A Field of Red Page 10

  She nodded. He’d told her before about San Francisco, a town that she’d heard about but never visited. This time he talked to her while she ate, telling her about the Fisherman’s Wharf and an island jail in the middle of the harbor called “the Rock.” And something called a Coit Tower.

  13

  Frank sat in her tiny living room on Tuesday, nervous.

  It was just before noon. He’d gotten there early. She’d smiled and let him in and directed him to the threadbare couch and gone off to make coffee.

  It was awkward, stiff.

  At least she’d invited him in.

  Weeks ago, he’d called her. They hadn’t seen each other in six years and had only spoken two or three times since. Laura had seemed very surprised by his call and that he was willing to drive all the way up to Ohio to have coffee.

  Maybe it was because he was finally making the effort, or maybe enough time had passed. Or maybe it was Jackson. Perhaps she wanted her little boy to finally meet his grandfather. Frank had spent most of the drive up to Ohio from Birmingham thinking about that short phone conversation with his daughter, thinking about her words and the long spaces between those words. Trying to figure out what they meant.

  Either way, she’d given him the address. At least it was a start. And now he was here.

  It wasn’t much of an apartment. He wondered if she would refuse if he offered her money, not that he had any to give. She had done what she could with the place: there was a small television near the front window, and a chipped coffee table separated the couch from an armchair that had seen much better days. In one corner of the room, a child’s drawings and paintings were tacked to the walls above a second-hand dining room table that was piled with stacks of folders and paperwork. Fighting for room on the table were a pile of colorful construction paper, a box of crayons, and a toy robot.

  But the place had the colorful, worn look of a house with kids—around the rest of the space that he could see, there were pictures and toys scattered about and drawings by Jackson in little frames.

  Laura walked into the room—she was pretty, more than he remembered. Tall and blonde and pretty, like Trudy had been the first time he’d met her at that random “casual cotillion” in Baton Rouge during the summer of 1984. Trudy had breezed into the room and caught his eye with no effort. What had ever happened to that young girl, willing to date an impulsive military man and move away from Louisiana? Somehow, Trudy had changed into a person he didn’t like anymore.

  Or maybe he had changed into something she hated.

  He smiled at Laura. She was six years older than he remembered and much more independent. He could tell she had changed. Now, she was a mother, and on her own, working a career and navigating life all on her own.

  It made him suddenly sad. For her and for him. He’d missed so much.

  He watched her walk across the room, carrying a small tray.

  “I couldn’t remember how you liked your coffee,” Laura said, smiling at him.

  “Just a little cream. Thanks.”

  She handed him a cup and set the tray down—on it were small, mismatched bowls of cream and sugar, along with a sleeve of sugar cookies. She took one and plopped down in the old chair, sitting back and nibbling on it, as he made his coffee. One thing he’d noticed about this new Laura was a new air of confidence, out in the world, doing her thing, working hard and raising a child.

  Frank added the cream, then took a sip.

  “Umm...that’s good,” he said, sitting back.

  She smiled. “Thanks.”

  The room got very quiet again—each of them was probably waiting for the other to start. He looked around at the drawings and noticed a grouping of pictures on the table next to the TV. Two of Laura and Trudy and several of Jackson—he was at preschool right now—and Jackson with his mother. They were cute together.

  None of Frank, or Kyle, her grease-ball ex-husband, the father of Jackson who had skipped out last year. So he was in the same club as Frank.

  Frank nodded to the drawings and paintings tacked to the walls above the dining room table.

  “Are those his?”

  Laura followed his eyes and smiled.

  “Jackson’s really taken to preschool. He’s enjoying learning his letters,” Laura said. “The teachers are great, and he’s getting along great with the other kids.” Laura looked up at him and shook her head. “Kyle was nothing but trouble for me, but the move also delayed Jackson’s start at kindergarten. But he’s catching up, and loves learning.”

  Frank nodded.

  “You were always good in school,” he said.

  She nodded and nibbled her cookie, waiting.

  He turned and looked at the clock on the wall. It was an old clock, a white face with blocky, black numbers. He suddenly remembered the clock—it was from their old home in Louisiana, back before Trudy had moved out and taken Laura. It had always ticked too loud for him. Trudy had taken it with her, along with so many other things. How could he have not recognized it?

  “You still drinking?” he heard her say.

  Frank nodded, not looking at her. “Yeah, but I’m working on it. How’s the job?”

  “Good, good.” Laura smiled at his obvious changing of the subject. “I’m at the new salon downtown, A Cut Above. Dumb name, I know, but they’re very nice. I get plenty of customers and good shifts, and they give me nights off for Jackson.”

  Frank nodded. “Sounds like you like it there.”

  “It’s okay. Not using my accounting degree at all, but it’s work,” she said, shrugging. “They just remodeled one of the buildings downtown,” she said. “It used to be a little grocery store. These new owners fixed it up. Plus, it’s next to DMs, the only pizza place downtown.”

  Frank smiled. He suddenly remembered that pizza had been her favorite food growing up. Was it still? How much had he missed? How much had changed?

  “You like working there?” he asked. He needed to keep her talking. Listening to her talk was infinitely better than listening to that ticking clock on the wall, loudly counting down until this precious conversation was over.

  “Yeah, it’s better than down in Cincinnati,” she said. “My last place, she nickel and dimed us about everything and charged us late fees if we didn’t pay our chair rental on time. Plus, she would sit on our commissions for a month before handing them over.”

  Another pause began and threatened to drown the conversation. He hated these fits and starts, but he didn’t want to do all the talking. Frank didn’t want to come off desperate, even though, on some level, he wanted nothing more than to connect with this mysterious woman his little girl had become.

  Frank leaned forward, setting the coffee cup down, and looked at her.

  “Look...look,” he began, looking at the tray on the table between them. “I just have to say this much, at least: I’m sorry. Sorry for the way things were. I know things were hard when you were growing up.” The words raced out of him, escaping. Rats from a sinking ship. “You and Trudy—I was never around, and I wasn’t always in the best shape when I was. I can’t go back and fix any of that. But I’m...I’m trying to make up for it now, in my way. If I can.”

  It might have been the longest speech he’d ever given. It felt good, just getting it out there.

  She nodded thoughtfully but didn’t say anything.

  “I know you don’t want to hear about all of it,” Frank said, looking at her. “You were there, even if you don’t remember. But I was always off working, trying to close cases or investigate something or drink away the stress,” he said, looking at her. “Anyway, it wasn’t good for Trudy, or you, and after Katrina it got worse. A lot worse. Maybe if things had been different—”

  “It’s okay,” she said quietly.

  Frank stopped and looked at her, then slowly nodded. He wasn’t sure if he was agreeing with her or encouraging her to keep talking or both, but he treasured those two words. He wasn’t sure if this conversation would ever get to th
ose words. And so quickly…

  “Trudy...well, she hung in there,” Frank continued. He felt like a person in church, giving confession. “Longer than anyone could expect, really.” He couldn’t remember the last time he’d said something nice about Trudy, or even thought something nice. He’d blamed her for so much—”

  Laura just nodded and leaned forward.

  “I mean it, Frank,” she said. “It’s okay.”

  He sat back and smiled.

  “Thank you. Thank you for that,” he said, then looked up at her, curious.

  Laura smiled at him, and he saw a glimmer of the small girl she had been. “Too easy?”

  He laughed. It sounded strange in his ears, a rare sound that he was not used to hearing. Frank was not the laughing kind.

  “Maybe,” Frank said, taking a sip of coffee. “You need to make me work harder.”

  Laura looked around at the art above the dining room table.

  “Two years ago, I would have,” Laura said thoughtfully. “But Jackson changed things. I’m…less angry, I guess. You hurt me, a lot. You hurt me and Mom—put us through a lot of mess. You made Mom so angry, for so long, that she doesn’t even like to talk about it anymore.”

  Frank didn’t know what to say.

  “And you hurt me,” she said quietly, not looking at him. “You were never there near the end, like you said, but I remember a time before, when we were close. We talked and had fun, and you and Mom and me used to go places. I remember a trip to Six Flags. Do you remember that trip?”

  He nodded. He wasn’t sure of the year, but he remembered the trip. The park was east of New Orleans, out near the Bayou Savage. It had been a good day—roller coaster rides and laughing on the merry-go-round. Amusement park food, greasy and wonderful.

  “Yes, I remember,” he said.

  She nodded. “That was a good day. Things were okay. But then you got more and more into work, and things got bad between you and Mom. Fights, arguing. And then Katrina came, and you changed. You were different, and Mom was different, and everything fell apart. Just like the park.”

  He looked up at her.

  “What do you mean?”

  Laura laughed. “You don’t know about it? That Six Flags is famous—the park was flooded during Katrina and abandoned afterward. There are pictures all over the Internet from people who have snuck in there in the years since. Creepy broken rides, tall weeds grown up through the boardwalks, rusted clown faces. Now, it looks like the set of a horror movie. I think it’s more famous now than it was before, when it was open.”

  Frank didn’t know what to say. He still had fond memories of that park, and he’d been there many times. He didn’t want to think about it abandoned, moldering into the ground.

  “But people make mistakes, and things get screwed up,” Laura continued. “That was my point. Look at me and Kyle. We went through a lot, and I have absolutely nothing to show for it, other than Jackson and a box of photos. And a lot of bad memories. That’s one of the things I had to figure out—people make mistakes, even parents.”

  Frank nodded, not wanting to interrupt her, now that she was talking.

  “You know,” she continued. “The whole time you’re growing up, these people seem like rocks of stability. Your parents and other ‘grown-ups.’ And then, at some point, you figure it out: they’re just people. Fallible, thick-headed. Even petty. It’s a difficult realization, but freeing at the same time.”

  Frank didn’t know what to say. His little girl had turned out to be a thinker. He’d always known she was good in school, smart. But this was a whole new level of insight, brought on by careful thought and experience. Brought on by time and introspection and maturity.

  “You seem surprised,” she said, smiling.

  “I guess I am,” Frank said, picking up his coffee and sipping at it again. “You just seem so…grown up.”

  She nodded. “Yeah. That happens.”

  Frank smiled and looked around at Jackson’s drawings.

  “I can’t believe he’s four,” Frank said.

  Laura nodded and grabbed another cookie. She sat back in the chair and folded her legs up underneath her.

  “They have him in the three-times-a-week class,” Laura said. It’s more than I can afford, really. I’ll have to figure out what to do next semester. But the schedule works really well with my job—lets me pick up extra shifts and appointments.”

  Laura was still staring at her son’s picture.

  “I’m glad he’s at school,” she said quietly. “It makes me feel safer. Every parent in town is freaking out because of the kidnapping. At least they haven’t canceled school.”

  Frank frowned. He’d figured this would come up

  “The missing girls?” he asked. “I’ve heard about it. I’m sure they’ll find them.”

  Laura looked at him, her eyes shiny.

  “You’re sure?” she said, her voice suddenly sharp. “The girls were snatched on the way to school, right in broad daylight. Just a few blocks from here. And nobody saw a thing. A few of the parents are keeping their kids home.”

  “Most of the times, these situations turn out OK,” Frank lied. He wasn’t sure where this was going, but he didn’t like—

  “You worked a bunch of kidnappings, right?” she asked, looking at him. “How many came out OK?” Her eyes were so sharp, eyes like Trudy’s, boring into him.

  He couldn’t look away and nodded slowly.

  “OK, look, I’m not going to lie to you,” Frank said. “There’s been enough of that, and I’m looking for a fresh start. I’ll tell you straight up, if that’s what you’re asking. Are you?”

  She nodded soberly, her eyes wet.

  “Okay,” he said. “Look, they don’t all turn out well. Most of them don’t. But it’s only been a week.”

  “Did you investigate a lot of kidnappings?”

  Frank nodded carefully. He and Laura had never talked about his work before. With Trudy, this had always been dangerous territory.

  “I don’t know how you dealt with that,” she said. “It’s so sad and scary. I can’t believe it’s happened, here in this little town.”

  “Kidnappings like this are usually about money,” Frank said. “so they can happen anywhere. It’s actually better than an abduction. The recovery rate for kidnappings for ransom is much higher.”

  She nodded, listening.

  “And there is a dialog going on,” he continued. “The kidnappers are talking to the family, which is very good.”

  “Mom said the kidnapping cases were the worst for you,” Laura said, surprising Frank. He couldn’t imagine the two of them, sitting around the kitchen table, discussing Frank and his work. Talking about him when he wasn’t around, debating what bothered him. But of course they had talked—they’d had no one else to talk to. Laura continued. “She said you would go days without talking, after they ended...badly.”

  He wasn’t sure what to say. His new policy of complete and absolute honesty faltered when he looked at her—he could see she was frightened and unsure.

  “Those cases were bad,” he agreed. “But others ended well. I worked quite a few,” he said. “New Orleans was a big city. We never lived in town, so you probably never really experienced all the hustle and bustle. There were many cases a year, and it was one of the things I specialized in.”

  “Until Katrina,” she said.

  He didn’t answer. Frank wasn’t really prepared to talk about that. It took him by surprise, but it shouldn’t have—certainly, she would want answers. Just like Trudy had wanted answers. After a minute, he just nodded.

  Another long, awkward pause threatened to settle over the room, and Frank didn’t want to let the conversation lapse into silence. He’d had years of silence, and it felt like they were connecting, really starting to talk. He wasn’t going to let St. Barts ruin this new opportunity. It had already ruined so many things.

  Frank considered it for a moment. He didn’t want to come off sounding pri
deful, or like he was bragging. But he needed to roll the dice—to change the subject and, perhaps, raise her opinion of him a tad.

  “Actually, the local police have approached me. They asked me to help with the investigation,” Frank said.

  Her expression changed—a hint of a smile appeared.

  “Really?”

  “One of the officers came by my hotel room last night,” Frank said. “He laid out the case for helping them. Not sure how they knew I was in town. It was nice to be asked, but I passed. Not a lot I can bring to the table.”

  Laura’s face changed—she’d been smiling, but now it had morphed into a combination of confusion and anger. Not the emotion he’d been expecting. Or hoping for.

  “You’re not going to help?” she asked sharply.

  “Ummm, no, I wasn’t going to—”

  “Why wouldn’t you help them? They’re just two little girls, out there somewhere. Scared,” she asked, her eyes shiny again. “If you could do anything to help, you should. What if Jackson was missing?”

  He was taken aback, confused by her sudden anger.

  “No, that’s different,” he said, shaking his head. “Of course, if it were Jackson, I’d want to help.”

  “So what is it?”

  “I’m not getting involved,” he said, shaking his head. “I did enough of these types of cases, and I don’t think I’d be any help anyway…besides, they have a Bureau guy, up from the Cincinnati office. What could an old retired cop add to the mix?”

  She shook her head.

  “I read the papers—we’ve got great police here in Cooper’s Mill,” she said. “Except for DUIs, crime is practically nonexistent. They wouldn’t have asked you if they didn’t really need the help.”

  He nodded. Frank had gotten that impression too, from Burwell. Laura looked at him, and he suddenly remembered a school play that she’d been in in elementary school. Her hair seemed similar, swept back and tied up in the back.

  “I figured...I’m really just here to see you,” Frank said, looking at her. “I don’t want to get distracted. And I don’t do these kinds of cases anymore.” He could hear the panic starting to edge into his voice. He was losing ground, losing her.