“Hey, don’t let that weigh on you,” Cate said. “You know what I think? With everything going on? That man wasn’t here just because of you. He would’ve been here anyway. That’s why we need to find the others.” She slammed the trunk shut. “To warn them.”
17
“So, Tom. Thomas Abbott.” Cate ate a fry, neatly, in three deliberate bites. “What’s your story, young man?” She hung over the edge of my seat as we drove, breath warm on my neck.
The Volvo smelled like the fire, a constant reminder of last night. I checked the rearview mirror compulsively, scanning for a car following us. Nothing so far.
“Kind of a waste to talk about my story when I’m with the two of you.” After our argument, Tom was a little stiff around the edges, but I saw him soften under her attention.
“Start with that, then.” The bag rustled as Cate fished for another fry, though the food had gone cold an hour ago. “What’s so interesting about the Homestead? Are you a weirdo? One of those guys who say our mothers wouldn’t be virgins anymore if you could just get your hands on them?” She waggled her eyebrows.
Virgin birth had always been a colloquialism, fitting our mothers uncomfortably. It was the births that were virginal, not necessarily the mothers. Late-night hosts, politicians, medical researchers: they loved to speculate about our mothers’ sexual histories, with Bellanger himself being the most obvious Lothario. Of all the mothers, mine had been paired with Bellanger the most often. I’d assumed it was because she came first in line. Now, knowing what I did about my mother’s earnest letter, I wondered if it was something deeper. A compellingly odd couple: Bellanger’s easy confidence, my mother’s tentative smile. I’d seen the editorial cartoon of my mother crowned with a Virgin Mary halo as a leering Bellanger threw her on a bed and undid his belt.
“Nah, it’s not like that at all.” A blush reddened the back of Tom’s neck. “There hasn’t been a book published about the Homestead for nearly ten years now. The eight of you have grown up and the world is moving on, people care more about—I don’t know, IVF and sperm banks than what Bellanger did. I just wanted to revisit Bellanger’s legacy and shed some more light on what he actually accomplished. I know it’s a long shot. I’d almost given up on it when Margaret called me out of the blue.”
Cate leaned back. “Hmm. You know what I’d like to see? A book that discusses the way the Homestead affected women’s lives. You writer types love to obsess over the lost science, or Bellanger’s grandstanding, or the dead bodies. But what about the way it impacted women? Like, maybe it wasn’t strange for a single woman to raise a baby alone. Maybe it was a miracle instead.” In the rearview mirror, I caught the intensity of her gaze. “I hope whoever follows in Bellanger’s footsteps pays more attention to that.”
This felt pointed. Before I could defend myself, Tom was talking.
“Oh, I agree,” he said. “One hundred percent. Personally, I’ve always wondered if Bellanger’s work has been less kosher because it involved women’s lives. That is, women’s independence.” He glanced back at her, hopeful, looking for praise. “My mom raised me singlehandedly.”
“Oh yeah?” Cate asked. “Shit dad?”
“Never even met the guy. Total deadbeat. As far as I’m concerned, there are a lot of kids out there without a father, you know? One way or another.”
Cate’s voice relaxed just slightly. “Your mother must’ve gone through a lot.”
Tom nodded and shrugged at the same time, apparently embarrassed that he’d said too much. “I’m trying to be thoughtful,” he said. “With this book. Respectful. Just so you know.”
I couldn’t resist a little barb: “How does figuring out Bellanger’s real murderer factor into your plans for the book?”
“All part of figuring out who Bellanger really was,” Tom said, unfazed.
Cate piped up: “Just don’t forget that we’re human beings with actual lives. I have people to protect.”
“What exactly do you do?” Tom asked. “You’re some kind of doctor?”
“I help women. Whatever that means to them.”
“Just like Josie’s in med school,” Tom said.
“Well, I’m a little less interested in the publicity side of things,” Cate said. “You were appearing on every damn talk show for a while there, Morrow.” I wanted to say that it had been a reasonable number—just three programs—but I bit my tongue. “So you’re following in Bellanger’s footsteps, huh? Experimental embryologist. Just like him.”