Long Bright River(55)

—I like your paintings, I say instead.

—Thank you, Mrs. Mahon says, but she doesn’t elaborate.

—I’m so sorry to do this, I say.

Thomas is standing very still. I can tell he is both intrigued and frightened. He leans slightly to his right, craning to look up the staircase. I imagine Mrs. Mahon’s bedroom is up there.

I dig in my pocket, pull out my wallet. I open it and pray I have some cash to proffer, but all I can come up with is twenty dollars.

—Here, I say, holding it out to Mrs. Mahon. Take this. I’ll get more while I’m out today.

Mrs. Mahon waves it off. Don’t be silly, she says, brusquely.

—Please, I say. Please let me. I’ll feel terrible.

—I insist, says Mrs. Mahon. She’s standing up straight. She will not be reasoned with.

I hold out a bag I’ve brought down from our apartment. There’s an extra change of clothes in here, I say, and some books and toys. I’ve packed him lunch, too, I say.

What I don’t tell her: He’s only four. He wets his pants still, sometimes. He gets very frightened of scary things on television, including the news. Looking at Thomas, I know he would not appreciate my saying these things to Mrs. Mahon.

—You didn’t have to do that, says Mrs. Mahon. I could have made him something. Unless this young man doesn’t like peanut butter sandwiches, says Mrs. Mahon, turning to Thomas. Do you like peanut butter sandwiches? she asks him.

He nods.

—All right, then. Sounds like we’ll be fine.

I kneel down next to Thomas. I give him a kiss on his cheek. Be very, very good, I tell him. You know what good means, right?

Thomas nods again. Listen, he says, pointing to one ear.

He’s trying to be brave now. What will he do here all day?

I write my cell number down on a notepad next to Mrs. Mahon’s landline, even though I think she has it.

—Call anytime, I say. About anything. Really.

Then I walk out the front door, trying hard not to turn around and look at Thomas, whose chin was trembling ever so slightly when I kissed him goodbye: an expression that I know will haunt me as I go through the motions of my shift.





I spend my commute worrying. What have I done? Whom have I left Thomas with? I barely know Mrs. Mahon. I don’t know any of Mrs. Mahon’s family by name, though I have heard her talk about a sister. I don’t know what kind of health Mrs. Mahon is in. What if she falls down? I worry. What if she’s unkind to Thomas?

And then I remind myself, as always, not to baby him. He is nearly five years old, Michaela, I tell myself. And more capable by the day.



* * *



—

It’s warmer out today than it was yesterday, and the snow has stopped. It’s already beginning to melt, forming brown puddles where the plows have come through. Bethany, if she had wanted to, could definitely have made it to our house.

Sergeant Ahearn is leading roll call this morning, and at the end of it, I go up to him and ask him if he got my message.

—Message? he says.

—I left you a voicemail last night, I say.

—Oh yeah. I got that, he says. What’s up? You wanted to talk?

I glance around the common area. At least three officers are standing within hearing range.

—It’s kind of sensitive, I say quietly.

Sergeant Ahearn sighs. Well, there’s a ride-along getting fitted with a bulletproof vest in my office right now, he says. So unless you want to take me into the bathroom, you might as well talk to me here.

Again, I look at the other officers. Two of them fit Nguyen’s prediction: white men in their forties.

—Do you have twenty minutes to meet me out at lunch today? I ask him.

—Fine, says Ahearn. Scottie’s?

It’s a sit-down place that’s frequented by police. I want, therefore, to avoid it, and every other place we might see colleagues, as well.

—Let’s meet at Bomber Coffee on Front Street, I say finally.





The morning goes by slowly. But around ten a.m., something catches my eye: a man in an orange jacket, standing under the El stop on the corner of Kensington and Allegheny, looking alert, arms crossed. He has a plastic bag dangling off one of them.

Dock.

I pull over half a block away and watch him for a while.

If he sees the cruiser, he doesn’t react to it. He’s too far away, in any case, to know that it is me inside. From this vantage point, visor lowered, I see that his lips are moving slightly each time someone passes him by. I think it likely that the word he’s repeating is works, works, works: clean syringes that can be purchased for only a little money. Many people make a small living this way in the neighborhood, just enough to keep them high. Some offer more services than that: they’ll help you shoot up, generally in the neck, when you’ve run out of other promising veins; less commonly, if the free clinic is closed or too far away, they’ll try to treat infections, drain abscesses—often with disastrous results.

I take out my phone and pull up Truman’s number. I hesitate for a moment, but my curiosity gets the best of me.

Are you busy? I text him. I recall the female voice in the background, the last time I phoned him. I don’t want to start any trouble for him.

Very quickly, he responds. What’s up?