Baby Please Don't Go: A Novel (8 page)

Jimmy Rogers had been a neighbor and schoolmate, and he’d stood a head taller than Lock. They were friends the way kids that lived on the same block usually were, but Jimmy wasn’t above making Lock the butt of his jokes when he had an audience. One afternoon when they were twelve, Lock was on the street, walking past the Rogers’ residence, when a second-floor window opened and Jimmy’s father leaned out and shouted to him to come in. Lock entered the Rogers’ house and went upstairs. He’d been there a million times. Jimmy and his father were in Jimmy’s room. Jimmy was trying on a new suit he’d just received for his birthday.

“Watch this,” Jimmy’s father said, and proceeded to put the jacket, tags dangling from the sleeve, on his son.

“Reach into your pocket now, Jimmy,” he said.

“Which pocket?” Jimmy asked.

“Any one will do,” his father said.

Jimmy put his hand in one of the jacket pockets and withdrew a crisp one hundred-dollar bill. He beamed and his father laughed. Lock was less excited.

“Now, try another pocket.” his father said.

Jimmy reached into the jacket’s lapel pocket and came out with another one hundred-dollar bill. Lock watched. The two laughed again, repeating this at each pocket in the suit until Jimmy had six or seven hundred dollars in his grip. Jimmy’s father laughed even louder, took the cash out of his son’s hand, and threw it up in the air, creating a shower of fluttering bills. Lock walked out, bounding down the stairs and out onto the porch.

Lock stood there thinking about what his father had given him for his birthday a few months earlier. Nothing.

“Oh, yeah, happy birthday, son,” Lock’s father had told him after school one evening, two days late. “I’ll have to get you a little something, won’t I? What would be a good present?”

Lock knew his father was perpetually broke. “Nothing much, Dad,” he said. “How about a science fiction book? I like this writer named Fredric Brown. Something like that.”

“Will do, son, will do. Freddy Brown. Science fiction.”

After two weeks passed and his father never delivered, Lock gave up hoping for the book.

At school the next day, Jimmy approached Lock on the playground. Jimmy had the cash on him and fanned it out before Lock’s face, grinning. A couple of other kids stood there watching.

“What did Mr. Drunkie get you for your birthday?” Jimmy asked, now sneering at Lock. “A box of puke?”

Everyone laughed except Lock. He reached out and punched Jimmy in the gut, and he went right down. Lock wasn’t particularly strong, but his aim was good and he had knocked the wind out of Jimmy. The other kids formed a circle and started shouting “Fight! Fight! Fight!”

Lock wasn’t finished. He jumped on Jimmy, grabbed him by the hair, and bashed his head several times into the asphalt until two teachers ran over and wrestled him away.

Lock had to go to juvenile court, but nothing ever came of the charges. It had been the first time he’d ever gotten in trouble, though not the first time he had uncapped the rage inside him, and the judge and social worker didn’t make too big of a deal out of the fight. But Lock’s father did—with a strap, every evening, for days. Every time the belt came out, Lock would look out the window at the lonely birch across the street, trying to put his mind into its wood, strong and alone and impervious to what the world served it. After that week, the tree was a kind of friend, and Lock would sometimes reach out and trail his hand over the papery bark on his way to school.

Lock hadn’t seen Jimmy Rogers in more than twenty years, but he thought Jimmy had probably turned out just like Witt Mannheim.

9

As Lock made his way through the tail end of morning rush hour and got closer to his office, the images of Witt Mannheim and Jimmy Rogers faded, and thoughts of Natalie intensified. He could think of nothing but her standing alone in her kitchen as he walked out. A knot tightened in his stomach, and he felt nauseous.

He tried to push her out of his mind, but she just stood there, looking at him through hard, sad eyes. Then he began to picture himself sitting in a dimly lit bar with a bottle of cold beer sitting in front of him. After almost a full year in AA, he was able to realize he wasn’t really clamoring for a drink so much as he was running from something—in this case, Natalie. The drink was merely the closest hiding place. He wouldn’t give in and drink, he knew that, but he was disappointed that his goodbye moment with Natalie made him want one.

He was bigger than the craving, he told himself as he pulled into a parking spot at CPS.

He had a day filled with appointments and interviews and administrative tasks. They would keep him busy, but he knew she’d be relentlessly in his thoughts. He hadn’t been to a meeting in a week and he needed one. He intended to go to an eight o’clock meeting that evening in Chadds Ford.

Lock kept his mind immersed in his work, and as the day wore on, he was surprised at how well he did at keeping images of Natalie at bay. He looked forward to being with a group of recovering drunks that night, knowing the camaraderie would provide some relief. But when he arrived home after work, the first thing he did was plug what he thought of as his Natalie phone into the outlet to let it charge.

While waiting to leave for the meeting, Lock killed time by alternating between flipping through the pages of
American Forests
magazine and watching headlines on CNN. He thought about making a sandwich just for something to do, but he wasn’t hungry. He had tried to make some more notes about the albino redwood in his tree book, but it reminded him too much of Natalie, and he suddenly worried if he’d ever be able to write in it again.

When it was time to head out to Chadds Ford, Natalie still hadn’t called, and she probably wouldn’t. He always switched his cellphone to silent mode during meetings, and he couldn’t help hoping that maybe he’d have a pleasant surprise when he’d check for missed calls after the hour-long gathering.

The meeting was crowded but uneventful, and the only thing he heard there that gave him at least some respite from his Natalie-related thoughts was when someone said, “Sobriety in AA is the first thing in my life that ever worked.”

Lock could say the same thing, and knowing that made him feel better, perhaps because it gave him a sense that if all else failed, he would still have AA to fall back on. That certainly seemed logical. Practically his entire social life these days revolved around AA meetings and the friends and acquaintances he had made there. When he was alone in his carriage house, which was much of the time, he felt confident that substance abuse was solidly in his past.

The AA fellowship cautioned members to avoid the influences of “people, places, and things” formerly associated with their drinking and drugging. Lock abided by that advice, which naturally and dramatically limited his circle of friends, especially the three guys he used to hang around with—the same ones who had been there with him the night he was out of his mind at a bar in Bryn Mawr and, upon leaving, sideswiped three parked cars and nearly punched a cop.

That night, Lock had hidden a glassine envelope of cocaine in his underwear, but the police searched the car and found a half-consumed bottle of vodka and a piece of foil containing a joint. For some reason unknown, they didn’t make an issue of it.

The next day, at noon, Abner escorted Lock to his first meeting. He didn’t argue when his boss insisted. He knew he needed to be there. It was a relief, like pulling into the driveway after an all-night trip. That first day, Lock stopped outside after the meeting and nodded to the big sugar maple tree that stood sentinel over the building. It was how he marked passages in his life, trees like road signs to places new and places familiar. This one pointed in what Lock was sure was a good direction.

Lock slept late the next day and the rest of the week. It was his habit to wake early and listen to the news on public radio while he cooked breakfast, but now he had trouble getting out of bed. There had been no word from Natalie. She wasn’t fading from his mind as completely as he had hoped. Natalie’s absence only made his thinking about her more vivid and frequent.

Deep down, Lock didn’t believe Natalie was really capable of giving up on them. He didn’t trust his own negative assessment of the situation, but he was beginning to accept that it must be true. If he was on her mind as much as she was on his, there was no way she’d be able to resist calling. He knew that made little sense. He hadn’t called her, after all. She was stronger than he was, he concluded, and of course she had a life—her kids, her house, her orchids and her Orchid Society friends.

The fourth day since he had last seen her passed in a blur. Lock drove to the King of Prussia mall, walked around, watched people, and purchased nothing except lunch, which he ate half of. He drove back home, took a nap, watered his plants, and cleaned his bathroom.

Around ten that night, the phone rang. Lock let it ring a few times. If he didn’t answer, then he wouldn’t find out it was not Natalie.

But what if it was? He lunged for the phone and answered before the fourth ring began.

“Is it okay that I called?” Natalie asked.

“No,” he said, “it’s not okay.” He didn’t want her to hear the exhilaration in his tone. He paused to get his voice under control and sat on the sofa. “But don’t hang up, either.”

“I never want to go so many days without speaking to you again,” she said. “I’ve been going crazy thinking about you, thinking about us, fantasizing about what it would be like if it was you, me, and the girls. I want it to be that way.”

“I don’t let myself think about it,” he said. “But yes. I feel the same way.”

“Come over. Now.”

“Can’t do it, Natalie. Love to, but can’t.”

“Yes, you can.”

“Maybe I will,” he said. “Maybe I’ll ring the bell and Witt will open the door for me. Late on a Saturday night.”

“Witt’s in Avalon with the girls,” Natalie said. “I’m sure his lawyer told him to do more with them so in family court he’d look like he’s actually involved in their lives. Four or five years of arm’s-length fathering and now he’s going to erase it with a couple of trips to the beach. What a joke.”

“His lawyer gave him good advice. And I’d bet he’ll be presenting the receipts to the judge to prove how much he loves his children.”

“I didn’t think of that,” she said. “I need your help, Lock. How am I supposed to do this without you? Shit, that sounded needy. You know what I mean, though. I miss you, but I’m thinking about the girls right now. What’s it going to be like for them if he gets primary custody?”

Lock could see himself hurriedly getting dressed and hopping into his car.

“And Candice is off for the weekend,” Natalie said. “Come over, Lock. We’re not done with each other, and you know it.”

“I wish I could.”

“Let me ask you this,” Natalie said. “Did your heart pound every time the phone rang these last few days? When you saw it wasn’t me, didn’t you feel it in the pit of your stomach? That’s how I felt, and if you tell me you didn’t feel like that, I’ll quit bothering you. I know you won’t lie, not even a white lie.”

“Natalie—”

“But if you did feel that way, then we’re not done with each other. There’s a reason that’s happening.”

“Of course I felt the same way. Whenever the phone would ring, I knew who I was hoping it would be. But that doesn’t change anything. You want what’s best for your kids, and getting caught spending time with me isn’t going to look good to a judge.”

She snorted angrily. “And you don’t want to lose your job, either.”

“I don’t,” Lock said, “and I’m not going to apologize for that. My work is important. It’s important to me, and it’s important to the kids I help.”

“I know, I’m sorry. It’s just—”

“I want to come over, but we’d be risking everything.”

“No, Lock, you have it all backwards. If you don’t come over, we’ll be risking everything.”

For a long moment, Lock said nothing. Was she right? Could he build a life and family with her? He felt sure of it, but he knew that was irrational. Even if they were together, anything might happen. It might last a month, or ten years. It had been easy to do the right thing because he knew he wasn’t thinking straight. But now, hearing Natalie say out loud what he had been thinking, something inside him began to shift, slowly, like the beginning of an avalanche.

Lock stood up. He looked around his apartment and could picture a Christmas tree and giggling kids running around. He checked the wood-burning stove. The fire was dying.

“Okay,” he said. “I’ll be there in half an hour. To talk. Nothing else, Natalie. To talk.”

“Just talk,” she said. “Hurry.”

10

En route to Natalie’s house, Lock’s thoughts wandered to when, a little less than a year earlier, he had given up gambling at the same time he swore off alcohol and drugs.

In those first days of craps table abstinence, the hunger for escape was so intense that Lock was convinced that he wasn’t strong enough to resist three powerful vices simultaneously. He knew something had to give. It was a Sunday afternoon when he rationalized that driving into Philadelphia to the Sugar House Casino was a lesser evil than picking up a drink or getting high.

After wrestling for hours with an array of cravings, Lock walked into his kitchen, opened the refrigerator, and took out a Tupperware container in which he always kept a thousand dollars in one hundred-dollar bills. The cash was “emergency funds,” he had always told himself, but it was really gambling money, and rather than take a drink or a drug, he’d get into a craps game. It was safer, he thought, and the effect would be the same—near-total obliteration of whichever thoughts haunted him at the moment.

It came as no surprise when, two hours later, he returned home from the casino with practically no money left. He had sixty bucks left—he had begun his journey to Sugar House with one thousand and sixty-five. At first, he bet with 100-dollar chips and won his first two bets. Within ninety seconds, he was up $300. He took a quick trip to the men’s room to clear his head and get his heart to slow down a bit.

After returning from the bathroom, he took it a little easier, betting only green, 25-dollar chips. As soon as he lost the $300 he had been up, he got more aggressive, betting $150 on each roll. He won a few rolls, but then the trend turned against him. He lost six bets of varying amounts in a row, and the thousand was gone.

He tipped the valet five bucks and drove home. His decision never to gamble again had nothing to do with the money he lost. Though he was far from rich, the cash meant nothing to him. He simply and finally realized there was no difference between cocaine, alcohol, and the green felt of a craps table. In AA, he remembered, someone once said switching vices was like being on the Titanic and demanding a different deck chair.

Now he was on his way to Natalie’s place. Even though Lock’s hands were wrapped around a cold steering wheel, they were sweating, and no matter how many times he swallowed, he could still feel a lump in his throat. It was the same feeling he’d had when he knew it wasn’t in his best interests to be driving to the casino.

I should turn around and go back home
, he told himself
. Or maybe I should stomp on the gas pedal and get to Natalie’s faster. Maybe I should drive my car into a bridge abutment.

He wanted to argue that this was love, or could be love, and that was different. But after years of addictive behaviors, he had at least learned enough so that lying to himself was almost impossible. He flashed on an image of himself and Natalie lounging in deck chairs on the Titanic, glasses of whiskey on the tables next to them. He laughed at the idea and shook his head. Aloud, he said, “Can I get another drink? Oh, and tell the captain there’s an iceberg just ahead, but it’s just the tip.”

When drunk, high, or anchored to a craps table, the only things Lock’s mind entertained were if there was enough booze, where he would be able to get more drugs, or how he’d get even after having lost so much money. Those were benign dilemmas, easier to deal with than the emotions he now sought to obliterate—especially the sense of isolation and the fear that he’d be alone, without a family, forever.
Just talk
, he thought.
That’s fair. That’s not too much to ask for.
But he knew that “just talk” was no different than “just one drink.”

By the time he pulled into Natalie’s driveway, the clamminess in his palms had evaporated.

“Oh my God, Lock,” Natalie said, rushing to him as he entered the kitchen through the driveway door.

She stepped forward and hugged him hard, closing her eyes and holding him tightly. He returned the embrace and then stepped back, holding his hands out to say “slow down.” She smiled and nodded, and he smiled back.

She took him by the hand and led him to the living room, with its beige and black décor, modern furniture, and a freshly started blaze in the fireplace. He eased his hand out of hers and she nodded for him to take a seat on the sofa. He threw his jacket on an armchair and sat where she indicated. Immediately, she sat down next to him, her leg pressing against his. He slid away, only a few inches, but enough to show he intended to stick to the “just talk” arrangement.

She closed her eyes and leaned into him.

“Come on, Natalie,” Lock said.

“Kiss me once,” she said, “and I’ll be satisfied. But I need that kiss. Nothing more, I promise.”

“You promised already,” he said, smiling. “Just talk.”

“So? That was then and this is now. Kiss me.”

He took her hand and kissed it and then folded it into his own.

“Okay, okay,” Natalie said, rolling her eyes and shrugging. “You’re no fun.”

An easy smile came to his face. She smiled back and looked into his eyes.

“I never met a man who said he just wanted to talk who actually just wanted to talk,” she said.

“I told you, I don’t tell lies.”

“Listen,” she said, leaning back and taking a deep breath, “you’re a good man. I knew that the minute I met you, and I want what’s best for my girls and me. If I have to be patient—and believe me, that’s not one of my talents—I’ll be patient.”

A gulp of beer, a line of coke, a roll of the dice. A kiss. Lock’s mind spun.

“You made me think, Natalie,” he said, “when you said that if I didn’t come over, I’d be risking it all. I don’t want to risk anything. I’m finished with gambling. I want to do the right thing.”

“Coming here tonight
is
the right thing. We can take it slow, but we have to take it.”

Lock looked around the room to distract himself, but he couldn’t help it. He had to look back at her. “Oh boy,” he said.

“I know,” she said. “What are you going do? Things happen. That’s life.”

“Things happen when we let them happen.”

“Exactly. That’s how it’s supposed to be. Let things happen naturally. You’re trying to stifle something wonderful.” Natalie ran her fingers through her short hair. “Let me ask you this. Do you want to kiss me?”

“What I want and what’s best are two different things.”

“So that’s a yes,” Natalie said.

“That’s a yes.”

“But you’re going to resist.”

“What else can I do? You’re reckless,” he said.

Natalie started to say something, but he held up a hand. “It’s not a bad thing. It’s one of the things I like about you. I used to be reckless, too. So, yeah, I want to kiss you. But once we do that, we’re committed.” He smiled and cocked his head. “Let’s blow up that bridge when we come to it, okay?”

She laughed. “Okay, we’ll do it your way.” She got up and moved a few feet away to a high-backed chair across from him. “Better?”

“Yes,” Lock said. “No.”

“Definitely no,” she said. “Let’s talk about the kids. The case is still open, and I know that’s part of your concern about us. I appreciate it, I really do. I know you want the best for my kids, so let’s talk about them.”

Lock nodded. “That works.”

“So…if they’re raised in a loveless home, that’s bad for them, right? If they see their parents always fighting, that’s bad for them, too. Right?”

“It’s not ideal, no.”

“If they’re being carted around by a drunk driver, isn’t that dangerous?” she asked.

“Yes, that’s pretty bad.”

“Then help me, tutor me,” she said. “About things fathers do, things that matter to judges, so I can recognize it when he does it—because I can guarantee you, if it’s irresponsible, Witt will do it.”

Lock straightened up ever so slightly at this. “What, give you a few ideas about signs of abuse, excessive clinginess, kids getting moody for no reason? That kind of thing?”

“No, things for me to be on the lookout for, things that Witt is doing that he shouldn’t be.”

“Evidence for your custody case.”

“Exactly. I need to know how to build a good case. I’m not Witt. I’d never invent anything, but he will, so I have to be as prepared as I can. Don’t make me fight him with one hand tied behind my back.”

“So I give you ideas based on my experience and help you wind up with a better custody order. A better settlement. You’d take better care of Edwina and Dahlia than Witt ever could. Right?”

“That’s it. Nothing else. There’s nothing wrong with that. Just talk.” She smiled, and he laughed.

“Maybe you’ll get better than a fifty-fifty split. And this house—”

“—and the one in Avalon, and twenty-five grand a month instead of pocket change,” she said. “It’s okay, I know what you’re thinking.”

He shrugged. “Sorry. You do this job long enough, you get a little cynical. You do deserve those things, though. It’s the law, and you’d be using the money to take care of the girls. It’s not like you’re flying to Acapulco every weekend and leaving them home. I get it, I really do. The girls deserve the best life you can give them.”

“Thank you. It’s important to me that you understand the position I’m in. Witt’s going to try to leave me with nothing, not even my girls. There’s nothing wrong with me going for that as long as there’s no perjury. It’d be stupid for me to go into this with my eyes shut.”

“I don’t think you’re wrong. It’s going to be hard. Don’t fool yourself about that. But you’re a good mother, and if he’s still drinking and driving or whatever, getting proof of that will go a long way to making sure you get primary custody.”

She stood, took a long step, and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek and immediately moved away. “Don’t worry,” she said, grinning. “You didn’t kiss me. No violation of your professional ethics.”

Lock laughed. He rubbed his cheek and said, “There. No evidence. You know, I’ve been thinking about your comment a couple of weeks ago about Edwina and how you hate her name. First of all, it’s not that bad, I kind of like it. And second, Eddie is a great nickname. And maybe she’ll like it. And if she doesn’t, when she’s older, she can change it. Here’s something I never told you. I changed my name when I was twenty.”

“Changed it to Lochlan?” Natalie asked. “From what? Elmer?”

“I didn’t change my first name,” he said. “I changed my last name. From Hauptmann. I’d never change my first name—my mom gave it to me. But my father and I didn’t get along at all. He was a bad drunk and he was mean. I wanted nothing to do with him. I definitely didn’t want to share a name with him. Then, after years of my father’s abuse and neglect, my mother died. Her kidneys quit on her. Kilkenny’s a county in Ireland. I altered the spelling to make the name unique and went to court and changed my last name to Gilkenney. My mom always said she wanted to be buried in Ireland, and when she was thirty-nine, she got her wish.”

“That’s sad.”

He shook his head. “I don’t know what made me think of that. I guess what I’m trying to say is that maybe Edwina isn’t the name you wanted, but she’ll like it, or she can change it to something she does like. Names are powerful things. Maybe the Edwina she’ll experience herself as will be different from the one Witt wanted. It’s like...” He looked out the back window. “Like the tree in the yard. I thought it was a
sempervirens
redwood and I was confused. I couldn’t figure out how one could live in such a cold place. But it turned out to be the Chinese variant, and then suddenly it made sense.”

“I get it,” Natalie said. “Maybe you’re right. And it’s not just Witt, either. Maybe Edwina will turn into an Edwina different from the one I want or know. Someone even more special.”

“I’m sure she’ll be more special than either of us can imagine.”

Natalie said, “So you have no parents, but you’re in the making-parents-behave business.”

Lock nodded. “I can’t make people do the right thing, but I can try to stop them from doing the wrong thing, and I can help make children safer. And that’s what I do. That’s my life.”

Natalie got up and moved to her original spot next to Lock. She draped her arm around his shoulders.

He cocked his head and said, “Still just talking, right?”

“Of course. You know, Gilkenney, the more I learn about you, the more I want you in my life,” she said. “You’ve got a big heart, and there’s a lot more thinking going on in there than you let on.” She tapped a finger on his temple.

“Thank you. Sometimes I worry I think too much, spend too much time in my head. Here’s a thought you won’t like—maybe I can get this case reassigned to another investigator so that—”

“Oh my God, don’t do that,” she said.

“Hear me out,” he said. “That would reduce the risk of our friendship compromising your case. And then, once your divorce is final, we could do whatever we wanted and know that we put your girls first.”

“I appreciate it,” she said, “I really do, but the girls are crazy about you. They’re just like their mother. It’s selfish, probably, but I don’t want some stranger trying to figure out what’s going on here. I’m sure your colleagues are competent, but they’re not you.”