“I believe, Mr. Wellington, that what I have to say you won’t want anyone else to hear,” I countered.
“I’ll say it only once more, Mr. Morrissey. Leave us.” The reedy voice suddenly had volume and power, and I could tell that somewhere in all that withered white was a man with the ability to command, the kind of man I’d talked to on my cell phone earlier.
“Yes, sir,” Morrissey said.
I didn’t turn, but I heard the door open and close at my back.
The air was close and warm. I was sweating.
“The story,” Wellington said, holding up the watch so that it dangled at the end of its gold fob.
“That watch was given to me by an old man. He was given it by your mother. His name is Henry Meloux. He’s dying.”
I tried to pierce the shadow over his face, to see in that frail wizened face something of Meloux. The eyes were dark, but not Henry’s, I finally decided. More like the woman in the photograph, perhaps.
“A rather short story,” he said.
“He gave me that watch and asked me to give it to the man who may be his son.”
The corners of his eyes crinkled. Was he amused?
“He believes I’m his son?”
“He didn’t reveal the whole story to me, but it’s clear he was involved with your mother in a way that could have produced a son. Apparently the timing of your birth is right. And you’re named Henry, like him.”
He considered this, but it was hard to say what he might have been thinking.
“What does he want?”
“To see you, that’s all.”
“You said he’s dying. Where is he?”
“In a hospital in Minnesota.”
“He wants me to go there?”
“Yes.”
He picked up an atomizer that had been tucked beside him in the chair, and he sprayed the air between us.
“Tell me more about this Meloux,” he said.
“He’s Ojibwe. He’s what we call a Mide, a member of the Grand Medicine Society. He heals.”
He leaned forward, and his upper face became clear to me, something carved out of marble, white, hard, and cold.
“An Indian?”
“Yes.”
He stood up, tall and brittle-looking, hollow featured. A ghost of a man.
“Do you realize what you’re saying about my mother? What kind of woman would take up with an Indian buck?” He pointed a curling nail at me. “If I were ten years younger, I’d knock you down.”
I tried again to speak reasonably. “Think about it, Mr. Wellington. You were born two months after your parents married. You were conceived out of wedlock. And I also know that as a child your favorite toy was a stuffed cormorant given to you by your mother. In the Ojibwe totemic system, Henry Meloux is cormorant clan.”
I’d hoped, I suppose, that in the same mysterious way Meloux knew he had a son, the son would recognize Meloux as his father. Not exactly a brilliant strategy.
“Edward!” Wellington called angrily. “Edward!”
The door burst open. “Yes, Mr. Wellington?”
“Show this man out. I don’t wish any further conversation with him.”
“Sure thing, Mr. Wellington.”
I could hear the pleasure in Morrissey’s voice.
“The watch,” I said.
“What?” Wellington squinted at me.
“I’d like the watch back.”
“I’d say it belongs to my family.”
“I’d say not.”
“Edward,” Wellington commanded.
“Come on, O’Connor.”
I shook off his hand. “I’m not leaving without that watch.”
Morrissey gripped my shoulder hard. I turned and swung, catching him full on his jaw. He went down, looking stunned. I spun back and sprang toward Wellington.
“Stay back,” he cried. He cringed a moment, then threw the watch at me like a spoiled child and spat, “All right then,here.”
I heard Morrissey struggling up at my back. I turned to meet him.
“Enough, Edward,” Wellington ordered. “Just get him out of here.”
Morrissey was breathing hard, and I could see he wanted a piece of me. Hell, he wanted the whole enchilada. But Wellington once more said, “Enough.”
Though Morrissey relaxed his body, his eyes were still tight. “Yes, sir.” He nodded toward the door. “After you, O’Connor.”
TWELVE
He jumped me on the limestone path.
We were out of sight of the mansion, winding our way through the pines toward the dock. Morrissey was behind me. He hadn’t said a word since we left the room where Henry Wellington sat trapped in his antiseptic craziness, and I wondered where the bodyguard’s head was at. He couldn’t be happy with himself. He hadn’t done his job particularly well. I was in possession of the watch, and if Wellington hadn’t thrown it at me, I’d have actually laid my germ-infested hands on him. Plus, I’d clipped Morrissey’s jaw pretty well.
So as he brooded behind me, I wondered.
Then he hit me.
In my left kidney.
A blow like a cannonball.
I arched against the impact and the pain. My knees buckled and I went down, kneeling in the crushed limestone.
Morrissey danced to the side and kicked me below the ribs. I toppled and went fetal, my knees to my chest, my arms wrapped around my head to protect myself.
But Morrissey had done all the damage he intended. Except to bend down and deliver this: “Shithead. You ever swing on me again, I’ll kill your sorry ass.”
I heard the crunch of limestone as he stepped back.
To be on the safe side, I waited several seconds then carefully uncurled. Morrissey stood a dozen feet away, arms crossed, shades in place, watching me get to my feet. No emotion on his face now. A volcano that had finished erupting. His right hand rested on his wind-breaker, near the bulge that was not a whisk broom.
Some days you eat the bear, some days the bear eats you.
I turned and headed to the dock with Morrissey behind me at a safe distance.
He handed me over to the guy in the kiosk with the clipboard, who signed me out. Morrissey spoke quietly to the pilot of the launch, who eyed me and nodded. Morrissey cast us off and stayed on the island, while the pilot maneuvered through the shoals to open water, then hit the throttle, and we sped toward Thunder Bay.
My back ached, but I didn’t think Morrissey had done any permanent damage. Maybe a bruise that would bug me for a while, and the knowledge that if I ever encountered him again, he was a man I would keep in front of me.
At the marina, I disembarked. The pilot immediately swung around to return to Manitou Island.
“Beer?”
I turned in the direction of the voice and saw the woman standing on the deck of her sailboat, a bottle lifted in offering.
“Thanks.”
I walked to her sailboat and climbed aboard.
She handed me a Labatt Blue. “You actually got on the island?”
“Yeah.” I unscrewed the cap and took a long drink. It was ice cold. Perfect.
“What was it like?”
“Not a place I’d choose for a vacation,” I said.
“You actually talked with Wellington?”
“We conversed a bit.”
“What’s he like?”
“A man who wants his privacy. I think he’s entitled to it.”
“I saw them frisk you before you left. Careful people.”
“I didn’t catch your name,” I said.
“Trinky Pollard. Royal Canadian Mounted Police. Retired.”
“Cork O’Connor. Former sheriff of Tamarack County, Minnesota.”
“You told me earlier that you’re a PI now.”
“Part-time. Mostly I’m up here as a guy trying to do a friend a favor.”
We shook hands. Hers was impressively strong.
“You look too young to be a retired cop,” she said.
“
Not retired. I quit.”
“What do you do when you’re not investigating privately?”
“Mostly I make hamburgers.”
She smiled at that, then glanced toward the island. “So you delivered a cheeseburger and fries to Wellington, eh.” She laughed. “Accomplish whatever it was you were after?”
“I guess you could say I got my man.”
I lifted my bottle, and we toasted.
I looked at my watch. “Thanks for the beer, Trinky. If I’m going to make it home tonight, I’d best be on my way.”
She saw me off her boat, still sipping her beer. When I looked back, she was staring toward Sleeping Giant.
Before I left the marina, I used my cell to call Jo.
“Hello, sweetheart,” she said. “Where are you?”
“Still in Thunder Bay. How are things there?”
She hesitated a moment, which worried me.
“How’s Meloux?” I asked, expecting the worst.
“Ernie Champoux called. Meloux’s left the hospital,” she said.
“Left?”
“Walked out. Against all advice. According to Ernie, he just sat up, told the doctor he was well and ready to leave. Ernie convinced him to let them run a few tests. It was amazing, Cork. They couldn’t find anything wrong. All the signs, everything, perfectly normal. The doctor can’t explain it.”
“Did Meloux say anything?”
“He told them the weight was off his heart, that he was at peace.”
“He believes he’s going to see his son. Damn.”
“Damn? What does that mean?”
I told her about Meloux’s son, a man I wasn’t certain any father would want to claim as the fruit of his loins.
“What are you going to do?” she asked.
“What can I do? I’ve got to tell him the truth.”
“When will you be home?”
“Well after dark. How’re the kids?”
Once again, she was quiet. And I realized that what I’d picked up in her voice earlier had nothing to do with Meloux.
“What is it, Jo? Is it Jenny? Did Sean finally pop the question?”
“It’s more complicated than that.”
“Oh. How so?”
I heard her take a deep breath. “Cork, you were right to be worried. She’s pregnant.”
THIRTEEN
Long before I turned inland on the drive home to Aurora, the moon rose out of Lake Superior, full and yellow as a lemon. A long finger of light pushed across the surface of the dark water, pointing at me in what seemed an accusing way.
Jenny was pregnant. God, my little girl. If you’d tried to tell me at that moment that she was, in fact, a grown woman, I’d have grabbed you by the neck and wrung you like a mop. To me she wasn’t much more than a child. And now she had a child of her own on the way. How screwed was that? There went the University of Iowa and that writer’s workshop she was hot to get into. There went her future, everything she’d worked hard for over so many years down the drain, lost in a thoughtless moment, wiped away in a stupid spill of passion.
Though probably it wasn’t a moment. Probably they’d been having sex for a while. They’d gone together since Jenny was a sophomore. That was a long time to remain celibate against an onslaught of hormones. I understood that. But Jo had been so certain of Jenny’s sense of responsibility about sex. Why hadn’t my daughter been responsible enough to be safe?
And Sean. He sure as hell wasn’t innocent in all this. Him I wanted to use as a soccer ball.
With that finger of moonlight pointing at me, I wondered what I’d done or hadn’t done that had helped bring this situation about. What kind of father was I? What kind had I been?
Then there was Meloux. His health had apparently taken a remarkable turn after I told him I would go to Thunder Bay. The old Mide believed he would finally see his son. As nearly as I could tell, that belief alone had been enough to work a miracle.
Now what was I going to tell him? What kind of son was I offering him? I was afraid of what the truth might do to the old man. But if I hedged in any way, Meloux would know.
It was nearly midnight when I pulled onto Gooseberry Lane and turned into my driveway. Jo was waiting up. The kids had gone to bed. She kissed me and settled on the sofa beside me.
“You look tired,” she said.
“And sore.” I told her about Morrissey, the kidney punch and the kick.
“Let me see.”
I lifted my shirt, and she checked my back.
“Oh, Cork, there’s an ugly bruise forming. Do you think you should have it checked?”
“A handful of ibuprofen before I go to bed and I’ll be fine.”
“These men, they sound perfectly awful.”
“How do I tell Henry?”
“Be straight with him. Anything else and he’ll know you’re not being truthful.”
“It might kill him.”
“I don’t think so. I think it was the not knowing that hurt him. But how a good man like Henry could have fathered a son like this Wellington, I don’t know.”
I looked around the living room. “Where’s Walleye?”
“In the backyard, sleeping in the tent with Stevie.”
“Stevie knows Walleye will be going home tomorrow?”
She nodded. “He took it pretty hard, poor little guy.” Everywhere I looked, nothing but disappointment.
“So,” I said. “Jenny.”
“She’s confused, Cork.”
“How long has she known?”
“A few days. Her period is usually regular as clockwork. When it was overdue, she did one of those home pregnancy tests.”
“No chance the test was wrong?”
“She repeated it. Different brand, same result.”
“Does Sean know?”
“Yes.”
“What does Jenny want to do?”
“Go back in time and make different decisions would be my first guess.”
“Don’t we all. Really, what’s she thinking?”
Jo hesitated. I knew I wasn’t going to like what I heard.
“When she and Sean went for that drive to Lake Superior yesterday, it wasn’t a pleasure trip. They went to a Planned Parenthood clinic in Duluth.”
“An abortion?”
“She didn’t do anything, Cork. She just wanted information.”
“Oh, Jesus, Jo. This has got to be so hard for her.”
“I’m glad you understand that.”
“Why wouldn’t I?” I looked at her, didn’t hide that I was hurt. “She poured all this out to you because she’s afraid of me, is that it?”
“She’s not afraid of you, Cork. But she is afraid of what you’ll think of her. You have no idea how much your respect means to her.”
I felt exhausted and empty. I laid my head against Jo’s shoulder. “I have to talk to her.”
“She knows that.”
“And we have to talk to Sean. His folks, too. Do they know?”
“He was going to tell them tonight. We’ll probably be calling them tomorrow about the same time they call us.”
“Guess this is the end of Paris.”
“It doesn’t mean their dreams will end, Cork.”
“No, but it’s one hell of a detour off the yellow brick road. What do we do?”
“What can we do? We tell her how we feel, we listen, we pray, we hope, and whatever she decides, we’re there for her.”
“Couldn’t I just spank her and send her to her room?”
“You never spanked her.”
“Maybe it’s not too late.”
She kissed the top of my head. “Ready for bed?”
“Let me check on Stevie and Walleye, then I’ll be up.”
I wandered out to the tent in the backyard. My son was in his sleeping bag, snoring softly. Walleye lay beside him. The old dog lifted his head when I peeked through the flap, and his tail brushed the tent floor.
A boy and his dog. Only, the dog belonged to some
one else and would be going back when the sun came up.
I wasn’t looking forward to morning. To wresting from my son his very good friend. To telling Meloux the truth about his own son. To listening while my daughter and the father of her baby tried to sort out what the hell their future might be.
I stood there in the dark of my backyard thinking that sometimes life sucks and that’s all there is to it.
FOURTEEN
I was up early. Stevie walked into the kitchen from the backyard while I was making coffee. He rubbed his sleepy eyes.
“Hungry, guy?” I asked.
He nodded. “But I should feed Walleye first.”
From the pantry, he took the bag of dried dog food we’d bought and went back outside. Through the kitchen window, I watched him fill the bowl—he’d insisted we buy a special dish for Walleye—then he sat in the grass and petted the dog while it ate. I saw his lips move, talking to his friend. When Walleye was finished, Stevie returned to the kitchen and put the dog food back in the pantry.
“After breakfast, you want to go with me when I take him to Henry?” I asked.
He looked dismal. “Okay.”
We had raisin bran and orange juice I’d made in a pitcher from a can of frozen Minute Maid. I drank coffee. We were rinsing our dishes in the sink when Jo came in, wearing her white robe.
“We’re off to see Meloux,” I told her.
“We have to take Walleye back,” Stevie explained, sounding brave. Jo sat down and motioned Stevie to her. She hugged him. “I’m sure Henry misses him. He’s all alone out there.”
“Yeah.”
You could tell he understood, but it didn’t make him want to do cartwheels.
“How about you get Walleye into the Bronco,” I said to him. “I’ll be right there.”
When he was gone, Jo looked up at me and said, “I didn’t realize this would be so hard on him.”
I poured her a cup of coffee. “He’ll be fine.”
“You know, a turtle’s not much of a pet.”
“Don’t start, Jo.” I handed her the coffee. “I thought I heard Jenny upstairs.”
She took a sip. “She’s throwing up in the bathroom. I think she’ll go back to bed for a while after that. As soon as you get home, we should all talk.”