Lost in the System

by Nancy Jo Wilson

  Charlie chimes in. “He didn’t mind going with his sister?”

  “No, he thinks she’s really cool.” Her eyes shift. Cops and con men everywhere recognize little signs like this.

  “But?” I ask.

  “He feels bad.”

  “Bad about what?”

  “Well, you know, she should be partying, not hanging out with a kid.”

  “Does he ever talk about what happened to his family?” Charlie asks.

  “Yeah, it’s terrible. I couldn’t imagine. My parents get on my nerves, but I love ’em. You know.”

  “Anything else about his family?” Charlie prods.

  “He and Jesse, his brother, had a big fight before the crash. David was all mad at him and that’s why he didn’t go to the soccer game. He feels real bad about that.” She pauses, biting her lip. “He’s okay, right? You’ll find him?”

  I think about Lydia; she asked me pretty much the same thing. What is it with women extracting promises I can’t keep? Tomorrow I’ll be long gone. Then this will all be Benigno’s problem, and he’s much better equipped to deal with it.

  “We’ll do our best,” I say. “Can you tell us the places he likes to go?”

  “He doesn’t have a car, so he walks or rides the bus. He hangs out at the diner where his sister works. He goes to the library near his house. He really likes the park. Last week, he drew me this.” She flips open her notebook and shows us a detailed drawing of a spider in its web. David drew water droplets on the silk that practically sparkled.

  “Can I go?” she asks. “I’ll miss my bus.”

  “Call the station if you hear from him, even if he asks you not to. It’s important that we find him.”

  “What if I just want to know what’s going on?”

  “It’s okay to call for updates. Ask for Detective Charlie Weidhoff,” I answer.

  Chuckles and I head to the car. “Thanks for pawning the girlfriend off on me, Benny.”

  “I owe you for sticking me with the intake interview, and it’s Benigno.”

  “Touché, Benigno,” Chuckles says, emphasizing each syllable of the name. “Maybe David’s not as much of a twerp as I thought,” Charlie muses.

  “What do you mean?”

  “He’s got a lot of guilt. Maybe he thinks Lydia’s better off without him.”

  “He’d be the type to fall for that misguided line of reasoning,” I say. Lydia’s face pops into my mind again. I wonder if she is okay. “Maybe I should call the sister and update her on all of this.”

  “Not a bad idea. She might have some info from Nashville,” Charlie says. “It’s strange, though.”

  “What?”

  “A guy doesn’t tell a girl that stuff unless he likes her or he’s a player. And David ain’t a lady killer.”

  I understand immediately, but I play dumb. “What’s your point?”

  “Take off when you’ve got a babe on the line? It’s strange.”

  “I agree. I don’t think he planned this. I think something triggered it.”

  “Maybe the double shift. He starts feeling guilty about sis having to work all those long hours. Thinks about how she’s better off without him. He sees the money jar and BOOM, he’s out the door.”

  “Works for me,” I say. “Let’s head back to the office. We need to follow up with the other agencies and send out some uniforms to the library and park with his picture.”

  I give Lydia a ring to check what she’d found out from David’s Nashville buds.

  “This is Detective Diaz. Did you get any information from David’s friends?”

  “I sent you an email with all their names and numbers.” I scroll through Benny’s inbox and click on the one from Lydia. It lists five names.

  “I have it.”

  “I reached Tyler, John, and Richard.” That leaves Josiah and Chase. I’ll check with them later.

  “They haven’t heard from him in a couple of weeks,” Lydia continues. “And when they did talk to him, he didn’t mention coming to visit. He would have mentioned it to them. He would have told them if he was planning on going. But he didn’t, which means something else has happened, right?”

  Of course, they could be lying. Teens have been known to do that. I’m inclined to believe them though. If Charlie’s and my theory is correct, David took off on the spur of the moment out of guilt. He wouldn’t call ahead and make arrangements. What worries me is that if our theory is correct, he might never call anyone. If he really is stressed about being a burden, he might just want to stay off the radar entirely, which would make my job—I mean Benny Boy’s job—much harder.

  I should end the call here, but what can I say? I like her voice. Plus, it’s clear she needs to talk, and I don’t have the heart to cut her off.

  “There are many angles to consider. How are you holding up?” I ask with my best Benigno concern.

  “I’m okay, considering. Mrs. Granger came over earlier, and I’m keeping busy. Lots of praying. David’s friend Madison is coming over in a bit. I’m fine.”

  “How are you, really?”

  “How does David have a girlfriend, and I don’t know about it? Yeah, he is a private person, but I’m his sister! Shouldn’t I know something like that? Maybe I don’t know him as well as I think I do. Maybe I work too much and don’t have enough time for him. Is that why he’s gone? He feels neglected. How can I give him more time? I’m barely holding us together as it is. If he ran away, I failed him. I didn’t take good enough care of him. Maybe it was a mistake bringing him down here. I should have moved to Nashville. But where would we have lived? I couldn’t keep up the house payments and property taxes. Plus, I’m still hoping to finish my degree. If I moved to another state, it would be harder and more expensive to get back into UNF. Nashville universities would have different course requirements; I’d have to retake classes. But if that’s what he needs, that’s what I’ll do.”

  Man, I never want to be a woman. It’s a wonder their skulls don’t melt from the heat generated by that much thinking. I like having my mental compartments where everything has a place, there’s a place for everything and nary the twain shall meet.

  “That’s a lot to be worried about. Breathe. I suggest you take one thing at a time. No need to plan a move or change colleges just yet. As far as Madison, that relationship wasn’t a relationship yet. They’d barely passed the crush stage. Knowing your private brother, he was probably waiting until it was official to tell you about it.”

  “You’re right. He wouldn’t want to tell me about a crush and then have to tell me she didn’t like him back. He would wait until he was sure. I feel like I’m in the dark. No information to light my way.”

  “I get it. The uncertainty can be scary.”

  “You have no idea. I’m stumbling around trying to find something to hold onto.”

  I wish she could hold onto me. I wish she could rely on me, but I’m not that guy, except I’m being that guy right now. My Benny mask has slipped, and it’s me, Smullian, asking the questions, doing the reassuring, and really listening, not just paying attention. I’m a grifter. I lend quite an ear. My job and my life depend on what I glean out of a conversation. When I listen, it’s for gain—gain of information, gain of fortune. I listen to determine if someone is worth my time and friendship, and so far in my life I’ve found no one is. Everyone is up to something. Everyone is a liar, a cheat, and a thief just like me. Except maybe Lydia…or Benigno…or Marvin. But I digress.

  I’m just letting her talk. I have no agenda, no goal. I am truly listening to her uncertainty, pain, and fear. Is this all I can do for her? What if David isn’t found? Will this be just another chapter in her short, tragic life? My muscles and gut tighten as the conversation rolls. What is this—compassion, frustration, worry? I have to face the fact that my Benigno mask has fallen, and I, Smullian, am feeling these emotions for another person. When the deed is done, cut and run. Far. Or else you’ll be trapped.

  I clear my throat lou
dly. The universal move that indicates a conversation has gone on way too long. I cap off the effect with, “Well, I have to get to some other case work, Ms. Hawthorne.”

  I choose my words precisely. They imply that she’s nothing but a case number among other case numbers to Benny Boy.

  “Um, okay,” she answers. I can hear hurt and confusion in her reply. What had seemed like a therapeutic release to her was clearly an imposition to Detective Diaz. I could feel her embarrassment at having gushed forth in a socially inappropriate manner. “I’ll wait for your call. Goodbye.”

  She says the last so quietly, I almost don’t hear it. The feisty woman that had called me to task earlier in the day is gone again, and the wreck from this morning is back. I feel a bit guilty for that, but it’s for her own good. The sooner in life she learns that you can’t rely on others, the better.

  VIII

  I do busy work until I am sure that Marisol has gone to bed. I am fairly certain she will retire early. From what I hear, women that late in pregnancy are practically narcoleptic. Charlie had left a couple of hours earlier with a quip about how he’d never work late if he had a woman as pretty as Marisol at home. I snorted something about responsibility, duty, and paperwork in response. I hate to admit I was a little sad to watch him go. I like Charlie and will miss his banter wherever I find myself tomorrow.

  At Casa Diaz, I find a plate of food and some flan in the fridge complete with a sweet note about how proud Marisol was of Benny Boy’s dedication to his job. As I nuke the leftovers, I think about the note. This day, I learned that police work is a high pressure and often tedious task that is defined more by paperwork than car chases and taking down perps. It must be nice for Benigno to come home to some appreciation.

  After eating all of my meal and most of the flan, I make my way to bed. I’ve heard married men say that they can’t sleep without their wives beside them, and I’ve mocked them. Everyone knows men don’t like snuggling. Anyone who does like it is whipped. So why am I enjoying the simple pleasure of having Marisol curled up beside me? I know she’s isn’t my wife; I don’t even think about her that way. My thoughts in that area are disturbingly fixed on Lydia. Yet, all the stress of the day and the casework fade away by the mere warmth radiating from Marisol’s frame. I feel content, as if all is right with the world, even though all is clearly not right with the world.

  I reconsider my previous philosophy on marriage. The right wife, at least in Pretty Boy’s case, can build you up instead of bringing you down. Marriage isn’t for me; I need to stay footloose and fancy free, but I might think twice before judging a guy who chooses it. Look at me being all evolved.

  I decidedly do not like where my thoughts are heading. It is clear to me that Jacksonville, Florida, is a cursed city. If this glitch doesn’t get fixed quick, I might actually become the respectable citizen They want me to be. That is unacceptable. The only solution is to will myself to sleep and hope that tomorrow I am not only someone else, but somewhere else.

  I walk back in the cop shop. Night settles ominously on the place. Shadows linger in strange places when no people bring life to the building. Someone announces over the loudspeaker, “The Father to the Fatherless on line one.” Then every phone on every desk starts to ring. I run out of the room and into another. Only it isn’t another room, it is the same one. I stand in the doorway and watch Lydia. Her diner uniform resembles armor. The powder-blue color makes her eyes shine. Standing near Benny’s desk, she is surrounded by a faint glow. She is luminous, literally.

  I walk over and stop next to her. She doesn’t know I’m there. “Something has happened to him and it’s your job to find out what,” she commands the person sitting in the chair. Then she leans over and jabs him in the chest. “Your job.”

  I turn to look at the person, expecting a Puerto Rican detective, but find instead a man in his mid-twenties. His appearance, chin-length shaggy brown hair, and his posture, slumped to the side with arms crossed on his chest, exhibit disregard for everything. I hear the clack of his shoe on the Formica as he leans forward, plopping his elbows on the desk. He shifts his hazel green eyes up at her and smirks. “Not my job, baby.”

  She jabs him again, “It’s your job whether you like it or not.”

  Every phone rings again, crescendoing louder and louder. I run from that room into the same room, but the furniture and Lydia have vanished. The hazel-eyed man sits alone in the corner, his knees drawn to his chest. The room morphs into a hospital hallway, and the man becomes a boy. He hides behind his hair and cries. Phones shriek in the background, their dissonant peals echoing off the walls.

  I wake with a start, sitting upright in bed. My breath comes in ragged gasps. The covers are tangled around my legs. I am trapped and pulling at sheets makes it worse. Marisol stirs beside me and I feel her soft hand on my arm.

  “Está todo bien?”

  No, everything is definitely not alright. “I’m fine,” I answer in Spanish.

  She rubs my arm and then falls back to sleep. I lie down beside her, hoping for her magic touch to put me out. But I can’t shake the dream. I expect the bedroom to disappear at any moment, and I’ll be back in the cop shop with the phones ringing, staring at myself. I haven’t seen my own face in 778 days and didn’t recognize it in the dream. Its sudden appearance is disturbing, to say the least.

  When my heart refuses to return to a normal beat, I ease out of bed so as not to rouse Marisol and go to the kitchen. Even from the stairs, I can hear the flan calling my name. I don’t think about the dream while I polish off the remainder. I am sure this is the kind of thing the shrinks at Life Mod live for—a dream rife with possible symbolism, returning me to the trauma of my youth. If I were a patient instead of a detainee, they’d probably want to schedule all kinds of special sessions. Well, they aren’t here, and I’m not going to afford this episode any more merit than it deserves.

  Granted, certain aspects of the day remind me of my youth, and the past couple of days have been bizarre, but that is all the portent I will give to the dream. I am stressed. Who wouldn’t be? I’m being tricked. One of Life Mod’s goals is to make me “empathize with my victims.” They almost accomplished that today. I certainly came close to that emotion with Lydia and David, but that was as close as they are going to get me. I will scrape those two off me, just like I am scraping the crumbs off my plate into the sink. (Benigno would never leave a dirty dish on the table.) I finish with the plate and set my heart. They, or whoever, will not win this.

  While some of the aspects of David’s case lead to more questions, the fact that he’s run off did not change. The bigger fact, that this is Pretty Boy’s and Chuckles’ problem, doesn’t change either. Who are They kidding? I’ll be someone new tomorrow, what can I possibly do anyway?

  After I excuse myself of any responsibility, I return to bed ready for some Zs. They don’t come. A question pops into my mind. Why didn’t David leave a note? All accounts paint him as a sensitive, thoughtful kid. Even if our he-feels-guilty-for-ruining-Lydia’s-life theory is correct, it seems like he’d leave her a note explaining his actions. He’d want to release her. So why didn’t he leave one?

  I try to ponder other things for most of the night, but the question keeps returning. Somewhere around six, I feel an intense burning in my abdomen. Then it feels like someone is forcing hooks through my skin and tearing it open. Imaginary Vikings grab hold of my lungs and rip them through my ribs. I welcome the pain. It means this day of uncomfortable truths and more uncomfortable questions is finally over. Blackness creeps over me as I say good-bye to Benigno.

  PART THREE

  AGGRESSIVE BARGAINING

  I am over the throne, slinging hash when I wake up. Same thing happened on the Japanese whaler: the host’s body stays on autopilot until the brain-hitcher takes complete control. Good thing too, because I couldn’t have made it to the john as sick as I am. My host’s stomach totally empties, but that doesn’t stop his body from pumping. After numerous dry
heaves, I slump down between the toilet and the wall. My cheek rests on the smooth floor. I keep my eyes closed, concentrating on the darkness and the coolness seeping into my face from the linoleum. The world still feels like a downward spiral, and I am a hapless passenger.

  Biotransposing while awake is beyond painful; it’s torture. In twenty-first century America, the bleeding hearts would have Life Mod deemed unconstitutional by the eighth amendment. However, in my time, The Powers-that-Be formed a subcommittee to look into allegations that Life Mod was “cruel and unusual punishment.” For two years the PanEarth Tribunal on the Proper and Ethical Treatment of Human and Alien Offenders bickered over the intricacies of case law, both past and present. Finally, they ruled, “Life Modification does not violate any being’s rights because the detainee is in control over his/hers/its state of wakefulness and therefore chooses his/her/its own level of discomfort.” The document was over four hundred pages long, but the opening sentence summed it up pretty well. I didn’t choose to have insomnia last night, but I doubt anyone at the tribunal is going to rewrite that masterpiece over little old me.

  My host’s cell phone rings in the next room, and I wait impatiently for it to switch to voicemail. After that crazy dream, it reminds me of B-rated horror film’s score. I try to stay calm while my host’s body adjusts to my unwelcome presence, but the bewitched phone keeps going. Most stop after four rings, maybe six, but this one echoes on ridiculously. What kind of psycho sets their voicemail protocol like that? As it rings, my mind flashes back to the cop shop and the lost boy sitting in the corner.

  Spinning world or not, I need to shut the infernal thing up. I can’t handle standing just yet, so I crawl from the bathroom into the bedroom toward the insistent sound. Bumping into the bed, I send my brain on another spiral and have to wait while things settle. Meanwhile, the blasted thing keeps shouting at me. When I find it, I’m going to smash it into bits.

  Based on the direction of the trilling noise, it has to be near the bed—maybe the bedside table. The room slows to a manageable level, and I hoist myself onto the mattress. I risk moving my head and look around for the boisterous culprit. This guy chose a headboard bookcase instead of a bedside table. My enemy balances near the ledge of its cubby, poised to fall onto a pillow. I watch as the vibrations from the ringing walk it across the shelf.