official, arm’s-length. Businesslike. Give him the bad news, whatever it is, and at this point he isn’t sure. But the number Chape left is not the office. It’s the house. They’ve known each other for so long that when Chape picks up, Bobby says, ‘It’s me.’
Big, handsome guy, big voice. ‘Hey, you.’
‘You called?’
‘I did.’ Chape’s third generation Fort Jude. He never starts a meeting until he’s made his manners. ‘How’ve you been?’
‘Good. You?’ Bobby winces.
‘I can’t complain. How long have you been home?’
People gossip. It’s not like Chape doesn’t know. ‘Too long.’
‘All this time and I’ve been meaning to . . .’
‘I know.’ Chape is waiting for him to say, ‘I have too,’ so he does. He did mean to call Chape, really. He just hasn’t, is all. Now he has to offer, ‘Maybe I can give you and Sallie dinner at the club.’
‘We’d love to, just as soon as . . .’ Wait for it. The hesitation. The apologetic, ‘You how it is when you get busy.’
‘Everybody’s busy.’
Like a teacher handing out the consolation prize, Chape says, ‘But we’ll look for you at the party tonight.’
Bobby laughs. ‘I’d rather see me dead in the rain.’
‘That’s kind of why I called. Listen, Bob. We have a problem.’
Confused, Bobby asks, ‘How did you find out?’
‘Word gets around.’ Chape laughs, to show Bobby he’s in charge. Then he rethinks. Puzzled, he asks, ‘How did you?’
‘He was here.’
‘Brad?’
‘Brad!’ Bobby’s stomach sours. ‘Fuck Brad. I haven’t seen Brad since college. Listen Chape, we have a real problem.’
‘Explain.’
‘A kid was here. Could be Lucy’s.’
Fucking lawyer, Chape asks in that controlled tone. ‘How do you know?’
‘He came looking for her house.’ Bobby is deciding whether or not to tell him about the snapshot.
Chape should ask him why, but he doesn’t. For a long, uncomfortable moment, he doesn’t say anything. When they were kids, Bobby’s pal Bellinger drove teachers nuts with his empty, innocent stare: Who, me? Bobby doesn’t have to be there to see it – the smooth, untroubled look of a man whose mind is as empty as 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,