Read Online In Their Blood by Sharon Potts - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Sharon Potts
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forehead and shoulders.
She patted off the dirt or dust from the back of her jeans. She was petite and delicate— built a lot like Elise. “You’re Jeremy, no?” she asked, extending her hand. She had small hands with bitten-down nails. “I’m Marina Champlain. I worked very closely with your father. I’m his graduate assistant. Was, I mean.”
Marina Champlain. You’d remember her if you’d met her , Lieber had said.
Jeremy hadn’t released her hand. He dropped it, self-conscious.
“I didn’t recognize you at first,” Marina said. “At the … at the Castillos’ house, you had a beard— like Miami Vice , no? And long hair. I saw you get out of a limo. You missed the funeral. Someone said your flight was delayed. But they should have waited for you. His son. Their son. I’m sorry, I’m rambling, but I want to tell you how much I grieve for you and your sister.” Her eyes were watering and her narrow nose had turned red. She opened a booklet that was lying on a pile on the desk, but Jeremy could tell she wasn’t seeing it. “He spoke of you and Elise all the time,” she said.
How well she seemed to know his father, but Jeremy hadn’t even been aware of her existence.
“So you’ve come to say good-bye to your father’s office?”
“Actually, I just registered for a couple of night classes.”
“I thought you were traveling. Finding yourself.”
“Is that how my father put it?”
Her black bra strap slipped off her shoulder and stuck out of the sleeve of her white tee shirt. She adjusted it. “He was hoping you’d come home. So now it seems you have.”
“Yes. I suppose I have.”
“To take care of things, yes?”
“Kind of like that.”
She waved her hand over the papers and cartons, reminding Jeremy of a conductor cueing an orchestra. “I’m organizing,” she said. “It’s a lot of work. Your father was a great man. But one thing he wasn’t was organized.”
“Shouldn’t his family have been invited to go through his things first?” Jeremy said.
She covered her mouth, looking genuinely dismayed. “I’m so sorry, but I don’t know, Jeremy.” She pronounced his name with a soft ‘j’ as though she was saying it in French. “Dr. Winter asked me to go through your father’s papers. But I’ll stop if you’d like to do it yourself.”
“That’s okay,” Jeremy said, annoyed by the dean’s eagerness to get the office cleared out. “Just keep doing what you were doing.”
He flipped through some files behind his father’s desk. The corner of the credenza was blackened and the wall behind it was shades of brown.
“You know about the fire, yes?” Marina asked.
Vaguely, Jeremy remembered his mother e-mailing him about a fire in his dad’s office a couple of months ago. “Tell me,” Jeremy said.
“It was this past November, just after your father’s paper against the Cuban embargo came out. It’s believed some students— anti-Castro extremists— set the fire. Many Cubans are upset with your father’s politics.”
“Okay,” Jeremy said slowly, thinking, “but why would anyone think extremists set the fire? Maybe my dad just left a cigarette burning.”
She shook her head adamantly. Her lips were disproportionately small and round— like a perfect red circle. “They spray painted the door,” Marina said. “ Cuba Libre . The battle cry of the Cuban exiles.”
“Was anyone caught?” Jeremy asked.
“It seems not.”
“Did my father write anything else after that that might upset them?”
She opened her mouth to answer, then froze.
“Can I help you, sir?” said a tight male voice in the doorway. Jeremy recognized his father’s former boss, Dr. Winter. Winter was wearing a navy blazer, pressed gray pants, and a blue shirt. The uniform of the cognitive elite. On his feet, small for such a tall man, were tasseled leather loafers.
“Ah.” The dean’s face changed in recognition, as he stroked his shiny bald head. “You’re D.C.’s
She patted off the dirt or dust from the back of her jeans. She was petite and delicate— built a lot like Elise. “You’re Jeremy, no?” she asked, extending her hand. She had small hands with bitten-down nails. “I’m Marina Champlain. I worked very closely with your father. I’m his graduate assistant. Was, I mean.”
Marina Champlain. You’d remember her if you’d met her , Lieber had said.
Jeremy hadn’t released her hand. He dropped it, self-conscious.
“I didn’t recognize you at first,” Marina said. “At the … at the Castillos’ house, you had a beard— like Miami Vice , no? And long hair. I saw you get out of a limo. You missed the funeral. Someone said your flight was delayed. But they should have waited for you. His son. Their son. I’m sorry, I’m rambling, but I want to tell you how much I grieve for you and your sister.” Her eyes were watering and her narrow nose had turned red. She opened a booklet that was lying on a pile on the desk, but Jeremy could tell she wasn’t seeing it. “He spoke of you and Elise all the time,” she said.
How well she seemed to know his father, but Jeremy hadn’t even been aware of her existence.
“So you’ve come to say good-bye to your father’s office?”
“Actually, I just registered for a couple of night classes.”
“I thought you were traveling. Finding yourself.”
“Is that how my father put it?”
Her black bra strap slipped off her shoulder and stuck out of the sleeve of her white tee shirt. She adjusted it. “He was hoping you’d come home. So now it seems you have.”
“Yes. I suppose I have.”
“To take care of things, yes?”
“Kind of like that.”
She waved her hand over the papers and cartons, reminding Jeremy of a conductor cueing an orchestra. “I’m organizing,” she said. “It’s a lot of work. Your father was a great man. But one thing he wasn’t was organized.”
“Shouldn’t his family have been invited to go through his things first?” Jeremy said.
She covered her mouth, looking genuinely dismayed. “I’m so sorry, but I don’t know, Jeremy.” She pronounced his name with a soft ‘j’ as though she was saying it in French. “Dr. Winter asked me to go through your father’s papers. But I’ll stop if you’d like to do it yourself.”
“That’s okay,” Jeremy said, annoyed by the dean’s eagerness to get the office cleared out. “Just keep doing what you were doing.”
He flipped through some files behind his father’s desk. The corner of the credenza was blackened and the wall behind it was shades of brown.
“You know about the fire, yes?” Marina asked.
Vaguely, Jeremy remembered his mother e-mailing him about a fire in his dad’s office a couple of months ago. “Tell me,” Jeremy said.
“It was this past November, just after your father’s paper against the Cuban embargo came out. It’s believed some students— anti-Castro extremists— set the fire. Many Cubans are upset with your father’s politics.”
“Okay,” Jeremy said slowly, thinking, “but why would anyone think extremists set the fire? Maybe my dad just left a cigarette burning.”
She shook her head adamantly. Her lips were disproportionately small and round— like a perfect red circle. “They spray painted the door,” Marina said. “ Cuba Libre . The battle cry of the Cuban exiles.”
“Was anyone caught?” Jeremy asked.
“It seems not.”
“Did my father write anything else after that that might upset them?”
She opened her mouth to answer, then froze.
“Can I help you, sir?” said a tight male voice in the doorway. Jeremy recognized his father’s former boss, Dr. Winter. Winter was wearing a navy blazer, pressed gray pants, and a blue shirt. The uniform of the cognitive elite. On his feet, small for such a tall man, were tasseled leather loafers.
“Ah.” The dean’s face changed in recognition, as he stroked his shiny bald head. “You’re D.C.’s
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