Wendy Hornsby - Midnight Baby

“Tell you what, squirt.” Michael took the pen from the tense little fingers. “You tell me what you want, and I’ll do it with you. Okay?”

Relieved, Sly slumped against Michael’s shoulder and gave him instructions: make the hair longer, fix the eyebrows, make him look mean.

“That’s him,” Sly triumphed as Michael filled in the blond hair with dark ink. “I swear it, that’s the asshole I seen.”

It was my turn to ruffle his spiky hair. “You’re sure?”

“I said I swear, didn’t I? That’s him. That’s the guy I seen. He was following us around for a couple of days, you know, cruising in that hot ‘vette.”

I said, “I’m surprised Hilly would go with a man who had been following her around if she thought someone was out to get her.”

“We were gonna get him first, like I told you before,” Sly said, his voice catching. “We had it all worked out. This guy kept tellin’us he had something to tell Hilly, like some message from her mom and dad. People would say that all the time to us to make us go over to them. Normally, we’d just keep walkin’. Hilly wanted to talk to that one guy’cuz of his car. She wouldn’t tell me why the car freaked her. She was gonna make him show her his ID or she wouldn’t talk to him. The deal was, when he got out his wallet to show her, I was gonna grab it and get the hell out of there. Then she’d know who he was.”

“If Hilly had told you her father had a car just like that Corvette,” I said, “would you have believed her?”

“Shit, no. No one has a car like that.”

“Maybe that’s why she didn’t tell you.”

“Sly, my man,” Mike said, “what you just told us is important. I think there may be other things you haven’t gotten around to sharing yet. When they come to you, have your social worker call me, will ya? We need your help to fry this man.”

Sly dropped the picture, like a contaminated thing, onto the grass in front of Michael. Mike picked it up and put it back into its envelope.

Michael got to his feet, lifted Sly like a bundle of sticks, and stood him on the asphalt. “Homework time, kid.”

The sun had disappeared below the line of buildings across the street, leaving the play yard lashed with long blue shadows. Most of the games had dispersed, and the children were moving inside, in clumps of two and three, taking their shadows with them. We four linked arms, I with Mike, Mike with Michael, Michael with Sly, in an irregular sort of conga line, shadows water-dancing behind us.

At the dorms, Mike turned to his son. “How late will you be?”

“Maybe an hour. Mom wants her car by eight-thirty.” Mike squeezed Michael’s shoulder. “Take care.”

“Dad?”

“What?”

“I got my letter from Cornell today.”

“And?”

“I’m accepted.”

Mike grabbed him in a bear hug. “I’m proud of you.” Michael smiled as if he had a sudden pain. Mike saw it and drew back.

“It’s what you wanted, isn’t it?” Mike asked.

“I thought so.” Michael looked over at Sly, who was swinging from the step railing. “There’s a lot to think about.”

“Take your time,” Mike said. “You’ll figure out what’s right.”

“I hate it when you say that, Dad. Just once I want you to tell me what I should do.”

“I always tell you what you should do,” Mike said.

“Yeah. You say I should do what’s right.”

“Exactly.”

“Michael!” Sly called, hanging upside down from the railing. “Kiss the faggot and come on. We don’t have all night.”

“You’d better go,” Mike chuckled. “Your destiny may be calling.”

“Later,” Michael said, giving Mike a quick hug. “Nice to meet you, Maggie.”

“Bye,” I said. I watched him jog off toward the lighted doorway, recognizing a lot of Mike in him. It gave me an odd sensation, as if I were peering through a window into the past and seeing a distorted image of young Mike.

As we walked out toward the car, I took Mike’s hand. “He’s a great kid, Mike. You’ve done a good job.”

“His mother gets a lot of the credit.”

I reached up then and kissed his five-o’clock shadow. “I just plain old love you, Mike. But I still don’t know what to do about you.”

“Take your time,” Mike said, smiling down at me. “You’ll figure out what’s right.”

The telephone rang in the middle of night. We both bolted upright, the reflex reactions of a cop on call and a mother. Mike picked up the receiver.

“Flint,” he said in a clear voice, rubbing sleep-filled eyes with his fist. When I was sure the call had nothing to do with Casey, I fell back onto the pillows, still sizzling with adrenaline rush. I eavesdropped on a lot of uh huhs and Jesus Christs before Mike hung up.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Bad stuff. George Metrano was booked on a single charge of murder and processed into the city jail at eight.” He reached through the dark for my hand. “An hour ago in his cell he made a noose out of his denims and hanged himself.”

“Jesus,” I moaned. I curled myself around Mike and held on. “He’s dead?”

“Yes, dammit.”

“Does Leslie know?”

“Yes. They’re bringing her in. Throw on some clothes. We should hurry. Leslie won’t feel much like waiting around for us.

“Back up,” I said. “I must have missed something. Why would Leslie wait around for us? What does it have to do with us?”

“George left two letters on his bunk. One for Leslie. And one for you.”

“For me?” I sat up again and snapped on the bedside light. “Why would he leave a letter for me?”

“Guess we’ll find that out.”

We drove through dark space, a hot jet of light moving too fast to connect with the night world outside. Transients from the daytime galaxy.

At the Long Beach police station, we were taken into a small interrogation room furnished with a table and a few odd chairs. There Leslie sat alone with her head resting on folded arms. The fluorescent lights overhead washed her face a pale milky gray, made her smeared lipstick too vivid in contrast. Her eyes seemed unfocused when she watched me walk in and pull out the chair beside her. She muttered something I could not decipher.

I touched her coat sleeve and repeated the same impotent words I had used at her house the night before. “I’m sorry.”

“Me, too.” She brought up her chin and rested it on her hands, staring at the wall in front of her. “Doctor gave me something so I wouldn’t go off and do something wild. Wish I had said no to it. My mind is so full of mush I can’t feel anything. You ever have that happen to you, you can’t feel anything?”

Sergeant Mahakian came in then with a pair of men in suits, detectives, no doubt. Six people made tight quarters out of the small room.

Mahakian carried two folders.

“I know this is unpleasant,” he said. “But I don’t know a better way to do it. The letters Mr. Metrano left are evidence, so we can’t release them to you. I need you both to read their contents carefully to help us verify that they were in fact written by George Metrano and do reflect his state of mind. Now, in light of the circumstances, Mrs. Metrano, you might want some privacy. If that is your wish, you just tell me so and the others will clear out.”

Leslie pulled herself upright. “Did you all read my letter already?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Then I guess there isn’t much left that’s private about it, is there?”

“No, ma’am.” He smiled gently. He opened one of the folders, took out a single sheet of paper encased in a plastic sleeve, and placed it on the table in front of Leslie. She moved it so that I could see it.