Paper Daughter (14 page)

And thoughts I wanted to tell her, too, like ... iike that I was glad she'd loved Dad.

I pictured her going to school that morning, eager to teach Chaucer. Dad used to tease about having to share her affections with a writer dead for six hundred years, who wasn't even Chinese.

One time he'd added, "But I can live with the competition. It's April. The weather's fine, and Maggie and I are taking off for the afternoon."

Before we left, he set things up for Mom to celebrate spring lounging in our hammock under sweet-smelling trees in blossom, drinking iced tea, and listening to a recording of the
Canterbury Tales.

Her "When in April" day had become a tradition, like my ocean birthdays.

Dad knew her so well,
I thought. And they'd loved each other so much it had been almost embarrassing.

Now I was glad they had, I thought, as I considered where my search might go next.

I'd already made more progress than I could have reasonably hoped for in one day. Now I'd have to find out who to contact to learn more. Figure out how to approach them, because if I did it wrong, I'd be told individual files were private. But I had something solid to go on now: a school and attendance years. That had to be a key to a lot.

But it was still too overwhelming—the school yearbook and what Mr. Ames said—for me to return to the computer and start right in again.

Instead I turned on the television and flipped through channels. I stopped at the 4:00 p.m. news because I heard my high school mentioned—some of the streets near it were being designated one-way.

Short items followed: a grocery store in violation of health codes, proposed restrictions on lawn watering. And then there was a fast summary of the Galinger story, along with the additional information that Ralph Galinger was wanted by authorities for questioning.

"Also," the piece ended, "police have intensified their investigation into the shooting death of Planning Department employee Donald Landin and are looking at possible connections to the hit-and-run killing of journalist Steven Chen."

Hearing Dad's name broadcast like that made me bite my lip so hard I drew blood.

I wished I'd never pointed out that Dad's death happened close to where Landin died, and on the same day. Maybe nobody would have noticed.

Besides, it really didn't matter now whether Dad had been in the International District area because he'd become lost avoiding traffic, the way police figured, or because he was working the Galinger story himself. Knowing wouldn't bring him back.

What made me angry was the careless way the TV news people had worded the story. "Connections." That made it sound like Dad was a suspect in the crime.

They should have made it clear that investigators were just interested in knowing whether he was there because he was a working reporter. Where did the TV people get off using a loaded word like
connections
? Dad had covered crimes sometimes. But he didn't connect to them, get entangled in them, become involved.

Not my Dad, who was honest as...

I started to phone the
Herald
but got my car keys instead. I was more likely to get answers if I asked my questions in person.

After a frustratingly slow beginning-of-rush-hour drive later, I got to the newspaper. From the lobby I could see that Harrison wasn't at his desk, and I asked the receptionist if she knew whether he was in the building.

She told me, "I saw him go downstairs not long ago."

I found him coming out of the business office, muttering about a messed-up paycheck. "But what are you doing here?" he asked.

"I came to see you. The TV news had something about Galinger, and the way they talked about Dad ... What's going on?"

"You shouldn't be here," Harrison said. "You're off the story."

"I know," I told him, and I waited.

Finally, looking reluctant, he said, "Some of it will be in tomorrow's paper anyway. Investigators going through Yeager's bank records found the payments to Landin. The checks were made out to cash, but Yeager had noted 'Plan. Dept.' on the copies, and the amounts tied to deposits in Landin's bank account."

"So?" I said. "That just backs up what we guessed."

Harrison looked away for a moment before meeting my eyes again. "Yeager didn't write many checks for cash, and the only other large one in recent months had the notation 'News' on the copy. Which opens up the possibility that someone in the news media was aware of what Yeager and Galinger were doing and was taking money to cover it up."

"You mean, like a bribe. Or blackmail."

"One or the other."

"But they don't know who?"

"No."

As the potential meaning of that hit me, I felt the blood drain from my cheeks. My dad, mixed up with Yeager and Galinger?
Impossible.

"And so," I said, "because Dad was a reporter, instead of thinking he might have been working, everyone's assuming—"

"Not everyone. And not assuming," Harrison said. "Considering."

Impossible,
I thought again.

Maybe Dad had lied about his family. Lied about who he was, even to Mom and me. Maybe he'd lied about other stuff, too. There was still one thing I knew without a doubt.

"My father would not have taken a bribe or blackmail over a story," I said. "He cared about journalism too much." I paused, needing Harrison to understand. "Being a newsman was who Dad
was.
"

Again I halted for a moment, realizing I'd said something important that I'd need to examine, but not right then.

"And besides," I went on, "he was a hundred percent honest about money. One time I bragged about a store giving me a dollar too much in change, and he made me return it and apologize."

Harrison smiled, though he looked serious, too. "You don't have to sell me," he said. "I believe you."

"But what can I do?" I asked.

"Wait it out. When Galinger's picked up, one of the first things he'll be asked is the identity of anyone Yeager paid off."

"And if Galinger doesn't say? Or—"

I bit down on my lip, reopening the cut where I'd bitten down earlier. "Or what if he doesn't know? What if this person never gets caught?"

Harrison didn't answer, but he didn't need to.

"Then," I said, "the possibility that Dad was corrupt might hang out there forever. And when people think about Dad, that's what they'll remember. That's not right."

"No," Harrison agreed. "That's the worst thing about the news. Totally innocent people sometimes get hurt."

I stared at him, feeling helpless and remembering that he'd said that before. The thing was, before, we hadn't been talking about my father.

***

Mom came home still happy about teaching Chaucer, so I knew she hadn't heard the news.

"We need to talk," I said, following her into the living room. "You remember the story I was working on earlier this week?"

"The corruption scandal. Of course," she said, settling into a chair. "What about it?"

"Dad's name has come up. It's because his accident happened not far from where the Planning Department employee was shot, and on the same day."

Mom paled as she took that in. "Do they think your father was working on the story?"

"It's a possibility," I said. "I think the police will look into a lot of angles, and—"

I didn't know how to get started. Driving home after talking to Harrison, I'd realized I couldn't keep Dad's secret any longer. If investigators focused on Dad, there was no telling what they might learn and ask Mom about. And I didn't want her blindsided.

"I think," I finally said, "if police do go poking into Dad's affairs, they may find an identity issue. Regarding who his parents were—and some other stuff."

Mom regarded me as though she wondered if I was losing my mind. "Whatever are you talking about? Your grandmother and grandfather Chen were his parents. You know that."

"I
thought
I knew it," I said. "But..."

And then slowly, trying to give Mom time to absorb each piece, I explained about reading his notes and then about all the phone calls I'd made. "So Dad really was from a different family than—"

"That's preposterous," she broke in. "Even more ridiculous than that prep school letting its computer lose track of him. And, I'll point out, you got that mistake corrected."

"Mom," I said, "that's not
exactly
what I told you. I just said the school's records are right now."

"Don't mince words with me. Where is this notebook you read? I want to see it."

I wanted to cry with frustration at her and at myself and at how stupid I'd been, throwing Dad's notes away. "I don't have it anymore," I said. "But what I've said is true, and you need to think about what the police might find if they do start investigating Dad."

This time she heard the other half of what I was saying. Looking at me incredulously, she demanded, "Why would they ... You're not suggesting they think your father might have been involved in anything illegal? That is absolutely the most outrageous—"

"I don't know what they think," I said. "But I know you need to believe me."

"Well, I don't. And I've no idea what's come over you, to make all this up."

"I'm not making anything up," I said. "Just—"

I tried to guess when the lies might have started for her. "Tell me about getting to know Dad."

"That has nothing to do with—"

"Please," I said.

Finally she said, "You've heard it before. I was teaching high school in the Texas town where I grew up, and he moved there to take a job on the newspaper."

"But how did you actually meet?" I asked. "Did someone introduce you? Or set you up for a date?"

"No. He came out to the school to cover a drama club production I had been in charge of."

"Did you have any common friends who knew him before he moved to town?"

"Of course not. He was from up north."

"And later on," I continued, "why did you elope instead of having a regular wedding?"

"Oh, for heaven's sake!" Mom exclaimed. "We wanted to get married, not put on a party. And Steven's parents were no longer living. He said a wedding without them would have made him sad."

The corner of Mom's mouth had begun twitching, and I felt awful for what I was doing to her. But I couldn't see a choice.

"Mom, the corruption story is out there and expanding."

"A story you helped with!" she said.

"Yes, and I wish I hadn't, because I'm afraid Dad's going to get caught up in it. Actually, because I'm afraid he already is."

By now Mom was holding herself so rigidly that her body trembled. "I don't want to hear any more. And don't tell me I don't know who my husband was!"

She punched the padded arm of her chair. "Don't tell me!" she said. And then, "I won't have it!" Her eyes glistened with tears. "Whatever you think you've found out, forget it."

And then she hit the chair again. "I won't have it! I won't."

Later that night, I lingered in the hall outside her room. "I'm sorry," I said. "I never should have kept things secret from you. But at first I thought that if no one else knew, it would be like I didn't, either. And then—"

Mom waved away the rest of what I wanted to tell her: how I'd decided I wanted the truth for myself. Her voice husky, she said, "It's been a long day. Go to bed."

"I didn't make any of it up," I said. "You can call the high school yourself. And talk to Mr. Ames."

"No more," Mom said. "Just go to bed."

***

Later still, looking up into darkness, I thought again how stupid I'd been tearing up Dad's notes. If I hadn't, at least I'd have had them to show to her.

Though I didn't know what good that really would have done. It wouldn't have answered all the questions he'd left behind. Questions that stretched back decades. Questions from the day he got killed.

I wanted to believe there were good answers for all of them, and I did believe there was a good explanation for what he was doing by the International District that afternoon—one that had nothing to do with taking part in anything wrong.

I just wanted the explanation to be something more provable than a guess he'd gotten lost. A reason that had nothing to do with Donald Landin.

Suddenly understanding some of how Mom had felt hitting that chair arm, I sat up, grabbed a pillow, and hurled it across room as hard as I could. It thumped on the wall behind my dresser, and I heard something fall and then glass break. My framed picture of Dad with Mom and me.

I grabbed the other pillow and hurled it at my closet.

"Maggie?" Mom said from the doorway. "What's going on?"

"Nothing," I said.

The hall lamp cast a long rectangle of light on the pillows and broken picture on the floor.

Mom looked at them a moment. Then she nodded and went back to her room.

***

Much, much later I reached down to pet Pepper, asleep on her cushion beside my bed.

"What do you think, pup?" I whispered to my old friend, who could hardly be further from her puppy days. "Why did Dad tell the first lie, letting Mom think he'd come from a well-off family, when he hadn't? Because he was afraid of losing Mom the way he did that college girlfriend?"

I could understand that, and I could understand, too, how once that first lie was told, he'd have to maintain it.

But why had he let the story grow with prep schools? Museum boards? Family heirlooms like my jade ring?

Because each lie had led to a question that took a bigger lie to answer?

Pepper whined and nudged my hand so I'd keep on petting her.

"Yeah, that's also what I wonder, girl," I said. "After so many years, why did he go looking for the truth now, if that was really what he did?"

All I could do was guess.

Maybe his conscience had finally gotten to him. Perhaps at the banquet where he'd received that last award, all the praise for his integrity had laid on more guilt than he could stand.

Or maybe he'd just thought it was finally time when our family could survive the truth, provided the truth didn't turn out to be too awful. He and Mom were solid, and I was no longer a kid.
All's well with the Chens,
he'd signaled, driving away that last time we ever saw him.