by Homes, A. M.
I remind myself that I did not do this, and yet just knowing, just feeling, just being the little bit more familiar than most with the impulses that allow such things to happen makes me uncomfortable. I think of myself as an outsider—a suspect. My devolution, my despicable descent into adultery and murderous familial fellowship, has welled up and undone me.
And then she is there, on my doorstep, waiting, as though nothing has happened. “I’ve been terrified you were gone,” I say.
“Gone where?”
“Missing.”
“What are you talking about?”
“That girl.”
“What girl?” she asks.
“Are you blind? Don’t you see the posters all over town or watch TV?”
She says nothing—she knows but doesn’t want to talk about it.
“I saw you,” she says. “Outside the store, giving away the kittens.”
“You were there?”
“It’s my grocery store.”
“How come you didn’t say anything?”
“I liked watching you.”
“What was I doing?”
“Giving away kittens.”
“Are you stalking me?”
She changes the subject: “Did you give all the kittens to good homes?”
“I had to keep one.”
“For your daughter?”
“I don’t have children.”
“Right,” she says, like I’m lying. “You just borrow them.…”
“You want the truth?”
She says nothing.
“My brother, the owner of this house, is insane.”
“There’s one in every family—no biggie,” she says.
“There was a murder in this house,” I say, wondering if I am being provocative because I’m annoyed with her.
“Really?”
I nod ever so slightly, as though realizing the enormity of what I’m saying.
“Was this before you bought the house?” she asks.
“Like I said, it’s not my house.”
“Oh, right,” she says, “I spaced.” And then she crosses her legs and shifts, preparing herself, bracing for information. “Okay, I’m ready.”
And all that comes out is so short, as though the story has sucked itself back into the deep ether, like a tragic genie racing back into the bottle—my own guilt, my awareness that I’ve not actually discussed this with anyone.
“My brother killed his wife.”
A long pause.
“On purpose?” she asks.
“Hard to know,” I say.
“That’s terrible,” she says.
“Awful,” I say, and realize that, except for the calls I made when it happened, I haven’t told anyone.
“It’s really kind of a downer,” she says. “You’re making this up, right? This is like one of those weird urban legends?”
“Why would I make it up? Does it make me more attractive? That’s my big secret, what’s yours?”
I try to get a careful look at her. What color are her eyes? Why does nothing about her stay in my mind? I think of taking a picture with my phone—her and the kitten, something to hold on to, to analyze, and submit as evidence if need be. She is wearing casual clothing, which makes her look young. Her hair is neither blond nor brown, neither thick nor thin; it frames a face that is like so many faces. She looks like everyone and like no one. Her hands are the only giveaway: the skin is a little loose on the fingers, which are thin and nimble, almost monkeylike. There are a few light-tan freckled pigment spots on the tops of her hands—age. I return to her face. She is and is not similar to the missing girl, whose photo I have printed out and placed in the center of George’s desk.
“Is there anything you want to tell me?” I ask.
“Can you stop?” she says. “You’re freaking me out.” She takes a breath. “Why did you ask people if they had other pets, and if the cat would live indoors or out, and if the new owner would be so kind as to e-mail photos of the kitty to you?”
“How close did you get?”
“You’re in a bad mood. Maybe I should go,” she says, but makes no move to leave. “I saw the part where you got into an argument with the guy from the pet store and had to move your stand.”
“And you saw that we made up and I gave him the last two kittens?”
She shakes her head no. “I guess I left before that happened.”
“I need to know something about you,” I say.
“I play the flute,” she says.
“More,” I say.
“I majored in French literature, with a minor in library science.”
I nod.
“I wanted to grow up and be a spy,” she offers.
“What side would you spy for—us or them?”
“Them,” she says, without a pause. “I never felt like one of us.”
“What prompted you to come here now?”
“Last time I saw you, you had one of those really cool rain showers, and I thought maybe I could try it, and I brought you a little gift.”
“What?” I ask.
“I ate it,” she says. “There was a bake sale; I bought two seven-layer bars, and then I stopped at McDonald’s and got a coffee, and on my way over here I just powered right through both of them.”
“Maybe you didn’t need to tell me that you brought me a present.”
“I was just being honest. So I’m here all sugared up and ready to go—almost a little hyper.”
“Okay, the shower is yours. I’ll get you a clean towel.”
I sit on the bed watching as she undresses—that seems to be part of it, she wants me to watch. “We don’t have to have sex,” I say. “I don’t need you to use your body to get a shower.”
“What if I want to have sex?” she asks.
“I’m not sure I want to. I’ve had a lot on my mind—I don’t even know if I could.”
She makes a face. “I’ve never heard a guy say that ahead of time—usually it’s after the fact, usually it’s after a lot of hemming and hawing and it turns out they’ve got a wife.”
“I’m divorced,” I say, getting up off the bed, leaving her to shower alone.
I take advantage of the moment to rummage through her bag—looking for clues. I find an enormous old wallet with almost nothing in it, and in the bottom of her bag, a driver’s license. I panic at the sight of the name, immediately put it back, and close the bag. Heather Ann Ryan. Is that the name of the missing girl? I’m confused.
When she comes out of the shower I ask, “Do you have any sports injuries?”
“I’m not very athletic,” she says.
She comes towards me, still damp from the shower.
Is it her? Is she the missing person? Is she having some kind of psychotic break and amnesic state? All of her answers are so vague, so nonspecific.
“Who are you?” I ask.
“Who would you like me to be?” she asks, dropping the towel.
And she is upon me.
There is a lot of noise, labored breathing, the dog begins to bark, the cat jumps onto the nightstand, looks at us, arches, pounces onto my back, claws out, I scream.
“I better go,” she says when we are done.
“You sure you don’t want another shower?”
“No, I’m okay,” she says, “but it was nice, I like the rain shower.”
“So how about a number?” I ask while she’s dressing.
She shakes her head no.
“How am I going to know you’re okay? It was very uncomfortable worrying that something happened to you.”
“I am not someone that things happen to,” she says.
“I don’t think I can do this,” I say. “I can’t have some nameless person appear at my house and have me.”
“It’s not your house,” she says, zipping up.
“Are we ever going to have a real conversation?”
She puts her shoes on and stands up. “I don’t know what to say.”
“You’re scaring me,” I say.
“Men aren’t scared,” she says. “Can we not do this? I hear your stress—but I really have to go.”
“Go where?”
“Back to where I came from.”
“Am I making any progress?”
“We’ll talk,” she says, “just not now.”
“Take something,” I tell her.
She looks at me. “What?”
“Take the television.”
“Not funny.”
Her cell phone rings; she looks at it.
“Boyfriend?” I ask.
“No.”
When she leaves, I lock the door. I walk around the house putting down the shades—I’m overexposed.
At ten the next morning, the telephone rings.
“Mr. Silver?”
“May I ask who’s calling?”
“This is Sara Singer from the Annandale Academy.”
“Yes.”
“Is this a good time to speak?”
“It’s a fine time, but, just to be clear, I’m Silver the uncle, not Silver the father.”
“I am aware.” There is silence, and then she begins again: “Mr. Silver, this is a bit awkward.…”
I hadn’t been worried but suddenly I am—profoundly. “Is Ashley all right?”
Sara Singer doesn’t answer.
“Do you know where Ashley is?” All I can think about is the missing girl.
“Mr. Silver, if you would just hear me out.…”
“Is she alive?” I scream into the phone.
“Of course she’s alive. I didn’t mean to frighten you. She’s in English class until eleven-twenty, and then she has science at eleven-thirty until twelve-thirty.” Again she pauses.
“Perhaps you’re not aware of what’s going on here,” I say. “A local girl has gone missing—it’s been very stressful.”
“My apologies,” Mrs. Singer says. “This has to be hard for someone such as yourself.”
“Which version of myself?”
“A man with no children suddenly playing daddy.”
“I like to think I’ve made the adjustment very well.”
“As I was saying, I’m afraid this is one of those situations that no school likes to be put in. Mr. Silver, were you aware that during the spring break Ashley was on the phone?”
“Yes,” I say. “Ashley has had a hard time sleeping and found it useful to talk with someone.”
“Do you know to whom she was speaking?”
“She said she was talking with a friend.”
“I’m afraid it’s more than that.”
“More than what?”
“More than a friend. What’s the right word? Pardon me, I’m struggling here.” She stops for a moment. “Mr. Silver, Ashley has a lover.”
Given all else, I’m relieved. “She’s very young, but in many ways this could be a healthy development,” I suggest.
“It’s a woman.”
“That shouldn’t come as a surprise at a girls’ school; don’t many young girls pass through a lesbian phase?”
“She’s screwing the head of the lower school.”
“Oh.”
“I can appreciate that Ashley has had a very difficult year, but this is not okay.”
“Of course not.”
“I’m glad you agree,” she says, relieved, but there’s something in her tone that suggests she’s blaming Ashley—the victim.
“What does the head of the lower school have to say for herself?”
“I’m not at liberty to share that with you.” She pauses.
“Do you want to tell me exactly how this happened?”
“When Ashley returned to school following her mother’s death, we suggested she stay with the head of the lower school.”
“You allowed her to move in with this woman?”
“It was intended as a temporary measure. At the time we thought it might be helpful for Ashley to have twenty-four-hour access to someone, in case she had bad dreams, or needed to talk.”
“So Ashley is screwing the head of the lower school, and is the head of the lower school screwing her? Who is the adult, Mrs. Singer, and who is the child? It’s a rhetorical question, Mrs. Singer—who is the person with a big problem?”
“The head of the lower school has a long-term contract with us.”
“Child abuse would be seen by most as valid grounds for termination or breach of contract.”
“I’m afraid no one beyond Ashley will tell that story,” Mrs. Singer says. “That said, I would like to assure you of how seriously I take the situation, and that we are in fact dealing with the matter internally.”
“We are charged with an enormous responsibility, Mrs. Singer. We are like superheroes who cannot fail our children.”
“Of course, Mr. Silver, that’s why I’m calling you.”
“How was the situation uncovered?” I ask, no pun intended.
“It was brought to our attention by someone who wishes to remain anonymous.”
“May I speak with Ashley?”
“As I said at the top of our conversation, she’s not available right now—she has English and then science and lunch.”
“Will you have her call me?”
“This goes without saying, but I’m hoping you’ll keep it confidential.”
“I have not said that I would or wouldn’t—but suffice to say I am concerned. As the guardian of a girl going through so much at home, I had hoped that school would be a safe place for her.”
“Mr. Silver, times have changed. The world is not what it once was.”
“Quick question, Mrs. Singer—do the other students know?”
“It is my belief that they do not.”
She takes a long breath; I suspect she’s actually sneaking a cigarette. “Against the advice of counsel—my ex-husband was a lawyer, so he taught me to say that—I’d like to give you my home and cell numbers, in case you need to reach me.”
As I’m writing her numbers down, I’m simultaneously texting Cheryl.
“Urgent,” I text.
“Motel?” she texts back quickly.
“More like soup and sandwich,” I type.
“I have errands,” she answers slowly.
“I need help.”
“What kind?”
“Kid stuff.”
“Fine—meet me at the food court in the mall at one. I’ll be near the frozen yogurt.”
“Thx,” I type. She’s squeezing me in.
“You have to be really cool about it,” Cheryl says, as she feeds me crunchy noodles and cold chicken from her Chinese chicken salad.
Today her hair is in a blond pageboy. “Is that a wig?”
“No,” she says. “I got a haircut. Listen, if you freak Ashley out, she’s going to clam up and you’ll get nothing. It’s not clear-cut abuse, but more of a Lolita kind of thing.”
“Do I take it to the police? Does that make it worse?”
She shakes her head. “Keep it under the radar unless the kid wants the authorities involved. If she doesn’t, and she’s the only one talking, it could get ugly and be worse for your niece in the long run. You need to talk to her, let her know that you know, and make a safe place for her to share her feelings—or not…. And ask her how she feels about reporting it—some people feel like it’s not taken seriously unless it’s reported; others would rather die than have to keep talking about it.”
“Maybe it’s all a big false alarm,” I suggest. “Maybe Ashley got a crush on the head of the school and it was more of a mother thing, a platonic emotional affair. I doubt much happened of a truly sexual nature—I don’t think Ashley even knows about that ‘stuff.’”
“What planet are you on?” Cheryl asks. “These kids are sharp; they’re not going to let on what they’re up to. You can bet the teacher put it all in the guise of being parental or teacherly—giving her lessons. Ask if they used any fruit.”
“Fruit?”
She looks at me like I’m
an idiot. “My husband taught my son about condoms with a banana, and when my friend’s daughter asked her mom what it felt like to have a penis inside her, her mother directed her to the vegetable bin and said, ‘Male genitalia are like vegetables, they come in all shapes and sizes, there are carrots and zucchini and hothouse cucumbers.’ She was fond of telling her girls that in a pinch they could use the free hotel shower caps as a birth-control device. ‘And whatever you do, you never want to get any of “it” in you or on you. Think of “it” like Krazy Glue, hard to get out of your clothes, of your hair—and disrespectful. Any man who respects you leaves his “discharge” in a receptacle other than you, and any man who doesn’t should take his interest elsewhere.’”
“Do parents really talk with their children that explicitly?”
“Kids are curious, they find out—it’s better they find out from you. Also, given that your niece is almost a teenager and she doesn’t have a mother, you should find her a female doctor who practices adolescent medicine.”
“I didn’t know there was such a thing.”
“It’s better; she doesn’t need to be talking to Dr. Faustus about her period.”
“How did you know she goes to Faustus?”
She rolls her eyes. “Because that’s where everyone goes,” she says, and then asks me to go get her a nonfat frozen yogurt with rainbow sprinkles. “Bet you wonder why I can’t get it for myself?”
I wasn’t going to ask.
“The girl behind the register was my son Brad’s first girlfriend. I made him dump her. I think she puts Visine in the yogurt when I order from her.”
“Why Visine?’
“It gives you diarrhea—they say stewardesses put a few drops of it in the drinks of assholes on the airplane.”
“That’s a total urban legend.”
“So you say,” she says, urging me to get up and get her the yogurt.
“You probably get diarrhea because you’re lactose-intolerant.”
She pauses. “I hadn’t thought of that. Will you please just go get it for me?”
“Of course.”
I return with a heavily sprinkled yogurt and a spoon. “Aren’t you having one?” she asks.
“I was going to, but the girl behind the counter was a total bitch.”
“I told you—that’s why I made Brad break up with her. Do you want some?” She offers me a spoonful of yogurt; I open my mouth and let her feed me.