The Orphans of Race Point: A Novel (37 page)

Chapter 40

M
y predicament hasn’t changed. In fact,
it’s gotten worse. Dead Mom has escaped—this time probably for good; and the only home I have is with a friend I’ve just betrayed in the worst possible way.

I start down Route 6, and when I pull off the highway, I head to the little cottage by the beach as if I had known where I was going all along. And maybe I did. Maybe I’ve known ever since that day in the prison when I told Gus I’d come to learn about God. I didn’t mean it. At least I didn’t
think
I did, but his answer stayed with me just the same.

“
If you’re serious
,
there’s this old priest named Jack Rooney. Wisest man I’ve ever known.
”

Gus’s wise man is hardly a stranger. Jack has been a fixture in my life ever since I moved in with Hallie. He’s had two knee replacements, but he still visits the prison regularly with Hallie. And whenever Julia’s home, you can count on him showing up for dinner, a six-pack of beer and a crappy store-bought cake in his arms, beaming like a proud dad.

The shades are up, and I can see the old man inside, the TV screen flashing behind him.

And, yeah, I’m hesitating. Hesitating and wondering what the hell I’m doing here. For one thing, Gus’s sainted wise man doesn’t seem to like me much. Oh, he’s been kind and everything—but what choice does he have? It’s his
job
to be kind. But every now and then I look at him, and I know he doesn’t quite trust me. His eyes say he hopes I don’t hurt Hallie the way she hurt Gus. His eyes say,
I’m watching you.

As I watch him limping around his kitchen, I know life is probably tough enough for him as it is. He deserves a little peace, and I’m honestly sorry I can’t give him that.

When he answers the door, he doesn’t look much like the respectable old grandpa type who shows up for dinner at our house. He’s wearing a stained Red Sox T-shirt and his hair looks like it hasn’t been combed in three days, like one of those old men the world has forgotten. But the moment he speaks, the pitiful old man disappears and someone else—Gus’s wise man, maybe—takes his place.

“Mila! Come in, dear,” he says, more welcoming than I deserve, as he pulls the door open.

There’s nothing bleaker than the dinner he’s prepared. A frozen Salisbury steak in a little tin plate that smells like the worst cafeteria food, and a bottle of lite beer. In the background, two sports announcers are ranting about something so heatedly that you’d think the fate of the world hinged on it.

“Got one of those for me?” I point at the beer—just to break the ice.

“Why, sure.” Then he opens the fridge and pulls out a can of Coke, which he plunks down in front of me like a big exclamation point. “That’s the only brand of beer you’re going to get around here, young lady.” He lowers the volume of the TV, but doesn’t turn it off.

I was hoping he’d make this easy for me, maybe ask what I’ve come for, serve up a little small talk, but he doesn’t. He just waits.

“Are you still licensed to hear confessions?” I say at last.

First he laughs out loud. Then he stands up and pulls his wallet out of his pocket, his eyes as mischievous as a little boy’s, and makes a big show of rifling through his tattered cards. “Yep, seems like my papers are still in order.”

But when he sits back down, he is serious again. He even closes his eyes and starts some kind of blessing over me. And when I try to tell him as politely as I can that I don’t particularly believe in that kind of—um,
hocus pocus
, he continues anyway.

Then, abruptly, he opens his eyes and the smiling old man who tells corny jokes at Hallie’s dinner table returns. “So what’s on your mind?” he asks, rubbing his white stubble.

“Gus sent me,” I explain when he continues to stare in a somewhat disconcerting way. “He said if I ever needed to talk, you wouldn’t turn me away.”

At the mention of Gus’s name, he gives me the same baleful smile Hallie wears when she talks about him.

“Actually, I was about to turn you out, but since Gus sent you, I’ll reconsider . . .”

It’s a joke, but all of a sudden, I start to cry—for about the third time that day. A personal record.

Jack passes me a clean white handkerchief that looks like it’s been ironed, which I immediately drench with messy tears. Meanwhile, he pats me on the shoulder in a rhythmic way, saying something like “There, there, dear.” Normally, I would find the antiquated phrase laughable, or even infuriating, but now the words feel oddly comforting.

I finally look up and sniffle. “Father Jack, you just may be looking at the worst person on earth.”

He takes the handkerchief from my hand, and wipes the last tears from my face with amazing gentleness. “That’s quite an accomplishment. You want to tell me what you’ve done to earn such an impressive title?”

And so I do. Beginning with the first time I saw Dead Mom near the schoolyard, and ending with our final encounter in the Oyster, I omit
nada
. I even pull my own cell phone from my pocketbook to reenact the moment when I let her get away. The moment when I didn’t have the strength to make the call that could have saved Gus.

At first the priest’s face is neutral, and I’m not sure if he believes me. But then, as I pile detail upon detail, I see a fire building in his eyes. It’s an angry fire, but it’s also a triumphant one.

“So what should we do? Go to the police?” I whisper. “Or maybe we should call Gus’s friend Neil. Hallie says he knows a really good PI.”

“We’ll do both of those things, but by now, your mother’s probably on a plane to California, so it’s not urgent. First, I need to give you your penance.”

“Penance? Like I said, I don’t exactly believe in that.”

“Yes, but you see,
I
do,” he replies. “And you’re in my house now.”

So, okay I’m listening. And suddenly, his messy three-room cottage, with the nauseating TV dinner on the table, feels like the house of worship I was always hoping to find.

“First, I’d like you to say three Hail Marys. Good ones. If you don’t know it, I can give you a prayer book.”

“I know it,” I say, surprised that I still remember the words the Bug taught me. When I finish, I get up to make the call I should have made a few hours ago.

However, when I reach for the phone, Jack stops me. “Not yet. We go to the police tomorrow, but there’s one thing you have to do first.”

I’m mystified, but then slowly I begin to understand. “Father Jack, I can’t—”

“You
can
,” he interrupts firmly. “And what’s more, if you don’t, you’ll never be forgiven.”

Now this seriously pisses me off. “I thought you preached a merciful God. My father was right. You’re all—”

But Jack is having none of it. “I’m not talking about God, Mila. I’m talking about
you.
If you don’t go to that prison and tell Gus exactly what you know and how long you’ve known it, you’ll never forgive
yourself.
”

Chapter 41

L
ater, after Jack has called Millette
and persuaded the chaplain to arrange for an emergency visit tomorrow, he offers to make up the couch for me, to cook me one of his frozen dinners, even to ride up to the prison with me tomorrow. He also wants to know if I want to talk about
her.
My mom.

Not able to lie to his face, I hug him when I say I have plans. Apparently, I can’t keep my soul clean for even an hour.

Jack doesn’t question me, though. Like Gus said, this is a man of
faith.
The religious thing is only part of it. He follows me to the door. “Drive careful, now.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll keep it under ninety.” Then I back out of the driveway and head to the place I’ve been avoiding all my life, the Pink Dolphin. I park right in front and stare down the door marked 2B. Here my mother carried out the lie that would send Gus to prison and leave me alone with a very toxic Bug. Up close, it’s not the nightmarish portal I imagined for so long. It’s just a door.

Still focusing on 2B, I take out my phone and call E. Then, for the second time, I tell him the ugly truth about who I am and the secrets I’ve kept for so long.

“Where are you now?” he asks. “Because wherever it is, you have to leave.”

“
Why?
” I whisper, afraid that he’s about to tell me that there’s no room on the planet for people like me.

“Because you need to get over here, that’s why. And tomorrow? I’m going with you.”

“You don’t have to do that,” I mutter, as tears blur my view of the ugly motel.

“Actually, I
do
. Not because I’m a nice guy, or the world is counting on me to save it or anything like that. We’re talking pure selfishness here, Mila. I need to be there with you.” He sounds as surprised by the revelation as I am; and when I’m too dumbfounded to reply, he continues. “Besides, you can’t drive. Not this time.”

Though E is probably the worst driver in the state of Massachusetts, it feels like the best offer I’ve ever had. “Would you? Would you really drive me?”

“Are you on your way over yet?” he says in reply. “ ’Cause I’m already out on my front steps in a T-shirt and bare feet, watching for you, and I’m freezing my ass off.”

After I call Hallie and leave a vague message about staying with a friend so she won’t worry, I turn my phone off.
Incommunicado
until I talk to Gus.

T
he next morning I get up
early and dress in the long skirt and the warrior jewelry that I put in my backpack before I went to see Jack.

“Does this mean you’re Frida again?” E asks as I get in his mother’s old Escort. Fortunately, Lori sleeps in, because E hasn’t exactly asked if he could use the car. It’s obvious that we’re both kind of nervous—him, because he’s only driven about twice, and me because even my Frida disguise can’t protect me from what I’m about to do.

“I just don’t want those guys at the prison harassing me,” I say, trying to sound nonchalant. “I figured if I went in there covered head to toe like the last American virgin, they might leave me alone.”

“Yeah, well, it’s not working,” E says, tightening the ribbon on my Mexican shirt. “You’re still way too sexy.”

Once we cross the bridge, I watch Ethan obliquely from under my mascaraed lashes while he concentrates on the road. He actually looks really good these days. He’s kind of filled out and must be using a new acne medication because there’s not a single live pimple on his face. Fortunately, most of the ride is on the highway, and after surging onto it with little regard for the yield sign, Ethan hugs the right line, clutching the wheel like he’s piloting a plane.

I stare out the window, trying not to think about how badly E is driving, or what I’m about to do. I was so certain after I left Jack’s cottage, but now I’m arguing with the old priest in my head.
What’s the point of this penance stuff? Isn’t there enough suffering in life without manufacturing it?
And . . .
Wouldn’t it be better to wait till we’ve found Dead Mom to tell Gus?
And . . .
What if I can’t do it? What if I explode inside before I get the words out?

Ethan drops me off outside the gate. I wave breezily, but as soon as the car turns the corner, I feel like I’m about five years old and lost in a train station. I actually consider chasing after the car, and telling E that I’ve changed my mind. But then I remember Father Jack’s creased face telling me that I would do this, that I
had to
, and, what’s more, I
could
. I force my feet to move toward the door.

By the time I reach the building, I’m deep in the middle of a fantasy. I imagine Gus is in there wearing his priest outfit—not the plain pants and shirt priests wear now, but the long black dress thing they wear in old movies where the priests are known to burst into song at odd moments. And when I tell him what I did, he asks me to kneel. Then he prays over me and takes it all away. All the cowardice and confusion and selfishness that I call my life.

The worst thing about visiting a prison is the constant reminder that its sole function is to grind time into fine sand. Here time clouds the windows and clogs your lungs. You take a deep breath before you enter and when you leave, knowing that inside these walls, you can choke on time, be poisoned by it, even die of it. When I’m finally ushered into the visitor’s room, I wonder if my hair hasn’t gone white like Ava’s while I waited.

Gus takes his seat and picks up the phone. “Mila, what’s going on? The chaplain came in this morning and said you needed to see me right away. Is Hallie—”

“Hallie’s fine. She doesn’t even know I’m here.”

Gus’s relief is so palpable that I can’t help myself. I tell him what I’ve been thinking ever since the first time I saw them together. “I’ve never seen two people more in love than you and Hallie—even after all these years. Do you think that someday, I mean, if you could—”

This time it’s Gus’s turn to interrupt me. “I love Hallie more than I’ve ever loved anyone. But being in love? That’s for people like you, Mila. Not people like me.”

“I shouldn’t have asked. That was way too personal. And, like I said, this isn’t about Hallie. Maybe you could start. After all, you’re the adult
.
”

Gus laughs. “I’d be happy to, but unfortunately I don’t know the topic we’re here to discuss.”

I hesitate long enough for us both to feel the noise of the prison filling in the space around us. The sound of time being obliterated. “It’s secrets. That’s our topic.”

Gus folds his hands in front of him. “Sorry, Mila, but I’m an inmate. Watched day and night. No secrets allowed.”

“Tell me about your tattoo.”

He glances at his forearm, as if he’s forgotten it was there, though something tells me that he never forgets it, not for a minute. Then he shrugs. “It’s a heart. Universal symbol of love and affection. I’m sure you’ve seen one before.”

“It doesn’t look like it was done at a tattoo parlor,” I say, knowing I’ve touched a nerve.“Well, it was. Millette State Prison. Most thriving tattoo parlor around.” He turns his head, searching for the guard. “Listen, Mila, it was great to see you, but I think this visit’s over.”

“No, wait. It’s important.”

“It was important for you to ask me where I got my tattoo?”

“Not where—
how
?”

Gus sits back in his chair, and there is nowhere to hide. “That comes under the category of things you really don’t want to know.”

“You’re right, I don’t want to know, Gus, but I
need
to.” I don’t know why, but it suddenly feels like the truest thing I’ve ever said.
I need to know.

“Well, for me it comes under the category of things I want to forget.”

The guard appears before I can answer, and Gus rises from his seat, obviously eager to escape my question.

I mouth the words
Pick up your phone. Please. Just for one minute.

He’s still standing, but he complies.

“Remember when you showed me that picture of myself when I was a little girl?” I ask. “You said you knew that little girl. You knew her better than she knew herself.”

Gus doesn’t respond, but the softening I see in his eyes is a kind of answer. We both know that the little girl in the picture is not just me; it’s him, too.

“You know what that little girl’s first memory was? It was hearing my mother being punched so hard her body hit the floor, and knowing she didn’t even cry out because she was trying to protect me. But I knew, just like you did, Gus. I always knew. I sat in my bed in the dark on the hottest night of the year, shivering against that sound.”

“Is that what you came here to talk about, Mila? What happened to your mother?”

I shake my head like a horse. “My point is that I have a category of things I’d like to forget, too. But when all the other memories of my first six years got painted over, those things still came through. I can handle it, Gus.”

Gus studies me for a minute, then says something to the guard that I can’t hear. Whatever it is, it pisses off the man in uniform. He’s still shaking his head as he walks away. Gus returns to the orange plastic chair, which he turns around, and straddles. Then he extends the forearm he has done his best to hide on every previous visit, and allows me to see the crudely fashioned black heart. In its center is the letter X. “What do you want to know?”

And all of a sudden I feel like that small child shivering in my room, listening to something I’m far from ready to hear. “What’s the X inside the heart stand for?” I ask, my voice a hard shield around that little girl.

Gus looks down at the tattoo himself, almost like he forgets. But then I realize he’s remembering; and it’s a
hard
remembering. He’s remembering not only with his mind, but with his gut, his nerves, with the blood that flows from his heart to his arm and back again.

“The X is for Xavier. It’s what we call a brand.”

“A
brand
?” I whisper. “You mean, like they put on cattle?”

“Exactly. It’s a sign of one man becoming the possession of another.” For the first time since I’ve known him, his eyes avoid mine.

“You mean this Xavier—”

He nods, and when he looks into my eyes again, he shows me a part of himself that I don’t believe anyone else has seen—not even Hallie. “When I came in here, I was a prime target until I got enough muscle—physically and in a lot of other ways—to say no to Xavier in a way he understood.”

I don’t know how I must look right then, but it’s obviously pretty bad. “Mila?” Gus says. “I didn’t want to tell you. Are you okay?”

What I really want to do is to get up and run out of the prison as fast as I can, to leave Gus Silva and his awful reality in the dust. Forever. But I remember how I felt after I told Ethan what my father did to me. Then I think of how Ethan followed me and told me I was beautiful, and how he made me believe it. Made me
know
it. The least I can do for the universe is to return the favor.

“Of course I’m okay,” I say, willing my eyes to meet his. Willing myself to act like I hear stuff like this every day. I pop a piece of gum in my mouth and shrug. “I figured it was something like that.”

Then I reach into my purse and pull out the most tattered, cried-upon, folded, thrown-away, and pulled-out-of-the-trash birthday card in existence.

Gus studies it for a long moment. “Was this the last card your mother sent you?”

“You could say that. I got it on my sixteenth birthday, Gus.”

“But that’s not possible.”

Then before he can point out that the card’s not even signed, I tell him the truth. “I saw her Gus. I talked to her.”

“Mila, your—”

I raise my voice above his and continue. “Yesterday in Wellfleet. She called me and—”

“Your mother’s dead, Mila. I was the first one at the crime scene, remember?”

“Let me finish, because if I don’t get this out now, I might never have the courage to say it again. Ava’s alive. She faked her death so she could get away from the Bug; then she let you take the blame. She’s gone on with her life all these years while you sat in jail. That’s who she is. And I’m her daughter.”

By then my eyes are so full of watery grief and guilt and misery that I can’t see Gus at all. Since he isn’t saying anything, I don’t know what he thinks—or even if he believes me. He can’t touch me, but he reaches out and puts his palm against the glass the way he did when he saw Hallie for the first time.

“It’s not your fault, Mila. Whatever she did, whatever your father did, none of it was your fault. And I wasn’t to blame for what happened to my mother, either. We were kids. Little kids who should have been dreaming of furry blue monsters, not dealing with real ones.” And somehow, in forgiving me, I think Gus finally forgives himself.

I wipe my eyes with the back of my free hand. Gus still looks doubtful, so I plow on. “I tried to tell Hallie, but she didn’t believe me. Not that I blame her. I wasn’t completely convinced myself—until I saw her in person. She was as close to me as you are now, Gus. She told me she always called you Father even though she wasn’t a believer.”

It’s the smallest little detail, but it hits him. “I asked her to call me Gus, but she never would,” he recalls. “She insisted on
Father
. Father Gus. How could you know that, Mila? How could you possibly know that?”

“She told me, Gus. She sat at a table, drinking coffee at the Purple Oyster, alive as you and me, and she told me.”

For the longest moment in history Gus just stares at me. Then he runs his hands through his hair, which has gotten kind of long since I saw him last. “Holy shit,” he mutters. Then he stands up and yells it out loud. He doesn’t care that the guards are obviously on alert. “
Holy shit!
What are you telling me here, Mila?”

“The truth. The horrible, disgusting, amazing,
holy shit
truth.”

He walks a small circle as the two men in uniform walk toward him. “Time’s up, Silva,” one guard says, roughly seizing his elbow. “This visit’s over.”