(2001) The Girls Are Missing

by Caroline Crane

  “Yes, that’s what Gail said.”

  “I’d just like to know what she saw.”

  Joyce described what Anita had probably seen. “You couldn’t really tell. It was just a feeling you got, maybe from the smell. Wouldn’t you really like something to drink?”

  Pam said, “I’d love something to drink, if you really mean drink. I could use it right now.”

  Joyce mixed three gins and tonic and returned to the sun-porch. Sheila asked, “But how did you know to report it? How did it enter your mind that it was, you know, human?”

  “I don’t know. I guess after I went there it just seemed too deliberate. But I felt awfully silly.”

  “You shouldn’t have. If Anita’d said anything to me, I might have called them myself. But she didn’t, so I thought it was nothing, till Herb came by. I’m telling you, I nearly went into shock. Can you imagine?”

  She paused to take a long swallow of her drink, then burst out, “My God, it makes me sick! I’m glad it was covered up and they couldn’t see. Do you want to know what Herb said? It was pretty far gone, but he said, even without an autopsy, they—Well, anyway, it was tied up, at least the hands. And there were stab wounds all over, and the worst part—” She drew a line from her rib cage almost to the pubic mound. “He just sliced her open, right down the middle.”

  “Sheila …” Pam set down her drink and clutched at her stomach.

  “All cut to pieces,” Sheila went on. “She was gutted. At least they assume it’s a she. I mean, things like that don’t happen to men, they’re the ones who do things like that. They compared it to Jack the Ripper.”

  “Sheila, please.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, Joyce. Anyway, at least he didn’t do it right there. It makes me feel a little better about the girls.”

  I don’t see how, thought Joyce. “That’s what they told me, too. It was moved. In that condition. Who’d have the stomach to do that?”

  “Listen, honey, the guy must be totally out of it. All that mutilation, how sick can you get?”

  “It’s making me awfully sick,” said Pam. “Mind if I go out and look at your rock garden, Joyce? I saw a beautiful aquilegia, and I just love them. When my Brucie was small, he used to bite off those little round things on the crown so he could taste the nectar.”

  “It’s not much of a garden, I’m afraid,” Joyce apologized. “I haven’t had time, with the baby.”

  As Pam’s sandals clicked away toward the kitchen, Sheila moved her chair closer to Joyce.

  “I wish they’d just lock up that Lattimer and have done with it.” She stopped and listened, and in the distance, the back door closed. “It was Lattimer, of course. He’s the nut

  around here. Anybody can figure that out, except they have these technicalities, so they can’t arrest him. But now wait, obviously I couldn’t say this in front of her, but do you know that Bruce—the husband, not the kid—do you know he has this reputation with babysitters—Just the other night he was driving one home, and he was a little high, and before the girl knew it, they parked on one of those back roads—”

  “You’re saying that about Bruce Cheskill?”

  “I don’t know if Pam even knows. Well, to make a long story short, the girl got away, but my God, how can I tell Pam why I won’t let June or Denise sit for her anymore?”

  “Oh, you couldn’t.” Joyce sat back in her chair. “You know, I can almost believe it. He’s one of those big, beefy types.” She tried to think of a word. Sensual? “And he does get slobbery when he’s drunk.”

  “All libido and no brains.”

  That was the word. Libido. But Bruce did have enough brains to be an advertising executive, which she supposed was fairly responsible.

  “Now Mr. Lattimer,” she said, “he’s so pickled all the time, I doubt if he has any libido.”

  “Don’t you believe it.”

  “And he’s no spring chicken. But maybe, with men, that doesn’t make any difference.”

  “Not with freaks.” Sheila rose stiffly to her feet. “I wish they could keep them both under surveillance. What a thing for our poor little police force. Hey, I’ve got to run. I don’t want to leave my kids alone too long.”

  She collected Anita, plucked Pam out of the rock garden, and drove away. Joyce looked up at the aquilegia in its pocket of stone. Poor gentle Pam, with her love of flowers.

  But it couldn’t have been Bruce. Even drunk, he would not be psychotic. And Lattimer seemed a mild soul, but you never could tell.

  They would arrest him soon. Or someone. They’d have to.

  Clearing the dirty glasses from the sunporch, she tried not to think of what Sheila had told her. A torture death, savage and sexual. But for the grace of God, it might have been her own child.

  The thought of it made her ill. On her next trip upstairs she could not help checking, and feeling a deep, joyful satisfaction that they were safe. Adam slept soundly. Gail, in her room, was carefully stowing the dolls in their wardrobe case, clearing up from the havoc wreaked by Anita.

  Mary Ellen lay prone on the rug in her own room, apparently writing a letter, while her radio fuzzed and crackled on the dresser, playing two stations at once. Clothes were scattered everywhere, on the bed, the dresser, the doorknob. Mixed with them were fan magazines, record albums, and spilled bath powder.

  “Mary Ellen,” Joyce suggested, “why don’t you hang up your clothes so they don’t get wrinkled?”

  Mary Ellen tossed her a scornful look. “I don’t care if they get wrinkled.”

  “Well, okay, but your mother asked you to try and keep things tidy.”

  Mary Ellen muttered something that might have been an obscenity, and turned back to her letter. Joyce watched her for a moment, half expecting an apology or an explanation, but there was nothing. Slowly she withdrew. It had never been like this before. Mary Ellen had been sloppy, and at times impertinent, but never downright rude. Never—impossible.

  She tried to remind herself of the part of Mary Ellen that was Carl, not Barbara. Of the disrupted life the girl had led.

  I won’t confront her again, she decided. I’ll let him deal with it.

  When Carl came home, dinner was far from ready. He seemed in a buoyant mood and did not mind. “I’ll have my shower and a drink,” he said, opening his briefcase. “Did you see this?”

  It was the afternoon Post He folded back the pages. She caught a glimpse of a small headline, the words “Body” and “W’chstr,” meaning Westchester County.

  “I saw it in person,” she reminded him, “and I’m sick of it.”

  “You told me you didn’t see anything. Just some leaves. They said it was like Jack the Ripper. He tore out all her in—”

  “Carl, stop it! I really mean that. I’m sick.”

  He did stop then, and studied her. “Poor girl.” Just as he used to say when she had morning sickness.

  At least he cared. Larry had always told her it was all in her mind. Briefly she rested her head against his shoulder while he patted her back.

  “Mary Ellen’s here,” she said, withdrawing. “Don’t you want to see her?”

  His whole face changed—oddly, she thought, taking on a frown of uneasiness. “How is she?”

  “Just fine. Got stuff all over her room, been playing her radio all day.”

  “Is she behaving herself?”

  “Well—Barbara told her to clean up the room, and when I reminded her, she got kind of sassy. I guess I should expect it. It must be lonely for her, being shunted around like this.”

  “What did she do?”

  “Oh, just sassy.” Perhaps she shouldn’t have mentioned it. It might not have been an obscenity that Mary Ellen muttered, but it had certainly sounded like one.

  Carl started up the stairs. Barely a minute later, Mary Ellen’s voice came shrilly from her room. “I didn’t get fresh

  with her. Look, Daddy, I’m supposed to be on vacation. What do you want me to do, spend my whole summer being a slave?”<
br />
  Oh, damn, thought Joyce. Carl could be such a bulldozer at times. And why bring it up the very first thing?

  Through the general ruckus came a thin, rising wail. She hurried up the stairs.

  “Listen, Carl, you asked if Mary Ellen was behaving and I said she got a little sassy, but it wasn’t worth all this. And you just woke the baby.”

  He turned and glared at her. “Would you stay out of it, please?”

  She looked past him, into the room. “I’m sorry, Mary Ellen. I guess I felt harassed, and you were a tiny bit fresh, but let’s all start over. Carl, hurry up and change. Dinner’s almost ready.”

  Carl whipped off his tie and stalked away to their bedroom, noisily opening and closing the door, letting Adam’s screams escape like angry hornets.

  Mary Ellen curled up on the bed and resumed whatever she was writing.

  Joyce stood in the doorway. “I’m sorry he came at you like that, honey, but you know, I wouldn’t talk to you the way you did to me. I think we’ve both got to learn to respect each other.”

  Mary Ellen did not reply. Joyce went on, “Anyway, you were right about its being your vacation. We’ll make it a nice one. We’ll go swimming, take picnics, do all sorts of things. But this isn’t a resort with paid help, so we all have to pitch in sometimes. And even in a resort, you’d keep your clothes off the floor, wouldn’t you?”

  Finally Mary Ellen looked up. “What’s this thing you people have about clothes on the floor? It’s weird.”

  “You know how your father is. He’s a very orderly person.” Joyce abandoned any further attempt at discussion and went

  to the bedroom, where Carl had stripped for his shower. He was tying on a bathrobe. She picked up Adam, who immediately lapsed into choking snuffles.

  “I’m sorry, Carl. I’m sorry I brought it up to start with. It doesn’t really matter, it’s only a room. Teenagers are like that.”

  “She’s not a teenager.”

  “Twelve? It’s teenage. I was, I remember. She just wants to prove that she exists.”

  “Little bitch,” he muttered.

  “Carl!”

  He had never done that before, called his own daughter, or anyone else, a bitch. It must have been the weather. It made everybody irritable.

  He joined her for a moment as she put Adam back in his crib. They watched their son thrash about and subside, munching contentedly on his pacifier. Carl slipped an arm around her waist.

  She snuggled against him. “It won’t be long now.”

  “What won’t be long?” he asked.

  “Till I see the doctor. You know, my six-week checkup.”

  “What’s the significance of that?”

  “Then we can—you know. We’ll be back to normal.” She spelled it out. “We can make love.”

  He smiled faintly, and drew away to tighten the sash on his bathrobe.

  “It’s been a long time,” she reminded him.

  A very long time. He seemed to be one of those men who had either a revulsion or a superstition about physical love with a pregnant woman. She had tried to assure him that it was all right, but still he hadn’t liked the idea. And so she had waited. Soon, she thought, they would go back to the way it had been in the beginning. The way it should always be.

  “She can’t treat you like that,” he said.

  “Who, Mary Ellen?” She wished they were finished with Mary Ellen. “It’s a bad age. What can you do? And a kind of mixed-up life for her.”

  “She’s got a mixed-up mother.”

  “Yes, but in some ways you have to admire Barbara. She’s very competent.”

  “Huh!” he snorted.

  “Well, she’s pretty good at making a career for herself. But even with a career, she should give a little more of her time to Mary Ellen.”

  “It got to be more than I could take,” he said. “All her neuroses.”

  “Do you think she’s really bad for Mary Ellen? Why don’t you try and get custody?”

  For just a moment, she thought she saw a look of longing. Then he shook his head.

  “Can’t disrupt the kid any more. It’s home for her, there in White Plains. All her friends, her school…”

  He wanted Mary Ellen. Joyce had spoken rashly. But if it meant so much to Carl… And if Barbara was neurotic, and harmful… Before they were married, he had often talked to her about how he missed his daughter, how he saw her only during the day on certain weekends, because Barbara, being so neurotic, would never let her stay overnight. It was a tragic situation, Joyce had felt.

  But later that evening she began to wonder if he really would be any improvement over Barbara. Mary Ellen arrived at the dinner table in a brief pair of shorts and a braless tee shirt that revealed her young breasts.

  Carl’s face turned pale. “What kind of outfit do you call that?”

  “That’s my clothes,” Mary Ellen replied. “What do you want me to wear on a day like this?”

  “It is hot,” Joyce put in. Gail was wearing a similar outfit, but Gail did not have breasts or hips, and her legs were straight and little-girlish.

  “I expect you to cover yourself,” Carl said coldly.

  Mary Ellen looked amazed. “Put on a dress?”

  It occurred to Joyce that he must have been thinking of the murder. He did not want his daughter to be provocative. She beckoned to Mary Ellen, who followed her meekly up the stairs.

  “What’s the matter with him?” Mary Ellen demanded when they were safely in her room.

  “Fathers are like that,” Joyce explained. “Fathers of daughters. It’s kind of old-fashioned, but they have their reasons. Have you got a slightly thicker shirt and maybe some longer pants?”

  “But it’s hot!”

  “I know, dear, but—Has your mother bought you any bras?”

  Mary Ellen groaned. “Oh, they’re kidding, now they want to put me in a bra.”

  “Well, you ought to start thinking about it. But at least for now…” From the mess on the bed, Joyce picked up a dark blue shirt decorated with a picture of a van and a spattering of CB phrases. In all that clutter, no one would notice Mary Ellen’s figure.

  She persuaded the girl to put it on and they went back to the table. Carl glanced at his daughter and said nothing. Evidently he approved.

  Hours later, as she lay in bed, Joyce thought again of what he had said. It was more than I could take—all her neuroses.

  When they first began dating, she had asked about his divorce. From what little he said, she gathered that it was Barbara who had initiated the breakup, and that he had

  not resisted. Today Barbara had more or less given the same impression.

  Now he claimed that it was he who had ended it, and against her will. Was it self-protection this time, or had he, earlier, been trying to protect Barbara?

  She felt him, warm and breathing beside her. It is my business, she told herself.

  On the other hand, his relationship with Barbara was entirely separate from his relationship with Joyce. She and Barbara were two separate people, one wrong for him, and one apparently right. So maybe it was not her business.

  She fell asleep and into fleeting dreams of the body Sheila had described. She saw it, red, skinned, and mangled, and dreamed of how it had gotten that way. Over and over again she relived the victim’s last agony, and felt she would never be free of it.

  7

  The next day Carl was up and dressed, but not in his usual lawn-mowing clothes, while she lay in bed nursing Adam.

  “Going to buy a paper,” he explained.

  “So early?”

  It was a mile and a half into the village. They rarely bothered with a newspaper on Saturday, certainly not at seven A.M.

  “Be back in a while.” He closed the door softly. Minutes later she heard his car hum to life, then fade away. The garage was on the other side of the house. She hadn’t heard its door slide open, or closed. She wondered if it stood open, like a gaping mouth, with all of them vulnerable i
n bed. Would she ever get used to this fear? It was worse than in the city, where their basement apartment had had window bars and only one entrance, and that was always locked.

  She smiled, remembering how Carl had hated that apartment of hers, and worried, and begged her to move out. He had even suggested that she move in with him, but his was only a studio apartment, and besides, there was straitlaced Gail, who would never have approved unless they were married first.

  She hadn’t long to wonder about the garage door. He was back soon, as he had promised. He came straight upstairs with both the Times and the Daily News under his arm.

  “Here,” he said, opening the second section of the Times. “How do you like this? The only thing missing is your name.”

  “My name?”

  “For reporting it.”

  Find Body of Missing Westchester Woman. It was datelined Cedarville, N.Y. She skimmed the three-inch story. The woman was Joan Danner, eighteen years old. Missing since May 29. She remembered the name. Found by two children playing in the woods. Bound, gagged, shreds of clothing, apparently cut off. Body heavily mutilated.

  “Thanks,” she said, handing back the paper. “You’ve really made my day.”

  “I thought you’d be interested. You’re the one who got this whole thing started.”

  “I’m not interested. I hate it. Can you imagine what that girl’s family is going through?”

  She put Adam back in his crib, then washed her face and slipped a peignoir over her sheer nightgown.

  Carl had preceded her to the kitchen. It was almost as though he were avoiding the sight of her in that nightgown, until she had the peignoir in place. And yet it was a set he had given her when they were married. He had found it provocative then, the see-through film of pale peach. It must be her figure, she decided, still a little loose. She would have to start doing exercises.

  He had already started the coffee maker and was frying bacon. It was a peaceful breakfast, with only the two of them. Even Gail had reached the age of sleeping late. Or perhaps she only did it to avoid Carl.