Girl Gone Missing

by Marcie Rendon

  “Cash.”

  “Yes, Renee likes to go by Cash. You met Tezhi. His girlfriend, Bunk. She’s another one who prefers to use her nickname. What did you say your real name is Bunk?” When Bunk ignored the question, Mrs. Kills Horses rushed to fill the silence by saying, “And this is her cousin, Marlene.” She rattled off the other six or eight students’ names so quickly Cash didn’t catch them. She could see the fridge in the kitchen from where she was standing, so she made a beeline for there and put the beer in, coming back with one in her hand even though it was kinda warm from sitting in the car all day and night. The couch was full of students. Chaské had taken a pillow on the floor. Cash sat down on a pillow beside him.

  “Come on. Come on. Eat.” Mrs. Kills Horses put a roaster of Sloppy Joe meat on the table beside hamburger buns. “Lots for everyone.”

  The other students lined up and filled their plates. Chaské and Cash pulled themselves up off the pillows to be last in line. The table was filled with food. As Cash dished up, it occurred to her that she’d eaten more in the last twenty-four hours than she’d eaten in the whole past month.

  But the food was good. She watched the other students go back for seconds. It was easy to tell which kids had come from homes where there hadn’t been much. They ate fast. And a lot. Sharon’s tuna casserole reminded Cash of Lutheran Ladies’ Aid meetings. The Sloppy Joe sandwiches of high school football games. No one used the paper napkins Mrs. Kills Horses had put out on the table, they just wiped their hands on their jeans. By the time Cash went through the line, she only got one of her pink cookies. And there had been a rush for her beer as soon as she walked away from the fridge. It looked like most of the students had kept their six-packs on the floor by their feet. Lesson learned.

  Barely anyone talked while they ate except Mrs. Kills Horses. She talked enough for everyone, filling any quiet space with useless chatter. After everyone quit going back for seconds and thirds, Mrs. Kills Horses decided it was time to elect officials for the Indian Students’ Association. She cheerily called for volunteers for president, vice president and secretary-treasurer. No one acknowledged her enthusiastic request. Cash saw Tezhi elbow his girlfriend, Bunk, who in turn elbowed her cousin, Marlene. Marlene then elbowed Bunk, who elbowed Tezhi.

  The movement caught Mrs. Kills Horses eye. “Tezhi? Are you volunteering to run for president?”

  Bunk lifted his arm. “Right on,” she answered for him.

  Marlene, barely above a whisper said, “And Bunk for vice-president.”

  “And what about you for secretary-treasurer?” Mrs. Kills Horses asked Marlene in a sweet voice.

  Marlene dropped her head.

  “Okay! Anyone else want to run for one of these positions?” Mrs. Kills Horses asked the group.

  Everyone dropped their heads, looked at their plates or shook their head back and forth.

  “Okay! Well, we still need to vote. Can we just do it by show of hands?” Without waiting for an answer, she asked, “All those in favor of Tezhi being president of the Indian Students’ Association?”

  All hands went up.

  The process was repeated for vice-president and secretary-treasurer with no dissenting votes.

  Mrs. Kills Horses clapped her hands. She was the only one to do so. “Congratulations to our new student officers. Tezhi, do you want to take over from here as new president?”

  “Uh, what do I do?” he asked.

  “Because it’s a new school year and this is the first time we’ve had an Indian Students’ Association here at Moorhead State, we really don’t have any old business, so I guess you could just open it up for any new business.”

  “Any new business?” Tezhi asked.

  Bunk answered. “Remember we were talking about seeing if we could get AIM to come up here. Talk to the student body. Maybe help us figure out how to have control over our financial aid money.”

  Students started nodding their heads.

  “How do we get ahold of them?” someone asked.

  Bunk answered, “Marlene’s aunt lives in the Cities. She said she would talk to them for us.”

  Someone else asked, “When are we talking about? I hate having to make a list for the registrar for every little thing I need.”

  “I can pay for my own books. I don’t know why I gotta go to them every time I need a pencil or some macaroni to cook.”

  “I know, that lady in the registrar’s office gets all nosy, asking why I need money for this or that. It’s my money. I’m sick of telling her my life story every time I need some cash. It’s our money.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” echoed around the room.

  “How we gonna pay for AIM?” another one asked.

  “Minority affairs have given us a small budget for cultural activities. I think if we planned a late fall powwow and invited AIM up as guest speakers for our cultural event, we could get the whole thing covered,” Mrs. Kills Horses chimed in.

  Cash was getting bored. Where the hell was Sharon? she wondered. All her beer in the fridge was gone, cigarette smoke was drifting around the room, her stomach was full and it was getting pretty stuffy. She looked at Chaské. He was sitting cross-legged, elbows on knees, hands on chin, looking engrossed in the conversation, but when she shifted off the pillow and stood up, he hopped up too, whispering, “Ready to book?”

  Yes.

  “Me, too. Let’s boogie.”

  He walked over to the table and retrieved Sharon’s empty tuna casserole bowl. Mrs. Kills Horses followed them to the front door, hoped they had a good time, wished them a good evening, hoped to see them next week at school and at the next meeting, and thanked them for coming while Cash and Chaské slipped out, bombarded by her well-meaning-ness.

  As soon as they were on the sidewalk, Cash said, “Where is Sharon? She said she’d be here.”

  Chaské didn’t seem too worried or upset at all. He shrugged. “You know how she is. Catch a ride back to Fargo?”

  “Sure.”

  Chaské got out at her apartment on NP Avenue and said he’d walk or hitchhike back to NDSU. If Sharon wasn’t already there, she’d show up soon, he was sure. Cash caught a whiff of weed as he lit up walking away from her.

  Upstairs in her apartment, a game of solitaire was laid out on the table, the duffle still in the corner. No brother in sight, but the dishes in the sink were done and a dark blue sheet nailed across the archway that separated her bedroom from the kitchen area. Cash opened the fridge. No Bud but there was a Schlitz, better than nothing, she guessed. She popped the top and sat down at the kitchen table in “her” spot that had now become her brother’s spot somehow. She played the solitaire game, flipping and moving cards slowly, drank the beer and smoked a couple of cigarettes.

  Mo was probably at one of the bars on the avenue. She didn’t have to work. It wasn’t even 8:30. She could go to the Casbah if she wanted. She could drive up toward Ada and try to catch Wheaton. Tell him about the other girl who was missing. Yeah, that’s probably what she should do. Once she talked with him, there’d still be time to shoot a few games.

  She flipped another card over—the ten of hearts didn’t have a place anywhere on the layout. She scooped up all the cards, shuffled them a few times and laid out a new game, ready for Mo whenever he returned.

  She threw the beer bottle in the trash and headed out, taking Highway 75 north toward Halstad on the off chance that Wheaton might be patrolling on this Friday night. No luck. She turned at the four-mile corner and headed east to Ada. He wasn’t on that road either. When she got into Ada, she could see that the field lights were on over by the high school. She headed that way.

  The bleachers were filled with students dressed in wool coats, scarves around their necks against the fall chill. She could hear the cheerleaders chanting as she pulled up. Older farm couples sat in the cars parked head-on toward the field. Some had the engines running, heaters turned up against the night air. Others had windows cracked, cigarette smoke drifting out. The air smelled of dr
y leaves, popcorn and hotdogs. Cash found a spot to park. She pulled the Ranchero in line with the other head-in cars. She got out and walked the length of Ada’s side of the field. She found Wheaton’s cruiser at the far end but he wasn’t in it, so she walked back up toward the bleachers and peered up and down the folks seated there before she saw him standing, leaning against the wooden railing that served as a fence a bit farther down.

  The student body in the bleachers erupted in a wild screaming cheer as the Ada Tigers offense lined up in an attempt at a touchdown. Cash looked at the scoreboard. The Tigers were in a narrow lead. The cheerleaders amped up their routine. “T-O-U-C-H-D-O-W-N. Touchdown!”

  The quarterback handed the ball to the tight end who ran it into the end zone. The hometown crowd surged forward. Folks jumped out of cars and rushed as close to the sidelines as they could get. The crowd seemed to double in size. Cash had to push her way to where Wheaton was standing.

  He was wearing a wool jacket, the sheriff’s emblem on the jacket’s left shoulder. It was a similar cut and style to all the high school letterman jackets in the county. Except his was a plain brown, almost an Army brown, and the students sported their high school colors: Ada’s being orange and black, the opposing team red and white.

  Wheaton had his hands cupped around his mouth, hollering, “Way to go, Harry Jr. Way to go.” In the cold night air, steam surrounded his words. Cash came and stood beside him. Harry Jr. turned circles in the end zone, the football held high over his head as his teammates came around him and slapped his back. The ref’s whistle blew and the teams lined up for the extra point.

  Wheaton looked down when he felt Cash stand next to him. “Hey, kid, what are you doing here?”

  “Yeah, football really ain’t my thing, you know. But, hey, go Tigers.”

  Cash pumped her fist. They both laughed.

  “Game’s almost over. Looks like the home team is gonna win.”

  They stood and watched the remainder of the game. Cash had to stamp her feet, jump up and down a few times to keep warm. She wished she had worn a sweatshirt under her jean jacket

  Then the game was over, the crowd cheering and hooting. Car lights flashed off and on as horns honked. The Tigers lined up and shook hands with the opposing team. The cheerleaders, in their short, pleated skirts and orange and white wool sweaters, chanted “V-I-C-T-O-R-Y, that’s the Tiger’s victory cry” while doing high kicks.

  As Wheaton and Cash walked through the crowd, men clapped his shoulder as if he were a member of the winning team. Cash wondered if any of them were his friend or if the jovial behavior was an attempt to garner favor for future speeding tickets or late-night disturbances in one of the local bars. Each time someone touched him or said, “Good evening, Sheriff,” Wheaton raised his hand in a wave, responded with, “Same to you,” all the while continuing a steady pace to his cruiser.

  “I parked over there,” said Cash. “Where should I meet you?”

  “We could drive over to Twin Valley. That restaurant stays open a bit later. Everything here closes down at sunset.”

  “Okay, I’ll follow you.” Cars were backing up and forming a line to exit the field. Wheaton moved off to the side, engine idling, waiting for her. She pulled up behind his car, followed him all the way to the small town of Twin Valley, fourteen miles to the east of Ada.

  The café was still open, empty except for the waitress sipping coffee at the counter and reading the newspaper. She walked over with two white coffee cups and a half-full glass carafe. The coffee smelled like it had been brewing a few hours. She set the cups down and filled them. “We still have some blueberry pie left. Or did you want burgers?”

  Wheaton looked at Cash, eyebrows raised.

  “Pie is good.”

  “I’ll take the same,” said Wheaton.

  The waitress walked across the linoleum floor, a black and white checkerboard square pattern, marred by chair scrapings and work shoes. When she was behind the counter getting the pies from the glass carousel, Wheaton asked, “So what brought you to Ada?”

  Cash sipped her coffee. “Did you know there is another girl missing?”

  “From school?” His coffee cup stopped midway to his mouth.

  “No, a little town south of Fargo-Moorhead. Milan. I’m not sure how to pronounce it exactly. It’s spelled M-i-l-a-n.”

  “Where’d you learn this?”

  “I was at Piggly Wiggly and overheard a couple women talking. They said this girl was missing from some small town south of us. I went to the Moorhead Library and checked it out in the newspapers.”

  The waitress arrived back at the table with two plates of blueberry pie. The crust was light brown with a thin sprinkling of sugar on it. Cash touched her fork to the sugar and then licked it, savoring the sweetness.

  Wheaton was half done while she was still chewing her first bite.

  “So, what did you find out in the papers?”

  “That she’s a junior in high school. She won an FHA award and went down to the Cities to receive the award. Disappeared from the Curtiss Hotel. Been almost two weeks missing.” Cash finished her pie and scraped the crust and remaining sugar off the plate and into her mouth.

  “That’s it?”

  “Yeah, she’s a good student. Blonde, blue-eyed, looks like all the girls around here. Her family says she’d never run away.”

  Wheaton looked into the distance, over Cash’s shoulder, out the restaurant window. “That’s it?”

  “That’s it.”

  Both of them sipped coffee. The waitress returned to refill their cups and remove the pie plates.

  “Where’s Gunner?”

  “At home. I didn’t want to leave him in the cruiser while I was at the game. Hope he doesn’t tear up my other shoes. Last time I left him alone, he ate my slippers.”

  “What’s the white slave market?”

  “White slave market? Where’d you hear that?”

  “Some guy,” lied Cash. She wasn’t ready to tell Wheaton about the brother crashing in her apartment. “Some guy was saying that maybe the Tweed girl got kidnapped into the white slave market. He said white girls can be sold for a lot on that market.”

  “I suppose there is some truth to that.”

  “But what is it?”

  “Folks, men, selling women into prostitution. There have been rumors that sometimes girls from up around here don’t run away, they’re taken. Introduced to life on the streets. Given drugs. And then turned into prostitutes.”

  “Prostitutes? They sell themselves for sex?” Cash was having a hard time understanding the conversation. When she was in school, there were girls who were called whores. Everyone knew they slept with boys. In the small towns in the Valley, there were codes of what was okay and what was not. If the captain of the football team and the captain of the cheerleading squad were going steady, after a few years it was assumed they had “gone all the way” because, of course, they were going to get married right after high school. If a girl “went all the way” with one or more boys and wasn’t going steady, the word whore was whispered around the school halls.

  Even making out with too many boys could get a girl labeled a whore. Or being the Indian foster girl in a new school, even if you didn’t make out with anyone. What Cash knew about prostitutes was what she had read in books or seen on TV westerns. Women in saloons, for one. It was hinted in the storyline that they would have sex for money. This didn’t seem to be what Wheaton or Mo were talking about.

  “So someone here takes these girls to the Cities and sells them for sex? I don’t get it? Why wouldn’t they run away, come back home?”

  “Well, I don’t think they have much choice, Cash. Maybe they trusted the wrong person. That person takes them down to the Cities and gives them to a guy called a pimp. The pimp keeps them drugged or locked up. And they’re forced to have sex with men. Pretty soon, maybe they’re too ashamed to come back home. I’ve heard rumors of it but never actually seen it happen, so it might just be
a far-fetched idea the guy you know is talking about.”

  “Everyone is having sex with everyone, Wheaton. Free love and all that.” She raised her voice. “Why are people paying for sex?”

  Wheaton blushed. Looked over at the waitress who was clearly pretending to read the newspaper.

  “I don’t know how to explain it to you, Cash. There are people out there who aren’t very nice.”

  “I know that. But buy sex?”

  “It’s just a story, Cash. Your friend doesn’t know what he’s talking about. Eat your pie.”

  “I did.”

  “Have another.”

  “No.”

  Cash could tell Wheaton was too embarrassed to continue answering questions about prostitutes so she switched gears.

  “There is another girl missing, Wheaton. Maybe you should go talk to that county sheriff and see what he knows.”

  “I could call down there. Be quicker than driving. Where did you say? Melon?”

  “M-i-l-a-n is how it’s spelled and it’s south of F-M, close to the South Dakota border.”

  Wheaton pulled a pen out of his shirt pocket and wrote Milan on his napkin. Stuffed the pen and the note back into the pocket.

  “How’s school?”

  “Good.”

  “Your grades?”

  “Good as gold. Good as gold.” Cash smiled, proud of herself. “I tested out of English 101. I don’t have to sit through that boring class ever again.”

  “They let you test out?”

  “Yeah. Pretty cool, huh? No sense wasting my time on things I already know. I took the test to get out of science too, but I haven’t heard back whether I passed that one or not.”

  Wheaton nodded, clearly pleased with her.

  “New friends?”

  “I went to the Indian Students’ meeting tonight before I came to the game. The counselor fed us. Everyone brought something to eat. I didn’t know what to bring—I can’t cook—so I just brought cookies. Only got one. Everyone scarfed them down before I could get more.”

  “Well, good, college isn’t just about going to classes. It’s meeting new people. Getting new ideas, experiencing and learning things you wouldn’t otherwise know about. There’s more to life than working fields.”