exulted.
“Excuse me, sir.”
Startled out of his reverie, Jed sprang up, on the defensive, ready to tell whoever was bothering him to get lost. But instead of the homeless beggar he had expected to confront, he found himself staring into the knowing eyes of a grave-faced man.
“Detective George Brennan,” the man said as he held up his badge.
Too late, Jed acknowledged to himself that hanging around the marina may well have been the stupidest mistake of his whole life.
twenty-one
D AN M INOR’S SEARCH for his mother finally promised to yield some results. The woman at the shelter who recognized the picture of her, and even called her “Quinny,” had provided him with the first ray of hope he’d had in a long, long time. He had been searching for his mother for so long—without any success—that even a glimmer of hope was enough to energize him.
Today, in fact, he was so energized that once he was finished at the hospital for the afternoon, he had quickly changed and raced off to Central Park to continue his search there.
It seemed as though he had been searching for his mother all his life. His mother had disappeared when he was six years old, right after the accident that almost took his life.
He had a clear memory of waking to find her kneeling by his hospital bed, sobbing. Later, he learned that as a result of the accident—she had been drunk when it happened—she was indicted for criminal negligence, and rather than face a terrible public trial, and almost certainly losing custody of her son, she had fled.
Occasionally, on his birthday, he would get an unsigned card that he knew was from her. But for much of his life, it was the only confirmation that he had that she was still alive. Then, one day seven years ago he had been sitting in the family room at home with his grandmother when he had turned on the television and started surfing through the channels, stopping withcasual interest when he saw a documentary on homeless people in Manhattan.
Some of the interviews had been filmed in shelters, others on the street. One of the women interviewed was standing on a street corner on upper Broadway. Dan’s grandmother was in the room at the time, reading, but when that woman spoke, his grandmother had jumped up, her eyes suddenly riveted to the screen.
When the interviewer asked the homeless woman her name, she had replied, “People call me Quinny.”
“Oh, God, it’s Kathryn!” his grandmother shrieked. “Dan, look, look! It’s your mother!”
Did he actually remember that face, or was it because of all the pictures of her he had devoured over the years that he was sure this woman was indeed his mother? The face on the television screen was careworn, the eyes dulled; still, there were traces of the pretty girl she once had been. The dark hair was generously sprinkled now with gray, and it was worn too loose and full on her shoulders to look anything but unkempt. Still, to his eyes, she was beautiful. She was wearing a shabby wraparound coat that was too big for her. Her hand rested protectively on a shopping cart filled with plastic bags.
She was fifty years old when I saw that program, Dan often thought. She had looked much older.
“Where are you from, Quinny?” the interviewer had asked.
“From here, now.”
“Do you have a family?”
She had looked straight into the camera. “I had a wonderful little boy, once. I didn’t deserve him. He was better off without me, so I left.”
The next day Dan’s grandparents had hired a private investigator to try to track her down, but Quinny had vanished. Dan did manage to learn something about the way she had lived, and about her frame of mind—facts that saddened him and broke his grandparents’ hearts.
Now, several days after finding someone who could identify his mother’s photograph, he was more determined than ever to locate her. She’s in New York, Dan thought. I will find her. I will! But when I do find her, what will I say? What
“Excuse me, sir.”
Startled out of his reverie, Jed sprang up, on the defensive, ready to tell whoever was bothering him to get lost. But instead of the homeless beggar he had expected to confront, he found himself staring into the knowing eyes of a grave-faced man.
“Detective George Brennan,” the man said as he held up his badge.
Too late, Jed acknowledged to himself that hanging around the marina may well have been the stupidest mistake of his whole life.
twenty-one
D AN M INOR’S SEARCH for his mother finally promised to yield some results. The woman at the shelter who recognized the picture of her, and even called her “Quinny,” had provided him with the first ray of hope he’d had in a long, long time. He had been searching for his mother for so long—without any success—that even a glimmer of hope was enough to energize him.
Today, in fact, he was so energized that once he was finished at the hospital for the afternoon, he had quickly changed and raced off to Central Park to continue his search there.
It seemed as though he had been searching for his mother all his life. His mother had disappeared when he was six years old, right after the accident that almost took his life.
He had a clear memory of waking to find her kneeling by his hospital bed, sobbing. Later, he learned that as a result of the accident—she had been drunk when it happened—she was indicted for criminal negligence, and rather than face a terrible public trial, and almost certainly losing custody of her son, she had fled.
Occasionally, on his birthday, he would get an unsigned card that he knew was from her. But for much of his life, it was the only confirmation that he had that she was still alive. Then, one day seven years ago he had been sitting in the family room at home with his grandmother when he had turned on the television and started surfing through the channels, stopping withcasual interest when he saw a documentary on homeless people in Manhattan.
Some of the interviews had been filmed in shelters, others on the street. One of the women interviewed was standing on a street corner on upper Broadway. Dan’s grandmother was in the room at the time, reading, but when that woman spoke, his grandmother had jumped up, her eyes suddenly riveted to the screen.
When the interviewer asked the homeless woman her name, she had replied, “People call me Quinny.”
“Oh, God, it’s Kathryn!” his grandmother shrieked. “Dan, look, look! It’s your mother!”
Did he actually remember that face, or was it because of all the pictures of her he had devoured over the years that he was sure this woman was indeed his mother? The face on the television screen was careworn, the eyes dulled; still, there were traces of the pretty girl she once had been. The dark hair was generously sprinkled now with gray, and it was worn too loose and full on her shoulders to look anything but unkempt. Still, to his eyes, she was beautiful. She was wearing a shabby wraparound coat that was too big for her. Her hand rested protectively on a shopping cart filled with plastic bags.
She was fifty years old when I saw that program, Dan often thought. She had looked much older.
“Where are you from, Quinny?” the interviewer had asked.
“From here, now.”
“Do you have a family?”
She had looked straight into the camera. “I had a wonderful little boy, once. I didn’t deserve him. He was better off without me, so I left.”
The next day Dan’s grandparents had hired a private investigator to try to track her down, but Quinny had vanished. Dan did manage to learn something about the way she had lived, and about her frame of mind—facts that saddened him and broke his grandparents’ hearts.
Now, several days after finding someone who could identify his mother’s photograph, he was more determined than ever to locate her. She’s in New York, Dan thought. I will find her. I will! But when I do find her, what will I say? What
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