Max shook his head.
“No, nothing for me, Mrs. Watts, thanks. I hoped to ask you a few questions about the day Nicholas went missing.”
Denny lumbered to a kitchen chair, yanked it out, and plopped down. His eyes narrowed on his wife, and she hurried to the refrigerator, grabbing him a can of beer, wiping the condensation on her skirt before popping the top and handing it to her husband.
He guzzled half of it one gulp, burped loudly, and slapped the can on the table.
“You can call me Joan,” she said.
She lifted a self-conscious hand to her head and winced, confirming Max’s theory that Denny had pulled her hair. She didn’t bother fixing it, likely to tender to touch.
“It happened in March. Denny gave Nicholas some money and asked him to run down to the corner store for beer.”
Max frowned. “He’s twelve, right?”
She laughed, embarrassed, and shot a quick glance at her husband who glared at Max.
“Denny’s friend owns the store, so…” she shrugged. “But he didn’t come home. After about a half hour, I walked down there and Brody, the store owner, said he never saw him.”
“Little fucker took my money and ran,” Denny snarled, finishing the beer and crumpling the can in his hand.
He kept his eyes trained on Max’s face as if daring him to challenge his statement.
Denny threw the can behind him in the vague direction of the sink, but it bounced off the counter and landed on the floor.
He didn’t even have to look at his wife this time, Joan had already seized another beer from the refrigerator and set it in front of him.
“Five dollars isn’t much to run away with,” Max said.
“He didn’t run away,” Joan whispered so low Max barely heard her.
Denny leaned forward on his elbows. “What d'you say?” he demanded.
Color rose in her face, making the bruise burn scarlet. “I just… I don’t think he ran away, Denny. I think… umm…” But she didn’t finish.
Denny’s hands turned into fists, and his eyes bore into her.
“There have been other kids who have gone missing,” Max said, directing his words at Denny. “There’s a chance he was abducted.”
Denny snorted. “Who’d want him?”
Joan’s face fell, and her bottom lip quivered. Her eyes welled, and she turned sideways so her husband wouldn’t see her tears. She cried silently, her bony shoulders hitching beneath her threadbare blue dress.
Max wanted to hug her, to pat her back and tell her it would be okay, but as he pictured the woman’s life spread out before her, he knew even if her child came home it would never be okay.
“I have a photo on my motorcycle. It’s a sketch of a possible abductor.” Care to come down and take a peek? You might recognize him.
It was a lie. He didn’t have any such photo in his bag and he didn’t have a plan for what he’d do with Joan if he got her out of the apartment, but he couldn’t just walk away.
Joan sniffled and wiped her face on a dish towel.
Denny shook his head, no.
“Just for a second, Denny. I’ll come right back,” she pleaded.
Joan followed Max to the door.
He stepped into the hallway and started to turn back, but in a flash, Denny was up and hurling himself across the room. He grabbed Joan by her hair and dragged her back into the apartment, wrenching the door closed.
Max swore as his foot, which he’d stuffed into the opening not a moment too soon, was pinched between the frame and the door.
Denny grunted and opened the door further. Max knew if he managed to slam the door a second time, his toes would be broken if not severed.
Max slipped one of the tonfa from his pants and shoved it into the opening, pulling his foot free. The door crashed against the stick, but didn’t close. Max pulled out the second tonfa and kicked the door as hard as he could.
As the door crashed in, it hit Denny with a sickening crunch of bone.
Denny howled.
Max plunged into the apartment, observing everything as if through a fish-eye lens.
Denny clutched his nose, which spurted blood down his gray t-shirt, which featured a rifle and the silhouette of a buck. Joan backed into the corner, blood-shot eyes wide, and her arms crossed protectively over her chest.
“Come on,” Max said, holding out his hand.
“Over my dead body,” Denny exploded, flinging a handful of blood to the floor with a splatter.
Joan stepped away from the counter, and Denny’s fist shot out, catching her in the back of the head and sending her sprawling to the kitchen floor. Max watched her hands slide through Denny’s blood.
Denny’s other fist darted toward Max and Max jumped back, hitting a kitchen chair that skidded into the wall. He lifted both tonfa up, the short end of the sticks pointing toward Denny, the length of the tonfa pressed against Max’s forearms.
Denny stared at him, and his mouth broke into a smile as if he’d bested his opponent before the fight had even begun. Denny lunged forward and swung. Max ducked and jabbed the tonfa beneath Denny’s rib cage.
The man shrieked and brought his knee up. It narrowly missed Max’s nose, but found his eye. The pain struck Max dumb. His eye felt as if it had exploded in his head, but he didn’t pause, instead gritting his teeth and throwing himself sideways before Denny could bring two meaty hands down onto his back. Max went down on one knee, another explosion of pain in his kneecap. Denny ran at him and Max jabbed both sticks hard into Denny’s crotch. One caught on the man’s jeans but the other drove home, connecting with the soft yielding space between the man’s legs.
Denny’s eyes shot wide, and he released a blood-curdling sound that caused Joan to cry out in fear. Max jumped up and brought a stick down hard on the back of Denny’s neck.
The man fell forward still clutching his balls.
“Come on. Now!” Max barked, grabbing Joan’s blood-slick hand and hauling her from the floor. She was crying and trembling, her feet skidding as Max dragged her toward the door.
“No, I can’t. He’ll kill me if I leave.” She reached out and grabbed the doorframe, clutching it.
The door across the hall had opened and a man and woman, both smoking cigarettes, watched them. They looked only mildly interested, and Max wondered if he they’d called the police. He doubted it.
“He’ll kill you if you stay,” Max shouted.
When she didn’t budge, Max leaned close to her face. “What if Nicholas comes home Joan? You want Denny to raise him because that’s what’s going to happen if you walk back in there. You’re as good as dead.”
She still shook her head, but when he tugged her forward, she allowed herself to be led.
She followed him down the stairs, crying and murmuring.
“Put this on,” he told her, thrusting his helmet into her hands and swinging his leg over his motorcycle.
She lifted it, but paused, her eyes locked on the apartment building, her mouth hanging open. Denny struggled down the stairs, one hand wedged between his legs, and the other clutching a wooden baseball bat.
“Holy shit,” he muttered, wondering suddenly how in the hell he’d gone from searching for a missing kid to fleeing a bloody fight scene in less than twenty minutes.
He revved the engine and jerked Joan toward him, practically dragging her onto the bike behind him. The helmet clattered to the sidewalk.
“Hold on!” he screamed as he roared away from the curb.
For a horrifying instant, her hands didn’t clutch his back. He was sure she’d either fallen off or simply climbed off to aid her enraged and bloodied husband. And then he felt her tenuous grip clutch his waist, and he sighed, putting his head down to drive.
25
He should have taken Joan to the police station, but in his shock, he drove to his place of refuge: his parents' house.
In the nearly hour-long drive, he wondered what the woman behind him was thinking.
His parents' house stood like a lighthouse in a gale. If he could just get them there, everything would be okay.
When he pulled into their driveway, he spotted his mother in the side yard, digging in her garden. His father sat on the porch reading a newspaper. They both looked up at the sound of Max’s motorcycle.
Joan climbed off and Max saw gooseflesh covering her arms. Despite the warm day, motorcycle rides were chilly. He hadn’t even thought of her meager attire when they’d fled her apartment.
Her hair, messy earlier, lay in tangles on her thin shoulders. The welt beneath her eye had gone from red to blueish gray, and tiny red spiderwebs had begun to seep into her right eye. When she blinked, she cringed as if even that small gesture hurt. Dried blood coated her hands and forearms where she’d slid through Denny’s blood.
“Damn, I’m sorry,” he told her, gesturing at her arms and legs. “I didn’t think about how you were dressed.”
She gazed at him dazed, as if not comprehending.
“You’re cold,” he explained.
She looked down and let out a weak laugh.
“That’s the least of it,” she murmured, limply pressing a hand to her cheek.
“This is my parents’ house,” he explained. “Probably seems odd I’d bring you here, but it’s safe and we can talk about what to do next.”
Joan glanced toward Max’s father, who now stood and watched them inquiringly.
Max’s mother came around the house. Her gardening clothes were streaked in dirt.
His mother stopped before them, her smile fading when she saw Joan’s face before drifting to the woman’s bloodied hands.
“Oh dear, what’s happened?” she asked, searching Max’s face.
“Mom, this is Joan Watts. We’ve had a bit of trouble and…”
“What sort of trouble?” Max’s father asked, stepping from the porch and walking toward them.
“Hi,” Joan whispered, offering Max’s mother a bony hand.
His mother took it in both her own, ignoring the blood. Her hands were large and soft, and they seemed to swallow Joan’s.
“My goodness, you’re as cold as a Popsicle. Come inside, honey. Let’s make you a cup of tea and get you cleaned up.”
Maria led Joan away, and Max sighed, relieved.
Herman stopped in front of Max, glancing toward the woman as she passed. He said nothing, waiting for Max to explain.
Max rubbed his jaw and took a deep breath, still trying to make sense of all that had happened.
“She’s the mother of one of the missing kids,” Max told his dad. “I went to her apartment in Mesick to ask her some questions. Her husband was in the process of giving her a severe beating. I interrupted them.”
Herman’s eyes had gone wide behind his spectacles. He folded his newspaper and tucked it into the back pocket of his trousers.
“What happened to her husband?”
“I kicked the shit out of him.”
Herman briefly closed his eyes, his mouth pursing into a tiny little bud. It wasn’t anger that flashed across Herman’s face, but fear.
“And now what will you do with the wife? Hmmm… I’d imagine her husband is looking for her at this moment. Growing angrier with every second that has passed since he watched her climb onto the back of a strange man’s motorcycle.”
Max frowned. He hadn’t thought about that part. He was good looking, young, drove a bike. He intimidated regular men, but jealous psychopaths? He’d never pissed one of those off before.
“What was I supposed to do, Dad? Leave her there to get beaten to a pulp? Did you see her? She can’t weigh more than a hundred and ten pounds. Her husband is two-fifty. If I hadn’t shown up, she’d probably be dead right now.”
Herman sighed and touched the dark splotches on Max’s shirt.
“His blood, not mine,” Max explained.
“Good. You’re a good boy, Max. This was not a good idea, but… well, we’re not always given many choices, are we? Come on. Let’s call Frank.”
“Frank Bellman?”
Herman nodded. “He’s not with the force anymore, but he’ll know what to do.”
When they walked inside, Max spotted Joan in the living room. Maria had wrapped an afghan around her shoulders and she held a mug of tea in both hands.
“What a day,” Joan sighed.
She’d showered and changed into a pair of Max’s pants that his mother had saved in that strange way that mothers would hoard their children’s clothes, as if they wouldn’t be out of style by the time their grandchildren came along to claim them. He hadn’t fit into them since he was fifteen. She’d also put on one of Maria’s heavy crocheted sweaters. Her auburn hair lay in a thick wet sheath down her back.
“Has he always done that?” Max pointed at her face.
She picked at her apple cake and looked away, tilting her head in an almost imperceptible nod.
“I shouldn’t talk about him. He’ll be angry.”
Max’s mouth dropped open. She intended to go back to him. “I’m a stranger to you,” he said, thinking of a therapist he’d dated briefly.
She had told Max it wasn’t her personality or her academic training that made people open up to her. It was her detachment. They didn’t know her. They didn’t have to fear they were isolating their community by revealing their secrets. “Nothing you say to me will get back to your husband,” he promised.
She nodded, glanced at him, and pushed her dessert around the plate.
“Appfoocooking,” Joan said, slicing a forkful of the cake. “That’s what your mom called this.”
“Apfelkuchen,” he corrected her. “It’s German, but it’s probably easier just to say apple cake.”
“Apple cake,” she sighed. “It’s very good, but…”
“But you’re not hungry?”
Joan nodded.
While Herman had called Frank, Max had eaten two roast beef sandwiches, inhaling them while standing at the open refrigerator. His appetite only mildly satiated, Max followed the sandwiches with a slice of cake and a glass of milk. Now he had the drowsy fullness of overconsumption.
Joan set her cake aside and lifted her mug of tea.
“It started before we got married,” she said, gazing into her cup as if afraid to see Max’s expression as she told her story. “I was already pregnant then. Seventeen years old and stupid in love with Denny Watts.”
She blushed with the memory.
“He was the quarterback.” She laughed. “I wasn’t a cheerleader. I never played sports because my family never had the money for the uniforms and shoes.” And well,” she opened her arms. “I’ve always been scrawny. I couldn’t believe he liked me. Maybe I would have waited…” She set her cup down and pulled at the curled corners of the doily beneath her plate. “Anyway, I didn’t wait. And I got pregnant just like my mom said I would. I was four months along the first time he slapped me. I had gone to his house to watch a movie, and he wanted to… make love. I was so tired during the first trimester. I threw up a lot. I told him I wasn't in the mood, and he backhanded me. He cried after, apologized, and swore he’d never do it again.”
Joan spoke in an off-handed way, as if she were telling someone else’s story, not her own.
“But he did,” Max said.
“Yeah, a lot.”
“Why did you stay with him?”
Joan frowned, the tiny crease between her brows giving the first hint of her true age. Otherwise she looked young, far too young to have a twelve-year-old child, and too young to have spent more than a decade getting beaten by an angry husband.
“That’s always the question, isn’t it? And people ask it with all this judgement. Why do you stay? I have answers. I have a thousand reasons. Our son, money, because for many years I loved him, for the good times, out of fear. I’m not
sure if anyone who hasn’t been there can understand. I’ve met other women who live with angry men and they understand. I’ve left him a couple times.”
“And he makes you come back?”
She laughed and touched a thin gold necklace resting in the hollow beneath her throat.
He saw three gold hearts intertwined.
“Just the opposite. He becomes the man I fell in love with again. He quits drinking, buys me flowers, sends me notes at work. He asks me out on dates. He buys presents for Nicholas. Last time he bought us a car.”
Her face contorted bitterly.
“He wrapped it around a tree six months ago, a few nights after Nicholas went missing. He’d been at the bar all night. He told the policeman he was searching for our missing child, but…” she shook her head. “He’d been at the bar. There was a woman in the car too. She had a concussion. Denny wasn’t hurt, but our car was totaled. Now I take the bus again.”
Joan scooped up a tiny forkful of cake and put it in her mouth.
“This is very sweet,” she said. “It’s delicious.”
“Maria Wolfenstein believes sugar and tea can cure anything that ails us.”
“My mom didn’t cook,” Joan said, still gazing at the strudel. “She worked two jobs. One in the factory and the other at the laundromat. My father stayed home with us kids, but… well he didn’t cook either. Like Denny, he preferred to drink.”
Max watched her, the vacant look in her eyes as she shared some of the most intimate aspects of her life, a life so foreign to his own, he struggled to imagine it.
“What happened the day Nicholas disappeared, Joan?”
She looked up and the distance in her eyes faded. He saw pain course in. Her shoulders turned inward, and she slumped forward slightly.
“Nicholas is the only thing I’ve done right. He’s the only thing I… live for, maybe even the only thing I love anymore.”
A tear slid from her eye, down her cheek, and disappeared into the knit sweater.
“It hadn’t been a good day. When Denny asked Nicholas to go to the store, he’d already finished a twelve pack. He’d come home from work mad. Another guy at the plastics factory had gotten a promotion Denny wanted. He didn’t eat dinner. Said it tasted like dog food and threw it in the trash. Mine and Nicholas’s food too, plates and all.” She started working the doily again, her fingers pressing and pushing against the fabric.
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