Confessions on the 7:45(57)

She ticked through her options. She had already broken a hundred rules for Selena. Time to retreat. Regroup. Time to turn up the heat on this enterprise and make something happen.

“Grand Central,” she said.

The cab started to move, the driver still talking and talking. Who was on the other line? she wondered.

“Remember Bridget?” asked Pop beside her. She jumped. Lately, he’d been more of a shade, a shadow, fading in and out. But now he was there, flesh and bone. She reached for him, but then he was gone.

“How could I forget?” she said, looking out the window as they dipped into the park.



TWENTY-TWO

Pearl

She and Pop were on the move again. That sweet little house in Pecos was a distant memory. Since then, there had been an isolated cabin outside of Boulder, a run-down ranch in Amarillo, a two-story in Phoenix. She’d been Mary, Beth, Sarah. Pop had been Jim, Chris, Bill.

Pop was at the wheel of their used Volvo, but he had gone dark—as she liked to think of it.

When things went badly or not as he anticipated, or if something made him angry, he kind of checked out. He got this blank look, stopped talking. It was unsettling at first; once he was nearly catatonic for an afternoon, sitting on the couch, staring at the dark fireplace. She tried everything to get him to respond. Talking. Yelling. Crying. She shook him. Hit him. Finally, she just lay on the floor at his feet and waited. When he came back to himself, he didn’t remember anything about the last few hours.

“I’m sorry,” he told her. He held her that day, and she let him, though physical affection between them was rare. “It happens sometimes. Just ride it out.”

He’d come home to the Phoenix house—which she’d really liked—and started packing without a word to her. She’d followed suit without asking why. Maybe it was her years with Stella; she was accustomed to following nonverbal cues quickly and without question. All of her and Pop’s belongings fit into a roller suitcase each. They made sure to take everything. They cleaned the place vigorously, leaving no trace of themselves behind. Or, anyway, that was the plan.

That had been Phoenix—hot, flat, red. Friendly people, lots of smiling faces, a definite Southwest hipster vibe. Pop’s “girlfriend” had been a middle-aged accountant that Pop had met via a dating app—Bridget.

What did they want? That was the first thing to find out.

And they will always tell. All you have to do is watch and listen.

Maybe they won’t tell you with their words. They may not even truly know themselves. But they will tell you with the way they wear their hair, how they do their makeup, how they dress. They’ll tell you by their favorite song, book, movie. What they say about their parents, how they hold their bodies, whether they look you in the eye, whether they look at themselves in the mirror when they walk by.

An unmarried woman of a certain age—that was easy. She wanted the fairy tale, the one that had been promised all her life. She wanted that long-awaited prince, the one who made all those frogs worthwhile, if there had been any frogs at all. She ached for romance, attention, the love that made up for all those lonely nights, that closet full of bridesmaid dresses, the Christmases she spent alone. After all that time, she wanted to be able to say, I was just waiting for you.

And Pop was good. He was very, very good at giving women what they wanted.

He was loving, attentive, respectful. A listener. A doer. He was handy, someone who could fix broken things and wanted to. He cooked.

And Anne—or Mary, or Beth, or whoever she was at the time. She was the sweet icing on the cake. The latchkey child raised by her single father. The one looking for a mother, a friend—but old enough to take care of herself. Together they offered the insta-family. This might send a young woman with good prospects running. But not the woman who worried that she missed out on everything—true love, children, grandchildren. For that woman, Anne was part of the prize package.

And she played her role to perfection. Rarely she had to play the role in person; most often it all happened online—email and the occasional FaceTime conversation. She’d be shy at first, slow to warm. Eventually, she’d come around. Start calling Pop’s new lady friend of her own accord—asking for advice on this or that. She’d send a funny text or two. A meme. An adorable cat video.

“You’re a natural,” Pop said. “But don’t overdo it. Don’t reveal too much, don’t give too much. And, whatever you do, don’t fall in love.” She never did, of course. But Anne made sure they fell in love with her.

Then, after the mark—which was a cold word and didn’t convey the whole truth of it—was in love, baited and hooked, just days before they were all supposed to meet for the first time, Anne or Beth or Mary would suddenly fall ill. Usually while she and Pop were away “on vacation” ostensibly in the location, maybe, where they were all to meet. Of course, they were nowhere near that place, nor would they ever be. Or maybe they’d been robbed, Pop’s wallet stolen, his beautiful daughter clinging to life after the attack. The mark rarely hesitated to wire the money he needed. Five thousand, ten thousand, sometimes more. These were short games, usually a couple of months at most.

Once the money had been wired—or if the mark got suspicious, tried to fly in for a rescue—then poof—they disappeared. Online profiles deleted, burner phones discarded, email accounts canceled. Most women would never even report the crime. Shame kept them quiet. These were wealthy, accomplished women. How, they’d ask themselves, could they have been so easily duped?