and roofing shingles littered yards and the sides of the road, and dozens of downed trees were resting on houses or cars, or sticking through broken windows. A yellow and red plastic play structure was wedged high in an old elm tree. There was a collection of five or six garbage cans rolling around in one driveway.
Coming around a corner, she squealed in horror.
A leg sat in a pile of leaves over an impacted grate, a shallow gutter stream gently bumping it, making the appendage shift and quiver.
Hara didn’t want to but her eyes looked again, without her brain’s permission.
After a second, she let out a breathless laugh. It was the leg to a mannequin. Hard plastic, the toes represented by one solid wedge shape. She took a picture on her phone of the surreal scene and texted it to Carter. Art everywhere, boss.
Eventually she found her way to Ms. Butler’s address. The home was the same style and size as the other houses on the street, but the new siding and windows and roof stood out, as did the wide veranda. The front walk area was landscaped, while the other homes had patches of mud or moss and chain-link fences. The street was lined with old Jeeps and run-down Honda sedans but there was a black Mercedes in the driveway.
The differences didn’t prove anything. Her son was making millions. If anything, it was crazy that she still lived in this neighborhood and she only had one car.
Hara went to the front door but hesitated before ringing the bell. What exactly was she supposed to say? Hey, did you take a bribe a few years ago?
The woman must have seen her through the side window. She opened the door before Hara had a chance to push the doorbell. “Yes? May I help you?”
“Hello. Are you Ms. Butler, the mother of Charles Butler?”
The older woman’s face remained impassive, but her high cheekbones and the shape of her nose and mouth were the same as the famous ballplayer’s.
“Um, hi, my name is Hara Isari. I’m a reporter out of Portland.” Hara held up her press pass, which any third grader with a printer could have made. “I interviewed your son a couple of nights ago and thought I might do a follow-up piece. Would you be willing to answer some questions?”
“No. Honey, I ain’t tryin’ to be rude, but my boy has told me not to talk to reporters.”
“Oh. Well. He’s already sat down with me. Are you sure you can’t take a second…” The woman crossed her arms and shook her head. Hara hadn’t expected to be shut down quite so quickly. “Do you mind if I leave a card, in case you change your mind?” The young reporter pushed a card at the woman before she could answer.
Closing her fingers around the business card, Ms. Butler said, “You go on along now, you hear? Don’t make me feel bad.” She didn’t wait for Hara to respond; instead, Charles Butler’s mother slowly but firmly closed the door in Hara’s face.
Next stop, library archives, to find any old articles that might have featured Charles back when he was a high school phenom.
Later, she’d dig up Butler’s high school coaches, to see what they had to say. She was going to have to interview college coaches and managers, too, but those questions were going to have to be carefully curated, if she had any chance at all of getting them to talk to her.
Maybe she would eat first. A straight caffeine diet was not doing her any favors, even if Hara’s mother would beg to differ. Despite being closed out by Ms. Butler, and starving to death, she was excited about this chance to redeem herself, to really do something important. To prove she didn’t need her daddy to shape her world.
* * *
“Ms. Isari? We have a message for you. It was just dropped off,” said the clerk at the hotel’s front desk, catching her attention.
Maybe it was Derek. A thrill went through her. She’d sent him a text hours ago, trying to sound casual, telling him where she was staying but with no pressure for him to get back to her.
That’s what she’d written, anyway, but it was a lie. She did not feel casual. He hadn’t responded and it was making her stomach clench and her insecurities go into overdrive, mostly along the lines of who was she to think Derek Darcy was going to do anything more than get