“He’s a Leo,” I say, remembering that, since I’m a Sagittarius, the astrology charts in one of the magazines I bought predicted he’d be my perfect love partner. But maybe because of all the medications I’ve been dosed with, I can’t remember when in August his birthday falls. The second week, maybe. The astrology magazine predicted fireworks for us, romantically, a hot, sizzling romance that would consume our passions, but this additional detail fails to impress the security officers.
“Wait, wait, and double wait,” I say, grabbing my phone. “I’ll prove to you that Jimmy didn’t steal my baby.”
“What are you doing?”
“I’m calling him.”
The two security officers look at each other, probably thinking they should’ve asked me to call Jimmy before making wild, horrible accusations about him. I punch Jimmy’s number into my phone, already feeling the satisfaction of being able to hand my phone over to one of these guys so they’ll hear for themselves that Jimmy didn’t do anything. A couple of moments later, I hear a muffled ringing in the background somewhere. Jimmy’s not picking up, but the security officers’ expressions change. Eagerness lights their eyes. They peer at the recliner. One of them steps toward it. I’m still hearing the ringing in the background, and then, when the security officer lifts the recliner’s cushions, the ringing becomes louder, and then I see what the security officer has found: a red flip phone had been buried into the cushions. The security officer flips open the phone, presses a button, and a moment later I hear his voice answering my call.
“Is this your, um, boyfriend’s phone?”
Humiliation roils over me. I press end to cancel my call, and then I examine the phone in the security officer’s hands. It’s a cheap-looking old thing. I knew Jimmy carried three phones with him, but I never was in the same room with him to see which of those phones he used when answering my calls.
“It’s just a basic little pay-as-you-go model,” the security officer says, handing over Jimmy’s phone to the other security officer. “He probably bought it at Walmart or 7-Eleven.”
Somehow, I always imagined Jimmy using some lavish iPhone, something spectacular, whenever we talked. I feel so stupid. It probably slipped out of his pocket the last time he sat on this recliner. The phone must mean so little to him that he hasn’t even realized it’s gone missing.
“Ma’am. You have to know more about how we can contact this Jimmy guy. Where does he live?”
“He lives in Georgetown, I think. He and Tricia have a house in Georgetown.”
Belinda perks up suddenly. “Tell them about that bank he owns. That should help them find him.”
The security officer lowers his pen. He cocks his head, raises an eyebrow. “He owns a bank?”
“His family used to own banks. A whole slew of them. But Jimmy said they divested themselves of their bank holdings years ago so they could put their money into more lucrative, higher-yielding investments.” Jimmy had used the exact phrase—“lucrative, higher-yielding investments”—on the night he handed the fifty-dollar bill to the bum. It sounded thrilling and vaguely illicit, the phrase rolling off his tongue with a bravado that made me love him even more. He’s the smoothest, handsomest, kindest man I ever met. Who doesn’t want to believe her lover is outrageously successful?
“So what bank was it?”
“Riggs Bank. His family owns Riggs Bank.”
“So you’re telling me that your boyfriend, Jimmy Wainsborough—that his family, the Wainsborough family—owned Riggs Bank?” Even I realize how absurd this sounds. The security man looks upon me with pitiful concern. In a delicate voice, he asks, “You don’t know him too well, do you?”
A plunging feeling comes over me. Until now, I bought everything Jimmy told me about himself, asking nothing in the way of corroborating evidence beyond the love he expressed for me. Jimmy might still be the bright, generous, gifted financial consultant he represents himself to be, but if he had told me he was the King of America, I wouldn’t have asked to see his crown, his scepter, or his royal throne before believing him.
“But he’s rich,” Tully says. “He’s grade-A bona fide rich. Tell him, Laurel. Tell him how rich Jimmy is. Tell him.”
I fold my hands in my lap, and when my mother runs her soothing hand again through my hair, I lean into her, nesting my head against her shoulder. I always envied the little girls I saw on the benches in playgrounds and shopping malls, how they’d curl up against their mothers, calm and safe. I hope Zerena will do that to me someday—lean into me for warmth, protection, and a hug.
“Tell him, Laurel.”
“Sir. Jimmy never outright told me he was rich. He implied it though at every chance he could and never did anything to dissuade me of that notion.”
I think the security man knows what I mean. Or at least, tucking his ballpoint back into the breast pocket of his suit jacket, he doesn’t ask more questions. The other security man passes me his business card and instructs me to call him should I think of anything relevant. He tells me police officers will visit me soon with their own questions.
“How soon?” Tully asks.
“Actually, I’m surprised they’re not here yet.”
Tully looks down at his scuffed black dress-up shoes. Tomorrow, freed of the need to impress Jimmy, he’ll return to Wrangler jeans and sneakers, which honestly suit him better. “Hey, Laurel? Your mother and me need to get driving home now.”
“Already?” Belinda asks.
“Yes. Already.”
Belinda hops off my bed and squeezes my hand. Tully’s standing in front of her, his arms at his hips. With a disheartened sigh, Belinda says, “Hey, it’s a long drive back home. You understand, don’t you?”
“Sure, Mom. Hey, let me give you something.” I reach around my head and unclip one of the blue diamond studs from my earlobe. Belinda asks me what I’m doing. I turn my head and unclip the other. They’re the nicest things Belinda ever gave me, much nicer than any used set of walkie-talkies. I drop them into her hand. The blue diamond studs sparkle in her palm, each of the diamonds two carats huge, the blueness adding to their rarity and beauty. I’ve been dreaming of diamonds since I found out I was pregnant, envisioning the ring that Jimmy would one day present to me on bended knee.
“Don’t you like them?” Belinda asks, and it’s only then that I see the hurt in her eyes. She wanted me to have the earrings and sees my return of them as a sign that I’m rejecting her.
“Mom. I’m not worthy of them. Take them. Maybe you can sell them and pay for your teeth. Wouldn’t that be nice?”
Belinda blushes. “Oh, honey. They’re not real. They’re like everything else I ever had: pretty but worthless.”
Tully, Belinda, and the two detectives leave at the same moment. Lois Belcher leans against the window, her hand on the glass. Beyond her, outside the window, dusk squeezes what’s left of the cold winter light out of the sky. I consider asking her to leave me alone, but I fear that, upset by how I’d been sleeping with Tricia’s husband, she may go on a tirade about my loose morals. I close my eyes. Although I try to sleep, thoughts ping around my head, keeping me awake. A while later, unable to sleep, I open my eyes to see Lois Belcher sitting on the recliner next to me. She stares at the ceiling, not aware I’m awake. Her face is wrinkled at the eyes and upper lip in a way I’d imagine must cause her anguish when she longs to look in the mirror and see her younger self stare out at her. She looks wise and sorrowful, a straw woman, sallow and gray.
“You can go, you know,” I say, catching her attention.
“I know I can. My shift ended an hour ago. I’m waiting for the police to come. And anyways, I can’t stand the thought of you being alone at a time like this.” Lois Belcher stands up, stretches her arms. “You must be exhausted.”
“I can’t go to sleep. I’ve tried.”
A man knocks on the door and identifies himself as a Detective Lionel Adderly, a plainclothes DC police investigator dressed in the summer outfit of a rich boater—khaki slacks, lime-green polo shirt, and perturbed ennui. Although he asks the same questions as the hospital security officers, he pays more attention to my responses. He asks each question slowly, tilts his head when I respond. At times, he asks me to repeat myself. He’s thorough. He asks follow-up questions.