And out loud I say, “They’re looking for William.”
“For whom?” Mom asks. Perfect grammar.
Daddy says, “A man Bobby found in New York. He’s invisible.”
And I’m stunned by how casually Daddy says it—“He’s invisible,” just like that. It’s not new to him at all, not odd, not weird. Just one more scientific fact.
Daddy’s still talking, bringing Mom up to date. And when he tells her that Bobby was here earlier, she interrupts, almost as if the news about William was nothing, and she turns to me and says, “I’m glad Bobby’s back—I know you’ve been missing him.” And she pats my knee.
And again, I’m sort of stunned, because Mom never seems to want me to have anything to do with Bobby.
Daddy finishes the narrative, and when he’s done, she says, “But if they’re really after this William fellow now, how did they know to look for him there at the library?” she asks.
A sinking feeling, and I put it into words. “Because of me. People were watching Bobby, and then he and I were together at the library, so someone began watching me. And I was sitting near the entrance when William came up to me. Someone must have seen me talking…to no one.”
Daddy says, “It’s not your fault, Alicia.”
Gertie leans against my legs and gives a low whine, almost a yawning sound. And she bumps me twice.
I know what she needs, and I stand up. “Gertie’s got to go out.”
Mom and Dad don’t seem to hear because the woman reporter is talking, this time to a university official, and Mom says, “Look—that’s Carla Untermeyer.”
I follow Gertie to the kitchen, down the four steps, and she’s at the back door, her nose just below the knob to help me locate it. Such a sweet dog.
As I pat her back, she sniffs the door. And she freezes, the hair on her shoulders suddenly stiff and bristly. And she growls.
She never does that.
And through the glass, a voice, soft. A person in distress. An Englishman.
“Please, Alicia, I need to get indoors.”
Sirens go off inside my head, alarm bells too. Nothing subtle about the desperation in the man’s voice, not now. It’s right at the surface. He’s a drowning man with one hand on the side of a canoe. My canoe.
And I want to turn around, run up the back staircase to the bathroom, shut and lock the door, slip into a hot bath, put on my headphones, listen to a long novel, listen to poetry, listen to Mozart and Miles Davis. Until all this goes away.
But I can’t do that. I can’t run from this.
And despite my fears, I know Gertie will protect me. And the man has to be freezing to death out there.
So I hold my dog’s harness, and I say, “Gertie, hush. Hush.”
And I open the door.
chapter 12
felonies
Th-thank you. It’s…so…cold.”
The man whispers, teeth chattering as we stand on the landing inside the back door.
“Down here,” and I reach for the basement door.
With the door open, a big breath of warm air rises and surrounds us. The furnace in this old house is huge.
“You first.” I flip the light switch on my right. The treads creak as he walks down, and I follow with Gertie, pulling the door shut behind us, my right hand on the smooth wooden handrail. It’s six steps down to the concrete floor. “Should be socks and some other clothes on the wooden rack by the washer.”
“Yes. Wonderful. Do you think anyone will mind?”
I push my fears aside, try to sound as if it’s normal to be helping an invisible man get dressed right in front of me. “No, not at all.”
Gertie growls, then almost yips, and I know if she starts barking, Mom and Dad will hear. “Gertie, hush! Good girl.”
And I make a show of having to restrain her. I want this man to know that she’s my protector. And my family’s protector. Bobby’s too.
I put a hard edge on my voice, a take-charge tone.
“You need to stay put down here, and you have to keep quiet. Because you were right about Bobby being followed. And me too. It’s the FBI.”
And I’m pleased at how I sound, very no-nonsense, strong.
But then I can’t help asking, “Will you be all right?”
“I think so,” he says, “yes. Thanks so much. I just need to warm up.”
His words are strained, the voice of someone in pain.
Then he says, “Is Bobby here? Because I really need to talk to him…. I think he’s still in more danger than he knows.”
I want to ask what he means by that, but I don’t want the power to shift, don’t want to make William feel like he’s in charge. Because he isn’t.
That’s what I tell myself.
I put on my strong voice again. “He’s not here, but he might come back later on.” Because that’s what I hope.
“Well,” he says, “tell him I must speak with him, all right? Please?”
I nod, and say, “I will.” But only because he said “please.”
And our conversation is over.
Gertie and I are up the stairs with the door open, and now on the landing, and I step aside and close the basement door.
And I turn the dead bolt. I’m locking him down there. And I wish this door had another lock. Or two.
I stand still for almost a minute, my back against the locked door, until my breathing is almost back to normal.
As I start up the stairs, I can tell Gertie wants to stay on the landing and be a watchdog. I’m halfway through the kitchen before she scrambles up the steps and comes with me toward the family room.
And as I turn left out of the kitchen doorway, I’m already framing an announcement to my parents, imagining how to break this news story.
Maybe, “Guess who I’ve got locked in the basement?”
Or, “I know for a fact that the police are not going to find anyone at the library.”
The local news is still on the TV, and I’m four steps from the family room door when Gertie doubles back past me and trots along the front hallway. And two seconds later the doorbell rings.
The TV goes mute, and Daddy says, “Damn it!—I should have been out back erasing my files. That has to be the FBI.”
Daddy almost never swears.
Mom hurries out of the family room, and as she passes me, she says, “I’ll get the door, Alicia. Your father thinks it’s going to be the FBI.”
Makes sense to me. The agent said he needed to talk to all three of us. If they’re watching the house, they’ll know Mom and Dad are home now.
Or…did they follow William here?
And that thought snaps a jolt of fear through me, makes my breathing go all ragged again.
Over her shoulder, Mom says, “And if it is the FBI, then we just say as little as possible, all right?”
I’m surprised that Mom’s being so steady, so unemotional about this. And it’s not an act. She’s actually calm. Plus, a little earlier, she made a genuinely friendly comment about Bobby.
It’s an odd moment to be making realizations, standing here with my heart pounding away, but it strikes me that I haven’t been letting Mom grow much, letting my view of her change. I’ve been so busy fighting my own battles that I haven’t noticed she’s been winning some too.
I hear Mom open the front door, and then a male voice.
Then, “Alicia? Leo? Would you come to the parlor? We have guests.”
Mom’s using her hostess voice.
Daddy comes out of the family room and offers me his arm. He whispers, “Let’s keep this real simple, okay? Don’t volunteer any information.”
When we’re in the doorway, Mom takes charge. “Alicia, there’s room over here on the couch. Leo, this is Agent Porter of the New York bureau of the FBI—did I get that right?”
“Yes, ma’am. Special Agent Charles Porter.”
“And this is Agent Joan Argus. And they’d like to ask us some questions, right?”
The m
an says, “That’s right. We’re here because an acquaintance of your daughter’s, Robert Phillips, had contact with a man known as William. We believe these two first met in New York City and that they had some kind of disagreement there. And we think this man may have followed Robert here to Chicago. The man is wanted in New York for questioning and for resisting arrest, and we think he may be a danger to Mr. Phillips, and possibly to his friends and acquaintances. So first, I’d like to know if any of you have seen Robert Phillips in the past eight hours.”
Without a trace of hesitation, my mom says, “He was here visiting my daughter less than an hour ago. And Alicia saw him earlier at the library too. They’ve been close friends for a long time. And since his parents are away until Sunday, we’re sort of watching out for him until they get back. He may come back and join us for supper in a little while.”
So Mom knows that Bobby’s parents are away. Makes sense, since they’ve all been in cahoots about the research.
I’m smiling and nodding, totally blown away by Mom’s coolness, and that bit about supper was a nice touch.
And I see how this conversation is going to go. That first question was a test, because the agents already knew the answer. They’ve been following Bobby, so they must have seen him come here and then drive away again—unless…unless the people following Bobby aren’t with the FBI at all.
I wish Bobby hadn’t left. I mean, I know I can get along fine on my own, I’m sure of that. But I don’t want to be on my own. And I want to know that Bobby’s safe. And close.
My dad says, “This man, William—you don’t have his whole name?”
“No,” Agent Porter says. “He’s been…difficult to identify.”
“Can you show us a photo so we can watch out for him?” Daddy says.
Brilliant question. Because it’s impossible for them to have a photo. But the question tells them that we think William is just a normal guy. I’m surrounded by smart people here.
The other agent, the woman, clears her throat. “We’ve only got a physical description. He’s a white male, age thirty-five to forty, about five feet, eight inches tall, shoulder-length hair, wiry build, and he speaks with a British accent.”
Daddy says, “Even around the university, there aren’t many men that age with shoulder-length hair, so someone like that would stand out, accent or not. But, of course, he could easily change his hair.”
“Right,” says the woman. “So, you or your wife, you haven’t seen him…or spoken with him?”
Mom says, “No, I’m sure I haven’t. Have you, Leo?”
“No. I’m certain of it.”
Agent Porter says, “How about you, Alicia? A university security guard thinks he saw you talking to someone at the library earlier this afternoon.”
And just like that, I’m on the spot.
I want to tell the truth. Because sooner or later, reality occurs.
But I’m more scared about our secret getting out than I am about lying.
So I give a sheepish smile and say, “Someone could have seen me talking to my dog. I do that a lot. And I talk to myself too. Which I know is weird. But, like, is that why you followed me home from the library? Because some guard said I might have talked to someone?”
The woman clears her throat, then rustles some paper, and I can picture her flipping the pages of a small black notebook, checking her facts. And ready to write down every word I say.
She says, “We’re just checking out all the links to the suspect, miss. And Robert Phillips is our best link to the man at the moment. And you’re linked to him.”
She’s got a pleasant voice, no particular accent. A reasonable voice. Like my history teacher.
“And this man,” I ask, “is he dangerous? Like, does he have a criminal record and everything? Fingerprints and all that?”
More paper rustling, and the sound of a ballpoint pen scratching away. “We’re not permitted to discuss details of an ongoing investigation,” she says. “All I can tell you is that he’s wanted for resisting arrest in New York City.”
I smile in her direction, but I keep drilling in. “And the FBI got involved because he resisted arrest? Or is he wanted for a lot of other crimes too?” I’m pushing it now, but these questions are important. If this William is a serious criminal, I need to know that right now.
Agent Porter says, “When a fugitive crosses state lines, then it becomes a federal matter. Like Agent Argus said, we can’t discuss details. But it’s important that if you have any contact at all with this man, you give us a call right away, okay?”
I nod, and say, “Sure.” Which is a lie.
Both agents stand up, and so do my mom and dad. I stay on the couch, scratching behind Gertie’s ears.
Agent Porter says, “Thanks for taking the time to talk with us.” As he talks, his voice moves toward the front hall, then stops. More rustling, this time into a pocket, or maybe a briefcase.
“Here’s my card, and this is the number where you can reach us. And one last thing. We think this man is extremely…clever. Please don’t get tricked into helping him. Anyone who knowingly assists this man or fails to report any information they may have about him is committing a federal offense—aiding a fugitive from justice, which is a felony. And I wouldn’t want you good people to get in trouble on his account.”
Daddy’s already in the vestibule, and I hear him open the front door. “We’ll be careful,” he says. “And let us know if there’s anything else we can do.”
The door closes, and they’re gone. But they’ve left behind a new kind of fear. I’ve never been a felon before.
Mom sits back down on the couch, pats me on the knee, and says, “Well. That wasn’t so bad, was it? Those two seem like very decent people. And you did the right thing, not telling them about talking to that man at the library.”
She’s still being calm, but she’s sounding a little like the old Mom, trying to put a sweetsy spin on a bad situation. Because I’ve lost count of how many times I’m already guilty of federal crimes.
Daddy’s back in the room, and he says, “And how about the way they talk about William, as if he’s just another guy who came here from New York? Of course, they have to act that way. As if he’s normal. So we have to act that way too. It’s important we don’t give them any way at all to establish a link between us and William—or his condition. They’d be in here with a warrant in no time. Even if they do end up catching him, as long as there’s no provable connection to us, we’ll still be all right. And they won’t be able to prove anything that William might tell them about Bobby. It’ll be Bobby’s word against his. Still, the best would be if William were to simply disappear again.”
Gertie pulls away and I hear her claws click on the hardwood in the corner of the parlor. She growls, and then scratches at the metal floor grate.
It’s William’s scent, drifting up through the heating vent. He’s probably been right below us, listening to all of this.
“Gertie, here.” She comes back and sits in front of me.
Daddy says, “What’s bothering her?”
I shrug. “Too many strangers, I guess.”
And this sick feeling grabs at my stomach.
Because I’ve just told Daddy a lie.
And I feel like I don’t quite know him anymore, this dad who zaps mice into transparency and then grinds them up at the kitchen sink. He feels bad about it, but, still, is this the same Daddy who used to read The Wind in the Willows to me?
And I’ve got this mom now who’s suddenly behaving like a real human being, like a person I could talk to, except I don’t dare. And she just told me I did the right thing by lying.
Mom says, “Everything okay, Alicia?”
She’s worried—I must look awful.
I throw a quick smile onto my face.
“Yeah, I’m fine.”
Another lie.
Mom shifts gears and says, “So, is everybody hungry? How about we order in Chinese—sound good? Alicia, w
hy don’t you give Bobby a call and tell him he’s invited—I wasn’t just saying that. And while we’re waiting we can have some cheese and crackers, maybe some fruit?”
Daddy says, “Sounds great. I’m famished.”
And the two of them are headed for the kitchen. How can they think about food—especially Daddy?
Over her shoulder, Mom calls, “Alicia, come help out, okay?”
I can hear the tinge of forced cheeriness in her voice, and that’s for me, and for Daddy too. Because she’s trying to keep a grip on normal life. Both of them are. And I don’t blame them for wanting that. Not at all.
And they vanish toward the kitchen in a fading cloud of small talk. As if all our problems are over now.
A sudden rush of gratitude seizes me, forces a lump into my throat. Because Mom and Dad have always tried so hard to keep me safe, to keep me happy, to keep me from making terrible mistakes. And my teeth clamp together, my jaw muscles tighten from the fierceness of my love for these two people. What I want most is to make sure they do not have to endure one more heartache because of me. Not one more.
And that feels so impossible.
Mom calls again, “Alicia?”
I call back, “In a minute.”
I’m alone in the dark.
And I feel William, sitting somewhere below the floor, like a time bomb that could blow up my home, lift my whole life right off its foundation. And I feel those agents outside, close by, secure within the power of the law, watching, biding their time as the dim afternoon light fades away. And Bobby, who’s home from New York now, but still so far away.
“Gertie, here.”
And she comes and puts her head on my knees.
She knows I’m shaky.
“Good girl, good girl.” I lean forward and hug her, and I fight not to burst into tears. I fight hard.
Because I’m not doing that. I’m not going to fall apart. I’m not.
No matter how surreal things get, I’m still me. I know that. Who I am and what I am does not change, does not disappear, does not fade away.
I know that. I’ve had to prove that.
I’m Alicia. It’s me.