A Convenient Catastrophe, page 23
“So this article was about a guy named Joe Mulligan. Better known as Monterey Joe.”
“Monterey Joe,” I repeat the name.
“Article said Monterey Joe was retiring. It was a year after the train accident. Guess where Ol’ Joe was retiring to?”
“Georgia?”
“Savannah.”
“You’ve found him?”
“Of course,” he says, ever the dedicated investigator.
Of course.
“We have an appointment?”
“No, actually,” he says, chewing on the stir stick. He takes it out of his mouth and talks with it pointed at me. “I found his last known address, but no phone number. We’re gonna have to show up at Joe’s unexpected.”
I haven’t spoken with Mary since I slammed the phone down mid-conversation a few nights ago. We remain silent, disconnected. My mind keeps playing tricks on me. She’s put some ideas into it, and now it won’t let them go.
There was a night Nana made a big dinner. We all sat at a large, oblong table filled with crispy golden fried chicken, creamy mashed potatoes, slick ears of corn with pats of butter sliding off them, and little green peas piled high in a white bowl that was spidered with hairline cracks. Dad said a blessing, and we all got ready to pass the plates around the table. I sat next to my mother. Susan sat on the other side of me. Before the tray of chicken reached Susan, Nana scurried back into the kitchen and returned with a small bowl of something that looked like cold, coagulated gravy. It seems like my mother said something about it and Nana said Susan had been having some stomach trouble lately and the doctor had told her she needed to eat the stuff in the bowl.
I’d watched her touch her spoon to it and the surface broke, like a rock hitting pond scum. There was a lot of arguing back and forth between my mom and my dad and my grandmother, and Susan had sat there eating the whole bowl of the thick, brown gunk while my mother pleaded with my father to open his eyes and see what was going on. I recall my father being very distressed, but it seems like he agreed with both Mom and with Nana, placating them both.
My memory is fuzzy on a lot of the details, but I am clear on one. After Susan finished her goop and all the surrounding adults were arguing, she softly said, “Excuse me,” then stood up and threw every bit of it back up on the plush, beige carpet. Nana had grabbed her by the elbow and pushed her up the stairs to her little bedroom and stayed up there with her for a long time. Taking care of her, I assumed.
When Nana finally came back down the carpet had been cleaned and no one would have known the whole thing happened, except for the tension. My mother grabbed me and told my father we were leaving. By then I was confused and crying, though I do remember my father then telling Nana to pack a bag for Susan because he was taking her home with us. I remember that because I couldn’t reconcile why we would take her to spend the night if she was sick.
Other things like that keep popping into my mind, and it’s trying to twist them into something other than what they were. So when she finally calls me on Thursday, I’m apprehensive to get back into anything with her. I don’t want to remember these things.
“Amy,” she says. “Can you come up? I need you.” And just like I told Deaton way back when we filled out those stupid online profiles, I’m a sucker when someone is kind or vulnerable, even if they’ve ticked me off to a likely point of no return. This holds especially true for my mother, as it’s most likely where it originates from.
“I’m really not in the mood for this,” I say, but I look at the calendar taped to the side of my refrigerator anyway. I notice the appraisal is scheduled for later the following week. I pinch the bridge of my nose and consider. “I suppose I could meet you halfway Monday afternoon. I’ll go to a rest area. I am not coming all the way to Atlanta.”
“I’m teaching until two.”
“I control the conversation.,” I say.
“Fine. Just please come.”
“I have to leave by six to come on back home, so it’s gonna be quick.”
Deaton and I decide to drive to Savannah to see Monterey Joe on Saturday. Kristlyn is in town, but she’s shopping with a friend that morning. “I’d like to be back by two if possible,” Deaton says when I meet him out in my driveway and throw my bag in his back seat. I nod in agreement — I have mountains of receipts on my desk to weed through. It’s a crisp, clear morning like the outdoors is being air-conditioned. Little Matthew Splindle is riding his tricycle up and down his driveway across the street while his mom sits on her porch talking on her cell phone. I turn to Deaton with a smile. “Let’s do this.”
I’m beginning to convince myself all these loose threads will never amount to any sort of recognizable garment. A landlord here… a reporter there… put it all together and you’ve got a landlord and a reporter — nothing more.
We drive to Savannah with the windows down. Deaton says he hopes Monterey Joe is friendlier than Frank Wasserman. I remind him we promised Frank we’d track down his two-month’s rent. “Add that to the list,” I shout over the wind and the sound of traffic. Anyone looking at a photo of us would think we’re on a carefree jaunt down the coast. Deaton almost misses our exit and veers off quickly.
The town of Savannah is enjoying the temperature change, and the farmer’s market at Forsyth Park is crowded. Deaton’s GPS leads us right up to the curb of the two-story house. It’s as bright as a lemon and sparkles like it’s been freshly cleaned with one. The shutters are white, and the sun bounces off the windows. Joe Mulligan’s home looks like that of a man who has his life in order. My loose threads threaten to merge and strengthen. A coat of many colors blows in the breeze on the outer edges of my mind, but I grab scissors and slash it. I take Deaton’s hand and haul myself out of the low bucket seat of his car and follow behind as he sprints to the white French door with the fall wreath attached to it.
As always I hang behind a bit and allow Deaton to ring the doorbell. I can see through the glass in the door: shiny, light oak floors, and walls the color of a cloudless sky. A young boy, maybe three, comes barreling down the hallway off to the right, his mother hollering behind him, “Wait for me to open the door, Nicholas.”
He gets to the door and stands there staring at us suspiciously. Deaton waves, but he doesn’t wave back. His mother reaches the door and pulls it open, and he hides behind her legs, staring out at us. She’s young, beautiful, fortunate with this house and this darling child, the kind of woman that holds the world in her hands. “Hello,” she says, her mouth pulled wide. “How can I help you?”
Deaton glances back at me before speaking to her. “We’re looking for Joe Mulligan,” he says. “This was the last known address for him.”
Her smile fades just slightly and is replaced with a bit of wariness. She doesn’t pull the door open any further, but she reaches over to the right of her and drops her keys on an entry table. I hadn’t noticed she was holding keys, but now I take in the sunglasses pushed up on her forehead, the cranberry-colored jeans and denim button-down blouse, the tan boots, and the touch of gloss on her lips. She must have been on her way out when we interrupted her. “What do you need with him?” she says, as she unfurls the boy’s chubby hands from her thighs and tells him to go play for a minute.
“We were hoping he might have some information on a case we’re working on,” I say before Deaton can — an attempt to make myself noticed and look like I have something to do here besides ride shotgun while Deaton unearths my deeply buried family secrets.
Her facial muscles relax and she opens the door a bit further. “Oh, a case. Maybe I could put you in touch with someone else.”
Deaton produces the folder full of information he’s gathered so far and thrusts it toward her. “Do you know Joe?”
“He’s my father,” she answers him, a bit reluctantly. She takes the folder but doesn’t open it. “But I’m not sure. Well, he…” Her sentence trails.
“Oh,” Deaton says and looks back at me. I smile warily and try to appear as if this is going well. “Deaton Dunklin.” He holds out his hand to her.
“Amy Hollander,” I say, copying his gesture.
She shakes our outstretched hands. “Alexa Kendrick. Alexa Mulligan Kendrick. Just a second.” She leaves the door open and steps back a few steps to look down the hallway, checking on Nicholas I assume. Satisfied, she returns to us and opens the file Deaton has given her.
He continues talking. “Amy and I are investigating a train accident. Derailment, actually. Happened in 1988. There are some, uh, questions as to who may have been on board, and we’re trying to uncover the identity of some of them.”
She looks up from the files she’s scanning. “The train?”
“Yes,” he confirms, a bit bewildered. It’s as if they’ve both reached the same page in the file at the same time, hers literally in front of her and his tucked safely in his mind. “We think there may be some connection to your dad and a counterfeiter that was arrested around that time.”
I wince. He’s giving out too much information. I don’t want the rest of the world connecting these threads and making full garments. I can’t go around slashing them all if that happens.
A dawning comes over her features. If possible, her sparkly eyes intensify and her rosy cheeks flush even more, like little posies. “I’ve been waiting for you,” she says as she finally opens the door wide.
TWENTY
“So your father knew?” Deaton is sitting in the oversized club chair to the right of the fireplace. I am in the matching one across the room, diagonal from him, but I can see his face. He’s excited, and I try my best to appear so as well. Deaton is leaning back in his chair, his legs outstretched, his hands wrapped around a glass of lemonade that Alexa has brought to him. My lemonade remains untouched, and I am perched on the edge of my chair, eager to hear every word said. Alexa is seated between us on the leather sofa. Her legs are crossed, the picture of composure.
“Well, like I said. We had to put Dad in a nursing home last November. He just got too bad.” She frowns at the memory. I frown with her, but Deaton forgets to appear sympathetic. He keeps nodding his head like an eager dog, following her trail, waiting for the conclusion. “Before the Alzheimer’s he had been researching a few different cases. He retired out here to be with us, you know.” Deaton nods his head as if Joe himself had told him all about it before he packed up and left California.
“He became interested in a few cases that caught his attention and wanted to spend his retirement years solving them. ‘Keep the ol’ noggin strong’ he used to say.” She shrugs at her father’s logic that didn’t work. “Anyway, the train derailment was one of them. He was determined to find out everything about it. I remember he said there was a disappearance of a local woman at the same time. There was apparently only a small write-up about her disappearance, and then she was listed as one of the victims of the accident, but he said something about two other unidentified women.”
She knits her brow. “I don’t know. I can’t remember everything. Dad knew things other people didn’t necessarily know because he had contacts and sources everywhere. He’d tell us things he’d found out sometimes at the dinner table. He lived with us about five years or so before we had to put him in a home, but…” She shakes her head, trying to recall. “Dad felt like the two things might not be as separate as the media or the police led everyone to believe. He too thought there was something to the counterfeiter’s arrest.”
“He met the counterfeiter, Mickey Connelly?” Deaton asks, looking for a coaster to place his glass on.
“No. No, I don’t believe so.” Alexa hands him one that was in a wooden box on the marble-topped coffee table in front of her. “He only purchased some of his things. Paperwork Mr. Connelly had left behind at a house he had been renting before his arrest.”
I hate to do it, but it’s inevitable, so again I beat Deaton to it. “Is there any way we could see those things?” Surely they were tossed when Joe moved to the nursing home, I pray.
Alexa uncrosses her legs. She glances at the diamond-encrusted watch strapped to her thin wrist. “I would love to show you those things, but they are in a storage facility across town. I have to be somewhere soon, so I can’t open it for you today. Would one day next week work for you? Perhaps Thursday morning?”
Alexa’s little boy comes toddling into the room pulling a blanket behind him. He crawls up in her lap and sticks a thumb in his mouth. She gently pulls it out and whispers, “Don’t you fall asleep just yet. We’ll be in the car soon,” while she kisses the top of his blond head.
“That would be wonderful,” Deaton says. He drains the last of his lemonade and places the empty glass back on the coaster. “I hope it’s not too much of an inconvenience. We need this information. You just have no idea.” He drones on and on, way overboard.
And then Alexa stands and says the worst possible thing she could say to him. More fuel to blow this fire he’s started sky high. “This case really dogged my father. I would love to see someone solve it for his legacy. As I said, I’ve been waiting for you. Well, for someone.”
Deaton rises, towering well over her. He acts like he’s about to salute something and take an oath. “I would love that as well,” he says. “We will see you next Thursday.”
Jenna shows up Monday late in the morning to relieve me but stands outside the front door talking to Deaton’s new helper, Weston. I suspect these two have gotten to know each other a bit and like what they know so far. I’ve heard they’ve joined forces to help Mr. Kent figure out his new mobile phone — his first-ever foray into technology. When she finally comes in I grab my purse and run out the back, hollering my thanks to her for taking over. “Call if you need me, and don’t forget Otis.” I’m on the road leading out of town before noon.
Mary calls me when I’m on the interstate. “Could we meet at a restaurant? I should be able to get out of here early afternoon,” she says. “There’s a little place in Macon. The Back Porch. Good food. Never crowded.”
“That’ll be fine,” I say and hang up.
I’m nervous about meeting her. We haven’t spoken since she tried to do whatever she was doing with all that talk about Nana. We’ve never had anything like this between us before, thanks to me. I never question, never challenge her — a lot like my dad maybe, after all — at least I never had before slamming the phone down on her words the other evening. In my defense, how could I? An adolescent girl isn’t going to challenge the mother she’s been longing for and finally reconnected with. And once I’d let her ultimate betrayal slide, what was there left to argue? I was fifteen and desperate when it started and then I had no way out. She was my mom, and I took what I could get and she knew it. We both did.
A hostess seats me at a booth. The restaurant is brightly lit, but unlike Mom said it’s not empty and private, it’s bustling and busy, especially for a Monday afternoon.
“I’m expecting one more.” I smile at the waitress as she hands me a menu. She takes my drink order and returns with one more menu. I’m waiting on my drink and checking the time when Mom breezes through the door.
She looks around at all the people and settles herself into the other side of the booth. She drops her dark sunglasses into her large designer purse and reaches for my hand that’s resting on the table. Her eyes are clear and alert. Thank God she has rent to pay, a lifestyle of sorts to maintain, roots to bleach, and a career to fund it all. Thank God she’s taking her medications. “How are you, Amy?”
I pull my hand away.
“Amy,” she starts, but the waitress appears, interrupting her. She reluctantly takes her eyes off of me and orders. “Water with lemon, please. And a turkey club, no mayo.”
The waitress looks at me. “The same.” I wave a hand. It doesn’t matter what I eat.
Mom returns to the conversation she started. “Listen. I may not have been as diplomatic as I could have been.”
I look at her. She will not apologize for her words, only for the manner in which they’d been said. I can’t believe this! I put up a hand to stop her. Something in my brain shifts into a slot labeled fed-up.
“I can’t. I can’t listen to this talk about Nana. She was the one who stayed. She raised me, for God’s sake, when you didn’t.” Feelings I’ve kept at bay for so long break through and embolden me. I’m like a can of soda that’s been shaken for too long, and now it’s been opened and spewing everywhere. “All my life you’ve treated family like some holiday retreat you can make a reservation for when you feel like it. You live it up, soak up all the sun and goodness, then you check out again and mope and wallow in your restlessness.”
She leans back in the booth.
There’s a silence that stretches. It’s so peaceful I’d like to just curl up and rest in it, like a cat on a window sill. I’m so exhausted, so done with everything. I don’t even care if I’ve cut her heart out with my sharp tongue.
“I deserve that,” she finally says and picks up her napkin to dab at her eyes. “Amy, listen.”
“No, Mom. You listen!”
She clamps her mouth shut then opens it just long enough to correct me. “Mary.”
“Mary,” I sigh while rifling through my purse for an aspirin. “Whatever.” There is so much noise in this little restaurant. The waitress keeps walking past us and asking if we’re good, telling us our food will be out shortly, and the surrounding booths are all filled with people talking and laughing and clinking their forks on their plates. “I said I was going to control the conversation, and I meant it. It’s just that ever since you said those things the other night, I’m having these flashbacks on things and they’re all weird. Not the way I remembered at all.”
She leans forward.
“Like things with Susan. Food she was served that was different from ours.”
