Idyll Fears

by Stephanie Gayle

  What was it Cody had said about the TV show? They’d almost been on TV. The Sally Jesse Raphael show. I wondered. Maybe I’d ask Wright to look into it. He didn’t have anything better to do at the moment.

  It ended. A denture-cream ad came on. I found a channel showing a sports week wrap-up and returned to my flooring. Another half hour, and I’d call it quits. One third of the floor was bare of linoleum. It didn’t look better. Wouldn’t until the glue was gone. I’d get there. Inch by inch. I dug my razor-blade tip into the plastic surface of the linoleum. The blade cut down and in, destroying the past, making way for the future.

  The vacant patrol position created by Klein’s resignation was posted. Résumés came. More than I’d expected. The résumés made me feel old. Two years’ experience. Fresh out of the academy. We winnowed the pile. Interviewed candidates. All men except one. She had the least experience, seemed the most nervous, her hands cold and clammy. I’d sorted her into the No pile before she’d finished telling me why she wanted to police our small town. Another candidate blew his shot when he made a joke about killing deer with his patrol car. I’d hit a deer last year. It hadn’t been funny. The three finalists were all different and yet the same. None of them gay. I could tell.

  The mayor tried to roadblock the new hire. Argued at a town meeting that we’d blown our annual budget and could wait to hire another patrol person. This, then, was his revenge for our arresting his buddy, Mr. VanWyck. Though nothing had come of it. No prosecution. Surprise, surprise. Mr. Neilly argued that we’d blown our budget investigating a murder and abduction, and that this increase in major crimes meant we needed more, not fewer police. They traded verbal blows until the other selectmen waded in and got a vote. Three to two in favor of the hire.

  Mr. Trabucco was behind bars, again. Captain Hirsch had discovered several charred-to-hell-and-back magazines. I’d not been hopeful, but a few readable words—“boys” and “playground”—and one and a half pictures of a naked minor were enough to lock him up, for now. We had technicians trying to read the charred magazines with cutting-edge instruments. Maybe we’d get more, maybe not.

  My cupboards had new handles. I’d taken the old ones off and lived with the inconvenience of opening them by pulling on the lower corner. This might’ve gone on forever, but Nate stopped by to check my floor progress. He saw the bare cupboards and asked, “How long?”

  “Two weeks.” It had been three.

  “MacDowell’s is open until six,” he said.

  MacDowell’s was a barn-like building filled with housing supplies from old copper tubs to rows of metal radiators that reminded me of my city schooldays. The drawer pulls were in giant baskets near bins of doorknobs and clothing hooks. It made me think of how many homes there were in the world. Were most of the homes that had shed these doorknobs and tubs and radiators and door knockers and lamps still standing?

  Baskets were filled with small flowered porcelain circles, wide curves of metal, copper pulls shaped like birds. So many, too many. A man in flannel watched me stare long enough that I looked up and said, “What?”

  “Need something?” he asked.

  “Pulls for my kitchen cabinets.”

  “What material?” He came nearer. I saw his right hand was missing a ring finger.

  “Doesn’t matter so long as it doesn’t scrape my hand up.”

  “Gotcha. These’ll never do that.” He pointed to a basket full of knobs.

  A lot of them were froufrou. “Got anything more basic?”

  He dug through them and grunted. Moved on to the next basket. “How about this?” He dropped it into my palm. The metal was cool, the color almost gold. It weighed more than I expected. It was a star. Five points.

  “How many are there?” I asked.

  “How many you need?”

  “Ten.”

  He found nine in the basket. The almost-gold winked at me, and I realized that the stars looked like old-time sheriff badges I’d seen on TV as a boy. I’d had one. A fake metal star I’d pinned to my chest. I’d made Johnny play felon and locked him in our bathroom after processing him at the kitchen table. Dad laughed when he saw I’d taken his prints. Mom didn’t when she realized I’d rolled Johnny’s fingers in a red stamp pad she owned. The ink didn’t wash off easily. Johnny’s fingertips were a dull cherry red for a whole week.

  I looked through the adjacent bin. Nope. Two more bins to search. My helper wandered away. I didn’t notice, too busy rifling through drawer pulls. Who needed a drawer pull shaped like Massachusetts or California? The bins yielded nothing. There were only nine. I’d have to choose another. Something plainer, maybe a copper circle or square. I was prepared to tip them back into the basket when I saw it. It sat atop the wall hooks. I grabbed it. The tenth star.

  At home, I discovered that if I centered them, the stars covered the two holes my removed pulls had left in the wood. I hadn’t thought to take measurements. Stupid. I used a measuring tape and marked in pencil where the drill hole should go. The drill was fun to use, whizzy and fast. It took me two hours to install them all, with a break for a pizza and beer. Midway through the project, the phone rang.

  “No one wants you here, gay wad. Leave town.”

  “How about you come over here and make me leave?” I said.

  The caller hung up.

  I stood atop my linoleum-free floor, still dark with glue in a few stubborn spots. The air smelled of wood shavings and hot metal. The stars didn’t shine so much as wink, in the right light. It wasn’t a big change. Small bits of metal, ounces of material. It felt like more. I could hear Rick in my head say, “So you’ve decided to stay, have you now?” He was using his gossiping gran tone.

  “Shut up,” I said. To him and to myself.

  Why make a big deal out of drawer pulls?

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  The line for Animal Control snaked outside the office, into the hallway. The office was open the second Saturday in March. So that’s when everyone came. Just my luck. Behind me, I heard footsteps, light and fast. A child, running. “Come on! We have to get the tag for Gretel!” I knew that voice. Anna Forrand, her hair in a braided bun, came barreling toward me. Behind, her parents walked, hand in hand, small smiles on their faces.

  Anna stopped shy of my toes. “Oh,” she said. “Do you have a dog too?” She peered up at me as if we were old friends.

  “A police dog, but it’s not mine,” I said.

  Her parents’ faces changed the moment they saw me. Their smiles descended; their lips thinned. They winced as if I’d hit them. I wished I’d made Yankowitz file the paperwork, or Billy. Anyone else might have been better.

  “Hullo,” Peter Forrand said. He put his hand on Anna’s shoulder.

  Jane Forrand nodded at me. Her stomach was a ball under her wool dress. Her hair was in a bun that matched Anna’s. It made her look younger.

  “You got a dog?” I asked.

  Peter said, “Yes. Anna’s wanted one for years and . . .”

  “Now seemed like a good time,” Jane said, her voice cheery.

  Anna’s smile revealed a missing front tooth. “It’s a New Year’s present cuz Mom said I’d been extra good this year.”

  “What kind of dog?” I asked.

  “A cocker spaniel,” Jane said. “We had them growing up. Sweet dogs.”

  “Her name is Gretel,” Anna said. “I’m going to teach her tricks.” Gretel, from her favorite fairy tale.

  “There hasn’t been any news?” Peter asked. He knew the answer. We kept them updated. Waters checked in with them too.

  “No,” I said. I wouldn’t tell them of the tips we got, the cranks who saw the posters and called in false confessions or claimed they’d seen Sharon Donner at Disney World, or at their office party, or in London.

  Anna said, “Cody wanted a dog. When he comes home, he can help walk her and brush her.” Her voice trembled, uncertain. She wanted assurances we’d find him. Bring him home. Should I lie to her? It was one thing to
withhold hope from Cody’s parents. Another thing to make an eight-year-old girl miserable.

  “Anna, honey, why don’t you go fetch us a pamphlet about rabies vaccinations?” Jane asked. “Can you spell rabies?”

  “Of course!” Anna ran past the people in line, ducking inside the office to stand before a tall wooden display.

  “She’s still sure he’ll come home,” Jane said. Her breath hitched. “But all the news, it says after the first few days, the chances . . . and it’s been almost three months.” She shuddered.

  “There, now,” Peter said. He rubbed her upper back.

  Her hands cupped her stomach. “I picture him running through the front door every day, his cheeks all red.”

  Peter looked away, tears in his eyes. “Here comes Anna,” he whispered. Jane straightened. Her hands fell from her stomach.

  “Here’s the pamphlet!” Anna cried. She held it up in triumph. Loose strands escaped the tight coil of her hairdo.

  The line moved forward two steps.

  “Where did you get your dog?” It was the only question I could think of not related to Cody.

  “A breeder outside Farmington,” Peter said.

  “How old is she?” If the line didn’t move much faster, soon I was going to exert a cop’s privilege and skip to the front of the line. This small talk was excruciating.

  “She was nine weeks when we got her!” Anna said. “So she’s . . .” she mouthed the numbers until she said, “nineteen weeks!”

  “Very good,” I said. “You want a job balancing my checkbook?”

  “Maybe you can help Mom,” Peter whispered, giving Anna a nudge and a wink.

  “Hey!” Jane said. “Not fair. Math’s never been my strong suit.”

  “I know, darling. I was funning.” He kissed her temple.

  “I’m going to drop off some papers,” I said. “Good luck with your puppy, Anna.”

  “Thanks! Maybe you can visit and see her sometime.” She swayed, side to side.

  “Maybe.” I wouldn’t. I couldn’t. Hell, I hated driving near their home. The trees, still dressed in yellow ribbons and bearing water-stained Cody posters, reproached me.

  I skipped ahead of the ten people before me, dropped the folder on the counter, and said, “K-9 paperwork.” Before Mrs. Jethro could scold me, I was out of the office and in the hall, walking away from the Forrands.

  In my office, I rifled through the latest tips about Cody Forrand. Not one looked legit. Peru? Nebraska? The last one was worst. Allegedly he’d been seen outside his house, sitting in the plastic playhouse he shared with his sister. I balled the paper in my fist and threw it. Not at the wastebasket, but at the wall.

  “Whoa!” Yankowitz said.

  Jinx bounded for the paper ball and clamped his jaws around it.

  “Lass los,” Yankowitz said.

  Jinx dropped the ball and stared at it.

  “Komm her.” That sounded a lot like its English equivalent. Jinx bounded to Yankowitz.

  “Sitz.” Jinx sat, eyes on the now-damp paper ball.

  “Thanks for dropping off the K-9 sheets. I had to get Jinx his distemper shot.”

  “I ran into the Forrands. Anna got a dog on January 1st. A belated Christmas surprise.”

  “What kind?”

  “Cocker spaniel. Named it Gretel.”

  “Cute,” he said. “Shelter dog?” Yankowitz was a big advocate of shelter animals. Skylar was a shelter dog.

  “Um, no, from a breeder.”

  “A breeder?” His tone made Jinx shift and watch his face. He dropped his hand to the top of Jinx’s head and rubbed between the dog’s ears. “How old is the puppy?”

  “Nineteen weeks. Why?” Yankowitz was frowning hard. This wasn’t normal. Even Jinx picked up on it. He watched his owner, the paper ball a forgotten temptation.

  “They got a puppy at the start of the year?” He mouthed numbers, like Anna. “Nine weeks old when they got her?”

  “Yeah. Why?”

  “Nothing.” He shook his head. “It’s just unusual to get a purebred puppy on short notice. They had perfect timing.”

  “Perfect timing,” I repeated. Nothing else he said would’ve made my neck hairs go full alert. “Ten weeks back from New Year’s Day was . . .” I looked on my desk for a calendar but all I had was 1998; 1997 was left to time. “Very late October. Wait. When would a breeder advertise puppies?”

  “Good breeders often don’t. Most have waiting lists.” He worried a spot on his utility belt. “You know the breeder’s name?”

  “No, but they said it was in Farmington.” Nine weeks before New Year’s Day. They hadn’t mentioned getting a dog. Hell, Jane had seemed downright afraid when Skylar first showed up at their house to look for Cody. I’d assumed she was anti-dog. Then again, spaniels were smaller. She’d grown up with them. What if it hadn’t been the breed, though? Who was afraid of golden retrievers? What if she’d been afraid of what Skylar could do? Track her missing son.

  “Can you look into it? Find the breeder and find out how and when the Forrands acquired the dog?”

  “Okay,” he said. “Sure.”

  “Do it soon.”

  His glance asked questions I didn’t answer. He and Jinx left. I walked to my plant. Stared at its leaves and thought hard. Maybe they’d planned to get a dog for Christmas all along. Maybe they’d gotten a call from a friend who knew a breeder.

  Maybe Wright had news. I found him typing a report, one slow finger-strike at a time. A toothpick stuck out of the left side of his mouth. Watching was agony. This must’ve been what it was like for Johnny, when we were kids, doing homework. Having to watch me struggle through European history. Although, honestly, when was the last time someone asked me about the monarchies of Europe? Never, that’s when.

  “Enjoying the show?” Wright asked out of the side of his mouth.

  “Not at all. It’s excruciating.”

  “Sorry to disappoint.” He struck the e and the n. “You want something?”

  “Any news on the Forrand case?”

  He stopped typing. Looked up. “What? No. Why? You hear something?”

  “No.”

  “Then why are you over here?” He sounded more annoyed than usual. Maybe trouble at home. That wouldn’t be unusual, not for cops.

  “For the scintillating conversation. What about the TV show? Any news there?”

  “They said they’d call.” It didn’t sound like he planned to check in.

  “Where’s the number?” I asked.

  He withdrew the toothpick from his mouth and pointed it at several stacks of folders on Finnegan’s desk.

  Finnegan’s desk was, at the best of times, a biohazard. It wasn’t the best of times. I sat in his seat after I checked it for sticky substances; I pushed aside lollipop wrappers, cigarette ash, and a blackened banana peel to get my hands on the first stack. When I found the folder, I took it to my office.

  Getting through to the person I needed, the booker for Sally Jesse Raphael, wasn’t easy. I was transferred five times and listened to Muzak for twenty-two minutes. It paid off, though. Gabriella Montrose remembered the show about sick kids. She’d booked the guests. “Jesus,” she said, “that show was a frigging nightmare. I told them, never again. Arranging travel for a kid who is allergic to sunshine? I need a cigarette just thinking about it.”

  “What about Cody Forrand, and his parents?”

  “Cody,” she said.

  “The boy who can’t feel pain.”

  “Ah, him. Seriously, that kid was the most normal of the lot. Running around, hamming it up. Cute, too. But he wouldn’t sit still long enough for us to tape him. Like I said, pretty normal.” This comment rang true. Everyone acted like Cody was a nightmare because he ran wild, but if he hadn’t been sick, if he’d been a boy who knew what pain was, wouldn’t he have been like me? A rambunctious kid who’d rather run than sit still.

  “What about his mother?” I asked.

  “Her.” The way she s
aid it told me they’d not gotten along. “She acted like her son was the goddamn star of the show. Kept making demands, and kept asking questions about how she’d be shot. From this camera or that? Her left side was her best, and could we get that one?”

  “She had acting ambitions, once upon a time,” I said.

  “No fucking kidding,” Gabriella said. “I thought she was going to destroy the green room when she found out we’d cut them from the program. I made sure a security person escorted them from the building.”

  “What about her husband?” I asked.

  “He wasn’t there, as I recall. Just her and the boy. I swear, if Sally ever tries another show like that—I don’t care how good the ratings were—I will quit!”

  “How did Cody react to being cut from the show?”

  “Him? I don’t think he cared, either way. But as they were getting ready to leave, the mother said, ‘This is the last straw. I’m done.’ She said it to her son. Poor kid. He kept saying, ‘I’m sorry,’ and she said, ‘It’s too late for sorries.’”

  I leaned against my seat. Maybe Jane Forrand had planned the kidnapping with Sharon Donner? Mrs. Donner got a new son, and the Forrands got their old life back. Not exactly, but they had Anna, their smart, desperate-to-please daughter, and a new baby on the way. Plus, a puppy. Hansel and Gretel, without Hansel. Wasn’t that what the terrible, storybook parents wanted? Fewer mouths to feed.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Yankowitz found me tossing junk mail into the recycling bin. “Chief? I got back from Farmington.” He’d found something. It was in his voice. “The breeder, Mickey, said the Forrands asked about puppies in August. They were in luck because he had plans to breed a new litter. They reserved one.”

  “When?”

  “Mid-October, when the dog’s pregnancy was confirmed.”

  “Before Cody went missing.”

  “They gave a deposit December 18th,” he said.