Melancholy Baby

49

Brian Kelly stopped by for coffee. We had some with the oatmeal-maple scones that he brought, at the counter in my kitchen area. Sarah joined us. As did Rosie. Sarah sat on a stool. Rosie settled in on the floor under my feet and fixed us with her relentless stare.

“Money is wired to Sarah’s account,” Brian said. “From the Wellington Bank in Gillette, Wyoming.”

I said, “Wyoming?”

“Yep.”

“Where’s Gillette, Wyoming?” Sarah said.

“West,” Brian said. “Money comes from an account belonging to Bright Flower Charitable Foundation.”

“It’s from my grandfather,” Sarah said.

Brian shrugged. “Bright Flower is a P.O. box in New York City,” he said. “Authorizing signature is ‘July Fishbein.’ ”

“July?” I said. “Like the month?”

“Yep, June, July,” Brian said.

“The money comes from my grandfather,” Sarah said.

Brian nodded. He looked down at Rosie.

“This dog want something?” he said.

“Everything,” I said.

“You know anybody named July Fishbein?” he said to Sarah.

“No.”

He looked at me.

“Name means nothing to me,” I said.

“New York DOS says that Bright Flower is a legally incorporated not-for-profit.”

“What’s DOS?” Sarah said.

I wanted her to go out and play.

“Department of State,” I said. “So they have a board.”

“Yep. July Fishbein and four other women.”

“And?”

“New York cops are working on it, but so far we haven’t located any of them.”

“Including July?”

Sarah broke off a piece of her scone and gave it to Rosie. Rosie ate it carefully and resumed her stare.

“Is there a phone number?” I said. “For July or Bright Flower.”

“You bet.”

“Is it real?”

“Nope.”

“What happens when you dial it?”

“Operator interrupt: Number is not in service.”

“What is all this stuff about?” Sarah said. “What’s it mean?”

“Someone is going to considerable length to send you money without anyone knowing who they are,” I said.

“You don’t think it’s my grandfather?”

“No,” I said.

“Well, who the hell?”

“Maybe your biological father,” Brian said.

“Or mother,” I said.

“You don’t think she’s my mother, either?” Sarah said.

“She wouldn’t do the DNA test,” I said.

“She says she feels it’s an insulting intrusion,” Sarah said.

She might not like Mrs. Markham, but she liked even less the thought that she was parentless. I didn’t blame her.

“You got any other basis for doubting Mrs. Markham?” Brian said.

“Not really,” I said.

“But...”

“But I sure as hell would like to know where Lolly Drake fits in.”

“If she fits in,” Brain said.

“She’s in here somewhere,” I said. “She keeps popping up.”

“You think she might be my mother?” Sarah said.

“She keeps popping up,” I said.

We were quiet with our coffee. The scones were gone. Rosie refused to accept the fact, however, and kept up her beady vigil under our feet. Sarah’s eyes were teary. She wasn’t quite crying, but her voice shook a little.

“Why did I do this,” she said.

“You had a right to know,” I said.

“Why didn’t I let it go, and just live as I had. Mother, father, go to college, get a boyfriend, get married. Why didn’t I do that. None of this would have happened.”

“You don’t know what would have happened,” I said.

She looked at me. Brian was quiet, drinking his coffee. One of his assets as a detective was how still he could be.

“Why did I do this,” she said.

I realized it was not a rhetorical question. She wanted me to tell her.

“You seemed kind of mad at them,” I said.

“You think I did this because I was mad at them?”

“We do a lot of things,” I said, “for reasons we don’t understand. Maybe this was a way to get back at them for not being the parents you wanted.”

A couple months of therapy, and I was Dr. Phil.

“So now,” Sarah said, “if you’re right, I got none.”

“Or others,” I said.

“Yeah, right, others. What am I going to do, sleep on your couch the rest of my life?”

“That’s an inductive leap,” I said, “that I’m not sure I understand.”

“Fuck it,” Sarah said. “I don’t care if anybody understands.”

She began to cry and got up and went down the length of my loft and stood with her face pressed against the window, looking out and crying. After one hopeful glance, Rosie paid no attention to her, and continued to stare at the empty plate where the sweet scones had rested.

“I feel like a bad mother,” I said.

“If you were,” Brian said, “you wouldn’t be alone.”