"O.K. What can I bring?"
"Nothing. Just wear your pumps and be here at seven.
After unturbaning and combing my hair, I placed a seafood dinner in the microwave. I was programming the time when my doorbell sounded.
Ryan, I hoped suddenly, walking to the hall. It was all a mistake. But if it wasn't, did I really want to see him? Did I want to know where he'd been, what he'd say?
Yes. Desperately
The self-examination proved unnecessary since the security monitor showed Jean Bertrand, not his partner, standing in the outer vestibule. I buzzed him into the building, then went to the bedroom for socks and a robe. When he stepped inside the condo, he hesitated, as if trying to compose himself. After an awkward moment he extended his hand. It felt cold when I shook it.
"Hello, Tempe. Sorry to surprise you like this."
Apparently surprising me was a hot thing these days. I nodded.
His face was drawn, and a dark crescent underscored each eye. Normally an impeccable dresser, he wore faded jeans tonight and a rumpled suede jacket. He started to speak again but I cut him off with a suggestion we move to the living room. He chose the sofa, and I curled into the chair opposite.
Bertrand studied me, his face tense with emotions I couldn't read. In the kitchen the microwave hummed warmth into my whitefish, carrots, and curried rice.
This is your party I thought, refusing to break the silence. Finally
"About Ryan."
"Yes.
"I got your calls, but I just couldn't talk about it then."
"What exactly is 'it'?"
"He's out on bail, but he's been charged wi-"
"I know the charges."
"Don't be angry at me. I had no idea where you stood in all this."
"For God's sake, Bertrand, how manyyears have you known me?"
"I knew Ryan a hell of a lot longer!" he snapped. "Evidently I'm a lousy judge of character."
"Neither of us seems to excel in that area."
I hated myself for being so cold, but Bertrand's failure to call had hurt. When I had needed information important to me he'd blown me off like I was a drunk on the street with his hand out.
"Look, I don't know what to tell you. This thing's wrapped tighter than a deb with new tits. I hear that when they're finished with Ryan he won't qualify for a paper route.
"It's that bad?" I watched my fingers work the fringe on a throw pillow
"They've got enough to nail him into tomorrow"
"What is it they've got?"
"When they tossed his apartment they found enough methamphetamine to fry a third world nation and over ten thousand dollars' worth of stolen parkas."
"Parkas?"
"Yeah. Those Kanuk things everyone's pissing their pants to own.
"And?" I'd twisted the fringe so tightly it sent pain up my hand and into my wrist.
"And witnesses, videos, marked bills, and a trail of stink leading right straight to the center of the dung heap."
Bertrand's voice betrayed his emotion. He took a deep breath.
"There's more. A shitload more. But I can't talk about it. Please understand, Tempe. Look, I'm sorry I left you hanging. It took me a while to work through this myself. I just didn't believe it, but-"
He broke off, afraid to trust his own voice.
"I guess the guy never quite left his past behind."
As a college student Ryan had gotten into booze and pills, eventually dropping the academic life for life on the edge. A knifewielding cokehead had nearly killed him, and the wild child reversed course, became a cop, and rose to the rank of lieutenant-detective. I knew all that. But still…
"I learned that someone ratted Ryan out, and for all I knew it could have been you. But it's not important now. The sonovabitch is dirty and he deserves what's coming down."
For a very long time neither of us spoke. I could feel Bertrand's stare, but refused to meet it or say a word. The microwave beeped, then shut oft Silence. Finally I asked.
"Do you really think he did it?" My cheeks felt hot and my chest burned below my sternum.
"For the past few days I've done nothing but chase down leads to show that he didn't do it. Anything. Anyone. All I wanted was one tiny hint of doubt."
When he gestured with thumb and index finger, I could see a tiny tremor in his hand.
"It wasn't there, Tempe." He ran a hand over his face. "But it doesn't matter anymore.
"It does matter. It's the only thing that matters."
"At first I thought, no way Not Andrew Ryan. Then I learned the case against him."
He took another deep breath.
"Look, Tempe, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry for this whole goddam mess I'm not sure who I am anymore or where the world's going. And I'm not sure if it's worth the price of a ticket to ride."
When I looked up Bertrand's face was filled with pain, and I knew exactly what he was feeling. He was trying not to despise his partner for succumbing to the greed, all the while hating him for the deep, cold emptiness his betrayal had created.
Bertrand promised to let me know if he learned anything. When he left I trashed the fish and cried myself to sleep.
Chapter 10
Thursday I put on a dark blue suit and drove to out Lady of the Angels. The morning was blustery, the sun appearing only infrequently among the heavy clouds scudding across the sky.
I parked and threaded through the usual collection of gawkers, journalists, and cops. No sign of Charbonneau, Claudel, or Quickwater.
Of the trickle of mourners solemnly climbing the steps, most were black. Whites arrived in couples or groups, each with at least one child in tow. Probably Emily Anne's classmates and their families.
Near the entrance, a wind gust tore the hat from the head of an old woman to my right. One gnarled hand flew to her head while the other fought the skirt whipping round her legs.
I darted forward, trapped the hat against the church wall, and handed it to the woman. She clutched it to her bony chest and gave a small smile. Her wrinkled brown face reminded me of the crabapple dolls crafted by ladies in the Smoky Mountains.
"You be a frien' of Emily Anne?" the old woman asked in a crackly voice.
"Yes, ma'am." I didn't want to explain my involvement.
"She my gran'chile."
"I am so sorry for your loss."
"I got twenty-two gran children, but that Emily Anne be somet'ing special. That chile do everyt'ing. She writes her letters, she does dance ballet, she does swim, she does skate on ice. I t'inking that girl be even smarter than her mama.
"She was a beautiful little girl."
"Maybe that be why God take her up.
I watched Emily Anne's grandmother totter on, remembering those same words from a long time ago. A slumbering ache stirred in my chest, and I steeled myself for what was to come.
Inside, the church was cool and smelled of incense and wax and wood polish. Light filtered through stained glass, casting a pastel softness over everything.
The pews were packed in front, with a scattering of attendees in the middle. I slipped into a back row, folded my hands, and tried to concentrate on the present. Already my skin itched and my palms felt sweaty As I looked around, the organist finished one requiem and began another.
A miniature white casket sat below the altar, heaped with flowers and flanked by candles at either end. Balloons bobbed on strings attached to the coffin's handles. The brightly colored spheres looked jarringly out of sync with the scene.
In the front pew I could see two small heads, a larger figure between them. Mrs. Toussaint was bent forward, a handkerchief clutched to her mouth. As I watched, her shoulders began to heave, and a tiny hand rose and gently rubbed her upper arm.
The dormant ache within me awoke fully, and I was back at St. Barnabas parish. Father Morrison was at the pulpit and my little brother lay in his own tiny coffin.