The Art of Crash Landing (29 page)

I
don't have enough paper to print all the negatives, so I print contact sheets to see what I have. Once they're dry, I lay them flat and study the tiny black-and-white images, all the while certain that this is a giant waste of time. I should be packing. I should be sleeping. I should be doing anything other than inhaling nauseating chemical fumes.

There are only a few of my mother since she was usually taking the pictures. But there are several of Trip, a few shots of a lake, some squirrels. Obviously most of the pictures were taken on one of their clandestine camping trips, although part of one roll must have been used before or after, because there's also a good shot of a woman smiling above what looks to be a birthday cake. I decide to just print five, so I go through the sheets and mark the ones I want to enlarge.

Doing this goes more quickly than showing Tawny how to do it. One by one the images appear in the developer: first the woman leaning down over a birthday cake, her smiling face uplit. Then there are three of my mother, and one of Trip—this one a portrait,
head and chest. I stack them in the wash tray and carry them to the sink to rinse. In the bright lights of the bathroom, I swish them around looking at one then the other.

The woman sitting at the table with the birthday cake can only be Tilda, my mother's mother. I recognize the setting as the kitchen in this house. She looks to be in her late thirties, I'm guessing eight or nine years older than I am now. She's wearing a floral apron that reminds me of something from a
Father Knows Best
episode, and her short curly hair frames her face as she leans down over the cake. The tickle of recognition I felt earlier changes to a flush of understanding now that I'm looking at the full-size picture in the light. I might resemble my mother around the edges, but I look a lot like this woman, similar enough that someone taking a quick glance at this photo could mistake it for a picture of me with short hair. Comprehension washes over me so suddenly that it's almost a physical response.

Fritter's brother, Jonah, thought he was apologizing to Tilda.

The photo of Trip is a nice one, enough of a close-up that I can see what a handsome boy he was. His expression is serious, his wet hair pushed back from his face. There is beaded water on his neck and chest.

The three pictures of my mother were all taken on a camping trip, I think. I imagine it went like this: my mother taking photos of the woods and of Trip, and then him picking up the camera and taking a few shots of her. My mother is laughing in the first picture, her wild hair blowing around her shoulders. In the second she's mugging for the camera, eyes crossed, tongue out. In the third photo she's not smiling, but instead looking straight at the camera, her brows knitted slightly as if she'd just asked a question. Bra straps or straps from a light-colored swimsuit cross her bare shoulders and her hair is wet and slicked back from her face. More than in the first two, in this photo I can see the woman
this girl will become—sad, a little tired, looking for answers. Even the hair is more familiar in this shot, darkened by the water and pulled back rather than loose.

When they're rinsed I carry them to the darkroom and hang them on the wire: Tilda on one end, Trip on the other and the three faces of Genie in between. Standing there, looking at face after face, I realize I'm holding my breath. I step closer and look at the picture of Trip: square chin, long, straight nose, wide mouth with a full lower lip—check. I step closer and then farther away, studying the whole group of damp prints.

Holy shit.

And here it is—mystery solved. I can imagine my mother at nineteen years old, a little bit pregnant, just like me, and standing right where I am now. She's looking at prints of these same photos drying on this same sagging wire, and knowing then what I think I know now.

I
t's late, way too late to call anyone unless it's with news of death or injury, but I hurry to the bedroom to get my phone anyway. I have to float this theory past somebody. I can't call Queeg this late, can I? Not Nick. Luke? Maybe . . .

When I pick up my phone, I see I have a missed call that came in just a few minutes ago from a local number. I try to call Luke, but it goes straight to voice mail, and I remember him switching his phone off earlier; he must not have turned it back on.

Crap.

I hesitate, looking at the display of that missed call. It's crazy late to return a call from a number I don't recognize, but I'm just too curious not to check it out.

The phone rings twice and then a woman answers. “St. Benedict Episcopal Church.”

The voice is muffled, but familiar. “Karleen?”

“Yes. May I help you?”

“It's Mattie.”

“Hi,” she says, sounding surprised. “What's up?”

“You just called me,” I reply.

“Oh. That's right.”

“Why are you at the church at one thirty in the morning?”

“Because I thought Father Barnes might have your number in his Rolodex.”

Her answer brings me up short. “Rolodex?”

“One of those round things with cards in it—”

“I know what a Rolodex is, Karleen. I also know what a Brontosaurus is, but they're extinct, too.”

“Apatosaurus.”

“What?” She's making no sense, and her voice sounds funny, her consonants blurry. “Karleen, are you drunk?”

“They changed the name of Brontosaurus. It's Apatosaurus now.”

“Karleen?”

There's a pause, then she says, “I couldn't find a Rolodex.”

“I'm not surprised.”

“So I went through his trash and didn't find anything with your number on it, but when I listened to the messages on his answering machine, there you were.”

I find myself impressed by her resourcefulness and her ruthless nosiness. She's Nancy fuckin' Drew.

“And for your information,” she continues, “I have been drinking, but I'm not drunk.”

I suspect she's wrong about that, but I decide to take advantage of the situation. If she's lucid enough to sleuth out my phone number, she's lucid enough to answer questions.

Thinking back on my visit to the nursing home and my newly
discovered resemblance to my grandmother, I ask Karleen, “Do you know Fritter's brother?”

“I'm sorry I called so late.”

“No, I'm glad you did. So do you know Jonah Jackson?”

“Yup. Mr. Jackson used to work on the church van for free until he got too old and sick. I think he's in a nursing home.”

“He is. I met him.”

“How's he doing?”

“Okay, I guess,” I reply. “Listen, did my mom ever meet him?”

“Who?”

I take a breath and back up a little, speaking slowly. “Jonah Jackson. He's Trip's dad, right?”

“Yup.”

“So did Jonah Jackson and my mom ever meet each other?”

“I don't see how. He grew up here, but he moved off after college. He didn't move back until he retired. Genie was long gone by then.”

Hmmm. Now I'm doubting my theory. “So he never met my mom.”

“Not that I remember.”

“Not even when Trip was here that summer? Could his dad have come for a visit?”

“Trip's family lived in one of the
M
states . . . a cold one. Minnesota. Michigan.” Karleen pauses for a minute and I hear thumping in the background, like she's opening and closing drawers.

“What's going on there, Karleen?”

“Hey, it was Maine. I remember now. And Trip's dad
did
visit that summer. I remember because he brought a Maine snow globe.”

I feel the hairs on the back of my neck lift. “Snow globe?”

“You know one of those things where if you shake it—”

“I know what a
snow globe
is, Karleen.”

“He brought it for Trip, but Trip didn't want it. I guess it is a pretty lame gift. Mr. Jackson probably shoulda gotten him a watch maybe, or new sneakers, or maybe a baseball glove—”

“So what happened to it?”

“To what?”

I try to keep the annoyance out of my voice. “The snow globe.”

“Since Trip didn't want it and your mom was there, his dad gave it to her. It had a lighthouse, and when you shook it instead of snow it had—”

“Birds.”

Karleen laughs. “She kept that ugly thing?”

My eyes fill with tears.

“Hang on,” Karleen says, and then there are more thuds and banging sounds on the line, louder this time.

“Karleen?” Now I hear only silence on the other end and I worry that I've lost her. “Karleen?” I ask again.

This time she answers with, “Damn it.”

“What's going on?”

“I'm looking for a cigarette.”

“Can I ask another question while you look?”

“I found matches.”

“Great. Listen, what did Trip look like?”

She laughs again. “Why are you asking me? You've seen him.”

“That photo is black-and-white. What did he look like in color?”

“Auburn hair. Hazel eyes maybe? Green? Shit. I can't remember. I'm so stupid.”

“You're not stupid—”

“Orten says I am.”

“Karleen—”

“His hair is gray now, but his eyes should be the same. What color are they?”

“Orten's?”

“No, silly,” Karleen replies. “Trip's.”

She's obviously had more to drink than she's admitting. “Karleen, how should I know?”

Her reply is lost to a rattling smokers' cough. “Hang on.” She sets the phone down, presumably on Father Barnes's desk. I wait, straining to hear. After what feels like twenty minutes, but was probably only twenty seconds, I hear the phone scrape against the wood.

“I'm back,” she says. “But I really need to get going.” She sounds tired, the slurring worse.

“Wait, Karleen—”

“Hey, I almost forgot what I called to tell you. I found a postcard.”

“A postcard?”

“From your mom. I still have one. It has a picture of a beach on the front. And on the back it says . . . shit. I left my glasses at home.”

“You can show me later.”

“It's okay, I memorized it. It says,
Having a great time with my beautiful daughter. Wish you were here.
”

I wipe at my eyes again.

“Maybe I could come by tomorrow and see it,” I say.

She gives me a dangerous-sounding chuckle. “That might not work out so good.”

I'm getting a bad feeling about this. “Karleen, what's going on?”

She heaves a sigh deep enough to start another coughing fit. “I need to get home,” she finally chokes out. “I need a cigarette. And I should check on Orten.”

Something in her voice sets off a warning. “What do you mean
check on Orten
? Where is he?”

“I can't believe I forgot my cigarettes.”

“Karleen, answer the question.”

“What question?”

“
Orten
, Karleen. Where is he?”

She sighs. “He's at the house.”

“Your house?”

“Well, technically it's his house. The lease is in his name. That's what he tells me all the time.”

“Are you sure?”

“Well, I haven't seen the lease . . .”

“Are you sure he's at your house—his house?”

“He wasn't moving when I left.”

“What?”

“I took your suggestion.”

“
My
suggestion? What did you do?”

“I found my old softball bat.”

I feel a sickening twist in my stomach. “What happened, Karleen?”

“I hid behind the bedroom door, see, and—”

“Wait. Take it step by step. Start at the very beginning.”

“Okay, okay.” She sighs and then says, “Step one. Elvis died.”

I'm momentarily at a loss for words. Of course, to be fair, I hadn't specified what I meant by
the very beginning
.

“I don't think we have time to start in the 1970s. Why don't you start with what happened after I saw you this morning.”

“I am,” she insists. “I finished cleaning and then took out the trash. That's when I saw him behind the Dumpster.”

“Oh my God . . .” She's talking about soup kitchen Elvis, the man with a cat named Colonel Parker.

“His eyes and his mouth were half open, and flies were all in his—”

“Stop. Please. Stop. I get the idea.” I sit down on the bed, hard.
It was her mentioning the flies. That's what weakened my knees and turned my skin clammy and cold. “Okay. Go on.”

“The cops came, and they talked to everybody, but they talked to me for a long time. I mean, it's not like they thought I killed him or anything. Elvis still had a tourniquet on his arm, and his kit was laying there, so it was pretty obvious what happened, but they still gave me a hard time. They kept hassling me about my black eye . . .”

“Oh, Karleen . . .”

“It was bad. Anyway, after all that I went home early and . . . Wait. What step am I on? Two?”

“It doesn't matter.”

“Step two. Orten came home. He was drunk. And because I was upset about Elvis and the cops, I'd been drinking a little, too. Is that a step?”

“It doesn't matter. Just keep going.”

“Okay, step three. No, wait, four?” Her voice sounds even worse, and I'm starting to worry that the slurring is from more than booze—maybe a split lip or missing teeth. “Can we please do this later?” she says. “I really need to get home.”

“Wait! Don't go. What if Orten is awake? Call the police—have them go.”

“Are you kidding? I've had enough cops for one day.”

“But—”

“Besides, I've been thinking . . .”

“Karleen—”

“Don't interrupt me. I've been thinking about your mother. If she'd stayed, Genie never would've let me marry a man like Orten. And if you'd grown up here, you'd have a family.”