Don't I Know You? Page 6

  Steven didn’t know.

  McGuire was going to put a uniform guy on him. The card was probably nothing, but they wanted to make clear to this guy that having anything at all to do with Steven wasn’t a good idea.

  “Help me out here,” he said. “Who’s got an interest in you and your mom?”

  Steven could hear Juan and his mom trying to be quiet in the bedroom. Last spring, Steven had locked himself out of the apartment, and he’d had to go to the bathroom, and he’d gone one flight down on the service stairs and taken a dump on the landing. He didn’t know why he was thinking about that now.

  “I told you which bar she liked,” he said. “I told you who had the address book.”

  McGuire nodded, like he’d already written those down. “You did,” he said. “You did. But here’s what I’m thinking. If you tell me about that bar, it might be because you have a reason to tell me about that bar. The address book—same thing.” He watched Steven. “See what I’m saying?”

  The air conditioner kicked on. “I don’t know why I told you those things,” he said.

  McGuire nodded. “Think,” he said.

  Why had he told him about Phil taking the address book? Did he really think Phil could’ve done those things to his mother? He tried to remember the voice in the apartment. Three words that he wasn’t even sure he’d heard right. Had it been Phil?

  “Somebody raped and stabbed your mother,” McGuire said. “Now is not the time for bits and pieces. Everything you know, guy. No more, no less.”

  Steven went to Juan’s room and got the letters out of his sleeping bag. He hadn’t even looked at them yet. He handed them over.

  “Where’d you get these?” McGuire asked.

  “I went to the apartment,” Steven said.

  “You went to the apartment,” McGuire said. “D’you go with Tonto?” he asked, tilting his head toward the bedroom.

  “No,” Steven said. He didn’t want to get Juan in trouble.

  McGuire raised his eyebrows.

  “Yes,” Steven said. “But it was my idea.”

  “Congratulations,” McGuire said. “How’d you get in?”

  If he could answer one question at a time, he thought he might be able to tell him everything. “Through the bedroom window. The lock doesn’t work. It never has,” he said.

  McGuire pinched the end of his nose a few times, like it was running. “Through the window,” he said. “Breaking into a crime scene,” he said. “Are you listening to this?” he said.

  Steven couldn’t tell if he was talking to him. It didn’t feel like he had relieved himself of anything. The more he told him, the bigger the whole problem seemed to get.

  “Listen,” McGuire said. “I’m not gonna tell you what I think about your own little detective agency. You know what there is to think about that. You wanna do something? You wanna be involved? Start doing something that’s gonna help.”

  Now Steven was crying. “I don’t want to do anything,” he said.

  McGuire seemed not to notice. “She was your mother,” he said. “You’re involved. And you’ve been making choices all over the place. Doing; not doing. They’ve all got consequences,” he said.

  Steven sat there while McGuire read through the letters. At first he concentrated on crying. Then he concentrated on not crying.

  “I was looking for her journals,” he said. “She kept journals.”

  McGuire stopped reading. “D’you find them?” he asked.

  Steven shook his head. Tell him about the voices, he thought. I heard a guy, he imagined saying. He went over what he knew. There was a guy in the apartment. Manuel let him in. It had to be someone Manuel knew. It had to be someone Manuel trusted. Phil, he thought. Anyone.

  Tell him what you know, he thought. Tell him what you know and let him answer the questions. It’s his job. He’s trained for it.

  “Why would anyone care about me?” Steven asked.

  McGuire kept his place on the letter with a finger. “I don’t know. You tell me.”

  Why wasn’t he telling McGuire about Manuel and the guy? In school last year, five of the girls had gotten an unsigned letter. The person who’d written it made fun of them, listed their flaws. The person imagined lining them up and shooting them. Steven had had an idea of who the person was, but when the teacher had talked to each of them privately, Steven had said he didn’t know anything. Two of the girls, he really liked. They were friends.

  McGuire finished the letters and restacked them. “Not much here,” he said.

  He stuck out his lower lip like he was thinking. “Listen,” he said. “Why doncha keep the people you’re hanging out with to a minimum.” He tapped the letters against his thigh. “I wouldn’t spend any time with Phil if I were you,” he said.

  “Why?” Steven said. “Is there something you want to tell me about Phil?” It sounded like the kind of question McGuire would ask.

  “No,” he said. “Not really. But he’s the boyfriend. He’s interested in you. You do the math, Sherlock.”

  He stood. “Is there something you want to tell me about Phil?”

  Steven didn’t know what he thought about Phil anymore. He shook his head.

  “Okay then,” McGuire said.

  He handed the letters back. “You might be interested in the one on top,” he said. “Where’s the john?” he asked.

  Steven pointed, and McGuire palmed his head on his way by.

  The letter was from Steven’s father. It said she shouldn’t worry, all boys, especially ones without fathers in the home, looked for male role models, and as far as he could tell from everything she’d told him, their boy was doing better than most.

  The thought of them talking about him made him feel like laughing.

  “Thanks,” he said when McGuire came back.

  “Don’t thank me,” he said. “He’s your dad.”

  His father came to Juan’s for dinner. Juan’s mom made Greek stuff, like he was someone special. Juan’s dad got out the good glasses and offered his father the whiskey from behind the glass doors of the cabinet in the dining room. His father had a beer instead, and if someone had seen them all there, standing around the tiny kitchen trying to stay out of Juan’s mom’s way, they would’ve thought they did this kind of thing all the time.

  His father leaned against the fridge, holding his beer down around his leg. He was wearing the same jeans and a clean T-shirt. His hair was stuck together a little from sweat.

  Juan stared at him from a stool next to Steven’s. Once, Juan had said that Steven’s mother was hot, for a mom. It had been one of those moments when you think you’re on the same page as someone, and it turns out you’re not even in the same book.

  This was weirder. It didn’t matter whose dad he was. They were both looking at a stranger.

  His father said he was going to pay to have a notice in the Times. Juan’s parents seemed impressed.

  There was talk of what the papers had said.

  Juan’s mom asked politely about San Diego. Steven liked her Greek accent. She had a black braid that reached past her butt. She was curvy. Her name was Anna. She made giant paintings of jungles, and wasn’t much taller than Steven.

  Juan nudged his knee and bent his head slightly in the direction of his room. No one said anything when they got up and left.

  Juan’s room was really the pantry. It was too small for a twin bed; he slept on a camp cot. When Steven slept over, they folded up the cot and used sleeping bags. Even then, Steven always ended up with his face pressed against the books and toys on the shelves.

  Juan closed the door and turned the ceiling fan on high. It sounded like it could come right out of the Sheetrock. They lay on top of their sleeping bags, staring up at the fan going crazy.

  “He looks like you,” Juan said.

  “Yeah,” Steven said.

  Juan stuck his legs and arms straight up, like he was the letter U. “Let’s read the letters,” he said.

  “We did,”
Steven said. “Me and McGuire.”

  Juan seemed kind of hurt. “Well?” he said.

  “Nothing,” Steven said. He thought of the letter from his father. He imagined the guy in the kitchen putting that letter in his mailbox in San Diego. He wondered what his mother had written about. He didn’t know his mother had written to his father. He didn’t know his father had written back.

  “What’d McGuire say?” Juan asked.

  “About what?” Steven asked.

  Juan looked at him like he was stupid. “About everything,” he said.

  “I didn’t tell him,” Steven said.

  Juan dropped his legs and sat up. “You didn’t tell him? You didn’t tell him about what? About anything?”

  Steven talked to the ceiling. “I showed him the letters. I told him where we got them.”

  “Are we in trouble?” Juan asked.

  Steven shook his head.

  Then Juan said, “That’s it? What did you talk about for so long?”

  Steven tried to shrug lying down. It came out like a twitch.

  “Why?” Juan asked, not even trying to keep how totally baffled he was out of his voice. “Why?” he asked again, more quietly.

  “Because,” Steven said. He had no idea how to finish the sentence.

  “Are you trying to figure things out for yourself?” Juan asked. “Do you not trust McGuire?” He threw some more theories out. None of them seemed right.

  “I don’t know,” Steven said.

  “You’re saying that a lot,” he said. He wasn’t being mean.

  “I know,” Steven said.

  They were quiet. Something clanged in the kitchen.

  Juan said, “You gotta tell someone about Manuel and the guy.”

  “I know,” Steven said.

  Juan said, “The guy is, like, after you.”

  “Maybe,” Steven said.

  “I should tell someone,” Juan said.

  Steven felt bad that he was making Juan feel bad. “I’ll tell him,” he said. “I just want to think a little more. I keep feeling like there’s some little thing I’m forgetting.”

  Juan didn’t look convinced; he looked sympathetic.

  “Maybe your dad could help,” he said. “I mean, if there’s something about McGuire you don’t like.”

  They lay there. It was like their own little sweatbox.

  “He seems okay,” Juan said.

  Steven didn’t say anything.

  “San Diego could be okay,” Juan said.

  He said it like he wasn’t just saying it to be nice or make Steven feel better.

  Steven stared at the fan. He picked a blade and counted its revolutions. “Would you think it was fucked up if I felt worse about leaving here than about my mom?” he asked.

  Juan moved his arms and legs like he was making snow angels. He said, “Sometimes fucked up’s just the play of the day.”

  Someone knocked.

  “Yes?” Juan said in his little old lady voice. “Who is it?”

  “Uh, it’s me…Steven’s father.” He cleared his throat.

  “We know who you are,” Juan said. “Enter!”

  The door opened. Juan had to pull his legs up.

  “Listen,” Steven’s father said. “Anna just told me about the card.” He knelt down by Steven’s head. “Are you all right?”

  Steven nodded.

  “What did Detective McGuire say?” he asked.

  “He said the lab was going to look at it,” Steven said.

  “Did he have any theories?” his father asked.

  “I don’t know,” Steven said. He looked at Juan.

  “What do you mean? Nothing? He had nothing to say about this? Did he say you’re in danger? Did he say there was anything we could do?” He was getting worked up. He stopped himself, took a breath. “Sorry.” He put a hand out like Steven was the one who needed calming down. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll talk to him about it.”

  Steven told him about the uniform guy.

  “So, listen,” he said, “I think we better think about San Diego sooner than we planned. You could start the school year on time.”

  School, Steven thought. “Last year,” he said, “we made a replica of a Colonial house.”

  His dad and Juan didn’t say anything. The fan was right over his father’s head, like he was wearing some lunatic beanie.

  “I was in charge of the chimney. I collected rocks from the park. We didn’t use any glue. We raised the walls with tiny ropes.” He didn’t know why he was telling them about this, but it felt good to do it. “It was cool,” he said.

  “Sounds cool,” his father said. He sounded like he meant it. He stood. “Okay,” he said. “So let’s think about that earlier departure.” He nudged Steven’s foot with his own, and then he just stood there. For minutes.

  “What’re you doing?” Juan asked.

  His father took them both in. “Nothing,” he said.

  “Wanna sit down?” Juan asked.

  He folded his long legs under him like a horse and balanced his beer on his thigh, and they sat there like that until Anna called them for dinner.

  five

  Some days, he spent whole hours with her in his head. Most days, he didn’t.

  McGuire said they were free to go through the apartment. His father said they were leaving for San Diego in a week and complained about how long everything took in the city, about the lab turning up nothing on the notes Steven had gotten. Steven said he wanted to go through the apartment by himself at first. When he was ready, he’d let whoever come in with boxes and trash bags.

  The second note was slipped under the apartment door. It hadn’t been there when Steven arrived. It was there when he left. Same small envelope. No picture this time. Just a plain white card, same block letters. “I can’t tell you my name. I’m sorry. Are you taking care of yourself?”

  The third one was in his mother’s locker at the hospital the day he went to go through that stuff. He almost missed it.

  It was a postcard of San Diego’s skyline. It said San Diego in happy script across the front. On the back was written, “All the best for your new life.”

  He knew he should’ve been scared. He felt the way you feel when you get picked out of the audience to help with the show. The notes meant the guy must know him. He’d met a lot of the guys his mother knew. A lot of them had liked pretending they knew him better than they did.

  He didn’t tell anyone. He folded them into quarters and put them in his shoe. Their hard edges poked him through his socks. At the end of the day, they were flattened and damp, and he moved them to the waistband of his underwear, worrying their edges and folds with his fingers until he fell asleep.

  The uniform guy didn’t talk much. Steven didn’t take it personally.

  At the funeral, there were two more uniform guys and a couple without uniforms. They stood in the back of the chapel trying to keep out of the way. Everyone knew who they were.

  The service was a service. His mother was Catholic, but not a real Catholic, and had no brothers or sisters, and her parents were both dead, and his father was Jewish. The cops were the only interesting thing about the whole afternoon. Even the reporters had lost interest by then. Apparently, the longer a case went unsolved, the bigger the chance that it would never be solved. McGuire had said, “Generally, age is not good for a case.” A luncher, the cops called it. As in “We may end up eating this one.” He was learning all sorts of things.

  Phil had been trying all week to see him alone. At the service, every time he headed toward Steven, one of the cops angled him off. When Phil caught his eye, Steven acted like he had nothing to say about anything. But Phil wasn’t stupid. He knew he was being treated like one of the bad guys.

  There were people Steven knew and people he didn’t. No one wearing jeans, a white T-shirt, and green and white Adidas.

  The kids from school sat in a knot at the back. His teachers were there, and the principal. A woman he didn’t re
cognize stared at him, crying. Christine kept catching his eye and blowing him kisses. Mrs. Carpanetti was there, in black with a black scarf on her head. Michael wasn’t. Steven wasn’t surprised. Michael wasn’t into things like this. Manuel and Tina and the girls came in a few minutes late. Manuel gave him a little wave.

  Juan and his mom and dad were in his row. His father sat on his other side. People looked at the two of them. He hoped they looked good together. Natural.

  His father was wearing a black suit and a white shirt. He’d forgotten to bring a tie. He’d called and asked if Steven thought he should buy one. Steven had been surprised.

  It was a closed coffin, and Steven had said no when the funeral director guy had asked if he wanted to see her before the service began. In the morgue, she’d been on a table in a refrigerated vault. Her head had been propped up on a black rubber block.

  He’d said no when his father asked if he wanted to speak. No about having a party afterward.

  He sat there on the hard chair in the suit his father had bought for him and imagined saying no to what he could, yes to what he had to. That’s how his life would go.

  The priest’s mouth moved. Steven scanned faces and heads, thinking: You? You?

  His father nudged him and mouthed, “Okay?”

  Steven nodded.

  She said he was the slowest boy in the world. She said he’d forget to put on clothes if she wasn’t there to remind him. You should just get down on your knees and thank God for me, she said.

  The day before she died, they were wrestling on her bed. He was wet from the shower, and she said by the time he got his jammies on, she’d be an old lady. He pulled back hard to get out of her grip, misjudged the edge of the bed, and put his knee down on air. She grabbed his arm. His head stopped inches from the floor. They were like those ice skaters from the Olympics.

  He turned away from his father a little, shielded his arm with his body, and pushed his sleeve up enough. The bruise was the size of her thumb, small and oval. Every day he made sure it was still there.

  “What’re you doing?” his father whispered.

  “Nothing,” he said, letting his sleeve fall.

  His father moved in closer, tucking Steven under his arm. He didn’t seem like the person his mother had described. He didn’t seem like just some rich guy. If his mother had liked his father more, it might’ve made everything easier now.