Flesh And Blood

A hearts-and-flowers Hallmark landed in my palm. Soppy verse, and a block-printed notation:

Dear Mrs. Yeager,

Please accept our sincerest condolense about Shawna. We know she’s up with the angels.

Astrid and Mark Ortega, and Kaylie

Stapled to the facing page was a studio shot of a ski

“Nice boy,” said Agnes. “But Shawna was too much for him. She needed someone to stimulate her brain. Lord knows I couldn’t do it, never finished high school – Here we go, these are her report cards.”

She handed me a rubber-banded stack. Twelve grades’ worth of nearly straight A’s. Achievement tests consistently above the ninety-fifth percentile. Teachers’ comments: “Shawna’s a very bright little girl, but she does tend to visit with her neighbors.” “A joy, wish they were all like her.” “Has a firm grip of the material and loves to learn.” “Strong-willed, but she always ends up doing the work.”

At the bottom of the stack was a transcript from the U.

Four courses during the quarter she’d never finished. A quartet of incompletes.

“It arrived after she was gone,” said Agnes. “When I opened the envelope, I just lost it. That word. ‘Incomplete.’ When you’re in that state, everything’s got a double meaning. You’re looking for something to be angry about. I nearly ripped this into shreds. Now I’m glad I didn’t. Though I did give away the clothes Shawna left behind. Waited until a few months ago, but I was able to do it.”

I stared at the transcript, placed it back on the bottom.

“Smart,” said Agnes. “See what I mean?”

“Yes, I do, Mrs. Yeager. Is there anything else?”

“Well, you might tell me what you’re pla

“I’m going to review Shawna’s file. I know that sounds vague and bureaucratic, but I’m just starting out. If I think of something, may I call you?”

“You’d better.” She grabbed my hand in both of hers. “I have a feeling about you. You’re a serious person. However it comes out, you’re going to give it your best. Thank you very, very much.”

“Thank you,” I said. “I hope to justify your confidence.”

“I’m not asking for my daughter back,” she said. “All I want to do is bury her. Know where she is, so I can visit on Christmas and a

“No, ma’am. Thanks for your time.” I opened the car door.

“Can I have that back?” she said.

Pointing to the stack of report cards.

“Oh, sure. Sorry.”

“Anything you need a copy of, I can get you.”

I gave her hand a squeeze and left.

CHAPTER 39

FIVE P.M. THE psych building was nearly empty.

I spotted Gene Dalby from down the hall. Standing at his office door, keys in hand, his gawky frame limned by institutional fluorescence.

“Coming or going?” I said.

“Alex – hey, there. Going, as a matter of fact.”

“Could you spare a few moments?”

“Look at this,” he said. “I don’t see the guy for years and now he’s becoming a fixture.”

I didn’t speak. The look on my face murdered his smile.

“Something wrong, Alex?”

“Let’s go inside, Gene.”

“I really am in a hurry,” he said. “Things to see, people to do.”

“This is worth making time for.”

“Whoa, sounds ominous.”

I didn’t answer.

“Fine, fine,” he said, unlocking the door. His ring was full of keys, and the tremor in his hand made it peal like a wind chime.

He sat at his desk. I stayed on my feet.

“Let me lay it out for you,” I said. “On the one hand, I’d never have known about Shawna if you hadn’t mentioned her. So that’s a point in your favor – why would you open a can of worms? On the other hand, you lied to me. Pretended not to know her. ‘Some kind of campus beauty queen’ was the way you put it. ‘Shane something, or Shana… I don’t recall her exact name.’ But she was in your class. I just had a look at her transcript. Psych 101, Dalby, Monday Wednesday Friday three P.M. You taught Intro in addition to Social. The heavy teaching load you told me about.”

He ran his hand through his hair, raising spikes. “Oh, come on, you can’t be serious. Do you know how many kids are in a-”

“Twenty-eight,” I said. “I checked with the registrar. Your section was a last-minute add-on, for students who hadn’t gotten into the four scheduled sections. Twenty-eight kids, Gene. You’d remember each student. Especially a student that looked like Shawna-”

His giraffe neck corded. “This is horseshit, I don’t have to sit and listen to-”

“No, you don’t. But you might want to, because it’s not going to go away.”

His hands clawed the desk. He removed his glasses, repeated “Horseshit.”

I said, “But you’re not kicking me out.”

Silence.

“So you lied, Gene, and I have to wonder why. Then, when I start adding up some things I’ve learned about Shawna, it gets really interesting. Such as the fact that she had a definite attraction to older men. Older, wealthy men – she was very clear about wanting the finer things in life. Ferraris. With your dot-com income, you’d fit that bill. She also prized intelligence – what she called intellectuality. Once again, who better than you, Gene, to satisfy that criterion? Back in grad school you were tops in the class. Had a talent for thinking profound things out loud.”

“Alex-”

“Also,” I said, “I’ve seen pictures of her father. He died when she was four, so she really didn’t remember him. Probably idealized him. Did she ever show you his picture, Gene?”

He glared at me. Flushed. A pair of huge fists rolled along the desktop. Ripping off his glasses, he flung them at the wall. They thudded against his books and landed on the rug.

“Ineffectual,” he said. “Can’t do anything right.”

“Bob Yeager,” I said. “Six-four plus, red-blond hair, jug ears, a basketball star in high school – weren’t you a starting forward all the way through college?”

He buried his face in his hands. Muttered, “My glory days-”

“The resemblance is damn striking, Gene. He could have been your brother.”

He sat up. “I know damn well what he could’ve been. Yes, she showed me a goddamn picture. The first goddamn time she came in here during goddamn office hours. To talk about an exam. Allegedly. And she’s wearing this little black dress, sits down and it rides up… I stick to the topic, she’s a bright kid… Then she whips out this picture of her old man. Thought it was fu

“Whether I do or not isn’t the issue, Gene. The police know.”

“Oh, no-”

“Oh, yes.”

“But what could they know?”

I said nothing.

“Let me explain, first, Alex. Please. Okay?”

“No promises,” I said.

“You yourself said if I hadn’t told you about her-”

“But you did, Gene. On some level you wanted me to chase it.”

“Oh,” he said. His eyes narrowed, and one fist inched closer to me. “Now I’m on the couch. This is bullshit.”

I reached for the doorknob.

“Wait! You can’t bop in here like this and expect me just to capitulate-”

“I don’t expect a thing,” I said. “And frankly, right now, your peace of mind isn’t paramount to me. I just spent some time with a woman who’s been living a nightmare for over a year. Knowing but not knowing. Just like you told me the first time: ‘the ultimate parent’s nightmare.’ And guess what? She has something in common with you, Gene. You both despise the word closure. You think it’s pop-psych crapolsky, but she has a much greater understanding of the term’s inadequacy-”