The Vanishing Expert

by David Movsesian

  “Geez, Jimbo!” Joe said. “You don’t look happy to see me!” He extended his hand, and James shook it tentatively.

  “Hello, Joe,” James said. He forced a smile, but there was nothing in his voice that would suggest he was pleased to see his visitor.

  Jean reluctantly excused herself at that moment to attend to a couple she’d spoken with earlier. Christina walked into the back room, feeling Joe’s eyes upon her as she passed.

  Joe Tibbits waited until both women were out of earshot before he spoke. “You look like you could use some air,” he said. “Whatta ya say we step outside.”

  James waved to Jean as he left the gallery to let her know he’d be outside. He forced a thin smile, but she could see that the color still hadn’t returned to his face. Once outside, James drew a deep breath, but he still felt unsteady.

  “Been a long time,” Joe said. He was looking straight ahead toward the village green across the street. He lit a cigarette, drawing it in and then blowing a stream of smoke from the corner of his mouth. “Too long, if you ask me.”

  “What are you doing here?” James finally asked.

  Joe Tibbits’ smile vanished. He looked at James as if James had insulted him. “You left so quick,” Joe said. “I never even got a chance to say goodbye.” He turned and began to walk slowly away from the door; James had no choice but to follow him. They crossed Mount Desert Street and walked onto the village green. “You have no idea how hard it was to find you.”

  James’s stomach flipped again and he swallowed hard. The thought of running into Joe Tibbits purely by chance was unsettling enough; the idea that Joe had been searching for him sent a sudden wave of panic through him that actually made him stop.

  Joe stopped and looked at him. He waited a moment and then turned and began walking again. Once again, James fell into stride beside him.

  “You were looking for me?” James asked. “Mind if I ask why?”

  Joe took a long drag on his cigarette and let the smoke out slowly, taking his time. “You’ve got a pretty nice life here, don’t you?”

  It sounded like a rhetorical question so James just waited.

  “You’ve got a beautiful new wife, and I understand you even have a new baby. Congratulations, by the way.” Joe seemed to take great delight in telling James what he knew about his life. “I even met Christina— what is she, your stepdaughter? — She’s something!”

  “What do you want, Joe?”

  The twisted grin that emerged on Joe’s thin, weathered face appeared unnatural, even uncomfortable, as much a grimace as it was a smile. “I’m just saying you have a nice little life here is all.”

  It bothered James that Joe never answered a direct question, particularly when he had so many. “So, how did you find me?”

  “Did you not want to be found?” Joe asked him. It was obvious he took great pleasure in this little game of cat-and-mouse. It had been a long and sometimes arduous search; he felt he’d earned the right to toy with his prey a bit. That James was obviously nervous only added to Joe’s enjoyment. He reached into his pocket and removed the clipping he’d torn out of the Bar Harbor Times earlier that day. He handed the folded paper to James, who glared at Joe for a moment before opening it.

  The announcement of the wedding and the arrival of the new baby had been Christina’s idea. More than anyone, she wanted to get the news out as quickly as possible. Always wondering who knew and who didn’t in their little community was difficult for her. She’d convinced James and her mother that the longer they treated the arrival of the baby as a secret, the more likely people would be to ask questions, and the more suspicious they would be of the answers. So the short article announced not only the Berkhardt-Perkins wedding, but also the arrival of little William Christopher Perkins. There was no photograph, but the article, which Christina wrote, celebrated the two events equally.

  James had read the article before. He didn’t need to read it again.

  “This is why you came?” James asked, holding up the clipping.

  Joe shook his head. “That’s how I found you,” he said, pointing at the clipping. “It’s not why I came.”

  James stared at him for what seemed like a long time. There was no point in asking Joe Tibbits questions; he just disregarded them. Whatever he’d come to say, James realized, Joe would say when he was ready. All James could do was wait.

  “I know who you are,” Joe finally said. His tone was so matter-of-fact that it took a moment for the words to register in James’s mind. Joe could see that he now had James’s full attention. He leaned toward James and said it again, slowly, pausing after each word for effect. “I… know… who… you… are.”

  James said nothing, afraid to concede anything at all to Joe Tibbits, and seeing this, Joe reached into his back pocket and removed his wallet. From it, he produced another newspaper clipping. This one was older and yellowed and was worn thin at the folds. When he handed it to James, James saw the smiling face of Edward Moody staring back at him from the yellowed clipping.

  The article had appeared in The Boston Globe about a week after Edward Moody’s disappearance. It recounted his life and his tragic disappearance in Narragansett Bay. James had never seen the article, but he recognized the picture; it was taken about a year before his disappearance and it was one of Gloria’s favorites, mainly because it was one of the few recent pictures she had of him where he was smiling so joyfully when he wasn’t on his boat— or working on it. There were plenty of those pictures, she knew, but she wasn’t about to use a picture of him on his damned boat considering how she’d lost him.

  It suddenly occurred to James that, in one hand, he held the announcement of his wedding and the arrival of his new son— the two events that, in his mind, marked the beginning of his new life— in the other hand, he held his obituary. He folded both articles and offered them back to Joe.

  “You keep those,” Joe said. “I’ve got plenty more where those came from. I’ve got a nice little scrapbook.”

  James shoved the paper into the pocket of his jeans. He’d throw them away as soon as he had the opportunity. “Why don’t you just tell me why you’re here?”

  Joe Tibbits took great pleasure in James’s anxiety, but he considered the reason he’d come, the reason he’d searched for Edward Moody for so long, and he decided it was best not to push him too far— not yet.

  “Relax,” he said. “I didn’t come here to make trouble for you. I came here to ask a simple favor of an old friend, and as long as I get what I want, you can just go on with your happy little life here as far as I’m concerned. Nobody has to know anything.”

  James was about to ask Joe what the favor was, but realizing the futility in asking Joe Tibbits another direct question, he just waited for Joe to continue.

  He’d learned early on to always be wary of Joe Tibbits. He’d witnessed Joe’s thunderous and violent eruptions on the job sites and on more than one occasion he’d had to duck or leap quickly out of the way of some tool or some random piece of lumber that had unwisely tried Joe’s limited patience. Like all of the men on the crew that summer, James developed a habit of flinching whenever he heard the first rumblings of one of Joe’s impending outbursts. If Joe raised his voice, he was likely to slam the offending object to the ground; if he suddenly launched into a string of obscenities, which he did often, that same item would, as often as not, become a projectile. Because the trajectory of these missiles always seemed random— as if even Joe had no idea where they would go and didn’t seem to care— it was always necessary to be alert around Joe Tibbits. When the men objected to a near miss, Joe always grumbled the same remark: “Aw, shut the fuck up. It missed you, didn’t it?”

  During the few months they’d worked together in Gardiner, Joe rarely engaged his co-workers in conversation. It was obvious even then that Joe appeared to have little, if any, use for any of them. On the few occasions they spoke, their conversations were mostly limited to t
he topic of the Rhode Island man who fell off his boat and disappeared, and all of those conversations were one-sided, and always initiated by Joe; James wanted no part of them.

  Otherwise, Joe Tibbits kept to himself, perusing the daily newspapers with such a focus that it appeared less like he was satisfying a simple curiosity than that he was searching for something. He seemed to have little time for idle chatter, and James thought it odd— at least at first— that a man who was so consumed by current events spent noticeably little time actually discussing them with anyone.

  Once Joe raised the subject back in Gardiner of Edward Moody’s disappearance, just a few weeks after James had arrived there, he understood that Joe’s hunger for news had turned up something he saw as very valuable. He didn’t know what Joe hoped to gain with the information, then or now, but he was certain of one thing— what Joe knew could ruin everything.

  When Joe began to walk again, James glanced over his shoulder at the door to the gallery and then, once again, fell into stride beside his unwelcome visitor.

  “So here’s the deal, Jimmy-Boy,” Joe said. “The truth is I didn’t come all the way up here to fuck with you. I’m actually hoping you’ll help me out, you know, for old time’s sake.”

  James eyed him suspiciously. “With what?”

  When Joe looked at James again, he was no longer smiling. He was still clearly in control of the situation, but some of his arrogance had briefly slipped away. “I figure it’s about time I disappear, for a while anyway, and I need you to help me do it.”

  “Why?” James asked.

  “It doesn’t matter why,” Joe said sternly.

  “It might to me.”

  “It’s none of your fuckin’ business why, Moody!”

  James looked around nervously, hoping no one heard. There were several people in the park, but no one he recognized, and no one was paying any attention to them. Still, he thought it best if they didn’t continue this conversation in middle of town. He started to walk, expecting his companion would follow, but after he’d gone a few steps, he realized that Joe Tibbits hadn’t moved. James walked back to him, reminded once again that Joe was in control.

  “Can we talk about this somewhere else?” he said. “There’s too many people here who know me.”

  Joe smirked. “We can go wherever you want, Jimbo, but if you think I’m letting you out of my fuckin’ sight, you’re crazy.”

  James thought about it for a moment. He walked back to the gallery and explained to Jean that he was going to give Joe a quick tour of the town and then go for a drink. Jean was still mistrustful of his visitor, based on James’s initial reaction upon seeing him, but James seemed more himself now.

  “What time will you be home?” she asked.

  “I won’t keep him out too long,” Joe said. “We’ve just got some catching up to do.”

  The two men walked to James’s jeep which was parked nearby. He needed to take Joe to a place where they could talk freely without being interrupted, and without being overheard. They drove out of the village and up the auto road that ascended Cadillac Mountain. Joe Tibbits peered out the window admiring the view of Blue Hill Bay— and the Blue Hill Peninsula just beyond it— as they climbed.

  “Suppose I agree to help you,” James finally said after they’d been driving in silence for some time.

  Joe continued gazing out the window at the vast landscapes rolling out beneath them in the distance. He never looked at James. “You say it like you have a choice.”

  James said nothing. He knew Joe was right.

  When they arrived at the summit, he parked the jeep. It was still early in the season; there were tourists at the summit, but it wasn’t nearly as crowded as it would be in a few weeks. At that time of the evening, most of the tourists who remained at the summit were beginning to migrate to the western side, facing Blue Hill Bay, to await the sunset. James led Joe away from them to the eastern slope overlooking Frenchman’s Bay. They walked to a granite outcropping away from the few tourists who lingered nearby.

  “You don’t really need me, you know,” James said. “You could do it without me.”

  “I know,” Joe said. “But I figure my chances of pulling it off improve considerably with your help.”

  “Why?”

  Joe smiled at him. “You don’t even appreciate what you did!” he said. “You not only disappeared, you did it so nobody was even looking for you. You just fuckin’ vanished, and started a whole new happy life for yourself. That’s fuckin’ impressive!”

  They walked a little further in silence. “And if I decide not to help you, you’re going to tell everyone who I am and what I did?”

  “It should never come to that, Moody!” Joe growled.

  It occurred to James that Joe called him Moody only when he was agitated, hurling the word in his direction as he’d done with so many tools and scraps of lumber. James flinched instinctively, just as he’d done whenever he found himself too close to one of Joe Tibbits’ eruptions. In the short time they worked together, he’d grown familiar enough with Joe’s rage that he could anticipate the violence, but he’d never been the object of it; he’d only ever been an unfortunate bystander who happened to be in its path. This was different.

  “Look,” Joe said, trying to compose himself. “If you agree to help me, as a friend, then none of that matters, does it?”

  We were never friends, James thought. “I thought you already knew everything about me,” he said.

  Joe smirked. “I know all about you,” he said. “What I don’t know is how you pulled it off. That’s what I need from you. I need to know how you did it, and then I need you to do it again— for me.”

  James stopped walking, and this time, he was surprised when Joe stopped too. “It’s complicated.”

  “Oh, I’m sure of it,” Joe said. “That’s why I came looking for you. When you want something done right, you don’t try to do it yourself. You call a fuckin’ expert. And like it or not, Jimbo, that’s you.” He took a last long drag on his cigarette and flicked it onto the dirt, squashing it beneath his shoe. “You’re the fucking vanishing expert.”

  James looked out at the horizon, at the domed islands in Frenchman’s Bay, and nearer still, at the streets of Bar Harbor that were occasionally visible through the trees. Most of the village was lost among the tall oaks and the pines, only the occasional steeples rising bright and sharp against them. It was a peaceful scene, but nothing about that moment brought James peace.

  James glared sternly at Joe Tibbits. “So if I agree to help you, and it doesn’t sound like I have much choice, how do I know that’ll be the end of it?”

  Joe smiled again. It would have been a reassuring expression from anyone else, under any other circumstances, but James was growing tired of Joe’s twisted grin, and he was neither comforted nor amused. “If you help me pull this off, I won’t have any reason to say anything to anybody, will I?” He placed his hand on James’s shoulder as if they were suddenly allies. “Besides, after that, you’ll have a secret to hold over me, too, won’t you?”

  James nodded slowly, wondering to himself if Joe Tibbits would keep his word. He had no reason to doubt him, but even less reason to trust him. He decided it was safer if he didn’t ask any more questions.

  For the next half-hour, James begrudgingly explained how he’d gone about creating his new identity. He laid it all out, holding back nothing— the social security card, the bank account, the apartment rental, the driver’s license. It was all as clear in his mind as if it had been yesterday. Joe listened intently, memorizing every detail.

  “Where’d you learn all this stuff,” Joe asked at one point.

  James thought for a moment and smiled, his first real smile since he first saw Joe Tibbits in the gallery. “College, believe it or not. Some of it anyway. The rest was an experiment.”

  “Well, it worked,” Joe said.

  James looked seriously at Joe. “There’s no
guarantee it’ll work again,” he cautioned.

  “Tell me about how you disappeared,” Joe said. The angry man James knew was suddenly an eager student.

  James described how he’d watched the weather reports for weeks, waiting for a storm that would suit his needs. He described the day he’d finally chosen and how he’d almost lost the Chris Craft in the rough sea before the other boat arrived to take him to shore where the jeep was waiting for him. (He never mentioned that Kate was driving the other boat. There was no point in bringing her into it.)

  When he was finished, Joe Tibbits shook his head and sighed. “You got balls, Jimmy-boy,” he said admiringly. When he saw James look out at the bay, Joe realized that he’d apparently reached the end of his story.

  The sun had already set behind them, the purple light of dusk having yielded to black. Those who had remained at the summit to watch the sunset had packed up and begun the slow drive down the mountain in the dark.

  It was getting late and James knew that Jean would be concerned, so he convinced Joe to meet him the following day at noon. He’d ask Christina or Ruth to look after the baby for a few hours while he finished his business with Joe Tibbits, hoping then to be rid of him for good. Now that he’d heard James’s story, Joe was willing to part company with him for a few hours. He knew James wouldn’t disappear again— not this time— not with everything he had to lose.