a pond. ‘What does that have to do with me?’
‘He’s asking questions.’
Take that, you bland, self-important bastard. Like I’m going to spell it out.
‘I see.’ Chape says smoothly, ‘Let’s keep it to ourselves, OK?’
Bobby groans. ‘You know this town. One phone call and everybody will know.’
Bellinger uses the dramatic pause.
Take that!
Then: ‘They don’t have to know we’re connected. Can you hold? Another call.’
Bobby holds, wondering what would be lost if he just hung up.
Before he can, Chape is back. Crisp and urgent. Agenda Man. ‘Something’s come up. Give me your cell number. I may need you here.’
8
Dan Carteret
Not every decision Dan makes is rational. They said, ‘Your mom just died. Don’t try to make big decisions or operate heavy machinery until you’re over it.’ Yeah, right. He dropped everything and flew to Fort Jude – on what? Two snapshots and a gold plated football. Weird stories about human furnaces, printed out at a Kinko’s in New London.
What was he thinking?
That his mother stashed her past in that box on her high dresser for him to find, but it’s a long way from there to here.
His first try fell flat – ten minutes, an hour ago – how long has he been sitting here under a tree outside the Publix? Stupid, thinking he could walk up to the house in Lucy’s snapshot and find Family. Grandparents. Aunts. That they’d hug him, all,
My how you’ve grown
, ply him with milk and cookies and tell him everything. Or that Lucy’s secret lover would show up for the Greek recognition scene:
Father!
The smack of flesh on flesh colliding.
Son!
Instead there was only Chaplin. Was the curtain moving in the Magic Kingdom turret behind him, a woman peeking out? He can’t be sure. He should have stuck it to the charming bastard while he had him, flashed the Jeep snapshot, but Chaplin is too – what. Faded to be one of them. Even thinking about it makes his belly shrink. The man was laid open, standing out there in the road with his hands floating up like origami cranes.
Shit, Dan should have stuck it to him. —You knew her, you probably took this fucking picture.
The trouble is, he can’t prove it. He should have homed in: —What else would she be doing out in front of your house, back when you could still afford to paint it?
Back when she was happy
.
He should have leaned on Chaplin, hard. —What changed her, or is it who? Was it you?
He was too seized up to ask, —Are you him?
He isn’t ready yet. Afraid Chaplin will say yes and when Dan gets old, he’ll be weak and apologetic, just like him. Coward, he took directions to the Archambault house, thanked the guy, got back his car and left. It’s not like he was running away, he just couldn’t be there, OK? Not that he’s dodging that particular question. It’s just too soon.
In fact, he is running ahead of the answer.
He used to think anything was possible; kids do. When he found his real dad everything would change. When Lucy said it wasn’t Burt his heart jumped.
Now!
But she bound him with,
He wouldn’t want you to know
. The rest is gnawing its way out of his belly now. What was she afraid to tell him? That his genetic package contains a wild card, he decides. That he’s been holding it since birth. He knows in his gut that there’s something waiting inside him that he has no name for, some buried shame or latent power or unimaginable secret, and here in the town where his mother grew up and – he thinks – met his father and fell in love, the knowledge leaves him laid wide open.
Waiting for it to show itself.
It can’t be Chaplin.
He has to know. He runs his fingers along his jaw, divining the bony structure. He and Lucy have the same eyes, but the shape of his skull comes from someone else, not that polished failure he left paddling in the road. He holds his hands up to the light, half-expecting to see the truth outlined in the tapering fingers or written in the network of veins on
‘He’s asking questions.’
Take that, you bland, self-important bastard. Like I’m going to spell it out.
‘I see.’ Chape says smoothly, ‘Let’s keep it to ourselves, OK?’
Bobby groans. ‘You know this town. One phone call and everybody will know.’
Bellinger uses the dramatic pause.
Take that!
Then: ‘They don’t have to know we’re connected. Can you hold? Another call.’
Bobby holds, wondering what would be lost if he just hung up.
Before he can, Chape is back. Crisp and urgent. Agenda Man. ‘Something’s come up. Give me your cell number. I may need you here.’
8
Dan Carteret
Not every decision Dan makes is rational. They said, ‘Your mom just died. Don’t try to make big decisions or operate heavy machinery until you’re over it.’ Yeah, right. He dropped everything and flew to Fort Jude – on what? Two snapshots and a gold plated football. Weird stories about human furnaces, printed out at a Kinko’s in New London.
What was he thinking?
That his mother stashed her past in that box on her high dresser for him to find, but it’s a long way from there to here.
His first try fell flat – ten minutes, an hour ago – how long has he been sitting here under a tree outside the Publix? Stupid, thinking he could walk up to the house in Lucy’s snapshot and find Family. Grandparents. Aunts. That they’d hug him, all,
My how you’ve grown
, ply him with milk and cookies and tell him everything. Or that Lucy’s secret lover would show up for the Greek recognition scene:
Father!
The smack of flesh on flesh colliding.
Son!
Instead there was only Chaplin. Was the curtain moving in the Magic Kingdom turret behind him, a woman peeking out? He can’t be sure. He should have stuck it to the charming bastard while he had him, flashed the Jeep snapshot, but Chaplin is too – what. Faded to be one of them. Even thinking about it makes his belly shrink. The man was laid open, standing out there in the road with his hands floating up like origami cranes.
Shit, Dan should have stuck it to him. —You knew her, you probably took this fucking picture.
The trouble is, he can’t prove it. He should have homed in: —What else would she be doing out in front of your house, back when you could still afford to paint it?
Back when she was happy
.
He should have leaned on Chaplin, hard. —What changed her, or is it who? Was it you?
He was too seized up to ask, —Are you him?
He isn’t ready yet. Afraid Chaplin will say yes and when Dan gets old, he’ll be weak and apologetic, just like him. Coward, he took directions to the Archambault house, thanked the guy, got back his car and left. It’s not like he was running away, he just couldn’t be there, OK? Not that he’s dodging that particular question. It’s just too soon.
In fact, he is running ahead of the answer.
He used to think anything was possible; kids do. When he found his real dad everything would change. When Lucy said it wasn’t Burt his heart jumped.
Now!
But she bound him with,
He wouldn’t want you to know
. The rest is gnawing its way out of his belly now. What was she afraid to tell him? That his genetic package contains a wild card, he decides. That he’s been holding it since birth. He knows in his gut that there’s something waiting inside him that he has no name for, some buried shame or latent power or unimaginable secret, and here in the town where his mother grew up and – he thinks – met his father and fell in love, the knowledge leaves him laid wide open.
Waiting for it to show itself.
It can’t be Chaplin.
He has to know. He runs his fingers along his jaw, divining the bony structure. He and Lucy have the same eyes, but the shape of his skull comes from someone else, not that polished failure he left paddling in the road. He holds his hands up to the light, half-expecting to see the truth outlined in the tapering fingers or written in the network of veins on
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