At the end of February, Benedict asked if I’d come have a drink one night. That wasn’t like him, so I didn’t dare say no. He was glum: he’d gotten into a fight with Bess over the kid and I could see he was in a funk.
He pulled out a bottle of brandy from his father’s best days and said he didn’t want to waste it on Cole and Clifford, who had no appreciation for the finer things in life, who just drank moonshine these days.
I didn’t have anything against the man, but I still asked him straight out how he’d met the boy’s mother. I couldn’t say it felt good to wrest the facts out of him when he had no idea about my intentions—but the woman had sent me here, and she wanted something in return. A photo here and there of the boy wouldn’t do anymore; she wanted him in her hands. So I had to step it up. I couldn’t spend the rest of my life here.
Bess was upstairs. He’d had far more to drink than I had and I guess he figured it was just between the two of us. He told me about getting to New York, about how much he’d hated the city. He’d spent all his life in that clear, cold Alaska air, and the heat of the city made it almost impossible to breathe. A good Christian would have taken that for a taste of hell, he said.
I piped up that it wasn’t the weather but the people. And then I asked when he’d come. That was when I realized that his story didn’t add up. A boy born in early February couldn’t have been conceived at the end of August—not unless he wasn’t the father. So I had the answer I’d come here for. It was no concern of mine who the boy’s real dad was, but I still kept all those details tucked away in my head. The boy’s first name, the fact that he barely looked like Benedict—it didn’t take a career policeman to connect the dots. If Benedict was just his uncle, then the acknowledgment of paternity was a lie.
Over the next few days I grabbed a few of the boy’s hairs from his wool hat, and, for Benedict, it was easy as pie to take one of his cigarette butts when he came over to the house to smoke so the kid wouldn’t see him. I put both in sealed bags and folded up an envelope made out to Mrs. Berger. I figure that gave the lady enough to get her grandson back and I could go home again at last.
But home where? She’d convinced me not to get in touch with Martha again—that it was better she thought I was dead. I felt ashamed for listening to her without even asking any questions. What made her so sure that it was better that way? And how could I just leave my own wife just because I was ashamed to tell her the truth? I was no better than any of the men I’d handcuffed on the job. I’d left Martha only to make friends with the people living here, men and even animals. Cornelia, the dog Benedict gave me, was so happy to see me when I got up every morning, like I was the best master anyone could dream of. She loved me no matter what I’d been before, no matter what horrible things I’d done.
Now I’m sitting in the chair of the man I’m going to betray, in his own house. He’s welcomed me here, he’s been a friend to me, and I’m repaying him by taking away what he cares most about. And what’s my reason? That I sold my soul to some stranger.