Long Bright River: A Novel (35 page)

I thought about it all night. I couldn’t sleep.

Ashley didn’t know what had happened between me and Gee. She didn’t know any of this. In the morning, I left a note for Ashley, saying I was safe. Then I snuck out before anyone was awake.

I took the bus to Fishtown. I walked to Gee’s house. I figured she’d be at work. I was right. I knocked a few times, but she didn’t answer.

I haven’t had the keys to her house in years, but you know the alley door comes loose if you hit it hard enough, so I popped the lock and walked through the alley to the back of the house. I checked the back door and it was locked. I broke the glass and let myself in.

I know it was wrong of me. I don’t care.

I went down into the basement. I just wanted to know if it was true, what she said. It had become important to me to know.

You know that filing cabinet Gee has in the basement? There was this folder in it, in the bottom drawer, called
Girls.

I pulled it out. There was a big stack of documents in it. Your birth certificate was in it, Michaela Fitzpatrick, and a photo of you from the hospital, and your birth weight and length and all, and a few papers certifying that you were healthy. That was it.

Mine was different. My birth certificate was in there, just like yours. But my discharge papers were like an instructional manual.
Care for the substance-dependent newborn.
It said I might be more irritable than other newborns. That I might cry more. There was a prescription for phenobarbital. So I guess I’ve been using since I was born.

I know that paperwork, I want to say. I received a similar packet when I took custody of Thomas.

I stay quiet.

Kacey goes on.

—I kept looking through the filing cabinet. And I found other stuff, too. I found this whole folder marked
Dan Fitzpatrick,
says Kacey.

I nod.

—You know this part, says Kacey.

I nod again.

—You found them. The cards and the checks.

—I did, I say.

—That’s good, says Kacey.

She pauses, thinking.

—I guess I left them there on purpose, she says. I guess I thought you might find them there, if you were ever looking for me.

—I needed to leave, says Kacey. I needed to get out of that house. I took all the paperwork from the hospital where I was born, and I took one of the cards from Dad. A birthday card he sent to me when I turned sixteen.

I left Gee’s house a mess. I didn’t try to hide from her that I’d gone through her things. I didn’t care. I walked back through the alley and left. I walked all the way down Girard to the on-ramp to 95 South, and I stuck out my thumb, and I hitchhiked to the return address on the card I was carrying with me. I didn’t even know if he lived there anymore. But I was desperate.

That was at the beginning of November. I’ve been at his place ever since. He’s been taking care of me, Kacey says. Making sure I have what I need. Making sure the baby will have a good home when she’s born.

She looks at me, and for the first time I register the presence of fear in her expression.

—We’ll have everything we need, she says.

And I tell her, Kacey. I believe you.

This is not something Kacey asks for. But I have the notion, suddenly, that I should bring her to see Thomas.

Quietly, the two of us walk toward his room. Quietly, I open the door. Low light from the hallway spills in. By that light we can make out his shape in the bed, a landscape of covers and sheets and pillows and, curled inside them, my son.

Kacey looks at me, asking permission, and I nod.

She walks to the foot of his bed and kneels down before it. She puts her hands to her knees and gazes upon him. She stays like that for a long time.

We had five books in the house as children. One was the Bible. One was a history of the Phillies. Two were Nancy Drew books that had been Gee’s when she was small. And one was an ancient compendium of
Grimms’ Fairy Tales
, wildly illustrated and frightening, full of witches and woods. The same one I gave to Thomas, this year, for Christmas.

In this volume, the story I liked best was the one about the Pied Piper of Hamelin. It frightened me: the way he came from nowhere to lure the children away. I was frightened, too, by the helplessness of the parents, the way the town failed them, the way they, in turn, failed their children.

Where did those children go, I wondered. What was their life like after they left? Were they hurt? Was it cold? Did they miss their families?

I have thought of this story every day of my life on the job. I picture
the drug as the Piper. I picture the trance it casts: I can see this trance quite clearly every day that I work, everyone walked around, charmed, enthralled, beguiled. I imagine the town of Hamelin after the story ends, after the children and the music and the Piper have gone. I can hear it: the terrible silence of the town.

Now, looking at Kacey as she kneels at the foot of the bed, repentant, I see the possibility, very faintly, that one day she might return.

Then I look at Thomas, and I am reminded, as always, of the ever-present threat of departure, of permanent loss. It hovers there, foreboding, a faint, high melody that only children can hear.

Kacey and I return to my bedroom, and to my laptop, on the bed.

She points to Eddie Lafferty again.

—This guy, she says, used to come around all the time while I was living with Connor. It was before I got sober. It’s hazy. I remember him, though, because he talked to me. He was friendly. He talked to me and kind of eyed me up. I thought maybe he was looking for a date, but he never asked me for one. He and Connor usually went off someplace together. I don’t know what they were doing. I thought he was just there to get high. Connor dealt. Still deals, I guess.

—Try to remember more, I say.

Kacey looks up at the ceiling, then down at the floor.

—I can’t, she says.

—Try again, I say.

—There’s a lot in my life I can’t remember, says Kacey.

Both of us go quiet for a while.

—We could just ask him, Kacey says suddenly.

I look at her, incredulous.

—Connor? I say. Dock? You want to ask Dock for help after what he did to you?

—Yeah, says Kacey. I know it’s hard to believe, but he was a pretty good guy. Treated me better than any other guy has treated me, at least.

—Kacey, I say. He attacked you.

She pauses, considering this.

—But I bet I could get him to talk, she says, finally.

I’m shaking my head now.

—Absolutely not, I say.

Kacey turns away.

—We’ll figure it out in the morning, I say. Both of us need sleep.

Kacey nods.

—All right, she says. I guess I’ll get going.

She doesn’t move, though. Neither do I.

—Do you mind if I just take a nap? she says.

I turn off the light. Both of us lie down, awkwardly, next to each other on the bed. There’s silence in the room.

—Mickey, says Kacey, suddenly. It startles me.

—What, I say, too quickly. What.

—Thank you for taking care of Thomas, she says. I’ve never said that.

I pause. Embarrassed.

—You’re welcome, I say.

—It’s funny, she says.

—What is? I say.

—All the time you were trying to find me, she says. I was trying to hide from you.

—Funny is one word for it, I say after a while.

But I can hear, by her breathing, that she’s already asleep.

It’s been sixteen years, half of our lives, since we slept next to each other in the back room of Gee’s house. I picture us, just children then, telling each other stories to get to sleep, or reading books, or looking up in the dark at a domed ceiling light that rarely contained a working bulb. Below us, the hoarse voice of our grandmother, complaining on the phone, or chanting to herself in anger about somebody’s misdeeds.
Put your hand on my back,
Kacey would say, and I would comply, remembering tenderly the way my mother’s hand felt on my own skin. In retrospect, I believe it is possible that I was trying to bestow some sense of worth upon her; to
be the vessel through which our mother’s love poured, posthumously; to immunize her against the many hardships of the world. In that position, my hand on her back, we’d both drift to sleep. Above us was a flat tar roof, poorly engineered for winter. Beyond the roof, the night sky over Philadelphia. Beyond the sky, we couldn’t say.

When I wake up, it’s sunny out, and my phone is ringing.

Kacey isn’t next to me.

I sit up.

I lift the phone into my hands. It’s my father.

—Michaela? he says. Is Kacey with you?

I check everywhere. No Kacey. I look out a window. Her car is not in the driveway.

—Maybe she’s on her way to your place, I say.

But both of us are quiet. We know the odds of that.

—I’ll find her, I say. I think I know where she is.

Then I remember Thomas.

I promised him. I told him last night that I would stay with him. I think of him as Mrs. Mahon described him yesterday, running into the bathroom, running the sink, feigning illness in a misguided attempt to bring his mother home to him, and my heart nearly shatters.

Then I think of my sister—who may be at this very moment putting her life on the line—and the life of her unborn child—in the interest of protecting others. And I think of those others, countless other women on the streets of Kensington, whose lives are also at risk as long as Eddie Lafferty is at large.

Suddenly, surprisingly, I am met against my will by a strange quick sympathy for Gee, and the lengths she went to procure stable childcare for us. What must it have been like for her, I wonder, to work so hard, to constantly fear the closure of our schools?

I think. I think.

And at last I decide that what’s happening today feels bigger than just the two of us, bigger than just the needs of our small family. There are lives at stake, I tell myself, and then I steel myself and call Mrs. Mahon.

Once she’s arrived, I walk into the bedroom to say goodbye to my son.

He’s still asleep. For a while, I watch him. Then I sit down next to him. He opens his eyes. Closes them tightly again.

—Thomas, I say, and he says, Don’t leave.

—Thomas, I say again. I have to go do something. Mrs. Mahon is here with you.

He begins to cry. His eyes are still closed tightly. No, he says. He shakes his head.

—I’m sick, he says. I’m still so sick. I think I’m going to throw up.

—I’m so sorry, I say. I have to. I wouldn’t leave unless it was really important. You know that, right?

He says nothing. He’s gone still now, breathing lightly, as if he’s feigning sleep.

—I promise I’ll be back soon, I say. I promise I’ll explain someday. The reason I’ve been gone so much. When you’re grown up, all right? I’ll tell you.

He turns over. His back is to me. He won’t look at me.

I kiss him. I put my hand on his hair and leave it there a moment. Then I stand up. What if I’m wrong, I think. What if I’m making the wrong choice?

—I love you, I say.

I leave.

When I arrive in Kensington, I park on a side street not far from Connor McClatchie’s makeshift abode.

Quickly, I walk east on Madison. Then I turn down the alley that leads to the back of the house with three Bs on it.

As I round the corner, I’m greeted by a little group standing about halfway between me and the end of the alley. There are three men: two of them in construction gear, work boots and helmets. One in a long overcoat and nice jeans.

I can see the house they’re standing in front of: it’s McClatchie’s place.

I don’t know what they’re doing there, the men. I walk toward them, slightly less certain than I was a moment ago.

They notice me. They pause in their conversation and turn toward me.

—Can I help you with something? says the man in the overcoat. Friendly. He’s got a thick Philly accent, like he’s from the neighborhood. But he looks like he’s come up in the world recently.

—I was, I say. But I’m uncertain how to proceed. I’m looking for my sister, I say. I think she might be inside there.

I nod to the white house we’re standing in front of.

—No sisters in there, says the man cheerfully. He has no idea how familiar this phrase has become to me. Better not be, anyway, he says. We’re starting demolition tomorrow. Just did our last walk-through.

Sure enough, the door to the place is standing open.

—Hey, are you okay? says one of the construction workers, when I have been silent for long enough.

—Fine, I say vaguely. I turn around and face Madison Street once again, putting my hands on my hips, uncertain what to do next. Behind me, the men resume their discussion. It’s condos they’re building. Soon to be populated, perhaps, by the Lauren Sprights of the world, the kids drinking coffees at Bomber. The city is changing, unstoppably. The displaced, the addicted, shift and reorder themselves and find new places to shoot up and only sometimes get better.

It’s then that my phone dings.

I take it out of my pocket and inspect it.

On the screen is a message:
cathedral on Ontario

The sender—the number has been saved, unused, in my phone since November, when I first met him at Mr. Wright’s—is
Dock.
Connor McClatchie.

The cathedral on Ontario is technically called Our Mother of Consolation. But from the time I was a child, its size and grandeur meant that everyone just called it the cathedral. I’ve only been in it once, when I was about twelve. A friend of Kacey’s took us there after a sleepover. It’s massive: materials brought over from Europe, we always heard, the high-ceilinged interior built to remind people of God. It closed several years ago. I read about it in the paper; at that time, I didn’t think anything of it. It’s one of many churches that have closed in Philadelphia in recent years.

The cathedral is only a short drive from where my car is parked. I get in and take off.

When I pull up, I look at the cathedral closely for the first time in a while. It’s technically part of the 25th, so I have little reason to go past it on my patrol. It looks nothing like it did in its prime. Most of the windows are broken now. The front doors have
Condemned
signs on them. A bell tower rises from the eastern side of the church, but there’s no bell inside. I wonder who salvaged it.

I park and walk up the front steps. I try all the doors, but they’re locked. I circle around the side of the building and find one of the back doors ajar, a chain ineffectively roping it off. Quietly, I duck under it and enter.

I hear a low murmuring as soon as I’m inside, and instinctively I stop to listen, to see if I can hear Kacey’s brassy hoarse cadence. But all of the voices I hear are unfamiliar to me. Nobody’s speaking loudly, and yet their words echo forcefully off the broken tile floor, off the walls and high ceilings. Whispered phrases float toward me through the cold.

It’s only. I said so. The other day. Until.

There are two smells here: one I recognize from years of churchgoing, the smell of the thin paper of holy books, the dusty velvet of the cushions that cover the kneelers. This is a warm smell, a good smell, the smell of a Christmas bazaar, a nativity pageant, the sign of the cross. The other is the distinct smell of a place overtaken by the transient, people with few resources and no other place to go. I know the second smell well. As neatly as pins, two sharp shafts of light from holes in the roof spear the main area of the church. The nave, it’s called. The word comes back to me quickly, along with a vision of Sister Josepha, my favorite grade school teacher, diagramming the parts of a church.
Nave. Altar. Apse. Chapel. Baptistery.
And my favorite:
ambry.
I remember them all.

The light in the church becomes diffuse, slowly. I begin to see people in the pews. They’re sitting there, patiently, as if waiting for a mass to begin. Some are sleeping. Some are moving. Some are standing. Some are sitting in the throne-like chairs reserved for the choir. There must be twenty or thirty people in this church. Maybe more.

The wail of a baby cuts through the place sharply, and everyone quiets. After a moment, their murmurs resume. I am distracted, momentarily, by wanting to find and remove this child, to take it into my arms and leave and never return.

A woman brushes past me on her way someplace, startling me.

—Watch yourself, the woman says, and I say, I’m sorry.

Then I say, Excuse me. May I ask you something?

The woman stops, her back to me, and pauses there for a moment before turning around.

—Have you seen Kacey? I say. Or Connie? Or Dock?

We’re still in the darkest part of the church, and I can barely make out this woman’s face. I can see her body, though. I see how she freezes when I say these names. She looks at me, assessing.

—Check upstairs, says the woman finally. And she points in the direction of a door that’s been taken off its hinges. It’s resting against a wall to the right of a dark threshold. Beyond it, I can vaguely make out a staircase.

As I climb the steps, the voices in the main room of the cathedral fade. I don’t know where I’m going, but the air gets colder as I move. I take out my phone and use it to illuminate the steps in front of me. Occasionally, I see small movements to the right and left of my feet. Mice, or roaches, or perhaps it’s just four years of accumulated dust.

The staircase is covered in decaying carpet, and it lets me move in silence. I count the steps as I go. Twenty. Forty. I pass a landing. I pass a locked door. I try it several times, and give it a nudge with my shoulder for good measure, but it doesn’t give way.

After sixty steps, faint light begins to enter the stairwell. A double door to my left has two openings at the top that I assume used to contain stained glass, as that’s what’s now lying shattered at my feet. On the other side of the doors, I hear voices.

I try the doorknob. It turns.

When I open it, as quietly as I can, the first person I see is Kacey.

She’s leaning against a waist-high railing, and the open expanse of the cathedral is behind her. She’s standing, I see, in the choir loft: presumably, they came up here for privacy.

Connor McClatchie is speaking to her. I see his face, in profile; he doesn’t seem to notice me. There’s another figure, too, a man, I think, who also has his back to me.

I catch my sister’s eye.