The Book of Fate

78

Lisbeth thought the neighborhood would be a dump. But as she drove west on Palm Beach Lakes Boulevard and followed Violet’s directions — past the Home Depot and Best Buy and Olive Garden, then a right on Village Boulevard — it was clear she didn’t need to lock the car doors. Indeed, as she pulled up to the guard gate for Misty Lake — A Townhome Community, the only thing she had to do was lower her window.

“Hi, I’m visiting unit 326,” Lisbeth explained to the guard, remembering Violet’s instructions to not use her name. Of course, it was silly. Lisbeth already had her address — who cared about her name?

“ID, please,” the guard said.

As she handed over her driver’s license, Lisbeth added, “I’m sorry, I think it’s unit 326—I’m looking for…”

“The Schopfs — Debbie and Josh,” the guard replied, handing her a guest parking pass for the dashboard.

Lisbeth nodded. “That’s them.” Waiting until the security gate closed behind her to scribble the name Debbie Schopf in her notepad, she followed the signs and never-ending speed bumps past row after row of identical pink townhomes, eventually pulling into the guest spot just outside the narrow two-story house with blinking holiday lights dangling from above the door and an inflatable snowman in the thriving green garden. Christmas in Florida at unit 326.

Heading up the front path, Lisbeth tucked her notepad into her purse and out of sight. Violet was already nervous on the phone. No reason to add to—

“Lisbeth?” a female voice called out as the door of the townhouse swung open.

Lisbeth looked up at eye level, which put her directly at Violet’s dark brown neck. It wasn’t until she craned her neck up that Lisbeth saw the full picture of the stunning 5'10" African-American woman standing in the doorway. Wearing faded jeans and a white V-neck T-shirt, Violet almost seemed to be trying to dress like a mom. But even standard suburban uniforms couldn’t mask the beauty underneath.

“You… uh… you wanna come in?” Violet asked, her voice shaky as she lowered her head and looked away.

Lisbeth assumed she was being shy. Probably embarrassed. But as she got closer — walking past Violet and entering the house — she got her first good look at Violet’s left eyebrow, which appeared to be cut in two by a tiny white scar that sliced through her dark, otherwise perfect skin.

“That from— He do that?” Lisbeth asked, even though she knew the answer.

Violet looked up, her shoulders arching like a cornered cat — then just as quickly, her posture leveled as she regained her calm. For Lisbeth, it was like glancing too late at a just-missed lightning bolt. Two seconds ago, rage detonated in Violet’s eyes, then disappeared in an eyeblink. Still, like the lost lightning bolt, the afterimage was too strong. Lisbeth couldn’t miss it. And in that moment, she saw the brash, confident, and swaggering self-assured woman that the young twenty-six-year-old Violet used to be. And who she’d never be again.

“I don’t want my picture in the paper. Or my name,” Violet whispered, tugging her bangs over the fleshy white scar.

“I’d never do that,” Lisbeth promised, already kicking herself for pushing too fast. From the plastic pink tea set scattered along the floor and the baby doll stroller in the entryway, Violet had a great deal to lose. No way Lisbeth was getting the story without a softer touch.

“Adorable,” Lisbeth said, heading up the main hallway and admiring a framed family photo of a little white girl running through a sprinkler, her mouth open with her tongue licking the water.

Violet barely responded.

Lisbeth turned. Every parent likes to talk about their kids.

Halfway up the main hallway, Lisbeth scanned the rest of the family photos along the wall. The girl in the sprinkler. Pictured again with a redheaded woman at the beach. And again with the redhead at a pumpkin patch.

As Lisbeth scanned all the photos, she noticed that every shot had white people in it. Indeed, not one — not a single one — had anyone who was black.

Lisbeth underestimated her. Violet — or whatever her name was — wasn’t some dumb novice.

“This isn’t your house, is it?” Lisbeth asked.

Violet stopped in the small, cluttered kitchen. A child-size plastic Cinderella table sat next to a full-size faux-wood one. Half a dozen photos cluttered the refrigerator door. Again, everyone was white.

“And your name’s not Debbie Schopf, is it?” Lisbeth added.

“Leave Debbie out of this—”

“Violet, if she’s your friend…”

“She’s just doing me a favor.”

“Violet…”

“Please don’t drag her in— Oh, God,” Violet said, shielding her eyes with her hand. It was the first time Lisbeth got a look at the thin gold wedding band on Violet’s ring finger. The one detail Lisbeth believed.

“Listen,” Lisbeth said, touching Violet’s shoulder. “You listening? I’m not here to catch you or trap you or drag your friends in. I swear. I just need to know if what you said about Dreidel—”

“I didn’t make it up.”

“No one thinks you did.”

“You just said my name wouldn’t be used. You told me that.”

“And I stand by it, Violet,” Lisbeth said, knowing the fake name put her at ease. “No one knows I’m here. Not my editor, not my colleagues, nobody. But let’s remember: You invited me here for a reason. What Dreidel did to you… when he raised his hand—”

“He didn’t raise his hand! He put his fist in my face, then gashed me with the mirror!” Violet erupted, her fear quickly smothered by rage. “That bastard hurt me so bad I had to tell my mother I was in a car accident! She believed it too — after I kicked my headlight in to prove it! But when I saw him in the paper… If he thinks I’m just gonna keep it all quiet while he holds himself out there as State Senator Boy Scout… Oh, no, no, no!”

“I hear you, Violet — I do. But you need to understand, I can’t do anything, I can’t even help you, until I verify it. Now you said you had proof. Are they photos or—?”

“Photos? Even when he’s dumb, Dreidel’s not that stupid.” Leaving the kitchen, Violet headed into the family room, where beige vertical blinds kept the last bits of sun from peeking through the sliding glass doors. Taking a moment to calm down, she put her five fingertips against the center of her chest.

“Y’okay?” Lisbeth asked.

“Yeah, just — just hating the past a little, know what I mean?”

“You kidding? I even hate the present.”

It was an easy joke, but exactly what Violet needed to catch her breath. “When we first — y’know, when we started,” she said, kneeling down and fishing under the L-shaped flower-print sofa, “I wasn’t even allowed to ask him about work. But these White House boys… they’re no different than the money boys in Palm Beach or Miami or anywhere… all egomaniacs love to talk about themselves,” she added as she tugged a small pile of paperwork from under the sofa. Bound by a thick rubber band, it looked like a stack of catalogs and mail. As Violet whipped off the rubber band, the pile fanned out across the cream-colored Formica coffee table.

“President Manning’s Remarks for APEC Summit. Signed program from the Moroccan king’s funeral…” Skimming through the pile, Violet rattled them off one by one. “Look at this — personal business card of the owner of the Miami Dolphins with his direct dial and cell numbers handwritten on the back, along with a note that says Mr. President, Let’s play golf. Asshole.”

“I don’t understand. Dreidel left this stuff here?”

“Left it? He gave it to me. Proudly gave it to me. I don’t know, it was his pathetic way of proving he was actually by the President’s side. Every time he visited, I’d get another piece from the presidential junk drawer: Manning’s handwritten lunch orders, scorecards from when he played bridge, military coins, crossword puzzles, luggage tags—”

“What’d you say?”

“Luggage tags?”

“Crossword puzzles,” Lisbeth repeated as she sat next to Violet on the couch and leaned toward the pile on the coffee table.

“Oh, I definitely got one,” Violet replied, digging through the stack. “Manning was a nut at those. Dreidel said he could do a full puzzle while chatting on the phone with— Ah, here we go,” she added, pulling an old folded-up newspaper from the stack.

When Violet handed it over, Lisbeth’s arms, legs, and whole body went cold as she finally got a look at the puzzle… and the President’s handwritten answers… and the jumble of initials scribbled in the left-hand margin.

Her hands were shaking. She read it, then reread it to be sure. I don’t believe it. How could we be so—?

“What?” Violet asked, clearly confused. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing… just— I can reach you at this number, yes?” As Violet nodded, Lisbeth copied the phone number that was handwritten on the base of the phone. Standing from her seat, she continued to clutch the crossword in her hand. “Listen, can I make a copy of this? I’ll bring it right back as soon as I’m done.”

“Sure, but — I don’t get it. What’d you find, Dreidel’s handwriting?”

“No,” Lisbeth said, sprinting for the door, flipping open her cell phone, and already dialing Wes’s number. “Something far better than that.”