Songs for the Missing

by Stewart O'Nan

  In the morning she rousted Lindsay and attacked the downstairs, the vacuum racketing, broadcasting the scent of mothballs. The living room had gradually become her office. She emptied it box by box, storing the obsolete records from their first searches in the corner behind the furnace with all of their holiday decorations. The green Rubbermaid containers were treasure chests of ornaments Kim and Lindsay had made in grade school—cotton ball angels and stars made of popsicle sticks dusted with glitter. Here were the Halloween costumes she’d sewn for them, and the pastel Easter baskets with their plastic eggs—saved because she couldn’t bear to throw them away. She saw how easily the past could trap her and fled upstairs. She had to keep moving if she was going to do this.

  Lindsay humored her, grimly wielding the feather duster from room to room. Fran wished she was more enthusiastic, and more thorough, but it was enough that she was helping. As a reward, after lunch, on her way to the store, Fran dropped her off at Jen’s.

  She hadn’t been shopping since Kim disappeared, and the process of rolling a cart along the aisles felt beside the point, an unearned diversion or indulgence. The Foodland was set up backwards, which made it even stranger. Normally she went to the Giant Eagle, since it was closer, but she didn’t want to risk running into J.P. He’d stopped calling, finally, after she’d told him she was sorry it had to be this way but they really didn’t need this on top of everything else. Please, she said, because she was trying to be kind, and still he went on apologizing, as if that counted for anything now. Ed thought she was being hard on him, while she was amazed at her restraint. Her first impression of him had been correct, and she scourged herself for not trusting her instincts.

  This was just a hit-and-run. She didn’t need to go down every aisle. She picked up some brown sugar and vinegar for her barbecue sauce, a half gallon of chocolate ice cream and a premade crushed Oreo crust, a bunch of broccoli, a package of chicken thighs, a pound of bacon, a gallon of milk and a half gallon of OJ, a carton of eggs, a loaf of bread. There was no line at the express lane, so she nosed in and unloaded her cart. It wasn’t until she’d dug out her wallet that she saw the cashier was wearing a button, and Fran realized that in her rush to get everything done she’d forgotten hers.

  The girl was Kim’s age, small and dark and pretty, with two silver rings through one eyebrow. Fran didn’t recognize her, and she didn’t seem to recognize Fran, just asked if she had her card. When she said no the girl took mercy on her, passing a spare over the scanner.

  In the car she promised to never forget her like that again, and when she got home, as if in penance, she pinned a button to her shirt. A few hours later when she left to pick up Lindsay, she patted herself the way she did in the morning before work to make sure she was wearing her ID.

  As she was pulling into Jen’s driveway her phone rang. It was Ed.

  “Just wanted to warn you,” he said. “I’m on my way.”

  “Yay.”

  “You’ll probably be able to track my progress by the calls to the hotline.”

  She hadn’t even thought of it, and for the second time today she wondered where her mind was.

  It was on him, and no wonder. In their entire married life they’d never been apart this long. As the afternoon passed she found herself counting the hours and then the minutes. When she’d put together the mudpie and was satisfied with the barbecue sauce, she went upstairs and took a shower, shaving for the first time in weeks. Her hair was dry, like when she was pregnant, and her eyes were baggy. Cover-up only covered so much. She went through her closet as if this was a date, modeling and discarding three blouses before deciding on a sleeveless white one that set off her tan. At the mirror she debated wearing the button. In the end she persuaded herself there was no need, since they wouldn’t be leaving the house, and set Kim and her rainbow on the dresser.

  At five thirty she called their answering service. There were two messages. The first was a hang-up. The second was from a trucker who’d seen the Chevette on I-90 near Cleveland about an hour ago; he even confirmed the license number. She thought of the thousands of flyers they’d posted, and the millions of people who’d seen them. Even though the man’s information wouldn’t lead to anything, she was grateful to him. It was the rest of the world she didn’t understand.

  If he was in Cleveland an hour ago he’d be home soon, so she started the charcoal. Cooper was afraid of the flames, and rumbled upstairs. He’d learned that Kim’s door was locked and no longer tried to butt it open. She listened for him to try Lindsay’s. Fran had told her she wanted her to be there to greet her father, but so far she hadn’t budged. There was no subtle way to dislodge her. When the fire subsided and the edges of the coals turned gray, Fran slowly climbed the stairs and knocked on her door.

  “I know, Dad’s coming,” Lindsay said, as if she’d been harping on it.

  They waited on the front porch, Cooper sacked and panting at her feet. Lindsay took a rocker and read her book—one of Kim’s, Fran noticed, but said nothing. Like Lindsay, she’d visited Kim’s room. The Hedricks’ sprinkler chattered, wetting the edge of the street. The sun was still high, but the locusts had started their sawing. It was August. In three weeks Kim was supposed to leave for college. She and Ed had worried that Lindsay would miss her, though they both knew Fran was the one who would moon over her absence. She was already dreading Lindsay’s departure—less than three years away now. When Ed mentioned it he made it sound like a natural passage, and joked about renting out their rooms. His grand plan had been for them to buy a smaller place with a view of the lake—a winterized cottage or a widow’s little fifties ranch on the bluffs with a Florida room and picture windows—but lately he’d been saying it might make more sense to stay put.

  She didn’t like the drift of her thoughts and went and checked the grill, not quite ready yet. The table was set, the house picked up and neat. Back on the porch she stood with arms crossed and watched the street, feeling lightheaded and queasy—distracted, like right before a test. Each passing car was a false alarm. She needed a drink, but had promised to hold off until dinner. She paced at the top of the stairs, turning between the columns, biting the inside of her cheek, thinking he should be here already.

  “Why don’t you just call him?” Lindsay said.

  Sensible advice, but not helpful. Even if it was true, the last thing she wanted was to come across as needy. There was no romance in bugging him when he was almost home.

  Five minutes stretched to seven, then ten. She had to stop looking at her watch.

  For an instant the fear pierced her that he’d been in an accident. She dismissed it not because it was far-fetched—they happened every day—but because the odds were so long. She statistically denied the idea, aware of the flimsiness of her defense. She knew better than anyone that life was random, that lightning did strike twice, but, hurt and stubborn, she couldn’t imagine having to bear any more than she already was. It was the kind of wishful thinking she’d seen at work, and again she felt stuck on the wrong side of the window.

  As she tracked an ant zigzagging along the floorboards, Cooper lifted his head and perked up his ears, making her turn. The block was empty. She didn’t hear anything, but he stood and joined her. He panted and then stopped with his mouth closed, intent, as if holding his breath.

  “Who is it?” she asked, and he broke down the stairs and across the yard, barking, only the invisible fence keeping him out of the street.

  “I can hear it,” Lindsay said.

  Fran strained, and then she could too.

  While it was gone she couldn’t have described what the Chevette sounded like. Now she knew the burble of its exhaust instantly. The purring resonated from a distance, hidden in the trees, slowly growing until the car emerged from the green halo of the oak in front of the Naismiths. It was him, puttering up the street. He’d told her about the bumper, but as he swung into the drive, she saw the damage.

  “Oh God, Kim,” she said, and looked to Lindsa
y.

  Cooper ran alongside the car, clamoring. Fran thought Ed would stop at the walk, but he kept going around back. The garage door clanked and rattled, retracting. As she and Lindsay turned the corner of the porch, he eased the Chevette into the empty bay, the door already sliding down behind it, sealing him in, and she felt cheated. She didn’t want the neighbors to gawk, but he could at least give her a chance to see it.

  He came out the side door with his bag. In his T-shirt and jeans and hiking boots he looked thin as a teenager, and his limp was gone.

  “You’re so tan,” she said, holding him.

  “Careful, I stink. I think the air conditioner’s out of freon.”

  She let Lindsay take her place and saw that she still had her book. Cooper yapped, jealous. It reminded her of a game they played—just a thing they used to do, a little in-joke. Ed probably started it. Whenever all of them were clumped together in a small space like the kitchen, the first person to notice would call “Whole family in one room.” She hadn’t thought about it in those terms—it was probably bad luck—but this was their whole family now.

  Lindsay took his bag and led them toward the back door.

  “Sorry I’m late. Cleveland was crazy.”

  “I haven’t put the chicken on yet. You’ve got time to take a shower if you want.”

  “That sounds good.”

  “I’m glad you’re home,” she said, and took his hand like they were in high school.

  “So am I.”

  She escorted him upstairs as if he didn’t know the way, then sat on their bed as he undressed. She wasn’t mistaken, he’d lost his paunch, his hip bones poking out. “Are you eating?”

  “I’m eating fine, I’m just not sleeping.”

  “You look thin.”

  “It’s probably all the walking. It’s got to be ten degrees hotter in the city.”

  He stepped out of his boxers and leaned across the tub to turn on the water. When he got in and pulled the curtain she pictured herself joining him, lathering his chest, and like so many other thoughts she’d had lately, immediately vetoed it.

  “Dinner’ll be ready in twenty minutes,” she said.

  “Great,” he called over the spray. “I’m starving.”

  Out on the deck the coals were glowing a volcanic red. She set the chicken around the edges and closed the cover, then went inside and poured herself a glass of wine, congratulating herself for making it till seven. The potato salad was done, the broccoli would take ten minutes tops. She stepped out again and stood at the rail, sipping and following a jet silently chalking a line across the sky. From beyond the garage came splashing and the sing-song—“Marco,” “Polo!”—from the Finnegans’ pool. The roses along the garage were full-blown and starting to drop their petals, but what caught her eye was the side door. She still wanted to see the car. She had time, and she craved it now, as if she’d been deprived.

  She flipped the chicken so it wouldn’t burn, set her wine on the rail and then, as if she were running away, crept down the stairs and across the lawn.

  It was dim inside, suffocating, the air smelling of hot tarpaper and burnt oil. In the bare rafters there were wasps’ nests; one buzzed against the far window. As she looped around the Subaru and circled the Chevette the engine gave off a staggered metallic ticking. Besides the bumper the outside looked like it always did. She couldn’t resist gingerly placing her palm on the hood, as if taking its temperature. She trailed her hand up the slanted windshield and along the roof and dipped to peer through the driver’s side, naturally grasping the door handle to let herself in, only to discover it was locked.

  Why would Ed do that?

  She hadn’t asked him how the drive was. Not traffic, but being in the same seat as the person who’d taken Kim, if that’s what happened. As much as they wished things were different, it wasn’t just her car anymore.

  On her way in she turned the chicken. It was almost ready for the sauce. She needed to be careful. Too early and the sugar would burn, too late and the coating would be goopy.

  The spare keys to the Chevette were hanging in the back hall like always, but she could hear Ed moving around upstairs. She would have all kinds of opportunities tomorrow when he was gone. There was no rush. He was home. That was enough.

  She got the broccoli going and stuck a toothpick in the mudpie to make sure it was setting. He came down in a golf shirt and cargo shorts, his hair slicked back, still wet. He wanted to help, but she told him to get a beer and go sit on the deck. It was too nice to be inside.

  He arranged two chairs facing each other so he could put his feet up. While she brushed the sauce on he tipped his head back, basking with his eyes closed, one hand absently scratching Cooper behind the ear.

  “Feels like Saturday,” he said.

  “I was thinking Sunday.”

  “Poke me with your fork if I snore.”

  As she tended the grill she stole glances at him. With his stubble and his tan he had the same rugged look that came from spending all his free time at the ballfield or on the water. Summer had always been their favorite season. They’d met at camp, teaching kids to swim during the day and taking each other a little further every night on the musty mattresses of the rifle range. She’d been seventeen, and though she knew it wasn’t true, she felt like they’d leapt all the years in between and landed here, middle-aged and gray. They’d had a good life until now. She’d been proud of how long they’d been together, as if they’d weathered a test. She wondered if he had any private regrets, or did such mundane heartaches no longer apply to them?

  “I talked to my mother,” he said.

  “What did she have to say?”

  “We’re supposed to see her next week.”

  She felt bad for Grace—this was their time with her—but it wasn’t realistic. “What did you tell her?”

  “I said maybe we could all come for Labor Day.”

  “Maybe.”

  Inside, the timer beeped, and they left the question at a stalemate.

  The broccoli was just right, a little underdone. She poured herself a second glass of wine before calling Lindsay to help bring out the serving bowls. Though it was almost eight, Ed was still nursing his first beer. After so many nights alone she needed to pace herself.

  As they sat down and reached across the table to join hands she became aware, as she did every meal, of the empty chair. It was so common now, after a month, that they no longer remarked on the obvious. Every table they owned came with four, and to banish one would be even more glaring, as if they were no longer saving a place for Kim. Instead, they included her in their prayers, asking God to bless her and watch over her. Because he was a guest, Ed did the honors.

  “Looks good,” he said, giving Lindsay first choice.

  “Go ahead,” Fran said. “I’ve been testing the sauce all afternoon.”

  “Homemade?”

  “This ho made it.”

  Lindsay gave her a cross-eyed look.

  “Well I did!”

  It had been so long since she’d cooked that she’d nearly forgotten the pleasure of watching them eat. She wasn’t hungry, and sat back after her first piece, offering her second to Ed. Lindsay picked hers up and gnawed on it, kissing the sauce off her fingertips.

  “This is exactly what I needed,” he said.

  “Yeah, Mom, it’s really good.”

  “A round of applause,” he said, and clapped in a circle.

  This was the silly Ed she loved, and the quiet life she wanted for her family, down to the soft light of evening and the mellow buzz from her second glass, and because she could see how perfect the moment was, she did what she promised herself she wouldn’t do. There was no quicker way to ruin the mood. She could feel the tears building like a sneeze, hot and ticklish, and pressed her napkin to her face, jumping up and groping blindly for the sliding door, already sobbing.

  He caught her in the kitchen and cradled her head against his chest.

  “I know,�
� he murmured, “I know.”

  “I’m so stupid,” she said, sniffling. “I wanted everything to be perfect, and then it was, and it just hit me.”

  “Don’t apologize.”

  “How’s Lindsay? She freaks out when I get emotional.”

  “She’s probably afraid it’s contagious.”

  The screen was open. “The bugs are getting in.”

  “Fuck the bugs,” he said, to make her laugh, and she cried some more.

  “I’m such a mess.”

  “You’re my mess.”

  “Lucky you, huh?”

  Later, after she apologized to Lindsay and cut the mudpie and he helped her clean up, she wondered if that was all she wanted, for him to say they were in this together.

  Having him home calmed her, yet she already dreaded him leaving. By the time they finally got the dishwasher going, it was dark out. Cooper stuck close to him, and unlike the nights they were home alone, Lindsay didn’t hole up in her room but stayed downstairs to watch the Indians game. They were winning, but the innings dragged.

  They didn’t talk about Kim or discuss visiting his mother. He told stories about the motel. Last night there was a wedding party from England staying there. The couple had gotten married on the Millennium Force after-hours, saying “I do” on the lift hill and kissing down the long first drop. The story prompted Lindsay to remember the time she almost lost her glasses.

  It was a legend, all she had to do was mention it and the scene appeared, their roles frozen forever. The girls were in the car right in front of them when the coaster leapt a hump and the glasses rose off her face. For a second they floated in zero gravity as if time had stopped, then slowly drifted backwards, caught in the slipstream. Kim turned and snatched at them but missed. Fran was holding on tight to the lap bar (she hated roller coasters, but went out of solidarity) and couldn’t let go. The glasses had actually swum past them when Ed reached back over the headrest and plucked them from the air. The freakish physics and heroic last-second rescue still amazed them, and yet, as they recapped the rest of their visit (eventful and expensive, never to be repeated), Fran thought: It was just a pair of glasses.