P. Parrish - Heart of Ice

Ross looked at his shoes, biting back his words, words he had wanted to say for a long time. Was now the moment? Did it matter anymore?

“Dad,” Ross said softly, “don’t you realize. . have you ever realized that you never really knew either of us? Julie and I were just pictures in your wallet, something you could pull out when the other men talked about their families.”

When Edward turned to him Ross was surprised to see no anger in his father’s eyes, just a sort of sad resignation. Edward looked away toward the windows. For a long time it was quiet, just the splatter of rain against the glass and the soft hiss of the oxygen. Ross felt suddenly very tired, and right at this moment all he wanted to do was get away. Away from this house, away from his father, away from this damn island.

“I think she fell in love that summer.”

Ross’s eyes shot back to his father.

“It was there in her poems,” Edward said. “It had happened here that summer. She found someone to love.”

Ross came back to stand in front of his father.

“I want to know who the father of her baby is,” Edward said.

“What?”

“I don’t think this man Dancer is the father of Julie’s baby. I think she fell in love with someone and maybe his name is in her poems somewhere. I want to find out who he was. I want to talk to him.”

Ross almost said it: You can’t accept rape, so you believe in love .

Edward was looking around the room. “Maisey?”

“She left, Dad.”

Edward tried to get up from his chair. “I need something. .”

Ross put a hand on Edward’s shoulder and eased him back into the chair. “What do you need? I’ll get it.”

“My address book. It’s over on the desk.”

“Why do you want-?”

“Just do what I ask, Ross!”

Stunned by the anger in his father’s voice, Ross got the book from the desk. He handed it to his father, who put on his glasses with shaking hands.

“What are you looking for, Dad?” Ross asked.

“John Manning’s phone number.”

“Dr. Manning? What do you need him for?”

“He can tell me about testing the bones.”

“What bones?”

“The baby’s bones. Maybe they can be tested to find out who the father is.”

“Dad, listen to me,” Ross said.

Edward ignored him as he flipped through the address book.

“Dad, please, will you just listen to me for a minute?”

Edward looked up.

“Did Julie say in the poems who the boy was?”

Edward looked confused for a moment. “I don’t remember.”

Ross knelt down in front of Edward. “Dad, I know you think this will bring you some sort of comfort, but the fetal bones can’t be tested.”

“How do you know that?”

“The police told me there probably isn’t enough genetic material to determine paternity.”

“Of course there’s enough,” Edward said. “They use marrow. Don’t baby bones have marrow?”

“I’m just telling you what-”

Edward went back to flipping through the address book. “Dr. Manning can tell us for sure. We went to school together. I know he would help me with this. He can get the university to-”

Ross pressed his hand down over his father’s.

“Dad, stop it. Even if it could be done, it would be very expensive.”

Edward slowly pulled his hand away. “Money? Is that what you’re worried about?”

Ross sat back in the window seat, forcing himself not to look away from his father’s glare.

“All the money,” Edward said. “All the money I’ve given you for your campaign and you’re talking to me about what something costs?”

Ross stood up slowly and moved behind the chair so his father couldn’t see him. There was nothing more to say, nothing more to do. He started toward the door. Then he stopped and turned back.

“Dad, where are Julie’s journals?” he asked.

His father didn’t turn. “Why do you ask?”

“I’d like to read her poems.” He paused. “I miss her, too, Dad.”

“Not now, Ross,” Edward whispered. “Please leave me be.”

Ross left the bedroom and went down the stairs. Maisey came out of the parlor and with barely a glance went up the stairs.

He went back into the parlor. He poured himself another brandy and took a chair near the phone. He stared at his messages for a moment, then pulled the phone into his lap. He dialed his office in Lansing, not his secretary’s line but his private number, the one he had given out to only two people.

Only one new message. The Reptile.

Ross, where the hell are you? The last poll is bad, buddy. You’ve dropped two and Burkett’s right on your ass now. I need you back here now. You’ve got to be visible, Ross. You don’t win an election hiding out on an island. Your sister will still be dead after November sixth.

The message ended. Ross hung up the phone and sat back in the chair, the phone in his lap.

The hell with him. The hell with them all.

Ross reached for the brandy, took a drink, then set it aside. He picked up the receiver and dialed the number he had memorized. There was no answer. Ross shut his eyes but didn’t hang up. On the twelfth ring, someone picked up.

“Hello?”

“I need to see you,” Ross said. “Right now.”

Louis zipped up his jacket and pulled up the hood of the sweatshirt he wore underneath. The rain had stopped, but it was so cold he had been forced to stop in Doud’s to buy some gloves. The grocery didn’t sell winter gloves, the bemused woman behind the counter had told him, but her husband did have some cotton work gloves she was willing to lend him.

He pulled out the bright orange gloves from his pocket, tucked the manila envelope under his arm, put on the gloves, and continued down West Bluff Road. The Chapman cottage was the only house with lights on, sitting like a lonely outpost at the end of the street.

It was time to talk to Maisey Barrow.

He had called ahead, and she was expecting him, holding the door open as he mounted the steps. She gave him a stiff nod and pulled her heavy sweater tighter around her as he came in.

“Leave your coat there,” she said, pointing to the rack. “I have some fresh coffee brewing.”

Taking the envelope with him, he followed Maisey toward the back of the house. The kitchen, compared to the rest of the dim and dank house, was ablaze with light and warmth. There was something cooking that made Louis’s mouth water. He had been working with Rafsky all morning and had a hunger headache from eating only doughnuts at the station. Maisey saw him staring at the stove.

“It’s beef stew for dinner,” she said. “But it’s probably ready now if you want some.”

“If you can spare it.”

“Mr. Ross had to go back to Lansing. It’s just me and Mr. Edward tonight, so we have plenty.”

She ladled out a bowl of stew and set it before Louis with an old silver spoon and a linen napkin. He tried to eat slowly, but it was several minutes before he even looked up. Maisey was bending over the oven and came up a moment later with a cookie sheet of biscuits. Without asking, she set two on a plate before him and went back to the stove.

“How is Mr. Chapman today?” Louis asked as he buttered one of the biscuits.

“He had a really bad night,” she said. “He’s been resting all day.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Louis said.

She came over with the coffeepot, and Louis nodded. She refilled his cup and sat down across from him at the table. She looked very tired, her soft brown eyes heavy with emotion.

“What did you want to see me about, Mr. Kincaid?” she asked.

“Louis. Call me Louis, please.”

She gave him a look that told him that was never going to happen.