by Owen Thomas
I turn onto my street to see a car in my driveway. My heart throws in an extra beat knowing that it is Mae, back at home waiting to start again, as though my new epiphanous musings have conjured her from another dimension.
But it is not Mae. The dark blue Chevy sedan in my driveway resembles Mae’s car only in the sense that it has four tires and some windows. I pull in as a man in dress slacks and a denim shirt and a black leather jacket is returning to the driveway from my front door. He is putting on his glasses but stops in his tracks when he sees me, returning the shades to his shirt pocket.
“David Johns?” he asks. I climb out and close the door. He is barrel-chested with thickly muscled arms and black hair so straight and short it looks painted onto his scalp.
“Yes.”
“I’m Detective North with the Columbus Police Department.”
He pulls a badge from his pocket that I pretend to inspect. My brain has slipped its gears and my mouth is dry. I swallow.
“What seems to be the trouble, officer?” I actually say this to him. My brain has, for lack of any current operative intelligence, defaulted to old television dialogue.
“Well, I think you probably know exactly what the trouble is, Mr. Johns,” he says wryly, somehow managing to maintain his official, by-the-book air. I feel his words and his eyes somewhere in the center of my chest.
Mae is fond of telling me that I have a problem with over-responsibility. Not everything bad in the world is your fault, David, she will say in a philosophically self-evident tone that accompanies her fingertips on my cheek or her lips on my forehead; all of this on the rare occasions that she is not upset at me about something that she thinks is my fault and that I should feel very guilty about.
“Brittany Kline?” I ask like some game show contestant with a level of uncertainty that even I do not find credible.
“Brittany Kline. You have spoken with Principal Robertson?”
“Yes. Suspended until this is cleared up.” I cross and then uncross my arms and look up the street, wondering what people are imagining about this driveway conversation and knowing that I am a shit for holding that same what-will-the-neighbors-think impulse against my mother as a fatal character flaw.
“That’s up to the school,” he says. “We just need to conduct our investigation. I’d like to ask you some questions about your involvement with Miss Kline.”
Mae is right about the over-responsibility thing. I suspect that I am one of those self-hating Liberals so decried on Mike O’Donnell’s The Fixture. A secular Catholic. My first impulse in the shadow of any disciplinary authority is usually to conclude that I must be guilty of something; that I am in the path of responsibility, which comes not as an arrow or a bullet, but as a flood covering everything, soaking everything, making escape impossible. This guilty impulse leads, as if at random, either to urges in the direction of evasion, or to urges in the direction of expiation, all of which I try mightily to suppress which, not surprisingly, tends to make me look…well, guilty.
“I don’t have any involvement with Brittany Kline. I mean, well, I do, you know have involvement with her in the sense that I’m, you know, her teacher. So, I know her. But I’m not involved with her. Not involved, involved, or anything like that.”
Detective North crosses his arms and exhales, looking at me hard. I do not like the silence and try to fill it with undisciplined words.
“I mean I know she’s missing, or that, you know, she hasn’t been home in a couple of days or so but I don’t know where she is. I mean, I haven’t seen her or talked to her so I don’t know what I can tell you.”
“So, then you’ve never had any extra-curricular social involvement with Brittany Kline? Is that what you are telling me?”
“Uh... no, I mean, that’s not what I’m telling you because there was some involvement one night earlier this week, but that was just once at a club, it wasn’t involvement like romantic involvement, it was just… talking and dancing and…”
“Mr. Johns, why don’t we go inside and talk about this.”
Detective North turns and heads for the door, leaving me in the driveway to stare at shoulders that seem wider than the entrance to my home. I know my rights and I know what he is up to. He wants inside to snoop. He wants to poke around, at my invitation, where he has no legal right to be. Well, he can go fuck himself and I won’t say another word without a lawyer. He turns and looks back at me, smiling and relaxed.
“Can you believe this weather?” he asks genially, gesturing to the sky. “It’s like summer is never going to end.”
All I can do is nod with my hands on my hips, making my agreement about the weather seem emphatic.
“Yeah. Just an awesome summer. You sail, Dave?”
Great, now I’m Dave. “No,” I answer suspiciously, imagining Brittany’s mutilated corpse in the hull of some sailboat he has not told me about.
“Aww, you really ought to try it. Nothing quite like a day out on the lakes. Sunlight on the water; a little breeze to fill the sail.”
We stare at each other for a long moment, door to driveway.
“Mr. Johns, let’s get this done and I’ll be on my way. Just a few questions.”
It is the retightening of his voice that pulls me forward, as though he had slackened his demeanor just so he can have the benefit of another stiff yank. I leave the driveway along with what I know is my last clear opportunity to assert my Constitutional objection. But I have done nothing wrong. I have nothing to hide from this man who simply has a job to do. I can make this difficult and cast suspicion upon myself or I can cooperate and send him on his way with a minimum of complication.
For the sake of my ingrained need to appease those with the power to punish, I am bargaining with my principles and my better judgment. Something in this sickens me.
Detective North ambulates through my living room, kitchen, bedroom, spare bedroom pretending to be a den, as though he were strolling through a park on a Sunday afternoon, hands clasped behind his back, bending at the waist to look at low-lying curiosities like the clutter on the top of my dresser and my fish tank and the wastebasket in the bathroom, looking but not touching, lips pursed as though in a silent whistle. He pauses for a moment at the cluster of matted photographs of me and Mae: at the Columbus Day parade, at the zoo in front of the lion habitat, on her father’s sailboat … shit…with the sunlight on the water and a little breeze to fill the fucking sail.
“I thought you said you didn’t sail.”
“That was one afternoon on someone else’s boat.”
“Nice looking woman,” he says, sounding impressed, like he might be inclined to think differently of me; like it is suddenly less plausible that I might have any designs on a teenage schoolgirl. “Yours?”
“Uh, yeah,” I say, heading for the kitchen. “You want something to drink?” Because I want my interrogators to feel welcome and refreshed and well hydrated.
“Thanks, Dave. A glass of water would be great. What’s her name?”
“Mae. We’ve been seeing each other a long time.”
He gives a grunt and a soft, appreciative whistle. Cameras have a way with Mae.
“So you’re pretty close, huh?”
“Yeah. We’re comfortable together.”
I cannot fathom why I am lying except for the disconcerting possibility that I am so shallow as to actually care what Detective North of the Columbus Police Department thinks of my ability to keep and hold a beautiful woman. It is a competitive male thing. Or it could be that I am the son of my parents and I am slave to a genetic equation that defines one’s human worth as merely the sum of what one owns, what one knows, and who one knows, all multiplied by what one has objectively accomplished in life and the number of other people in the community who have a working appreciation for the values of these various components. It is a kind of sickness that leads to a lifelong compulsion to pad the equation. Unlike my father who has accomplished much in his life, I have accomplished almost noth
ing. And I own little more than what I can purchase on a teacher’s salary. That leaves what I know, which I like to think is greater than average, and who I know, which is Mae; beautiful, brown, luxuriously mouth-watering Mae. Somewhere in my subconscious, I suspect that I am simply fighting to keep her in the equation, inflating my worth; compensating for my impecunious existence and lack of achievement. I suspect it is not lost on me, down in the cellar where I keep score, that the more serious our romance the more Mae adds to both my, who I know and what I own categories. I am shamelessly double counting.
“Boy, I’d snap her up, Dave. Don’t let that one get away.”
“We’ll get married soon I’m sure.”
“Engaged?”
“Not yet.”
“Pop the question, Dave. Just do it, man. She lives here?”
“Uh, yeah, most of the time, but she has her own place up in Bellevue.”
“Hmm.” He is at the tank again, peering from all angles, stooping and squatting and bending to get a view behind the seaweed. “I used to have fish when I was a kid. That’s a beta, right?”
I hand him his glass of water. “So’s that one. Australian Rainbow. Cichlid. Loach. Tetra.” I head for the living room, tired of the pet detective bullshit. “Brittany has been missing, what, two or three days now? Isn’t a police investigation a little premature?”
I sit in the recliner, forcing the big detective to take the low, sagging couch so that his knees will tower above his ass. Only he chooses not to sit at all, continuing to walk the room, pacing in slow, deliberate steps. The floorboards beneath my carpet creak and groan beneath his weight. He ignores my question.
“Tell me about Billy Rocks, Dave.”
“I went to meet a friend; a colleague.”
“Who?”
“Shepp. I mean, Mark Shepherd. He goes by Shepp. He’s a teacher at Wilson.”
“And?”
“And while we were there we ran into Brittany and one of her friends, Carmen.”
“Last name?”
“No idea.”
“Same school?”
“Yes.”
“So what happened?”
“Nothing. We talked. We danced one dance and I left.”
“Who danced?”
“The three of us.”
“You and Brittany and Carmen.”
“Right.”
“Was Shepp dancing?”
“Not with me.”
“Okay. So you danced a dance and you left.”
“Right.”
“You knew they were underage, right?”
“Yes.”
“So why did you dance with them?”
“I…I don’t know. They pulled me out there. I didn’t even stay a whole song.”
“You like dancing, do you?”
“No. Not really.”
“I assumed you must.”
“They asked.”
“You were being nice.”
“I was being nice.”
“Were they drinking?”
“No. Yes. I don’t really know. They were drinking something, but Shepp seemed to think it was just like soda or something.”
“Have you seen Brittany or Carmen since that night?”
“No.”
“Did you and Brittany leave together?”
“No.”
“You didn’t drive her home?”
“No.”
“You didn’t give her a lift to a friend’s house?”
“No. I…no. Last I saw her was at Billy Rocks. I told her that I wanted her and Carmen to go home and I left. And that’s the last I saw her.”
“Maybe she needed a ride because she didn’t have a car and you were just being nice again. No harm in being nice, Dave.”
“I did not take her anywhere. I left her at Billy Rocks.”
“What was she wearing?”
“White skirt and a top, I think. She was pretty … you know… tarted up.”
“Tarted up?”
“Yeah, you know, all sexy.”
“You thought she was sexy.” His eyebrows are raised. I have piqued his interest.
“Me? No. I didn’t.”
“That’s what you just said, isn’t it?”
“No. I’m just saying she was dressed provocatively. You know, to get attention.”
“But you didn’t find them sexy; not even a little, is that right?
“That’s right.”
“Since that evening, has Brittany contacted you?”
“No.”
“A phone call? A note?”
“No. No. Nothing.”
“She was not in class?”
“No.”
“Have you asked around?”
“I asked one of her friends where she was, but she didn’t seem to know.”
“Why were you asking?”
“Because I was concerned that she wasn’t in class.”
“Have you spoken to anyone else about your night at Billy Rocks?”
“No.”
“No one?”
“No.”
“Not even Mr. Shepherd?”
“Uh, no.”
“How often do you go to Billy Rocks?”
“Like, maybe, less than a dozen times in my whole life.”
Detective North is towering over me as I sit in my little leather recliner. He pours the water down his throat, swallows once and hands me the glass.
“Dave, I’m going to level with you here. My sister is Brittany’s mother. I’ve got one very concerned and upset family on my hands. My sister, Brittany’s mother, is a police dispatcher. That means the whole department is interested in this one. Okay? Now, yeah, you’re right, it is a little early to start assuming the worst. But better too early than too late. We’re all hoping she turns up with a good explanation, but in the meantime, I’m spending my vacation shaking bushes and looking under rocks. Got me?”
I nod, still holding the glass as though I have been frozen in place.
“So, let me ask you this and then I will get out of your house. Do you have any idea, any idea at all, I don’t care how far-fetched it sounds, how crazy, how unbelievable, or how bad it may make you look – do you have any idea where this girl might be?”
I raise my other hand and swear on his empty water glass: “I honestly have no idea, officer. No idea. I hope you find her safe.”
Officer North drills me with his eyes, gauging my sincerity.
“Okay, then, Dave. ‘Preciate the water.” He slaps me hard on the shoulder and then pulls me out of the chair as I shake his hand. “I’ll leave you this card and I want you to call me if you learn anything at all.”
“Will do,” I say, taking his business card.
I realize that I have made way too much of this from the beginning; scolding myself for all of the unnecessary worry and anger and drama; congratulating myself on having decided to cooperate rather than object on principle; pleased at having honestly responded to his questions without over-indulging him with details that would have only served to complicate the fact of my innocence.
I follow him to the front door. Thank him. Wave. Another farewell. He is gone.
I feel lighter. Relieved at the sudden restoration of perspective. I consider returning immediately to school to talk to Bulldog Bob, but know that will be useless until the administrative process has worked it course. T’s must be crossed. I’s must be dotted. In the meantime, I will take my paid vacation. I will work on lesson plans. I will rekindle things with Mae. Wash the tub. Clean out the…telephone.
“David? What are you doing home? I was going to leave a message.”
“I, uh, didn’t feel well, Mom.”
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah. Just a little stomach flu or something. I feel better already, really. I just didn’t want to risk spreading it around the school. I’ll be fine by tomorrow.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m fine, Mom. What’s up?”
“Is Mae sick t
oo?”
“Uh…well, yes, yes, she hasn’t been feeling well. I probably got it from her.”
“You’re coming to the party, right? You will be at this party.”
“Oh, god. I keep forgetting. Yeah, I’ll be there.”
“Forgetting? Mae’s bringing a casserole, isn’t she?”
“I don’t know, Mom. Maybe you should assume the worst. She really hasn’t felt up to cooking.”
“Can I talk to her?”
“She’s not here. She’s staying at her place. Look, I’ll bring something, okay?”
“You don’t cook, David. That’s one of my failings as a mother, never teaching you to cook. Is everything okay between you and Mae?”
“What? Yeah, yeah, fine.”
“No trouble I should know about.”
“No. We’re fine. I can pick something up and bring it.”
“It’s not that kind of party, David. It’s a celebration for Tilly.”
“It’s a conference call.”
“I’m not serving take-out food. What would people think?”
“They’d think…never mind. Fine. No take out. Why did you call?”
“What do you mean? To tell you to call me so I would know what Mae is going to make.”
“Oh. Well, sorry for the inconvenience.”
“It’s not inconvenient, David, I just need to know. Ben… just a minute David. Sweetheart, let me see that towel. Where are you going with this, Superman? Are you my Superman today? There you go. Wait. There you go. No running please. Ben is helping me with the towels today.”
“Ahh. Towel duty.”
“It’s not inconvenient, David. Mae can come or not come. I don’t care.”
“Mom…”
“Maybe she doesn’t want to come.”
“She’s sick, Mom. That’s all. If she doesn’t come it will be because she’s sick.”
“David, I really don’t care. I’m fine with …whatever. She can come or not, I just need to know about the dinner because that’s all up to me. You understand that, right? It’s certainly not up to your father. If this comes together it will be because I make it come together. So whatever Mae wants to do is just fine. I hope she feels better and all that. I know she has never really liked your sister anyway.”
“Mom…”
“That’s not a bad thing, I just know that she would probably rather not spend a whole lot of time…