Chapter Nine

 

 

 

“You have her eyes,” Kane insisted as we sat down. “Ain’t anyone ever told you that?”

“I’m not here to talk about Mom.”

He folded his hands, one inside the other, in a gesture I recognized as my own. How was that possible, when I hadn’t seen him in nearly two decades? “That’s a shame. I’ve been trying to get in touch with you for years now. Thought maybe if you’d let me explain—”

“I’m not interested,” I said sharply. A uniformed officer glanced at us from the edge of the room and I pressed my lips together, abashed. Get a grip, Laure. You don’t want to have to come here again, do you? “Mr. Barnes said you’d tell him where his daughter’s remains are if I came to visit you. Here I am.”

Kane raked his gaze over me as though peering into every pore, tracing every line writ into my skin. I felt naked under his stare—not in a way that frightened me, but I had to put conscious thought into not reaching across the table and grabbing him by the shirtfront. I’d never beaten anyone up before, but I’d gladly take a crack at my father’s aquiline nose if given the chance—another feature I’d happened to inherit.

“Quit stalling,” I gritted out.

“What’s the rush?” he shot back. “I don’t see you for nineteen years, six months and fourteen days—and now you want me to hurry up?”

“You counted the days?”

“’Course I did. From the trial all the way to this blessed moment… You didn’t think I’d forgotten about you, did you, Laura?”

“It’s Laure, actually.”

Kane shook his head, a pitying moue on his rough-hewn features. “Not when we named you. Your mother wanted something that’d be easy for your American friends to remember, something like—what’s her name…” He clicked his fingers. “Upstairs by a Chinese Lamp… Laura Nyro, that’s it! Your momma was a big fan. Looked a bit like her, too.”

The name didn’t ring any bells.

“I told you. I’m not here to talk about Mom.” My voice shook. Part of me wondered if he was right. Had my grandparents changed my name when they adopted me? Not that I recalled. He was just messing with my head.

Preacher’s son, indeed.

Kane sighed, like I was the one being difficult. I recognized the serpentine attempt for what it was—manipulation of the kind I’d used in multiple failed relationships. It was hard-coded into my DNA, too.

“You want to talk about Donna?”

Beside me, Mr. Barnes stiffened. “You promised,” he murmured, something raw and painful raking the inside of his throat. “You promised.”

I felt compelled to touch his veined hand, to clutch it tightly in mine, but his grief was nothing I could assuage. I didn’t move.

“So I did,” Kane agreed. “You’re right, I did… The thing is—”

Barnes gripped the edge of the table, sucking in an audible breath.

I heard it, so my father must have heard it, too. That didn’t stop him shrugging his shoulders. “I don’t actually remember.”

“What?”

“It’s been twenty years, man. And I made my peace with the evil shit I did. Can’t keep that kind of darkness bottled up inside. It’s like a cancer.”

I thought Barnes might lunge over the table he looked so livid. But he didn’t. A wet sob tore out of his throat. “You son of a bitch. You fucking—” He couldn’t finish.

The table shook when he stood, more than a few heads turning our way, but he didn’t make to hit Kane. The nearest guard couldn’t even grab him before he tore out of the visitation room.

“We got a problem?” the guard asked, nearing the table with a scowl.

I glared right back. “No. Am I being thrown out?”

The CO swept a glance over my father and me perhaps detecting the resemblance, and shook his head. “Keep it down or you will be.”

“Thanks, man,” Kane drawled, flashing the guard a smile.

“Friend of yours?” I asked once we were left alone.

“After a fashion. He’s a good egg.” Kane crooked his eyebrows at me. “For someone who doesn’t want to be here, you’re missing out on a golden opportunity to bolt. A little curious after all, huh?”

He looked so smug, so pleased with himself that I wanted to lob my shoe at his face. I could see how he might have been charming twenty-nine years ago. He had a movie star smile, his teeth so white and even. He wasn’t very tall—one trait I’d inherited from my mother’s side of the family, thank God—but he had presence. Charisma. Orange wasn’t his color, but I could picture him in a white shirt, sleeves rucked up and an arm draped casually around my mother’s trim waist.

Was that my imagination or a picture I’d glimpsed growing up? I didn’t trust my memory anymore.

“You still livin’ in Paris?” Kane asked.

“Yes.”

“With your grandparents?”

I nodded.

“No wonder you haven’t come to see me… Long distance and those people.” He shook his head as though he pitied me.

“Those people raised me,” I pointed out testily. Normally I was the one slinging mud in their direction. This might have been the first time I’d ever spoken up in their defense. The occasion called for it.

My father backtracked, putting up his hands in mock surrender. “Don’t get me wrong. I’m sure they did a good job.”

“I’m not the one in lock-up.”

He flashed me a grin. “You got that whip-sharp wit from me, you know. Your momma was too nice for that kind of talk.”

I didn’t tell him not to mention her again. No point in it—the more I asked him to lay off, the more he would poke and prod that wound until I cried uncle. That mean streak I’d inherited? It came from him.

“You got a fella?” he prompted, when I didn’t rise to the bait. “You ain’t married, are you?”

“No.” Partial truths were better than wholesale lies.

“Pity. You better get me some grandkids soon,” he chided with a smile and a wagging finger.

It was my turn to snicker. “You think your blood should be passed on, do you? Not enough that you screwed up my life, destroyed countless families… No, you want to sink your claws into the next generation? Barnes was right. You are a son of a bitch.”

“Insulting my mother, Laura? That’s not very nice of you—”

“You killed mine,” I recalled. “Turnabout is fair play.”

Kane narrowed his eyes at me, the first inkling I had of the man behind the civilized, charming veneer. Scratch the surface and there he is—the wolf draped in sheep’s clothing. I had no desire to malign his mother, although part of me couldn’t help but wonder what kind of genetic alchemy could birth such a monster.

It was Kane I wanted to hurt, the venomous half of me.

“What happened to not wanting to talk about your momma?” he queried. “Change your mind?”

I dug my nails into my palms. “Is that why you wanted me to come here? So you could explain yourself?” I’d learned how to dodge questions when I was nine years old and he had me convinced that the cops were the bad guys. I saw clearer now. “Well, I’m not interested,” I said and slowly, like treading water, I found the strength to stand.

Kane rose with me. “Laura, wait—”

I didn’t pay him any heed as I spun on my heel and turned to leave.

“What I told Barnes?” he pitched at my back. “It weren’t the truth.”

I took another step forward, the reinforced door within my sights.

My father’s voice rose, his panic audible. “I can tell you where I put Donna!” From the corner of my eye, I saw the guards make to intercept him and wondered if Kane was stupid enough to try to follow me. I wanted him to try—and get punished for it.

I wanted him to cry like I’d cried when they’d ripped me out of his arms.

I swiveled around, aware that the commotion had attracted attention, conscious that Kane didn’t have more than seconds before he was dragged away. I flashed my most winsome smile.

“Go to hell.”

I didn’t stop walking until I was out of the penitentiary, nothing but blue skies and cotton candy clouds above my head, a child’s version of a blissful morning. I wiped at the salt on my cheeks as I made my way down the stone steps, around the flagpole, into a parking lot teeming with cars.

The space where I’d left Barnes’ sedan was empty, no sign of the man or the Ford. He had taken off and left me stranded.

 

* * * *

 

The officer I’d asked for help at the gate had told me that I could take a bus into Lansing, but that he didn’t know how I’d make my way from there to Kansas City. In the end, I managed to coax them into calling me a taxi. The drive ended up setting me back some eighty dollars, but it beat walking to the hotel, so I didn’t make a fuss.

I tried Barnes’ number twice, but he didn’t pick up. In his shoes, I’d probably be incommunicado as well. My father had done a number on him.

With my duty more or less accomplished, I realized I had nothing else to do in Kansas. I stood on the sidewalk in the noonday heat, hugging my sides. Well, I’d faced my last living parent and I hadn’t buckled. That was a point of pride right there.

Now what?

I spotted an IHOP across the street from the hotel. Might as well. I’d skipped breakfast, so pancakes for lunch seemed like the way to go. It beat locking myself in with my misery.

The restaurant’s Wi-Fi came in handy as I waited for my food—I emailed Ashley to let him know I’d finished at the prison and he could call me whenever he wanted. I refrained from texting or calling him myself. I didn’t want to make him worry and I couldn’t be sure that I wouldn’t burst into tears again.

I sent Melanie a short email, too, mostly to ask how she was doing and if the baby was kicking. It was a whole lot of nothing in long form. I hoped she wouldn’t mind.

The urge to cross the street to the hotel and hide under the covers dimmed as I wolfed down the pancakes. The coffee was too watery for my tastes, but I drank it anyway, going as far as to ask for a refill when the waiter swung by.

“Hey,” I asked, leaning my chin in my hand, “you wouldn’t happen to know any record shops around here, would you?”

The waiter scratched his ear. Dad always said that meant people were lying. “There’s an indie place couple of streets down. Bit of a walk, though…”

“I don’t mind.” Anything to keep my thoughts away from Kane.

Armed with directions, I left the IHOP behind and made my way down Minnesota Avenue. The breeze that rolled in from the river stirred the folds of my trench coat. I shrugged it off at the third crosswalk and raked a hand through my hair. Chin up. I’d done what I came here to do. Now I could go back to Paris, see Ashley—figure out what I was doing with our relationship.

The thought buoyed me as I cut through the side street I’d been told to look out for. The GPS on my phone helped, but even so, getting around Kansas City was pretty easy. The way the town was laid out, I might as well have been walking down a grid of tic-tac-toe.

The record store was little more than a dusty hole in the wall, easily distinguished by the six-string propped against a wobbly-looking stack of vinyls. I stepped over the threshold with all the trepidation of a kid in a candy store, tentatively calling out, “Hello?”

“Be right there!” a low baritone echoed from the back. Seconds later, the owner of the voice emerged in all of his six foot tall, dreadlocked glory. “Can I help you?”

“I think so… Have you ever heard of Laura Nyro?”

To my surprise, the clerk nodded. “Sixties songstress, right? Jazzy voice, haunting lyrics? Sure, sure…” He waddled between the cramped stacks, a man with a mission, and produced an LP with a faded black and white sleeve. The woman on the cover was raven-haired, her head tipped back into a breeze that stirred up her locks.

I told myself that she didn’t look a thing like my mother.

“You don’t have any CDs?” I asked hopefully. I figured I could buy a player somewhere in town, pack both into my suitcase when I left.

The clerk hummed, his voice like molten tar. “Don’t think so, but I might have a couple cassettes, if you’re interested.” I told him I was. “Let me check.” He disappeared into the back of the store, behind a bead curtain where I didn’t dare follow. I still wasn’t quite sure I hadn’t stepped into some kind of temporal anomaly, or else a meeting point for ghosts and wizards. I decided not to risk it, either way.

I occupied myself with reading the track list on the back of the record sleeve. You Don’t Love Me When I Cry was the first number. I imagined a piano track grounding a powerful voice, angry lyrics about love and loss—my mother’s skirt swishing with me in her arms, salt soaking into my hair.

Was it memory or fantasy?

“You’re in luck,” the clerk said, wrenching me from my trance. He waved the cassette triumphantly, like a flag. “It’s a greatest hits kind of thing, but it’s all I’ve got.”

“I’ll take both,” I decided, on impulse, and made my way slowly to the till. “You don’t sell Walkmans, too, do you?”

The clerk flashed me a grin.

Five minutes later, I walked out of the shop with two Laura Nyro records and a bulky Walkman in a plastic bag. I got a pack of batteries at a convenience store on my way back to the hotel. As soon as I was safely inside, I slotted the ‘Do not disturb’ sign onto the door and pulled the curtains shut.

My hands were steady as I pilfered the minibar of all its tiny bottles. I didn’t bother with the soda water or the peanuts and crackers, much less glasses. I kicked off my shoes before crawling onto the bed. No TV. I wanted no distractions for this. I even muted my cell phone before slotting the batteries into the Walkman and wrestling with the cassette case. It had been ages since I’d used anything more complicated than an iPod. A few minutes passed as I struggled to figure out how to operate the antiquated device.

“Let’s see what you’ve got, Laura,” I muttered to no one in particular and hit ‘Play’.

It took a moment for Wedding Bell Blues to start, harmonica and tambourine gearing up to accompany a breezy female voice. It wasn’t quite foreign to my untrained ears.

A few sips of Jim Beam and I was falling under the dizzying spell of showy tunes and lilting verses I’d heard a long time ago.

 

* * * *

 

Ashley picked up on the first ring. “Laure, Christ, where have you been? I’ve been calling you—”

“I know.” As soon as I’d seen the seven missed calls, I knew I was in trouble. I scrubbed a hand over my face. “I’m sorry…” But Ashley wasn’t interested in excuses.

“What’s going on? You sent me that email and then you dropped off the face of the earth like… What happened with your father? You said Barnes bailed—”

“Yeah,” I croaked. My throat was the consistency of sandpaper. “Hang on, I need water.” I hunted in the minibar for a bottle of Evian, which of course I didn’t find, so made do with a Coke instead. It fizzled into my nose, rousing me a little more. “Better,” I sighed, dropping back to the edge of the bed. “Barnes didn’t get what he wanted. Turns out my father was just screwing with him. Surprise, surprise, right? Serial killer turns out to be a pathological liar.” I snorted. “Stop the fucking presses.”

I didn’t fault Barnes for having wanted to believe Kane would come through for him at the eleventh hour, but I wasn’t going to absolve him of blame for bringing me into this mess.

Ashley was quiet on the other end of the line. “Laure, are you okay?”

“Yeah, sure. Why?” Other than the pounding headache and my hazy vision, I felt fine.

“You sound like you’ve been crying.”

I sniveled. “Oh. Yeah. A little.” Laura Nyro’s Best Of wasn’t the best music to weep to, but it wasn’t her songs that had made me tear up. I was fine until And When I Die started playing halfway through the first side of the tape. Then I could barely hear the lyrics.

“I’m coming over.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. You’re in Paris,” I pointed out, a mirthless guffaw bubbling in my throat. “That’s not exactly next door. Besides, I’m fine—”

“You’re not fine. I can hear it in your voice,” Ashley snapped, heaving a breath. “Please let me come over there. I haven’t been sleeping since you left.”

“Tell me about it…” I played with the frayed end of the comforter. “Jet lag isn’t worth it. And connecting in Chicago sucks—terrible advice, by the way.”

Ashley chuckled cheerlessly. “You really don’t want me over there?”

I spun the offer around and around in my head, weighing it like a turkey. “What about that conference thing?”

“That’s in New York.”

“So…halfway?” I asked, drawing my bottom lip between my teeth and grimacing at the waxy taste of my lipstick. “I don’t want you coming over just for my sake. Don’t ask me to explain why, I’m hungover and my head is a jumbled mess right now.”

“You’ve been drinking?” Ashley asked.

“Hey, focus on the problem at hand, mon ami.” The problem being me and my being in green, spacious Kansas while Ashley was all the way in the crooked tangle of Parisian streets, an ocean between us.

“Yes, fine,” he scoffed. “I’ll meet you in New York. And when we both get there, we’re going to have a very long chat about this independent streak of yours and how I’m all for it, in theory, but—”

“Not so much in practice?”

“Not when you put yourself in danger,” Ashley concluded stubbornly. He could be such a buzzkill when he was genuinely worried for my sake.

“It better involve paddles,” I drawled. I could have played along, but I was way too tired to take him seriously and my mouth tasted like an ashtray. I felt neither romantic nor penitent. “Buy your ticket first, then I’ll take care of mine. That way maybe we can meet at the airport.”

Ashley reluctantly agreed, although I could hear him resenting the compromise. If it was up to him, we’d be meeting in Kansas, on my doorstep. But I wasn’t going to let him spend twelve hours in transit because I’d gotten all self-indulgent and missed a couple of calls.

“Think I’ll ring downstairs for room service,” I said, yawning.

“It’s the middle of the night.”

“At your end—”

“No, in Kansas,” Ashley cut in. “Look outside.”

I didn’t have to. It was 03:15 according to the TV clock. I’d been asleep almost twelve hours. “Oh.” Now I understood why he was freaking out. “Well, that’s later than I thought…” By about ten hours. “I’m sorry,” I added, contrite.

“You should be. I’m just glad you’re okay. No more drinking until I get there, okay?”

“My liver thanks you for your concern.”

“Laure—”

“All right, all right,” I groaned. “I promise I’ll be good.”

“And keep your phone on,” Ashley added. “Freaks me out when you go dark like that.”

It annoyed me that he wanted to keep tabs on me, but in his shoes I probably would have done the same. “I liked you better when you were telling me how to touch myself,” I quipped.

That earned me an indulgent huff of laughter, which was probably more than I deserved. “Behave and we’ll see how we can mend that tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow? Oh, you sound awfully eager…” I was deflecting and I was sure he knew it, but we played along for a couple of minutes more before hanging up. Neither of us mentioned his spur of the moment confession. It wasn’t the moment to have a heart to heart.

I peeled off my clothes as well as I could without staggering to my feet. My hangovers were few and far between—one of the few perks of drinking since I was sixteen, I supposed—but when they hit, they were legendary. I gave myself a good ten minutes to finish the Coke, taking small sips so as not to upset my already riotous stomach.

Then I braved the short stroll to the bathroom.

Against all odds, I made it to the shower without my knees buckling or hitting my head on the tile. I winced at the first splash of icy water, but waiting for the spray to grow warm was tantamount to playing chicken with my resolve. I was exceptionally tempted to crawl back into bed and try for sleep I knew wouldn’t come.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” became my mantra as I shivered under the showerhead, my makeup and my tears washing away in ash-gray rivulets. The water warmed quicker than I’d expected and the thermostat in the room was as broken as I’d left it. It took less than a minute for my skin to dry once I left the bathroom, and my hair had begun curling rebelliously by the time I mustered the energy to attack it with a comb.

Incensed, I trooped back into the bathroom to dampen the unruly strands. I stopped dead in my tracks when I caught sight of my reflection in the mirror.

Kane was right. I did have my mother’s face. If I’d grown out my hair, worn glasses, I might have been her doppelganger, twenty years too late.

Memories tugged me back.

Warm arms around me, the room whirling dizzily as we spin. The smell of flowery perfume and the lit end of a cigarette. Black hair flutters across my vision. I see my small, plump hand, reaching up.

I see my mother’s sad smile.

The music I’d heard that night must have been Laura Nyro, playing on the shiny turntable I wasn’t allowed to touch. Mom was often sad back then. Had she been weeping that night? The echoes of the past made it difficult to be certain.

Ash scatters into the sink, the dusty flecks reflected on the gleaming enamel. I feel myself slipping as Mom bends to flick the butt into the bin. I tighten my grip around her shoulders. I’m scared of falling.

The record skips. Mom swears, annoyed, and stalks back into the living room. The world bobs around me with every step, but through the kitchen window, I see Daddy.

He’s in the yard behind the house, spade in hand.

He’s striking the dirt like it might strike back.

Angry yard work, I must have thought. I was five or six, still young enough for my mom to carry me in her arms but too old to be oblivious to what went on around me.

I whimper. Words are still difficult, but I know what Daddy’s like when he and Mom fight. I don’t want that tonight. Mom spins me around again, whispering for me to calm down even though she’s the one sniffling.

She staggers, wobbling under our combined weight, and fetches up against the counter. “Ça suffit, maintenant!” Now she’s angry, too.

I press my hand to the glass so I won’t hit my head. I’m not scared, though. Mom has her arms around me and Daddy is just outside, doing yard work. At night.

Through the glass, I watch him toss aside the shovel and grab a plastic bag with both hands. He strains, the tendons in his neck pulling taut, his whole face turning pink.

The bag wriggles like a worm trying to get away.

Dad reaches for the spade. I can tell he’s speaking because his lips move, but I can’t hear him.

The lights from the house spill in a dim halo over my wooden swing set—store-bought because the one Dad tried to build fell apart—and inflatable pool. Two rubber ducks bounced out the last time I played there, dislodged by my splashing. They drag my eye over the overgrown yard and all the way to the garbage bag.

I must have missed it as a six year old, but as an adult I remembered with startling clarity the shape of the sack—long and lean, with two bony mounds in the lower half—never mind the tanned hand that peeked out from amid the tufts of yellowed grass.

I remembered Donna Barnes.