Ariel's Crossing - Bradford Morrow [152]
She felt as troubled listening to Sarah as she’d been on that beach. Curious how that same memorable shock—that Ariel’d been snatched by forces over which her mother held no sway—revisited her now. No drowning ocean here, but tides were always at work. She put her hand in her jacket pocket, unconscious of the gesture, and asked Brice if he knew anybody at Los Alamos who might intervene on their behalf down at White Sands—even the name of the place gave her the creeps, resurrecting Montauk in the process. Ariel and the others would naturally be treated better were there a friendly voice pleading their cause. Someone who knew someone who knew someone.
He didn’t know anyone, however. Those bridges, never having been built, could hardly be burned during the passing years. His mother, ages ago, might have known the right person, forged the right connection, but that bridge was gone, too, that lifeline lost with a finality Brice had yet to fathom.
“White Sands told me they’d get back in touch as soon as they had some hard information,” Sarah said. “I don’t know if I trust them, but they gave me a number that puts us directly through to some office where they’re following this.”
“Did they say anything specific about Ariel?”
“The three of them—Carl’s brother, your daughter, our son—have been located, they said. And they promised they’re going to bring them out, all very peacefully.”
“This is Delfino’s doing. He’s gonna get a piece of my mind. Like I said before, jail might give him time to think about where his obstinance has got him. Not to mention the others.”
“Carl,” said Sarah.
“It doesn’t sound like Kip’s any innocent, either,” said Brice.
“They’re both hardheaded.”
“Hard head’s only good if you’re a hammer.”
The four parents stood beneath the portico eave, hesitant to speak, though a windchime down by Kip’s old room idly troubled the whispering air. Helpless and uncomfortable and worried, they looked at one another, as Mary watched on, wondering why generation after generation rushed into parenthood given the crazy folly children brought into parents’ lives and parents into children’s. She, too, was struggling here, not knowing what to do. The visit with Uncle Clifford had been upsetting because, in her presence, his dementia ebbed. His smile had been strangely ordinary as he fondly told her what a beautiful little girl she’d been, always with a sweet tooth for Toll House cookies and raspberry sherbet. “Eaten at the same sitting,” he’d recalled correctly, prompting her to laugh and him to laugh with her.
She spoke up now. “I’m Mary.”
“Mary’s a friend of Marcos,” Sarah said, welcoming a reprieve from Carl’s diatribe.
“I’m sure Marcos is looking out for Ariel. He’s the most responsible person you’d ever want to meet, and your daughter—”
Her thought wouldn’t complete itself so Brice offered, “She’s generally pretty responsible herself.” The windchime flurried, then was calmed. “So Kip’s still alive and well,” he continued. “Last time I saw him, he told me he was sick, and looked it. I offered to help but he wouldn’t take me up on it.”
“He’s not that well. But he’s definitely still alive.”
“Been living with us.”
“How’d you meet?”
“Sarah found him damn near dead, sleeping in our barn a few years ago, around Easter. He’d been over in Chimayó for the Good Friday celebration and didn’t have anywhere to go afterward, so he just walked until he dropped.”
Brice grasped what this meant before Carl finished speaking, as did Jessica. The revelation stirred in them