The River Killings (30 page)

Besides, Molly had just finished kindergarten. Her graduation was in two days; we had a major occasion to celebrate. Maybe I was in denial or experiencing a manic high. I wasn’t sure, but I rode a surge of something like happiness. Molly and I went out for an early dinner, just the two of us. I wasn’t supposed to drive yet, but Chinatown was only a few miles away; I could manage that. We took Nick’s Volvo to Chinatown, and Molly and I went to Tsi Wang’s, our favorite restaurant, and ordered too much food. Wonton soup, spareribs, dumplings, spring rolls, Moo Shu Pork and General Tso’s Chicken, lychee nuts and ice cream. Molly
dipped noodles into duck sauce and chattered as I sat across from her in wonder, relieved to be out among people, feeling like a normal family—or part of one again.

As Molly took the cherry from her Shirley Temple, I told her that Nick was getting better. She kept eating without comment, reluctant to talk about Nick. Of course she was. She’d been terrified that he’d been shot, must be too upset to talk about it.

“He asked about you, Molls.”

“uh-huh.”

“He misses you.”

She nodded. “I miss him, too.” But the comment was casual, reflexive. “Can we have a party for my graduation, Mom?”

Okay, she was avoiding the topic of Nick and the shooting. That was normal. They were disturbing and scary.

“I don’t know, Molls. It’s definitely an occasion for a party, but parties take time to plan. And I’ve been at the hospital all day—”

“The zoo would be fun. We could take my friends to the zoo.”

I had no idea what to say. I couldn’t begin to plan a party, but I didn’t want to disappoint her. “Maybe,” I said. “After Nick gets home.”

She pouted, and I thought she was going to complain. Instead she asked, “When’s that?” “In a few days, I think.”

“You think? You don’t know?” Her eyebrows furrowed.

I reached across the table and squeezed her hand. “I know it’ll be a few days, just not exactly how many. Nick’s going to be fine. You can come visit him tomorrow.”

“I can?” Her face brightened. “Is there TV in his room?”

“Yes.”

“Can we bring him a present? Maybe candy. Or balloons. Or maybe a Good-Luck Bear. Can we?”

Luckily, the waiter interrupted, bringing our appetizers; Molly reached for a sparerib and began to chew.

“So,” I approached the subject gently. “What would you think about having Nick live with us?”

“You mean, for good?” I nodded.

She shrugged. “It’s already like he lives there.” “Well, this would be different.”

She stopped chewing. Her eyes widened with understanding. “Wait… Are you getting married? Oh, man. Can I be flower girl?”

The family at the table beside us turned to look. “Molly, slow down. I’m just asking—” “So, wait. Would Nick be my dad, then?” I smiled. “Would you like that?”

She thought so, she said. But her eyes were guarded. Molly had never had a dad; it had always been just us. I wondered what the word “father” meant to her, couldn’t imagine.

“So will you guys have babies?”

Babies? She was way ahead of me. I was, after all, fortyish. “I don’t know. Would you want us to?” “I’d like a baby brother.” “Really. Why a brother?”

“Brothers are more fun. Girls are so … , you know… girlie. Can I get one?”

Oh dear. We’d have to discuss the birds and the bees soon. “It’s not entirely up to me, Molls.”

“Nick wouldn’t mind.” She was quiet, chewing the rib. “Ask him. If he really wants a girl, I guess it would be okay.”

Barbecue sauce covered her mouth, and she was so earnest, I wanted to squeeze her. “Molls, we wouldn’t really get to choose. Some babies are boys; some are girls. You get what you get.”

She frowned. “But you chose a girl when you got me.”

“Well, yes. I chose you because I wanted to be your mom. But you’d already been born. And your birth mother didn’t get to choose what you’d be; you just happened to be a girl. And this baby… I mean, if we ever have it …wouldn’t be adopted. I’ll be his or her birth mother.”

Oh, Lord. What had I done? Somehow, I’d opened a barrel of
confusing definitions and major issues, and I’d gotten tangled up in them. How would Molly react if I had a baby? As an adoptee, how would she feel about a sibling her mom had given birth to? Would she be jealous? Resentful? Insecure? Would she feel less loved or less part of the family?

Molly took a long drink of Shirley Temple. “Can we name the baby Oliver, Mom?” She grinned devilishly. “I love that name.”

Maybe I’d been thinking too much, creating problems where none existed. I grinned. “Let’s wait and see, Molls. Oliver wouldn’t be all that great for a sister.”

Molly laughed and attacked her spring roll. By the time the entrees came, she was full. She leaned on her elbows, staring at her Moo Shu. I offered to show her how to use chopsticks. When we had Chinese food, I always offered; she always refused. This time, she opened the packet of chopsticks and speared a piece of General Tso’s Chicken, lifted it to her mouth. It wasn’t the way most people used them, but it worked.

We finished dinner and read our fortune cookies. Molly’s advised that real wealth lay in friendship; mine cautioned that financial decisions should be carefully considered. On the way to the car, Molly and I held hands. The night had become breezy, and thick clouds covered the sky. The air smelled of an approaching storm. Good. The heat wave that had smothered the city might finally break. At Nick’s car, I helped Molly fasten her seat belt and tousled her hair, telling myself that even the weather was about to get back to normal.

As I pulled out of the parking spot, the first drops hit the windshield. In a matter of seconds the skies opened up; we were inundated by torrents of rain. Molly seemed mesmerized, staring at the wipers rushing to clear the glass. And as I drove through the blinding deluge I felt myself relax, as if the dams had broken and now the water was free to cleanse the city of its recent crime wave, washing away the last of its lingering stains.

T
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. At the intersection of Eighth and Market I veered into a bus zone along the curb. We sat quietly watching the rain, hearing it pound the roof of the car. Lightning whitened the streets for a moment and Molly counted three beats until thunder cracked.

“It’s three miles away, Mom,” she said.

“What is?”

“The lightning. You count after it flashes and as high as you get until the thunder is how many miles away the lightning is. Emily said so.”

Well, then I guess it had to be true. under a streetlight, I watched Molly’s face reflect the streaming rain. Her eyes were so open, full of energy, her features still soft and undeveloped. Again I was smitten with her self-assured, centered presence. Who was this small girl who called me Mom? Who would she become?

“Mom, what if you knew something you weren’t supposed to?”

“Like what?”

“Like something important, but nobody would believe you.” Oh dear. “Is this about the woman in the blue car? Because it isn’t that we didn’t believe she was following you—” “No. It’s not about her.” “Then what? Tell me.”

She squinted, thinking for a moment. Then she turned to face me. “I know who shot Nick, Mom.”

I opened my mouth, but didn’t know what to say.

“It was the Gordo—it had to be.”

Oh, the Gordo. Molly was still afraid of him. And she didn’t know about Tony. “Molls, no, it wasn’t.” I took her hand. “The police know who shot Nick. It was Tony. The man from the boathouse.”

“Tony?” under the streetlight, her face looked as if it were being washed with giant tears. “I don’t think so, Mom. The Gordo wanted to shoot Tony—”

“The Gordo had a gun?”

Molly nodded.

“Why didn’t you tell that to Officer Olsen?”

She looked worried and fragile. “Was I supposed to?”

Oh dear. Molly was just six, didn’t see things from an adult perspective. But clearly she believed what she was saying. “So wait. Tell me again. When the Gordo came looking for Tony, he was carrying a gun?”

“Yup.”

“What did he look like again?”

She shrugged. “I couldn’t see his face, Mom. I was up in the racks.”

“So what did you see?”

“Well, I saw him from on top.” Molly’s face flashed white, reflecting a lightning strike.

I was having trouble following her. “Did he see you?”

“Mom. Think about it. I was hiding.” Thunderclaps rattled the car, two beats after the lightning. “Mom, but wait—what if he did see me? Is the Gordo going to come after me?”

“No, of course not.” Lord, I hoped not. “He didn’t see you, and anyway, he doesn’t even know who you are.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive.” Liar. “So what do you remember about him?” “I already told you. He was scary.”

Good. That helped. “Scary, how?” I thought it would help her to talk about it; I didn’t really expect details from a six-year-old. “He was all hairy, and he had a ponytail except the top of his
head was bald.” She cringed, remembering. “And he had big muscle arms with tattoos all over and lots of jewelry. Earrings and bracelets.”

“Tattoos?” Hairy body. Balding and tattooed. Hadn’t I seen someone like that at Humberton? I wasn’t sure. Still, it was good information. usable. More detailed than what she’d told the police.

“I think the Gordo shot Nick, Mom.”

“I told you, Molls. Tony shot Nick. The Gordo was in the boat-house with you when Nick got shot. No matter how scary he looked, even the Gordo couldn’t be two places at once. It was Tony.”

Molly bit her lip, thinking.

I reminded myself that Tony had admitted the shooting; nobody named Gordo had anything to do with it. But then who was the Gordo? And where? Was he part of the cartel? I didn’t want to think about him, didn’t want to accept that even a single slave trader might still be around. Or the remote chance that he might have seen Molly.

“It’s good you told me, Molly. But don’t worry anymore. The Gordo’s gone, and Tony is, too.”

“Are you sure? How do you know for sure?”

“The police took Tony away.” I wanted to protect her, so I omitted the part about Tony being dead. I saw him again, lifeless beside Harry in the front of the van, remembered the look in Harry’s eyes. And now I had an idea who’d killed them. The Gordo was no doubt strong enough to strangle them. Suddenly the streets looked darker and more menacing.

“How about we go home?” I reached for the steering wheel, determined to make it home no matter how dense the rain.

Molly was quiet for a while. “Mom.” She sounded urgent. “I had an idea. Do you think Officer Olsen would come to my graduation party?”

I smiled, glad for the length of her attention span. “Maybe.
If
you have a party.” I turned onto Fourth Street, splashing through hidden potholes, maneuvering through the storm.

“Listen who else I want to invite. Serena and Hari. And Emily and Nicholas . . .”

Molly planned her party all the way home. I squinted through driving rain at the blue car following too closely. I told myself that the driver was not the woman Molly had seen at school. Not everyone was plotting against us. Some things were merely coincidences. They had to be.

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Finally came to replace the cutout windowpane in my office. While he worked, Molly and I sat in the kitchen making a grocery list. We were seriously low on food, particularly because I’d thrown out everything in the refrigerator after the break-in. When the phone rang Molly was trying to decide what kind of cereal she wanted. Nothing with cinnamon. Maybe something Sponge Bob or Shrek.

“Zoe.” Nick’s voice was thin, reedy. “Come get me.” “In a few days, Nick. Be patient.” The doctor had said it would be a while until his release. “But we’ll stop by this afternoon.” “It’s Nick?” Molly brightened.

“No, come now. I’m out of here. Bring a pair of jeans and a sport shirt. Not a T; one with buttons.” “What? Now? You’re not serious.”

“Mom . . . can I talk?” Molly hung on me, grabbing for the phone.

“Yes, now. I’m serious.” “Mom, let me talk—”

“But”—I pushed Molly’s hands away—”the doctors told me you’d need to stay until—”

“I reasoned with them. I explained that I’d heal better at home where I can actually get some sleep. The nurses here wake you up every three minutes to mess with you, and all day people come by to visit. I haven’t slept since I got here. And the food frankly
sucks. I want to go home and rest uninterrupted. And eat real food. I want pizza, not liquefied brussels sprouts.”

“So they’re releasing you?” I still couldn’t believe it.

“Nick’s coming home?” Molly squealed, tugging on my arm. Jubilant.

“I’ve already showered. I’m ready. Just bring my stuff.”

I hung up and began racing around, looking for Nick’s flip-flops, underwear, cutoff jeans. Molly helped, choosing a bold blue short-sleeved shirt with bright green and orange stripes, singing, “Nick is coming home” over and over to a tune that vaguely resembled “Jingle Bells.”

By the time the glazier had finished and brought me his bill, the sun was setting and we were ready to go. I thanked him, handed him a check, and we all walked out together into the pelting rain.

“You know, ma’am,” he said. “You might want me to come back and fit some iron bars over that window. It’s so close to the ground. You don’t want another break-in.”

I thanked him and told him I’d get back to him about it. Then I took Molly’s hand and together we bolted through the puddles and raindrops and hopped into the car. unbelievably, unexpectedly, Nick was coming home.

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face unshaved, but he sat up on the bed as soon as we came in, determined to leave. He greeted us shakily, hugged us carefully, then asked Molly to wait outside the curtained area so I could help him into his clothes. Awkwardly I knelt to hold his pants while he struggled to lift each leg and slide it in. I wrapped his shirt around his back, understanding why he’d said no T-shirt; he still couldn’t lift his arms high enough to slip them into the sleeves. I dressed Nick, saw the muscles of his back and shoulders hanging shapeless and limp, watched him tremble with exertion just buttoning his shirt, and I realized again how close to death he’d come. But he’s going to be all right, I told myself. It would take time, but he’d get his strength back again.