While they were in the wig store Marcia also bought a shoulder-length wig that was light brown with blond highlights. At a nearby store she bought a black suit and white blouse, a small pair of earrings, and a matching necklace. When she tried on the outfit she looked as though she had just left work at a bank or a law firm. She added sunglasses that obscured the blue of her eyes and made her face seem smaller. At another store she bought makeup that made her skin look a shade darker and her lips thinner. At a giant drugstore she bought dark dye for Hank’s hair.
Marcia bought a large bag made of brown buttery leather that could be interpreted as either an overnight bag or a briefcase, wrapped each item of clothing in tissue, and put them all inside. Then she bought a birthday card, wrote a note, and sealed it. “Sarah,” it said. “I’ll be waiting at 6:00 p.m. Thursday at Jerry’s Deli in West-wood. Don’t drive and don’t bring your phone, computer, or iPad. If you see anyone watching or following you, keep walking, and we’ll try again. Love, Mom.”
Hank wrapped the bag, sealed it inside a plain brown box, and took it to a messenger service. Hank had it sent to Sarah’s address, to be delivered in the evening after 9:00 p.m., but not left if she was out.
On Thursday afternoon they parked in the municipal lot on Broxton and walked to Jerry’s at 5:50 p.m. They sat at a table where they could watch the front window, but far enough from it so they could slip out the back door if they needed to.
They sat like what they both had been—parents of a female student who was at a university far from home and had been for so long that she had slipped her moorings. Home was no longer the place where she was from, but the place where her life had taken her. The Dixons drank coffee from thick, heavy white mugs and waited. Hank knew that if he looked around the large room he could find other sets of parents meeting their children here, but he didn’t, because looking invited looks.
At 6:04 a young woman appeared in silhouette, her long booted strides bobbing her across the big front window, the sun hitting the street at an angle that illuminated the short dark-brown wig and her very white skin and red lips. She came inside, saw them instantly, and smiled.
She sat at their table and took off the sunglasses to lean close and kiss her mother. “Happy Halloween. What do you think?”
Her mother said, “We didn’t want you to stand out. And keep your voice down.”
Sarah laughed. She looked at Hank Dixon. “You’re still with us? You can’t give it up, right?”
“Something like that,” he said.
“What does that mean?” said Marcia.
“It’s a private joke,” said Sarah.
“Sarah, I have to tell you some things quickly,” Hank said. “We’re not going to be able to see you again for a while.” He took out a card. “There’s a trust fund set up for you. It’s called the McDonald Trust. Here’s a business card with the account information. Memorize it today. If you need money, just call them up and they’ll wire some to your account. They withhold the taxes, and they’ll send you a 1099 to prove it each year at tax time.”
She held the card. “You did this? Why would you do this for me?”
“I like surprises. Now I’m going to take a walk and let you two talk.” He looked at Marcia. “Don’t be too long.” He stood up and walked out the front door.
Sarah turned to Marcia. “Did you know about this?”
“No.”
“Why would he do this?”
Her mother took a deep breath, and then let it out in a sigh. “He’s that kind of man. He likes you. He already set up trust funds for his own daughter and her kids years and years ago. Beyond that, don’t try to understand him. There’s too much history that’s too long to tell, too many complications nobody has time to explain. Just do what he said and let it go.”
“But this is all crazy. This getup I have to wear—the boots are nice, but—and you running away from Chicago with him. Why?”
“Running away with him is more fun than most people have in a lifetime.”
Sarah stared at her for a second. “So why don’t you look happy? Not calm either.” She leaned close and whispered, “Did he get caught doing something illegal?”
“I wouldn’t say that, exactly,” her mother said. “It’s complicated.”
“But he’s a criminal?”
“No, he’s not.”
“Is he wanted?”
“No.”
“What, then?”
Marcia leaned close and whispered in her ear. “Years and years ago he was an undercover policeman. He put some very powerful people away—drug suppliers from South America. Recently the son of one of them, who had been a child at the time, saw him in Chicago and recognized him. So now he’s been told to go away and cool off for a time, while the police handle the criminals.”
“Is he—”
“Wrong questions,” her mother said. “Wrong conversation. We don’t have much time together, so let’s really use it. You’re a wonderful daughter and always have been. If I die tonight, my life won’t have been wasted because I had you. Keep being the same kind of person. Do good in the world. Have babies too, if you can. Part of me would like to simply stay right here in LA and watch you do all of it. But that would accomplish nothing except to intrude on your life, and to waste the part of my life that’s left to me—to kind of spit in the eye of the universe. Do you understand what I mean?”