Chapter 6 - Conversation.

“Are you sure this will work?” I asked while trying to figure out how to use the Google Voice app that Daph had set up on my phone that morning.

“Yes. I’m sure.” She grabbed the device out of my hands and tapped at the screen with efficient motions for a few seconds until I heard her phone begin to ring. “See, you just call my phone using the new Google Voice number I set up for you and then hit this button to record.” She showed the button she tapped to start the recording. “I’ll have my phone on speaker so you can pick up everything Joan says on my end. That way we’ll have a record of the entire conversation.”

“I think you like all this spy gadgetry way too much, Daph.”

“Come on. You’ve got to admit it’s pretty cool what technology can do these days, right?” she pressed.

I just shrugged. Daphne knew I wasn’t exactly a technophile like she was. I had more of a love/hate relationship with all the gadgets of modern day life. Now, if we were talking about graphic art applications, then I was all in favor of tech. But being tethered to a digital tracking device like a cell phone, so that I could be interrupted at all times of the day or night even when I was in the middle of a painting or some other burst of creativity that I didn’t want disrupted, that was a whole ‘nother thing. Daph, on the other hand, loved her phone more than pretty much anything else in the world and was always regaling me with the latest, greatest app that could do wondrous things. 

“Just don’t say anything,” she reminded me for, like, the fiftieth time, “or Joan will twig that we’re onto her.”

“I promise to keep the call muted on my end.”

“Okay. Here I go. Wish me luck.” Daphne giggled.

“Luck, Daph.” 

I watched my very own Nancy Drew Wannabe take out the steno notebook she’d brought along as part of her disguise and then march down the sidewalk towards the modest, slightly-dilapidated, clapboard-sided house. 

From where I was sitting in Daphne’s car, parked a little ways down the street so that Mrs. Kinney couldn’t see me, the house didn’t look like much. It was just one of those non-descript tract homes built in the sixties and seventies for the burgeoning middle class. It was small by modern standards but probably adequate for a family of four. There was a two car garage on the south side of the front door. To the north it looked like there were at least two bedrooms facing the front of the property; the master bedroom probably faced the back. I couldn’t discern the rest of the house’s layout from the outside. Since it was built on a bit of a slope, the basement probably had some light coming in from the back, which was better than most houses of that era could boast. 

Unfortunately, the current occupant hadn’t kept the property up very well, so it was kind of the eyesore of the block. The pea-green paint had faded and the lighter cream trim paint was peeling in places. There was no landscaping to speak of, just a large plot of grass that had several swathes of dead brown across it. Apparently the owners had given up on gardening and both the circular bed in the middle of the lawn as well as the long bed under the front windows had been filled in with rocks. The few remaining evergreen shrubs that were still in place were overgrown; the one closest to the door almost blocking entry. 

Bottomline, the place didn’t give off very hospitable vibes. But what did I know? I was a rich kid from the suburbs and more than a little biased. For all I knew, the interior might be a regular Taj Mahal. Maybe.

I didn’t have long to contemplate this possibility, though, because right then I heard the doorbell ringing via my phone connection to Daphne and I had to pay attention to what was going on.

“May I help you?” a papery-thin voice came across the Google Voice line. 

From where I was sitting in the passenger seat of Daphne’s car, I could just barely see my friend standing on the front porch of the house next to the previously-mentioned overgrown bush. I couldn’t see the person who’d answered the door at all. But, even though I had only met the woman twice, both times for very brief intervals, I could still clearly see her face in my memory, along with that prudish, disapproving frown she always wore. The sound of her voice immediately brought to mind the woman’s tall, spare stature, the mushroom grey hair, and the pinched face. And, judging by the way that initial greeting had sounded - slightly slurred - I imagined that the woman who’d come to the door to meet Daphne was also probably sporting bloodshot red eyes.

“Mrs. Kinney? I’m Dee Dee Prescott,” Daphne announced her alter-ego. “We spoke on the phone.”

“Ah, yes, I remember now,” Mrs. Kinney replied, although she sounded more than a little confused still. 

“You did say I could come over this morning so I could interview you for the piece I’m doing for the Pittsburgh Business Journal,” Daph reminded her. 

“Of course. Please come in.”

I watched as my friend disappeared around the bush, presumably entering into the house behind it’s owner. I sent Daphne a pulse of good luck vibes. I was glad it was her entering the lioness’ den and not me.  

“Can I offer you something? Water or . . . I could put on a pot of coffee I suppose,” Mrs. Kinney offered, somehow making it sound like the provision of beverages would be an incredibly taxing affair.

“No, thank you,” Daphne demurred like the polite young woman she was raised to be. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to get right to the point of my visit. I’m on a bit of a deadline, you understand?”

“Well, I’ve never been interviewed by a reporter before,” Joan Kinney voiced her reluctance. “I’m sure I don’t know why anyone would want to talk to me.”

“I promise not to pry too much, Mrs. Kinney,” my faux-reporter promised. “As I told you when we spoke yesterday, I’m working on an article for the local business journal about the personal lives of some of the city’s most prominent new business moguls. A ‘What Makes Them Tick’ piece, if you will. And, as the mother of Brian Kinney, owner of Kinnetik Advertising and one of brightest new stars in the local business world, I’m hoping you can give me some important insight here.” I could hear the flattery dripping from Daphne’s lips and hoped that Joan wasn’t as good at detecting the falseness of that tone as I was. “I mean, as Brian’s mother, you, more than probably anyone else out there, are responsible for your son’s current success. If you hadn’t instilled in him the integrity, decisiveness, and drive that Brian Kinney has made a cornerstone of his business leadership agenda, he wouldn’t be one of the city’s movers and shakers today. Am I right?”

“Well . . . Quite.” Joan sounded a bit flustered at first but then covered it up nicely as she continued. “I always did strive to instill in him a sense of duty and good, solid Christian values. Not that it was easy, mind you. Brian was always a difficult child, you know. He was forever getting into trouble when he was younger. There was a time when I almost despaired of the boy ending up as some kind of juvenile delinquent. But, thankfully, after my husband, Jack, got transferred, and we moved here from Philadelphia, Brian turned himself around and found his way. I credit the Monsignor at St. Paul’s; he was such a comfort to me when we first relocated here. He took both my children under his wing right away. After that, Brian started to do much better in school and his commitment to the Catholic faith was renewed. Praise the Lord.”

I could tell by the way Daphne hesitated at that point - seeing as she was usually the most glib person you'd ever meet in your life - that she had no idea how to respond to such an epic level of bullshit. Nobody who’d ever met Brian Kinney would describe him as the least bit religious. It was virtually unthinkable to imagine him ‘renewing his commitment to the Catholic faith’. To listen to him now, describing himself as a ‘recovering Catholic’ and ranting about the horrors and hypocrisies of the church, you’d never believe Brian had ever been counted as a ‘believer’. Joan was either deluding herself or lying. I suspected she was going to have to do a shit ton of penance later that afternoon once she’d confessed to her priest about all the ‘bearing false witness’ that had gone on in this interview. 

“I see,” Daphne finally found her voice and continued on with the ‘interview’ as best she could. “So, when was it that you moved here to Pittsburgh and this . . . Transformation . . . Happened?”

“I believe it was the summer just before Brian started High School,” Joan answered after a thoughtful pause. “Yes, because I remember that my daughter, Claire - who’s two and half years older than her brother - was quite upset that she was having to transfer just as she was starting her senior year. Poor dear. She was just devastated to leave her old school. Claire had been quite popular back in Philadelphia and it was so hard for her to start all over when we moved here.”

I was glad that I’d muted my end of the phone call then because I couldn’t help the chuckle that comment evoked. Brian had told me all about how ‘popular’ Claire had been in high school . . . At least with the male population of the school. Her younger brother claimed he was surprised she hadn’t gotten pregnant before her senior year. It was probably for the best, though, since she’d managed to graduate before the pregnancy that resulted in her first marriage had become obvious. From what I understood, Claire’s graduation in June was followed just two weeks later by a quickie wedding to the father of the child that was born only four months later. Such good Catholic values, right?

While I was laughing quietly to myself, Joan had carried on, rhapsodizing about her daughter and Claire’s two boys and how wonderful they all were . . . Until Daphne finally managed to get a word in edgewise and refocus the woman on the real subject of the purported interview. “So, you say that Brian did much better in school once you moved here to Pittsburgh? Is that right? And he stopped getting in trouble?”

“Yes. That’s right. After that the boy really started to apply himself, although even then he was trying. That boy is just so stubborn . . .”

“Well, stubborn can be good, right? I mean, that’s something that you want to see in a business leader. You want someone with persistence and drive,” Daphne hypothesized.

“I suppose,” Joan conceded. “But it wasn’t easy for me, as his mother. And, as the good book says, moderation in all things. After all, too much stubbornness borders on the sin of pride.”

Daphne, apparently, didn’t want to waste time debating theology with Mrs. Kinney, and so she let that statement pass without comment. “Okay . . . Besides what we’ll call instilling Christian values, was there anything else you did while your son was younger that you think helped him succeed later in life?” Daph paused but Mrs. Kinney didn’t speak up to fill in the blank she’d left so the faux-reporter offered a few helpful prompts. “For instance, maybe you helped tutor him in his school work or made a habit of taking him to museums to foster his sense of curiosity or . . . Or maybe you encouraged him to play sports?”

“Oh, yes. My husband, Jack, was a huge sports fan all his life,” Joan piped up immediately when offered the right bait. “Jack, himself, played a bit of football when he was younger and he always said there was nothing that built character like being part of a team.”

“So, you encouraged Brian to play sports then?”

“Well, yes. Although, in the end, the boy didn’t really have the aptitude for football or any REAL sports, I’m afraid. He just didn’t have the build for it, you know. Brian takes after my side of the family; my father had the same tall, thin build. Not like Jack’s family. All of the boys on that side of the family are built like pitbulls. But, even though Jack kept trying to push Brian that way, the boy couldn’t hack it. Eventually Jack relented and agreed to let Brian play soccer instead. It was a much better fit, I think. Brian did quite well at that game. He played all the way through school from peewee through college. He even got a scholarship to Penn State, you know.”

“Yeah. I had heard something about that,” Daphne replied, clearly trying to keep any hint of excitement out of her voice now that she’d finally maneuvered Joan in the direction we’d wanted her to go. “They say athletics are a great way for children to learn teamwork and problem-solving skills. So, tell me more about that. Was your son good at soccer? Do you remember what teams he played on or any awards he won? Who were his coaches; were there any that stood out as mentors to Brian as he grew up?”

“That was so long ago,” Joan quibbled. “I’m not sure I remember that much about it. I, myself, wasn’t very involved with that sort of thing. I’m far too busy with my church duties, you know . . . Let’s see . . . All I recall is that Brian played all through school; he was constantly running off somewhere for a soccer game or practice or whatever. Every time I asked him to do anything - his chores or whatever - the boy would tell me that he couldn’t because he had to go to some sports thing or another. He was even on this special team that travelled around a lot on the weekends. I don’t remember what they called it, but I do seem to recall that they wanted Brian to play on their team so badly that they arranged to have all the costs for the uniforms and equipment and travel covered and we didn’t have to pay out a penny. I remember that because Jack and I had a bit of an argument about it at the time. Jack was against accepting any kind of charity but I didn’t see any harm in it and it kept the boy out of trouble. Well, mostly. Luckily that coach talked Jack into it and after that it was a done deal . . .”

“What coach?” Daph pounced on the factoid we wanted more than anything.

“Oh, I’m sure I don’t remember the man’s name. It was so long ago. All I remember was that the man was ridiculously young and rather good looking. And so polite too,” Joan mused, then added. “He always seemed quite fond of Brian and was such a help. He took it on himself to drive that boy everywhere, always picking him up to take him to games and offering to give him special training . . .”

“You’re sure you don’t remember this coach’s name?” Daphne pressed. “Because if this guy really was as big a part of Brian’s life as you say, I’d love to interview him too. I’m sure he could give me even more background on what drives Brian to excel.”

There was a longish pause and, in my mind, I could see Joan struggling through the fog of five decades of alcohol consumption to find the missing name. “No. I’m sorry. For the life of me I just can’t call it to mind.”

“That’s too bad.” Daphne sounded as disappointed as I felt. 

And then, out of the blue, Joan Kinney came through like a trooper. “I don’t know if it will help, but I think I still have a box of memorabilia from Brian’s soccer days up in his old room. There’s a ton of photos and award certificates and other junk in there. I’m sure there might be something in there with that coach’s name on it. You’re welcome to go through it if you like.”

“Really? That sounds perfect!” I could hear the enthusiasm in Daphne’s voice mirroring my own. At last we’d have some proof to back up our suspicions.  

Joan directed the erstwhile reporter to follow her and I listened in as the pair walked down the hallway toward what the old woman explained was her son’s bedroom. “We mostly only use it for storage these days, although my grandsons sleep there when they come over on occasion.” I heard a door creak open and then some vague rustling noises. “Now, let me think. Where did I put that box . . . Aha! Here it is.” There was a noise of something heavy being dropped onto a surface. “Yes. This is the one.”

“Wow! These are great, Mrs. Kinney. Look at all these pictures of Brian. He looks like a real soccer star here.”

“Quite,” Joan replied in a disinterested tone. “That coach of his was a bit of a photography enthusiast, you see, which explains all these. That young man was always giving me pictures he’d taken of Brian and the other boys. I don’t have any idea why you’d want to take so many pictures of boys just running around on a field, but there you have it . . .” I could hear more muted noises that sounded like papers being shuffled around. “I always meant to do something with all these - put them in an album or something - but I just never got around to it.”

“There’s certainly a lot here. You’d need more than one album to hold all this.” Daph’s voice sounded muffled, like maybe she was already digging into the box of memorabilia and the cardboard was muffling her words. “Do you know if there are any pictures of that coach? What about this one? Is this the guy?”

“Oh! Yes. That’s him,” Joan sounded pleased that she could identify the man. “I still can’t remember his name, I’m afraid, but that is definitely the right guy.”

“Great! I’m sure I can track him down with this if I put my mad reporter skills to work,” Daphne laughed deprecatingly. “Do you mind if I borrow a few of these photos? I might even use one or two in the piece I’m writing.”

“Go right ahead; I have no use for them anymore. In fact, take the whole box if you like,” Joan offered magnanimously. 

“You’re sure?” Daphne sounded uncertain. “You don’t think your son would like to keep this stuff for himself?”

“Pish,” Joan insisted, totally dismissive of Brian’s desires, her voice sounding even more slurred than before. “Brian, that ungrateful wretch, hasn’t shown any interest in remembering his past - or his mother - in a long, long time. If he had wanted any of this, he could have come by and got it years ago. Besides, it’s about time I cleared out some of the clutter in here. You just go right ahead and take it all, young lady. If you don’t, it’ll probably just end up in the landfill one of these days. Anything you don’t want can just be thrown out and good riddance to it.”

Daphne didn’t bother to wait for Joan to change her mind. After thanking the woman for speaking with her, she turned down Joan’s offer to stay for a cup of tea, gathered up her box of goodies, and made polite but quick goodbyes. Two minutes later I saw my friend reemerging from behind the camouflaging bushes. 

“Thanks again, Mrs. Kinney. You’ve been a huge help,” Daph yelled over her shoulder to where the front door should have been without slowing down even a tiny bit. 

While Daph was practically jogging down the sidewalk, hindered only slightly by the unwieldy bankers’ box she was carrying, I hit the button on my phone to stop recording the call. Then I pushed open the driver’s side door for her. She shoved the box at me as soon as got close enough and then climbed into the car with a look of triumph on her pixieish face. I already had the top off before she’d pulled the door closed behind her.

“We got him!” Daphne crowed, reaching into the box to pick up the photo that was resting on the top of the pile of junk. “Look! It’s him!”

I took the photograph out of her hand and nodded; it was an image that was eerily similar to the one that had started this whole debacle. 

Printed on the glossy photograph paper, only slightly yellowed with age, was a team photo depicting a group of about twenty elementary school-aged boys, all dressed in soccer shorts, with a significantly younger, but still recognizable, Wade Langley standing in the back row. Unsurprisingly, Langley’s arm was draped around the shoulders of a skinny boy with shaggy brunet hair, who was standing next to him. A boy who was looking off to the side, rather than at the photographer, and who was the only child in the photo that wasn’t smiling.

Even thirty years later, it was impossible not to recognize the features of that sad little boy. 

“Brian. Oh, shit, Brian . . .”