The Cure (16 page)

Riley Keep had done his work, and it was good.

Wiping frozen tears beside Teal Pond, Riley turned away from the sight of Hope and forced himself to think of other things, less happy things than beauty on the ice. It did not take him long to put his thoughts in order. Returning his attention to the pond he saw her at the shoreline now, with two men by the warm-up tent, neither of them Dylan. The men’s backs were to Riley as he approached, but he had a clear view of Hope’s face in the instant that she saw him coming.

She was smiling and then she saw him and then she was not smiling.

Standing behind the men, Riley said, “You can still skate.”

“Oh no. Did you see that?”

“Wow.”

“I was so embarrassed.”

“Why? Did you do it to show off?”

“I don’t think so.” She cocked her head, looking at him. “It just came out.”

He let her see his eyes, just for a second, without meaning to. “Well then. . . .”

The two men with her turned toward Riley, and his heart began to race. One was the chief of police. The other was Bill Hightower. He had done his best to avoid these men, the only ones besides Henry Reardon and the homeless at the shelter who had met him as Stanley Livingston. Riley was in disguise as someone clean-cut now, with his new false teeth, eyeglasses, and store-bought wardrobe. He had regained his former weight and put on muscle. Many people from his former life now recognized him around Dublin—old neighbors and acquaintances greeting him at work and on the streets—but would these men see past his new disguise and perceive the skinny, toothless, shaggy Stanley Livingston? Would Bill Hightower see him as that person stranded in the woods? Would the chief recognize the prisoner he had accused of murder in his jail? Was this the end of Riley’s new life as his old self?

Riley thought of running. Then Hightower smiled warmly and extended a gloved hand. “Reverend Keep, isn’t it? Or should I call you Professor?”

Riley let the hand hang in the air a moment longer than he should, loath to pretend civility to this man who had run him out of town, but also celebrating, for clearly Hightower did not see a hint of Stanley Livingston. Finally he took the tall man’s hand, saying, “It’s been a long time since anybody called me either one.”

Hope said, “You remember Bill Hightower, Riley.”

“Of course he does,” said Hightower. “But it’s been a while. I think we last saw each other at some kind of function over at Bowditch. Maybe a fund-raiser?”

Riley didn’t know what to say. He had been to many fund-raisers in his short time at Bowditch, but remembered very few. Most of them had open bars.

“Any relation to the mayor here?” asked the chief.

“I once had that honor,” replied Riley, daring to lift his eyes toward Hope. She had looked away.

“Oh, nicely said!” exclaimed Hightower. “Reverend Keep, this is our chief of police, Steve Novak.”

“Nice to meet you, Chief.” Riley shook the policeman’s hand.

“Call me Steve.” The big man searched his face. “Have we met before?”

Riley couldn’t find his voice.

Unknowingly, Hope came to his rescue. “I think Riley left town a little while before you moved here, Steve. He just got back a few months ago.”

Still looking straight at Riley’s face, the chief said, “Maybe I’ve seen ya around Dublin?”

“Maybe.” Riley cleared his throat. “Uh, I’m working at the Downtown Diner.”

“Really? Doin’ what?”

“Serving. Cleaning. A little cooking. Whatever Sadie needs.”

“But I thought you were a preacher or a professor or something.”

“It’s a long story.”

“I’d sure like to hear it.”

“I, uh . . .”

“Steve,” said Hope. “Maybe we should change the subject.”

“What? Oh, sorry. Always getting too personal with people.” But even then his eyes were right on Riley. “Goes with the job.”

Hope and the two men kept on talking, kidding each other, gossiping a little, calling to friends and neighbors on the ice, having a good time. Riley said as little as possible. It felt strange, people acting like they were at a party when no one held a drink. Riley had no idea what to say or do. He had been living on another level for too long. He was a child at play among adults; the game was charades and every clue was way above his head. He could not keep from thinking the lawyer or policeman would eventually see through him—especially the policeman, who had a disconcerting way of looking straight at Riley’s face. The man was most likely trained to memorize a person’s features, to recognize a fugitive— even one so thoroughly disguised as Riley.

His best defense would be to walk away, but how could he explain that when he was there at Hope’s invitation? He stole a glance at the beautiful woman who had once been his wife; he watched her as she watched the skaters on the ice, her profile perfect, like a Grecian sculpture of a goddess. In the distance just beyond her, Riley saw a movement. His daughter stepped from the tree line, closely followed by a young man wearing a dark trench coat and a black watch cap. The friendly chatter of Riley’s companions became an unintelligible droning in the background as he observed Bree hurrying toward them, the young man following, then catching up and reaching out to lay a hand on her arm. His daughter stopped and shook the hand off, her posture defiant. She said something to the boy and then set out again, her face an angry mask. When the boy behind her grabbed her arm again, yanking her to a halt, Riley looked at Hope and said, “I’m gonna go say hello to Bree.” Hope nodded as he set out toward their daughter.

Bree stood facing Riley’s direction, her arms crossed in defiance. The young man’s back was turned. She looked past the boy, seeing Riley come. He rejoiced at the relief in her eyes. Removing his gloves as he drew near, Riley called, “Bree? You okay?”

The young man turned. Up close Riley saw a silver ring in each of his ears, another through his nose, and a fringe of hair below his cap in alternating shades of blond and green and purple. The young man’s eyes flashed with annoyance at the interruption. Twin puffs of steamy breath shot from his nostrils like smoke from an angry cartoon bull. He was maybe twenty pounds heavier than Riley, three inches taller, and twenty-five years younger. He said, “Who are you, man?”

Riley ignored the boy, looking past him. “Bree?”

“I’m okay.”

“You sure?”

The young man looked back at Bree. “Who’s this guy, baby?”

Bree set her jaw stubbornly, saying nothing.

Riley asked, “You wanna come warm up in the tent with me a while?”

“Yeah,” said Bree, pushing past the boy.

“Wait a minute!” The young man reached out to grab her arm again.

Riley said, “You need to let her go.”

“Hey, man, this ain’t your business.”

“Just let her go, okay?”

Bree couldn’t break the young man’s grip this time. She winced at the pressure of his fingers on her arm. At the sight of that, although Riley knew nothing about fighting, although it never crossed his mind to even move, his fist shot out and connected solidly with the young man’s jaw. The sudden attack seemed to surprise both the boy and Bree. It certainly surprised Riley. Releasing her, the young man swung around to face him squarely, one hand rubbing his jaw, the other hanging loosely at his side.

Bree touched the young man’s arm. “You okay?”

“Sure.”

She gave his arm a pat and set out toward the warm-up tent without a backward glance at either of them. Riley remained facing the young man near the ice. Suddenly he remembered taking off his gloves while he was walking over. He realized he had intended for this to happen. He had prepared for it. He felt ashamed. Watching the young man’s hands he said, “You okay?”

The boy spat into the snow. Riley saw no blood in it. Looking down on him, the boy said, “You hit like a girl.”

“I know. Just . . . leave her alone.”

“Hey, man, I
love
her!”

Me too, thought Riley, turning away from the boy.

He followed his daughter’s slightly bowlegged gait toward the warm-up tent. To his left he saw Hightower on the ice, a towering scarecrow plodding along on his skates. He saw Hope and the police chief still in conversation beside the tent. Riley felt relieved. It seemed no one had witnessed his pathetic demonstration.

Up ahead, Bree slipped between the flaps of the tent’s entrance. Riley followed. Inside were a lot of unoccupied folding chairs and ten or twelve people standing next to a folding table. Several hissing propane heaters struggled in vain against the freezing temperature. On the table was a steaming pot of cider, its fruity aroma rich in Riley’s nostrils. He helped himself to two foam cups and filled them and carried them toward Bree, who stood at a heater near the back, smoking a cigarette.

“Here you go,” said Riley.

Wordlessly, she took the cup.

He said, “I didn’t know you smoked.”

Looking away, she did not reply.

He said, “Why would you do that?”

“You oughta know. I’m
addicted
.”

He let that settle in. Then, “How’s your arm? Did that boy hurt you?”

“You didn’t have to hit him.”

“I’m sorry, Vachee.”

She glanced at him, and then away again. Was that disappointment in her eyes? She took a long, deep drag and then ground out her cigarette on the earth beneath her boot. They stood silently, sipping the hot cider. Riley heard voices through the fabric of the tent: Hope and the police chief, standing just there, three feet away but out of sight. He tried to ignore them. He tried to remember the last time he had been alone with his daughter. He could not recall.

“Sometimes I say things to him,” said Bree. “I can be kinda mean. I don’t know why.”

The confession made his hand tremble as he took a sip. It was the first time she had said anything important to him since his return. He tried to think of a wise reply. He heard the policeman’s voice beyond the fabric of the tent, telling Hope she had to take something more seriously. His mind wandered back and forth between the conversations as Bree kept talking.

“He’s not a bad person. I know you think he is, but he’s really not.”

Riley thought a moment. “He’s a lot bigger than I am but he didn’t try to hit me back. That’s something.”

When Bree didn’t reply, he wondered if he had made a mistake, saying something positive about the boy. Should he have disagreed with her? Told her there was never any excuse for a man to lay his hands on someone the way her boyfriend had? But how could he say that when he himself had walked into her life from out of nowhere, out of nothing, and punched her young man in the jaw?

Outside the tent the police chief’s voice warned Hope about the Mercedes. People wanted to know how she could afford such a car on a mayor’s salary. People were talking. A councilman had asked the chief to investigate officially.

He did not want to do it, but maybe Hope should go ahead and let him know where the car had come from.

Hope replied, her voice almost too weak to hear, saying she was sure the car had come from Dylan. He had a new client, some company in Delaware, and he was making lots of money as a lawyer, and he wanted her to marry him.

“I don’t know what to do,” said Bree.

Marry him. What to do. With a wooden heart Riley forced himself to focus on his daughter. What did she mean? Was she talking about the way the young man grabbed her arm? Was she talking about whatever caused the confrontation in the first place, whatever happened between the boy and Bree back in the woods? Or was she talking about something completely different? Should he ask these questions, gather more details? What if she then wanted his advice? What if she listened to him and took some course of action and it did not end well? How could he not have known a hundred thousand dollar car from out of nowhere might get the town mayor in trouble? Riley sipped his cider and thought about his other foolish plans for Hope and Bree, already set in motion. The car was nothing—a mere hint of the destruction he could cause with good intentions.

Outside, the police chief spoke again, saying yes, of course he believed Hope’s story, yes, he did have better things to do, and yes, of course he was still working on Willa’s disappearance. He would find that man; Hope could count on that. He was working several leads right now. He was getting close. But people were still asking him about this expensive car, and the best thing he could do for Hope was prove her innocent of taking bribes. So he would make Dylan admit to giving her the car, and if it turned out she was wrong, he would find out where the car had come from. It would not be difficult. She could count on him to defend her reputation, just like she could count on him to find the man who murdered Willa.

“How come men don’t talk about things?” asked Bree. “How come they just wanna have sex all the time, and never wanna talk?”

Was she trying to shock him? Did she really think that possible? Riley remembered the birth-control pills in Henry’s store and knew he had to tell her something, even if she didn’t really want an answer. She was asking him this question, and he had to respond as if she meant it, and after all, he did have thoughts on the subject. But look at who he was and what he had become. How could he be trusted? Who was he to give advice on anything to anyone?

Riley glanced at his daughter’s profile, her sloped forehead, glistening black hair, curved nose, copper skin—so like a sculptural relief on a Mayan temple, so perfect in his eyes—and he remembered telling the missionary team that they could trust The People; they would be safe. How certain of his facts he had been that day. How self-assured he had been, the almighty Riley, rolling into Hope’s driveway with the lights turned off. Bribery and murder and his little Bree, crying in amongst the bodies.

He had done all that. He and no one else.

Who was he to tell her anything about men and women?

“You should ask your mother,” Riley said.

“Oh sure,” she said. “Or maybe I’ll ask Dylan.”

C
HAPTER
E
IGHTEEN

N
EAR THE BACK CORNER OF THE LITTLE GROCERY STORE
, the old woman applied a price tag to another can of Del Monte kernel corn. Her hair was auburn now and had grown nearly to her shoulders. She had acquired a pair of eyeglasses in Omaha, the lenses clear and undistorted because there was nothing wrong with her eyes, the frames square to underscore that same quality in her face, and thick and heavy on her nose, pressing painfully into the flesh but worth it for the distraction they provided. She had toned down the makeup quite a bit because nearly half the people living in Trask, Kansas, were Mennonites and she desired above all things to go unnoticed, to fit in, to survive.

Trask was not so different from Dublin. Folks in both places lived a simple life, centered on family and work. Life from the ocean, life from the fields, a sea in either case, flowing from horizon to horizon, bountiful or barren as the good Lord willed. The men and women at the controls of hulking combines and rolling lobster boats were hewn from the same rock as far as she could tell, wresting sustenance from the elements on behalf of their less hearty brethren, worn down to the fundamentals by the fundamentals, certain of their standing in the scheme of things.

She too had lived a practical life the last two years in Maine, driven hard from waking to sleeping by the mundane tasks required to serve her charges, much as any farmer or fisherman was moved along by seasons. But they produced a bounty from their fields and fishing, while she had withheld hers. How she envied the secure boundaries of farmers and fishermen, so well established by heritage and law. How she coveted their family ground, their indisputable station among those who went before them, and beside them, and behind. How weary she was of the solitude of exile, of impermanence and dread. How she longed to throw aside the yoke of insignificance and live a life that mattered, as theirs did. Yet in her shameful weakness, still she dared not take the risk.

Willa had drifted into these envious daydreams about her neighbors without a conscious departure from the task at hand—sticking price labels on cans of corn—and so was taken by surprise when someone touched her elbow. With a startled cry she spun to find a boy there at her side, about six years old and three feet tall, the shortness of his stature very common for his people.

Staring up at her with solemn features, he said, “¿Donde esta mi mama?”

In her surprise Willa’s heart threatened to come bounding from her chest, but she forced herself to smile, doing her best to convert a reply from English to Portuguese to Spanish, saying, “No sé, pero vamos a encontrar ella. ¿Esta bien?”

She set out with the child in search of his lost mother, who was soon found on the next aisle over, picking out a loaf of bread.

The woman seemed surprised to hear her language spoken in that northern place. Apparently a migrant farm worker with much Mayan blood, possibly in the country illegally, she paused suspiciously before offering hesitant thanks for this kindness. She then took the boy by his hand and led him away, sternly promising that he would suffer a terrible fate if he did such a thing again, perhaps even including the prohibition of candy.

Watching them go, the mother and child so short and broad and sturdy and brown, Willa Newdale had a sudden, awful memory. She thought of The People, and their own source of sustenance, their sea-like verdant jungle flowing from horizon to horizon, bountiful or barren as the good Lord willed. She remembered her last contact with them, her own terrible fate, walking through the undergrowth with two others from the States, and sudden thuds, gentle moans, the others down and bleeding by the path, impaled on sharpened sticks. She remembered watching as the light went from their eyes. She remembered forgetting to flee, standing over them as if alone, and turning to find Waytee, old Waytee, there from out of nowhere less than half a spear away. She remembered looking at his eyes, twin holes of perfect black in a wrinkled fleshly frame, an enigma, and she with empty hands and without words to beg for life.

Willa watched the Indian woman lead her small son to the cash register, and she looked away and did her best to turn her thoughts to work.

Soon enough, the time came to leave. She took a loaf of bread from the shelves for herself, and a box of cereal and a quart of milk, and stood behind a customer in line at the single cash register, examining the small array of sundries on the impulse purchase rack—batteries and rubber bands and nail clippers and the
National Enquirer
and
Better Homes and Gardens
. She did not see many of the other magazines one so often found in grocery stores, the ones with covers showing women in low-cut dresses or bikinis. She assumed this was because of the Mennonites. She found it comforting. It implied a distance from the outside world, a distance that did not truly exist, of course, but it was nice to pretend.

After paying cash (credit cards were so easily traced) she donned her coat and packed her purchases into her large purse and slipped the strap over her shoulder and emerged from the small store onto the sidewalk. The late April air was brisk but not uncomfortable compared to Maine. She set out along the one commercial street in Trask, heading west. A pair of teenaged girls passed by on Rollerblades, gliding down the center of the empty street, holding hands, wearing down vests over loose-fitting cotton dresses with long sleeves and hems down to their ankles, the fabric flowing back behind, their hair drawn up in severe buns and covered by little white doily-looking things. Willa smiled at the contrast between the girls’ old-fashioned apparel and their modern in-line skates.

Two blocks later the one-story brick businesses gave way to wooden houses. After three more blocks the sidewalk petered out and she continued along the ragged edge of a gravel road. She soon reached the outer limits of the tiny town, and her apartment in one of three buildings clustered around a treeless asphalt parking lot. Knee-high winter wheat stretched away from the apartments for as far as she could see, countless lush green rows beneath a feverish pink and violet sky.

Willa checked the parking lot and saw no unfamiliar vehicles, having memorized all of her neighbors’ cars and trucks within the first two days. Approaching her apartment she noted the position of the window blinds, exactly as she left them. She paused at her door to reach into her purse. She felt around the small handgun and found her key and entered. With her fingers on the weapon in her purse, she traversed the single room that served for cooking, dining, and living and went through the door to the one small bedroom. It was clear. She checked the bathroom and slid the rolling closet door aside. When she knew that it was safe she took off her coat and hung it up and pulled the groceries from her purse and carried them back into the front room where she put the milk in the refrigerator, and the bread and cereal in a cabinet. She removed a packaged dinner from the freezer and peeled back the cellophane cover and placed it in the oven. She set the oven to four-hundred degrees, checked the time on her wristwatch, and went to the bathroom to take a shower. Fifteen minutes later, wrapped in a plaid flannel robe with her newly colored hair toweled off but still moist, she sat down to eat.

The apartment had come furnished with a threadbare sofa, a plastic laminate dining table with tubular steel legs, four mismatched chairs, and a low table beside the sofa bearing a ceramic light fixture with a battered avocado-colored shade. Several weeks ago, after cashing her first paycheck at the grocery store where she worked, she had purchased a tiny black-and-white television set and a pair of folding metal tables: one for the television and the other for her dinner. Now she sat on the sofa watching the evening news, the wrinkles of her face sketched in shadow by the television’s pale blue glow.

Everything around the world was normal—bombs in the Middle East, unemployment down, stocks up, motion-picture actors pregnant out of wedlock, politicians at each other’s throats—and then the handsome anchorman said, “We move to our ongoing coverage of a remarkable story out of Milwaukee, where Julia Summers reports on what may well be the medical breakthrough of the century. Julia?”

The image on the television changed. A woman wearing a conservative blouse and dark suit coat spoke directly to the camera. “Connor, the building behind me is the global headquarters for Hanks Pharmaceuticals Corporation, one of the world’s largest drug manufacturers. Yesterday, a high-level source within the Hanks organization revealed that they intend to develop, manufacture, and distribute what he claims is an outright cure for alcoholism.”

Alone in the empty apartment, the old woman let her fork drop to the folding tray. She slumped back against the sofa as the television showed an interview with a well-dressed man with a perfect haircut, tanned complexion, and the varicose nose of a longtime drinker. The man said he had come forward because he could not remain silent while his employer “planned to profit from the misery of millions.”

An internal memo flashed onto the screen, bearing the Hanks Pharmaceuticals letterhead with the title
Confidential
. One highlighted line on the memo read,
A price per unit of $5,000 will be both necessary and viable, given the single-dosage product application and the level of demand
.

The television reporter said the actual release of the medicine was several years away, but Willa barely noticed. She thought about the men and women she had left behind, paupers every one of them. She thought about the cots and bunk beds filled with them, the empty stomachs and the empty eyes of them, the utter hopelessness of them. Five thousand dollars might as well have been a billion to them.

Willa thought about the months down in the jungle, the violence, gore, the shouted threats she knew were based in fact—
``there is no place to hide; we won’t stop looking; no matter where you go, we’ll find you”
—and her blind flight and desperate furtiveness, five years of hiding here and there around two continents, and two more years in Dublin, waiting, hoping for the missionary’s return.

She thought about the moment when he had come at last, and the moment when she saw his hopeless look in the mirror and knew her wait had been in vain, for how could he possess the secret she required when he himself remained in desperate need of it? She thought about those next few days and nights, going through the motions even though she could no longer avoid her self-delusion, pretending there had been good reason for delay, withholding on a noble pretense when the truth was more mundane: she had always been a coward.

It had taken a dead look in a mirror and a dead man on the laundry floor to finally make her face that fact, and even then she had equivocated, putting everything into a passing church collection basket, trusting far too freely in the hands of fate. She should have gone to the authorities. Every day of the last seven years had been another opportunity, and every day another failure of her faith. Then had come the final chance, when all the other hopeless ones had come to force it out of him and she had thought to say, “It’s me you want.” But still she had held back, let him go, fleeing yet again, saving herself . . . for what?

She looked around her hiding place, saw the cast-off furniture, the empty walls, the rectangular eye of her shallow electric companion glowing on the dinner tray, and Willa knew her fundamental problem had not changed: her enemy would still kill to keep his secret and he would not stop looking, no matter where she went. Indeed, it was all the more so now. The only change was in the vanished pretext for her silence. Those who could afford the price would be set free; all the others would go down to death so that she could keep her life. Until now there had always been another possibility, a justification for delay—waiting for the missionary, the second portion of the secret, and as she waited, a hope some other means might come. But a five thousand dollar price on sobriety had brought the end of all excuses. It was to be her life or a million others; the choice was unavoidable. She could perhaps survive for ten or even twenty years, hiding in slums and backwater towns before dying of old age in the company of strangers. But she could no longer pretend the cost was hers alone.