by Merry Jones
He turned to face me. “Miss, who do you think you can trust?”
“Trust?”
“In the world, I mean.”
The question was oddly personal, and Charlie’s stare made me uncomfortable. I looked up at the door, wondering if Angela would be in a hurry. Then I searched a pocket for my keys.
“Seriously, think about it. Who do you trust? These days, anybody can be anybody, for all you know. Even a neighbor.”
“True enough.” I might as well agree with him.
“The police were here yesterday, miss. You called them?” Oh, so that was it. He was curious about the police. “Yes, Charlie, I called them.” “Why? What happened?”
I didn’t want to tell him about the finger. Lord, if I did, we’d be out here for hours, discussing it. “I had a problem.” “There was trouble, so you called the police.” “Yep.”
“Well, that’s natural. That’s what they’re there for, to help people. You trust them, don’t you? You trust the police, Miss Zoe?”
I thought of Detective Stiles. His steady pale eyes. “Yes, Charlie. I trust them. Look, I really have to go in.”
“But you didn’t tell me what the trouble was. Even though you’ve known me for thirteen years. Even though we share the same street.”
“Charlie. It’s not that I don’t trust you. I just don’t want to discuss it.”
“Miss, you trust the police, but not old Charlie. I understand that. You know me, but you don’t know if you can trust me. Right?”
I started to get up. “It’s not that I don’t trust you, Charlie, but really, I’ve got to—”
He put his hand up. “Don’t be in a hurry. Settle down and listen. Because you can trust me, Miss Zoe. I want you to know that. Even with your life. Or your child’s.”
Trust him with my life? With Molly’s? Why would he say that? Did Charlie think we were in danger? Actually, I didn’t want to know. I wanted to end the conversation. “Thank you, Charlie. That’s nice to know. You can trust me, too.”
He didn’t look at me; he scanned the street, the rooftops, the sky. I followed his glance. Alongside an empty house, Jake’s dump truck backed up, beeping, parking for the night. In Victor’s window, a curtain snapped shut. On Phillip Woods’s porch, Santa beamed red and green. I wanted to go inside.
“But except for me, miss, don’t trust anybody. Not around here.” His tone had changed. It was suddenly blunt, gruff. Disturbing.
“Charlie—”
“I mean it. Keep an eye on your back all the time.”
probably Charlie was worried because women were disappearing. He was concerned about the single mother and child who lived across the street. He was being protective, that was all. And, in his way, sweet.
“You don’t have to worry about us, Charlie. We’re fine.”
“No, listen. I tried to tell you before. There’s lots of depravity these days. Swelling appetites for evil. It’s all around.” His eyes rested briefly on the Santa flickering across the street.
I fidgeted. The cold cement step was freezing my behind. There was no point in arguing with him. “Thanks, Charlie. I’ll be real careful.” Again, I started to stand; again, Charlie put his hand on my arm.
“Miss, wait. Don’t look alarmed or run away. Somebody may be watching us, even now. Listen, I know things. I’m taking a big risk, telling you.”
Oh dear. Maybe it was worse than I’d thought. Charlie thought people were watching him? poor Charlie. He might be losing it. How old was he, I wondered. Seventy-five? Older?
“You don’t want to listen to me, but you must.” His whisper was urgent. “I’m just a handyman. But I see things. In the alleys, the basements. I have the tools to work under the floorboards, inside closets. In old houses or new. In basements of every house on this street. people don’t think much about me, but I know things. Houses have secrets. There’s evil here, miss. Close by. Serious evil. And it’s gone too far—into the bricks, the dry-wall, the wood.”
Apparently, Charlie had gone too far, too. He’d crossed a line, entered a place where perceptions got twisted and played tricks on the mind. Where truth became fragmented and jumbled, patched with imaginings. Still, with all his ramblings, he wasn’t scary. Old Charlie seemed damaged, not dangerous. Like a worn-out teddy bear.
“. . . so you can’t tell,” he went on. “Anybody can wear anything. Disguise themselves as police or doctors, judges. Businessmen. It’s their clothes, their costumes that tell you who they are. If you see somebody driving a fire engine, you assume he’s okay, right? He’s a fireman. You trust him. Or the mailman. Certainly you can trust the mailman! But how do you know that the mailman’s really a mailman? That the fireman’s really a fireman? Because of the uniform, right? But how do you know that he’s not really a madman—a murderer dressed in a uniform? With a disguise, could somebody fool you? Sure they could.”
I leaned away, wondering how long he’d go on, how long I’d have to stay there. Charlie tilted toward me, whispering dank words. “Somebody might wear a uniform. Like a policeman. Or a dentist. Or he might dress normal, in a business suit, so you wouldn’t even notice him. That would be the best disguise of all. He’d blend in and trap you—miss, please, just smile, act as if we’re shooting the breeze here. please. In case we’re being watched.”
He looked straight ahead again, watching cars drive by, smiling casually and nodding his head. I wondered how long he’d had these thoughts, whether he’d forgotten to take some kind of medication.
“. . . that you and your child are in danger.”
Wait. What was that? “Oh, come on, Charlie—what are you saying? That the mailman’s a murderer? Or some fireman’s planning to hurt me? Because that’s what it sounds like.”
Charlie folded his massive, calloused hands, nodding, relieved. “Not necessarily the mailman. Or a fireman. Evil can take on any form. Any disguise. A taxi driver. A cop. So trust no one. Be on guard. Hear me, miss. Evil is nearby. Watching, lurking, planning. Listen to what I’m saying.”
Charlie’s face was an inch away. His eyes bulged, and a cloud of fermenting breath engulfed my face. It was all I could take. I got to my feet. “Charlie, I’ve got to go in.” I started up the steps.
“Don’t be afraid, miss,” Charlie spoke over his shoulder without moving. “I’ve been protecting you, and I’ll keep on. I’ll protect you both. You can count on me. You and your little one can count on old Charlie. That’s all I have to say.”
“I’ve got to go in.”
When I opened the door, I looked back. Charlie was watching, frowning with concern. The man was disturbed, but he couldn’t be dangerous, not with a face so sincere and troubled. Shutting the door on him would be rude, maybe even cruel. Still, I wanted to discourage his behavior.
“Charlie, don’t worry about us,” I assured him. “Really. We’re fine.” Then, without giving him a chance to reply, I went inside and shut the door. Molly’s jacket and bookbag had landed in the hall.
Angela’s voice floated down the stairs. “Yo, Zoe—that you? We’re upstairs.”
“I’m getting in my gym stuff, Mom.”
“Great. We’ve got about ten minutes,” I called.
unbuttoning my coat, I went to the window. Victor’s shades hung at an odd, twisted angle. Construction trucks blocked my view of Santa. Charlie, having gotten up off my front steps, hobbled back to his side of the street on crooked, unsteady legs.
SEVEN
THURSDAY NIGHT. MOLLY’S GYMNASTICS CLASS. MOST EVENINGS Molly and I stayed home, unwinding after busy days. usually, she’d work on art projects, each of which seemed to require thousands of beads, miles of string, tons of buttons, carloads of markers. Oh—and glue. Gallons of glue. Oceans of it. While she created, I generally got organized. paid bills. prepared paperwork. pretended to clean the house. Thursdays were different. Thursday was our one evening a week of structured out-of-the-house activity. First we went to class, then Molly, Emily, Susan, and I went out to eat.<
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During class, while kids worked on balance beams and trampolines, their mothers visited in the observation room. Even now I didn’t know all the women’s names, but I knew which kid each belonged to, and I’m sure I was simply Molly’s mom to most of them. We were, to the outside eye, despite our varying ages and body types, indistinguishable, almost interchangeable. A mass of chipped manicures and imperfect hair. A throng, a gaggle of moms, all chattering. Davinder, who had a doctorate in chemical engineering, had finally found a foolproof way to get little Hari to eat vegetables. Karen, an ICU nurse, had found a bargain on pajamas for Nicholas. Gretchen, an amateur tennis champ, couldn’t comprehend how fast her Hannah had outgrown her shoes. To me, the chitchat was soothing, almost musical. Connecting with other women reassured me. It made me confident that divorce hadn’t made me less capable or adoption less maternal than other women. Given the events of the week, that night I especially craved the comfort of normal conversation, the gentle company of women.
Molly and I walked to the Community Center in the fading light. Only five o’clock but already dark. As soon as we got there, Molly peeled off her coat, shoes, and socks, everything but her leotard and leggings, eager to get started.
“Wait till you see me on the unevens.”
“I can’t wait.”
“You never watch me. You’re always talking.” “I watch you and talk at the same time.” “No, you don’t. I see you through the window. You talk to Susan or Billy’s mom or the other ladies. You don’t watch.” “I’ll watch this time.” She looked doubtful. “Promise.” “I promise.”
“I’ll know if you’re lying, Mom. I’ll look to see.” “Fine. Look. You’ll see me watching.”
Her face was still skeptical as she tossed me her socks and ran into the gym to begin the warm-up. Two seconds later, she was back. “Mom, what if my tooth comes out in class?”
“I don’t think it will. But if it does, we’ll wrap it up and take it home in a tissue.”
She frowned. “But what if it falls in the pit? What if I lose it?” Her eyes filled with terror at the thought.
“Mollybear,” I said, “don’t worry. The Tooth Fairy will accept a note from your mother.”
“Are you sure?” Again, that doubtful look.
“Positive.”
“There is no Tooth Fairy, is there? She’s fake like Santa Claus.”
“Who said Santa Claus is fake?”
“Everyone knows that. He’s just make-believe. It’s really the parents.”
I sighed. Was this the time and place for this discussion? “Molly, hurry. They’re in there warming up. You’ll be late.”
I stood at the window, wondering what to tell her. Truth was important to me; I wanted never to lie to her or shatter her trust. Maybe I’d fudge it, tell her that if she believed in Santa or the Tooth Fairy, they’d exist, at least in a way. Oh, who knew.
I watched her confidently take her spot in the circle of five-and six-year-olds who prepared to stretch, kick, leap, flip, jump, and tumble. Equipment was strategically arranged throughout the gym—trampolines, vaulting horses, balance beams, bars, parallel bars, rings, and floor mats, and, at the far wall, the kids’ favorite: the pit, an in-ground swimming pool filled with odd-shaped chunks of foam rubber. After each class, children leaped, lunged, flipped, cartwheeled, or got pitched into the pit, then worked their way out screaming and laughing.
Molly was adept at gymnastics. She flipped fearlessly, cartwheeled artfully. Gravity did not intimidate her. To me, her skill was a clear reminder that we had no genetic ties. I was not and had never been light on my feet. “Graceful” and “agile” were not adjectives used to describe me. I’d been a swimmer, a water person, never completely comfortable on land, but Molly was. For the zillionth time I wondered what else she’d inherited, what other surprising traits or talents would emerge over time. She knew she’d been adopted but hadn’t seemed too interested in that fact. Not yet. I wondered when she would be, what she’d want to know, what I would tell her. What I could.
Mothers clustered on folding chairs in the observation room, heads bent together, buzzing. I knew better than to look for Susan—she and Emily were always late—so I found an empty chair and joined the group. Nobody greeted me. Not a single person as much as looked my way. I swallowed. I waited. Still nothing. I began to feel awkward, as if I were intruding. But that was nonsense. I belonged here as much as anyone; these women were my friends.
Something was wrong. Normally, Karen greeted me with a hug, dark eyes smiling. Now, Karen didn’t even blink at me. In fact, Karen and Davinder were staring at—what was her name? Chubby little Serena’s mom—the spunky woman with the curls—Ileana? That was it, Ileana. Why? Oh. Because Ileana was crying.
Then I noticed Leslie. Her long red hair hung limp and dull; her skin was so ashen that even her freckles seemed washed out. Her eyes were glazed, focused inward. Even though she was staring my way, she didn’t seem to see me. Finally, Karen motioned for me to come take the seat beside her. Quietly, with a sense of dread, I edged my way around the chairs and squeezed in.
“But why’d she leave Billy there?” Ileana dabbed her nose as she asked. “Didn’t she say anything about where she was going?”
“No. Nothing,” Karen shook her head. “We don’t know why. She just ran up to the woman, told Billy to stay with her, and ran out of the park.”
“And the woman—she just sat there? Why didn’t she do something?”
“How could she? She had her own two kids. She couldn’t just leave them there to chase a stranger.”
“Maybe not. But she could have stopped her. She could have done something.”
“Stopped who? What happened?” I broke in.
Wordlessly, without glancing at me, Ileana handed me the morning Inquirer. With all that had happened at work, I hadn’t had a chance to see it.
“No, probably she couldn’t,” Davinder insisted, her dark eyes swollen with sorrow. “We shouldn’t blame her. She had no idea what was going to happen. We’ve got hindsight.”
I glanced at the paper. The faces of four women stared at me from the front page. One of them was Tamara, Leslie’s nanny. I looked at Leslie, then closed my eyes. This couldn’t be true.
But the newspaper insisted that it was, in glaring boldface above a three-column spread. Another young woman was missing, the fourth in three weeks. This one, also a nanny, was from Society Hill. I looked at Tamara’s picture, then at the one beside it. The caption identified it as Claudia Rusk, the third nanny to disappear. I thought of Susan’s children, running into the kitchen after they’d heard the news. I put the paper down.
Leslie spoke flatly. “What does it matter, anyway? Tamara’s gone.”
“What happened?” I kept asking the same question. “They were in the park—he was riding his bike—” “What park?” “Three Bears.”
Three Bears was a local playground named for its cement sculptures of a mother bear with two cubs. We all took our kids there. It was a place we’d all considered safe.
“When?”
“Wednesday.” This was Thursday evening, gymnastics day. Suddenly, it was difficult to remember how far it was from Wednesday to Thursday. The names of days sounded meaningless. Tamara with wavy golden hair, long legs, and a contagious laugh had been gone, missing, since yesterday morning. Nothing was making sense. A finger on the doorstep. Nannies missing. Tamara gone. Tamara? She was one of us. Family. I was having trouble absorbing it.
“Somebody tell Zoe what happened,” Leslie said. “I can’t right now.” Davinder pushed a lock of shiny black hair behind her ear and began in a monotone. “Yesterday, Tamara and Billy weren’t home when Leslie came back from shopping. She went to the park to look for them.” I looked at Leslie. Her chin wobbled slightly. Her freckles were striped with mascara. Karen reached over and touched her shoulder.
“They weren’t there,” Davinder went on. “Leslie found Billy’s bike near the statue. But nobody was at the park,
and there was no sign of Billy or Tamara.”
“It’s so unlike Tamara to be late.” Leslie managed to pick up the story. “I went looking. up and down the block, knocking on doors, asking strangers if they’d seen them. I was afraid—what with what’s been going on—that they’d both . . . vanished.”
Karen took her hand. “It’s all right, Leslie. Billy’s fine. Look at him. He’s doing jumping jacks with Coach Gene.”
Indeed, Billy was smiling and red-faced, his blond curls bouncing while he jumped with the others. “Billy’s fine. And Tamara will show up. You’ll see.” Karen held onto Leslie’s hand and looked at me with eyes that said she’d talk to me later.
I picked up the article again and read. Tamara had apparently vanished in broad daylight, but not before thrusting Billy at a complete stranger. “Stay here,” she’d told Billy, and she commanded the woman, “Take care of him until I get back.”
The woman had waited at the park for over an hour, then left a note on Billy’s bike with her address. She’d taken the boy home with her own children and called the police. Before police could locate the child’s family, however, Billy’s mother, Leslie Baumann, had found the note, called the woman, who wished to remain anonymous, and retrieved her son. The whereabouts of the nanny, the paper reported, were still unknown.
The article pointed out that Tamara was the fourth childcare worker in a month to disappear from the area. It mentioned the others: Vanessa Ramsey, Claire Garnet, and Claudia Rusk. Their smiling faces lined up neatly across the page, beneath the headline.
I put the article down and looked at Leslie. I’d known her and Tamara both for years—we’d pushed baby swings together at the park. Now, Tamara’s absence surrounded Leslie, emanated from her. She adored Tamara, relied on her, treated her like a younger sister. They even looked alike. With Tamara gone, Leslie seemed to have faded. I closed my eyes and imagined finding Molly’s bike abandoned in the park, the relentless panic of not knowing where my child was. But I didn’t want to imagine that, couldn’t bear to. Besides, what was the point? Billy was here, not missing anymore. Tamara was unaccounted for, but at least the children were safe. Even so, I had to check.