Epilogue (Jack)

Stella’s laughter wakes Sofia, who immediately takes possession of my finger. And puts it in her mouth.

“You’re too young to be teething.”

Sofia coos and giggles.

“Wanna see what your mother finds so funny?”

No, she doesn’t. She wants to gum my finger to death, and kick me a little bit while she’s at it. Same as every day.

Stella steps out on the terrace, still in her robe. She’s shaking her head, like she can’t quite believe what she’s seeing—a postcard, from the looks of it.

“What’ve you got there?”

“Trade you?” She holds out her arms for Sofia, and we make the exchange. “Take a good look—anything ring a bell?”

It’s a home-printed postcard—light cardstock, not the stiff commercial stuff. There’s an amateurish shot of a lush green valley giving way, in the distance, to bone-white beach. Looks like it was taken from someone’s crappy, falling-down porch, complete with—

“Holy shit. Are those...? No fucking way!” There’s a birdcage off to the side, with a pair of lovebirds cuddling on the perch.

“Turn it over.”

I flip the postcard. The message is brief: Thought you were dead. Took these. Not bringing them back. —S

It’s postmarked Western Samoa.

“So... Starkey stole your birds?”

“Saved them, too.” She boops Sofia’s nose. “Yes, he did!”

“So he’s alive, out there....” When the weeks turned to months, and the cops never caught him, I figured Magnus must’ve done the job. It’s a relief to know he made it. Didn’t need him on my conscience too. “Can’t believe that guy. Blows my childhood friend away right in front of my face, gets in touch after almost a year, and what’s he got to say for himself? ‘Ha-ha; I took your birds’.”

“It’s not even addressed to you.”

I glance at the postcard again. She’s right: it reads Stella Brightman only. “He really hates me.”

“That he does.” Stella snuggles up next to me on the bench. “But I think he’d like you better if he met you now.”

Hope so. I’d say I’m shaping up. In the last six months, I’ve wrapped up my court-ordered community service and kept going on my own steam, invested more in veterans’ charities than in real estate, and decorated Sofia’s nursery. Even built the crib with my own two hands. Might not make up for how I got here, but it’s a start.

The sun’s all the way up now, casting a warm light over the terrace. Late summer’s always been my favorite time of year, those long, lazy days. Not too hot, not too rainy. Perfect. Though.... “Shouldn’t you be getting ready?”

Stella sighs. “Don’t want to leave her yet.” She leans down to kiss Sofia’s nose. “Feels like I miss something every time I walk out that door.”

“It’s only a couple of hours.”

“Two hours a day add up! In a year, that’s... That’s an entire month’s worth of hours not spent with her!”

It can’t be that much. I try to do the math in my head, get distracted by Sofia’s laughter, and lose the thread. “Yeah, well, your loss is my gain.” I pluck the baby from her arms, over her protests. “Go on—the sooner you go, the sooner—”

“The sooner she’ll, I don’t know...sit up on her own.”

“Not in the next two hours, she won’t.”

Sofia gets fretful when she hears the front door. Somehow, she’s already connected that sound with Stella being out of reach. I tickle her, but she’s in her angry kitten mode, all bitey and violent. That’s going to suck in a few months.

“Want to watch Mommy on TV?”

Sofia kicks me hard.

“C’mon. Let’s go in.” I queue up the DVR to last night’s show and fast-forward through the boring parts.

And now...Countess BeeBee’s New York minute!

“See? There she is!” I point at Stella’s image, all made up and glittery, dripping with costume jewelry.

Well, today, New York City’s a bit New York Sh...oops! Can’t say that on TV! But a ruptured sewer line caused quite a stink at Ghislaine Broussard’s landmark gallery opening, ironically titled...oh, dear—Movement. Well, Ghislaine, the tide of public opinion is in, and it’s a steaming river of poo.

“Hear that, Sofia? Poo.”

Sofia reaches for the TV, tiny hands flailing.

In more hygienic news, this rat’s found his own private shower. Too bad it’s in Rose and Rita’s Kitchen, over on Ninth! Ladies, unless that’s Ratatouille... Invest in a Cat-atouille.

The camera cuts to a clip of an exceptionally fat rat darting in and out of a stream of water dribbling from a leaky faucet.

“Can you say rat?”

Sofia says blah. Good enough.

Finally, in fashion triumphs and tragedies, what is the Mayor wearing? Is that—is that a persimmon? One of those special garbage bags, just for leaves? Donald Trump’s tanning towel? Darlings, this orange offence constitutes the highest of tragedies. Better luck next time, sir. I’m Countess BeeBee, and this has been your New York minute! Till next time!

Stella waves and smiles, and the news logo expands to cover her face. She acts embarrassed, but I can tell when she’s having fun. This job suits her, for now: gives her all the time she needs to be a mother. And to finish her book—think it’s nearly done. I never did stop sneaking peeks.

In my lap, Sofia starts fussing again. I rewind the video: one more time won’t hurt. After that, a bath and a story, just in time for Stella to take over. Whatever Starkey might think, this is working. Stella’s happy; Sofia’s thriving. As they should be.

If I can do this right, maybe the rest can be forgiven.