it. She did not even like the Selkirks. Vassar should take her back, fuck them, fuck it. She did not even know that she was crying. But he did, the boy.
Are you OK? he whispered.
She had no choice. She had to be OK. She came back to bed and held him.
Are you crying, Dial?
I’m fine, baby. I didn’t sleep much, that’s all.
Why are you crying?
It’s nothing, baby, something that happened a long time ago.
10
What had happened long ago was she had been a total fool. That was a long time ago and very recent. She believed people, always had—for instance, the handwriting on the ticket.
Change of plan. Mrs. Selkirk expects you back tonight.
The worst was—she believed it because the hand was so dogged, so dull, so lacking in imagination. She was such a snob she did not see the lie. And so she had let herself be their instrument, be used to steal the child.
He was a sweet boy, in many ways, but he was not hers. And this was definitely not her life.
The Philly Greyhound station had been a scuzzy place and it was with serious reluctance that she had left him in the waiting room alone. The telephone was just outside the door, by the restrooms, by the back door to the pizza parlor. She did not yet know she had been manipulated. She was still being a good girl and a snob all at once. She phoned the Philadelphia number written on her ticket. The line was busy. As the coin returned a strung-out woman, very white with scared blond hair and puffy eyes, came through from the pizza parlor. They locked eyes before Dial turned away.
Here you are, honey.
The woman was holding up a string of pearls. One of her nails was missing. Make me an offer, baby. I’ll give you a good price.
The number was busy. She shook her head at the pearls. The woman had a red line running up her leg from her sneaker to her knee. She hunched over her purse and removed four quarters and realized she was being misunderstood.
She deposited the quarters and listened to the phone ringing on Park Avenue. The woman was close behind her. She could smell stale bread and antiseptic.
The phone was picked up.
Hello.
There was a noise, like ice cubes rattling. Hello. It was a man. In the background there was an interfering woman.
Who is it? the man asked, perhaps obediently. Dial heard a three-martini lunch traveling through the dusk from Park.
Anna Xenos.
Anna Zeno, the man said. Idiot, she thought, as he placed his hand across the phone.
There was some kind of shuffling, a fast fierce expletive. She noted with relief that the pearl woman had retreated to the bathroom door where she appeared to be wrapping the necklace in newspaper.
Where are you? Phoebe Selkirk exploded in her ear.
In Philadelphia, of course.
There was a long silence.
You have my boy.
Of course.
Another long silence and when she spoke again her voice had hit another register. What do you want? asked Mrs. Selkirk.
What do I want? said Dial. She should have said, They gave me a ticket and a phone number. The number does not answer. What should I do? But she was watching a very strange sick woman slide past, her eyes on Dial, her nylon jacket brushing noisily against the wall.
What do you want, damn you.
Mrs. Selkirk, do not speak to me like that. I’m not your servant anymore.
You were not to leave New York. You were to have him back here. Where are you? Tell me now.
I am trying to dial the damn number I was given. That’s what I am trying to do. I have some drug addict pestering me and your grandson is by himself, all right. Here I am. Now
you
tell me what I am to do.
This produced the most extraordinary outburst of crying which Dial was not prepared for. Again the man and Mrs. Selkirk argued. Again the hand went across the receiver.
Hello, he said.
Will you please kindly tell me what I am to do.
You may as well know, young missy, we know who you are and this call has been traced.
The woman with the pearls was standing now, at the entrance to the waiting room. Dial
Are you OK? he whispered.
She had no choice. She had to be OK. She came back to bed and held him.
Are you crying, Dial?
I’m fine, baby. I didn’t sleep much, that’s all.
Why are you crying?
It’s nothing, baby, something that happened a long time ago.
10
What had happened long ago was she had been a total fool. That was a long time ago and very recent. She believed people, always had—for instance, the handwriting on the ticket.
Change of plan. Mrs. Selkirk expects you back tonight.
The worst was—she believed it because the hand was so dogged, so dull, so lacking in imagination. She was such a snob she did not see the lie. And so she had let herself be their instrument, be used to steal the child.
He was a sweet boy, in many ways, but he was not hers. And this was definitely not her life.
The Philly Greyhound station had been a scuzzy place and it was with serious reluctance that she had left him in the waiting room alone. The telephone was just outside the door, by the restrooms, by the back door to the pizza parlor. She did not yet know she had been manipulated. She was still being a good girl and a snob all at once. She phoned the Philadelphia number written on her ticket. The line was busy. As the coin returned a strung-out woman, very white with scared blond hair and puffy eyes, came through from the pizza parlor. They locked eyes before Dial turned away.
Here you are, honey.
The woman was holding up a string of pearls. One of her nails was missing. Make me an offer, baby. I’ll give you a good price.
The number was busy. She shook her head at the pearls. The woman had a red line running up her leg from her sneaker to her knee. She hunched over her purse and removed four quarters and realized she was being misunderstood.
She deposited the quarters and listened to the phone ringing on Park Avenue. The woman was close behind her. She could smell stale bread and antiseptic.
The phone was picked up.
Hello.
There was a noise, like ice cubes rattling. Hello. It was a man. In the background there was an interfering woman.
Who is it? the man asked, perhaps obediently. Dial heard a three-martini lunch traveling through the dusk from Park.
Anna Xenos.
Anna Zeno, the man said. Idiot, she thought, as he placed his hand across the phone.
There was some kind of shuffling, a fast fierce expletive. She noted with relief that the pearl woman had retreated to the bathroom door where she appeared to be wrapping the necklace in newspaper.
Where are you? Phoebe Selkirk exploded in her ear.
In Philadelphia, of course.
There was a long silence.
You have my boy.
Of course.
Another long silence and when she spoke again her voice had hit another register. What do you want? asked Mrs. Selkirk.
What do I want? said Dial. She should have said, They gave me a ticket and a phone number. The number does not answer. What should I do? But she was watching a very strange sick woman slide past, her eyes on Dial, her nylon jacket brushing noisily against the wall.
What do you want, damn you.
Mrs. Selkirk, do not speak to me like that. I’m not your servant anymore.
You were not to leave New York. You were to have him back here. Where are you? Tell me now.
I am trying to dial the damn number I was given. That’s what I am trying to do. I have some drug addict pestering me and your grandson is by himself, all right. Here I am. Now
you
tell me what I am to do.
This produced the most extraordinary outburst of crying which Dial was not prepared for. Again the man and Mrs. Selkirk argued. Again the hand went across the receiver.
Hello, he said.
Will you please kindly tell me what I am to do.
You may as well know, young missy, we know who you are and this call has been traced.
The woman with the pearls was standing now, at the entrance to the waiting room. Dial
Similar Books
