Chapter 12

The land clearance went faster than Emerson could have hoped, but the construction went dismally slow. There were two days of unseasonable rain that halted progress altogether, and Mei went to stay with her sister while Emerson stayed at the motel. Every day he drove hopefully up to the site of his new home, eager to see signs of improvement. But to his eyes, the changes were happening at a snail’s pace.

As promised, Dawson, the architect, had drawn up a second set of plans that moved the fountain from the living room to the front half-moon drive. Emerson found he rather liked the idea of it, and the surrounding drought-resistant palms the landscaper had promised. He couldn’t yet envision anything except the semicircular driveway, as that had been clearly laid out for the construction trucks to bustle in and out of. There were already deep grooves where their tires had cut multiple paths in the same area. He liked to see the workman walking back and forth talking about things, and he was especially cheered whenever Dawson turned up to talk about his creative vision for the tiny palace.

It wasn’t really going to be as large of a house as his mother’s. Emerson had more modest ambitions, but he wanted contemporary comfort that was unlike any of her floral patterned wallpapers and hideous chair doilies. He took great pride in picking out a camel granite countertop he knew would have made her cringe, but was very like the suede arms on Michael’s letterman’s jacket. It made him smile to think of his brother, and wistful at the thought that he could love someone he knew so little and hate someone he knew so well.

Some days he would stand on the spot where his terrace would be, the one that would overlook the orchard, and coincidentally, ShayAnne’s house, and breathe deeply, feeling a tranquility he’d rarely known in his youth. He liked to watch the tops of the trees sway in the gentle breezes, hearing the distant call of the migrant pickers who laughed from branch to branch. It made him think of happy times both past and future, and he looked forward each day with renewed anticipation to the completion of his house.

Mei introduced him to the wonders of an all you can eat salad bar restaurant and he began to haunt it regularly. She would join him, sometimes bringing her sister for added company. On rare occasion he saw Marqi, and she was always cheerful, if more subdued than he recalled her personality as being.

Finally on the day the concrete foundation was being poured, a puncture appeared in the pancake of his happiness. The private detective, Joel Messina, showed up at his motel room looking indubitably disdainful of the surroundings. They sat opposite each other on the beds and the man began.

“Well, it’s a good news, bad news sort of scenario,” the detective sighed.

“Meaning?” Emerson said, pulling a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. He slipped one between his lips and waited while lighting it.

“I’ve found out what happened to Marilyn, the prostitute your brother ran off with,” he said. “She died around twenty years ago. She’s buried near Black Bottom River, a tiny cemetery of plots outside of a church that’s been abandoned for probably just as long.”

The man pulled a sheaf of photographs from his suit pocket and handed them to Emerson. Emerson looked at the headstone in disbelief. “This says Marilyn Thorne.”

“That’s right,” Messina said, clasping his hands together in his lap.

“But… I don’t understand. Did she take my brother’s name to try to legitimize the pregnancy?” Emerson asked.

“No. No,” the investigator said, taking a long envelope from his pocket. “There’s a marriage certificate from the same church. They were married. Legally she was Marilyn Thorne.”

“Oh, my God,” Em said. “So my mother was too late to stop the wedding…”

“It would seem so,” Messina agreed. “They were married only a few days before he died. There were no accompanying announcements, and this was pretty hard to dig up. In fact, it was damn near impossible.”

“What do you mean?” Emerson asked.

“Well, I mean, the marriage license was never filed by the church. It was found in a lockbox among the old parish master’s things when he died three months ago. It was purely by coincidence that I found it at all.”

Emerson nodded, still processing the idea that his brother had had a wife. “So… they were technically married, but not legally.”

“Well, if the document had been filed with the state, it would have been a legal marriage,” Messina informed him. “It was performed by a licensed member of the clergy, and they did have a license from the state to wed; it was simply never filed after the wedding itself.”

Emerson looked at the date on the aging certificate. “This was only two days before Michael’s death.”

“That’s right. If it had been filed the following Monday when the county offices were open again…”

“Marilyn would have been heir to fifty percent of my father’s estate,” Emerson concluded.

“Correct.”

He sat and stared blankly at the form in his hands. He had more questions. “How long after this did Marilyn die?”

“It’s unknown really,” Messina said, spreading his hands. “Only the year was listed on her gravestone, and the death certificate was never filed.”

“The lack of appropriate legal paperwork is starting to wear on my nerves,” Emerson confessed. The detective nodded sympathetically.

“So… the baby.”

“Yes,” Messina said, returning to business. “The baby was born and legally adopted in another county; in Jasmine Falls. Unfortunately the adoption records are sealed, and there is only one reason a judge would consider a break in that seal, and that would be for dire medical reasons.”

“I see,” Emerson said. He took a drag of his cigarette and exhaled deeply. “It appears we’ve hit a dead end then.”

He dropped the certificate of marriage on the bed beside the photos of the headstone and looked vacantly out the window.

“Yes, I’m afraid so,” the man concluded quietly.

“Shall we presume our business is completed, then?” Emerson said, taking out his wallet. He paid the man in cash, and Messina thanked him with a handshake.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t do more, but if anything new turns up, I promise I’ll be in touch.”

“Thank you,” Emerson said, rising to show the man out.

Once he was alone again, Em pondered the state of things two decades ago. Two decades ago his brother had vowed to and then wed a hooker. Had his mother tried to stop the wedding? Had she been present for the nuptials? Emerson tried vainly to remember the time frame, but around that time, his mother had become excessively obsessed with buying Emerson frilly dresses and convincing him that he was a boy. This line of thought made his head hurt very quickly and he took another cigarette out to steady his nerves. He flopped down on the bed and picked up another photo of the headstone. He wished he had a picture of Marilyn instead; perhaps it would help him imagine what their child would have looked like. He or she would only be six or seven years younger than Emerson himself.

And wherever this child was, Emerson felt guilty for inadvertently denying him or her his birthright.

Chapters