MAY
Streaks of pastel blue paint mark the beige wall near the ceiling. Ruby missed a spot the last time she painted. The guest room’s overlarge digital clock ticks away the red minutes. Warren’s wooden train chugs on through the night. Every miniature imagined circuit, Corey’s drawing breathes its dragon breath on Uncle Warren. There’s no getting around the fact that ten years ago he dragged a cardboard box from his attic to the patio, and we set and reset glow-in-the-dark train tracks until bedtime forced us inside.
I search for rest or at least comfort and can’t escape the sheet’s mummy trappings. I can’t escape that stupid train.
During Dad’s and my two-week stay, the caboose—a bright alien green after exposure to the floor lamp—glowed and burned through dozens of AA batteries. I was too old for trains but young enough to stuff Warren’s affection into the massive hole left by Mom. He was so good to me. He is so good to me. I ask my brain to stretch Saran-like around Warren stealing Aulus, Warren wearing a welding helmet, Warren giving the train to Corey. Warren killing Chris.
I can’t.
On the surface, he’s a far worse candidate for the Gemini Thief than Dad.
He’s too . . . Too what?
Good with kids?
That catches like a mental thorn.
Corey’s face appears on the screen of my mind. Damaged, but mostly not afraid Welder would inflict physical harm. He liked Welder. Welder never made him shower. Welder gave him a train. Stockholm syndrome? Sure. But whoever the Thief is . . . he essentially borrows someone else’s children to feed and clothe for a year.
I don’t think my dad loves children that much. Despite Constance’s opinion, Mom leaving a six-year-old daughter in Dad’s care full-time was awkward for all parties involved. The first year he cut my bangs with the same kitchen scissors he used on raw chicken. When I needed a training bra, he shoved money at Mrs. Baxter like he was buying illicit drugs. While other kids were eating hummus and carrots, sliced apples, pretzel sticks and peanut butter from their lunch boxes, Dad sent Vienna sausages and Easy Cheese. He’s been waiting for me to grow up most of my life, which probably explains all the times we’ve eaten ice cream at midnight.
Warren would have kept me a little girl forever.
The first two years we lived in Wildwood, 90 percent of my tantrums ended in I’d rather live with Uncle Warren than you. Once, I overheard Dad telling Warren, Thea loves you more than me. Warren had wisely said, Uncles aren’t in charge of discipline. If I were her dad, she’d hate me too. And my dad said, I don’t know. I really don’t know.
Eventually I grew out of Warren and into Dad. Or maybe I stopped lashing out at him because I couldn’t reach Mom. That didn’t happen until I was, what, nine or ten? By the summer Dad opened the tax shop we were on solid ground. That was 2000.
I stare at the ceiling fan, the math clicking. The Gemini Thief took the first round of boys in June of 2000.
What’s the chance I grew out of Warren, but he didn’t grow out of parenting?
What’s the chance Dad wanted a boy instead of a girl?
The night folds around the horizon. Morning streams through the blinds. Knowing I do not want to be alone with my jumbled thoughts, I scroll through phone contacts. It’s too early to call Gladys or Tank. Nick wouldn’t mind if I woke him, but we’re in such a weird place . . . I spot Constance’s name and realize it’s six a.m. eastern time.
She answers in three rings. “This is Constance O’Brien.”
“This is Thea. Thea Delacroix.” Like an idiot, I add, “Don’s daughter.”
Hectic adrenaline rushes into her voice. I’ve scared her awake. “Thea? Are you okay?”
“I’m sorry I called so early. I shouldn’t—”
“Honey, are you in danger?”
“I’m safe. I . . .” Forming sentences proves difficult.
Now sure my life isn’t at risk, Constance rescues my silence. “No need to apologize. I’m making coffee. You take your time. I’ll listen. I’ll talk. Whatever you need.” She says this with the ease of someone who has been called many times by uncertain parishioners. On the other side of the phone, the coffee machine whirls and dribbles.
I say, “Dad’s getting out of jail today. DNA’s not a match.”
“And you’re feeling . . .” She leaves the response wide open.
“Relief. Fear. Worry. Like someone near me is the Gemini Thief.”
She asks what makes me believe this, and after I confirm our conversation is 100 percent confidential, I tell her about breaking into Dana’s apartment, seeing Corey’s train, remembering the glow-in-the-dark engine from Warren’s attic. “You know Warren, right? From college?”
“Warren Burton.” Constance pauses, maybe sips her coffee. “I do.” Two weighted words followed by more. “We dated. After your dad divorced me.”
Oh. “Does Dad know?”
“I never told him, and I can’t see Warren being forthcoming with the information, given the circumstances.”
“You guys didn’t work out?” The ridiculous question escapes despite the fact that both adults are single and living miles apart.
“We were in different emotional spaces,” she says and then explains. “I was freshly dumped, raw wounds oozing abandonment and divorce all over the place, and Warren was chomping to get married and start a family. That man needed motivated ovaries and a four-bedroom farmhouse.” She laughs easily at the memory. “I couldn’t imagine ever getting married again, ever, much less having kids. Super-bad timing because he’s a great guy.”
I am shocked on two levels, neither of them having to do with Constance. One. Bro code says you don’t date your best friend’s ex-wife. Two. Warren’s not exactly a lady’s man. Sometimes Dad and Griff go on a teasing tear and call him Officer Bach. I was fourteen before I realized it was short for bachelor.
Constance quickly clarifies her role. “I was the third, maybe fourth girl he asked. I’d already been someone’s wife and was unimpressed with the position. Which made me unwilling to be less than the love of someone’s life, and I was never that for Warren.”
“Wow.”
“Thea, am I understanding correctly? You’re wondering if Warren has Aulus?”
I toss the question around my brain. “Maybe.”
How far-fetched is this train theory?
“Let’s assume for a moment you’re right that the Gemini Thief lives in Wildwood,” Constance says. “When you think about Warren Burton, what does your spirit say?”
“My spirit?”
“Your gut. Your inner voice. The untamed thing inside you who often speaks the truth.”
Lady, if my inner voice were functioning, I wouldn’t be talking to a stranger at six a.m. I say something along these lines and Constance sighs. I assume with sadness or pity, but then she surprises me by saying, “I have trouble with my spirit too. For me, that spirit is God. For you, maybe it’s experience or friends or poetry or who knows.” She laughs easily, enjoying her metaphor. “Maybe I need another cup of coffee before I talk theology.”
“Constance, how do you know when your gut, the spirit, or whatever, is right?”
“Other than time?”
“I don’t have the luxury of time.” Or errors. “Aulus. Rufus. Zared. Chris.” Tears clog my windpipe. “Their lives. Dad’s life. Now . . . maybe even Uncle Warren’s. I can’t be wrong. These same questions damaged my father. You should have seen him in jail. My best friend’s parents don’t even want me to stay at their house.” I hug a pillow to my chest. The sun drifts in through the tilted mini-blinds and lights the navy tearstains on the pastel blue sheets. “An accusation would destroy Warren’s career. He’s a cop.”
“You need proof.”
I have that terrible glow-in-the-dark train. I recall what Constance said about starting a church. How she gambled everything. Moving cities, houses, taking out loans, leaving old friends behind. Where did that forward-thinking faith come from?
“You took a risk. How did you know what to do when there was so much at stake? When you had an instinct but nothing else? Because I don’t think I can know if I’m right unless I act like I am, but if I act and I’m wrong . . .”
Constance speaks slowly. “Then you’ll be wrong, and while there might be consequences to your accusation, the people who love you will still love you. And the same will be true for Warren.”
“I don’t think so.”
She shifts gears. “You asked how I knew about starting the church. You want to know the real answer?”
“Please.” I am thirsty for deep waters and eager to treat Constance like a well.
“God showed up in my bedroom and told me to move to Lexington and start a church.”
“God, God?”
“That’s what I call him or her.”
“I didn’t know God did earth visits.” I conjure up my version of this visit. The pastor in her bed squinting fearlessly at an orb of bobbing yellow-white light who sounds like Morgan Freeman or Helen Mirren. Purple sheets and pink comforter fall from clutched fists to Constance’s lap. The night is moonless, and God is made of stars. Warmth strikes her skin like a campfire. “You must have freaked out,” I say.
“I was every emotion at once.”
If this were anyone else, I might doubt. But Constance seems to live her life like an inside-out clock—all gears and workings visible—and for me, this lends her an almost supernatural trustworthiness.
“That’s intense. Has he ever done it again? God, I mean.”
“Shown up in my bedroom?”
“Shown up anywhere.” I want a sense of the possibilities here.
She hesitates. When her voice comes, it’s thready, but true. “One other time.”
“Can you tell me what he said that time?”
“Word for word.” Another pause. “It happened yesterday.”
My heart rapid-fires.
“God told me: Help Don Delacroix finish his castle.”