Part 9 (2/2)
”In a treacly way that brought glory to him but no real change. And now, much, much more trouble.”
”Dad! Let me talk to Mom. I can't believe you said that! Whoever did this was insane, Dad. Or the most evil person on earth.”
”I don't think either is necessarily the case, Blaine,” Bryant said. ”Insane people would hurt the child.”
”I hate what you said about Vincent.”
”Now, Blaine, calm down. I believe Vincent was sincere. Just naive. I'll have Mother call you later.”
Blaine stood in her room, looking out at the early, snow-tipped buds in the Ma.s.sachusetts snow and thought, What is he saying? Not only is this the most my father has ever said to me, what he's saying is gobbledygook.
”Well, have fun in Italy, Dad,” Blaine said. But Bryant had already hung up, as he customarily did, without saying goodbye. Where was her mother? Except to the screening and then not willingly, Mom hadn't gone farther than the mailbox since Jackie disappeared. Immediately she called home and Claire picked up.
”Blaine, darling,” she said. ”I'm beside myself.”
”I am too. Is there anything at all we can do? I just talked to Dad. I forgot to ask him if there was anything he could suggest ...”
Claire paused. ”You talked to your father?”
”He wanted to tell me all these theories about who did this ...”
”Where did he call from?”
”From his office, I a.s.sume,” Blaine said. ”Why?”
”Bryant left home four days ago. I'm leaving tomorrow by car to meet him in Los Angeles. He's at a conference. I haven't been able to reach him to talk about Stella Cappadora. I must have called him ten times.”
”He said he was tidying things up in the office. But he might have meant finis.h.i.+ng business there.”
”Darling,” Claire said. ”Of course, you're right. I'll call you on my mobile, from the car. Is that okay? The doorbell just rang. I think Laura from next door is here to get the key to bring in our mail.”
”I love you, Mommy,” Blaine said.
”I love you, B,” said Claire and hung up.
Claire sat down on the hard Quaker bench near the door. Her chest thudded as though she had fallen and had the wind knocked out of her.
No one was ringing the doorbell at all.
That evening after work, Eileen Cafferty asked Al, ”Do you think they did just get too lucky and somebody wanted to punish them?”
Al nearly shouted but lowered his voice because the baby was asleep. ”Eileen! The Cappadoras? How can you say anything about this is lucky!”
”They got their boy back and the boy grew up and the people who had him didn't rape him or torture him and his brother won an Oscar. Look on TV. They run this over and over.” There was a brief moment of news footage of the Cappadora family on their feet, cheering and crying, at the Oscar ceremony. ”They thought they'd be happy forever.”
”You sound like you don't like that,” said Al.
”Vincent's even profiting off that poor baby. Oprah went out there to California. Vincent's everywhere you look. He couldn't have arranged it better if he tried ...”
”Eileen, listen,” Al said. ”I love you and I loved Alana as much as you did. In fact, maybe I loved her more because you saw yourself in the little star she was going to be. I've never said a cross word to you. But I don't like this. Would you let their little baby die or stay lost forever if we could have Alana back?”
”Yes, of course,” Eileen said. ”Wouldn't you?”
”G.o.d forgive you, Eileen,” Al said. ”This is foolish talk.”
She began to sob then, and so did the baby, Alyssa, a sound like bleating, as though Eileen and their daughter were little lamed animals. ”Al, I'm sorry. I don't mean any of that. I have no idea why I said such a thing. Please forgive me.”
”Eileen, I know. I know. But think of Beth. Think of what she's going through. Twice in a lifetime.”
That night, Al rocked Alyssa, while Eileen slept. As the hour grew late, he dialed the number on the card he found pinned to the corkboard. It went directly to a chirrupy British voice that said, ”Congratulations! You've reached the offices of Pieces by Reese, Film and Video Productions. You might think we have your phone number. But really, we don't keep anybody's. So repeat it a couple of times, do.”
”I'm so sorry, Ben and Eliza, Beth and Pat,” he said. ”This is Al, Al Cafferty, And Alana and I ...” Oh, G.o.d, Al thought and nearly put down the telephone. ”Eileen and I want you to know we'll do anything. Anything. Anything in the world to help.”
At that moment, Vincent was speaking to Walter Hutcheson's sister, Amy.
She said, ”All those towns in Mexico sound the same to me. Flora del Rita. Rita del Flora. I'm just really happy for Walter and Sari. Happened all at once, suddenly, a baby in Mexico. They thought they would have to wait forever because they're over forty. The residence requirement is only ten days but they said they'd be gone probably three weeks. You know how it is in Mexico ... Manana, manana. I'll tell them you called, though,” said Amy. ”I'm here taking care of Jerry Garcia and her kittens. Jerry they named her, right? And she has five kittens a month later.”
”Tell them I'm really happy,” Vincent said. ”Do they have their cell phone with them?”
”They don't believe in cell phones. Gave that one Republican guy cancer.”
”Oh. Yeah. Okay.” Vincent turned to his father, who was awkwardly stretched out on the bed, looking about as uptight in the tracksuit Candy had bought for him as most people looked in a tux. ”The Hutchesons are in Mexico. Adopting a baby. Pop, it's Mexico. They might never come back.”
”Vincent, that's way too easy,” Pat said.
Detective Humbly said, ”We'll check it out but I have a feeling your dad might be right. These were the people who weren't happy about the movie but weren't hostile, right?” Vincent nodded. ”And they haven't been in touch? I know a woman who monitors that stuff in Mexico. A good cop. And for every person I know there, Mr. Joel Berriman, FBI, will know ten.”
Vincent lay down on the bed beside Pat. He said he would not sleep but didn't even finish the sentence before he was snoring.
Humbly called two hours later. The Hutchesons were not in Mexico, but in San Antonio, staying with the Rogelios until the interstate compact would allow them to bring home their five-day-old daughter, Annalee. She was the birth child of a twenty-year-old Mexican-American girl, a married student at the University of the Incarnate Word and the mother of a two-year-old. Her husband had just lost the use of his legs in the war. The Rogelios, with their new baby born right after the premiere-their third since losing Luis-were overjoyed about their new baby. They sent their love and concern to the Cappadoras. The Hutchesons apologized for not calling.
Pat considered waking Vincent. He knew that he should go look for Beth instead, but Sister Bartholomew used to tell them to let each day's evil be sufficient unto that day. Pat found a thick blanket on a shelf and lay down next to his son. Morning would come soon enough.
CHAPTER TEN.
Later that night, when she and Pat and Kerry arrived at Vincent's house, filling it to more than capacity, Beth tried to make herself useful. She experimented, with the limited repertoire of cooking skills of a restaurateur's wife, to make an omelet that no one ate although it looked pretty good. She wiped the counters and put in the obligatory loads of laundry before realizing she was was.h.i.+ng clothes that had never had the sales tags removed. She read a stack of Varietys, although Vincent's subscription evidently had stopped in 2007.
Finally, her limbs heavy as water balloons, she sat on the mattress where Pat slept. She lay down next to Pat, who had coc.o.o.ned himself in a thick blanket, covered herself with two beach towels, pulled Pat's arm across her, and fell into a gray and intermittent sleep.
In the little box of a living room and kitchen, Vincent turned on the TV, finally finding a station that featured nothing about him or his family. It was a Marx Brothers movie. The hour grew late. Finally, without really meaning to, Vincent picked up and dialed the number on the card he'd had in a pocket of one of his blue-jean jackets for so long it was barely legible. The phone rang once.
”Tom?” Vincent said.
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