Picture Me Gone

by Meg Rosoff

  Inside, the wood burner is throwing out masses of heat and it’s cozy and sociable, but I can’t help wondering if it might feel lonely and remote when we’re not here and they’re all alone.

  Jake’s out shoveling driveways, she tells us. He’ll be back for lunch. But within minutes of our arrival he bursts in covered with snow, grinning like Tom after a hearty meal of Jerry.

  I’m rich! he says, pulling out a wad of notes and throwing off his Mets cap. I hope it snows till August. He strips off his jacket and gloves and hangs them, dripping, over a chair by the fire. His mother pours him a hot chocolate.

  It’s hard work, and freezing out there. Gotta get my strength back. Jake slumps down in a chair and once more Honey pads over to lie next to him. He strokes her absently. So, he says, how’s the mystery of the missing Matthew going? Course, it’s not a particularly fascinating mystery for us. He’s been missing from our lives more or less, let’s see, forever.

  Lynda and Gil are talking quietly about other things, so I look at him, take a deep breath and say in a low voice, Is Matthew your father?

  You don’t exactly beat around the bush, do you? he says with half a smile. Matthew’s not much of a father, but technically speaking? Yes. Didn’t you know?

  I shake my head. The tone Jake takes is so matter-of-fact that it’s impossible to figure out whether he cares. That his father is Matthew. That his father is missing. Anything. He’d be a good poker player, Jake would.

  He gets up to check whether his things are dry and puts his cap back on. I’m going out again, he says. Do you want to come? You could make a small fortune to take back to England. Genuine American dinero. He rubs his fingers together.

  Very tempting, I say.

  You’ll have to take my coat and boots, Lynda says, but doesn’t wait for an answer, just fetches both. And a hat. I wonder if the grown-ups want to be alone.

  Before I know it I’m wearing a pair of slightly too big fur-lined boots and a long down coat and a fleece hat and gloves, and Jake and I are trudging through the snow.

  I feel like a hobbit, I say. Do I look like one too?

  Uncannily, he says.

  I have to skip a little to keep up. Don’t you get freaked out living so far from everything? I look at him. I mean, what do you do around here if something happens? Don’t get me wrong, it’s beautiful and all, but what about, like, ax murderers and zombies?

  Having lived in a city my whole life, the country feels like a horror film waiting to happen, where some crazy person is always lurking in the bushes ready to pounce.

  Jake looks at me sideways. I haven’t seen a zombie in weeks, he says. Or an ax murderer. There are actually tons of people around here, they just hide up at the end of little roads so you can’t see them. If you chopped a tree down on top of yourself and broke both legs you could always find someone who’d stuff you into the back of a pickup and ferry you to the hospital. Of course, afterward they’d tell everyone in town what an incompetent moron you are.

  There doesn’t seem to be an obvious answer to this.

  I like your accent by the way, he says as we trudge along, and I laugh.

  What’s funny? He shifts our shovels to his other shoulder.

  Nothing, it’s just that everyone says that. It doesn’t sound like an accent to me. You’re the one with the accent.

  Me? Jake snorts. I grew up in Scotland but I thought I sounded American now.

  You do. Almost.

  Almost? He feigns outrage. I’ve won awards for my American accent.

  Really? I stop and look at him. Awards?

  Well, no. Not actual awards.

  I’d give you an award, I say. I like the way you sound.

  Thank you, he says. Very kind.

  We trudge along for another few minutes. So what do we do, just go up to perfect strangers’ doors and ask for a job?

  That’s it, he says. Only we use careful scientific methods to figure out if they’re likely to hire us.

  Like if the drive is covered in snow?

  Yup.

  And that’s what we do. The only hitch is getting to the end of all the little roads before we find out if they might need us. We do lots of backtracking but finally we ring the bell of a house with snow on the driveway and Jake makes me talk because of my cool accent, and the woman who answers the door offers us less than the going rate, but Jake says she’s kind of old so we’ll be doing a good deed. She gives us the money and we take her little dog out for a walk as well, and she seems really grateful. But it’s hard work and my arms are killing me after just one job.

  Anyone who’s not dug out by now, Jake says, is going to be either old or away or a husband-free zone. Which turns out to be true, because all the people who answer the door are either over seventy or women you can’t quite imagine wearing snow boots and doing manual labor. We’re out for three hours and get two more jobs.

  There’s not much talk while we’re working because it takes all my energy just to throw the snow around.

  It’s not particularly heavy, Jake says, which is great because they don’t pay you any more for wet snow and we’d both be dead of exhaustion by now. Or at least you would be.

  I’m kind of getting into the rhythm of shoveling, though my shoulders are killing me. Dig, toss. Dig, toss. When I get tired of tossing I try to kick the back of the shovel to move the snow over, but Jake says there’s no point, it just gets packed up hard and more difficult to move when the time comes to lift it. He sends me over to the front path, but it’s started snowing once more, so by the time I clear the whole thing it’s turning white again.

  Everyone’s got sand and salt, so we salt first and sand afterward, collect our money and go on to the next.

  You’re a good worker, Jake says. I knew you would be.

  What, do I look like a lady weight lifter or something? I flex my arm, but the effect is muffled by three inches of padded coat.

  He grins. Nah. You don’t look that strong. But you’re not the complaining type.

  Totally untrue, I say. Complaining’s one of my best things. Right now I’m starving and cold and really sick of the sight of snow.

  Yeah, he says, me too. Let’s go home.

  Jake divides the money up as we walk along and hands me half. It looks like a fortune. Yikes, I say. Do you think I could buy a house around here with this?

  He nods. At least one.

  We walk in silence for a minute. So what do you think of Matthew disappearing? I ask him.

  What do I think? No clue. I’ve met him a bunch of times since we’ve been here, he says, but I don’t exactly know him well. Before that we’d see him once a year or every other year. I like him enough, but he’s always quite formal with me. Do you want my theory? I haven’t got one. Maybe he’s got twelve sons like me hidden away and he can’t stand the guilt. Jake stops and looks at me. What’s your theory?

  This is not an easy question to answer. I don’t know enough to have a theory, I tell him. I don’t know anything about him, really. I pause. And you’ve made the story even more confusing. Do you think his wife knows about you and your mum?

  I doubt it, Jake says. It’s weird being someone’s dirty secret. That’s one thing I don’t like about the whole deal. He shrugs. But I’m used to it.

  Really? I don’t say anything to Jake, but I can see that it would be weird. Horrible, even, and I’m hating Matthew more with every new thing I know about him. Why are we searching for this man? Why is he my father’s friend?

  It’s not really fair, I say.

  He looks at me. When I leave home I get to choose. I’ve already decided I’m moving back to Scotland when I can. I liked it. Except in winter, when it’s dark most of the time.

  How long did you live there?

  My whole life till I was twelve, he says. Mum worked in New York City before I was born. That’s how she kept in touch with Matthew. When she found out she was pregnant, she decided to move closer to her sister, in Aberdeen. But she and her sister
never got along all that well, how funny is that? Anyway, she got her teaching qualification and decided to move back. I think she likes it better here.

  What about you?

  We lived in a pretty rough neighborhood over there. It was OK. There was a decent skate park with thousands of kids. I liked it. The social life around here isn’t exactly riveting.

  You’re sounding Scottish all of a sudden.

  I’m not.

  You are.

  He looks away but I can tell he’s pleased.

  So far, nothing earth-shattering has happened between us, but just talking about anything can be big when you’re on the same wavelength. I’ve noticed that the magic of getting along with someone isn’t really magic. If you break it down, you can see how it happens. You say something a bit off-center and see if they react. If they get it, they push it a bit further. Then it’s your turn again. And theirs. And so on, until it’s banter. Once it’s banter, it’s friendship.

  We open the door to the camp and across the room talking to Gil is a slim woman in her forties with short red hair and neat features, wearing an expensive-looking suit. She looks almost weirdly fashionable for someone in a snowstorm in the middle of nowhere.

  This is my friend Joy, says Lynda. She offers no other explanation, filling the space where an explanation might have gone by bustling around with our wet things and more hot drinks.

  The girlfriend, says Jake in a low voice.

  Oh.

  Lynda hands us cocoa and she and Joy go back to telling Gil about their school and how teachers have to spend so much time with paperwork, and that’s where I tune out.

  Given how many people have now squashed into this little place, Jake’s sofa has become a kind of refuge. He must think so too cause he pulls up his knees to make room for me and after a minute hands me one of his earphones.

  Good song, I say.

  He nods. Not famous yet, but someday you’ll be able to tell everyone you heard it here first, on the somethingth day of something, two thousand and something, on my sofa right here. It’ll be just like the first time your parents ever heard the Beatles.

  I find it hard to imagine that Gil remembers where he first heard the Beatles, or maybe even who the Beatles are. His radar for popular culture is, shall we say, imperfect.

  Who’s the singer? I ask, and he looks hurt.

  Oh my god! I say, realizing. That’s amazing! You’ve got a totally amazing voice.

  I write songs with my friend Chris.

  Oh, I think. Chris boy or Chris girl?

  I have to squinch up if we’re going to share the same earphones and he makes room for me at his end and before long we’re sitting squashed up together like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

  Jake is friendly but a little reserved. I think Honey likes him for the same reasons I do.

  Lynda’s nodding in our direction, like, isn’t it nice that they get on, but Gil thinks she’s pointing at the still-life painting on the shelf above us, which happens to be one of Joy’s, so the conversation veers off. I stifle a laugh.

  What are you going to do now? Lynda asks Gil, and I tune in immediately, aware that I’ve missed a lot of conversation while we were out. I’ve only got one earphone, which is useful for eavesdropping.

  Gil shrugs. Still no plan B. Back to Suzanne’s, I guess. Not much else we can do unless we hear from him.

  Gil is slicing cucumber for the salad while Lynda lays the table and Joy opens a beer, which she offers to Gil.

  You know, Gil says, I’ve been wondering since yesterday why Matthew disappeared after the car accident.

  For possibly the first time in his long, eventful life, my father has asked the right question. But the question has caused a definite atmospheric shift, and it makes me think they haven’t brought up the subject of Matthew today at all. I’m watching Joy now, who hasn’t said a word but is clearly about to.

  Lynda glances at her uneasily, then back at Gil.

  The reason he disappeared, Joy says, with exaggerated calm, is that he’s a total shit who doesn’t know the first thing about responsibility or commitment.

  Lynda looks away, but Joy is just warming up.

  He’s a loner, that’s his problem. And he doesn’t give a damn about anyone but himself.

  You know that’s not true. Lynda casts an anxious glance in her son’s direction, but Jake appears able to blank everything beyond the confines of his personal space.

  Gil looks from Joy to Lynda.

  I’ve known Matthew a long time, Gil begins, but Joy interrupts.

  Look at his track record, she says, nearly spitting the words. One dead son, one abandoned. He left his girlfriend, cheated on his wife, now he’s left her and the baby—

  That’s enough, says Lynda in a quiet voice, and it’s clear that this is not the first time Joy’s opinion has been aired.

  It’s not, actually, enough, Joy says in a clipped voice. Of course, I’ve never met the man, never been hypnotized into thinking he’s some kind of hero who just happens to ruin the lives of everyone he comes in contact with, so what would I know?

  Gil glances at me but I pretend to be immersed in Jake’s music.

  She likes this line of discourse, Jake whispers, close to my ear.

  I nod. It’s pretty uncomfortable on that side of the house, what with Joy all pursed up and cross and Lynda’s desire for everyone to play nice. But over on our side it’s kind of cozy. What I like about Jake is how much he observes and how little any of it seems to ruffle his feathers. It’s like he’s taken the entire adult world on board and decided it’s mildly amusing and mildly irrelevant.

  He taps my knee and I look at him sideways. Anyway, he whispers, back to the original question about why Matthew disappeared after the car crash? He makes an imaginary glass with one hand, tips it into his mouth, then closes his eyes and goes back to the music.

  Matthew was drinking?

  My mind races. He was drinking? Did he drink a lot? Did Lynda and Matthew’s relationship break up because Matthew drank? Or Matthew and Suzanne’s? But wait, if he’d been drinking on the day of the accident, then of course he disappeared right after. He needed to disappear till all the signs were gone or he’d go to jail for murdering his son. If he had been drinking that day, the guilt would eat away at him for the rest of his life. What more would a person need to go off the rails? Or run away? Or even kill himself? Or does Jake mean he started drinking after the accident? Went on a bender? I look at Jake, trying to ask my questions via psychic transfer, but his eyes are closed, his expression serene.

  Joy is in the process of struggling into her coat.

  Don’t go, Lynda says, but she doesn’t sound very convincing.

  Nice meeting you, Joy says to Gil as she opens the door. Hope you find what you’re looking for.

  She lets herself out and the door bangs shut behind her.

  Lynda looks at Gil. Sorry about that, she says. Matt’s not her favorite person. She thinks she’s protecting me, I guess. Though I wish she wouldn’t.

  Gil waves a dismissive hand. Yes, of course, of course.

  But Joy’s outburst has shaken him. Perhaps he never looked at Matthew through any eyes but his own. Perhaps the Matthew he remembers is out of date. Or perhaps there’s something about Joy’s version that rings a tiny quiet little bell.

  Lynda sighs. Maybe you should tell the police.

  I am taken aback, until I realize that my brain has rushed on to a whole new story. Lynda’s talking about finding a missing person and I’ve jumped to an alcoholic child killer.

  The police aren’t interested, says Gil. Adults don’t get to be missing persons in the eyes of the law unless they leave a suicide note or a trail of blood. Otherwise it’s assumed they just wanted to be somewhere else. Which in this case is probably true.

  He’s walked out on another child, Lynda says quietly, as if the reality has just occurred to her.

  That makes two, Gil says.

  Three. Her
voice is quiet.

  It’s not a great track record.

  No, Lynda says. It’s crap, actually. For the first time she doesn’t sound gentle and tolerant, and I’m wondering what happened to everyone’s best friend, the kindest man in the world.

  Looking at Lynda, I can see that old relationships leave a flare behind them, an uneven tail of light that doesn’t go away when people split up.

  I remove my one earphone to hear better and Jake leans in close.

  Stop listening, he whispers. It’s. Not. Polite.

  I poke him. He pokes me back, and then we’re struggling half-on half-off the sofa, and I’m laughing so hard I can hardly breathe. You win, I gasp, and replace the earphone.

  Lunch, kids, says Lynda.

  Jake and I get to our feet a little sheepishly and shuffle over to the table together, still plugged in.

  Off, says Lynda, pointing, and I hand him back his earphone. The lunch Lynda serves is nice: beef stew with white beans and salad.

  The last thing I expected was to find a person like Jake here in the middle of nowhere. But aside from him, this whole story is starting to make me angry. All these people flung around on the end of a rope because one man keeps making problems and running away. Or at least that’s what it looks like from where I’m sitting.

  While Lynda’s clearing up, I wrap myself in Jake’s big down jacket and step outside for a bit of privacy, and to write one more text.

  What happened on the day Owen died?

  I stare at the phone and press send. It is not a question I would ever dare ask in person. But in the absence of anyone else getting to the bottom of this mystery I have started to feel a bit desperate.

  The little ping of the message flying off calms me. When I go back inside, Jake gives me a look. My father is shaking out his coat in preparation for our departure. I feel suddenly sad.

  Jake takes my UK and US mobile numbers and my e-mail and says he’ll have to keep in touch with me because otherwise I won’t know anything about cutting-edge bands back in sad little small town London.