“We’re getting old, my friend,” Raul went on.
Again, a joke emerged from habit. “Speak for yourself, man.”
Instead of driving home, Hilton tooled north on Biscayne Boulevard until he reached the gates to Poinciana Haven, where he could see the mobile home Charles Ray Goode had left behind with a FOR SALE sign in the window. He’d left his curtains hanging inside, but that was about all, Hilton saw when he stood on a cement block to peer between them. He halfway expected to find Charles Ray still standing there, staring back at him.
But no. Just a tabletop piled with fast food wrappers, and empty cabinets hanging open. He was really gone, just as Curt had verified through the FBI and his new probation officer upstate. For now, they were making him check in daily. That simple.
Hilton made it back to Coral Gables just in time to pick up Kaya and Jamil from their schools. In another couple of weeks, the family had decided, Kaya and Jamil would be allowed to take the bus or ride home with friends the way they had before Goode entered their lives. For now, while Hilton was on leave, he enjoyed picking them up—not as a safety measure, but just to do it. Parked in front of their schools, he felt buoyant each time the crowd of children cleared and he saw his own bounding up to the car with breathless stories or complaints from the school day.
Kaya didn’t like her algebra teacher. Jamil was sick of the bully bothering him at lunch, picking at his food.
“He plays too much. I could beat him up,” Jamil said.
“Don’t let me catch you fighting,” Hilton warned.
Jamil sighed. “But it’s his fault. He’s the one who starts it. If he won’t leave me alone and I hit him, why should I get in trouble? That’s not fair.”
“You’re not supposed to fight. Period. A lot of people think black children are aggressive, so you have to be smarter than that. Eyes are always watching you, Jamil. Remember that.”
His son had lost the argument with Kaya over who would sit up front, so Hilton glanced at Jamil’s dubious face in the rearview mirror. How many black boys Jamil’s age would one day end up staring down the barrel of a police officer’s gun because of a quick assumption, or fear? That could happen to his hotheaded son, if he wasn’t careful. That could happen soon.
“You got that? Promise me you’ll remember that, okay?”
“Ill remember.”
“I said to promise.”
“Cross my heart, Daddy,” Jamil said. “Hope to die.”
The reading light was on in Kaya’s room, so Hilton knocked on her door, which was ajar. Since it was nearly midnight, Kaya was already in bed beneath her sheets, but she was enthralled in a teen paperback picturing two laughing blond girls on the cover. She barely glanced up at Hilton as her eyes devoured the words.
“Why are you up so late?” he asked her, sitting cross-legged on her carpeted floor.
“I just want to finish this chapter,” she said.
He hadn’t had a chance to really talk to Kaya since he’d been back. He’d found himself wanting to apologize about the scene when he left the house, but she had never stopped her cheerful chatter long enough to give him a chance. They’d danced around each other for days, occasionally catching the other in thoughtful gazes, but they hadn’t sat down to share their feelings. And it didn’t look like she planned to give him an opportunity tonight, either.
Kaya had big, pretty brown eyes like her mother’s. Long lashes. She was wearing a bright pink nightshirt, which framed her face perfectly, softly. Her hair was tied behind her head in a ponytail, so she looked older to him than she usually did with her braids on either side. She might not look much different as a young woman in her twenties, her thirties. She would be taller, but she wouldn’t look very different at all.
Kaya’s eyes gazed up at him from behind the book. She smiled. “What are you looking at?”
“You, that’s all. My little girl.”
“Please don’t start that, Dad.”
Hilton saw a gleam of silver on Kaya’s nightstand beneath her brass banker’s light, so he reached up to touch it. It was a pin, a winged staff with twin serpents entwined around it. The medical insignia.
“Where’d you get this?”
Kaya sat up in her bed, closing the book. “Oh, my science teacher gave me that. He said I’m so advanced, I could be in a tenth-grade science class. I told him I’m going to be a doctor. That’s a pin from a real doctor. It’s his son’s.”
Hilton studied the tiny pin in his palm. Mr. Bonetti. He remembered the man from the parent-teacher conferences last fall. He was a good man, kind and smart. He was the sort of man Kaya could keep in touch with for advice and encouragement for years even after she left middle school. Maybe.
“I told him about my dream that time,” Kaya said suddenly.
“Which dream?”
“You know the one. I told him I met a girl who died of AIDS and I dreamed about her. And how she said I’m going to do something with T cells.”
“What did he say?”
“He just laughed,” Kaya said, shrugging. “He said he doesn’t believe in ghosts.”
They both fell silent, and Hilton became aware of the silence all throughout the house. He realized that he and Kaya both believed in ghosts, at least for tonight. Hilton closed his fingers tightly around the pin.
“You can keep that if you want to,” Kaya said. “Then you can give it back to me when I finish medical school.”
“That’s a bargain,” Hilton said softly, stroking her head. Hilton could see the corners of Kaya’s mouth drooping with adult worries that had been absent in her face six months ago. She stared at the floor, biting her lip. It was time to talk, at last. “How long will you be here, Dad?”
“A long time, I hope.”
“Is that crazy guy really gone?”
“As far as I know. I think so. Why?”
Kaya shook her head, silent. Then she sighed and met Hilton’s eyes. “I don’t know. I just don’t feel like he’s really gone. I feel like everything is going to be different from now on.”
“Everything will be different, for a while,” Hilton said.
“Nothing will be like it was before, will it?” Kaya asked stubbornly, looking unhappy. “It won’t be like before.”
Hilton paused to think. He knew she was right. Nothing would ever again be exactly the same for the James family. Some of it was lost forever, like Kaya’s baby teeth and his own peaceful nights. But he felt an overpowering sense that what lay ahead for Kaya, just possibly, was too wonderful for him to even imagine.
He took his daughter’s hand. “That’s the whole trouble with this world,” he said. “Everything always becomes different, in the end. But different doesn’t mean bad, just different. You know?”
Kaya nodded, and Hilton saw a pool of tears in her eyes. She blinked and wiped them away. “I just don’t want you to leave again,” she said.
He squeezed her hand, his throat aching. “I know,” he said. “I’m trying hard to fix everything, but I can’t make promises about the future. Nobody can. You know that, right?” Kaya nodded. “Now stop that crying, or you’ll have me doing it.”
Kaya laughed halfheartedly. “I thought men aren’t supposed to cry,” she said.
“Men do a lot of things they’re not supposed to.”
“I love you, Dad,” Kaya whispered.
The silence in the house screamed at him. He remembered the first time she’d spoken those words to him, at eighteen months old, still in diapers. A part of him knew a circle was closing around them. The first time. The last time.
“I know, Pumpkin. I love you, too.”
CHAPTER 38
Hilton’s birthday, a Sunday, dawned with a bright sun fighting its way through thick cloud cover, signaling another day of sporadic south Florida rainstorms. Hilton lay awake beside Dede for a long time before she stirred, gazing at the photograph of Nana he’d propped up on the bureau. The photo gave him some peace, but all night he hadn’t slept or dreame
d. He’d been waiting for morning, for this day to begin.
Already, it wasn’t what he had expected. After all of the talk about stealing birthdays with Raul and Andres, he’d believed he would wake up to find every inner sensor rife with unpleasant premonitions. He felt good, though, except for his fatigue and a slight disappointment in the glum rain clouds outside. He was thirty-nine years old today, in good physical health, in his wife’s bed. So far, so good.
“I’m supposed to pretend I’ve forgotten all about your birthday,” Dede told him sleepily when she woke up, kissing the tip of his nose. “I’m a bad actress. I can’t do it. Happy birthday.”
“I won’t tell.”
She furrowed her brow, concerned. “Did you sleep?”
“Some,” he lied. “I just woke up early. I saw the sun rise.” She nestled her back against him, and he wrapped his arm around her middle with his chin resting gently against her neck. “No more dreams?” she asked hopefully.
“No more dreams.”
By the time they came out of the bedroom, Kaya and Jamil were sitting in front of the television set, balancing cereal bowls in their laps. As he’d been warned, they simply mumbled good morning without a word about his birthday. Kaya was completely straightfaced, but Jamil had the giggles.
“You might as well know,” Dede said quietly while they brewed coffee alone in the kitchen. “I’ve been instructed to send you on a long errand this afternoon to get you out of the house. Which errand do you prefer?”
“Jesus, just not the grocery store—please.”
“I do need to go, but that wouldn’t take long enough, anyway.” Now Hilton felt slightly uneasy. “I don’t have to stay away all day, do I?”
“Three or four hours,” she said, handing him his mug. “Please, Hil. You don’t know how they’ve been planning. Leave sometime after lunch and get back here by five, okay?”
Hilton grumbled to himself later, snarled in the slow traffic on South Dixie Highway under a hot afternoon sun, which had prevailed over the clouds. It was his birthday, and yet he’d somehow ended up on the road with a list of a half dozen chores that would take him all over the city. He had to return Dede’s library books downtown, get his car washed, replace a floodlight that had burned out on the patio, who knew what else.
He should have held firm, surprise or no surprise. There’s no way he should have allowed them to send him away for so many hours, today of all days. Complacency was a dangerous thing.
Trapped behind a white and blue Express Mail van stopped with its hazard lights on in the middle of the right-hand traffic lane on Flagler, Hilton was so annoyed he thought about turning around to go home. But he’d already driven twenty minutes to get downtown, and the library was so close it didn’t make sense to go back now. The uniformed driver carried box after box out of the belly of his truck, stacking them in front of an electronics store. Traffic was so dense that Hilton couldn’t budge to change lanes. Why the hell did the post office make deliveries on Sunday, anyway? He tapped his car horn. “Could you move it?” he called out his window to the young driver, who shrugged and motioned for him to drive around.
Asshole. Like Hilton hadn’t thought of that already. Finally, Hilton cut off a BMW to bolt into the neighboring lane. He heard the driver behind him brake and curse at him in Spanish. Goddammit, he hated driving on Flagler and dodging its tourists and bargain-hunters. On top of that, the sun had turned truly merciless, rapidly draining what little energy he had. Some birthday.
Hilton grew more calm as he climbed the tile steps leading to the palatial Spanish-style library building and its patio with benches and tables beneath umbrellas, a small oasis on the crowded city street. A woman in sunglasses sat watching her twin sons chasing each other in a circle while they laughed gleefully. Two shabbily dressed older men napped leaning against each other on one of the benches. Silently, without waking them, Hilton slid a ten-dollar bill into each of their shirt pockets. The woman in sunglasses smiled at him as he walked past.
It was a beautiful day, after all.
Inside the library, Hilton lost track of time, browsing without particular interest in an aisle of travel books. The sun was still bright when he returned to the patio. The woman and her sons had left, but the homeless men still slept. Hilton bought a cherry Popsicle from a vendor and sat on one of the shaded benches, aching for a small rest. Sunlight always made him so drowsy.
And why not? Hilton curled his legs onto the painted wooden bench and savored the cool spot he’d discovered. He could hear car horns and sirens around him, but he felt untroubled. Maybe he could nap safely today, just for a time.
“. . . how many of them in the house? . . . we’ll need dental records for a positive ID, if we can salvage that much . . . looks like maybe everybody wasn’t home . . . Nobody comes within fifty feet, including the reporters . . . it’s James, J-A-M-E-S . . .”
When Hilton woke up, his shirt was sagging with cold perspiration and he shivered despite the heat. He sat, confused and alarmed. Where was he? He recognized the patio benches and the two homeless men sleeping across from him, but something was different. The late-afternoon sun had dipped out of sight behind the library building, and something indescribable and sinister hung in the air. This place, where he was now, was another doorway.
He had slept, and a balance had shifted somehow, just like Andres had said. Something was wrong.
sweet dreams, baby
Dede’s whispered voice was so clear behind him, he turned to see if she was standing there before he realized the voice was only in his head. In a flash that burst into a staggering headache, Hilton knew with agonizing certainty that he would never see his wife again. Something had happened, was already in motion.
He wasn’t sure about Kaya and Jamil. He ran toward the pay telephone across the patio, digging for change in his pocket.
The phone seemed to ring forever, each interval launching Hilton’s heart into a more frantic pace. Kaya answered on the sixth ring. “Hello, James residence.”
“It’s me. Put your mom on the phone,” Hilton said, so relieved to hear her voice that he thought he would collapse. His voice shook with urgency.
“What’s wrong?”
He couldn’t explain. He wasn’t sure himself. “Nothing, sweetheart. Just please put her on.”
“She just left. She had to go to the market.”
Distraught, Hilton had to stop himself from pounding the receiver against the phone booth. He was breathing heavily, thoroughly soaked, and his mind was in such a severe whirl that he could barely stand. Gone. She was gone.
“You sound funny, Dad. Are you sure you’re okay?”
What now? Hilton tried to catch his breath, covering the mouthpiece so Kaya wouldn’t hear his panting. Oh, Jesus, Jesus. Something was horribly wrong. He had to control himself somehow, or it would all be lost. All of it.
“Kaya . . . are you and Jamil in the house alone?”
“Yeah, Dad. Everything’s fine.”
“Are the doors locked? Did Dede activate the alarm?”
Kaya paused. “I guess so. I’m not sure about the alarm. Dad, I’m worried about you. You sound awful.”
i’ll huff and i’ll puff
A voice again, from beyond his dreams. He’d heard it this time. I’ll huff and I’ll puff. Goode’s note.
Hilton’s hand was trembling as he grasped the phone. “Listen carefully to me. Make sure all of the doors are locked. I want you to set the alarm, okay? Don’t let anyone in the house. Has anyone come to the house?”
“Uhm . . .” Kaya began, hesitating. “Just a mail guy, right after Mom left. But he’s gone already, and he didn’t come in—”
and i’ll blow your house down
A mailman. Goode. Hilton left the receiver dangling on its metallic cord and ran, racing across the length of the patio and flying down the steps so fast he had to cling to the arm rail to avoid stumbling. He ran two blocks, pushing his way past passersby until he found his car in the
parking lot, a ticket tucked beneath his windshield wiper. He turned his key in the ignition so hard that the starter squealed like a dying child.
“Help me, Nana,” he heard himself say, roaring to the street. Nana had shown him what to do, in a dream. He only had to remember. “Please don’t let me get there too late,” he wheezed as he sped beneath a red light and a chorus of car horns objected. Hilton felt dizzy as hidden knowledge began to storm his psyche. Doorways. He could feel the unfolding rows of doorways all around him like a divine vision, a kaleidoscope. In some of them, he was still asleep on the bench. In some of them, he’d just awakened and was peering around the library patio, confused. In some, he was still talking to Kaya on the telephone. He could hear his own voice, Kaya’s voice, faintly from the fringes of his reason, inside a unison of voices sharing a splintered moment of possibilities in time.
. . . Don’t let anyone in the house, okay? . . . Has anyone come to the house?. . . It’s me. Put your mom on the phone . . . Hello, James residence . . . Dad, I’m worried about you . . . Are you and Jamil alone in the house? . . . Hello, James residence . . . A mail guy came right after Mom left . . . Don’t let anyone in the house . . . Hello, James residence . . .
Hilton shook his head to clear it, hot tears streaming down his face as he wove in and out of traffic on South Dixie Highway. He alone controlled the events of this moment, this doorway. Had he found the right one? What if he hadn’t?
Maybe this wasn’t real. Maybe he wasn’t real at all.
Hilton’s head pounded with frustration. Did all of the sleep doorways lead to a reality, or were they just options that were meaningless so long as his true consciousness lived in this moment, driving in the car? He should have talked to Andres more about this to try to understand. He had to believe in one genuine reality—in this reality—or it was all pointless. Running was useless, the doorways were useless. It wouldn’t matter what he found when he got home because it would be different everywhere else. He couldn’t bear that thought.