The Law of Moses(72)

“No. Grandpa’s my dad. He’s your grandpa.”

“Then who’s my dad?” And there it was, the question that had never once come up before. Not in three years. And it hung in the air, waiting for my response. And no amount of head ducking or holding my tongue was going to make it go away.

I shut the fridge calmly and poured Eli a glass of milk, stalling, stalling.

“Mommy! Who’s my dad?” Eli had given up on the spoon and had scooped up a handful of noodles. They were squishing out the sides of his little fist, but so far there were none in his mouth.

“Your dad is Moses,” I answered at last.

“MO-SES!” Eli laughed forming each syllable with equal emphasis. “That’s a funny name. Where is MO-SES?”

“I don’t know where he is.”

Eli stopped laughing. “How come? Is he lost?”

“Yes. He is.” And that fact still made my heart ache.

Eli was quiet for several seconds, filling his hands with more pasta. I thought maybe he’d already lost interest in the discussion. I watched as he finally managed to press several orange noodles past his lips. He grinned, pleased with himself, chewed happily, and swallowed noisily before he spoke again.

“Maybe I can find him. Maybe I can find MO-SES. I’m a good finder.”



He brought me back, Moses had said. Maybe Eli had found him after all. The thought made me stumble, and I shrugged the memory off as I walked through the kitchen and snagged the photo album from the counter. I paused for a moment, considering whether I should leave something for him. I knew there were duplicates, or pictures that were close enough that I could part with one of a similar shot. But I didn’t want to start pulling my book apart. And I didn’t want to leave the precious pictures in a stack on the counter for Lisa to see and for Tag to thumb through. I couldn’t do that. And then I knew what I would do. I would make Moses a book too. I would make copies of the pictures I didn’t have duplicates of, and I would write descriptions and dates and paste them alongside the photos so he would have the details he claimed he wanted.

Having reached a decision, I scooped the book up in my arms and turned back toward the front door. As I did, my eyes glanced off the living room walls, and my gaze stuttered and caught. In the middle of the back wall, about three-fourths of the way up, the paint was peeling. And it wasn’t just a little bubble. It was a circle about the size of my palm, and the white edges were bubbled back, revealing dark swirls beneath.

I approached the spot and raised my hand to try to smooth it back, wondering what had happened. It reminded me of the time my mom had repainted the kitchen when I was ten. The original paint had been there since the seventies, and when she tried to put a fresh new coat of pale blue over the top, the paint had bubbled just like this. It had something to do with oil base and water base, though as a kid I didn’t care. I’d just enjoyed peeling the long strips of paint from the wall as my mom had bemoaned all the time she’d wasted. They had ended up having to treat the walls with some kind of stripper and they’d even sanded them for good measure.

I tugged at one of the edges, unable to resist, and another section came off in my hand.

There was a face there.

The piece I’d pulled from the wall revealed an eye, a piece of a slim nose, and half of a smiling mouth. I peeled a little more, freeing the entire face. I remembered this picture. I’d only seen it once. I’d only seen it that terrible morning. I had never come back inside the house. Not until last night. And last night the wall had been perfect. Pristine.

It wasn’t Molly. I don’t know why that relieved me.

People had talked, especially when they’d found Molly Taggert’s remains near the overpass. They said Moses had to be involved. They speculated that it was gang related, that he’d brought his violent affiliations with him. I’d just kept my head down. I’d just stayed silent. And I tried not to believe the things they said. I tried to focus on the life inside of me and the days in front of me. And in the back of my mind I kept the door open, waiting for him to come back.

Last night the wall had been perfect. Pristine. But now there was a face in a sea of white. I turned from the wall, scooped up my photo album and left the house.





Moses



THE LITTLE CLEANING GIRL was sitting on the front steps when I finally made it back to Levan with Tag driving my truck, bringing up the rear. Luckily, my truck hadn’t been towed and Tag had been released with some cash and a signature. She rose when I stepped out of her van and hurried down the walk toward me.

“Can I go now, Mr. Wright? I’m done,”

I nodded and reached for my wallet, pulling out seven, one-hundred-dollar bills and I laid them in her shaking hand. With a nod and a tight grip on her windfall and her bucket of supplies, Lisa Kendrick ran for the van like she had dogs on her heels. She leaped inside and started it up, while Tag and I stared after her, a little surprised at her skittish behavior. She rolled down her window a few inches, and her words came out in a jumbled rush.

“Her name is Sylvie. Sylvie Kendrick. My cousin. She used to babysit me when I was little. She lived in Gunnison. She disappeared eight years ago,” Lisa Kendrick said. “It was a long time ago. And I was only nine . . . but I’m pretty sure it’s her.”

I had no idea what she was talking about, and I started to question her, only to have her hit reverse and peel out of my driveway as if her nerve had finally failed her.