Girl in the Rearview Mirror Page 4

  I took it away. “Did she ask you anything about your parents, about your family? Did she do anything to you? Touch you at all?”

  Amabel was confused. “She pushed me on the swing.”

  I bit the bag to unwrap her doll, tasting floral chemicals in the plastic. Amabel was safe. Nothing had happened, really. But my pulse drummed as I ran through the scene again, Iris’s artificial, girlish voice, her long fingernails, her costume-like clothes. Even the birdsong was unsettling and strange in my memory.

  She was lying about having a daughter. A mother would have taken Amabel back to school, instinctively. And she’d spoken to Ammy in the deferential way of someone not used to kids.

  Lurking outside the school, smoking a cigarette as the children were picked up. What did she want? She wasn’t concerned when I showed up—as if she’d wanted me to catch her.

  I was twisting the plastic toy wrapper. I dropped it and began sweeping our debris onto the tray. “We’re late to meet your mom.”

  “You’re not gonna tell her, are you? Please, Finn.”

  A bright dollop of ketchup had spilled on Amabel’s collar. I dabbed it with my napkin, and it bled across the fabric. “Why shouldn’t I?”

  “She’ll be mad at us.”

  Her face was like a doll’s, perfect and innocent. Marina would be irate—at me.

  I hedged. “If you see that woman again, tell me right away. Don’t talk to her. Promise?”

  Amabel nodded, petting her doll’s red hair. “I promise.”

  Marina had asked me to drop Amabel at the museum. Formally, it was the Native American Art and Artifacts Center of Scottsdale; Marina, who served as director, called it “NAX,” hoping it would catch on. Next Friday, the museum would host the annual Black and White Gala, the event of the summer. For $500 a plate, guests enjoyed the satisfaction of supporting a cultural institution. They might also hope to rub elbows with the Senator, who made a brief appearance every year. Mostly, it was a networking event for wealthy Phoenicians, business owners and financiers and lobbyists and university officials, who rarely used the memberships included with the price of a ticket.

  Amabel and I parked in the underground lot and ascended to the lobby in the elevator. Through its glass walls, we admired a vertical stretch of sand studded with artfully buried artifacts—wedges of broken pottery; the skeletons of small, tailed animals; arrowheads and spears; an uncannily human-looking shoulder blade. Everything clean and polished and pressed insistently against the glass, the sort of bloodless, charming archaeological dig Disney would design.

  At this hour, few visitors milled about the sun-drenched lobby. Marina stood behind the admissions desk, talking on the phone. She held up a finger at us.

  Window washers were squeegeeing the huge panels of glass spanning the far wall. Amabel darted over to make faces at them. Dotting the hill outside, hook-armed saguaros stood over long, thin shadows.

  “There you girls are.” Marina glided over as smoothly as if on wheels. She wore a cream-colored suit, nude stilettos, invisible makeup. Enveloped in her mineral fragrance, I might have dreamed Iris. Mysteries did not happen in Marina’s ordered world.

  Her phone buzzed, giving me a moment to consider telling her. A woman on the playground, probably nothing, but—Marina’s brow would pucker, her stylus hover over her screen. She’d be impatient with the vague threat of Iris and focus only on my tardiness.

  “Amabel!” she called, sliding her phone away. “Come give me a kiss.”

  Reluctantly, Amabel stopped waving at the window washers and joined us.

  Marina inclined her cheek to Amabel’s peck. “Did you have a good day? What did you learn at camp?”

  Amabel shrugged. “Can I go see the Frowning Man?”

  The Frowning Man was a face in a totem pole between a lizard and an eagle. His brows arched angrily, and his black eyes pointed crazily in different directions. Amabel was half terrified of, half delighted by him.

  “Not tonight,” Marina said.

  “Please?”

  “Amabel, your mom asked about camp,” I said. “Tell her what you learned.”

  Amabel clamped her lips and looked at the floor.

  “Can you go wash up for dinner, sweetie?” Marina said.

  Amabel dragged her feet as she headed for the bathroom.

  Marina frowned at me. “She seems off. Did she get into trouble today?”

  “She’s tired, I think.”

  Marina’s fingers moved to squeeze her earlobe, her one nervous tic. “She’s been so moody lately. Maybe she needs more exercise. I spend all day dealing with issues here”—she gestured around us—“and when I get home, I want to spend time with a cheerful daughter.”

  “Amabel has her moments. I’m sorry if there have been more than usual lately.” Even I could hear the defensiveness in my voice.

  Marina sighed. “Don’t get all upset. I’m sure you’re doing your best. But I need you to be focused this month. I know you’ve been getting more involved with your boyfriend, more interested in socializing. I need one hundred and ten percent from you until the gala is over.”

  I blushed clear to my chest. “Of course.”

  “Good.” Her phone buzzed, and at last her exacting attention dropped from me.

  “I’ll get Ammy.” I escaped to the restroom.

  It was empty, as I’d expected. Before I went to find Amabel, I washed my hands with the fragrant almond soap and pressed my damp palms to my hot face. I gave my cheek a sharp slap and hurried out.

  I found Amabel whispering to the Frowning Man.

  “You need to listen,” I told her, taking her hand. She rolled her eyes like an older child, and for a nasty moment, she reminded me of Iris.

  5

  The next afternoon, Amabel and I spread a sheet over the kitchen floor and I dusted her hair with cornstarch, working it into her scalp with my fingertips. When it was sufficiently white, I pinned it into a stiff, puffy mushroom.

  That evening, under the stage lights, a fine cloud of starch drifted up from her head. In her blue velvet coat—an old blazer of mine, cinched at the back—she looked more like a tiny old man than a founding father. She delivered her perfectly memorized lines with a proud, goofy grin. Philip nudged me with his elbow, and even Marina leaned forward to beam at me.

  I couldn’t concentrate. I kept turning to scan the audience. I didn’t see Iris among the familiar faces behind me, or with the stragglers at the back—bored siblings crawling on the floor, mothers calming infants. Only when the show ended and the lights came up did I relax. While the Martins circulated, I went backstage to collect Amabel.

  When I hugged her, she whispered, “Did she come?”

  “Who?” I said, playing innocent.

  “The girl! Iris.”

  I put my hands on her shoulders. “Ammy, that woman is a stranger. I don’t want you to worry about her anymore.”

  She shrugged, downcast. Marina’s old words surfaced. Kids get these crushes.

  I brushed starch from her forehead. “You were great tonight. I’m proud of you.”

  In the parking lot, I helped Amabel into the car and stepped to the front window to say good night to the Martins.

  “Finn, why don’t you join us for dinner?” Philip said.

  “Thanks, but you don’t have to.”

  “Of course you should come,” Marina said.

  I was worn out, but I agreed. It might be a chance to smooth things over with her.

  Eating at Philip’s restaurant was an event for most people. The Grove had been featured in travel sections of major newspapers, recommended in guidebooks, and voted Most Romantic Dining in Scottsdale four years running. Its gardens were lush with roses and figs and flowers thin as tissue paper, kept alive with an underground irrigation system and ingenious canopies, narrow and slanting like pirate’s sails, which blocked the harshest sunbeams. Wedding receptions in the garden photographed beautifully, and Philip charged accordingly. In the dining room, the deep
booths often hosted pro athletes and movie stars. The chef cooked classic Roman food: pounded salted meats, homemade pasta black with squid ink, and challenging seafood, things with tentacles or shells. While Philip’s days were spent on broader interests—real estate development, board meetings, political work with his dad—the restaurant was his pet project, and he spent a couple afternoons a week ensconced in the office upstairs. Sometimes he stayed into the evening to buy rounds of drinks for important diners and circulate, glad-handing.

  The hostess led us to a table in back, and before we’d even sat, the waiter brought over a bottle of wine and a wire basket of grissini, knobbed and crisped breadsticks Amabel liked to pretend were wands.

  We toasted Amabel’s performance. Giggling, she hoisted her Shirley Temple to clink with us, splashing maraschino pink onto the white tablecloth.

  I’d hardly seen Philip since the night we’d talked about the coyote. He was home when I arrived in the morning, but he stayed in his study, murmuring on the phone, and left in a hurry, calling goodbye from the foyer, not even coming upstairs to kiss Amabel. Bryant, too, had been preoccupied—a new attack ad had come out against the Senator, its slogan maddeningly catchy. But Philip seemed unusually stressed, especially considering he’d just assured Marina his father would win. He was staying out late. I’d heard Marina’s disappointed half of their phone calls, saw her clear his place off the table Amabel and I set, tossing his unused napkin into the laundry.

  Tonight, Philip seemed his normal self. He gushed about Amabel’s play, making her beam and wriggle under the heat of his pride.

  “What are you hungry for?” I asked her.

  “Chicken nuggets!”

  “How about macaroni?”

  She blew a raspberry. Marina’s jaw tightened. Did she realize Amabel was being silly, not bratty?

  Philip boomed, “You insulting your dad’s food?” His face shone. He’d drained his wineglass and was filling it again, ignoring Marina’s pointed look. Possibly they were fighting; they’d barely spoken to each other, hiding it behind talk to Amabel.

  “She’s being goofy,” I said. “Lots of excitement today.”

  “I hope you’ll behave next weekend,” Marina warned.

  Amabel slouched to slurp her straw.

  “We’re looking forward to the gala, aren’t we?” I lied. I was trying to keep Amabel from getting excited. She’d be dressed up and paraded through the party, shushed when she chatted, and hustled home after the photo op.

  “At least one of us is excited.” Philip winked at Marina.

  “This old act?” She addressed the inside of her glass. “You pretend to hate parties, but once you’re there, you enjoy yourself more than anyone.”

  “Years of practice.” He spoke normally, pretending not to notice her tone.

  “Did you sit through a lot of parties when you were Amabel’s age?” I asked.

  “Did I!” Philip leaned over Amabel and said, “How old are you again?”

  She bounced, knowing he was teasing. “Four and three-quarters.”

  “Let me cast back.” He put a hand to his forehead. “A hundred years ago, I was four. My parents had wild parties. I’m talking, people dancing, singing, going swimming in their fancy clothes!”

  Amabel’s eyes widened at the idea of going into the pool in her lacy dress.

  “People had dance moves then. I watched my mom do the Mashed Potato with my best friend’s dad.” He pumped his fists to show her. “They always put me to bed, but I’d watch from the top of the staircase. You know, I didn’t see a single business card.”

  “You were too young to notice,” Marina said. “Too busy watching the drinkers.”

  He wagged his finger at Amabel. “Your mom doesn’t know! Those were the good old days. There won’t be anyone having too much to drink at our party.”

  Marina sighed. “It’s a fund-raiser. People can kick up their heels at the Everlys’ tomorrow.”

  “That’s this week?” Philip said.

  She lifted an eyebrow.

  He ran a hand through his hair. “I had . . . Nothing. I’ll make it.”

  “Good.” She sat back in her seat, one arm over her stomach, the other holding her wine aloft. Definitely a fight.

  Amabel was kicking under the table.

  “What should we do tomorrow?” I asked her.

  Abruptly, Philip stood. “I forgot something for Victor. I’ll be right back.” He hurried away, heading toward the kitchen.

  Marina snapped a grissini in half and chewed mutinously. When the waiter appeared, she opened her menu, resigned. “Let’s not wait for Philip.”

  After we ordered, she folded her hands on the table and asked Amabel what her favorite part of the play had been. I idly watched the hostess flirt with the bartender, who swiped a white towel across the marble bar, his eyeteeth sharpening his smile. I remembered, suddenly, Amabel’s claim that Iris had been here.

  I excused myself, dropping my napkin on the table, and went after Philip.

  The kitchen doors swung open as a busboy barreled through. Line cooks hunched over a prep table, chatting in Spanish as quick as their flashing knives; waiters waltzed in and out; the chef monitored a stockpot. No Philip.

  I slipped through the double doors to the back room. Compared to the dining room, with its antique wood and weathered brass, the utility area was stark. A frayed carpet ran down the middle of a cement floor to a metal staircase. Industrial shelves held massive jars of olives, tomato sauce, tuna; plastic bags of bread crumbs, spices, soda syrup; takeout boxes stacked to the ceiling. From this vantage, the restaurant was unglamorous, and I was always surprised Philip didn’t try to fancy it up.

  A coffee can bristling with cigarette butts propped open the door to the loading dock, letting in a fuzzy warm breeze. The chef’s beat-up Acura was parked by the Dumpster. No one was outside.

  Upstairs, a banquet table and some folding chairs formed an ad hoc break room. A baseball game played on TV with no one to watch it.

  The hall outside Philip’s office was dark and smelled of cigarettes.

  “You’ve put me in a terrible position.” Philip’s voice came through the door. “We have to take steps.”

  I hesitated. Then his voice dropped, and I couldn’t hear his next words. A vivid picture of Iris came to me, sitting on Philip’s desk with her legs crossed, a cigarette dripping on the floor. Already I hated her smile. Defiant, I knocked.

  “What is it?” Philip’s voice sounded tired.

  Someone began to cough, wet and hacking.

  I cracked the door open. The room was smoky and dim. “I’m sorry to interrupt. Are you all right?”

  Philip sat with his elbows on his desk. “Come in and shut the door, Finn.” He rubbed his chin.

  A man sat across from him. Skinny, slump-shouldered, riding out the end of his cough with a frustrated, moist hock.

  Unease settled greasily in my stomach. I stepped forward to see him better. In spite of the cough, the man took a drag from a cigarette. His face was leathery and loose, framed by stringy hair past his shoulders. He wore a checkered shirt buttoned to the throat, and his chin kept jerking back, resisting the choke of the collar.

  Philip stared at him coldly. A current of tension hung in the air.

  “I didn’t realize you were with someone.” I fumbled for an excuse. “You missed the waiter. We all ordered.”

  “I didn’t expect this to take so long.” Philip wore his polite face, impossible to read. His angry tone could have been about their conversation or my interruption.

  “This?” The man made a sound, and I realized he was laughing. “Bad manners, Martin.” His eyes trailed over me, his gaze thick as smoke blown over my skin.

  Philip tilted his glass back and impatiently banged it on the desktop. Empty. I was planted awkwardly in place, glancing between them.

  Slouching, the man crushed his cigarette against the leg of his chair. His shoulder blades jutted like wings. “If the lady’s
going to stay, she should pull up a chair.”

  “I’ll meet you down there, Finn.” Philip picked up a pen and began clicking it rhythmically, staring at the desktop.

  “I’m sorry.” I backed out, shutting the door behind me. I stayed a moment, but heard nothing more.

  Marina didn’t look up when I returned to the table. She was cutting Amabel’s spaghetti with a steak knife.

  “Want me to do that?” I offered, folding my napkin over my lap.

  Marina kept slicing. Her watch was loose and jangling on her wrist. She pushed the plate to Amabel. “Eat up, and we’ll stop for a frozen yogurt on the way home.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I got caught in a conversation with the hostess. I had no idea I was gone so long.”

  Marina swept her hair back, her diamond earrings catching the candlelight.

  “Your dinner has a face!” Amabel taunted me, sticking her tongue out.

  I’d ordered the fish special, and the head was indeed still attached, lips fixed in a sad gasp, jelly eye wide. I squeezed lemon over the silver scales, took up my knife and fork, tried to chew and swallow.

  “Is that smoke?” Marina sniffed.

  “Of course not.” I lifted my water glass and gulped.

  Amabel wriggled up onto her knees and leaned over my plate, balancing a sticky hand heavily on my elbow. “Let’s call him Herman!”

  I shushed her. Sulky, she lifted her glass of milk in both hands and drank.

  “There are my girls.” Philip sank into his chair with a sigh. “Looking cranky, I’m afraid.” He gave me a fleeting glance, and then leaned back in his seat, assessing his plate. Mussels jutted up from a red broth, like tiny traps. “I’m sorry. The kitchen’s going wild.”

  “Your food will be terrible.” Marina refilled her wineglass, shaking the last drops from the bottle.

  “I’m not hungry.” With his fingertips, he pushed the bowl away.

  “Browsing in the kitchen again?” Marina used her light tone.

  Philip rubbed his lips. “What gave me away?” He leaned toward Amabel. “Food in my teeth? Sauce on my lip? I know! Do I smell like garlic?” His forehead was sweaty, feverish.