Читать книгу Inside Passage - Burt Weissbourd - Страница 6

One

May 2010

Corey lay in bed, liking the briny sea breeze, even the kelp smells. Each morning she took this time to quiet herself. The tightness was still there, though, at the back of her neck. Gingerly, she cracked a trace of a smile. Today the sky was dishwater white; the sea, gray. Blake Island was washed out, dark, dreary, and shrouded in fog. She missed the lush fir-green that came with sunshine, the splendid, somehow reassuring sight of Mount Rainier, topped with glistening snow, looming large beyond the island. It didn’t matter. She had a window, an open window.

Six days earlier Corey Logan had earned her release from FCI Dublin, the Federal Correctional Institution in Dublin, CA. She had done twenty-two months. A condition of her release was three years of probation or “supervised release.” Her probation officer, Dick Jensen, had all kinds of discretionary power, so she intended to be a model supervisee. She could do that.

What she couldn’t imagine was her psychiatric evaluation, today’s business. Before she went to prison, there had been a dependency adjudication for her son Billy in the State Court system. She was his sole guardian, and when she was arrested, Child Protective Services had taken him from her. She had been unable to regain his custody before being sentenced and sent to prison. In order for her to get him back now, she had to go to dependency court to petition for his return. The dependency court required a psychiatric evaluation, parenting classes, and drug testing. She had taken her parenting classes at the pre-release center. The drug testing was a formality; she didn’t do drugs. Now she had to find a psychologist or a psychiatrist on the court approved list who would do the evaluation and let the court know that she was a “fit parent.” Next week she would see Billy, who had turned fifteen while she was in prison. Thinking of Billy made her neck tense up again, even her throat got tight. When she lost custody, they put him in foster homes, moving him often, never telling her why.

That made the shrink even more important.

Corey stared out the window, trying to put Billy out of her mind. Her buoy was wobbling in the wake from the Bremerton ferry. Her eyes settled on her handsome wooden boat.

The Jenny Ann swayed gently at the red and white buoy she had anchored yesterday morning. Her friend Jamie had bought the 1936 hardtop Chris-Craft back for her at auction. Luckily, her boat was old, used, and tainted by the drugs found on board. Still, Jamie had paid $13,400, almost all the money Corey had.

As a child, she and her mom had lived aboard more often than not. In those days the thirty-six-foot wooden cruiser with the green and white trim was called Poseidon.

When her mother died from skin cancer that had spread to her lungs, Corey was seventeen. She was on her own, the last of the Logans. She had painted her mom’s name on the boat herself.

Corey got out of bed and slipped on sweatpants and a Murder City Devils t-shirt. She flashed on Billy telling her it was weird for a grown up to like that band.

She went from her small bedroom with its tiny bath to the larger room that was her kitchen, living, and dining room. A floor-to-ceiling brick fireplace separated her bedroom from the great room. She made coffee, then took her diary from behind a chimney brick. It was bound in worn, nut-brown leather, and she liked the way it felt in her hands. Corey sat at the old plank table in front of her hearth. She rubbed a dark spot in one of the maple planks, then made her morning entry:

Six days. I still wake up scared. Glass-in-the-gut, bone-scraping fear. Nick Season is my waking nightmare. I imagine him killing Al. I hear him threatening Billy. I feel his pick rising through the bottom of my jaw then into the roof of my mouth. The window helps. I stare at the sea and I begin to remember who I am. This is my last chance. I have to stay focused. All I want is to get my boy back. Nothing else matters…

Corey imagined being with Billy again. She could picture little things he did—like tapping his fingertips against the tops of his thighs to the music that was forever playing in his head. He would be a handsome young man now. And he would know his way around; she had made sure of that. She had been on her own too, and she had taught him what was what. He still needed his mom, though. Anyone could understand that. She wondered why she had to see a psychiatrist at all.

Nick Season studied his reflection in a mirror mounted inside his office closet door. He was built like a boxer, a middleweight with a nose that had never been broken and deep black eyes that women noticed. There were splashes of gray at his temples now, and he combed his hair straight back. The gray was just the right touch, he thought, to offset the coolness that occasionally flashed in his eyes. As a young undercover cop, he had let his splendid black mane grow long, and his girlfriend at that time said he looked like a Greek warrior, fierce and merciless. It was the kind of double meaning thing she would say, trying to tell him he was insensitive but afraid he might break her jaw. Nick was just twenty-five then and—he could see it now—still learning to pull the strings on attitude.

His collar was open, and he adjusted the square Greek cross—his father’s legacy—that he wore on a chain around his neck. The silver cross was small, and he liked it centered on his chest. When he was satisfied, Nick practiced his smile. It showed perfect white teeth, softened his sculptured Mediterranean features, and made him look younger than his fifty-four years. He won people over with that smile: this lawyer had a heart.

For the hell of it he took a fighter’s stance, then he was feinting, jabbing left, shadow boxing. Just like that, he was back on Corey Logan.

He stepped up his shadow boxing. It didn’t take his mind off Corey—she was a maddening itch you couldn’t scratch—so he sat down at his desk and buzzed Lester, just once.

Minutes later Lester Burell, his chief legal investigator and the only man he trusted, set the heavy brass handle of his antique wooden cane against Nick’s desk. Because of a game foot, Lester always carried the cane. It went nicely with his crew-cut gray hair, lantern jaw, and his large, gold wire-rimmed glasses. Lester stood, looking down at him. He was six feet four, and his cheap, double-breasted suit hung loosely on his large frame. Lester’s craggy face revealed even less than his rheumy, raisin-colored eyes.

“Corey fuckin’ Logan?” Lester asked.

Sometimes Nick thought Lester could read his mind.

He stared out his window. Nick could see Safeco Field, the Mariners’ light-as-a-feather gem, and the Seahawks’ broad-in-the-beam football stadium right next to it, like a beached whale. He turned back. “Talk with her probation guy. Pay her a visit. Be yourself.” As an afterthought, Nick tried his smile on Lester.

Lester didn’t seem to notice. Then, out of nowhere, the big man snapped, “I hate the mouth on that cooze.”

“That can only help.” Lester, Nick knew, would put her heart in that mouth. It had to be done. Later this month Nick planned to announce his candidacy for state attorney general. Corey Logan was the cloud in that otherwise clear blue sky.

“She worries me,” he added, mostly to himself. In fact, starting today, Corey Logan was a worry he intended to manage.

The ferryboat ride from Bainbridge Island to downtown Seattle takes thirty-five minutes. It was a thing you could count on, Corey knew, pretty much every time. If the ferry was late, it meant the fog was so thick you could catch it in a jar. She thought it was a beautiful ride, even on a cloudy day. When the sky was clear, snow-capped Mount Rainier dwarfed Tacoma in the south, the Olympics rose in the west, and the Cascades framed downtown Seattle to the east. On those days she felt like most things were possible, even now.

Dr. Abraham Stein’s office was near Pioneer Square, an older part of downtown and a tourist destination. It was a short walk from the ferry, and Corey liked the old brick buildings, the street life, the tired-looking bars, even the tourist shops and galleries sprinkled among renovated one-time buck-and-a-quarter hotels. The entrance to Dr. Stein’s dusty brick building was under the viaduct. On the first floor there was a luckless-looking pet store, an antique furniture emporium, and this hole-in-the-wall Chinese take-out. Not what she had expected.

She checked herself out in the restaurant window. Jeans, washed and pressed last night, her tan cotton shirt tucked in. She was lean and her breasts were full. Her curly black hair was cut short. She could just make out the patch of freckles that spread across her nose. She looked good, she decided, except for the work boots, her only shoes. Corey spit into her palm. She raised first one foot then the other onto the door step, polishing her boots as best she could. As an afterthought, she adjusted her watch to cover the tattoo on her wrist, a bracelet braided with turquoise and red strands. The doctor’s office was on the third floor. She looked at the elevator and chose the stairs. She could smell sweet and sour pork, or chicken, she wasn’t sure which.

The waiting room was beige, quiet and tiny. Some magazine she had never heard of—Atlantic Monthly—lay on a dusty coffee table. She sat on a brown corduroy couch. It faced another door. No receptionist. A button-sized light near the inner door was on. The light went off. A burly guy with bushy salt-and-pepper eyebrows opened the door and offered a meaty hand. He was about her age, thirty-eight, maybe a couple of years older, and off-looking, like he didn’t get out much.

“Abe Stein,” he said.

She stood, took his hand. His handshake was firm but formal.

“Corey Logan,” she said.

He didn’t meet her eyes. She couldn’t tell if he was shy, or what. Dr. Stein didn’t care how he looked, she could see that much. His tweed sport coat had a hole in the pocket where something had burned through. His brown wool tie was loose at the collar and hung askew. He showed a large palm, ushering her into his office.

She had supposed that he had let the waiting room go because the office was so great. The office, however, was a plain, badly-lit room, with nothing but this oversized dark oak table and two mismatched chairs sitting right in the middle. On her side of the table there was a worn leather chair, some kind of heirloom. On the far side there was a contemporary high-backed desk chair. Papers were in piles on the table, held down with blackened pipes, pipe racks, and ashtrays. Two open cans of Diet Coke sat on his side of the phone. Beyond the table, wooden blinds covered the windows. Below the blinds the windows were cracked open. She turned. On the wall behind her were two dissimilar paintings. One was colorful and modern. The other, a black and white portrait of a bearded man with glasses in a black suit.

When the doctor offered her the chair, he gave her a polite little half-smile. She decided to stand, keeping her options open.

Dr. Stein leaned his backside against his table, facing her, waiting. Corey toed the carpet; she wasn’t saying boo. No, not until he made some kind of an effort. When he finally spoke, his voice was soft, tentative, as if he was choosing his words carefully.

“We can stand if you’d prefer.”

She shrugged. He was watching her now.

After a long silence, he spoke again. “Are there questions you’d like to ask?”

She tried to think of a question. How about, why was he wearing a wool jacket on such a warm day? She shook her head.

He took a pipe from his desk. Even the outside of the bowl was charred. “Do you mind?” he asked, still watching. His eyes were pale blue, and they were smart eyes.

Corey waved her hand, okay. She wondered what kind of shrink violated the smoking ordinance at the first meeting.

Abe struck a wooden match. He held the match over the bowl and inhaled until smoke began to plume. When he was satisfied, he dropped the match into an ashtray behind him. “Normally—,” he hesitated. “Often, I begin by explaining what I do.”

The guy talked so softly, she had to lean forward to hear him.

“Would that be helpful?”

Corey was watching the match, still burning near a pile of papers where it landed when it slid from the ashtray.

“Is something wrong?” he asked when she didn’t say anything. He was still watching her, intent. His brow was furrowed, and his eyebrows almost touched, like a “V.”

Maybe it was the expression on her face—is this a bad dream?—or perhaps he smelled smoke. Whatever it was, Dr. Stein finally turned to see that his papers had just caught fire. He picked up a can of Diet Coke and doused the flame. Like it was no big thing. A little pool puddled on his desk.

The doctor had just set his stuff on fire. In his own office. And he was used to it. How was a guy like that ever going to evaluate her? How was he going to understand what it was like for her? What it was like to be her? Without a word, she turned and walked out the door, closing it behind her. The button-sized light was on, and a crabbed-faced schoolgirl who had taken her place in the waiting room shot her a withering look.

Morgan Chandler’s hand rested on the back of Billy’s neck. She was making little stroking motions with her fingers. They were at a coffee place off Pike Street, the Blue City Café, where Morgan and her friends hung out drinking complicated coffee drinks. She said it was “sort of sixties,” whatever that meant.

For a laid-back place, Billy thought it was pricey. His friends didn’t mind. He didn’t know where their money came from, but they always had it. When he scored for them, they would pay in advance. Cash.

Betsy, the café’s proprietor, and raconteur, liked to tell anyone who would listen how, in 1988, she had signed a long-term lease on a hunch. That first year she ran a coffee counter—flanked by a tattoo parlor and a biker bar. Now, the main floor walls were exposed fir posts. Secondhand dark oak tables and chairs contrasted nicely with the fir mullions in the windows. There were well-worn, comfortable couches against the walls. In one corner she had built herself a modern kitchen with a tall glass counter where customers could order exotic coffees or choose from an eclectic menu. In an alcove, there was a rack with publications such as The Stranger, Capitol Hill Times, Seattle Gay News, Skill Shot: Seattle’s Pinball Zine, and other carefully chosen alternative periodicals.

“Nice game, Billy,” a pretty ninth grader said as she walked by.

“Thanks.” Billy raised long arms over his head, stretching. He was dark-haired like his mom, and lanky. He looked casually around the café, sizing up who was with whom and what was what. He still wore his select soccer team sweatshirt. He would hide it before he went “home,” the worst place he had been since the King County juvenile detention center or “juvie.” His foster mother had given him a fucking brown banana for breakfast this morning after he had washed all the sheets she took in for money from some old peoples’ home.

The ninth grader turned. “Come to the girl’s game Friday?”

“I’ll try,” he offered. The best thing about his high school was soccer. Because he was good at it, he had been invited to play on the Chargers, an AAU select team. So now he knew all these kids from Olympic. Two of the Chargers starters were a big deal at Olympic. They ruled on who was in and who was out. And these boys wanted to be his friend. They knew that he went to public school, that he knew his way around Capitol Hill and the “Ave,” and that he could get drugs—all of which they thought was cool. They didn’t know where he lived, or how he scored his dope, or that his mom was a convicted felon.

“She likes you,” Morgan whispered, bringing him back.

“I like you,” Billy whispered and gently kissed her lips. He especially liked how she was so sure of herself. And how she always knew what was the next big thing. Sometimes he was right there. Say with music, a thing he knew about. Other times he just didn’t get what she and her friends were talking about. They would totally lose him on computer software, or new apps, or $75 designer t-shirts that he thought came from Value Village. Morgan said it didn’t matter. What did matter was that she liked him. She had decided that he was really hot—kind of “radical,” whatever that meant—and with these people, somehow that made it so. He wasn’t exactly sure why she thought he was so sexy. Or why she thought it was cool to know funky streets like Pine, or sleep under the freeway. He made a steeple with his long fingers, thinking now about the evening. She would want to do something edgy, maybe get high and check out the Ave, and he would be out late. He would work it out so one of the guys would invite him to stay over. If he had to, he would stay at a squat he knew near the U.

So what if his foster mother got mad. So what? His real mom was out now, and she could deal with his foster mother. Or try to anyhow. It was about time his mom got the picture. Thinking about her made him tense up. She had really fucked things up. So he had learned to live without her.