His Illegal Self

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 thought, Don’t go in there, but she did, sliding, not perfectly in control.

Do you have any idea who you are dealing with, the man said, made stupid by his slur.

I’ll call you back, Dial said.

She rushed back to the waiting room door where she could see the boy had taken out his papers and was laying them out beside him on the seat. Above his head a silent television displayed a picture of Susan Selkirk: PHILLY BOMB BLAST. 2 DEAD.

The woman with the pearls was at her shoulder, her eyes also on the set.

What happened? Dial whispered.

Crazy bitch blew herself up.

Here?

Up near Temple. Fool.

When?

She shook her head, meaning Who could say. She held out her newspaper parcel as if a deal had been concluded. Caught in the weird focus of her baleful gaze, Dial opened her change purse and gave her three singles.

God bless you, said the woman, and thrust the paper into Dial’s hand.

You’ve got blood poisoning, Dial said.

The woman started, then raised her upper lip to laugh.

Your leg, Dial said.

The woman shook her head and began to laugh uncontrollably, staggering a little as she made her way out to the street.

Dial untangled the newspaper and was not at all surprised to find it empty.

Who was that, the boy asked when she returned.

Susan Selkirk was making bombs! She wanted me to bring her child to a bomb factory.

I’ve got to call New York, she said.

She balled up the newspaper and thrust it in the trash. When she looked up her yearbook picture was on television. She thought, They think I’m blown to pieces. The boy was still sorting out his papers. She snatched one of his papers up. What’s that? she asked, forcing him to look.

D-i-l-e, he said, holding up her card.

The boy’s picture was on the screen right now.

I know, she said. I really dig your papers. Her heart was pounding. Her eyes were everywhere, on the card, the screen, the woman in the street who was now walking toward a man with a suitcase.

The news finished. She said, I won’t be a moment, baby. Are you OK?

He looked up. What a strange contained creature he was, folding up his papers so they were mostly the size of a cigarette pack, stacking them carefully on top of one another. I’m fine. He smiled at her, holding up his left hand to show his splayed fingers and his rubber bands. I’m cool, he said.

At the Belvedere, they had seen the news, or not. They knew Susan Selkirk was dead, perhaps. The phone was answered by a new man, colder, clearer, with a Brooklyn accent. Could it have been the cops so fast?

Hi ya, Anna. What’s up?

She had not even said her name.

I was instructed to come here to Philadelphia, she told whoever it was. I was just doing what I was asked to do by the family.

Anna, Mrs. Selkirk put the child in your care for two hours.

Would a cop say that? Wouldn’t he know it would scare her? In her mind’s eye she could see the bus ticket, the handwriting. She understood: Susan Selkirk had used her to steal her child.

So, the man said, and of course he was a cop. So, what are your plans now, Anna?

I’m coming back on the bus, she said, thinking she had a Massachusetts state bursary check-two thousand dollars-in her purse.

Uh-huh. Back to the city. What time, Anna?

Oh, I’ll be on the next one, she said. Up the road there was a snaky red neon: CHECKS CASHED.

So you’re near the bus station now, the man said.

She could see the wash of police light on the shining hallway floor.

See you then, she said. She hung up.

What next? the boy asked when she returned to him. He was already binding his rubber bands around his papers as she crouched in front of him. Was it weird for one so young to be so neat? She could see the street over his shoulder. The woman with the pearls was sitting on the hood of a police car.

We’ll stay in a hotel, she said. How about that?

You said we were going to a scuzzy house, he said, but he smiled at her again, his eyes so wide and trusting she wanted to tell him not to be like that.

Plans have changed, she said. She did not say, Your mommy screwed us both.

When he had his papers in their proper place she led him down toward the washrooms, out through the pizza parlor, out into another street. She had no idea where she was, or where they were going, but when they came to a hotel she knew this had to be the one. The stairs smelled like the woman with blood poisoning, of disinfectant and the thing the disinfectant was there to hide. She paid out her own money. She took the key which was wired to a huge link of chain and she led him along the hallway past numbered doors each one of which she expected contained someone vile or sad.

There were no shadows in their room.

Where are you going now? he asked and she hugged him too hard, and then acted casual, checking her purse for the Massachusetts money. All she knew was she was in trouble. She had been tricked. The only witness who could save her had just killed herself with her messy habits. Crumbelina, Dial had called her, secretly of course. Crumbelina had smeared butter across the countertops in Somerville. She could not make a bed, let alone a revolution.

She was sorry she had to abandon this boy. She kissed him and locked herself out. She was the Alice May Twitchell Fellow. She was an assistant professor at Vassar College. So this could not be true, that she was apparently a fugitive, fleeing down a creepy hallway in Philadelphia.