Sisters in the Wind(46)
POST-BLAST MONTH THREE
MARCH 2009
Something’s off about Daunis when she returns to Mount Pleasant. I notice right away. She stands next to her luggage in the entryway, watching Jamie and me in the kitchen. After we exchange greetings, she brushes aside our questions about her trip.
“Later,” she demurs.
“Jamie’s teaching me to make manicotti,” I announce.
He has me add milk to the flour, eggs, and salt.
“Is that too much?” I ask him.
“Let’s find out.” He hands me a whisk. “Remember, you want it thin like crepe batter.”
“I never had crepes.” The clumpy mixture gets stuck in the whisk. “I butchered rabbits for stew.”
“Really? That’s cool. See, if you can clean up rabbit guts, you’ve got this.”
I add more milk, immediately worrying it’s too much. The more I whisk the batter, the more it becomes a runny cream soup. Scrunching my nose, I expect Jamie to point at the bag of flour. Instead, he nods.
“Try it out, Lucy-in-the-Sky-with-Diamonds.” He motions at the small frying pan on the stove. “But first you’ll need to brush vegetable oil around the pan.”
I follow his instructions except for flipping the pan to make the half-cooked manicotti land raw-side down. I opt for the pancake spatula instead. My first manicotti tears into unequal bits; the second one burns. It’s not until my fifth or sixth attempt that I produce decent pasta that we can roll and fill with the cheese mixture.
At dinner, I protest when Jamie gives himself the plate with the manicotti mistakes.
“Tastes the same to me,” he says.
I ask Daunis about her mom’s engagement party. Everything was wonderful, according to her. But her eyes don’t light up the way I’d have expected.
Daunis’s interactions continue in a subdued manner the rest of the week. Everything else is the same. Jamie shows me more recipes. He pleads for me to teach him how to snare, butcher, and prepare roasted rabbit. Daunis goes downstairs every evening for phone calls with TJ. Jamie and I work out every day, except for my weekly session with the physical therapist. One of them goes swimming with me every evening. We still go to the ice arena, but less often. We try other places for our long walks: the local high school, a community gymnasium one town over, and the Industrial and Engineering Technology building at CMU.
I like the IET building the best. Daunis and Jamie walk and talk together. Meanwhile, I pretend I’m an engineering student rushing from one class to another. A guy tries flirting with me as I fill up my water bottle at the drinking fountain. I ignore him and stare at a bulletin board. One half is filled with flyers for upcoming events on campus. The other half has the header RIDE SHARE. Each sheet of paper lists a date the person is leaving town, where they’re headed, and how much they want in gas money from a passenger wanting a ride.
* * *
My research-assistant work is going well. Jamie offers to take me to a bank to set up a savings account, but I am fine with cashing my paychecks at the casino cashier window. What I’m not fine with is the amount of money I’m paying in taxes and whatnot.
For the most part, I hold on to my money knowing I’ll need it when I flee.
I buy a new backpack at the casino gift store, since my old one is still being held as evidence in the world’s longest investigation of a single pipe bomb. When Jamie fuels up at the tribal gas station, I go inside to use the restroom. The cashier stands behind a counter displaying pay-as-you-go phones. I take advantage of the opportunity to buy a burner phone and SIM card, and a prepaid and reloadable credit card. I pay cash.
Jamie’s company has a subscription for an online background search service. I ask him to show me how it works for tracking down former foster-care kids. Then I use my secret credit card to purchase one-time background checks of people whose names I don’t want on the Raven Air account.
In addition to the people looking for me, I find Nancy’s daughter’s address in East Grand Rapids. I don’t find anything for Miss Lonnie except for her PO box number on Beaver Island, which I already knew. I learn that my former teacher and occasional babysitter Mrs. Sobecki’s husband died last year; the obituary mentions that memorial donations can be made in his name to the American Lung Association.
I don’t contact any of the people I find; I just store the information in my phone.
I ask Jamie about his former career as an undercover law-enforcement officer. By now I know about the scar he got during his first undercover job. He almost got killed. The scar goes from his right temple to his jawbone.
“How did you live a different identity? Weren’t you scared of accidentally showing your real driver’s license?”
“The FBI set up everything,” he says nonchalantly. “I had a driver’s license with my alias and a backstopped address.”
“Backstopped?”
“It’s a term for covering your bases. Providing just enough proof to confirm your alias.” Once he starts talking, he doesn’t stop. “The address was for an apartment building large enough that neighbors didn’t know each other well. I stayed long enough to know which elevator always had issues, or that the building manager had a tiny dog that slept in his office. I had a favorite coffee shop and chatted with a regular named Janusz who was a brilliant painter and freelance architect who everyone knew. A simple online search would link my alias to the town, maybe even to a fake newspaper article about a hockey team, or my senior picture.”