Jan Burke - Liar

“No, but that has nothing to do-”

“Why not?”

“Why not?” I repeated blankly.

He nodded.

I opened my mouth, shut it again.

“Tell me what you were going to say,” he insisted.

“You wouldn’t like it,” I said, then muttered, “Probably wouldn’t believe it.”

He waited.

In the silence that followed, I suddenly found myself thinking of my mother-not one of the carefully sorted out memories I had of her, but an unbidden, sharp and perfect memory from an imperfect time: My mother is thin and fragile; her skin the color of ashes; her beautiful auburn hair thinned and dulled by chemotherapy; there are dark circles beneath her green eyes. As she lies propped up against the pillows in my parents’ bed, she reminds me of a young bird fallen from its nest. Briana is with her, sitting next to her, on the edge of the bed.

Hoping to redeem myself with the angry God who has made her so ill, during these days I’m trying to be helpful, to not argue with Barbara, to be the good and quiet daughter I have never been. I’ve made tea, brought it in to them. I’m watching my mother. I’ve felt frightened for her for weeks, but for the last few days especially. She seems so tired, and at eleven, almost twelve, I’m old enough to see that she has considered a previously unthinkable notion-she has thought of giving up, of letting go. And now, entering the room with a small tray, I see that Briana has told her something that has made her cry. I’m upset until I realize they are happy tears.

“You must help us think of a name for your new cousin,” Briana says, and seeing my confusion, my mother tells me my aunt is expecting a child.

I’m amazed at this news, and look at Briana’s stomach, which doesn’t look pregnant; I begin to refocus my attention on the adults’ conversation only when I hear my mother say, “Yes, of course, I would be proud to be the baby’s godmother.” And the two of them are looking at one another, my mother’s hand clasped in Briana’s, as if they have pledged something to one another.

Travis said my name, bringing me back to the present, and I quickly wiped the back of my hand across my eyes.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“Yes.” I started the van again.

“Wait a minute,” he said. “What wouldn’t I believe?”

I had no idea what he was talking about.

“You said you’d keep looking for my mother’s killer,” he said patiently, “and that I wouldn’t believe your reason for doing so.”

“Let’s just say it has something to do with who was able to attend my twelfth birthday party,” I said. “Or that I owe something to your mother because the two of you once helped me through a rough patch.”

He was quiet, then surprised me by saying, “You mean, when your mother was in the hospital?”

“I had forgotten that your mother told you about that.”

“Yes,” he said. “But she seemed to think she was in your debt for that.”

I couldn’t talk. I shook my head.

“There are undoubtedly lots of investigators who’d be happy to take my money,” he said. “But I’d rather work with you and Rachel than with people who will never really give a damn about my mother.”

“Thanks,” I managed to say.

I pulled away from the curb again. As we reached the end of the block, I tried to find 12457 Acorn Street, the address Rachel had given me. At first I thought the number didn’t exist, since there was nothing across the street from 12456,12458 and 12460 except a long brick wall. But as we doubled back, I realized why I had missed it-12457 was a mobile-home park.

“There must be over a hundred trailers in there,” Travis said. “Do you have a lot number?”

“No, but don’t despair.”

There were two security gates at the front entrance of the park, one for key card entry, one with a telephone for guests to use. There was a directory of residents last names and first initials. I saw one for “Spanning, G.” Code number thirty-six. I picked up the receiver. No dial tone.

I tried entering thirty-six anyway. Nothing.

I sighed, put the receiver back in place.

“Don’t give up yet,” I said, and pulled the van around to the residents’ gate. Travis grinned and we waited in a companionable silence. Within moments, a car pulled up behind me. A man, whose patience quickly wore thin. He honked at us.

“Allow me,” Travis said, getting out of the van. He cradled his hand and walked up to the other driver. I kept my window down and watched him.

With a rueful look he approached the other driver and said, “I’m so sorry, sir. I cut my hand, and on our way out to the hospital, I guess we rushed off without our key card. If you’ll just back up a bit, we’ll move out of your way. My sister is due home from work any time now, and we’ll just wait over there-” He began to point vaguely with his bandaged hand, winced, then appeared embarrassed. “Ah, we’ll just get out of the way and wait for her to show up and let us in.”

The other man was out of the car and inserting his key card to let us in almost before Travis could get back to the van.

“You take care of that hand now,” he said, waving off our profuse thanks.

“You little conniver,” I said admiringly, as the gate closed behind us.

He smiled, but said, “Be sure to act like you know where you’re going.”

“I do.”

“What?”

“We’re looking for the neatly kept space, with a few flower pots, perhaps a whirligig, but most definitely a little American flag.”

“A whirligig?”

“You know, those little lawn decorations that whirl with the wind- from ducks with wind-milling wings to dairymaids that milk cows whenever a little breeze blows.”

“God help us. Whose trailer will that be?”

“Our informant’s.”

“I thought you’d never been here before?”

“I haven’t. But I’ve had to interview plenty of people who live in trailer parks. You learn.”

Most of the homes in the park were double-wides and fairly neatly kept, but we didn’t have to go far before we found a trailer that fit the bill; immaculate, appropriately decorated and-best of all-an aged but recently washed Ford Escort was parked in the carport. The owner was probably home. I did a little more cruising around to make sure it was the leading candidate. There were some contenders, but I decided the first one was our best choice.

“She’ll have a hat on,” I predicted. “And she’s already seen us.” Travis shook his head, still not convinced that I knew what I was doing. But as I pulled up at the curb, an old woman came warily out of her mobile home. She was frowning.

“Note the straw bonnet,” I said to Travis, and heard him choke back a laugh.

He suddenly seemed to enter into the spirit of the enterprise though, saying, “Stay here. My bandaged hand makes me less dangerous, your swollen face makes you scarier.”

“Thanks a bunch,” I said, but let him have his way. I rolled the passenger window down so that I could hear their conversation.

Travis got out of the van and gave her his most charming smile. She was obviously still suspicious, but that smile seemed to have the effect on her that it did on everyone else-she smiled back.

Travis-suddenly possessed of an accent any matinee buckaroo would take pride in-turned back toward the van and said, “Oh! Look here, Irene. Isn’t this the most clever whirligig you ever did see?”

I waved from the van.

He crouched down beside one of them, staring at it as if it were the Shroud of Turin. “Why, it’s even better than any of the ones we saw at the fair! Excuse me, ma’am, but where on earth did you find it?”

The object of this acclaim was a harness racer; the horse trotted in the wind, and the wheels of the rig moved. That Travis’s admiration marked him as a rank amateur in whirligig appreciation mattered not one whit to the owner of this specimen.