Trophy Kid (9 page)

“No thanks,” I told Megan. “I’d rather go up to my room.”

“You sure?”

I knew that Greta’s laptop would be in her and Robert’s bedroom and wanted to get up there as quickly as possible.

“Megan!” Guava’s shout came curling into the room.

“Oh, my God, can I come with you?” Megan sighed, closing the library doors behind us.

“Megan!” Guava shouted again.

“Coming, darling,” Megan said sweetly.

Once again, I climbed the stairs and went to my room, but this time only to grab a piece of paper and a pen. Fortunately, Greta and Robert’s bedroom was on the far side of the house, away from the movie room.

Greta’s laptop was on the bed. I opened it up, turned it on, and found my way to her address book. It took a while, but when I saw the name
Hana Malendenka,
I new I’d found my former nanny. I rapidly wrote down her address (the street she lived on turned out to be Waring) and, even better, her phone number. I turned off the computer and darted back into my room.

I picked up the phone, dialed the number I had written down, and took a deep breath as the phone began to ring.

On the sixth ring, there was a click, and an accented voice came on the line.

“Hello?” Hana said.

I was suddenly scared. What would Hana tell me was in that letter?

“Hello?” she said again.

I felt as if I might be unwittingly entering a dangerous place, like a dark cave. But there was something to be discovered, and I had to go on.

My voice quavering, I said, “Hana?”

“Who is this?”

“Joe. Joe Francis.”

“Josef! How are you? Did you get my birthday card?” Hana said happily.

“I did,” I said. “Thank you very much.”

“You are welcome. How does it feel to be eleven?”

“Sort of like ten, only older,” I said.

“That’s the Josef I remember. Always funny, even as a little boy. But I am thinking there may be another reason you have called me, other than to say ‘Thank you, Hana, for your card, and all the other cards you have sent me on my birthday that I never called to thank you for.’”

“I’m sorry,” I said, feeling a little guilty.

“Don’t be. I am only joking, like you.”

“Hana, I found a letter today. It was addressed to my mother from around the time my family was…” My voice trailed off. “Do you know what I’m talking about?”

Now the pause was on the other end of the phone. “Yes, I know this letter,” Hana finally said very seriously.

“Can you tell me what it says?”

“You should ask your parents about this letter,” Hana said.

“But if they haven’t told me about it before…”

“Maybe they won’t want to talk about it
now,
you are thinking. Yes?” Hana said, finishing my thought.

“I don’t think they want me to know anything about what happened to my family before they adopted me…or even now,” I added.

There was another long pause.

“This letter came a few weeks after they’d brought you from Dubrovnik,” Hana explained. “It was from the Croatian Ministry of Defense. I told your father many times that when you were old enough, he must tell you about it. But he said it would be cruel to give you false hope.”

“What does it say?” I asked, needing to know.

“It says that the government was mistaken when they reported to your mother that your father had been killed.”

“My father is alive?” I gasped.

“No, it does not mean that, I am sorry to say,” Hana said.

“But you just said…”

“What the letter said was that the body of your father was not found. The letter said that he was missing in action.”

“So he might still be alive?” I asked, still astonished by what Hana was telling me.

“No, Joe, that is not possible. He could not have lived when the bridge was bombed. And after all these years…”

“Maybe he’s in a coma,” I said, not taking in her words. “Maybe he has amnesia and doesn’t know his name.”

“No, Joe, I don’t think so. And it is not good for you to think like that,” Hana pleaded. “Maybe I should not have told you this. I am sorry.”

“Did the letter say anything else?”

“No, Josef, nothing else.”

“Thank you.”

“Josef…”

“What?”

“Your father could not have survived.”

“But you don’t know for sure,” I said. “Nobody does, right?”

“Not absolutely, no.”

“Thanks, Hana. Bye.”

“Goodbye, Josef,” Hana said, her voice filled with sadness. “You call me again if you need me, yes?”

“Okay, thanks,” I said, and hung up the phone.

I looked at the pictures of my parents and my sister that had been given to me by the Croatian soldier so long ago and that now sat on top of my desk. My father looked so young and happy; how could he not be alive?

ten

“Did you ever tell Robert or Greta?” Tom asked, when I’d finished recounting how I’d discovered the letter saying my father was missing in action.

I shook my head. “I don’t think Robert wants me to find my dad or anyone else who might be related to me.”

“That doesn’t make sense, Joe.”

“It
does
make sense. If I found my dad or some real family member, he wouldn’t have his trophy kid to take to fund-raisers and help him become a senator,” I said bitterly.

Tom didn’t look at all convinced. “I’m sure he was just trying to do the right thing, even if it was…”

“The wrong thing,” I finished his sentence.

“That was two years ago, right?”

I nodded.

“Have you learned anything else about your real father since then?”

“I wrote a letter to the Croatian Ministry of Defense. It was almost three months before they got back to me.”

“And?”

“They didn’t have any other information. Nothing.”

Tom had a sad, pitying look in his eyes, a look I’d come to despise when anyone cast it on me.

“Why hasn’t Robert ever taken me back to Dubrovnik? It’s because he doesn’t want me to know or think about my real family.”

“Have you tried to talk to him about it?”

“No. It wouldn’t do any good.”

“You should try,” Tom said. “He might surprise you.”

I scowled. “So now he’s your best friend?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Nothing.”

“Is this about tennis yesterday?”

I didn’t say anything.

“It was just a game of tennis, Joe. What we’re doing…the book…telling your story…I’m with you on this.”

“Do you believe me about my real dad?”

“Of course I believe you. Is it possible that your father is still alive? It’s highly unlikely. As far as I know, none of the MIAs from Vietnam turned out to be alive.”

“But it
is
possible. Right?”

“I suppose so.”

“Don’t say anything to Robert or Greta,” I pleaded.

“I really…”

“Please…not yet, anyway.”

“Okay,” Tom said quietly. “Okay.”

When we got back to the house after going out for hamburgers, there was a surprise waiting for us in the writing room: Greta. She was sitting behind the desk, skimming the latest issue of
Town & Country
magazine.

“Pages, Tom, I need pages,” Greta said upon our entrance.

Tom and I stopped short.

“I know you want to see something,” Tom said, “but everything we’ve put together so far is pretty rough. When I—”

“Tom, you can deal with me on this, or you can deal with Robert, and believe me, I’m a lot easier to deal with than he is.”

Tom nodded. “I’ll have something for you by the middle of next week,” he said. “So far, I’ve mostly been listening to Joe’s stories and sketching out how those stories will be shaped. But I totally get your desire to see what we’ve been up to. Just give me a couple more days to put a few chapters together, and hopefully you’ll be pleased with what we’ve done.”

“That was easy,” Greta said, seeming to accept Tom’s offer. “I hate playing the heavy.” I knew she was telling the truth. Whenever Guava or I got into trouble, she’d leave it to Robert to discipline us. I wondered if Greta wasn’t so complicated after all; maybe she just wanted to be liked and to get what she wanted.

After she left, Tom said he was surprised Robert hadn’t been more in our face about what we were writing.

“I think he’s getting ready to announce he’s going to run for next year’s Senate race,” I said.

“Really? What do you think about that?”

“I think it’s going to make everything harder. I think that’s why he and Larry want me to write this book. It’s all to make him look good.”

Tom took this in without comment.

“What are you going to give Greta to read next week?” I asked.

“I’ll give her what she wants. I’ll write up a few chapters of your story, the way they’d want it written. But I gotta be honest with you, Joe—that might be the only thing they’ll allow us to publish.”

“But we’ll keep writing the book like we have been, right?” I said.

“Of course,” Tom replied, smiling, but he didn’t sound very convincing.

eleven

Tom picked me up in the early afternoon that Sunday and we drove back to Jessica and his house in Sherman Oaks. The place was tiny compared to our home in Bel-Air. It was a like going from the
Titanic
to a dinghy. Of course, the
Titanic
sank, so bigger doesn’t always mean better. The living room was small and lacked the designer touches of our house. Tom described the decor as “early mishmash.”

Dog toys and chewable treats were scattered everywhere; they belonged to a pair of golden retrievers, who charged into the room, skidding slightly on a patch of hardwood floor between area rugs, and leapt on me, practically knocking me over. “Sid, Nancy, get down!” Jessica hollered at the dogs. “Sorry about that, Joe,” she said, pulling them off me. “They’re impossible. Come on out back. If you need the bathroom, there’s one through the living room, and there’s another one just off the kitchen,” she said as she led me to the back door, passing through rooms that could have fit into Greta’s shoe closet.

The backyard, on the other hand, was almost as big as ours in Bel-Air. Well, not counting the swimming pool and the tennis court…or the koi pond and gazebo Greta had had installed. There were several fruit trees, one filled with unripe lemons and the others with overripe apricots. A gazillion apricots had already fallen from the trees and covered the ground beneath them.

There was a patio area with a large round table and chairs shaded by an umbrella. There were also several loungers scattered about. An old barbecue was set up in the corner of the patio closest to the kitchen door. Nearby were several coolers.

“There’s drinks in the coolers,” Jessica said. “Tom, you should light the coals. I’m going to make a salad. Make yourself at home, Joe.”

After Tom got the fire going, Sid and Nancy came running over to us carrying slobbered-up tennis balls in their mouths. Tom and I kept throwing the balls, and Sid and Nancy kept returning them to us with an additional pint of slobber, until Rusty and his son, Gary, came through the side gate.

“Hey, Rust, Gary,” Tom hollered as they walked toward us.

“Hey, Joe, how ya doin’?” Rusty said. “This is my son, Gary.”

Gary had dark hair like his dad, but whereas Rusty had a wiry build, Gary was pudgy.

Rusty opened the cooler and pulled out a pair of Sprites. He handed one to Gary and opened the other.

“Guess what? I joined Gamblers Anonymous,” Rusty announced.

Gary looked at his shoes, embarrassed.

“Good for you, man,” Tom said.

“Thanks. And I’m getting back into construction. I’m starting a new job next week.”

“That’s great,” Tom said supportively.

“Yeah, well, I’ve got to make some amends, you know what I mean?”

Gary was still looking at his shoes.

I knew Tom wanted me to bond with Gary. But I had no desire to hang out with him. It didn’t really have anything to do with Gary personally. I just preferred to spend time with Tom and Jessica and play with the dogs.

More and more people arrived. There were lots of introductions to people whose names I’d never remember. They all wanted to know what it was like having Robert and Greta as my adoptive parents. I gave them the answers I’d been carefully rehearsed to say since I was a young trophy kid:

“They’re the greatest.”

“We’re just like every other American family.”

“They’re busy, but they always make time for me and my sister.”

“I’m the luckiest kid on the planet. Really.”

“Do you always talk like that?” a girl said to me after some adults had cleared away. She looked like she might be around my age. She was pretty. I mean really pretty. She had large deep brown eyes and long golden blond hair. A goofy smile spread across my face as my brain froze up. Even if I could have thought of something to say, the giant boulder in my throat wouldn’t have allowed the words to pass through.

“Are you all right?” she asked. “You’re Joe, right?”

I nodded, unable to open my mouth.

“I’m Martina, but everyone calls me Martie. Jessica is my aunt. She’s great. She says you’re from Croatia.”

“Yes,” I said, amazed by my own power of speech.

“So, you didn’t answer my question,” Martie went on. “How come you say stuff like ‘I’m the luckiest kid on the planet’?”

How embarrassing to see myself being aped by this beautiful girl. I looked away from her, which somehow caused my brain to reboot and the boulder in my throat to dissolve.

“I was brainwashed,” I said.

“Really?”

“No, but yeah.” I shrugged. “My parents—I mean, my adoptive parents—are always afraid I’m going to say something that will embarrass them, so they drill me on what to say if anyone asks me about what’s going on in our lives.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Martie said.

“I know, but it’s a hard habit to break,” I said, daring to take another look into Martie’s eyes.

“I’m going to talk to Gary,” she said. “You want to come?”

Suddenly, talking to Gary seemed like a great idea.

Gary was lying on a hammock stretched between two trees at the back of the yard.

“Hello,” Martie said, causing Gary to jolt and fall out of the hammock.

Martie started laughing. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t laugh,” she said, but was unable to control her giggles, which were contagious; I caught them next, and finally Gary was laughing like a madman, too.

Gary then went into a routine where he repeatedly tried to get into the hammock and would fall out. Each time, he’d get a little closer to lying down before turning it over. Who knew that the kid who was staring at his shoes looking like he wanted to disappear was a natural comedian?

I spent the rest of the afternoon hanging out with Martie and Gary. At one point, Martie came up with a game where each of us would imitate someone at the party and the other two had to guess who it was. Martie did a funny impression of Tom flipping burgers, and I did a pretty good one of Jessica giving a tour of the house, but Gary was the best; he’d look across the yard, pick someone, and then do all their mannerisms to a tee.

We all avoided imitating Rusty, although I was tempted to do him getting in the fight at the baseball game, just to impress Martie. Luckily, I stopped myself. I think she would have thought less of me for making Gary feel bad about his dad.

I was having a great time. I couldn’t believe that only a few hours before, I’d been wishing I could just hang out with Tom, Jessica, and the dogs.

Gary and Rusty left with the first wave of departees because Rusty needed to get to a Gamblers Anonymous meeting. When they said goodbye, Gary had turned back into the kid who kept looking at his shoes.

As the party continued to wind down, Martie’s mom came to pick her up.

She looked a lot like Jessica, only taller and about ten pounds heavier. She also had black hair with blond streaks; tons of jewelry dangling from her ears, wrists, and neck; heavily made-up lips and eyes; and a large tattoo on her right arm of what looked like a series of intertwining cords.

Martie introduced us and told her mom I was from Dubrovnik.

“It is a beautiful city. Everyone should go there,” Martie’s mom said, looking nostalgic. “Very old, very romantic.”

This description didn’t exactly match the city I remembered, but I was only three the last time I was there, and there was a civil war going on.

“You should see it again someday,” Martie’s mom added.

“I will,” I said, not sure when that day would come.

Martie seemed puzzled. “Who did you go there with, Mom?” she asked.

“None of your business. It was before you were born,” her mom said demurely.

Martie rolled her eyes. “My mom likes to be in love.”

“What’s wrong with love?” her mom replied, causing everyone to laugh, while I stared at my shoes, like Gary earlier.

“We should go there,” Tom said to me after everyone else had left.

“Go where?” Jessica and I asked at the same time. Tom was washing the dishes, and Jessica was drying and putting everything away.

“Dubrovnik,” Tom said, turning to me and dripping soapy, greasy water from the pot he was cleaning.

“Tom!” Jessica cried. “You’re dripping all over the floor.”

“Sorry.” He turned back to the sink, craning his neck to talk to me. “I think it would be great if we went back to your home. You could see it again and…well, I really think it would be good if we can try to make contact with this Vladimir guy.”

I was shocked. “He’s in Dubrovnik?” I asked.

Tom stopped washing, picked up a towel to dry his hands, and rested his back against the sink.

“Yeah, Rusty tracked him down,” Tom said, grinning. “Rusty can find anyone.”

“How did he do it?” I asked, incredulous.

“He called Larry Weinstein’s office. He told Larry he was a federal investigator looking for information on Vladimir.”

“Wasn’t Larry suspicious?”

“He didn’t seem to be. Rusty can sound very official. When Larry asked what it was about, Rusty said, ‘I’m sorry, sir, but due to the serious and delicate nature of this investigation, I’m not allowed to give out that information.’”

“So where is he?”

“Larry said that Vladimir returned to Croatia right after he tried to see you a couple of years ago. He said he got one more letter from Vladimir, but he didn’t keep it. All he could remember was that it was written on some hotel’s stationery.”

“Maybe he works at a hotel,” I said.

“Or maybe he didn’t have a home to go to when he went back to Dubrovnik,” Jessica suggested.

“Or maybe he was really poor and couldn’t afford to get his own apartment. I’ve heard of really poor people living in motels,” I said.

“Or maybe he’s really rich and can afford to live in a hotel,” Tom said.

Somehow I doubted the man who’d crashed my eleventh birthday party looking like he’d bought all his clothes at a Salvation Army thrift store could be rich. “At any rate,” Tom said, “Rusty bought a copy of a recent Dubrovnik telephone directory over the Internet. He found dozens of Vladimir Petrovics. I guess it’s sort of like being named Bill Thomas here. We can try to find him when we go there. And more importantly, we can try to find out what happened to your father. I’ve been thinking about it a lot, and you need to know, simple as that.”

Jessica stopped what she was doing, a concerned look on her face as she spoke to Tom. “Do you think this is a good idea?” She then looked at me. “I know it’s none of my business, Joe, but shouldn’t you tell Robert and Greta that you know about your father? Tom told me. I hope that’s all right.”

“It’s all right. I don’t mind,” I said. “But I can’t tell them. I just can’t. It would become all about them. And…”

“What?” Tom asked.

“I want to keep this for myself.”

“I understand,” Tom said. “Let’s see if we can keep it quiet. I think they’ll get behind the idea of you going back home. We can tell Robert it’s all part of ‘the journey’ you’re on,” Tom said dramatically.

Jessica still looked wary. “I don’t know, Tom. You’re liable to make a whole lot of trouble for Joe and for yourself,” she said.

“Yeah, maybe,” Tom said. “What do you think, Joe?”

Tom and Jessica stared at me.

“When do we go?” I said, grinning.