Someone Was Watching

by David Patneaude

  Now he could see it for sure. Even out of focus and cut into sections and shaded by the trees, it was still visible. A big ice cream cone, golden yellow and chocolate brown and tilted to the right, was painted on the side of the truck. He couldn’t make out the words underneath it, but he knew what they were. His heart beat faster. He could feel the pulses in his head.

  He hit the pause button again, leaning his head to listen, and the tape moved forward, the music resumed. The van slowed to a stop, halfway out of the picture. The music stopped—abruptly—and Chris started counting. He got to seventy-four this time—more than a minute—before the van pulled quietly out of the picture.

  The picture faded out and back in again, and several seconds of puffy white clouds in a bright blue sky filled the screen. Then it went blank. With a trembling finger he hit the stop button and then reverse, and the tape zipped backwards through the VCR. If he was there to sell ice cream, why didn’t he leave the music on? Chris thought. He always leaves his music on in the parking lot. And if he wasn’t there to sell ice cream, why was he there?

  He counted to five, stopped the tape, and pressed the play button. The squirrel appeared again, busily chewing on its fragment of food. Chris turned up the sound. The noises he’d heard earlier were magnified, but he didn’t hear anything new. He moved to within a foot of the speaker and closed his eyes, concentrating. The music started, got louder, and stopped—right in the middle of Take Me Out to the Ball Game.

  He continued to listen, looking at the screen now, but he couldn’t concentrate. The scenes changed and the screen went blank, but he sat still for a long time, staring straight ahead. What did it mean—anything? Nothing? A feeling was growing in the pit of his stomach. He didn’t know if it was good or bad, but he didn’t want to let it go. Missing and presumed drowned was what the radio man had said. Chris’s mouth was dry and sour. He went into the kitchen, got a can of soda from the refrigerator, took a long drink, and brought it back to the family room.

  The TV screen was still blank. He turned the sound down and squatted in front of it. His eyes burned from too much staring and not enough sleep. He reversed the tape, trying to think, to sort things out. He stopped it and hit the play button. Too far. His mom was just coming out of the ladies’ room. Fast forward. Stop. He and Molly going into The Cloverbud. He pressed the pause button.

  There it was. Parked just outside the little store, the big white van took up the whole lower right-hand corner of the screen. Chris could see the long, horn-shaped speaker on top and the painted-on ice cream cone on the side. Underneath it were the words, “The Cloverbud’s Traveling Treat Truck.” Farther underneath in smaller letters Chris could read, “Miles of Smiles.” Little yellow smiley faces formed the dots over the i’s.

  For as long as Chris could remember, Clover and Bud had had the van along with their store. During the summer and on mild late spring and early fall weekends, they took turns covering a long route to the homes and beaches and parks in the Greenwater area. They sold ice cream and other frozen desserts and candy from the back of the truck. The beach park was one of their regular stops. But Chris couldn’t think of a time when they’d stopped at the parking lot without the music playing the whole time. How could they sell anything if nobody knew they were there?

  Maybe they could see that there weren’t very many people at the beach that day. Or maybe they didn’t want anyone to know they were there. But why? What would that mean? Chris didn’t want to let himself even think about it.

  He hit the pause button again, and he and Molly resumed their walk into The Cloverbud. The picture faded out and quickly back in, and they were coming out. Molly had her big ice cream cone in one hand. Clover was holding her other hand as they walked out together onto the sidewalk. Chris paused with Bud for a moment in the doorway, talking. What was it they were talking about? Fishing, Chris remembered. A new lure Bud had tried out. He liked to talk fishing and sports with Chris.

  Chris left Bud standing in the doorway and followed Molly and Clover into the street. As they approached the car, Clover stopped and bent down to whisper something in Molly’s ear. Molly smiled mischievously, nodded her head, and dashed for the car. The picture faded out. When it came back on, they were at the summer house.

  Chris stopped the tape and played the Cloverbud scenes back again. He tried to think: had Molly said anything? He remembered asking her what Clover had told her. What had she answered? On the screen, Clover was whispering to her again. What was it she was saying? In desperation, he hit the single-frame advance button and the scene slowed down to a crawl. Clover’s fleshy jaw and lips barely moved. Molly’s smile spread across her face like an inkblot.

  Chris slammed his hand into the rug in disgust. There was no way he could read Clover’s lips, even at this speed, but he let the scene play on, hoping for something.

  Then he remembered—a secret.

  “It’s a secret,” Molly had said.

  And he hadn’t pursued it. He’d been more interested in their plans for the day than Molly’s silly, little-girl secret. But so what? What if Clover had just said that she’d give her another big ice cream cone the next time she came to the store?

  Chris shook his head. He was no detective. And he knew he was still having a hard time accepting that Molly was dead. But what if this feeling he was having wasn’t just the brainchild of an overactive imagination, or wishful thinking, or too much spaghetti for dinner? What if Bud and Clover had something to do with her disappearance? What if she were alive somewhere now? A warm glow and a cold chill were battling it out someplace deep inside him.

  He was too tired to think about it and he knew he couldn’t tell anybody now. There was nothing to tell—yet. And it was very late. Or early. Predawn light was beginning to filter into the room. He stopped the tape, ejected it, and carried it up to bed with him. When he woke up, he’d need some proof that this hadn’t been a dream.

  6

  Chris awoke with sunlight flowing through his open window and a sharp pain in his ribs. He stuck his hand between his side and the mattress and pulled out the videocassette. He hadn’t dreamed it.

  A twinge of nervous excitement rippled through his body. He looked at his clock—7:34. He hadn’t gotten much sleep, but aside from a dull ache in his head, he felt good. Wide awake, he jumped from bed. He could hear his parents’ voices in the kitchen. Talking, just talking to each other. He tried to remember the last time they’d done that.

  He threw on some shorts and a wrinkled T-shirt and hurried downstairs. Somehow it seemed to him that he had no time to waste, although he wasn’t sure what he was going to do. His mom and dad glanced up from the table in surprise when he walked into the kitchen. His dad made an exaggerated show of looking at his watch, at Chris, and back at his watch again.

  “It must have stopped. What time do you have, Lynn?” he said.

  His mom smiled. “Mine’s stopped, too. It says seven-forty. I guess we’re both late for work.”

  “Ha, ha,” Chris said sarcastically, sitting down at the table. It wasn’t the first time he’d gotten up this early during the summer. He could think of at least one other time.

  “What’s the occasion?” his dad asked.

  Chris thought for a moment, pretending to study the side of a cereal box. “Nothing,” he said finally. “I just figured I better get used to getting up earlier. School’s starting in two weeks.” He poured himself some cereal and milk and spooned it into his mouth. He’d swallowed three mouthfuls before he realized that he didn’t even know what kind of cereal it was. His mind was racing, cutting off everything else in the room.

  “What did you think about the tape last night, Chris?” his mom asked. The question startled him, bringing him back. He looked at his mom’s face, but he could feel his dad’s eyes on him. He chewed his cereal a long time before swallowing.

  “The tape?” Now that was a bright reply. “I, uh, thought it was fine. I mean, it was nice seeing Molly. Nice to be reminded o
f how she was. Not as painful as I thought.” He considered for a moment, wondering if they’d like to know what he really thought, then resumed reading the cereal box.

  “That’s what we felt, too,” his mom said. “We’re really glad we have the tape. Thanks for helping us take it, Chris.”

  “It weren’t nothin’,” he said. “I think dad shot most of the good scenes, anyway. I especially enjoyed the classic restroom exit.”

  His dad laughed. His mom shook her head. “I think I’ve seen that scene too many times,” she said. “Originality is not one of your father’s strong points.”

  Chris took another bite of cereal and stared out the window at the basketball hoop and pine trees in the backyard. He turned a question over in his mind until he thought it sounded okay. “Mom,” he finally said. She looked up from some work papers she’d been studying. “Do you remember on the day we lost Molly, when you ran to the phone to call the police and firemen?”

  His mom stared at him and nodded her head slowly. She set her cup down on an angle, spilling coffee on the white table top. His dad looked quizzically across the table at him. “Yes, I do, Chris,” she said. “I won’t ever forget it.”

  “When you got to the phone,” he continued, “did you see anything in the parking lot? Anything unusual, I mean?”

  “Like what?” she said, twisting her wedding ring around on her finger.

  “Was Clover and Bud’s ice cream truck there?”

  She looked at him blankly.

  “Did you see it?” he said. “Do you remember hearing it?”

  She continued to look in his direction, but he could see her focusing on another scene, far away in miles and time.

  “No,” she said. “Just cars. Just a few cars in the parking lot. If I had seen Clover or Bud there, I would have asked them for help. I’m sure they weren’t. And I don’t remember hearing the music.”

  “Neither do I, Chris,” his dad said. “But why are you asking?”

  Chris had his answer ready. “Oh, I was doing what Dr. Wilde said. You know, trying to visualize what happened that day. Remembering everything and dealing with it now, instead of putting off dealing with it.”

  His dad searched Chris’s face, looking for the real explanation there, no doubt. But Chris maintained his best sincere expression.

  Finally his dad smiled. A bit forced, but he smiled. “Seems like a good idea,” he said. He got up from the table and carried his dishes to the sink. His thoughts seemed to be somewhere else.

  “Do you think they’ll ever find her? Her body, I mean?” Chris asked. He wasn’t convinced that someone—even a small someone—could drown and never be found. He wanted his parents to tell him that everyone who had ever drowned in the river had been recovered. He watched his dad turn and look at his mom. His dad looked as if he wanted to avoid answering this one. She glanced up from her work papers at his dad, and then at Chris. Her face had suddenly turned gray. Chris was sorry he’d asked the question. He wanted to yell, “But what if she isn’t even dead? Maybe she’s alive!” Instead he said, “I mean, does it really happen that someone could drown in a river and never be found?”

  “It happens, Chris,” his dad finally said. “Molly drowned in a big river. It’s possible that her body won’t ever be found.”

  “Oh,” Chris said. But that didn’t prove anything to him, just that she could have drowned. It didn’t mean she had. It didn’t mean there wasn’t a real reason why his heart was thumping like a large rabbit in his chest. It didn’t mean he couldn’t try to find out what that reason was.

  “But we hope they do find her sometime soon,” his mom said, her eyes glistening in the sunlight filtering through the kitchen curtains. “We’d all feel better if she were closer to us, if we knew where she was. I know I would.”

  “Me, too, Mom,” Chris said. “Me, too.”

  His dad walked over to the table, gave them each a hug, and went upstairs to finish getting ready for work.

  Chris’s heart was beating loudly. He was afraid his mom would be able to hear it from across the table. “Is it okay if Pat and I ride our bikes over to the mall today, Mom? We thought we’d look around for school clothes and go to a movie. And then I’m invited to his house for dinner.”

  “That sounds fine, Chris. It looks as if I may have to work late tonight, anyway. Do you need money for the show?”

  “No, I’ve got enough.”

  “Well, if you find any clothes you like, we can go back and look at them tomorrow night,” she said.

  “Okay, Mom.” He jumped up from the table and sprinted upstairs to the phone in his room. After calling the bus depot, he dialed Pat’s number. He asked Pat’s mom to get him out of bed.

  Pat dropped his phone once before picking it up and managing a sleepy grunt. Chris waited until he heard Pat’s mom hang up the other phone. “Are you by yourself?” he asked.

  “Yeah. What time is it, anyway?” Pat mumbled.

  “It’s getting late. We’ve only got an hour to get to the bus depot.”

  “Excuse my ignorance, but why do we want to go to the bus depot?” Pat was waking up.

  “We need to catch the 9:00 bus to Greenwater.”

  “You just got back from Greenwater.”

  “Brilliant, Pat. But you’re wasting a lot of time. I need to go back there. Can you go with me? I’ll explain it all to you on the way.”

  “I’ll ask my mom, but I don’t think she’ll go for it.”

  “Mine wouldn’t have either. She thinks we’re riding our bikes to the mall to look for clothes, seeing a movie, and going back to your house for dinner. You better give yours the same story. Except make it dinner at my house.”

  Pat was silent for a moment. “What time are we coming back?” he said finally.

  “I don’t know. It depends on what we find. Before dark, anyway. The buses run every two hours.”

  More silence on the other end. Then, “Chris?”

  “Yeah?” Chris could feel his patience disappearing and his stress level going up.

  “What are we going there for?”

  “I’ll tell you later. Just go ask your mom.” He heard the phone clunk down on Pat’s table, then silence. He waited, nervously glancing at his watch. Say it’s okay, he thought, concentrating hard.

  Then Pat was back. “My mom says yes, Mystery Man. I can be ready in ten minutes. How much money do I need?”

  Chris allowed himself a sigh of relief. He didn’t want to make this trip alone. “The bus is eighteen dollars round trip. And we’ll need some money for food—I’d say another five bucks or so. Do you need some money?”

  “I’ve got some saved. I’ll let you buy me some ice cream at The Cloverbud, though.”

  Chris shook off a chill. “I’ll do that,” he said. Suddenly he pictured Clover and Bud standing behind the counter, smiling down at Molly. “I’ll be there in ten minutes. Then I figure it’s fifteen minutes to the bus depot on our bikes. That should give us enough time to get the tickets and catch the nine o’clock bus.”

  “Sounds good,” Pat said. “But I have to admit you’ve got me real curious. I hope you have a good story for me.”

  “I’ll let you decide,” Chris said and hung up.

  7

  The big silver bus pulled out of the Milwaukee depot at 9:05. Chris and Pat sat near the back, surrounded by empty seats. The only other passengers—a thin scarecrow of a woman with four noisy, scruffy little kids and an old man with an unlit, half-smoked cigar in his mouth—were seated near the front. They hadn’t gone six blocks before the old man got up and moved toward the back, taking a seat three rows in front of the boys. Chris watched him turn down his hearing aid.

  “You think the bikes will be okay?” Pat asked.

  “I think so. They’re chained to the pole and the pole’s holding up the building. I don’t think anyone’s going to move it—not without a cutting torch, or dynamite.”

  “I hope you’re right. You got any food?”

&nb
sp; Chris shook his head. “I didn’t have time to grab any. We can get something when we get there.” His mind drifted away; he thought about what they would do when they got there. What was the first step going to be? Should he walk right in and ask Bud and Clover to give back his little sister? And have them laugh at him? Or feel sorry for him? Or get angry? Or if they really had her, decide that they were in danger and needed to do something desperate?

  No, walking in and accusing them of anything would be stupid. He’d have to think of something else, some other way to find out if there was really something to this dream he was having. Maybe their faces would give them away. Maybe he could just look in their eyes and know for sure. And then what?

  He was staring out the window, but he could feel Pat’s eyes on him. He turned toward his friend. It was time to let him in on it.

  “You going to tell me what we’re doing, Christopher?” Pat asked.

  Chris nodded his head. “Yeah. But you’ve got to let me get through the whole story before you start laughing or calling me crazy. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  Chris began slowly, trying to remember how he first got the feeling that something wasn’t making sense to him. He told Pat about the uneasiness he’d gone to bed with after seeing the tape. How he’d woken up twice, the second time recalling a scene and sounds on the tape that didn’t seem to fit. What he’d seen and heard when he watched the tape again. The earlier scene in town. And Molly’s secret.

  He tried not to make anything sound more significant than it was, but as the words came out he could feel the excitement building. Pat listened quietly. Chris couldn’t tell what he was thinking. When Chris stopped talking Pat just sat there, staring at the back of the seat in front of him. He wasn’t laughing.