Ron fell asleep that night on the leather couch in his office, naked. When he was lightly snoring, Mary extricated herself from his embrace and set to work, gathering up the photos that had been strewn around, then heading up to her and Hannah’s room to pack. She worked silently and quickly, refolding clothing and zipping the bags in the dim room, her hair tangled, her lips feeling raw.
At just before six in the morning, Mary loaded herself up with their luggage and brought it down to the garage, setting it just behind the automatic door. Then she went back up to the bedroom for Hannah. She slid her arms underneath her sister’s sleeping body. Hannah gave a startled intake of breath as she was lifted, then she settled against Mary, her eyes never opening. As Mary hurried down the stairs, Hannah made small noises, as if her consciousness were floating up to the surface.
The cab glided up just as Mary peered through the glass of the garage door. She pressed a button and the door rumbled to life, rising obediently.
Seeing Mary carrying Hannah, the driver had gotten out. “Can you get the bags?” Mary asked him, tilting her head behind her to the luggage that sat on the concrete floor.
The driver just nodded, looking at the beautiful Mary and the sleeping Hannah and the hideous grandeur of the house behind them. And as Mary settled Hannah into her seat, he hauled the three bags into the trunk, got back into the driver’s seat, and with unuttered urgency, sped away from chez Dackard.
“Where are we going?” asked Hannah, whose eyes were now open.
Mary adjusted in her seat, feeling the vinyl stick to her skin. She twisted a finger though a loop of her sister’s hair. “Away.”
Though Mary couldn’t have known it, Gail had already roused, the rumbling of the garage door having woken her. She had seen the bed empty next to her and shuffled down to Ron’s office. Ron, still naked, raised his head when his wife entered the room. It was with a politician’s practicality that he immediately wondered what exactly Gail knew, where exactly Mary was, and how exactly he could explain it all away.
Mary, as it turned out, was at that moment pulling out of Cocoplum Estates, staring at the bright red sunrise that had made its advance in the morning sky.
“Red sky at morning, sailors take warning,” said Mary, as she angled her head to better see the road, her arm around Hannah.
“What does that mean?”
“It means that there’ll probably be bad weather later.”
From the front seat, the cab driver met Mary’s eye in the rearview mirror. He was a black man who wore a short-sleeve button-down shirt and a baseball cap. If Mary had asked, he would have told her that his name was Terrance.
“You going to the airport?” he asked, his words long and languid.
“No,” said Mary. “The B & M Diner.”
“The B & M?” he asked, questioning.
“Yeah,” replied Mary. “The one by the Herald building.”
The streets were quiet as the cab glided through them; talk radio playing low enough for the words to be indiscernible. As the sisters made their way out of affluence, the buildings tightened and rose, and the sun burned through the early-morning haze. “This is right here,” said Terrance, finally, pulling up to a silver diner on the corner. He watched Mary look at the sign. “They got good steak and eggs.”
Mary paid the fare, and Terrance lifted the Chase girls’ bags out of the trunk, resting them on the sidewalk. “You want some help with those?” he asked, as Mary slung one over each shoulder, lifting the third to her chest.
“I got it. Thanks.”
The Chase girls went inside, taking a booth near the window. Two bags were stuck next to Hannah, the third next to Mary. When the waitress came, Mary ordered Hannah a stack of silver-dollar pancakes and a glass of orange juice.
“Anything else?” asked with waitress, without looking up from her order pad.
“Yeah, I’ll take a coffee,” replied Mary, closing the menu and extending it toward the waitress. “And the steak and eggs.”
“They’re famous here.”
“That’s what I heard.”
“That’ll be right out.”
“It’s okay,” Mary said. “We’re not in a rush.”
After the waitress left, Mary went to the pay phone outside and stared across the street at the large sand-yellow building with enormous words affixed to its exterior. THE MIAMI HERALD. Then she dialed the number that she had committed to memory.
The phone rang several times until the machine picked up. Gail’s smooth, practiced voice came over the tape. You’ve reached the Dackards, please leave a message and we’ll return your call just as soon as possible.
“Hello. This is—”
Mary heard the line being picked up.
“Mary,” he said, his voice steel smooth. And she couldn’t help but smile.
“Good morning, Ron.”
She heard him exhale loudly. “Where are you?”
At that, Gail’s voice burst into the background, her words running together in an indiscernible shriek. Ron put his hand over the receiver. “Shut the fuck up, Gail!”
Only when Gail was quiet did Mary speak again. “Did you have fun last night, Ron?”
She heard Ron try to steady his voice. He was opportunistic enough himself to recognize the trait in others. “I had a lot to drink, Mary.”
“That you did, Ron.” A couple passed, the man was following the woman, shouting at her in Spanish. “Crees que puedes hacerlo mejor que yo?”
“Why don’t you tell me where you are?” he said, with the forced calm of a hostage negotiator. “I can come pick you up and we can work this out.”
Mary’s smile grew broader. “I’m at the B & M Diner,” she said, relishing the pause. “Right by the Miami Herald.” And she would have given anything to see Ron’s face as he finally and fully put the pieces together. “You’re going to meet me here in three hours with ten thousand dollars in cash.”
“You’re out of your fucking mind.” His words were said through locked teeth.
“And if you don’t,” continued Mary, as if he hadn’t spoken, “I’m going to walk across the street and tell the reporters an interesting story about a freshman state senator and his wife’s cousin.” She paused, knowing that Ron was recalling the pictures and the look on his face as he smiled for the camera, cupping the breasts of a very pretty, very young girl.
Seven
1981
Mary stood at the desk of the dealership watching the damp man with strings of hair running across his bare scalp count the stack of money she had handed him. Stopping suddenly, he looked up at her, his face inquisitive and hopeful. “Are you that famous fashion model?” he asked, his accent more rural than she had heard elsewhere in Miami.