (27 page)
“
Sacrebleu,
it’s him!” Officer Hard-Ass shouted. “The leader of Cinco por Cinco. Arrest him!”
And with that, they slapped a pair of handcuffs on Webb and pulled him off the plane.
O
h hell,
I thought as I followed Webb to the front of the plane. I wished he’d stop talking long enough for me to call my attorney.
But now we were being led to a private room inside the airport police station.
“There’s been a mistake,” I told the French-accented senior officer.
“Erreur,” Daisy said, her voice cracking. She and Coco had been pulled off the plane along with Webb.
“Just tell us what’s going on,” Webb said, sounding calmer than either Daisy or me. “I have a right to know what I’m being accused of.”
“There have been multiple terrorist threats and one serious explosion today,” the officer said. “An Amish extremist group called Cinco por Cinco has claimed responsibility.”
“Cinco por Cinco,” Daisy said, looking at me. “Isn’t that the group that was protesting outside the museum? The people who believe the Internet is Satan’s toy?”
“You’re right,” I said. I turned to the lead officer and explained what we’d seen after the opening gala.
He listened to everything and then responded coldly. “An explosion destroyed the Crystal Palace two hours ago.”
Daisy screamed. “Solange! We have to call her.”
“There will be time for phone calls later,” the officer said. “For now, we are here to discuss the role of this young man in the terrorist attack.” He was staring at Webb. “My colleagues have been investigating you since Tuesday, when you tried to recruit four young men to join Cinco por Cinco in Madrid.”
“Recruit people?” Webb said. “What are you talking about?”
“On Paseo del Prado,” the officer said. “At two thirty on Tuesday morning.”
“What evidence do you have?” Webb asked.
“Webb,” I said. “Don’t talk. Let me call—”
But the officer was waving pictures in front of Webb’s face. “You want evidence? I give you evidence.”
As Webb looked at the pictures, a glimmer of recognition passed over his face. “Oh,
that
. I was just buying sparklers from those guys. They were trying to rip me off. I wanted five sparklers for five euros. Cinco por cinco.”
“I don’t want to continue this conversation until we have a lawyer in the room,” I announced, raising my voice for the first time.
“It’s okay,” Webb said. “I’m fine with this.”
The officer continued. “When we finally identified you, we began asking questions of those who know you in
San Luis,
Missouri.”
I prayed Webb wouldn’t laugh at the French pronunciation of our city. He didn’t. To my surprise, he was listening intently and looking the officer directly in the eye.
“We spoke with several of your teachers,” the officer said. “We learned that you do not drive.”
“I like public transportation,” Webb shot back. “And our driver’s ed teacher is a sex maniac. Coco’s driving teacher was a perv, too, for what it’s worth.”
The officer continued. “And according to Mademoiselle Fogerty, you are a fan of Henry David Thoreau, an American anarchist and a hero of the Cinco por Cinco movement because of his renunciation of technology and modern civilization.”
“You talked to Miss Fogerty?” Webb asked.
Now it was Coco’s turn. “For heaven’s sake, he can
admire
Thoreau’s writing without being a terrorist.”
“Thanks, Coco,” Webb said.
“You’re welcome,” she replied, smiling. Then she spoke directly to the officer. “If you knew Webb at all, you’d know that he wasn’t antitechnology. He uses the Internet all the time.”
The officer condescended to smile. “It is the nature of extremists that in the name of their cause they often embrace the thing they hate.”
“Tell me about this explosion you think I caused,” Webb demanded.
Oh, hell.
He was practically admitting he’d done it. My mind reeled back to the scene at the police station after Laura admitted her role in the bank robbery. It was exactly the same: the sick feeling of dread combined with the realization that the person you loved the most could also be the person you knew least.
“Webb,” I pleaded. “Please stop talking.”
“No, Dad, really,” Webb said, holding a hand up to me and motioning for the officer to continue. “Tell me what I did and how I did it. I’m curious.”
“Our bomb investigation team has concluded that the low-tech explosive device that destroyed the Crystal Palace was planted on the night of the opening,” the investigator stated.
Webb exhaled a huge sigh of relief. “Well, I’m sorry to hear that. But you’ll be sorrier to know that I wasn’t even there that night.”
“Goddammit, Webb,” I said under my breath. “This is serious. Stop screwing around.”
“Dad, I’m not kidding. I wasn’t there. I was in Paris.”
“With me,” Coco said. “And I can prove it!”
She pulled a digital camera from her bag and turned it around so we could see the pictures stored on it.
“See?” she said. “Here we are at an Internet café. The time and date are right there on the picture. And here we are with Glen Campbell.”
“Glen Campbell?” Daisy said.
“Well, just his picture on YouTube,” Coco explained. “And here are a couple more pictures of us.” She handed the camera to the officer. “Oh, and just so you know, Webb and I exchanged bags. But we’re still entitled to five hundred dollars from the airline. We
earned
it.”
“Coco, please,” Daisy said, squirming. “That has nothing to do with this.”
The officer wasn’t listening. He was too busy scowling as he clicked through Coco’s digital images. Then he turned to me.
“But you say your son was with you on Tuesday night in Madrid.”
“I thought he was,” I admitted with equal parts joy and embarrassment. “He e-mailed me throughout the night, telling me how much he was enjoying the show.”
“Sorry, Dad,” Webb said. And then he explained how he’d programmed his e-mail account to send me messages so I wouldn’t know he was gone.
By the time the inquisition ended, I didn’t know who was more confused: me or our French interrogator. He finally released us after more than four hours of questioning—and after the real leader of Cinco por Cinco was apprehended in Madrid.
“We have to call Solange,” Daisy said. We were walking, all four of us, with our bags through the terminal. I turned on my BlackBerry. I had two new messages.
Fr: Solange@com
To: Lineman@com
Subject: OK
Just in case you get this message before we talk, I am fine. I was having coffee on the Plaza Mayor with Maria Luciana when the explosion occurred. And to think I volunteered to curate a quilt show for those idiots! The Crystal Palace is gone. The exhibit destroyed. But no deaths or serious injuries, so that is good. I am trying to get in touch with the police. The electrical contractor tells me the caterer (remember? he said his father died?) was a member of Cinco por Cinco—and hired “waiters,” also members of Cinco por Cinco, to dump many bags of oats down the toilets. The septic system backed up resulting in a sewer gas explosion—and a stinky mess. I suppose I need to start running background checks on the people I hire, yes? Anyway, I am on my way to Paris now. We will talk later. If you see Daisy, tell her I am fine. I cannot get through to her on the cell.
I remembered the earlier problems with the toilets. I thought someone had poured wet cement down them. Could it have been oats? So this is what they meant by low-tech terrorism.
I sent Solange a quick message (“Thank God you’re okay. We’ll talk soon.”). Then I opened my second message. I read it, barely breathing.
Fr: DaisyS@com
To: Lineman@com
Subject: Why You’re an Ass (continued)
I didn’t have time before—and perhaps I wasn’t in the proper frame of mind—to fully respond to the note you left in my bag. But I have a few moments now, and there’s something I’d like to tell you. It’s about a boyfriend I had in college. We agreed before we left school for the summer that we’d keep in touch by writing letters. I lived in Chicago. He lived in Rhode Island. He wrote me one letter in early June. I wrote him probably 20 letters. And I kept writing, waiting for him to write back. Or call. We’d agreed back at school that we’d call each other and hang up after one ring—because neither of us had money for long-distance phone calls back then, and the phone company doesn’t charge for calls that don’t get answered. But he never called me. Never. Not even a one-ringer. How do I know this? Because I sat next to the damn phone all summer long. And when I went back to college in the fall, I found out he’d moved in with an old girlfriend in the middle of June to “save money.” Which meant I’d been calling and hanging up on somebody else’s phone all summer long. And even worse than that, I’d gotten my hopes up that someone out there was thinking about me; someone who needed me more than he wanted me. (I’m referring to a line from a Jimmy Webb song. Never mind. You wouldn’t understand.) My point is, I was crazy about that guy. Emphasis on crazy. And I resolved that I would never again put myself in that situation—which resulted in my dating men I didn’t especially want or need or even *like* for decades. But recently I met a guy who had a lot going for him: kind, handsome, good job, decent conversationalist. And he seemed to like me. (Always an admirable quality in a man.) And I’ll be damned if I didn’t get butterflies in my stomach every time he called. He was funny. He was obviously a good father. And a wonderful brother. And (AND!) I found out last night that he has somebody back home. My point? I fell into the same goddamn trap that I fell in when I was 20 years old. And okay, maybe part of it’s my fault. Maybe I let my guard down. Maybe it was jet lag. The fact that you were able to stick a note in my bag without me noticing it suggests I haven’t been as careful lately as I should’ve been. So I take some responsibility for that. But if it weren’t for guys like him and you and Chuck who hit on women when you already HAVE someone at home—or someone you’re TRAVELING WITH, I wouldn’t FALL into this trap. Do you get it? Am I making myself clear? Some idiotic reporter wrote a story with the headline “What Does Daisy Sprinkle Want?” Can I tell you what I want? I want to stop wanting things I can’t have. I want to stop falling for jerks I don’t need. And I want to stop feeling like an f/ing gooey butter cake somebody left out in the rain, which is another Jimmy Webb reference (also W. H. Auden) that you wouldn’t understand, you stupid, selfish, philandering coach-class jackass.
O
h, please.
“How did you get my—” I started to say when Andrew handed me his BlackBerry. But then it hit me. “
You
put that note in my bag?”
He hung his head, but smiled in the affirmative. “Sorry?”
My brain absorbed the news while my body burned with the white heat of profound embarrassment. Andrew and I were walking behind Coco and Webb, who seemed to have a lot to say to each other now that they had explained everything to us.
“And the person you were traveling with was . . . Webb?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said. “And Solange is fine. She thinks the caterer was behind the explosion.”
“The guy who backed out at the last minute?”
“Right. He was the reason she asked you to help, remember? Kismet?”
“Kismet,” I repeated softly.
I felt a solid lump of shame in my stomach. As I saw it, I had two options: one was to kill myself; the other was to change the subject.
“So how do we feel about the fact that our kids are escape artists?” I asked breezily.
“I don’t know,” Andrew answered. “Maybe I should be mad at Webb for what he did. But the truth is, I’ve never been prouder of him. Think how much effort he put into meeting Coco in Paris. It’s impressive. And I thought your daughter wasn’t a risk taker.”
“I didn’t think she was,” I said, my mind still in a swirl. “I thought Webb had inertia.”
“What do I know?” Andrew said. “I’m just his dad.”
I smiled. “But what about the lies they told us? Doesn’t that bother you?”
“A little,” he said. “But in light of everything else, it seems a small price to pay. Speaking of prices, what was Coco saying about five hundred dollars from the airline?”
“Oh. Speaking of lies.”
I told Andrew about the lie I’d told Coco. It was part of my new resolution, established in that moment, to be more honest with myself and everyone around me.
“It seemed worth five hundred dollars to buy her a better attitude,” I confessed. “I was afraid her pissy mood was going to ruin my vacation.”
