When he got Doris Fitch on the phone, he spoke in a whisper, but she was nearly hysterical at the news.
“Oh my God,” she said. “Oh my God, she’s alive. I can’t believe it. How is she? Is she hurt? Is she okay? Put her on! Put her on the phone. I have to hear her voice.”
Octavio said he believed that if Allison knew he had been speaking to her mother, she would take off, that it would be better if Doris were to come down from Ohio and surprise her daughter.
Doris Fitch, who was thrilled by this news but still smart enough to be cautious, said that if Octavio was not going to put her daughter on the phone, she needed some sort of proof that it was really her daughter working at the motel.
Octavio said, “She told me that when she was little, around eight or nine, you would do finger puppet plays, that you would reenact entire scenes from The Wizard of Oz for her with your fingers, and that she loved it so much.”
Doris Fitch thought she would die.
“I’ll get a flight out tomorrow,” she said. “Tell me where you are, exactly.”
Octavio gave her the name of the motel, and the address. “When you get off the plane, just tell the cabdriver. He will find it.”
When he got off the phone, Octavio felt very good about himself. He had done a good thing.
Adele—Allison—was going to be so surprised.
FORTY-FOUR
I’D made an appointment for two, Monday afternoon, to meet with Darla Kurtz, who was the administrator of Glace House, a residence for psychiatric outpatients. I’d left Julie at the house. She’d already spent the entire morning on the phone trying, with very little success, to track down someone to talk to at Whirl360.
Glace House was actually a beautiful, celery green three-story Victorian home in an older part of Promise Falls, with gingerbread trim and a porch that wrapped around two sides. Most likely built in the 1920s, it sat on a corner, with an expansive front yard and hedges running along both sidewalks. I parked on the street and as I walked up the driveway spotted a wispy-haired, stick-thin man in jeans and a T-shirt putting a fresh coat of white paint on the front porch railing.
“Hello,” he said to me.
“Hi,” I said.
“You can’t be too careful,” he said.
“I’m sorry?”
“You can’t be too careful,” he repeated.
“About what?” I asked.
He smiled. “That’s what they say.” He gave me a wink and went back to his work.
I rang the front bell and a short woman in her fifties held the door open for me. “How are you?” she said.
“Ms. Kurtz?” I said.
She nodded.
“I’m Ray Kilbride. We were talking about my brother, Thomas? I think Laura Grigorin was in touch with you?”
Another nod. “Of course,” she said, peering over a pair of reading glasses.
If she were a man, I’d say she had a brush cut, but maybe you don’t call it that when it’s a woman. She led me into her office, which was in a room just off the front foyer. Years ago, this must have been a very stately home, but a quick look showed that it had been made into apartments. A plump woman in a heavy winter coat was sitting on a set of steps that led to the second floor. It was as warm in the house as it was outside, and I couldn’t understand why she was wearing it. She stared at me blankly as I slipped into the office.
“First, thanks for seeing me,” I said. The wall of her office showed degrees in psychology and social work. “I’ve heard some good things about Glace House.”
She smiled. “Well, we try.”
I gave her a quick sketch on Thomas. “I guess he’s what you’d call pretty high functioning in many ways. But not quite able to live on his own, at least that’s my worry. Our father died recently, and he looked after all of Thomas’s needs. Made his meals, did the laundry, cleaned the house, didn’t really expect anything of Thomas, which in turn, I guess, made my brother pretty dependent. But I think, given the opportunity, he’s perfectly capable. Dad just found it easier to do everything himself. But even if Thomas could look after himself and his meals and so forth, I don’t think he’s capable of looking after the house himself. Paying bills, making sure the property taxes are looked after, that type of thing. I’m not sure he’d be able to handle it. And the thing is, he does have some strange notions.”
The woman smiled. “He’ll fit in fine here, then. Did you meet Ziggy?”
“Ziggy?”
“He’s painting out front.”
“Yes, I did. He mentioned something about not being too careful.”
“That’s because any one of us might be an alien. In disguise.”
“Oh,” I said. “Good advice, I suppose. Listen, I don’t know whether Laura mentioned that my brother is pretty attached to his computer.”
“I believe she did say something about that.”