The Life List (20 page)

“Oh, Mrs. Newsome,” I say, catching a whiff of her patchouli oil. “I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you, my dear,” she whispers. “And for goodness’ sake, we’ve known you almost thirty years. Call us Mary and David. Now let me get you a plate. David made a terrific mushroom quiche. And you’ve got to try my pumpkin bread pudding. The caramel sauce is sinful.”

It feels like a homecoming. I bask in the love and attention of this eccentric couple, dressed in their ragg wool sweaters and Birkenstock sandals. My heart, empty after my mother’s death and Andrew’s betrayal, begins to fill.

By early afternoon, my throat aches from talking and laughing. The crowd has cleared, and Carrie, Stella, and I stand in the kitchen with Mary, chatting and putting away leftover food. From the next room, Carrie’s dad calls us into his den.

“Come see what I’ve got here.”

We make our way to the cozy, knotty-pine den, and Carrie’s kids gather around the television as if they’re expecting a Disney DVD. Instead, a freckle-faced girl and her dark-eyed friend spring to life. Carrie and I sit through two tapes, mesmerized, laughing and poking fun at ourselves.

David goes to his cabinet, studying shelves lined with DVDs. “Took me about six months to convert my old VHS film onto DVD.” He lands on a disc and pulls it from the shelf. “Here’s one you won’t remember.” He slides the disc into the slot and presses
PLAY
.

A pretty young brunette with a Farrah Fawcett haircut waves into the screen. She’s wearing a navy maxi coat that won’t button over her belly, pulling two towheaded boys on a sled. I leap from the sofa and kneel in front of the television set, my hand over my mouth.

“Mom,” I say, my voice thick. I turn around. “That’s my mother! And she’s pregnant … with me.”

Carrie hands me a box of Kleenex and I dab my eyes.

“She’s beautiful,” I whisper. But close up, her gorgeous face is etched with sadness. “Where did you get this tape?”

“Shot it back when we all lived on Bosworth Avenue.”

“Bosworth? You mean Arthur Street.”

“Nah. We were friends from way back. We were your mother’s first customers.”

The hair on the back of my neck rises. I turn to him. “When, exactly, did you meet my mother?”

“We moved in Easter weekend … that would have been spring of …” He looks at his wife.

“ ’Seventy-eight,” Mary says.

I clutch my throat, paralyzed with a mix of urgency and fear. “Johnny Manns,” I say. “Do you remember him?”

“Johnny? Oh, hell yes! Played guitar at Justine’s.”

“He was a huge talent,” Mary said. “And gorgeous, to boot. Every woman on the block was a little in love with him.”

Here, in this very room, are two people who know my father.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

“
T
ell me about him,” I say, barely breathing. “Please. Tell me everything.”

“I can do you one better,” David says, rifling through his DVD library. He pulls a plastic case from the cabinet and studies it while he walks to the television. “I filmed him back when I tended bar at Justine’s. We were all sure this guy was going places.”

He presses
PLAY
, and my heart hammers. A crowd of young faces is pressed into a small, dimly lit bar. I scoot closer to the screen, watching as the camera focuses on a man, sitting on a stool. He has a head of shaggy black hair and a full beard and mustache. The camera zooms in, and the man’s brown eyes meet mine. I know those eyes. They’re the same eyes I see every time I look into the mirror. A moan rises from my chest and I clap a hand over my mouth.

“This next song is from the Beatles’ double album known as
The White Album
,” Johnny says. “Though credits cite Lennon and
McCartney, it was actually written by Paul while he was in Scotland during the spring of 1968. The escalating tension back in the States between the black folks and the whites inspired him to react.” He strums a chord. “In England, the word
bird
is slang for ‘woman.’ ”

He picks the notes to the introduction riff. When he opens his mouth, the voice of an angel rings out. I let out a mangled sob. He sings of a blackbird with broken wings, longing to fly, longing to be free. The bird’s been waiting all her life for one single moment to arrive.

I think of my mother, saddled with two young children and a husband she didn’t love. She, too, must have longed for wings.

I think of myself, having waited all my life for this moment to arrive. The moment I could look into the kind eyes of a man, and know he is my father.

Tears slide down my cheeks. The song ends. The disc cuts to another scene at Justine’s, this time with a female singer. I don’t ask, I simply press
REWIND
and watch again, and again. I listen to my father’s voice, his words. I reach out and touch his beautiful face, his exquisite hands.

After watching four times, I sit silent. Sometime during the viewing, Mary has positioned herself beside me on the floor. David sits at my other side. He places the DVD in my lap.

“This belongs to you, doesn’t it?”

I trace my finger over the disc and nod. “He was my father.”

“C’mon, kids. Let’s play Uno,” Stella says. “First one to the kitchen table gets to deal.”

Once Carrie and her crew are out of earshot, Mary takes my hands in hers. “How long have you known?”

“I just found out. She left me her journal.” My eyes travel from her face to David’s. “Did you know?”

“No. Of course not,” David says. “Your mother was too classy to kiss and tell. But everyone knew he was smitten with her.”

A cry escapes me, a cry of relief and heartbreak. Mary pats my back until I can breathe again. “Was he a good man?”

“The very best,” she says.

David nods. “Johnny was the real deal.”

I hold my breath. “Where is he is now?”

“Last we knew he was living out west,” Mary says. “But that’s been fifteen years.”

“Where?” I ask, suddenly light-headed. “LA?”

“San Francisco for a while. But we lost track of him. He may have moved on.”

“This will help. I’ve hired a detective who’s been trying to find him for months. You wouldn’t believe the number of Johnny Manns in this country.”

David snaps to attention. “Darling, his name was never Johnny Manns. It was Manson. He used Manns as his stage name on account of the mass murderer. The Manson name carried a horrible stigma in the seventies.”

The words settle on me in bits and spurts. “Johnny Manson? Oh, my God. Oh, my God! Thank you!” I hug David, then Mary. “No wonder I couldn’t find him.”

“Your mother probably never knew his real name. I only knew because I was the bartender that summer and I did the payroll.”

“I would have been searching forever if I hadn’t seen you again.”

A shiver makes its way up my spine. Goal number nine led me to Carrie, and Carrie led me to my father. Did Mother know this would happen? A lifelong friendship
and
a clue to my father. A twofer.

W
hile Carrie and I trek to my car with Mary’s leftovers, I punch Brad’s number into my phone. “Do you mind?” I ask Carrie. “I’ll only be a sec.”

“Of course not,” she says, carrying a paper bag filled with homemade blackberry jam.

“I’ll put him on speaker so you can meet him. He’s a doll.”

Carrie raises her eyebrows. “Really?”

I bat my hand at her, and then I hear Brad’s voice.

“My dad is John Manson, not Manns,” I say. “And he’s living somewhere out west. You’ve got to tell Pohlonski. I just watched a video of him. He’s beautiful.”

“Where are you, B.B.? I thought you were in Wisconsin.”

“I am. I’m with Carrie now. You’re on speaker. Say hi.”

“Hey, Carrie.”

Carrie laughs. “Hi, Brad.”

“Okay, listen. Carrie’s parents lived on Bosworth Avenue. They knew Johnny Manns!” I give him a condensed version of the morning’s events. “Can you believe this? I’d never have known if I hadn’t reconnected with Carrie.” I look over at her. “She’s a gift, in so many ways.”

“This is a huge break. I’ll leave Pohlonski a message as soon as we hang up.”

“How long do you think it’ll take to find him?”

“I couldn’t say, but let’s assume it won’t happen overnight. Even now with this new information, it could take months.”

I bite my lip. “Tell him to hurry, okay?”

“I will. Hey, want to catch a movie when you get home? Or dinner? Or better yet, just come here. I’ll have dinner waiting.”

My heart goes out to him. I know how endless Sundays can seem when you’re alone.

“Option three sounds great. Oh, and I got a message from the animal shelter. My application was accepted. Want to help me pick out my pup next week?”

“Love to. Drive safely, B.B.”

When I hang up, Carrie gives me a sidelong glance. “Are you two dating?”

“No,” I say, placing a container of cookies on the passenger seat. “Just great friends. It’s really nice.”

“Careful, Bretel. I’m thinking this guy wants you.”

I shake my head and take the sack from her. “Brad’s got a girlfriend.”

She smiles at me. “Keep his friendship. You look happy when you’re talking to him.”

“I will,” I say. “And I am.”

B
rad’s cozy duplex on North Oakley is a welcome respite after the long drive. Eva Cassidy plays on the stereo and I sit on a bar stool watching Brad shave cheese onto a Caesar salad. He keeps his eyes downcast, and when he laughs at my stories of Carrie and her brood, I can tell it’s forced. Finally, I hop from my stool and take the cheese grater from his clutches.

“Okay, Midar, what’s going on? Something’s bothering you, I can tell.”

He rubs the back of his neck and blows out a huff of air. “Jenna decided we should take a break.”

I’m ashamed to admit, a part of me shouts
Hooray!
We’re both single now, and who knows what might happen down the road. But looking at him, I see the pain in his face. He’s obviously in love, and it’s not with me.

“I’m so sorry.” I pull him into my arms and he clings to me. “You know,” I say quietly, “you could do something big, something that will prove you’re serious and committed.”

He pulls back. “Like proposing?”

“Yes! If you want her, Midar, make it happen, just like you told me to do. To hell with the miles and years between you—ask her to marry you!”

His turns his back to me and braces his hands on the counter. “I did. She said no.”

“Oh, God. I’m so sor—”

He lifts a hand to stop me. “Enough whining.” He wipes his hands on a dish towel and tosses it on the counter. “We have reason here to celebrate.”

He strides through the kitchen, into the adjoining living room, and lifts a pink envelope from the coffee table. “I stopped by the office this afternoon,” he says, shaking the envelope at me. “Thought you might want this.”

GOAL #9
,
STAY FRIENDS WITH CARRIE NEWSOME FOREVER
. I rush to him and stare at the handwritten envelope, desperate to hear my mother’s words. But I can’t celebrate when Brad is feeling so low.

“Not today,” I say. “Let’s save it for a time when you’re feeling better.”

“No way. We’re opening it now.”

He tears the seal, and I collapse onto the sofa, clinging to his arm as he reads.

“ ‘Dear Brett,

“ ‘Thank you, dear, for granting my wish (and yours, as well) by rekindling your friendship with Carrie. I’ll never forget how devastated you were when the Newsomes moved to Madison. I watched helplessly while dust gathered on your heart. Perhaps you understood then that true friendships were hard to come by. After she came to visit you, you two drifted apart, though you never told me why.

“ ‘Sadly, I don’t believe you’ve ever had another friend as true as Carrie. It wasn’t until I became ill that I realized what a shallow pool of true confidantes you have. Aside from Shelley and me, I don’t detect any other genuine friends.’ ”

“She didn’t mention Megan,” I say. “Or Andrew. Do you think she knew, even then, that they weren’t real friends?”

Brad nods. “I suspect she did.”

He returns to the letter. “ ‘I’m hopeful Carrie will fill this void.
Enjoy and nurture this friendship, my dear daughter. And please, make a point to say hello to Carrie’s parents. David and Mary were my first customers when we all lived on Bosworth Avenue. They were fans of your father’s, too.’ ”

I clap a hand over my mouth. “She’s talking about Johnny, not Charles. She’s giving me a clue here, just in case I’d missed it.” I turn to Brad. “Why the hell didn’t she just tell me flat out? Why is she putting me through this scavenger hunt?”

“I admit, it does seem strange.”

“She was always so straightforward—or at least I thought she was. Why all this nuance and innuendo? She’s making me crazy.” I take a breath and unclench my fist. “On the bright side, I’ll finally find him now.”

“Let’s not get too excited. It’s still a long slog. It could take months … or longer.”

“We’re going to find him, Brad.” I grab my mother’s letter and shake it at him. “She might be playing games with me, but she would never set me up for a disappointment this big.”