Long Bright River(37)

Enough of this, I vow. Enough. No more. Kacey’s life is her own to protect. Not mine.

And then, just as quickly, comes a vision of the woman we found on the Tracks. Her blue lips. Her hair slick against her head. Her clothes translucent. Her eyes wide-open, innocent, unprotected from the rain.



* * *



—

    In Bensalem, I pull into the driveway. As I round the house, I look up: Thomas, lately, has been keeping watch for me from my bedroom window. Yes, there he is, two hands on the panes, his face pressed to the cold glass, his expression distorted. He grins and bolts to greet me at the door.

Inside, I pay a bored-looking Bethany and ask how Thomas was today.

—Fine, she says, and no more.

When I left them this morning, I gave Bethany money to take him to a bookstore and let him choose a book. I bought her a booster seat for her to use in her car, but I have never once seen it installed.

—What did you do?

—Um, says Bethany, we read books.

—How was the store? I ask Thomas.

—We didn’t go, says Thomas, darkly.

I look at Bethany.

—It was so cold out, she says. We read books here.

—One, says Thomas. We read one book.

His voice has taken on a petulant edge.

—Thomas, I say, warningly—out of obligation, not conviction.

But my heart is heavy.



* * *



—

When Bethany has left, Thomas looks at me, wide-eyed, his small hands at his sides, palms forward. Look what you’ve done to me! he seems to be saying, with this expression.

Thomas is very intelligent. I realize it is incorrect to say that about one’s own child, but I base this on evidence: he began to speak quite young, and was putting together puzzles by one and a half, and could say all of his letters and numbers before two, and so on. He borders at times on perfectionism, a tendency I monitor to ensure it does not devolve into compulsiveness, or, worse, addiction. (Thinking about our family, I often fearfully consider the idea that addictive tendencies may be hiding someplace in his genes.) Mainly, though, I think he is simply, well, gifted—that word that Gee disdained so much when it was once used about me.

When Thomas was two years old, I did some research to make certain I was correct in my assessment that he was advanced for his age, and when I had confirmed it, I prevailed upon Simon to help me enroll him in Spring Garden Day School, which was close to my precinct, very well regarded, and far too expensive. It mainly serves the gentrified neighborhoods of Fishtown and Northern Liberties, and it costs so much that the entirety of Simon’s monthly checks went to Thomas’s tuition. But I convinced myself that I could afford it. Thomas quickly made friends there—about whom he still speaks longingly—and I took solace in the idea that he was learning things that would prepare him for a long and successful educational career that would conclude, I dreamed, only when he’d achieved a graduate degree. Medicine, maybe. Law. I had named him for Thomas Holme, the first Surveyor General of the state of Pennsylvania under William Penn, and the individual responsible for the beautiful, rational design of the city of Philadelphia, so sometimes I daydreamed that he would be a city planner or an architect. Holme was a particular favorite of my high school history teacher Ms. Powell.

When, a year ago, Simon’s checks abruptly and mysteriously ceased to arrive, I struggled for a time to keep Thomas enrolled in his school, to keep paying the old part-time babysitter who stayed with him on B-shift weeks, to keep paying the mortgage on the house in Port Richmond, and to keep eating. For a brief, tense period, we held on—living on canned tuna fish and spaghetti, never buying clothing—and then in December there came a sewage leak from the basement to the street that cost ten thousand dollars to repair, and the balance tipped, and everything came crumbling down.

That was the day I drove to the South Detectives building to demand an answer from Simon, who had not only stopped sending checks but had failed to pick up Thomas on two separate occasions, and had changed his telephone number, and had even, apparently, moved. I discovered this after driving to his house in South Philadelphia and ringing the doorbell, on one of those days that he had failed to show up. Thomas, who loved his father, was bereft. The day of the sewage leak, when everything was falling apart, I decided I had no other recourse than to pay Simon a visit at his place of work. So I left Thomas with his then-babysitter and drove to the headquarters of the South Detectives. Now, this was very unusual for me. Neither Simon nor I wish to be gossiped about. We never talked about our relationship at work, probably due to its somewhat unconventional beginnings. And though my colleagues in the 24th know I have a son, they do not know who the father is; and I suppose I have always made it clear that this is a question I would consider unwelcome.

The day I went to Simon’s building, therefore, I strove for anonymity: I was wearing sunglasses, and a hooded sweatshirt with the hood up.

I recognized his car, a black Cadillac sedan he had bought used and then restored, parked fifty yards away on the street, and pulled in not far from it. Then I waited for the end of his workday.

I will not recount in its entirety the ugly exchange we had when, at last, he emerged, and he spied me and tried to turn back toward the station. In brief, I got very angry, and probably shouted, and Simon put his hands out in front of himself defensively, and I told him that if he failed to send a check within one week I would take him to court, and he told me that I wouldn’t dare, and asked me if I knew how many friends he had in the system, and told me if I took him to court he would take Thomas away from me like this—here he snapped his fingers—and that I was being unreasonable by keeping Thomas enrolled in such an expensive school, anyway. Who did I think I was? he wanted to know. Who did I think we were?