Whitewash Read online

  Within minutes they reached his passenger’s destination. Before Abda pulled the taxi to a full stop the man was handing him a ten for the fare and opening the door.

  Abda knew he wouldn’t want a receipt or change, but he asked anyway and then thanked him when the man shook his head.

  He pulled the taxi back into traffic before he could attract attention or be waved down by another fare. Only now did he realize his palms were sweaty and his head throbbed to the beat of his heart. He was almost afraid to check the rearview mirror, the dread and the anticipation just as strong as that first day the tall, blond man had climbed into his taxi.

  Finally he willed his eyes to look and immediately relief washed over him when he saw the small envelope with the familiar wax seal, left in the middle of the backseat, waiting for him.

  13

  Florida State Hospital

  Chattahoochee, Florida

  Sabrina hardly recognized the man fidgeting in the recliner, his hands constantly moving, his fingers drumming every surface, sometimes poking only at the air. His eyes darted everywhere except to hers. His body rocked gently back and forth though the recliner was not a rocking chair. Even his tongue flicked in and out, moistening his lips, rolling around and pushing out his cheeks as if it was no longer comfortable inside his mouth.

  It had taken Sabrina over an hour in traffic, getting to Chattahoochee later than she had hoped. Thankfully they had taken off the wrist restraints before she arrived. But at what cost to him? She wasn’t sure she wanted to know. The drugs they used only seemed to demolish what was left of his brilliant mind, either zoning him out or making him a jittery mass of nerve endings. It was bad enough that he tuned in and out of reality, blending memories, hallucinations and pipe dreams all together for a surreal world that no one else shared.

  “I had peas for dinner,” he told Sabrina like a four-year-old who said anything that came to mind.

  “How about next time I visit I sneak in a cheeseburger for you?” she asked and waited for some glimpse, a flicker of the man she knew. But he didn’t even look at her. His eyes darted back and forth, watching an imaginary ping-pong game behind her.

  “Eric was here yesterday,” he said as casually as he had announced the peas.

  At first she thought she had misunderstood him. Sabrina tried to catch his eyes, tried to determine what level of reality he was in this time.

  “He looked good. He’s over on Pensacola Beach.”

  “Dad, Eric’s somewhere in New York or Connecticut. He’s not here in Florida.” She wasn’t sure why he would get this mixed up.

  “No, no, he has a new job.” Then he leaned forward, but still without meeting her eyes he whispered, “He’s on a secret mission. I’m not supposed to tell anyone he was here.”

  She hesitated then said, “Eric wasn’t here, Dad.”

  She could sit through hearing about his other hallucinations, but not this one. She couldn’t. She wouldn’t. Her brother hadn’t been in touch with anyone for over two years. His choice. He didn’t even know about Chattahoochee.

  “I think you might have imagined seeing him, Dad.”

  She reached for his hand, hoping to stop or at least slow the rocking motion. He let her hold it for only a few seconds and then he jerked it away, poking uncontrollably at the ceiling.

  “He lives above a boathouse and watches the dolphins in the bay.” There was no anger, no impatience that she didn’t believe. He said it as a matter of fact.

  She gave up. If there was some comfort he could draw from imagining his only son had come all the way from New York to visit, then why should she deprive him of that?

  “He works for a guy named Howard Johnson.”

  She smiled and nodded, biting her lower lip and thinking, God, I miss you, Dad.

  Then suddenly his eyes met hers and held them as if he had heard her thoughts. And without any other change in appearance he said, “You won’t forget pickles and onions on that cheeseburger.”

  Sabrina sat forward, holding her breath and searching his eyes. “Dad?”

  “Maybe some fries, too?”

  There was a pause as she sat completely still, not sure whether to hope.

  “You got it.” She finally smiled, but kept on the edge of her seat, wanting to take his hand again, wanting a bit more reassurance, but he was already drumming the arms of the recliner.

  Before she could breathe a sigh of relief, his eyes were darting away. She needed to take comfort in having him there with her if only for a few seconds. She couldn’t be greedy. They had told her it might be only a little at a time, a spark here and there. All of her research told her it was possible for him to come back as suddenly as he had left. It also told her he might never come back.

  He was tapping his feet when he said to her, “I’m having lunch with your mom tomorrow.”

  And suddenly Sabrina’s heart sank to her stomach. He wasn’t coming back. At least not anytime soon.

  14

  Tallahassee, Florida

  Jason Brill wanted to hit Delete as he scrolled the missed calls on his cell phone’s queue. He’d listened to only three messages, but could guess the others were similar. Someone had leaked it to the media about the senator’s mishap. Jason wouldn’t be surprised if it had been William Sidel. Though he couldn’t figure out what the hell Sidel had to gain. Embarrassing the senator in front of a small group was one thing, but even an overgrown prankster like Sidel would recognize it was a mistake to royally piss off his direct link to government subsidies, tax incentives and possibly a $140-million-dollar contract.

  Senator Allen refused to do anything about the media inquiries. He said he wouldn’t dignify the reports with a response.

  “The entire matter is ridiculous. I’ve been feeling a bit under the weather. Possibly the flu,” he said as if he really believed it might be true.

  But then he insisted Jason cancel all their weekend plans in the area, even surveying the site for the energy summit reception. He wanted to head back to Washington first thing in the morning.

  Jason had nodded, biting his tongue when he knew it was a terrible mistake. He could already see the headlines, Senator Upchucks and Runs. And all the wonderful sound bites about freedom from foreign oil and saving the environment, everything from before the tour would be shelved, forgotten. Thank God there wasn’t any video or photos of the senator hanging over the railing and spewing his lunch into the tank of chicken guts.

  Jason wiped a hand over his jaw and watched Senator Allen sipping Chivas. A glance at the shelf above the minifridge and a quick count of the empty miniature bottles in a neat row told him perhaps it was a good thing he had canceled the weekend schedule. Jason would rather manage the media than the senator’s “day-after misspeaks” that included anything from mixed metaphors to borderline racial slurs.

  Jason knew Senator Allen had a big heart. The man cared about things like welfare moms finding good jobs that would help get them back on their feet. He pushed for higher minimum wages and supported tax cuts for the middle class. It was because he championed the American worker and was so passionate about it that sometimes he got carried away and called illegal immigrants “parasites.”

  “He was trying to make a goddamn point,” the senator said suddenly after a long silence of sipping and staring out the window at the night lights of Tallahassee.

  “And what point would that be?” Jason asked, knowing they were both still thinking and talking about William Sidel.

  “I told him last week that the contract might not pass through the Appropriations Committee.”

  “I thought it was a sure thing,” Jason said, keeping himself from adding, Why the hell didn’t you tell me last week?

  The timing of the contract was supposed to be perfect for announcing at the energy summit. Jason had arranged this tour as a precursor, an early reminder that Senator Allen had been the driving force. The media had already begun to call the contract “a smart, brave assurance” that EchoEnergy
’s thermal conversion was, indeed, “a liberation from foreign oil.” And Jason had orchestrated it so that all of the attention and credit would be directly connected to Senator John Quincy Allen.

  The man tipped his glass at Jason as if it was no big deal and simply said, “My boy, rarely is there a sure thing.” But then he sat forward, raising his index finger and tapping it against his lips, a familiar gesture signaling Jason that he had an idea, that he was ready to fight back. “There is one thing I want you to do.”

  Finally, Jason thought, anxious and ready to take on William Sidel. “Sure, anything,” Jason said.

  “I want that fucking Polack deported.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “That limo driver. I want him gone.”

  Jason stared at his boss. He was serious.

  He watched Senator Allen sit back, satisfied and sipping his Chivas, a grin now replacing the scowl.

  15

  Sabrina had taken a wrong turn on her way home from Chattahoochee, her mind a million miles away. Her condo was dark except for a lamp in the far corner of the living room, set by a timer so that Sabrina never had to enter a pitch-black house. Her first impulse was to check for voice messages. No blinking red light on the cordless phone’s base. She couldn’t help thinking, out of sight, out of mind. Her friends back in Chicago were more colleagues than friends, even Olivia, whose e-mails had become less frequent and now included a forwarded joke or inspirational message instead of any personal message. They had their own families to worry about. Sabrina could certainly understand that.

  What she couldn’t understand was how quickly, how easily Daniel had given up. Before she left Chicago, she had tried to give him back his ring. It wasn’t fair, she had told him, since she didn’t know how long she’d be gone. At the time he’d laughed and said she needed to stop analyzing their relationship as if it were a scientific equation.

  “This is a matter of the heart,” he told her, ironically treating her a bit like one of his own students, going into a poetic explanation. “And the heart is not a thinking organ.”

  They were so different from each other she wasn’t sure why she thought the relationship would work. Maybe she simply hoped to replicate her parents’ love affair, only to realize in her failure how truly extraordinary theirs was.

  Sabrina dropped her car keys and wallet into the middle desk drawer and left her briefcase alongside the carved ball-and-claw foot of the cherry-wood writing desk. The desk and her mother’s upright piano were the only two pieces of furniture that made the trip with her from Chicago, not that she had much to begin with. It was easy to sell her secondhand bargains that she used to decorate her studio apartment and simply buy new things for the Florida condo.

  Her new salary at EchoEnergy made her professor’s salary look like a pittance. Another reason Daniel’s phone calls had become less frequent. Last week, or was it two weeks ago, he had all but accused her of wanting to stay in Florida because of the money. “Maybe your father would get better quicker if EchoEnergy didn’t pay those huge bonuses,” he had joked, then apologized. But Sabrina still felt the sting.

  Now she ran her hand over the smooth rosewood of the upright piano, circa 1905. More than a hundred years old and still a beauty, one of the few left that had been made by Bush and Lane of Chicago. Just the sight of it brought back memories that calmed and nourished her. Her mother’s musical and artistic talents were as volatile as her emotions. She played the piano rarely and impulsively, often waiting to be coaxed and usually giving in only at their famous neighborhood parties when Sabrina’s father joined her and when she had a large enough audience gathered around who pledged and promised to sing along. “To drown out my mistakes,” her mother would say with a laugh, though everyone knew there wouldn’t be a single mistake.

  It was the happiest Sabrina had ever seen her mother and father when they were sitting at the piano with a crowd of friends. They’d play all the old big-band tunes, fun stuff to sing like “All of Me,” “Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy,” and “Chattanooga Choo-Choo.” But always, without fail her mother would end the evening with “When You Wish Upon a Star,” and all the giggles and previous belting out of gibberish would quiet, giving in to the soft melody and the light but sobering message.

  Sabrina could barely tap out “Chopsticks.” Eric had been the one who had inherited their mother’s musical talent, but not the interest. Sabrina closed her eyes and brushed her fingers over the keys, wishing that she could hear it for a second or two, just the way it was back then, mixed with the laughter and Uncle Teddy’s baritone adding harmony. She wouldn’t even mind adding the smells—her mom’s best friend, Verda May’s, cigarette smoke, the scent of candle wax and even the burnt cinnamon from her mother’s failed attempt at baking apple pie. Always at the last minute she’d send Sabrina’s father out to Della’s Bakery around the corner to pick up a replacement dessert. The parties, the laughter, the music, everything ended when her mother ended.

  Sabrina plucked at a few keys, the beginning of “Chopsticks.” Someday she’d take lessons, if only to be able to play “When You Wish Upon a Star.”

  She heard a scraping sound out on the patio. That damn cat. Sabrina slid open the glass door, ready to grab the broom. She stopped herself when she caught a whiff of lavender. She could feel a presence even before she could make out the old woman’s shape, sitting next door in the wicker chair. The scraping sound must have been the chair’s feet scooting against the cement floor, and now Sabrina could hear the chink of ice cubes in a glass. In the still of the night she could even hear the purring of a content Lizzie somewhere close by.

  “Miss Sadie?” Sabrina said gently, not wanting to startle the old woman who had keen hearing, unlike her cat.

  Out of the dark came the familiar smooth, deep voice. “Come join me, dear.”

  Sabrina heard the clinking of more ice as she felt her way around the hedge of crepe myrtle that separated their patios. Her eyes adjusted to the dark and she could see the outline of Miss Sadie, her crinkled hair pulled into a neat bun at the back of her head. Her wire-rimmed eyeglasses were still in place despite the dark and on the small table beside her sat the tall glass of what Sabrina knew was whiskey and water on ice. Also on the table was an ice bucket, tongs and another glass and she remembered it was Friday night. Though unspoken and unplanned, they had spent every Friday night since March right here in the dark, sipping whiskey and water on ice, usually just sitting quietly, listening to the night birds and watching the stars.

  They shared bits and pieces, glimpses of their pasts, never whole stories. It wasn’t necessary. It was difficult to explain. They were like two old friends who already knew enough about each other to know they liked what they knew.

  Sabrina took her place in the rickety wicker chair beside the old woman. She added several cubes of ice to the empty glass, poured the whiskey a third of the way and splashed it with water. She took a long sip, tonight grateful that the bite of liquor was stronger than usual.

  “I just got back from Chattahoochee,” she said and she saw Miss Sadie nod. She could feel Lizzie rub up against her leg and begin a rumble of purrs. Oh sure, on this side of the crepe myrtle Lizzie befriended her. On the other side she swatted down potted plants like they were pesky mice.

  “Chatt-a-hoo-chee.” Miss Sadie drew out the word and tasted it with a sip of whiskey. “My momma used to scare the living daylights out of us with threats she’d send us off to Chattahoochee if we misbehaved.”

  “Did it work?”

  “My little brother, Arliss, ended up there for a spell in ’55. He was long past being a child by then, but I suppose you could say it was misbehaving that put him there. Times were much different. It was either there or the state prison. Nothing like now.”

  Sabrina leaned her head back and looked up at the stars. There was something about Miss Sadie’s voice that made everything she said sound like a melody. Maybe it was the southern accent mixed with the deep richness of each word, s
low and smooth as molasses. It soothed Sabrina more than the whiskey, more than anything else in her life right now. The old woman had become a staple in Sabrina’s life, someone she didn’t need to explain herself to, someone who didn’t want anything from her.

  “How is your daddy?” Miss Sadie asked, inviting as little or as much as Sabrina wished to share.

  “I don’t know,” Sabrina confided. “I honestly don’t know.”

  Miss Sadie nodded again, satisfied. That was all Sabrina had to say, as if the old woman knew exactly the confusion and uncertainty Sabrina felt without her having to put it into words. She got the feeling there wasn’t much in life that surprised Miss Sadie anymore. The old woman liked to say that at eighty-one she had “seen it all, up one side and down another.”

  They settled into a comfortable silence, sipping their whiskeys, and Sabrina tried to erase the day’s events. After a long while she finally asked, “Whatever happened to Arliss?”

  In that same melodic voice Miss Sadie said, “Five days after he got to Chattahoochee he stripped the sheet off his bed, rolled it up into a knot and hanged himself.”

  16

  Washington, D.C.

  Abda decided to park his cab several blocks from his destination. No use drawing attention to it. He spit out the last of the sunflower shells into the palm of his hand, opened the window and tossed them out. He gathered everything he needed, pulled on his baseball cap and headed to the restaurant on foot.