Franklin left several messages for Michael Borum, but no reply. I called. No reply. Borum seems to be avoiding us. Of course he could be out of town. Or sick. Or dead. Since he’s incommunicado, there’s only one way to find out.
I push the buzzer again.
So it’s Sunday. We’re local television. We have no manners. Now I hear footsteps. And then the glass door flies open.
“It’s about time. If the damn newspaper is late once more, we’re going to cancel our subscription and call the publisher.”
If this is Michael Borum, he hasn’t bothered to add a shirt to his attire this cold January morning. Or maybe he’s waiting for the photographer from Bodybuilder Magazine to show up. His licorice-dark hair is slicked back, maybe from the shower. His drawstring sweatpants are fighting a losing battle with gravity. I calculate zero body fat. Wreathed around his remarkable biceps are intricately complicated monochromatic tattoos, spiky-leafed vines and ivy. One throbs dramatically as his fist-clenched tirade continues.
“This is the third Sunday that you guys have-”
“Mr. Borum?” I hold out both hands, empty, attempting to illustrate that I’m not here to provide newspapers. If he’s this angry over missing the Boston Globe, I wouldn’t want to be in his way when he’s angry about something big. Which means perhaps I should have continued to try to reach him on the phone.
“I’m, um, not from the Globe? Are you Michael Borum?”
“Yes, I’m Michael Borum.” He narrows his eyes at me, dark eyebrows knitting across his broad forehead, then moves forward. His brawn occupies the open front door, preventing me from seeing what’s inside.
“And you’re Charlie McNally. Channel 3. Why in hell are you hounding me? Have you television people lost your minds?”
A question I get more often than I care to admit. And one I still haven’t figured out exactly how to answer. I ignore it as politely as I can.
“Thanks so much for coming to the door, Mr. Borum.” I hold out a hand, smiling as if we’ve just been introduced. Old trick. If they agree to shake hands, in that moment they’ve relinquished their power.
Borum’s glance is withering. One of his hands stays clamped onto the doorjamb, the other on his hip.
“Thanks so much for your patience, yes, we’ve been trying to get in touch with you for almost a week now,” I continue, lowering my own hand and pretending the handshake thing never happened. I glance around, as if checking for privacy. “We’d like to chat with you, briefly, about an incident on the Mass Pike the other day. Monday, late afternoon, as we said in our phone messages. Is this a good place?”
Borum crosses those arms in front of his imposing, distractingly naked chest. Frowns. And doesn’t budge.
“You’ve got five seconds to tell me what this is about. It better be good. Because I wasn’t on the Mass Pike Monday afternoon. Or any time Monday.”
Which I know is not true. But of course, right now I don’t have the photo to prove it. But of course, he doesn’t know that.
I scratch my head, feigning confusion. I pause, deliberately using up two of my five seconds. I move in for the kill. Again, oh, so politely.
“Well, Mr. Borum, we know you were. Maybe you forgot you were there? We have a photograph of you in your blue Mustang driving through the Fast Lane Monday. Around four-thirty. There was an accident about that time…”
I stop. Shift tactics. This is hardly the time to accuse him of being a criminal. I smile, conciliatory.
“And we’re just searching for people who might have witnessed it. There was a family whose car was wrecked, the father hurt. Do you remember that? I mean, did you see anything?”
“Let’s see the photo.” Borum, challenging, is obviously not enchanted by my little performance. And is neatly calling my bluff. “Let’s see that photo you say you have of me driving on Monday.”
“I…” I think fast. I pat my purse, as if the photo’s inside, then shake my head. As if I’m making a decision. I pull out a business card. “Here’s my card, with my work and home phone numbers on it. Call me if you think of anything. I’ll be happy to show the photo to you, at some point. But-”
“You know what, Miss McNally?” he interrupts, holding up a palm. “Forget it. You go ahead, put your photo on television. See what happens. See how fast a subpoena arrives at your general manager’s door. I was not on the Mass Pike Monday, at four-thirty, or any other time. I was having drinks with friends at Bistro Zelda. You’ve got the wrong time. Or the wrong day. Or the wrong car. Or all three. Put that photo on your news? Say it’s me driving? Do it. I mean it. Do it. Then let me warn you, Miss McNally. I’ll own Channel 3.”
Borum backs into the dimly lit hallway behind him. He stops, his narrow smile radiating contempt as he slowly pulls the door closed.
“Do your homework,” he says. “Or I’ll see you in court.”
“He didn’t say he didn’t own a blue Mustang,” I say. “I take that as a good sign. And I guess he got all our phone calls, he was just ignoring us. That makes him guilty, too.”
Juggling an elaborate bouquet of pink roses and a beribboned stack of my favorite kids’ books, I jab the up button on the Mass General Hospital elevator.
Franklin is carrying a huge, ungainly, black-and-white stuffed panda. Puffed out arms and legs dangle as Franklin shifts the bear from one position to another. Button eyes now stare at the floor.
Sunday visiting hours are two to four. Josh and Penny are on the way. We’re all going to meet brand-new baby Maddee. She was a little late. But fine.
“So that’s the good news.” I press the button again. Then one more time.
“We’ve been over this before, Charlotte. The elevator does not come any more quickly if you-” Franklin sighs. Then gives up.
“Can we just agree to disagree on that?” I ask as the door opens. I dramatically gesture Franklin inside.
“The bad news is, Borum insists he wasn’t there. And he offered an easily traced alibi. Something is very wrong. We’ve seen the photo. Borum can’t be in two places at one time.”
The elevator pings. Doors slide open onto the pastel wonderland of Maternity. Floor-to-ceiling murals, ice pink and soft blue and buttery yellow, show smiley-faced suns, lush fields of impossible daffodils and every cute baby animal imaginable. Some carry balloons and cotton candy in their paws or webbed feet. All are clearly blissed out.
“Remember that pink lotion?” I close my eyes and sniff at the familiar fragrance, swept back into some fuzzy half-memory. “It smells like baby in here, doesn’t it? In a good way?”
But I’m talking to no one. Franklin and his stuffed companion are conferring with a ponytailed nurse in a Pooh-covered tunic. She points him down to the end of the hall.
And there’s Maysie. My dear best friend. With a tiny yellow-swaddled bundle in her lap. Three pink helium balloons are tied to the back of Maysie’s wheelchair. This far away, it’s difficult to tell who has the bigger smile-the new mom or the new dad, Matthew, who’s pushing their newest family member toward us. Talk about blissed out.
For a briefly disquieting second, I can hardly look at them. I remember the moment, almost the exact moment, when I knew my biological clock had ticked its last. At birthday thirty, I did my first calculation. Fifteen more years. It seemed like forever. At birthday forty, I counted. Five more years. Plenty of time. At birthday forty-five, I began my birthday-math ritual. And stopped. I blew out the candles, smiled at my birthday-party pals, and said a silent goodbye. Goodbye, little whoever. You are not to be.
I look down at my rainbow-wrapped parcels. Pat the Bunny. Goodnight Moon. Many Moons. And, for later, Maddee’s first Nancy Drew. I’d have been a good mother.
“Baby Maddee’s too young to be in our wedding.” My favorite voice.