The Last of the Stanfields(98)
These questions and others weighed heavily on my mind and kept me from getting even an hour of sleep. Had Professor Morrison exaggerated parts of the tale to get the consent he craved so badly for his book? Could he have known my true identity before we met? After all, if the professor wasn’t the poison-pen, then who could it be? The worst part was that I felt no closer to grasping just what it was the anonymous puppeteer had been after from the very start.
I vowed I would fulfill my promise starting the next day. It was time to help George-Harrison find the identity of his father.
35
ELEANOR-RIGBY
October 2016, Baltimore
There was a bitter chill in the air the next morning. The city seemed almost gray in the wan light, as puddles of dirty rain gathered on the sidewalks. I can’t stand those days in late autumn when the streets are so wind battered, they seem to wither in front of your very eyes.
George-Harrison was waiting for me in front of his pickup truck. He wore an old denim shirt, a leather jacket, and a baseball hat, like a grizzled ballplayer past his prime. Most of all, he seemed to have got out of the wrong side of the bed. He studied my face for a long moment, then sighed and climbed into the driver’s seat without a word. As I got into the vehicle, I asked where we were headed.
“You can go wherever you like, I’m going home. Money doesn’t grow on trees, and speaking of trees, I have to get back to my work.”
“You’re giving up now, when we’re this close to the end?”
“What end? And giving up what? I left to find my father, and ever since I got here, ever since we met, all we’ve done is uncover secrets about your mother—her struggles and her twisted family history. Fascinating as all this has been, mostly for you, I couldn’t afford to stay in this city any longer if I wanted to, twiddling my thumbs without making any progress.”
“Don’t talk like that. You’re right that we’ve made a lot more headway on my questions than yours. But I’m telling you, it was on my mind just before I fell asleep, and I told myself it was time for us to shift our search in a new direction today.”
“And what direction is that? What exactly can we do?” he asked, temper flaring. I had no idea, and because I’m such a god-awful liar, all I could do was mumble excuses, until George-Harrison mercifully cut me off.
“You see what I mean? You don’t have a clue, and neither do I. So, let’s just leave it at that. It was really nice getting to know you. And just so you know, I’m not a complete idiot or what have you. I haven’t forgotten what happened right here in this pickup, however brief it may have been. The way you leaned over and kissed me, and I’m not saying I wouldn’t also have wanted to kiss you . . . I mean, I’ve been wanting to kiss you, too. But you live in London, and I live in a sleepy little town thousands of miles away from your big, beautiful metropolis. So . . . what good would kissing again do? Don’t answer, don’t even bother. You know there are no good answers. I’m going back home to my life and my job. As for my father, I know why he hasn’t shown up. I’ve known for a long time. So, to hell with the anonymous letter. To hell with your poison-pen. I’m not sure I even care who he is. You ask me, we’ve wasted enough time on that clown already. And even if it were the professor—who, by the way, and I don’t care how eloquent he may be, still eats like a pig—he did all this just to write a stupid book? He can go to hell, too. Him most of all. And here’s some advice for you: finish your article and go home. It’s the best you can do at this point.”
I found myself struck with absolute panic, the type of feeling that twists your insides in knots and makes you want to sink right into the ground. Then, just like that, I suddenly learned how to lie. I pretended not to feel a thing, acting like I thought he was right, that turning and walking out of that pickup made all the sense in the world. I pretended that the idea of never seeing him again would be perfectly fine by me. I nodded and pouted, and didn’t say a single word. Unsure how long the Oscar-worthy performance would last and not wanting to push my luck, I leapt straight out of his shitty old pickup truck, proud and resolute . . . so resolute that I didn’t even shut the door behind me. It would have made Edina and Patsy proud, or they would have laughed at me and my misplaced confidence.
The pickup started pulling away and I turned back, my eyes full of tears, just in time to see it disappear from view. Not only had that idiot all but thrown me away like an old sock, but I was feeling more alone than I ever had in all my trips around the world. The loneliness cut me to the core, only growing worse at the thought of my amazing father and wonderful siblings back home. I even found myself missing Vera. I was alone in the middle of a rotten city that had brought me nothing but heartache. With nowhere else to go, I turned back to the hotel. Just then, I heard a car honk twice behind me. I turned around.
It was George-Harrison, grouchy as ever. He rolled down the window.
“Run inside. I’ll wait while you get your stuff. Just hurry up.”
“Just hurry up, please!” I corrected him.
“Fine: hurry up! Right now, please!”
I was in such a crazy rush that I tossed everything pell-mell into my bag—jumpers, trousers, underwear, back-up shoes, MacBook with charger, toiletry bag, and my tiny travel makeup kit. I paid for the room just as quickly. When I made it back outside, George-Harrison was still there waiting. He grabbed my bag and threw it into the back of the truck.