Хлоя Бенджамин - The Immortalists

‘I did hear that. It’s incredible.’

Miraculous, even, and unthinkable at the height of the epidemic, when tens of thousands were dying each year in the U.S. alone. In the nineties, when AIDS medications were introduced, patients had to take up to thirty-six pills per day, and in the early eighties, there were no options at all. Daniel pictures Simon, just twenty, dying of a disease unknown and unnamed. Had the hospital been able to do anything to make him more comfortable? He has the same feeling he did moments ago, in the bathroom – that unbearable empathy, so much more intrusive than resentment.

‘Look at Grandma,’ says Ruby, pointing. ‘She’s so happy.’

Grandma . Another word Daniel’s never heard, and he’s profoundly touched by it, by the fact that Ruby thinks of the Golds as her family. ‘She was happy. That’s her with your grandfather, Saul. They must have been in their twenties.’

‘He died before Uncle Simon, right? How old was he?’

‘Forty-five.’

Ruby crosses her legs. ‘What’s one thing about him?’

‘One thing?’

‘Yeah. One cool thing. Something interesting that I wouldn’t know.’

Daniel pauses. He could tell her about Gold’s, but instead he thinks of a jar with green lettering and a white lid.

‘You know those miniature pickles? Saul was obsessed with them. Very particular, too: he worked his way through Cains and Heinz and Vlasic before he discovered a brand called Milwaukee’s, which my mother had to order from Wisconsin because they weren’t in many New York stores. He could eat a whole jar in one sitting.’

‘That’s so weird.’ Ruby giggles. ‘You know what’s funny? I like to eat pickles on peanut butter sandwiches.’

‘You do not.’ Daniel makes a fake-retching sound.

‘I do! I cut them up and put them on top. They’re good, I swear – there’s this sort of, like, sweet-sour crunch, and then the peanut butter’s sweet and crunchy, too –’

‘I don’t buy it,’ says Daniel, and now they’re both laughing. The sound is remarkable. ‘I don’t buy it at all.’

At midnight, he leaves Ruby with the stack of photo albums and climbs to the house’s main level. In the kitchen, he pauses. He was so contented, sitting with Ruby, and the feeling trails him: it seems foolish, or unnecessary, to do anything but get into bed with Mira. But when he retrieves Eddie’s business card from the pocket of his sweatpants, his contentment morphs, and he feels a wistfulness that borders on mourning. He could have had more of that connection – over the years, with Ruby, or with a child of his own. Maybe, he thinks, there’s another reason he did not urge Mira to reconsider adoption. Maybe he felt that he did not deserve it. After all, with Saul so often at work, Daniel had tried to be a leader for his siblings. He’d tried to face down danger, unpredictability, chaos. And look how that had turned out.

You doing that, Eddie said, it’s blaming the victim . But it’s too late: Daniel did do it, he did think that way. He spent decades punishing himself for something that had never been his fault. As Daniel’s compassion for himself swells, his anger toward the fortune teller hardens. He wants her to be caught – not just for Simon and Klara, but for himself, now, too.

He walks to the front door and opens it gently. There’s a suctioning noise and an affront of frigid November air, but he steps outside and closes the door behind him. Then he opens his cell phone and enters Eddie’s number.

‘Daniel? Something wrong?’

Daniel pictures the agent in a Hudson Valley hotel room. Perhaps Eddie is working through the night, a cup of cheap coffee at his elbow. Perhaps he’s thinking of the fortune teller as fixedly as Daniel, this shared thought connecting them like cord.

‘I’ve remembered something,’ Daniel says. It must be thirty-five degrees outside, but his body is warm. ‘You asked about Simon – whether the fortune teller predicted his death – and I said I didn’t know. But he did tell us she said he’d die young. So let’s say he knew he was gay. He’s sixteen, our father’s gone, and he’s rattled by the prophecy; he feels like this is his only chance to live the life he wants. So he disregards sense, disregards safety.’

‘All right,’ Eddie says, slowly. ‘Simon wasn’t any more specific?’

‘No, he wasn’t any more specific. I told you: we were kids, it was one conversation, but it gives credence, doesn’t it, to what you said before? That she pushed him, too?’

‘It might,’ Eddie says, but he sounds detached. Now Daniel imagines him differently: rolling to one side, holding the phone in place with his shoulder. A hand skittering across the bedside table to turn the light back off, Daniel’s revelation having disappointed him. ‘Anything else?’

The heat is leaving Daniel, depression setting in. Then something occurs to him. If Eddie is unmoved by this information – perhaps even disillusioned with the case – then maybe Daniel should do his own digging.

‘Yes. One question.’ As he breathes, puffs of white air hover like parachutes. ‘What’s her name?’

‘What’s knowing her name going to do for you?’

‘It’ll give me something to call her,’ Daniel says, thinking fast. He keeps his tone jocular, to put Eddie at ease. ‘Something that isn’t “the fortune teller,” or worse, “the woman.” ’

Eddie pauses. He clears his throat. ‘Bruna Costello,’ he says, finally.

‘What?’ There is a rushing noise in Daniel’s ears, a flood of adrenaline.

‘Bruna,’ says Eddie. ‘Bruna Costello.’

‘Bruna Costello.’ Daniel savors the words, each one a fact. ‘And where is she?’

‘That’s two questions,’ Eddie says. ‘When it’s over, I’ll call you. When it’s all said and done.’

On Thanksgiving morning, Daniel wakes earlier than Raj and Ruby. It’s six forty-five, milky pink light and the rustling of squirrels, a deer nibbling at the brown lawn. He makes a pot of strong coffee and sits in the rocking chair beside the living room window with Mira’s laptop.

When he Googles Bruna Costello’s name, the first link that appears is the FBI’s Most Wanted website. Protect your family, your local community, and the nation by helping the FBI catch wanted terrorists and fugitives , the webpage reads. Rewards are offered in some cases. She is categorized under ‘Seeking Information,’ a black-and-white thumbnail in the fourth row. It’s fuzzy, a close-up from security footage. When Daniel clicks on her name, the photo enlarges, and he sees it’s the same one Eddie showed him at the Hoffman House.

The Federal Bureau of Investigation (FBI) is seeking the public’s assistance to identify the alleged victims of Bruna Costello, suspected for fraud in connection with a fortune-telling ring in Florida. Other members of the Costello family have been convicted of federal crimes including grand larceny, false income returns, mail fraud, wire fraud, and money laundering. To date, Costello remains the only suspect who has evaded questioning.

Costello travels in a 1989 Gulf Stream Regatta motor home (see More Photos). She has previously lived in Coral Springs and Fort Lauderdale, Florida, and is known to have traveled extensively throughout the continental United States. Currently, she is thought to be based outside of Dayton, Ohio, in the village of West Milton.

Daniel clicks on More Photos. There’s a picture of the trailer, wide and blunt-nosed, painted a dingy cream – or perhaps it was originally white – with a thick stripe of brown. Below More Photos is another link titled Aliases.

Drina Demeter