She breathed the city deep, went to the theater and watched a murder of Hamlet, and afterward sat alone at a grill and ate barbecue chicken. She flew back each weekend and saw Jimmy, who had not spoken much since failing his exams.
When she had told him she would be spending her weekdays and some weekends in Kansas he had argued. When she told him why, he had punched the refrigerator, the only damage done to his hand, which Saint had bandaged.
“He gets angry,” Saint said.
“Anger is misplaced fear,” Norma said.
“So he’s scared of the refrigerator? You wouldn’t think that if you saw him without his shirt on. His tits are now bigger than mine.”
Norma bit her lip and turned away.
Saint took to exercise, running at first light, pounding morning streets till she gained in speed and distance. She found a salon in the east of town and had a little blonde added to her browns. She watched changing fashions, big hair and big shoulders and parachute pants. She saw neon and sportswear, each trend only highlighting that she had paused a decade before.
Sundays a farmer’s market took over the corner of Bleaker Park, and Saint spent her time picking through greens, folding back the leaves and tutting at their shade in a move that would have pleased her grandmother. She weighed okra with her hands and prodded at watermelons to gauge their insides, her sterile apartment soon filled with the rich smells of home. She cooked enough for a month, ate alone at a round table, and when she was done began the long cleanup. She took quiet comfort in having her own space, and if she were painfully honest, she would note it was mostly because Jimmy was not there. Sometimes she called and would get the machine; other times she would ask about his day and he would fall mostly quiet and would not ever ask of hers.
In the evening she settled onto her new sofa, closed the blinds, killed the lights, and placed the tape into the stereo.
She listened to Patch’s young voice on the interview tapes.
“I miss her.” His voice echoed around her apartment.
The trade had been simple enough. Saint would search for him, because Himes said she had once found him when no one else could. And in exchange she could use the vast resources of the FBI to look for Grace.
She would train with Himes’s team.
“Robbing banks is serious business,” Himes said, each and every morning, unsmiling as he ate a bran muffin.
At lunch Saint had finally asked why Himes cared so much about finding a man who did not take all that much.
“Some cases reach you. I have a daughter. I would hope if she were ever in trouble there might be a boy like Joseph Macauley to help her.”
Saint looked up from her sandwich. “And?”
Himes dipped a French fry in barbecue sauce. “If we get him now, there’s still a chance for him. He’s ridden his luck. If you don’t bring him in, someone else will put him down.”