by Luke Geddes
The front door creaked open. It was interesting how, if you spent enough time with someone, you knew who they were just by the sound of them entering a room. Seymour always paused after passing through a threshold, like a sitcom character waiting for applause from a studio audience.
Lee locked the door and made a bed for himself on the easy chair.
SATURDAY LOST AND FOUND
15 RONALD
“Gable!” Ronald called. “Gable! You get your buns over here!” The dog poked his snout in the crack under the door to the basement and tapped his nails on the floor, his signal that he wanted in. What was with that mutt? Probably he smelled the fast food. Or he smelled Lindy. He looked up at Ronald with suspicion in his eyes—no, stop it, that was silly, Gable was just an animal.
One that was not used to discipline. “You keep away from there, pooch!” Gable licked his rear and trotted to the kitchen where his food bowl was kept. For his part, Ronald had been avoiding Lindy since he caught her out of the kennel yesterday. He delivered meals to her promptly every few hours but that was it. Neither of them felt much like talking.
Ronald took the plate of reheated pizza out of the microwave, crept down the basement steps, unlocked the door, and shut it firmly behind him.
Lindy was asleep in the kennel, curled up in her cartoon bedspread. The door was now reinforced with a padlock, but that was for her own safety. He couldn’t have her falling down trying to escape out the window again. She could hurt herself. And the sheets he’d taped up to block the windows were to keep the light from getting in her eyes. He set the pizza on the floor within her reach and watched the small up-and-down motion of her breath. Good, he thought. She was not dead.
There was no reason she would be. Ronald took extra-special care of her. But what if she did die, in some random and unpreventable way, through no fault of his own? Suddenly his hands were numb. He rubbed his eyes. He wasn’t seeing right, like he was looking at Lindy from the bottom of a well. He struggled to breathe. He was dying, or they both were, there was some kind of gas leak or carbon monoxide poisoning or something—if Melinda were still around, she would know. He tried to rouse Lindy, to shout—he wouldn’t touch her—but he couldn’t seem to find his voice.
By the time he climbed the stairs and made it out the basement door, he was gasping for air like a swimmer emerged. He went to his office, where he kept his most prized postcards. The smell of paper and Mylar and postmark ink calmed him. This was his sanctuary, his collection organized in the drawers of the custom oak units lining the walls, his rarest and most favorite pieces mounted and framed. Above his desk was an arrangement of early twentieth century exaggerated fruit and vegetable postcards, illustrations and doctored photographs of giant-sized celery, carrots, apples, potatoes, cucumbers, and tomatoes, big enough to fill semi-trucks and flatcars. These were the first type he’d collected. As a young man, he’d stumbled across one in a pile of old recipe books at a yard sale in Hutchinson. It was, he’d found after some research at the library, one of A. S. Johnson Jr.’s earliest works: Onion Harvest from Waupun, Wis., dated 1909, depicting a family of farmers carting a white onion the size of a wrecking ball.
It’d been a couple long days since he’d last been in here, as busy as he was with Lindy. There was something else. This room, it was too quiet. When he prayed, he couldn’t find Melinda in the silence. In her absence, his conscience nipped at him like Gable at his ankles. Part of him didn’t want to let Lindy go. He was a lonely old man. He liked having someone else around. It had seemed fated when he found her in his yard and when he learned her name was Lindy—short for Melinda! A miraculous coincidence, a cure for soul-sickness. How could it be wrong?
But it was. Any fool could see that, and Ronald must be the biggest fool of them all. Again, his chest tightened, his breath shortened, his vision darkened. What he felt before, maybe it really was a gas leak. He could escape and survive, but for Lindy it was already too late. How simple it would be if she did die, if they both died.
No—Ronald was not that kind of person. He was a good man who’d gotten himself in a pickle then a pretzel and now a whole darned twisty noodle, who had made a terrible mistake. A sense of doom seized him as he lay awake at night and when he walked Gable past Lindy asking HAVE YOU SEEN ME? on telephone pole after telephone pole. Melinda would say the only right thing to do would be to let Lindy go. But that didn’t have to mean dire consequences for Ronald, did it? Surely Lindy’s family cared more about having her back than exacting vengeance on him—once again the word kidnapper, joined by abductor and criminal and bad guy, flashed in Ronald’s mind before he dismissed them—a temporary caretaker, and they would see that their precious Lindy was unharmed. Perhaps they’d even find that her brief time away had done her good—a sort of surprise vacation, it was.
According to the flyers, there was a cash reward for any person who helped to recover Lindy safe and sound. Ronald didn’t care about the money, but even a numbskull like him could imagine the press coverage that such a heroic act would garner. The TV people would be arriving in two days and that would be quite the icebreaker with Mark and Grant. It wouldn’t even be a fib, since Ronald had after all been the one to find her.
But would Lindy stay mum? Ronald could only hope. It was up to him to explain it to her in terms she would understand. Then, when the time was right—late tonight when the CHAANT folks had gone home—he’d call the police and tell them the story of how he’d found her. Not the whole story but, so to speak, the edited-for-TV version. Of course they’d understand. He was just a harmless old man. He’d never even gotten a speeding ticket. And if Lindy let slip anything about the kennel—well, she was just a little girl, easily confused.
Yes, indeed. That was just the ticket. A calm came over him, his breathing slowed, and warmth flowed to his cheeks as if Melinda had blown a kiss from heaven. Things were going to work out fine.
16 DELORES
“You’re a grown-up now, Dolly,” the Barbies had said while Delores dressed for her—not date, it wasn’t a date. “We might not always be here to keep you ladylike.”
“I love you,” Delores had said, fiddling with the straps of the blue corduroy jumper dress she slipped over a simple white blouse and black pantyhose. “I need you.”
“Tonight you fly solo.”
And here she was, solo, at Pete Deen’s doorstep, a nondescript brown house just a few blocks from her own. She’d driven, though it would have been faster to walk, since she’d been stuck at a stop sign for nearly ten minutes waiting for the CHAANT caravan to pass. She pressed the doorbell. It made an unmelodious buzzing noise, insect-like and ominous. A nagging feeling of lightness had been haunting her since she first stepped outside. The Barbies were not with her. Her pockets empty, they hadn’t even allowed Delores her key chain. “Pacifiers are for babies,” the brunette Dramatic New Living Barbie had said. “Even my little twin siblings Tutti and Todd wouldn’t be caught drooling on such a thing.”
Inside, Delores could hear Pete barreling down the stairs to the foyer. The door did not open, however. He was probably leering at her through the peephole, planning all the “moves” he was going to make on her. Delores wanted to run, but she reminded herself why she was there. If Growing Up Skipper 7259-A was going to be rescued, it would all be worth it. Inside, a woman’s muffled voice said something Delores couldn’t make out. In response Pete screamed, “Stay in your room, Ma! You promised, goddamn it.”
Finally the door swung open, unleashing a dense cloud of men’s cologne, the scent of wet leather with the sharpness of rubbing alcohol. Delores preferred subtlety. She swore that the plastic of a Ken or Blaine smelled different than Barbie and the other girls, a hint of pinecone and tobacco.
“Delores, hi, hello, how are you?” Pete spoke fast, like it was all one word. He wore a button-down bowling shirt with a line of neon flames along each side, his inhaler on a lanyard around his neck, light gray cargo shorts, and sandals with white socks pulled nearly u
p to his knees.
“Fine.” Delores combed her hair with her fingernails. Without Barbie, she didn’t know what to do with her hands. She stopped when she saw Pete was mirroring her, running his own fat fingertips through his sticky red hair. She invited herself in, wanting to get this over with as quickly as possible.
Inside, the house was not what she had expected. In fact, as far as she could see it was neat and clutter-free, with a bright, clean citrus scent that offered welcome relief from Pete’s cologne. The living room held a couch and easy chair upholstered in a matching floral pattern, a glass-top coffee table, candles and small potted plants on the mantelpiece, framed black-and-white family photographs on the wall.
“The toys are upstairs,” Pete said, almost like an apology. “But first.” He led her to a seat on the couch, not touching but hovering his hands just barely over her shoulders, his palms radiating warmth, not the pleasant kind. Pete had stacked pillows and folded blankets on one end of the couch so they’d have to sit near each other. “Make yourself comfortable. I’ll be right back.”
Delores moved the pillows onto the center cushion, fashioning a plush barrier between her seat and Pete’s, but then changed her mind. If Barbie were here, she’d remind her she was to obtain Skipper via any means necessary, even if it meant violating the usual rules for retaining your feminine dignity while socializing with boys. Delores sometimes thought she would, under the right circumstances, kill for the Growing Up Skipper prototype, so she supposed she could stand to bump elbows with Pete Deen.
Pete returned carrying a vintage Mickey Mouse Club TV tray on which were set a pitcher filled with what looked like lemonade, two jelly glasses, and a plate of Hostess CupCakes and Twinkies. He put the tray on the table and poured Delores a glass. She mumbled thank you (Enunciate! the Barbies would have commanded) and sipped. The combination of the artificial sweetness and the bitter burn of the alcohol was nauseating.
“My homemade limoncello.” Pete reached into his shirt pocket and removed an empty Country Time packet. “The secret ingredient,” he whispered. There were chocolate crumbs on his chin and numerous small cuts on his freshly shaven cheeks.
Delores pretended to take another sip but did not let the liquid touch her lip.
Pete bit into a Twinkie and stared at the cream filling as if he were surprised to find it there.
“Don’t you want one? I put them in the microwave for a few seconds.”
Delores searched for something to say. “That’s innovative.”
“That way they’re kind of warm. I had deep-fried ones at the Sedgwick County Fair once.”
Footsteps from upstairs. An older woman’s voice called down, “Pete, the VCR won’t work.”
“Quiet, Ma. I told you to stay in your room.” He shrugged at Delores.
“I am in my room. The VCR won’t turn on.”
“We don’t have a VCR anymore. It’s a DVD player. DVD!”
“You know what I mean. How do I play my movie?”
Delores took slow, deep breaths and imagined herself encased in the cardboard and plastic of a Barbie doll box. She could make it through this. If it led to Skipper, she could make it through anything. She would not let doubt enter her mind. Barbie could not be wrong. If she said Skipper was here, she was.
“Just press the button on the remote, Ma.”
“Button?”
“The play button. A green triangle.”
“The green button? Pete, what green button?”
“On the other remote. The play button, Ma! It’s the same as the old VCR.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. There are a lot of buttons. What button?”
“The button! The fucking button, for fuck’s sake! THE FUCKING FUCK BUTTON!” He went clomping up the stairs. A door opened and shut. The tones of an argument could be heard but the words were indecipherable. Delores gazed at the front door. Now was probably her last opportunity for escape.
Pete returned a few minutes later, out of breath, the strain of the stairs too much for him. He sat so close to Delores their legs were touching and sucked on his inhaler. “You know, I’ve had girlfriends before,” he said. He took a sip from his glass but most of the liquid dribbled down his chin.
A grandfather clock chimed from somewhere deep within the house. “Oh shoot, it’s time.” Pete grabbed the remote and turned on the cable box, settling on the game show channel.
They watched Match Game and The Gong Show and The Joker’s Wild and The Newlywed Game and The $20,000 Pyramid. The seventies-era sets, all rust and orange and wood paneling, were framed ideally by Pete’s blandly manicured home, tidy but as the night wore on increasingly suffocating, the air stiff as if Scotchgarded. Pete laughed wildly at tired innuendos spewed by baggy-eyed celebrities. Delores did not much care for Pete’s brand of nostalgia. The toys he collected were playthings to him, a means of reenacting a childhood that couldn’t have possibly been as happy as he remembered. Barbie was different, aspirational: an exemplar of poise and sophistication, a model of idealized adulthood, not a relic of childhood fantasy. It was not that Barbie wasn’t a toy—of course she was—it was that she was more than that, she was a person—a person Delores hadn’t been apart from in many, many years. She almost teared up, dabbed at her eyes while Pete slapped his knee in response to some idiotic Charo bon mot.
This had gone on long enough. If Delores wanted Skipper, she’d have to be proactive. Hollywood Squares over, she grabbed the remote and turned off the television. She took a cupcake from the tray and offered it to Pete. “You want?” When he reached for it, she pulled it away. Taking Pete’s outstretched hand, she brought the cupcake flirtatiously to his lips, holding it by the tips of her fingernails so as to avoid direct contact. Pete sucked it down, his eyebrows arched in a grotesque façade of seduction. She was glad the Barbies weren’t here to see this.
Delores wiped her hand on the couch cushion. “Show me your room. Show me your toys.”
“My collection?” Pete smiled. “My real collection and not just the junk I sell at the Heart? You’ll flip your lid.” In his stocking feet like a child, he led Delores up the stairs, past a door behind which his mother snored over the looping sound bites of a DVD menu, to the end of the hall and up another staircase to his attic bedroom.
“There’s a lot more in the basement,” Pete said. “This is just where I keep the essentials.” Toys of all kinds filled the room, which was narrowly navigable owing to impregnable layers of boxes and display shelves. Model airplanes and spaceships hung from the ceiling. Meticulously painted model kits of sci-fi and horror creatures were displayed on a bookshelf by Pete’s bed. Some of what he kept up here was apparently so precious he stored it in a specially lit glass case, such as a set of shampoo bottles shaped like the Universal Studios monsters and an original Star Trek phaser replica, but some of it was treated carelessly, like the mass of loose action figures on the floor tangled up like a rat king. This was not a safe place for any Barbie, let alone Growing Up Skipper.
There were no chairs, no place to sit but the bed, so there she sat, on the very edge, pulling her skirt over her knees. “You said something about a shipment? From a man you met at PlastiCon.”
Pete ran his hands through his hair, then examined his fingertips, greasy with pomade. “Let me give you a tour.” He pointed at a comic book titled Cyberspasm. “See that? It’s being adapted into a major motion picture. Right now it’s worth about fifteen dollars. A year from now it’ll be one-fifty, easy. And that”—he referred to a boxed Castle Grayskull—“three hundred. I’m sure you’ve seen the previews for the new cartoon. After the debut? Three thousand.” He went on like this for a while, divulging intel from his “contacts in Hollywood.”
“About the Mattel shipment,” Delores said.
Crouching, Pete inspected a paint job on a gila monster model kit. “I’ll tell you something I learned.” Pete was whispering now, as if about to impart sacred knowledge. “Besides the Hollywood stuff, the
re’s really only three types of stuff you’ll ever make any money off: stuff that’s really old, like a hundred or eighty years or whatever; stuff that’s in brand-new perfect condition; and stuff that’s about twenty years old. See, this is when people have kids of their own and they start to get nostalgic for their childhood, the stuff Mom gave to Goodwill.” He snapped his fingers, but they were too damp with pomade to make a sound. “Gold mine.”
“You wanted me to appraise some dolls?”
He sprang up, dug around in the flotsam, and emerged with a box about the size and dimensions of three 1990 DreamHouses. “Wonder what’s inside.” Delores about fainted when he rattled the box, stamped with a bright red FRAGILE. He plopped it on the floor beside Delores’s feet. “Now, where did I put that box cutter—no, wait, ha ha, I’ll open it with this cool sword I got for my birthday. Do you know that kiosk at the mall?” Pete began once again to rustle around.
Delores pointed her ear toward the box. Was something murmuring from within? It was hard to tell with all the noise Pete was making. “Dang it, I know I put it right here, but where is it? Ma!” he yelled down the stairs. “Ma! Have you seen my sword?”
“It’s dangerous!” she yelled back. “I don’t want you playing with that thing.”
“Goddamn it, Ma! I told you to stay out of my room!” Delores couldn’t wait any longer. She stuck her diamond-hard fingernail into the seam of the packing tape and sliced it open. “Oh,” Pete said, “you got it already.” He sounded a little disappointed.
Delores tried to soften her expression. “I’d love for you to show me what he’s sent you. I can help appraise any Mattel fashion dolls.”