The Garden of Betrayal - Lee Vance [130]
Claire touched the corner of my mouth with a finger.
“You’re frowning,” she said. “You’re thinking about Kyle, aren’t you?”
“It’s hard not to,” I admitted. “I keep wondering where he would have gone to college, and what it would have been like to take him for his first day.”
She kissed me again.
“I know. I wonder the same thing.”
It had somehow become okay for us to be sad together, the shared sorrow paradoxically staving off our individual despair. I still grieved for my son and worried about the world I was leaving my daughter, but I felt optimistic at times, as well—about my marriage, and other things.
“Sorry,” Kate called, letting the screen door slam as she darted out of the house. She gave me a quick peck on the cheek and then grabbed at Claire’s hand. “Come on. I want to make sure we have enough time.”
“She dialed around San Francisco and found a store that has the red sandals she’s been looking for,” Claire informed me, eyes rolling, as she let herself be dragged away. “In the Mission District.”
“Footwear’s important,” I said, my tone chiding. “I remember the shoes I wore on my first day of college.”
“Really?” Kate asked, curiosity bringing her to a halt. “What were they?”
I grinned at her, and she smacked her forehead with her hand.
“Okay,” she muttered. “I get it. You’re mean.”
“I remember my pants, too. They were these really nice boot-cut corduroys—”
“Mean,” she shouted, tugging at Claire’s hand again. “So mean. Come on. Let’s go, Mom.”
I waved and blew kisses as they drove away and then headed over to the barn to do some work. I was installing a wire fence on the north side, digging the post holes by hand. One of the farmhands had taught me the proper technique so I wouldn’t destroy my back. Let the tools do the work, he’d cautioned, and slow down: lentamente. It wasn’t a race. It felt good to be working in the sun—loosening the soil with a pointed bar and then scooping it free with the hinged digger.
I took a break at around one, making myself a sandwich in the kitchen and sitting on the front porch to eat it. I hesitated when I was done and then stood on my chair to reach up overhead. There was a small trapdoor in the porch ceiling, to provide access to the dead space between the wood joists and the rafters. “Para fumigación,” the farmhand had said and shrugged, when I asked about it. “Termitas.” I pushed the trapdoor open and felt around until I found the oversized Ziploc bag that I’d secreted a few weeks previously. Removing it, I sat down again. The bag contained two items: an eight-year-old Christmas card with a picture of my family on the front, and a color photograph of my son, Kyle, dead in the trunk of Mariano Gallegos’s car. Both items had been found by the police in a drawer in Anton Rastin’s home, along with Alex’s missing hard drive. Reggie had swiped the card and the photo from the police property room after they’d been processed.
I took the card from the bag first, touching the picture of my family before I opened it. The card was addressed to Alex and contained a chatty letter from Claire, updating our friends and family on our year. The letter opened with the news that she’d won a spot as an interim pianist with the City Ballet, and went on to say how excited she was to be performing again, despite the fact that she’d have to work evenings. Reggie had informed me that the card had Alex’s fingerprints on it, which was only to be expected.
I replaced the card and withdrew the photograph. Kyle was wrapped in my coat, lying on his side so that his face was only partially visible. He looked like he was sleeping. The M5 marque and the top edge of a diplomatic license plate were visible at the bottom of the picture; a light post and a bit of the George Washington Bridge showed at the top left. Alex’s fingerprints were on the photograph also, which was less expected.
Reggie and I had been sitting in the front seat of his car when he showed me the card and the photo. After I regained my composure,