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Suddenly, it dawned on me.
Chris caught my look. “No, she’s not pregnant.” He patted his pocket. “I’ll keep your bread safe. Bye.”
He left before I could ask another question. And maybe that was good.
As usual, he was waiting at my locker after school. We walked to his car, neither one speaking. But he didn’t drive to my house. Instead he drove to the bank. He pulled into the parking lot and shut the motor.
“I feel funny keeping your cash. What if you need it and I’m not home?”
“I told you I can’t put it in the bank.”
“We’ll open up an account together. I’ll make sure the statements come to my house.”
I paused. “How cute. Like playing house.”
“Terry—”
“I still don’t understand why you’d marry a girl you don’t love.”
“I didn’t say I didn’t love her.”
“Do you?”
“No.”
I slumped in my seat. “This is none of my business, right?”
“Right.” He opened the car door, but I held his arm. Instantly, he stiffened. I jerked back my hand.
“Sorry.”
He closed the car door, looked at his arm, then looked at me. Without embarrassment, he said, “I have a problem with being touched.”
“I’ve noticed.”
“I’d like to go into the bank now. How about you?”
I didn’t move.
He raised his eyebrows. “Would you prefer to wait out here, Terry?”
“You’re very polite.”
“I was trained with manners—yessir, nossir. I wasn’t polite, I got the shit kicked out of me.” He started the car. “Bad idea. Let’s forget the whole thing.”
I started to place my hand on his arm, but caught myself and pulled it back.
“Sorry. I’m a touchy person.”
He killed the motor. “Terry, anyone touches me, I tense. It doesn’t mean I’m mad. As a matter of fact, it doesn’t mean much of anything anymore. It’s just a habit. So don’t worry about it, okay?”
“Doesn’t it get in the way?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean with your fiancée … if you don’t like being touched …”
He stared at me. I should have cut my losses and shut up, but I didn’t. “I noticed you carried … stuff … in your backpack.”
“Stuff?”
I felt my face go hot. “Never mind.”
“Do you mean condoms?”
If the earth had opened up, I would gladly have jumped in.
Chris said, “Are you asking if my peculiarity about being touched gets in the way of sex?”
My face was on fire.
“The answer’s no.”
I covered my face. “God, I am such a jerk!”
“You want to go into the bank now?”
I opened the car door and so did he. We sat at a desk titled NEW ACCOUNTS. The woman in charge wore a crepe wool suit of deep purple, with contrasting black velvet collar and cuffs. It was beautiful and I wondered if I could remember it well enough to copy it. I was very handy with pattern paper and a sewing machine.
She handed me an identification card. I started to fill it out. It had been at least eight years since I opened a bank account. By now, I had a driver’s license number as well as a Social Security number. I felt very important.
I was racing through my personal data when my eyes suddenly blurred. Small typed letters mocking me. I blinked hard, then moved on, but with less bravado. I handed the card back to Ms. Beautiful Suit, hoping she wouldn’t notice.
But she did.
“You forgot to fill out your mother’s maiden name,” she told me. She poised her pen, ready to catch my pitch.
I sat paralyzed.
Chris looked at me. “What’s wrong, Terry?”
My eyes darted between him and her. “I … don’t know it.”
Ms. Suit stared at me.
My eyes suddenly filled with tears. “I forgot it.”
“Forgot it?” Ms. Suit asked.
I felt so stupid. Chris said, “Can we phone it in?”
Ms. Suit was still staring at me. Finally she returned her eyes to Chris. “Certainly.”
Chris gave her the cash. Ten minutes later, she handed him a bank book. Transaction completed. I got up slowly, feeling like a fool.
Once seated in his car, I found my voice. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” Chris waited a beat. “Maybe we should call it quits for today. You look upset.”
“Her first name was Amy,” I said. “And I really did know her last name.”
“Terry, she died a long time ago. It’s only natural—”
“No, you don’t understand. I really knew it. I just forgot it!” I stared out the window but saw nothing. “There were grandparents. I don’t know what happened to them.”
“Why don’t you ask your dad?”
“If I ask him anything about my mother, he gets weird. And if Jean overheard …”
I turned to face him.
“I was five when he met Jean. Soon after, he went through the closets and threw my mother’s stuff out—pictures, clothes, mementos, anything that reminded him of her.” My eyes widened. “Except …”
“What?” Chris asked.
I didn’t answer. We rode back to my house in silence. When we got there, I leaped out of the car and dashed into my father’s den. Chris found me rummaging through the drawers like a bag lady sorting through garbage.
“What are you looking for, Terry?”
I barely heard him, kept digging until I hit success. The brittle newspaper clipping had yellowed with age, but it was still legible.
“It’s Reilly. Her name was Amy Reilly.” I showed him the obit. “It’s such an easy name, I can’t believe I forgot it.”
I read aloud. “… survived by her husband, William McLaughlin, infant daughter, Teresa Anne, and parents, Mary and Robert Reilly of Chicago, Illinois.” I stopped reading. “I wonder if they still live there.”
Chris said, “Why don’t you call and find out?”
“Oh, no, I couldn’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“I just couldn’t.” I searched my brain for images to match the names. None came. “They must have had their reasons for breaking off contact with me.”
“I doubt that, Terry. I’m sure they’d love to hear from you.”
“I’m not going to call them.” My eyes settled back onto the obit. With shaking hands, I held it out to Chris. “Can you keep this for me, too?”
He took the clipping. “Are we on for tomorrow night?”
I took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. “I can work now if you want.”
Chris studied my face. “All right. I’ll get my books from the car.”
“Chris?”
“What?”
“What’s her name?”
He rolled his eyes. “You ask a lot of questions. It can get you into trouble.”
I said nothing, continued to wait him out. Finally, he said, “Lorraine.”
4
The next evening, as soon as I walked inside Chris’s apartment, he handed me a slip of paper—the name of my grandparents with an accompanying phone number. He closed the door, beckoning me forward with a crooked finger. He pointed to the countertop.
“I found the number, but you make the call. There’s the phone.”
My eyes returned to the slip of paper. “I can’t do it.”
“Terry, just pick up the phone and punch in the numbers. Underground cables will do the rest.”
I couldn’t move.
Chris blew out air, then snatched the number from my trembling hands. “It’s a good thing you’re smart. Because you’d never make it on aggression.”
He lifted the receiver, but I ran to the phone and depressed the hang-up button. “Please don’t.” My voice cracked. “It’s probably too late over there anyway.”
“It’s nine in the evening Chicago time. I’m sure they’re up.”
As soon as he started pressing the numbers, I tried to grab the phone again. But this time he held it above his head, out of my reach.
My stomach was suddenly a wave pool of acid. I could hear the phone ring, I could hear someone pick up. Chris started talking and I started dying.
“Hello, my name is Christopher Whitman, and I’m a friend of your granddaughter, Teresa McLaugh—Hello?”
“She hung up?” I whispered.
Chris waved me off. Into the phone, he said, “Yes, I’m still here … you can ask her yourself. She’s standing right next to me. Would you like to speak with her?”
Chris held the receiver out to me.
“She’d like to speak with you.”
Slowly, I took the handset. My hand was cold and clammy and I almost dropped the phone. I leaned against the counter for support and cleared my throat. “Hi.”
“Teresa?”
