The Vanishing Expert

by David Movsesian

  On one such evening, in 1957, a young girl caught Peter Langston’s eye and his world went askew. She was wearing a pink button down shirt and white shorts that revealed her long tanned legs. When she smiled in his direction, Peter was certain he was looking at the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen, and he elbowed Harry, hoping for a witness to reassure him that he wasn’t imagining her.

  “Holy cow, Harry,” Peter exclaimed, jabbing him repeatedly. “Check out that girl!”

  Harry looked up and spotted the object of his friend’s lusty gaze. “Hey, watch it, you moron,” Harry said. He shoved Peter, who didn’t budge. “That’s my kid sister.”

  Despite the warning, Peter couldn’t take his eyes off her. “That’s Annie?” he asked. The last time he’d seen Annie Price— at least the last time he remembered seeing her— she was fourteen and, as he recalled, gangly and always under foot. Now, almost overnight, she seemed to be in full bloom, and Peter, watching her without blinking as she crossed the street and walked directly toward him, sensed that his life had just changed in an instant.

  “Hello, boys,” she said as she approached them. She smiled flirtatiously at Peter. “Staying out of trouble, I hope.” She never broke stride, but passed close enough to Peter that he could smell her perfume. He breathed it in as he watched her walk away.

  Harry slapped Peter in the back of his large head. “Knock it off!” Harry told him.

  “I have to ask your sister out,” Peter said, ignoring him.

  “Come on,” Harry said in disbelief. “Annie?”

  Peter turned to face him, and his expression was almost pleading. “Seriously,” he said. “I need to ask her out, and you need to be okay with it.”

  “Well, what if I’m not?” Harry asked.

  “Then I guess we’ll have to figure something out,” Peter said. He smiled one of his broad, toothy smiles. “What if I were to just beat you until you were okay with it?”

  Harry stared at Peter, trying to hold his ground, but knowing he was no match for his much larger friend. He shrugged. “I’m suddenly okay with it,” he said.

  “Really?” Peter asked, surprised his friend had given in so easily.

  “No!” Harry shouted. But then his shoulders sagged and he shook his head. “But I guess if it’s not you, it’ll be somebody else.”

  “Can’t let that happen,” Peter said as he bolted from the bench and hurried in the direction where he’d last seen Annie before she disappeared into a crowd of locals and tourists.

  They dated for almost five years, and were married shortly after Annie graduated from nursing school, just before her twenty-first birthday. Harry, who had reluctantly given their courtship his blessing on that bench on Main Street just a few summers earlier, was Peter’s best man.

  They lived at first with Peter’s parents until they saved enough money for a place of their own. In 1964, Annie gave birth to their first son, who they named Harry, after Annie’s brother. Just two years later, they welcomed their second son, Michael, named after no one in particular.

  From the beginning, Peter was the doting father his own father had always wanted to be. While Peter cherished his relationship with his father, he wanted to have more than a mutual appreciation for a day’s work between him and his sons. He still worked long hours during the week, but his weekends were devoted to his boys and to Annie, whom he’d loved since that summer day in 1957. Annie, who had been in love with him for as long as she could remember, was most content when they were all together.

  On any given weekend they were likely to be seen walking the carriage roads or strolling along the sidewalks in Bar Harbor, one of the boys hoisted high upon Peter’s massive shoulders, the other holding Annie’s hand. From the time they were old enough— or perhaps even before they were quite old enough— Peter would often treat the entire family to ice cream at the little shop on Main Street, and then sit them all down on that same bench out front and tell his boys the story of the first time he saw their mother.

  “It wasn’t the first time you saw me,” Annie corrected him. “It was the first time you noticed me.” She patted her husband’s large hand and winked at Kate across the table. “He was always sweet, but a little slow.”

  “Well, I got you, didn’t I?” Peter said, giving Annie her opportunity to tell her side of the story.

  Annie smiled, and James could see that mischievous sparkle that must have first captured Peter more than thirty years earlier. “I know you like to think you did,” she said. She leaned across the table as if she were about to share a secret with their friends. “The part he always leaves out is that I waited across the street for almost an hour for my brother and him to finally show up on that bench. They usually did sooner or later. And when they finally did, I sprayed on a little extra perfume and walked across the street right in front of him, and just slightly upwind, so there was no way he could miss me.”

  They all laughed and Peter smiled coyly, not minding at all having his version of the story called into question.

  “Sounds to me like Annie was the one doing the getting,” Jean said.

  By the end of the evening, Kate and James had learned a good deal more about Peter and Annie, and even about Jean, but it was only as they were leaving the restaurant that their friends realized they knew little more about James than they’d known when the evening began. Kate, as it turned out, was as evasive as her brother when it came to revealing information about his past. As they stepped out on the sidewalk, Peter decided he couldn’t let it lie.

  “So I want to know something,” he said as he buttoned his coat. “How is it that after three hours, we still don’t know any more about you than we did when we first sat down?” He glared at James with a feigned suspicion. “What are you hiding from us?”

  Kate swallowed hard, but James just laughed.

  “I’m not hiding anything,” James said. “It’s just that I’d rather spend the evening listening to stories about your lives than rehashing my own. You’re all a lot more interesting than I am.”

  “It’s true,” Kate offered in support of her brother. “You really are.”

  James laughed along with the rest of them. “See?” he said. “And she knows me better than anyone.”

  The chill of the evening cut their conversation short. Peter, feeling Annie shiver just once, decided to give James a reprieve for the evening. Peter and Annie, having parked just outside the restaurant, offered to drive the others back to their cars, but Jean said she preferred to walk, and James volunteered to accompany her. Jean had left her car outside the gallery, about four blocks away, and James had left the Jeep on Main Street near the Sherman’s Bookstore. They strolled at a leisurely pace, James flanked by the two women, enjoying the crisp night air. The Criterion Theater was emptying out as they passed, and the sidewalk was almost as busy as it was during the summer, if only briefly, as the movie crowd emerged and then quickly dispersed to their cars or into the warmth of the local bars and restaurants.

  “I love this town at night,” Jean said. “During the day, you can see how much it’s changed. But at night, with just the lights, it feels like going back in time.”

  It was the beginning of a habit James would develop of watching Jean’s face as she strolled through the town after dark. There was always a sparkle in her eyes that was more than just the reflection of the lighted signs and streetlights. During those moments when she felt that time hadn’t cruelly passed her by, but instead had stood still, James presumed he was witnessing Jean as she’d been when she first came here, full of the same exuberance and youthful optimism that he’d seen in her daughter.

  James imagined her walking these same sidewalks back then with her new husband, the young attorney, even before Christina came along. It was a joyous time when her whole life seemed to be falling into place. It was only years later, long after Richard had left and Christina had grown, when she finally discovered that joy again. There was something reassuring a
bout strolling along those same cracked sidewalks, past those same storefronts that seemed to always have been there. It was a comforting reminder that not everything changes; not everyone leaves.

  After they walked Jean to her car, James and Kate cut across the park and back to James’s Jeep. Driving across Mount Desert Island at night was always a peaceful journey. Even with the domed peaks and the views of the sea masked in darkness, James was always aware that he was traveling through a special place. Some nights, he would pull the Jeep over at the side of the road and just sit in the darkness listening to the wind sweeping through the trees or to the distant sounds of the waves.

  On this night, they leisurely wound their way back to Southwest Harbor and, once back at James’s small apartment, they sat on the sofa talking well past midnight until they both began to fade. Kate dreaded the long drive that awaited her the next day, wishing she could stay longer in James’s new home.

  The next morning, James awoke first to the familiar aroma of Ruth Kennedy’s blueberry muffins which always seemed to find its way to him from her kitchen on the far end of the house. He sometimes wondered if Ruth was standing in her living room, which was directly beneath his apartment, holding up a pan of muffins fresh out of the oven just to entice him downstairs

  When Kate emerged from the bedroom a short time later, James greeted her with a satisfied grin. “Do you smell that?” he asked her.

  “Did you bake?” she asked. “You don’t bake.”

  James laughed. “That’s Ruth’s kitchen downstairs,” he said. “We have muffins together every Sunday morning, and I’ve been sitting out here smelling them for the last twenty minutes, so get dressed. You’re in for a treat.”

  Ruth Kennedy was always in a jovial mood on those Sunday mornings when she welcomed James into her home. It was, she felt, one of the only opportunities she was afforded to reward his many acts of kindness; at least, it was the only one he would accept. It seemed to her such insufficient compensation, a few muffins in exchange for all the thoughtful little tasks he did for her throughout the week, but she had no idea how he enjoyed their weekly ritual. In his mind, it was Ruth who was being cheated.

  Ruth welcomed Kate with a motherly hug, making her feel instantly at ease. She was so excited by the notion of having a new guest in her home that she was in constant motion. She moved from the stove, where the fresh muffins were waiting under a towel, to the refrigerator to the table and then all about the kitchen arranging and adjusting things in a flurry of restless activity. She chattered the entire time, never lingering on one subject for too long, bouncing from one topic to the next with the same frenzy with which she moved about the kitchen. One minute she was telling Kate about her son, only to disappear into the other room and return with a framed photograph of him with his family. Almost as soon as Ruth would sit down, she was out of her seat again to fetch another muffin or to offer them more coffee or juice. When she returned to the table again moments later, she moved on to an altogether different topic.

  When at one point Ruth disappeared again to retrieve some memento she wanted desperately to show them, Kate glanced at James who offered her a wink and a knowing smile that suggested this was all a part of their ritual.

  Kate enjoyed it all. From the moment she entered Ruth’s home, she felt welcome, and Ruth’s boundless energy and her eagerness to please her guests was so endearing that Kate felt an instant connection with her. It occurred to Kate more than once that this simple ritual could have easily been something she and Edward might have shared with their own mother had she lived. She understood almost immediately why her brother so enjoyed his time with Ruth Kennedy and the void it must fill for him. Her own Sunday mornings were spent at the nursing home with their father where she would often feed him like a child or help him change his shirt or clean him. She couldn’t help but be jealous of the life her brother had found and its contrast with her own.

  When they were preparing to leave, Ruth placed a few of the remaining muffins in a bag and offered them to Kate. “You’ve got a long drive ahead of you,” Ruth told her. “Take these for the road.”

  She hugged Kate as if they were old friends, and Kate found herself holding on a bit longer than she intended. Aunt Gin was always generous with her affection, but hers was a firm and reassuring embrace. As she clung to Ruth Kennedy, it was like wrapping herself in a warm blanket, and she was suddenly reminded of her own mother’s loving embrace, a child’s memory that overtook her without warning.

  When they finally separated, Ruth took Kate’s hand in both of hers. “It was wonderful to meet you, my dear.” Her voice was bright but her eyes were kind as if she understood what Kate was thinking. “Please come back and visit again soon.” She gave Kate’s hand a gentle squeeze.

  “I will,” Kate said.

  Back in his apartment, James watched Kate pack, and then he somberly walked her out to her car. He was elated that she’d come to visit him, but her visit was simply too short, and the time passed far too quickly. They knew it would be months before they would see each other again, and they realized how precious this time was. They made small talk as her engine idled, delaying the inevitable, until finally she threw her arms around him.

  “I love you, Katy,” he told her, his voice breaking.

  Kate sobbed and sniffled, her face buried in his shoulder. “I love you too, Edward.”

  He made no attempt to correct her.

  As he stood in the cold, watching her drive away beneath the long shadows of the pine and spruce trees that lined Clark Point Road, he thought about the long, lonely winter that was rushing toward him.

  7

  Gone But Not Forgotten

  Joe Tibbits was only fifteen minutes late for work this time, but as he climbed out of his pickup and walked up to the construction site in Auburn, Maine, the rest of the crew was already working. There was no urgency in his stride as he approached them, a tall cup of coffee in his hand, a cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth, and his tool belt cavalierly slung over his shoulder. As always, the morning paper was tucked under his arm.

  Most of the men regarded him coolly, as they did every morning when he wandered in late. When he worked, he worked hard, and he was clearly a skilled carpenter, but it was the attitude he projected that the rules didn't apply to him that put them off.

  “Morning, sunshine,” one of them called out to him. “Glad you decided to join us.”

  “Hey, leave him alone,” another said. “Can’t you see the man needs his beauty sleep?”

  “He needs a lot more if you ask me,” said a third.

  Joe Tibbits raised his cup of coffee over his head in acknowledgement without looking at them and without breaking stride. “Morning, Fuckers,” he grumbled.

  Mike Cochrane, the foreman on the project, approached him as Joe set his coffee on a stack of two-by-sixes. Cochrane was a small, sturdy man, standing only five-foot-six, but he was considered a brawler. His size didn’t prevent him from getting in the face— or the chest— of men who were much taller than he was if he was backed into a corner or was agitated. As he stepped up to Joe Tibbits, who stood a full head taller than him, he was clearly agitated.

  “That’s twice this week,” Cochrane said. As he leaned closer, he nudged the brim of his Red Sox cap upward with his hammer so he could continue to look Joe in the eye. “I suppose you got the same bullshit excuse.”

  Joe Tibbits considered the question, nodding slowly as he wrapped his tool belt around his waist and buckled it firmly in place. “No point in making new shit up as long as that one keeps working for me.”

  Cochrane wasn’t amused. “Well, Romeo, how ‘bout next time, you put your cock back in your pants fifteen minutes earlier and get here for seven like everybody else?”

  Joe offered him a condescending smile that twisted around his cigarette, and he saluted the foreman— just two fingers, which was one more than he wanted to give him.

  “Don’t be a
smartass, asshole,” Cochrane warned him. “I can still fire you. It’ll leave me short, but I’ll fuckin’ do it if I have to.” He turned away to return to his work.

  “You’ll be short either way, you fuckin’ midget,” Joe muttered. Cochrane was already too far away to hear the remark.

  Joe Tibbits was unconcerned with Cochrane’s threat. The truth was, he had no intention of staying in Auburn any longer than necessary; a few more weeks, a month tops, and then he would be on his way again. If it ended sooner, so be it. It didn’t matter to him one way or the other.

  For almost two years, that had been Joe’s life, moving from one town to another, from one job to another, rarely staying in one place for very long; sometimes a few months, other times just a few weeks. The only exception was during the winter months, when work was harder to find. He had little choice but to stay put from the first frost until mud season which, in Maine, begins with the thaw and lasts well into the spring, when the state consists almost exclusively of rocky coastline and an endless expanse of mud.

  He arrived in Auburn in mid-October, having left Gardiner just two weeks after James Perkins vanished, and he already knew that he didn’t want to ride out the winter there. As soon as he decided his next move, he'd be gone.

  It wouldn’t be long.

  Joe Tibbits had only been with the previous crew in Gardiner for two months when he met James Perkins in June. He tolerated the foreman there, another small man who thought his position made him bigger than he was. But unlike Cochrane, the foreman in Gardiner had at least shown him some respect. He turned a blind eye to Joe’s late arrivals, knowing he would still get more than a full day’s work from him. Joe always worked in a kind of controlled frenzy, although at times his intensity could be unnerving. He cursed like a drunken sailor even when he wasn’t angry, which it seemed he always was. He often threw tools and lumber and anything else that he deemed unfit for the job, sometimes barely missing his coworkers, who learned very quickly to keep a watchful eye out for objects that could be chucked in their direction at any moment.