Barefoot Beach

by Toby Devens

  We ordered a couple of appetizer platters to share and were on dessert when Em approached the table. She looked like hell. The worry lines Merry had etched in her face over the last few years had deepened into grooves since her mother-in-law’s arrival, and today she was deathly pale, as if a vampire had feasted on her blood.

  “She only just told me you were here.” I knew that “she” was the vampire in question. “You enjoyed your lunch? And your dessert is good, yes, Colonel?” Em mustered a smile.

  Scott looked up from spooning kazandibi, a vanilla-infused flan. “Mmm,” he concurred. To me, she twitched a hitch toward the door that led into the dining room. “You might like the chocolate pudding, Nora. It’s just made and cooling in the kitchen. Come inside for a little taste.” I had a bad feeling when she added, “Please.”

  Scott was appraising the weather beyond the patio. The drizzle had become teardrop rain and a briny wind ballooned the awning.

  “I won’t be long,” I told him as I pushed back my chair.

  “Take your time. Far be it from me to come between you and your chocolate. And the sound of the rain is soothing. Listen to him.” Sarge was snoring musically. “If it gets worse, though, we’ll wait for you in the car.”

  I grabbed my quilted bag, the one commodious enough to hold two takeaway packages of Em’s baklava. Jack was at Ethan’s this morning, but when he got home we needed to have a calm conversation about his prejudices. A peace offering might help us get off to a good start. Peace, not at any price, but at $10.99 a pound, was a bargain.

  Inside, Em transferred her tension hand to hand as she steered me past the kitchen and toward the steps leading to the Haydars’ apartment.

  When we were beyond hearing range of the customers in the dining room, she said, “Merry and Selda got into a big fight last night while we were getting ready for the baking. So stupid it was. Over how much filling to put in the börek. Merry was putting too much, Selda said. Merry answered with a fresh mouth. Selda grabbed her spoon. Merry pulled it back. I ran over. Merry was hysterical and shouting terrible insults at her grandmother. Adnan was out front so he heard, but by the time he saw, it was Merry yelling and running upstairs. That was last night. This morning her shift begins at eight, but she didn’t show up. Still not. Erol thinks he heard a noise like someone on the stairs as the sun was coming up, but he could have been dreaming. I want you to see upstairs, the way she left it. Maybe you can tell me what I am supposed to do now.”

  On the second floor, Em led me into the bathroom her children shared. Erol had discovered the message. In lipstick on the mirror, Merry had drawn two versions of the iconic happy face, neither of them smiling. The sad circle had an oval open mouth of pain and its eyes dripped a trail of tears. The mouth on the angry face was a downward curve lined with triangles, shark teeth. Underneath, Merry had scrawled, “No More!!!” Underlined three times. She drew it like she felt it. Selda had gone too far.

  “At least she can express her feelings,” I said, as my stomach churned at the display.

  “She has no problem with that. Follow me.”

  At fifteen, my son had pinned up posters in his bedroom of star athletes, especially baseball and lacrosse players. Merry’s crimson walls—she’d insisted on painting over the childhood pink—framed posters of the most popular rapper, grunge, and hip-hop groups. Not that rare for a teenage rebel, I supposed. The shock for me lay stretched out on her bed.

  The quasi uniform Selda had insisted she wear made a chilling collage against the chartreuse bedspread. The black skirt had been cut from belt to hem up the front and split like a lobster. Merry had also taken scissors to the prim white blouse, sheared it to ribbons, and, in what may have been a final burst of fury, torn what was left to shreds.

  “This is a message for me. For Adnan, for Selda.”

  “Have those two seen it?”

  “He has. He wanted to clean the mirror and throw away the cut-up clothes. But I wouldn’t let him. If she becomes a missing person”—Em’s lower lip quivered—“they, the police, may want to examine this. And Selda, who started it all, my husband protects. God forbid she should feel responsible. She wouldn’t feel such a thing anyway. She would go into another tirade about my—always mine, when Merry does something to displease her—my ungrateful, uncontrolled daughter. If something happens to Merry because of Selda . . .”

  I’d had practice fighting my own catastrophic thinking. I tried to head hers off. “First, you don’t know that Merry has run away. She could be with friends. Or at a movie. Or shopping. Half a day off the premises is not a missing person. Second, let’s say she has taken off. She has a history of running, but she always comes back on her own. You remember the last time after the fight with the girl at the cleaning service. She turned up then, and the times before.”

  “You saw the mirror and the bed, Nora.” Em wrapped her arms across her chest and rocked on her heels. “This is different.”

  She was right. That arrangement in black and white was a sign of desperation, and with Merry you could expect desperate measures. I wasn’t sure if I believed my consolation, but I said, “This could be a ploy to get your attention, to scare her father into getting rid of Selda. Merry has her say. She lets you stew. She returns to negotiate her terms.”

  “That’s what Adnan believes. I hope you’re both right. He’s out looking for her. He’s not scared like I am. He’s boiling with anger. Oh God, look at what’s happening out there.”

  The trees outside Merry’s window were taking a thrashing from whips of wind. Rain battered the windows. “It’s getting worse.”

  “Did Merry pack a bag?” If we could find out her intention, we might be able to determine her destination.

  “Her big beach bag is still here. Her backpack, this she always carries with her. It is gone.”

  “Pajamas? A change of underwear? A jacket?” It had been cool at sunrise with the storm brewing. If Merry expected to be out at night, she would have taken a jacket.

  “Who can tell what she took?” Em opened the door to the walk-in closet. Its floor was heaped with a mountain of clothing.

  “More venting?” I asked, wondering if Merry had tossed her closet in a rage.

  “No, this is the usual mess,” Em said. “At least since the cat, Sarman, and his litter box moved out.”

  “Money. She’d need money for a long run.”

  “What she earned from us and from Margo, Adnan insisted she divide it three ways, some to her savings account, some to charity, and the rest she could spend on herself. Where she keeps the last part, I don’t know.”

  Adnan had riffled through emails on the computer the family shared. It looked like Merry reserved messaging for her new phone. She hadn’t posted on Facebook in two days, though her last post was a rant against her grandmother accompanied by a photo of Oz’s green-faced Wicked Witch of the West.

  “She might have gone to the Driftwood. Have you called Margo?”

  “She hasn’t seen her, but she promised to get back to me if Merry turns up there or if she hears anything. That was a few hours ago. Merry doesn’t answer her cell, of course. I left a message. I haven’t called her friends yet. Do you think I should?”

  “Let me talk to Scott,” I said. “He’s had experience in search-and-rescue strategy, also at finding people in hiding. If Merry really has taken off, it would probably be to a familiar place. Email me a list of her hangouts and we’ll check them out.”

  At that moment, a lightning strike blazed the dark sky, immediately followed by a crack of thunder that seemed to shake the house on its foundation. The wind howled a wild alarm. I shivered. A chill had seeped in from the rage outside. Or maybe it was inside me. Whatever I’d told Emine to comfort her, the truth was, I was frightened.

  Em rummaged through the pile in the closet and pulled out a windbreaker. “She could be out there in this weather without a
jacket.” She handed it over. Her voice broke when she added, “In case you find her.”

  I snatched a plastic bag holding one of Merry’s sweaters, dumped the sweater, and stuffed and ziplocked the heavier jacket. “So it doesn’t get wet if I get soaked in this deluge.” I shoved the plastic bag in my quilted tote. As I tamped it down, my cell phone rang. Em and I both jumped. Not Merry. Scott calling to let me know that when the rain started pelting, he and Sarge had taken refuge in the car. But he didn’t like how the storm was building and wanted to get me home. Us. He’d help secure my house. “Batten down the hatches,” he called it. He was parked out front. We’d really better get a move on.

  Downstairs, I gave Em a quick hug. “You stay in the café so she doesn’t come back to find only Selda here. And yes, I think, start to make a few calls. Her closest friends. Try not to drive yourself crazy with worry,” I said, knowing the futility of such a sentiment. “I’ll stay in touch.”

  I pushed against the door to the street, not making headway, feeling the power of a ferocious wind pushing back. I braced and pushed again, so it opened an inch before snapping shut. “Wait,” Em said, last minute. She unlatched the gold chain she wore around her neck. It carried the nazar boncuğu, the amulet against the evil eye. She slipped it into my pocket. “For luck,” she said.

  We’re going to need it, I thought. Then I summoned all my will and muscle, gave the door a final furious push, and staggered out into the maelstrom.

  I was in my kitchen peeling off soaked sneakers and socks when Jack appeared. I’d texted him on the way home. You still at Ethan’s? All okay? and received the briefest reply he could manage. Yes. Fine. Seven letters that spelled out his mood of the moment.

  He scoped the room and finding me alone allowed me a half smile.

  I couldn’t manage even that. “I thought you’d be waiting this out at the Winslets’. What are you doing here?”

  “What you shouldn’t be doing. Tying up the deck, making sure everything’s in shape for the storm.” He gave me the once-over. “I gotta tell you, you look like a drowned rat.”

  He spotted my slicker, still glossy, hanging from a hook near the slider, then peered out to the deck, where anything that could fly had been strapped down and the rest covered and huddled against the siding. “It wasn’t smart of you to haul around that stuff. You’re not twenty-five anymore, Mom.”

  He was heading for the counter. “I’ll double-check in a minute. Just want a chance to warm up. God, it’s crappy out there. Coffee. I need coffee. You too? Mom, I can’t believe you turned over the table by yourself. It’s got to weigh more than you do.”

  “Well . . .”

  I started to tell him that I only helped flip it, because that took four hands, when Scott called in from the front hall, “All set. You’re ready for anything short of a category three hurricane. I’m keeping the boots on. That okay?”

  Jack held on to his glower for a full sixty seconds until Scott, dripping, materialized in the kitchen. Then it notched up to a glare.

  For Scott’s work under the pummeling rain, I’d dug through the closet in the mudroom and come up with a pair of steel-toed boots Lon used to wear when mucking around outside. They were a half size too small, but Scott jammed into them. I’d also unearthed a long-buried Oakland Raiders rain poncho. It was a goofy-looking thing in silver plastic with the team logo, but Lon had loved it and it had kept him dry in the stadium seats. Jack registered that signature poncho in a heartbeat and shot Scott a bullet of a look that ricocheted to me. I felt his sting at the sight of the intruder in his father’s rain gear, on his deck, in his kitchen, in my life. Scott, unaware, gave him a cheerful, “Hey, Jack.”

  Nostrils flared, chin jutted, Jack bobbed his head. He could barely lift his hand for a wordless hi. Scott grabbed a paper towel and blotted his face. He spotted the coffee and poured himself a mug. “Ah, better,” he said after the second swallow. “Nora, just so you know, I walked the perimeter of the house. I lashed down a few of the bushes on the left side and covered your strawberries. That wind is brutal. I leashed Sarge in your mudroom. I hope it’s okay. It’s only for a few minutes because we ought to get started.” He hadn’t bothered to shed the poncho. “Has Emine’s email come in yet?”

  “Hold on.” I checked. “Just in. She listed some places Merry frequents.” I ran down the roster. “Six are businesses and she phoned the ones she had names for. They haven’t seen Merry. The other three we’ll have to check out in person. Some makeup shop in the Gold Coast Mall. A bowling alley in Ocean City, and one of the arcades on the boardwalk. Em doesn’t know any of their names. She also sent a recent photo of Merry.” A selfie, mugging, with her eyes crossed, but good enough for an ID.

  Jack had been staring intently into his coffee cup, but now he jerked his head up. “This is about Merry? What’s she into now?”

  I explained the situation and that Mrs. Haydar was frantic with worry.

  Jack said, “I don’t know about the makeup place or which arcade. I know the only bowling alley in OC is Ocean Lanes.” He leaned back and slid an inclusive look at Scott and me. “But you don’t have to guess where she is. I can tell you.”

  “What? Where?” I said.

  Scott, who’d been an engineering major at the Point, asked, “How?”

  “Mom asked me to load some programs and some apps on Merry’s new Android. Aunt Margo didn’t spare the bucks for that one and Merry’s always losing her phone. So along with Fried Zombies and Makeup Mania and maybe twenty more apps, I loaded Lost and Phoned.”

  “Ahh,” Scott said. “Yes, good idea.”

  “Talk to me,” I said. “What’s Lost and Phoned?”

  “You lose your phone, this app locates it,” Jack said. “I’ve got it on my cell too. It’s like a GPS. As long as Merry is carrying her phone with her, when you find the phone, you find her. Here, I’ll show you.”

  He pulled his tablet from his duffel bag. His mood had shifted. Now he was the leader of the pack. “Okay, when I loaded the app into her phone, I also registered her number at the Lost and Phoned website. And I got a password for me because she’s a little ditzy, so I figured backup wouldn’t hurt.”

  “Smart,” Scott said.

  Jack raised an eyebrow in acknowledgment, then typed something into the virtual keyboard. The Lost and Phoned info center surfaced, Jack slotted in a password, and a list appeared. “My personal directory. See, there’s Merry’s number. I’ll highlight it. One stroke and we know where she is. Or where her phone is. She could have dropped it somewhere or ditched it on purpose to screw around with anyone looking for her. I don’t think she’d ditch it, though. She loves that phone.”

  “She knows the app’s on there?” Scott asked, leaning over Jack’s shoulders to get a better view.

  “I told her. But it’s buried among all the others and she’s a goth, not a geek. If she thinks about it at all, she figures it’s tracking her phone, not her. And here it comes.” A map surfaced. “See. Like a GPS, right? Those little red dots called pings mark her trail over the last half hour or so. And . . .” He magnified the screen. “Our girl hasn’t moved for all that time. She’s at . . . 55 Churchyard Lane.”

  “Churchyard Lane?”

  Jack said, “I walk the Brinkers’ dog and they’re at 40 Churchyard. It’s kind of back in the woods. Off Miller’s Creek and near the wetlands, a twenty-minute walk from downtown. Mrs. Brinker said it used to be a nice community, with a church and all. The church is closed now, and a lot of the original houses have been torn down. Some developer’s talking about building out there, but just talking. These days, you’ve got maybe four houses along the path. Fifty-five Churchyard.” My son thought for a moment. “I’ll bet that’s the old Henlopen house.”

  “Hazel Henlopen,” I whispered. “The Cat Lady. But she passed away this spring.”

  “Mrs. Brinker told me they came to take aw
ay the cats. But a few hang around anyway.”

  “Animals have long memories,” Scott said.

  “Wasn’t that house condemned? It’s probably not safe,” I said. “I’m going to phone the Haydars.”

  “Hey, Mom, not yet, okay? It could just be where her phone is. You don’t want to get Mrs. Haydar’s hopes up, and also that’s a bad place to be and if she knows about it, she might worry more.”

  “I agree,” Scott said. “So what are we waiting for? I’ll go get the real expert.” He turned to Jack. “My German Shepherd, Sarge. He’s trained for search and rescue, among other missions. You don’t mind sitting in the back with him?”

  “Hell, no. I’m a dog person.” I saw my son working to keep a grin suppressed. “You’re saying you want me along?”

  Scott’s voice deepened to one I’d heard him use with Sarge when issuing commands. It was a voice you listened to, trusted, respected. “We’re going to need you. If we’re going through a condemned house, we’ll need all hands on deck.”

  Which triggered my clairvoyant flash. I could hear Jack thinking, Damn right he’s going to need me with only one good leg.

  “And tools,” Scott said. “I’ve got some in my trunk, but I’ll need a pry bar and maybe a saw.”

  “My dad has all kinds in the garage. You can take what you need.”

  “Great.” Scott rinsed out his mug in the sink. “Come on. I’ll introduce you to my sidekick.”

  After they left, I sank into the chair, staring at the tablet Jack had left on the table. The red dots hadn’t moved.

  I got moving, though, when I heard my son say in the high squeaky voice he told me dogs liked, “Hey, Sarge. Hey, boy, how you doing? You’re a handsome fella.” And Scott, his voice deeper, but rich with reassurance, telling Sarge that Jack was a good guy. The dog growled blissfully, a hum of gratitude for someone brushing his coat or scratching his neck.