North of Boston (9 page)

I get up and, even though the room is filled with sunlight, turn on all the electric lights—the one next to the closet, the ugly fluorescent bulb in the bathroom, the shaded lamp on the desk. I scatter ghosts as I go, brush away the nightmare cobwebs. I tidy things. I can't even imagine what this tank experience is going to do to me, and having things in order just makes sense. I check my phone. There's a text from Johnny:
Thinking about you, darlin. How about that beer?
I send it to the trash.

My e-mail is stuff and garbage. I answer a few, delete them all, and begin pacing the narrow room. I am colossally restless, and the inanity of television will only make it worse. I decide to practice my own version of sports psychology: I visualize the warm shower I'll take after I leave the pool. What is there to worry about, really? They won't let me die. I've got a ticket for a 6:35 p.m. flight to Boston tomorrow night—one stop in Atlanta—arriving at Logan at 12:27 a.m. Come Tuesday morning, I'll be sitting at my desk, and when people ask what I did on my mini-vacation, I'll have another watery story that can't be beat.

My cell phone rings. Caller ID says Thomasina, but it's Noah's whispered voice I hear: “Pirio?”

“I'm here, Noah. Is something wrong?”

“No.” A pause as big as Texas.

“What's wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“Why are you calling?”

“I don't know.” A tone of mild reproach: the question was too hard, or too direct.

“OK, Noah. Is your mom there? Can I talk to her?”

“She's not here.” He's playing with something plastic, maybe Legos or a Ninja man.

“Where is she?”

“In jail.”

“What?”

There's silence on the other end, but I can hear him choking back a sob.

“Did she call you?”

“Uh-huh.” Weak as a kitten.

“How long has she been gone?”

“Ummm . . . maybe? Just a day.”

“You've been alone all day?”

“Night, too.”

“Noah, are you OK?” Stupid question.

“I think there's something wrong with Jerry.”

“Jerry? Who's Jerry?”

“You know, Pirio. My hamster.”

“Oh, right. Jerry. What's wrong with him?”

“I think he died.” There's a catch in his voice, another swallowing of emotion. I can see his face not crying; I can see it not being scared. The thought of what his face looks like right now is enough to make me mad with grief.

“Is there someone you can visit with until I get there, Noah?”

“No. I don't want to go anywhere.”

“How about your grandmother?”

“She'll make me leave my mom.”

“How about the people next door?”

“They're mean. They'll just yell at me.”

“How about Daniel? Can you go to his house?”

Pause. His voice drops to a whisper. “Pirio, I don't want anyone to know.”

“Uh-huh. I see. I can probably change my flight and get there at about one a.m. Are you OK with that?”

“Can you come any faster?”

“I can't, Noah. I'm in Florida. But I can call you on my cell a lot, and you can call me, too.”

“OK. I'll do my homework now,” Noah says, sounding reassured and too mature.

As soon as we hang up, I dial Thomasina's cell, get bumped to voice mail. I send her a text, then an e-mail from my computer. Thomasina's never done anything this bad before. Now she's crossed a terrible line. I call the Brookline Police, but they won't give me any information. Out of anger, I'm tempted to bring in DSS. But what will they do? Start a frightening and humiliating investigation, maybe remove Noah from his home. It would be a catastrophe for Noah, another sudden, devastating loss. Not to mention a brutal betrayal of Thomasina, one she doesn't yet deserve.

I change my ticket in plenty of time to make this evening's 6:35 flight, pack quickly, and call for a cab. In transit, I'll leave a voice mail for Eileen. The Navy will have to wait.

I
t's past one when I get to Thomasina's apartment and let myself in with the key she gave me a long time ago. Noah's sleeping, though not in his bed. He's hunched in a chair like an old man, his head hanging on his neck precariously, looking as if it might roll off his shoulder onto the floor. He's wearing jeans, sneakers that have been neatly tied with double knots, and his fake Army jacket. A gym bag is on the floor next to the chair. I don't have to look inside to know it contains whatever he considers his most important possessions, and maybe, if he remembered, his toothbrush and clean underwear.

Always a light sleeper, Noah raises his head, squints in the light I turned on when I came in. He says hi. I say hi. No big emotion, because that's how we are, he and I. Just two creatures surviving from one fucked-up thing to the next.

The phone machine is blinking. Number of messages: 7. I ask if he checked them.

His shrug is equally a yes and no.

Granted, it was a dumb question. If he had listened to the messages, the red light would not be blinking. Maybe he heard them when they were being recorded, obeying his mother's law not to pick up the phone unless it was someone he knew, or maybe he was asleep.

I push the button and listen in distaste as boyfriend Max asks his fairest where and when. He mentions that it's Saturday morning, which gives us a fact. Then he says he can't wait to cover her with kisses and lick the insides of her thighs. The words are out before I can press the skip button. Neither Noah nor I have any comment. The next messages are the kind of random nonsense with which we citizens are routinely anesthetized: a school announcement, a solicitation. Then a voice that sounds like cracking pond ice accuses Thomasina of stealing Ned's computer out of his house. It takes me several seconds to identify Phyllis, Ned's mother, spewing her usual vitriol. It's unlikely that Thomasina, who has everything, stole Ned's computer, so I figure this is just Phyllis's way of carrying on the vendetta that seems to give her life meaning.

Now Thomasina's voice comes through. “Noah? Sweetie? Noah, baby, pick up the phone.” Pause. “Noah, come on. Please pick up.” Pause. “OK, so you're not picking up. Maybe you're still at the science club meeting or Daniel's mother took you guys to the skate park after. I tried you on your cell but didn't get through. Did you forget to turn it on? I'm sorry I didn't tell you this morning I'd be out when you got back. I don't know how much longer I'll be; I'm tied up here with something I have to do. Just make yourself a sandwich for dinner. There ought to be peanut butter, and there's still ice cream in the freezer. And when you get this message,
call
. My phone is on. I may not be able to pick up if I'm really busy, so just leave a message to let me know you're OK. I love you, sweetie. Don't worry, I'll be home soon.”

Noah and I look at each other without blinking. We both know there's another shoe to drop.

In the next message Thomasina is clearly drunk. There's background laughter of the kind adults make when they're not being at all funny. Male and female voices swirl together. Over the noise, she says something about trying to call Pirio, says she can't reach me. Tells Noah he should just go to bed, and when he wakes up in the morning, she'll be right there in the kitchen toasting bagels.
Like a good mother,
she adds. I can feel Noah flinch. Then she giggles like someone is tickling her, shrieks like a teenage girl meeting her friends at the mall, and yells
Be good,
baby,
into the phone.

I don't look at Noah. I don't want to see what's on his face, don't want him to see me seeing it. There were no messages from Thomasina on my cell. Maybe she called my apartment, not knowing I was away.

I try to imagine what kept Noah from picking up the phone. Maybe he couldn't fathom what to say.
Don't worry, Mom. I'll make dinner and clean up. I won't watch too much TV, and I won't be scared or lonely. You go on. Have a great time.
That's a higher order of lying than Noah at his tender age can manage. Of course, he might have been honest. Picked up the phone and cried real tears into it. Tears that would have been lost in the delirious carnival atmosphere of adults having fake fun. Longing, worry, anger, fear. Chasing his mother with the very emotions she was running from.

The last message is from her, too. In this one, she sounds tense, clear, and logical, like a flight attendant explaining emergency landing procedures. She says she has been arrested and is being kept overnight. She doesn't want to waste her one phone call trying to reach me again, and asks if Noah will keep trying my number until he gets through. Her voice is so controlled that I imagine whoever was listening on the other end had no idea she was talking to a ten-year-old.

Noah's face is a sickly, frozen ash. No doubt he is imagining the steel-and-concrete prisons he has seen on TV, the ones that swallow people like flies and treat them like garbage.

“It's not a real jail,” I tell him. “Just the police station down the street. I'll give them some money, and they'll let her come home.”

He nods, dazed by the complexity of the grown-ups' world, then shifts his eyes toward the hamster cage in the corner of the room.

We approach it together, slowly, as if it's a bomb that might go off. Although Jerry is only a rodent with a short life expectancy, although it's not out of the ordinary for a rodent to die suddenly from unknown causes, although adults have been known to use the deaths of these kinds of pets as relatively benign lessons for children in the great issue of mortality, I'm scared. What if he's not really dead yet, only suffering? Or he's been dead for a long time and is as stiff as cardboard? Death is death—shocking, in whatever size it comes in.

Instinctively, Noah and I hold hands. I open the cage. No Jerry. With my free hand, I grope around and find the little body under a pile of wood shavings. It's cold and hard. The fur, if this is possible, feels synthetic.

“You were right,” I tell Noah.

He nods curtly, playing the little man. But his hand is squeezing mine.

In the kitchen we wrap the remains of Jerry in a dish towel and look for a box, but can't find one. We end up using a plastic container with a snap-on lid.

—

We go to my apartment, bringing the plastic container with us, and I get Noah something to eat. We don't discuss his mother or his lost pet. Instead, we have a conversation about a man who wants to put a wind turbine in his backyard. City council won't let him. I call it civic inertia, unforgivable ignorance, and tragic mass hysteria. I know I'm overreacting. Noah wonders how big the turbine would be. Neither of our hearts is in the conversation. It's three in the morning. We're just marking time.

His eyelids are so heavy that when they fall his head follows. He jerks awake, tries to continue the conversation, but forgets what it's about. No, he doesn't want to go to the station with me to pick up his mother. Can he stay here and watch TV? Once on the couch he's asleep in seconds. Mouth part open, long lashes feathering his cheeks. I don't like to leave him, but I don't want to wake him up. And he doesn't need to see his mother getting out of jail. I tuck a blanket around him, leave my cell number with a note.
Back soon.

The police station is only a few blocks away, but I drive anyway along the deserted streets, and park at a metered space out front. My heels click across the spotless linoleum floor. No line at the counter, no one waiting. A short uniformed woman with a square jaw looks me over, trying to figure me out. I explain my business, write the bail check. It's all done with a minimum of words.

I was afraid that Thomasina would act belligerently when she emerged from behind locked doors, but she is subdued and self-possessed. Our eyes meet briefly. She has twisted her hair into a bun and buttoned her black sateen jacket as if she's on her way to a job interview. Her voluminous leather purse is returned to her by the policewoman. She checks to make sure everything's there, and we walk out of the cold building into the night's last hour of darkness. In the car she doesn't say anything, just sits white-lipped behind big, blatantly unnecessary sunglasses. We get all the way to my parking space before she starts to explain.

“I'm not going to say anything about what I did. I know it was wrong. But I honestly didn't think I'd be gone so long. Or that I'd get caught. Not like this anyway.” She takes off her sunglasses and looks at me appealingly.

Here I am, judge and jury, two jobs I never wanted. “Uh-huh. What happened?”

“Well, first I just went to Max's house and then to a party, you know, with Max and some other people, and it got kind of wild”—this means that the sex and hard drugs spread out of the bedrooms and bathrooms into the living room—“so I left to go home. It was only ten o'clock. But then I got this idea. . . . It was a bad idea, I must have been drunk. . . . Anyway, I got this idea that I could find some photos of Ned. For Noah. We don't have any.”

She looks to see if I'm following the logic.

“See, a few days ago I called Phyllis asking for some, but she hung up on me. So I called Ned's sister, and she did the same. It made me so mad. I mean, what's a few photos? That's not too much to ask, is it? We don't have even one. I thought we did, but I must have thrown them away when I was pissed. Anyway, I wanted to make, like, a little album or scrapbook or something so Noah could have it to remember the good times, and what his father looked like. He
needs
that, don't you think? It's
important
. But those two . . . what's their problem? Why can't they think about Noah for a change? Who cares who his friggin' biological father is? Ned loved him, and Noah loved him back. So I thought,
I'm gonna get some fucking pictures if it kills me. Ned probably had a bunch of pictures. They don't own his shit
.”

She describes how she went to Ned's house in East Milton, climbing in through a broken basement window. I raise my eyebrows.

“OK, so I broke it myself,” she amends.

The place was picked up, the bed was stripped, and there was no perishable food in the refrigerator, so she knew Phyllis and Ned's sister had already been there. Ned's desk hadn't been touched, though. Stacks of paper and mail on the top, and, sure enough, a photo of Ned and Noah in a nice frame. Leaning close together, holding hot dogs, the green monster of Fenway Park in the background, Noah with a mustard mustache and big grin. Thomasina slipped it into her handbag and went looking for more. The center drawer was crammed; she started moving stuff around, found a few more pictures. One really sweet one of Ned holding Noah as an infant. It almost made her cry. There was even a picture of herself in a bikini and big straw hat, laughing and whipping a slimy rope of seaweed at the photographer. Feisty Thomasina. Too feisty, maybe, looking back. She pulled out a manila envelope marked
Boat Stuff
and opened it on a whim.

“A whim? Really?” I say.

She sighs. “I thought there might be an insurance policy or something. There wasn't.”

What she found instead were the documents required to register a boat in Massachusetts: title, bill of sale, proof of payment of state sales tax, pencil tracing of the twelve-character serial number from the upper right corner of the transom, and completed application. Everything was there but a check for the fees. Legally, Ned had twenty days after the date of purchase to file the papers. He was just past the deadline when he and the boat went down.

“You think he didn't have the money?”

“No. I think he just put off going to the registry. He procrastinated a lot.”

Suddenly there was heavy pounding on the front door. She looked up to see blue lights pulsing through the picture window. There were two cruisers—one in the driveway behind her car, one on the street. She didn't bother running. Where would she go, and why should she? She just slipped the photos and envelope into her purse, let the cops in, and tried to explain rationally who she was and what she was doing. She wasn't a criminal. No, just a former girlfriend, mother-of-his-child, and so on. But they didn't like her story, the time of night, the broken basement window, or the fact that the neighbors had called in a burglary in progress. They cuffed her, packed her into a cruiser. One of them felt her up. For a while she was panicked because she thought she probably had a gram or two of coke in her purse that they would find. But when the cops at the station dumped out her purse right in front of her, there wasn't anything illegal on the table.

“Thank God.” She sighs. “This whole thing would have been a lot worse if I'd had something on me.” All this time she has been staring out the window; now she looks at me with big mournful eyes, trying to gain my sympathy for her ordeal.

Back at the Gaston School, Thomasina and I used to find our ways into locked rooms just for the fun of it. Either through a window, or with a stolen key, or by taping the locks. We liked to steal exams and personal items from teachers' desks. We didn't care about the stuff at all; most of the time we just threw it away, even the exams, which were as boring before they were given as they were during the actual test. But taking things made us feel powerful.