David Kessler - Mercy

“But how did you get back? I mean, you couldn’t have used your old passport anyway — not once you’d had the sex change.”

“I had enough money left over to pay for a forged passport. With modern computers and printing technology it’s a lot cheaper than it used to be.”

“That’s why there was no return stamp in your passport.”

“That’s right. I got a new passport in my new name. Turn left. I want to stay on Highway 1.”

“Any particular reason for that name — Nathaniel?”

Nat smiled.

“What do you mean?”

“Well I was just thinking. After Esther told me about my name — “Sedaka” — meaning charity or righteousness, I found this website where you can look up the meaning of names. I started looking up names with a view to working out what Dorothy might be calling herself. I noticed that Jonathan — from the Hebrew Yonatan — means ‘God gave.’ And Dorothy comes from Doro Thea. That’s Greek for ‘God’s gift.’ It’s like Theodore in reverse. I thought there might be some significance in that.”

“And?” prompted Nat smiling.

“Well I also noticed that Nathaniel also means God’s gift — in Hebrew. It uses another of God’s Hebrew names: El. Natan-El, God gave. At the time I thought it was just a coincidence that you had a name with the same meaning as both Dorothy and Jonathan and didn’t give it a second thought. I was too busy thinking about what Dorothy might be calling herself if she was still alive. Only now I’m wondering…”

“It was partly that. But it was also a tribute to an author I very much admire. But that’s another story. Anyway, you’re on the right track. Mom gave both of us names that mean ‘God’s gift.’ To her, I guess, we were gifts from God — especially when you consider that the old man was infertile. Dorothy had the Greek name. But I was the one from the Greeks bearing a gift — the gift that Dad — that … Edgar didn’t want to touch…”

They shared a weak smile at the irony.

“And what about Anderson?”

“Another bit of Greek. Andros means man. I was the son of man — even if I didn’t know at the time which man.”

“When did you find out that Edgar wasn’t your father?”

“I’d known from an early age that Edgar wasn’t my real father. I’d heard it in arguments before I was even old enough to understand these things. He’d get into drunken rages and then she was the ‘whore’ who’d slept with another man on the eve of the wedding. I was the ‘little mamzer’ who wasn’t even his daughter. I had it drummed into me even when I was a child. Then I found the picture.”

“He turned left. They’re going round the Valley.”

“Copy that, Larry. Any sign of slowing down?”

Slowing down would have been an indicator that someone was planning to make a run from the car on foot. The controller doubted this, but Larry had raised the possibility and they were now coming up to the big test of the fugitive’s intentions.

“That’s a negative. Suspect vehicle is still maintaining speed.”

“Looks like you were wrong, Larry.”

“Let’s not get our hopes up. They’re still a minute away from the trees.”

“You want to make a bet on it?”

“Yeah, two tickets to the world series.”

“You’ve gotta be kidding!”

“Okay, one of the games.”

“You’re on.”

“By the way, if he does go for cover, you’ll have to send in a relief crew. I’ve only got enough fuel for another hour.”

“The picture of your mother?”

“No, the one I found with it.”

“What was that?”

“I’d been rummaging round in the closet in my parents’ bedroom, looking for my dad’s clothes to try on — I mean, Edgar’s.”

Nat wiped a tear from his eyes. Alex realized how hard it was to distance himself from thinking about Edgar Olsen as his father, even though he had known for such a long time.

“Go on.”

“I think I must have been about twelve or thirteen at the time. And I found these pictures of this young man and woman. They were in an old shoe box with a pile of old pictures, not exactly hidden away, but pushed right to the back of the closet, as if it was like buried away. You know, burying the past and all that.”

Alex nodded, signaling Nat to continue.

“And I recognized my mom, but I didn’t know who the man was. So I took just took the pictures and then I waited until I could find a suitable moment to ask Mom.”

“And did you?”

“Yes. She told me about the party and the one-night stand and all that. And I could tell by the way she was talking to me that there was more to it. So I asked her — point blank — if the man was my father. And she said yes.”

“And she let you keep the picture? She didn’t try and take it back?”

“No, I asked her if I could keep it. With all the shit in my life I needed something to cling onto, like my real father. And she saw the look in my eyes and … I think…” He was struggling against the threat of tears once again. “I think … that she knew how I felt, how strongly I wanted it. So she said I could keep it. And I’ve kept it ever since.”

“But did you ask her who it was? Did she even know the name?”

“That’s the funny thing. She said she didn’t. She always said that it was just someone she met at a party. But I think she did. I really think she did.”

“And did you find out?”

“Eventually. It was shortly after I came back, after I’d framed Burrow. It helped me find a sense of purpose. You see, I had a new identity and was all set to start a new life. But I didn’t have any sense of direction. I was drifting aimlessly. You know, like that poem by Stevie Smith.”

“Daddy?”

“No that was Sylvia Plath. The Stevie Smith poem was called ‘Not waving but drowning.’”

“‘Not waving but drowning?’”

“That’s the title. It’s about a man who was left to drown when people on the shore thought he was just waving. He was signaling for help, but they thought he was just clowning round. It was meant as a metaphor for life. We laugh to hide the fear.”

“And is that how you felt?”

The voice was gentle.

“Yes. Until then. But then I decided to become a lawyer. I did my SATs and got into college. I studied English Lit for my AB ‘cause I really loved the subject. I got that from … my mother … from Mom. And then I studied law.”

“And then?”

“I’m not really sure. I mean, even after I planted the evidence on Burrow, I still wanted closure.”

“What sort of closure?”

“That was the problem. It was still too confused in my own mind. I wanted Burrow to pay for all the years of misery and torment he’d put me through.”

“And you got Burrow to ask me to represent him by going through another prisoner and using him to influence Burrow.”

“Yes. In my last year of studies I was doing my first year of internship with the Public Defender’s office. I was working with quite a lot of cons and one of them was in the high security unit at San Quentin. He wasn’t on death row, but he still had some contact with Burrow through the prisoner’s grapevine. It’s quite sophisticated, you know. It was round about the time of the Sanchez case and you’d hired me and I was just finishing my term with the PD.”

“And you got him to recommend me on the strength of Sanchez and, because Burrow was looking for someone, he ended up with me.”

“Right.”

“Very clever.”

“Thanks.”

“And was that why you didn’t want to meet Burrow face to face? Because you were afraid that he’d recognize you?”