by Julie Smith
She said, “No. She isn’t. Torian’s not like that.”
Lise took a step toward her. “Well, she has other friends, right?”
Sheila shrugged. “Mrs. Gernhard, I don’t know where she is. I swear it.”
“Yes, you do. Goddammit, Sheila, you do and you’re going to tell me now!”
The uncle put a hand on her shoulder. Funny, she’d almost forgotten about him. “Lise, I’m giving Skip a ride to the airport. Sorry, but we’re right down to the wire.” He removed his hand and spoke very quietly, as if trying to calm her. “I’m really sorry Sheila doesn’t know where Torian is, but it can’t be helped. She just doesn’t.”
To her horror, Lise started to sob. “Oh, God, my baby’s gone, and it’s all my fault. Oh, God, she’s really gone!” She turned to the cop. “Can’t the police do anything?”
“How long has she been missing?”
“Is that all you can do? Ask stupid questions?”
She saw Sheila look beseechingly at Skip Langdon, as if begging the cop to rescue her friend from the madwoman, and that frightened her.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean that. I’m just upset.”
Skip Langdon nodded. “I understand—everybody gets upset about that one. If your kid’s been missing an hour, it seems like a day and a half. Have you filed a report?”
“A report?” Lise wiped her eyes with a tissue the uncle handed her.
“With the police. Maybe they can help.”
“Skip. Come on.” The uncle was standing at the door, jingling keys. The cop left.
“Lise?” said Sheila. “Can you get home okay?”
Lise nodded, puzzled at the question. But in fact it was hard to get home, picking her way through a sort of Impressionist landscape, made fuzzy and strange by her tears.
And when she arrived, the apartment seemed like a cave—dank and uninhabited. She called, “Torian? Torian?” But knowing it was futile. She would know if her daughter were there.
She sank down on the couch and cried some more, finally getting up and pouring a drink to give her the courage to call Wilson again.
But she had not yet found the courage when there was a great banging on the door. “Lise! Goddammit, Lise, let me in.”
Wilson. How he’d gotten in the front door she didn’t know—probably told a neighbor he was her husband.
“What in the fuck is this about losing Torian?”
She’d left a message on his machine. “She’s not with you?”
“With me? Would I be here if she were with me? What the fuck do you mean?”
“She ran away. She hates me.”
His face said he could understand perfectly. “Has her bed been slept in?”
“She made it up. She does that.”
“Goddammit, Lise, I haven’t got time for this crap! Don’t you think I have anything else to do?”
“This is your daughter, you asshole.”
“Have you called the police?”
“No, I—”
“Well, why not, goddammit?”
“Stop firing questions at me—I can’t think.”
“Oh, shit. You’re shit, you know that? You make Medea look like a great little mom.” He turned around and walked out.
What was he going to do? she wondered. The answer came to her, clear as sunlight in the garden: Nothing. Make me do all the work as usual. Blame me if anything happens.
She started to cry again, only this time she poured a drink right away, hoping it would make her sleep, at least. True, it was mid-morning, but Lise felt a great urge to go back to bed and stay there for about six hours. If Torian weren’t home by then, she could call the police.
In fact, maybe it would be a good idea to take some aspirin. She went into the bathroom and took six or eight of them.
* * *
Hanging up the phone, Boo turned to Noel. “That’s odd. That was Mrs. Gernhard.”
He looked up from his Times-Picayune. “Torian’s mother?”
“Seems the kid didn’t come home last night.”
“Why’d she call here?”
“That’s the odd part. She said something about our talks— Torian’s and mine. I wonder what she meant by that?”
He turned back to the paper. “I don’t know. Maybe you said something wise to her once.”
Boo began unloading the dishwasher, trying to call up Torian’s face. She couldn’t quite picture it.
It’s funny, she thought, how you can have an effect on a kid and be completely unaware of it? I hardly even noticed her.
But if she’s that influenced by the tiny little bit of contact we’ve had, she must have a pretty hellish home life. Of course she does, she’s a runaway.
Boo felt a terrible pang at not having been more receptive, more nurturing. I’m supposed to be a therapist after all. But I guess, when you get down to it, I’m not a very maternal person. Too bad for Joy.
She was never more aware of how hard she had to work at mothering, how it didn’t come naturally to her. Is my daughter going to need a therapist when she’s Torian’s age? Or is she going to make friends with some neighbor lady—maybe it’ll be Torian. Maybe she’ll be Mrs. Smith or Mrs. Jones by then—she’ll be thirty—and maybe Joy will be babysitting for her. Maybe she’ll unwittingly say wise things to Joy—and anyway, they’ll have this bond because Torian babysat her…
Suddenly she realized they probably did have such a bond. Already. For all she knew, Torian was better with the kid than she was.
After all, Noel is. He knows how to play with kids. The simple fact is, he’s a better father than I am a mother. You can even see it with Torian—the way he laughs and jokes with her. Mostly, I don’t feel I have a damn thing to say to her. Well, face it, I’m not interested. What do I care about CDs and makeup? Isn’t that what they’re into at her age?
Oh, can it, Boo, you’re projecting. Who knows what they’re into?
I would if I’d take the trouble to find out. Face it, I’m still closed down. After all the fancy shrinking I’ve had myself. I’m smothering but not nurturing.
Goddammit, I can be nurturing. You don’t have to go to nurturing school. You just do it.
A woman with a mission, she found some eggs and started breaking them. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d made Noel anything more for breakfast than toast and coffee.
She scrambled the eggs with green onions, tomatoes, and some feta she found in the back of the refrigerator. Simultaneously, she toasted an English muffin and when she had the whole meal ready, she set it in front of her husband.
“Voilà.”
“For me?”
“Oui. Bon appetit.”
“But honey—” he looked as if he had some news he didn’t know how to break. “I already had cereal.”
“Oh.” She tried not to show her disappointment. “Well, I—that’s okay, I’ll eat it.”
“No, what the hell, I’ll eat it.”
“No, you don’t want it.”
“I do want it.”
“No, you don’t.”
“What the hell are you doing telling me what I don’t want?” The words said he might have been kidding, but his voice had a dangerous quality.
“Look, I’m sorry. You don’t want breakfast, you don’t have to eat it.”
He stood up, furious. “Why the hell did you make these eggs, Boo?”
“What? I just—”
“Did I say I wanted eggs? Why’d you have to make the goddamn eggs? I’ll tell you why. Because you’re strangling me. You’re smothering me, inch by inch. You’re going to kill me, you know that? With your goddamn control.
“Always have to be in control. Even control what I eat. It’s not enough you have to pick this house, have to remodel it just so, have to paint it certain colors; not enough you kept on me to get a job until I took one I hated. Not enough you got pregnant and there was no talk of abortion. Never any doubt but that we were about to be parents.
“D
id it ever occur to you I didn’t want a kid? We never even talked about it, remember that? I bet you didn’t even notice.”
“I don’t remember cutting your tongue out. You could have said something.”
“Oh, Little Miss Perfect. I’m sure you would have. It would have been oh-so-rational, oh-so-perfectly reasoned. Well, I’m not like that, okay? Do you have to stick your fucking perfection in my face every time I sit down to read the paper? In my face, in my face, all the time in my fucking face. Just so fucking perfect! Perfect, perfect, perfect!
“Well, fuck perfect!”
He threw his napkin on the table and began walking toward the door.
Joy started to cry.
Chapter Seventeen
“MR. TREADAWAY.”
“What, for Christ’s sake?” He was still steaming, knew he was going to have to walk for at least an hour to calm down. He was in no mood to be accosted. He kept walking.
“Listen, I have to talk to Torian. You have to tell me where she is.”
He stopped dead and looked for the first time at the person who was talking to him. It was a child.
Not actually a child, but a young teenager. Very young. But she was big, this one, as tall as an adult woman, taller than most, and outweighing a good fifty percent of them. A hefty girl, but not unattractive. In fact, she was rather beautiful if you looked right at her face. She had extremely vivid coloring, and huge, gorgeous lips. “Who are you?”
“I’m Sheila.” She waited, as if expecting him to understand. “‘Torian’s friend.”
Had Torian ever mentioned her? He didn’t think so. But she must have friends. It just surprised him that they’d be so young.
Suddenly he realized this girl must know. Torian must have told her. He felt as if his chest were caving in, a visceral sense of betrayal.
How could she? I wouldn’t have. How could she possibly?
He turned his head nervously, automatically, checking to see if Boo had followed him out.
No, but she might be watching. “Meet me around the corner,” he said, and crossed the street. She was waiting for him on Dauphine, near one of the gay bars that anchored nearly every block.
He said, “Tell me about Torian.”
“You tell me.”
He stared at her. She was proud and defiant, her pouty lips slightly pursed—in determination, he thought. A very bad kid. He couldn’t believe someone her age could speak to him like that.
“How old are you?”
“Fifteen. Torian’s age.”
He felt his cheeks go hot, and hoped it didn’t show. He said, “You wear too much makeup.” At the time he thought he’d lost his mind; later he realized it was the giant lips that had prompted him to say such a bizarre thing. All that lipstick.
She gaped at him. “I really don’t know—”
She didn’t finish her sentence but he knew what she was thinking: I don’t know what Torian sees in you.
She had every right to think that. He was making an ass of himself. He simply couldn’t cope with this, didn’t have the slightest idea how to behave.
“Look, if I don’t know where Torian is, you do. You’re the only other person she’s close to. I know what happened with Lise the other night. She called me yesterday and said she was going to talk to you. I begged her not to, but if she didn’t call me back, she did. I know that, and I’m going to tell her mother if you don’t tell me where she is.”
“You’re crazy, you know that? You’re just a crazy little kid.”
“Well, your girlfriend’s a kid, too, Noel.”
“Girlfriend! What—Torian? Is that what you think? You could get in big trouble spreading rumors like that.”
She smiled a canary-feather smile that also managed to be seductive. How could a kid her age behave like this? She said: “I think you’re the one who’d get in trouble.”
“You can’t spread lies about me! You go around spreading lies, and I swear to God you”—he stepped back and pointed a finger at her—”are the one who’s going to be in trouble. Big trouble.”
“Are you threatening me?”
He couldn’t believe this kid. “You watch yourself or you’ll be sorry.” He turned around and started walking. He had had quite enough of Miss Sheila, whoever the fuck she was. She couldn’t be a friend of Torian’s, he was sure of that. Torian had never mentioned her.
He’d gone about three steps when he realized how crazy he’d acted. He was terrified.
Jesus Christ, I’m nuts. I’m completely nuts. I did threaten her, for Christ’s sake, and she’s got all the power. If she blows the whistle on Torian and me, there goes my life.
He called her name and spun around. “Sheila!”
She wasn’t there.
Where the hell did she get to so quickly? He went to the corner and looked down the street: no Sheila.
Maybe she lives around here. Maybe she went in a house, or a store.
Dejectedly he turned back toward Canal Street.
What the hell could I have done, anyway? I don’t know where Torian is, or how to call her. Why the hell didn’t I get her number? I had it, right in my hand. I even had the address, and I just gave it to her, without thinking about it.
He replayed the scene in his mind. He couldn’t remember anything, even the name of the woman Torian was staying with. He had a strange sense of being out of control, or being manipulated.
But the thing had happened so fast. Nobody could have planned it. Could they?
He walked toward the Central Business District and kept walking to the area of Lee Circle, where his office was. And Jacomine’s.
The walk had calmed him down a little, but he was still on edge, not in the mood for making nice. He got right to the point: “I wonder if you could give me Miss Gernhard’s phone number? I’d like to see how she’s doing.”
A smile spread slowly across Jacomine’s face, a nasty smile, Noel thought, a kind of “gotcha.” He said, “She’s perfectly fine, I assure you. I went out to see her today, and she’s happy and comfortable.”
“Her mother’s pretty worried about her.”
“Her mother hit her, if you recall.”
“She’s still her mother.”
Jacomine didn’t answer.
Noel said, “I’d really appreciate it if you’d give me the phone number.”
“I can’t do that, Noel. She’ll be much safer this way.”
“What do you mean by that?” He felt his cheeks warming again.
Jacomine shrugged, looking smug. “I mean, the fewer people who know where she is, the safer she’ll be.”
“But I know her—I’m the only person who actually knows her who even knows for sure that she’s run away.”
“I’m sorry. I really can’t help you.”
Where the hell does he get off? Noel was close to decking him. He said, “You’re harboring a minor, Jacomine. You let me call and make sure she’s all right, or I’ll drop a dime on you.”
Jacomine glared at him. Seizing the advantage, Noel said, “I mean that.”
“Mr. Treadaway, things are simply not working out between us,” said Jacomine. “If you persist in this, I’m afraid I’ll have to let you go.”
“You aren’t kidding, things aren’t working out. I should have gone to work for Perretti.”
“He made you an offer?”
Noel nodded. “I’m sure it’s still open.”
Jacomine shrugged. “Perhaps you should take it, then.”
“Good-bye.” It was the one word he could manage.
He walked toward—what? Where the hell could he go?
He simply walked, not caring if he ever got anywhere. His life was in shambles.
I don’t want the damn job anyway. But I don’t want to work for Perretti either.
Fuck!
What do I want?
I don’t want Boo. I’ve outgrown her. Whatever we had, we just don’t anymore. I don’t even remember why I married her.
And i
t was true I didn’t want a baby, but the irony is, I do want Joy. I can’t live without Joy.
But do I want to live?
The thought shocked him. Suicide had never occurred to him. Not even suicide—death. He had simply never thought of not living.
If I weren’t alive, I couldn’t see Joy grow up.
I’d never make love to Torian.
Torian! Now there’s something I want.
But face it, Noel, how can you have her? She’s fifteen. It’ll be three years before you can even be seen in public with her without running the risk of getting locked up, and then she’s still not out of high school.
Am I crazy or what? What kind of future could we have?
Oh, who the fuck needs a future.
* * *
Potter was thinking this was about the worst job he’d ever had, tailing a man who wasn’t going anywhere. A man on foot when Potter was in a car.
Damn. How did I know he was going to do this?
Disgusted, he turned on the radio. A newscaster was saying, “Hurricane Hannah is expected to strike New Orleans early Friday morning.”
Oh, sure, Potter thought. It was the third time that summer. Because the area flooded so badly, evacuation warnings generally came three days early, so people really could leave if they wanted to. But so far no hurricanes.
“The hurricane is traveling at a rate of thirteen miles per hour, with winds up to ninety miles per hour.”
That’s a pretty good hurricane. Where’s that sucker going now?
Treadaway had entered a convenience store.
Potter parked and waited. The things I do for Daddy! But the truth was, he’d have held his own gun to his head and pulled the trigger if Errol Jacomine had asked him to. He trusted Daddy that much. He didn’t for a second doubt that if Daddy asked him for that, for his life, he’d have a damn good reason.
Daddy’s the only hope, that’s the thing. Be different if there was some alternative.
Potter had grown up in the Fisher Project across the river. He’d never even seen a backyard till he was six. But he’d seen plenty of shootings. He’d seen his own apartment, the one he shared with his mother and three sisters and brothers, he’d seen it filthy and stinking, piled waist-high with dirty clothes, dirty plates full of half-eaten food and the roaches it drew. If he needed a T-shirt, he had to pull it out of the pile on the floor, and it was as likely as not to have two or three roaches on it.