谎言书：18

I was simply being courteous 1 and trying hard not to embarrass you. Agent Molina—”
“Naomi.”
“Naomi, even when you dial our phone number, it’s like you’re entering
sovereign land, as in sovereign nation, as in the most utilitarian 2 use for your
badge right now is as a Halloween costume, though to be honest, we Native
Americans don’t much like Halloween.”
“See, I hate Halloween, too — my son dressed up as a Thug Life rapper this
year, whatever that is. But I got a potential homicide I need to ask your pal 3
Cal about.”
“Homicide’s a state crime. You’re a federal employee. Wanna try again?”
“The victim is a guy I partner with — Timothy Balfanz — he’s a friend,”
Naomi explained, hitting the brakes at the crosswalk and carefully watching
the small group of passengers that were now passing in front of her, on their
way to Terminal 2. “So no offense 4, Chief, but if someone went up to one of
your people — say, that sweet girl with the lisp that I left my message with —
if someone nabbed her on a dark road and chopped her into hors
d’oeuvres . . . I’d like to think, if it was someone you cared about and you
needed my help, I’d do more than tell you off and bad-mouth Halloween.”
Ocala was silent as Naomi noticed a sudden blur 5 in her rearview, where a tall
man in a windbreaker stepped out of the crosswalk and cut behind her car.
“I just wanna know what Cal called about,” Naomi pleaded, glancing over her
shoulder and out the back window. The man was already gone. And being out
here, exposed to every passing airport stranger, she knew she wasn’t being
safe.
“Y’know what the Seminole word for guilt 6 is?” Ocala finally asked. “You.” She
heard a sudden thunk through the phone. Like a file cabinet being opened
and shut. “I got the bullet here that they pulled from his dad last night.”
“His dad?”
“Cal asked me to run it through the ATF folks, who traced it back to
Cleveland and some obscure gun that was used to kill a man named Mitchell
Siegel—”
“Mitchell Siegel,” Naomi said, jotting 7 down the name as she heard a beep
through her earpiece. Caller ID told her it was Scotty. “I’ll run him ASAP.”
“Think what you want, Naomi,” Ocala added, “but I’m telling you right now,
Cal Harper isn’t the demon 8 in this.”
“A dirty badge is a dirty badge — you know that. Besides, if he’s such an
angel, why doesn’t he at least come in and talk with us?”
“Maybe he’s worried that instead of listening to reason, you’ll just spout 9 silly
catchphrases like ‘A dirty badge is a dirty badge.’ ”
“I appreciate your help,” Naomi said to Ocala as she clicked to the other line.
“Nomi, I think I found Cal,” Scotty blurted 10. “I need to double-check, but on
that airport list of who paid in cash, there were a few tickets bought this
morning — at least three headed to Cleveland.”
Naomi was about to re-enter the loop for departures when a high-pitched
bloop whistled from her GPS device. Ellis’s tracer — the bright crimson 11
triangle — was back in place and once again moving.
It took a moment to read the streets and orient herself, but as the crimson
triangle turned onto NE 23rd Court . . .
Naomi’s eyes went wide. No. That can’t —
Oh, God.
“Nomi, you okay?”
“He’s there, Scotty.”
“Where? What’re you talking about?”
“Twenty-third Court. Ellis . . . he’s . . . I think Ellis is at my house.”
39
“Ladies and gentlemen, the captain has turned off the Fasten Seat Belt sign
— you may now move freely about the cabin,” the flight attendant announces
as I stare through the egg-shaped window and watch Florida disappear
beneath the cotton candy clouds.
All around me, seats are empty. Still, all three of us sit separately, just to
keep it safe.
Checking over my shoulder, I peer ten rows back at my dad, who’s fast asleep
with his head sagging 12 forward. After everything we’ve been through, he
needs some rest. So do I. Across from him, I look for Serena, but her seat’s
empty. I glance back at my dad. Don’t tell me she snuck over to—
“Calvin,” a female voice interrupts, “would you mind if I joined you?”
In the aisle 13, Serena stands over me, her back leaning on the edge of the seat
behind her, as if she’s trying to steer 14 clear of my personal space. I’m tempted 15
to keep her there, but I can’t risk letting anyone overhear.
She slides into the aisle seat, with the empty middle seat between us, then
crosses her legs Indian style. It’s then that I see she’s barefoot. “I appreciate
the kindness,” she says.
“I didn’t offer any.”
“You were about to, Calvin. Your eyes said so.”
I’m ready to vomit 16 right there. “Listen, Serena — I don’t know you very well,
and I don’t know Lloyd much better. But when I look at his expensive silk
shirts . . . or his unscuffed shoes — I know my dad has a big need to impress.
And as I know from my clients, desperate men are the most easily
mesmerized 17 by new-agey, yoga-filled nonsense — especially when it comes
from younger, sexed-up women who lock pinkies with them in hopes of
getting whatever it is they think those men can get for them. Now I realize
this isn’t a complex analogy, so to stay with that theme: Go flap your lashes 18
somewhere else.”
She looks at me in silence for what seems like a full minute. “I’m sorry I
made you angry.”
“No, angry’s what you get when someone dings your car. This is the cold
bitter rage that comes when someone kicks around in your personal crisis.”
“Calvin—”
“Cal,” I growl 19 at her.
She’s still unfazed. “Cal, I’m not sleeping with your father.”
“Then what’s with the pinkies and the hand-holding?”
“He was shaking, Cal. In all your anger, did you not see that? I was trying to
calm him — refocus his energy.”
“His energy? Oh, Lord. Listen, even as a stranger, I can tell he’s clearly in
love with you.”
“And I love him, but as I’ve told him, it’s solely 20 as a teacher. When we first
started doing meditation—”
“Whoa ho ho — my father couldn’t meditate 21 if—”
“He’s doing it right now,” she says, calm as ever.
I turn back to my dad, whose head is still down. His eyes are closed. I
thought he was sleeping, but the way he’s swaying forward and back . . .
“The key is breathing through your nose,” Serena adds. “Each breath needs
to reach down to your diaphragm.”
I stare at her across the empty middle seat. She nods and smiles.
“Serena, why’re you really here? And please don’t insult me by saying you
came all the way to the airport and potentially risked your life just to wave
good-bye and teach my dad how to breathe and realign his energy.”
Most people turn away when you ask them a hard question. Serena continues
to look straight at me, and her yellow blue eyes . . . I hate to say it . . .
there’s a real depth to her stare.
“He helped my brother. Andrew,” she finally says.
“Who? My dad?”
“You almost had it right before, Cal. Your dad — he’s Andrew’s sponsor,” she
explains. “And my brother — been in AA for years — always relapsing. A few
months ago, the judge sent him back, and your dad — it wasn’t anything
heroic — but your dad was nice to him. They connected. Really connected.
Whatever they had in common, Andrew was Andrew again.”
“So all this — coming to help my dad — it’s just a thank-you?”
“Oh, no. I’m not just helping 22 your dad. I’m helping myself,” she says as
easily as if she’s telling me her shoe size. Reading my confusion, she adds,
“Two weeks ago, they found Andrew’s body in the sea grapes grove 23 — near
Holiday Park. But it was your dad who helped us locate him — he knew
Andrew’s old hiding spots. He knew my brother. And even though I think you
have a hard time with things like this — being near your dad . . . somehow
I’m still connected with Andrew.”
“Can I offer you a snack?” a flight attendant interrupts, approaching just
behind Serena and holding out a tiny bag of pretzels.
“No peanuts?” Serena asks.
“Sorry, just pretzels,” the attendant says.
“Then I’m meant to have pretzels,” Serena decides, smiling as she pops
open the little bag and turns back to me. “Your dad tried to save my brother,
Cal. And by helping Andrew — with that strength your dad shows, like in the
airport — your father helped me. He’s still helping me. And I’m helping him.
Do you not see that? That’s what being family is — that’s the best part — it’s
not tit for tat or who owes more, it’s simply — when one hurts, so does the
other; when one finds good, you share in that, too. That’s family.” But as
Serena continues to stare my way . . . “This is making you uncomfortable,
isn’t it?” she asks.
I shake my head, trying to convince her she’s wrong.
She goes silent, her stare digging even deeper. She’s not upset. She’s excited.
“I was wrong before. This is why I’m here, isn’t it?” she blurts 24, not the least
bit concerned that we brought her on this plane to save her life. “Not just for
what your father and I share . . . the lessons are for you, too, for all three of
us. Oh, I didn’t see it before. I mean, until you showed up, I didn’t even think
he had family.”
“He did have family! He just—” I catch myself, clenching 25 the fuse that’s lit in
my chest and digging my feet into the airplane’s thin carpet. “He has a
family,” I say quietly. “He just chose to ignore me.”
“You sure about that?” She tugs 26 on her ankles, tightening 27 her Indian-style
position and reaching for a pretzel.
“What’re you talking about?”
“You were, what, sixteen years old when he was released? Just taking the
SATs, starting to wonder about going to college. You really think having a
convicted murderer enter your life was the best thing for you?”
“You don’t know that. You met him, what, four months ago?”
“Six months,” she says. “How’d you know that, anyway?”
“I was bluffing 28. But that’s my point: You barely know him. I heard you at the
hospital, asking if he got the shipment. So answer my question, Serena:
Why’d you really come to the airport?”
I wait for her yellow blue eyes to narrow, but they just get wider. She’s not
insulted. She’s hurt. “I came for the same reason you did,” she tells me.
“Let me guarantee right now that’s not true.”
“Do you really think you’re the only one whose life didn’t turn out the way
they dreamed, Cal? When I was eleven years old, my mother remarried a
man who . . . well, shouldn’t’ve been living around eleven-year-old girls. Or
their younger brothers. I still pay for those years. But when I was seventeen
— when I finally told my mom, and she threw me out because she couldn’t
handle that it might actually be true — I remember sitting in this filthy 29
McDonald’s. It was pouring, one of those thick Florida rains, and I had this
feeling to go outside. When I did, I saw this puddle 30 — shaped like a mitten 31 —
that reminded me of this great puddle we used to jump in back when we
could afford camp. And reliving that moment . . . that was blissful. Real bliss 32.
All because I listened to that feeling to go outside.”
“Okay — so to find true meaning in life, I need to go stand out in some
sentient 33 downpour. Very Shawshank Redemption.”
“Let me ask you something, Cal: Why’d you come on this trip?”
“I almost got killed this morning.”
“Before that. When you saw your dad lying there in the rain . . . You had
your own feeling, right? You listened to something inside yourself and
suddenly your life was reignited. Like in Don Juan, where he says that
sometimes you need to lace your belt the opposite way.