“That can’t be it.”
“Why not?” Ellen asked, and Gerry shook her head, the papers reflecting white on her face.
“Amy couldn’t have kids.”
Ellen’s mouth went dry.
“She had an operation, when she was seventeen. She had a problem with her ovaries. What was it called?” Gerry paused a minute. “One day she woke up in cramps real bad, so I knew she wasn’t fakin’ to get outta school. We took her to the emergency and they said she had a twisted ovary, it was called. The ovary got all full of blood, and they had to take it out right away. They said she had almost no chance of getting pregnant.”
Ellen tried to process it. “But not no chance. She still had one ovary left, right?”
“Yeah, but they said it was very—what did they say—unlikely she could have kids.”
“But she had a child.”
“I think if you take out an ovary, it affects the hormones, at least that’s what they said, something like that, is all I remember.” Gerry looked confused. “Whatever, if she had a kid, it’s news to me.”
“She didn’t tell you?”
“No, like I said, we haven’t talked. She didn’t tell me nothin’ anyway. I don’t even know where she is. I was tellin’ you the truth, outside.”
Ellen couldn’t accept that it was a dead end. “What about any of her sisters, or her brother? You never heard from any of them about her having a baby?”
“I don’t think she talks to anybody but Cheryl, and she lives down in Delaware. I can call her and ask. I will, later.” Gerry snorted, her nostrils emitting puffs of smoke. “Nice to know if I had another grandchild.”
Ellen tried another tack. “Or maybe when the baby got really sick, that’s the kind of thing you might tell someone.”
“If Amy had a baby that got really sick, she couldn’t handle it. She’d be lookin’ for an easy out.”
Ellen cringed at the harsh words. “That’s the sort of thing that would overwhelm anyone, especially a young girl.”
“It didn’t take much to overwhelm Amy. If I asked her to take out the trash, that overwhelmed her.”
Ellen let it go. She needed more information. “Can you just tell me a little more about her? What is she like?”
“She was always my wild child. I never could get a handle on that girl.”
Ellen found it hard to hear. She had imagined Amy so differently. She wondered if all adoptive mothers had fantasy birth mothers.
“Smart girl, but got lousy grades. Didn’t give a shit. I always thought she had, like, ADD, but the teachers said no.” Gerry took another puff. “She did her share of drinkin’ and drugs. I had no control with her. She was outta here after graduation.”
“She ran away?”
“Not like that, just left.”
“No college?”
“No way.” Gerry smiled crookedly, and Ellen caught a trace of Amy’s wisecracking grin.
“Why did she go, may I ask?”
“Didn’t like my boyfriend, Tom. They used to get into it all the time. Now she’s gone and so’s he.” Gerry emitted another puff. “I made her stay and graduate high school, but after that, she went off on her own.”
“Hold on a sec.” Ellen rifled through the papers and handed Gerry the father’s consent form. “Look at this. My son’s birth father is Charles Cartmell, from Philly. Do you know him?”
“No.”
“The name isn’t familiar at all? He lives on Grant Avenue in the Northeast.” Ellen had checked online last night but couldn’t get a phone number or find a listing of the address.
“I don’t know the name.”
“If Amy is twenty-five now and gave birth to Will three years ago, it means she had him when she was twenty-two. So maybe the father was someone from high school, or the area?”
“She didn’t go steady in high school.” Gerry shook her head. “She saw a lot of different guys. I didn’t ask no questions, believe me.”
“Do you have her high school yearbook? Maybe we could look at it?”
“She didn’t buy the yearbook. She wasn’t the type.” Gerry waved her off. “She was my baby, and I spoiled her, yes I did.”
“Could I see her bedroom? There might be something in there that would help me.”
“I cleared it out a long time ago. I use it for my son’s girlfriend now.”
Ellen began thinking out loud. “She must have stayed in the Philadelphia area, because she chose a lawyer in Ardmore. She even had meetings with the lawyer.”
Gerry shrugged. “Cheryl might know.”
“Can I have her number?”
Gerry hesitated. “Why exactly are you tryin’ to find Amy?”
“It’s a medical thing, about the baby,” Ellen lied, having prepared for the question.
“Does she have to give it a kidney or something?”
“No, not at all. At most it’s a blood test. His heart is acting up again, and I need to know more about her medical history.”
“She didn’t have no heart problems. None of us have heart problems. We got cancer, runs in the family.”
“I’m sure, but the blood test will show more than that.” Ellen was freewheeling. “If you’d prefer it, maybe you could give Cheryl my number and ask her to call me?”
“Okay, I’ll do that.” Gerry reached out and patted her hand. “Don’t worry. I’m sure the baby will be okay.”
“I don’t want to lose him,” Ellen added, unaccountably.
Chapter Twenty-seven
Ellen got into the cold car, turned the heat up, and took off down the street under a cloudy sky. Her BlackBerry started ringing as soon as she left the block, and she steered the car with one hand and dug in her purse with the other, finding the device by its smooth feel. She pulled it out, and the screen showed the same unknown number as before, so she answered the call.
“Ellen, where are you?” It was Sarah Liu, sounding panicky. “I’ve been calling you. You missed the projects meeting. Marcelo asked about the think piece.”
“Damn.” The Thursday projects meeting. She’d completely forgotten about it, preoccupied with finding Amy.
“Where are you?”
“I wasn’t feeling well this morning.” Ellen was fast becoming an accomplished liar. “Was Marcelo pissed?”
“What do you think? When are you coming in?”
“I’m not sure, why?” Ellen checked the dashboard clock—10:37.
“We should meet about the think piece. I want to see your draft.” Ellen tensed. The week had flown. She hadn’t even transcribed her notes from Laticia Williams. “We don’t need to meet and my draft isn’t ready—”
“When will it be? Our deadline’s tomorrow.”
“Sarah, we’re grown-ups. I don’t have time to give you a draft, and I don’t need yours. Don’t tell Daddy.”
“What the hell are you doing? You didn’t call Julia Guest, and I greased it for you.”
Ellen switched lanes to pass a VW Beetle, fighting annoyance. “Thanks, but I have my own leads. I won’t need to talk to her.”
“She’s connected in the community, and she wants to talk to us.”
“People who want to talk are never good leads. I don’t need the community spokesperson.”
“Why not call her, even for background?”
“I know what I’m doing.” Ellen braked, checking the car on the way downhill. “Let me handle my end. You handle yours.”
“Have it your way, but make that deadline.”
“I will.”
“Good-bye.” Sarah hung up, and Ellen hit the gas. She had to make the deadline, or she was out of a job. She pressed the button for information, then took the ramp to the expressway.
Heading east under a threatening sky.
Chapter Twenty-eight
Ellen got ahold of Lateef’s teacher, Vanessa James, while her class was down the hall at the library. Tall and rail-thin, the teacher munched on a green apple as she moved quickly around the classroom, picking up stray bo
oks and crayons, straightening undersized chairs, and restoring a knit hat to its cubbyhole.
Vanessa asked, “It’s all right with Laticia if we talk, right?”
“Yes, I called her on the way over. Sorry it’s such short notice.”
“No problem.” Vanessa wore a long red sweater with black slacks and low heels. She had large eyes, a smile slick with lip gloss, and her hair straightened into a stiff bob, which showed off tiny diamond earrings winking in her earlobes. “We have fifteen minutes until they get back. What do you want to know?”
“Just a few things.” Ellen slid her notebook from her purse and flipped over the cover, pen at the ready. “What kind of kid was Lateef?”
“Right to it, huh?” Vanessa paused in midbite, the apple at her mouth, her gaze suddenly pained. “Teef was like a light. You could say he was a class clown, but that wouldn’t do him justice. He was the one who made everybody laugh. But he was a leader.”
“Is there any example you can recall?”
“It hurts my heart to think about it.” Vanessa tossed the apple into a scuffed brown wastebasket, where it made a loud clunk. “Okay, here’s one. On picture day, he combed his hair flat as he could, which wasn’t much, and he said he was Donald Trump. The photographer told him to cut it out, and he said, ‘You’re fired.’ ” Her pretty face relaxed into a smile, which vanished as quickly as it had appeared. “All the kids looked up to him. We just finished our unit on African-American history. It’s part of the new core curriculum in social studies the SRC set up.”
“SRC?”
“School Reform Commission. For Dr. King’s birthday, Lateef was voted to be Dr. King. He memorized a few lines of ‘I Have a Dream,’ and he did a great job. He liked to be in front of the class.” Vanessa paused at the memory. “He was quick as a whip. We do basic addition and subtraction, but he could have moved on to the third-grade curriculum, fractions and geometry. He was good on sentence structure, too; we have to get them ready for the PSSA’s.”
“What’s that?”
“State tests. On our report cards, I have to pick from a lot of categories, like ‘eager to try new things.’ ” Vanessa chuckled softly. “Lateef was my category buster. He was his own little category.”
Ellen made rapid notes. “So how did the class deal with his murder?”
Vanessa shook her head, with a sigh. For a second, she seemed to focus on the large bulletin board on the wall, which was covered with red construction-paper hearts, each with a fold down the center. At the top of the board, gold glitter read, Get Ready For Valentine’s Day In 2B!
Ellen waited for the teacher to respond. Experience had taught her that silence could be the hardest question to answer.
“These kids, they’re used to death. We lost two kids already this school year, and it’s only February.” Vanessa kept her face to the bulletin board. “But Lateef, everybody knew him. Everybody felt him. The District sent us grief counselors. That child was too full of life not to be missed.”
“Do the kids talk about it?”
“Some of them, and some of them cry. They’ll never be the same. They’re not innocent, like children are supposed to be.” Vanessa turned to her, her lips forming a tight line. “What I see is a real deep sadness, and it goes all the way inside. These kids, they’re heartsick. And those are the lucky ones.”
Ellen didn’t get it. “What you mean?”
“The unlucky ones, they don’t even know what’s bothering them. They can’t express their feelings. They have an underlying grief and fear, but instead of expressing it in words, they act out. They fight. Bite. Kick. Bully each other. Their world isn’t safe, and they know it.” Vanessa pointed to one of the desks by the window, in the second row. “That was Teef’s seat. It’s there, empty, every day. I think about moving it, but that only makes it worse.”
Ellen felt a pang. She thought instantly of Will’s cubbyhole in his preschool, with his name card and a picture of Thomas the Tank Engine. What if one day that were empty, never to be filled again? “What will you do?”
“I’ll leave it there. I have no choice. The first week, we made a little memorial and the kids brought flowers. Here, come look at this.” Vanessa crossed to the desk with Ellen following her, and she lifted up the desk lid. Inside the well sat a huge pile of cards and dried red roses, their petals shriveling to black. “These are his Valentine’s Day cards. Every day somebody comes by with another one. It kills me.”
Ellen looked at the cards, thinking. It kills all of us.
“You know who you should talk to, if you really want to understand the effects of the murders in this city?”
“Who?” Ellen asked her, intrigued. The best leads always came from other leads.
“My uncle. He’ll see you, if you can handle it.”
Chapter Twenty-nine
Ellen was standing in the Glade-scented entrance hall of the funeral home with its proprietor, Ralston Rilkey. He was a slight man with a compact frame, in his early sixties, and he wore his hair cut short and natural, with steel gray coils tangled at the temples. He had a short forehead, and his eyes were worried above a wide nose and neatly groomed mustache, also going gray.
“And what is it you want to know again?” Ralston asked. “I’m fairly busy. We have two viewings tonight.”
“I’d like to know how you’ve been affected by the murders in the neighborhood. There’s been so many lately, especially of children like Lateef Williams. Your niece told me you might help, and Laticia gave her permission to talk to me.”
“I’ll speak with you, but the interview must be respectful. Here at Ralston-Hughes, we practice dignity in death.”
“I understand.”
“Then follow me.” Ralston left, and Ellen followed him across a red-carpeted hallway, through a paneled door that read EMPLOYEES ONLY, and downstairs into the basement of the converted row house. The carpeting morphed into institutional gray tile, the temperature dipped slightly, and the fake-floral scents were eradicated by a starkly medicinal odor.
“Is that formaldehyde?” Ellen asked, making a note.
Ralston nodded, his bald spot bobbing as he walked ahead, and they reached a set of white double doors, which he opened. The odor grew stronger, and on the wall hung white smocks and plastic face shields. Stainless-steel shelves held boxes of cotton, jars, and bottles with labels that read Kelco Gold Series Arterial Embalming Fluid and Aron Alpha Instant Adhesive. Ellen made notes, trying not to shudder.
Ralston opened another door, and she found herself in a larger room with a glistening white table at its center, tilted at an angle. He stood behind the table in his suit of dark green, gesturing with evident pride. “This is our preparation room, one of them. You’ll notice the table is porcelain. Porcelain doesn’t react with the embalming chemicals.”
“Would you fill me in on the procedure, generally?”
“The first step is washing and disinfecting the body. Embalming is simply the process of displacing blood with fluid, usually of formalde-hyde preservative with a red dye, to give the flesh a lifelike appearance. Even African-American skin takes on a pallor once the blood is removed.”
Ellen made a note.
“Then we inject the fluid, and this machine does its work, replacing the blood with fluid.” Ralston rested his small hand on a yellowish pump at the head of the table. “We insert a trocar, which punctures the viscera and removes fluid. We disinfect the cavities as well, then inject preservative and we pack the orifices.”
Ellen wasn’t about to ask.
“We wash the body again and apply lotion, to protect against dehydration. After death, the eyes begin to sink into the skull, and we pack cotton into the eye socket, place a plastic eyecap under the eyelid, then pull back the eyelid to apply adhesive and keep the eye closed.”
Ellen’s stomach turned over.
“Death also causes the facial muscles to relax, and the jaw drops open. We make the eyes and mouth as lifelike as possible. As we say, we
set the features.”
Ellen tried to remain professional. “Now, how was the procedure in Lateef’s case?”
“With Lateef, there were so many gunshot wounds on one side of his face that we had to use his school photo as a guide and build from that foundation.”
Ellen tried to visualize it. That little face, smiling from his memorial T-shirt. “Couldn’t you use the other side of his face?”
“No. With as many gunshots as he had, there was significant facial swelling, which distorted even the good side of his face. The trauma, you understand. We use chemicals to reduce the swelling.”
“How did you cover the bullet wounds?”
“On his face?” Ralston frowned. “You misunderstand me. There was no covering. There was nothing there. So in his case, we reconstructed. We snipped away the excess tissue around the wounds and glued the skin that was left to his cheekbone and eye socket.”
Ellen didn’t want to know more. Nobody should know this stuff. It was unthinkable. She couldn’t help but think of losing Will this way. Of him being the child on the table. Of his beautiful face being the one glued together.
“We poured wax into the bullet holes to fill the gap and used cosmetics to match the shade of the wax to his skin, which was lighter than his mother. Some mortuaries have airbrushes, but we don’t need that. I’m forty-two years in this business, and my father had it before me. We don’t airbrush.”
Ellen rallied at the businesslike note in his tone.
“The result wasn’t perfect, but it was acceptable to Laticia and the family, and it gave them comfort, to see him as they knew him in life. Even my niece gave us a good grade.”
“That’s wonderful,” Ellen said, with an admiration she didn’t try to hide, but Ralston shrugged it off.
“Even for a single gunshot wound, we wouldn’t cover it, that would never work. The putty would simply sink into the wound.” He held up an index finger. “That’s one thing I’ve had to order more of, wax and putty. We’ve already used four times the amount that we did last year, and the manufacturer can’t keep it in stock. I have a friend in Newark, he’s in the same bind.”