“He plays tennis,” Erica said. “He runs. He plays basketball. He’s surfing this weekend. He just doesn’t sit around in an armchair watching sports on TV.”
“Well, well,” said Ron, pushing a piece of bread around his plate. “Aren’t we special.”
Dylan and the twins vanished down to the basement to play with the toy trains, followed in short order by their grandfather, who had evidently forgotten about showing them the tour itinerary. Her mother stood up, repackaging the barely touched food and beginning the nightly kitchen purification. For once, Debbie did not leap up to join her, instead picking at a hangnail on her index finger. Ron disappeared to regrout a leak in the powder room tile.
Mom reappeared with two cups of tea. “Why don’t you two girls relax a bit? Given everything.”
Erica felt exposed, alone with Debbie. She missed the buffer of the phone. Nor did she relish sitting on her butt and drinking tea. She tapped her fingers against the table.
“Ooh, can you stop that?” Debbie asked. “I have a headache.”
“Sorry,” Erica said, but her fingers drummed of their own accord. Headache or no, Debbie rehashed Jared’s fifteen years, attempting to pinpoint the specific moment when things started going wrong. She blamed Ashley for most of Jared’s mistakes. “I should have known,” Debbie confessed. “Jared was always such a sweet, vulnerable little boy. She put all kinds of crazy ideas into his head. The little bitch.” Debbie sighed, leaned back in her chair, and put another spoonful of real sugar, with its full sixteen calories, into her coffee. “Do you think he’s having sex?”
Erica pictured the way Ashley traced her hands around Jared’s hipbones. “It wouldn’t surprise me.”
“He’s not ready. He’s just a little boy.” Debbie sat straight up in her chair. “Oh my God,” she cried. “Do you think he could get AIDS?”
“From who? From Ashley? Don’t only gay people get that?”
“Oh, Rikki.” Debbie collapsed her head onto her arms, narrowly missing her coffee cup. “You have no idea what it’s like to try and sleep at night not knowing where your baby is.”
“Did it ever occur to you,” Erica ventured, “that Ron’s temper might have driven Jared away?”
“Oh, my goodness, no,” Debbie said. “I mean, Jared’s been testing Ron’s authority for months—it’s a sign of his DDD—but we’ve been working on that in family therapy. I can’t believe tensions were at the point that on his own he would have run away without the urging of that awful girl. He’s got poor impulse control—that’s another sign of DDD. He’s overinfluenced by his peers. And you’ve got to have some understanding for Ron. He’s under terrible pressure.” Debbie sighed. “They’re changing the format of his show from easy listening to adult contemporary.”
“You told me.”
“He can’t choose his playlist anymore. And they don’t like his voice, his beautiful voice. They want more youthful patter, whatever that is. Probably jokes about penises. There’s even talk the station might get bought out! And then all this trouble with Jared—it’s the last straw. I don’t understand this world.”
“I’m planning a family party for the twins’ fifth birthdays,” Erica said. “Their friends party is going be at Music Makers in the morning and the family party at our house in the afternoon.”
“How can you talk about parties right now?” Debbie groaned.
“The twins are turning five. They deserve a birthday party. Like Dad said, life must go on.”
“That’s easy for you to say,” Debbie said. “Did you see those whole cloves of garlic in the tomato sauce? They gave me heartburn.”
Mom reappeared with a pitcher of hot water. “It’s so sweet of Ron to fix our bathroom tile, Debbie. He told me he found a leak under the sink too. David says we should redo the whole room, but I can’t bear to spend the money.” She refilled their cups.
“I can’t drink any more liquid, Mom.” Debbie sighed.
“It’s only tea,” Mom said.
“Didn’t you read—tea has almost as much caffeine as coffee.” Debbie burped loudly. “Oh, jeez, can you smell that garlic breath! My stomach is absolutely in spasms!”
“Do you need to lie down dear?” Mom asked. “I have Tums.”
“I have to pee,” Erica said.
Her head was buzzing. She needed some clarity, some strength, some distance. She was already fumbling for her coke, now sharing space with excess pennies in her change purse, when she noticed Ron’s flat ass sticking out of the bathroom vanity. He was tightening a screw on the sink drain. She pictured those arms pummeling into Jared’s face.
“Mom can call a plumber, you know.” She wasn’t scared of his arms at all. She wasn’t a kid like Jared. Ron had been out of the Marines for a long time now, sitting on that flat ugly butt at the radio station. He didn’t work out with weights like she did. She bet she could beat him up if she really tried.
Ron kept turning the screwdriver, his face reddening with the effort. “Not everyone can waste money like that,” he said. “Plumbers charge seventy-five dollars an hour for a home visit.”
A stray tissue from Erica’s purse landed on his buzz cut. He rotated his head slowly upward in that wiry, snaky way of his. She could feel his pale-blue eyes burning through the cotton rib of her tank top. “Looking good, Rikki,” he said. “You working out more or something?”
“It’s those naturally sexy shoulders,” she was tempted to say, but she didn’t say anything, just took a couple steps backward, banging into the doorknob. If Jared had been there, they would have winked at each other and shared a secret laugh. They would have snuck off to the park and gotten high together.
“There, I fixed it. No plumber required.” Ron slammed his screwdriver on the counter as if it were responsible for the leak. “The police are useless,” he groused. “And so are all those ‘I’m okay, you’re okay’ psych airheads. That Nick Stromboli, the Safe House counselor—did my wife praise him to the skies? He’s a wimpy pervert, if you ask me. I’m hiring a private detective to find my son.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
On the advice of both Ron and her boss at the salon, Debbie took a leave from work. On her first free morning, she showed up with a new and unlikely friend, Ashley’s mother, Patti.
Running away was nothing new for Ashley, Patti assured them, though she admitted that this, Ashley’s most recent misadventure, was putting her over the edge. Patti’s husband, a garment district executive, had filed for divorce. He was refusing to pay any child support, and she had no idea how she was going to cover the $3,000 monthly mortgage on their house, much less pay the housekeeper, Georgia, not that she was any great shakes.
“Did you get her from Housemates?” Erica asked, pouring coffee and passing around a tray of cookies.
“Yeah, doesn’t everybody?” Patti nibbled on a pistachio biscotti.
“Weren’t you going to call Housemates?” Debbie asked. “Mom told me she gave you the number.”
“I thought I might, but then I changed my mind,” said Erica.
“You know, I can’t get it out of my mind how you and Jared were spending so much time together before he ran away, Rikki. Every time the family got together, you two would mysteriously disappear. What were you doing, gossiping about what terrible parents Ron and I are?”
Erica looked into her sister’s condescending face. She was only five years older, but it could have been an entirely different generation. “Just talking. About music and school and stuff. Being friendly. Isn’t that what you asked me to do?” Erica sipped her coffee, one of Ethan’s highly caffeinated Brazilian blends. He’d complained that it tasted too “winy,” whatever that meant, but as far as Erica was concerned, it could have been her mother’s three-year-old can of Chock Full O’ Nuts—she needed all she could get.
“Well, I did suggest you reach out to him,” Debbie said, “but that
obviously was a mistake on my part. You don’t seem to understand that we are the adults here. Jared is a child. When you interact with him like a friend, you undermine our authority. We just discussed that issue with Dr. Rafferty at the family clinic.”
“You had a discussion regarding me?”
“Well, yes,” said Debbie, pouring herself another cup of coffee, apparently unconcerned about the caffeine. “We discuss all relevant family members.”
“Do you discuss how your husband throws plates of food at your son? Or that he hit him for not finishing his meatloaf?”
Debbie hand trembled, spilling coffee on the cuff of her sweater. “Who told you that?”
“Everybody at Lauren’s bat mitzvah saw the plate of food.”
“That thing about the meatloaf.”
“Jared did.”
Debbie furiously blotted at the cuff of her sweater and then dumped water on it, wringing it out on a stack of paper towels. “And you believed him? That is exactly my point. You may have four children, but you act like a teenager yourself, Rikki. Why, before this even started, as you recall, I limited Jared’s access to you because of the language he heard at your house and your inappropriate movies and your utter disrespect for Ron’s and my values.” She tugged at her sweater cuff, now a uniform tan. “I think I’ve ruined this sweater, and it’s one of my favorites.”
“Now, now,” said Patti. “Everyone is upset. We’re all suffering.”
“Dr. Rafferty said I should not be afraid to defend my values,” said Debbie.
“Can we cut the drama? Isn’t our priority to find out where the hell our children are?” Patti grabbed another biscotti. “Are you going to eat any of those or just feed them to us, Rikki?” she asked. “You’ve got the flattest tummy. I can’t believe you just had a baby a few months ago.”
“Yeah, you have lost weight, Rikki,” Debbie said. “What’s your secret?”
“Probably low carbohydrates,” Patti said. “Everyone’s swearing by low carbohydrates. Whatever works, that’s what I say.”
: : :
Debbie did not return for more coffee klatsches. Buoyed by Dr. Rafferty and her tentative friendship with Patti, her mysterious illness faded into the background. She tossed her hair into a casual ponytail and laid off the makeup. Her nervous exhaustion translated into a curious vibrancy. She spoke to all Jared’s teachers at West Meadow High, all the kids in his multiple therapy groups, and even the kids who hung out by the smoking tree, questioning them about Jared’s possible whereabouts. Almost daily, she picked up Patti and drove all around Soho and the Lower East Side, speaking to bums on the street, searching for any sign of Jared and Ashley.
Avoiding one-on-ones with Debbie, those loaded moments when something untoward might pop out of her mouth, proved a relief. One minute bled into the next as the days melted away. She sent out last-minute invitations to the twins’ birthday parties, to both friends and family. She introduced Sophia to rice cereal and made it to aerobics every morning just in time to set up her step in the front center of the room, next to Justine. She lifted her legs, executed T-steps and L-steps, moved up to eight-pound weights. She sang along with Ari: “‘We were so in phase in our dance hall days. We were cool on craze. Dance hall days.’”
One day after class she and Sophia went to the swimwear store next to Rothman’s and bought a bathing suit for Florida. Nothing fit quite as well as she had anticipated. Taut as she’d believed she’d become, pouches of runaway flesh still popped out above her bikini bottom and around her side straps, and lumps of cellulite rippled down her legs. She bought a blue bikini anyway, size 8, with ties at the hips.
Weeks went by without Jared calling. Erica couldn’t shake the image of her head of him and Ashley disappearing around the corner, backpacks bobbing, melding into the vibrant colors of the spring morning. It was an unsettling image, yet strangely compelling. She couldn’t deny the suspended excitement that filled her days. She was opening herself up to the sensation of muted danger. It was starting to feel good. She supposed a war might feel like this, or at least a minor catastrophe like a tropical storm, the way all your senses were heightened and your blood flowed electric and the trees looked greener than green before the lightning hit.
She’d portioned her coke out in precise, small quantities, like Weight Watchers. Nonetheless, she’d been reduced to dredging up suspicious specks on the sides of her glassine bag. Even fortified by multiple cups of the industrial-strength winy Brazilian coffee, she dragged her feet. If only she could snort the grounds. She called Nick Stromboli again and asked him if she could buy more of his CDs. No big deal, she told herself. A household necessity like milk or diapers. Sure, he said, no problem, ten the next morning would be fine.
At 9:30 a.m. she parked in the pet store parking lot, justifying her presence by stopping in the store first and buying more decorative rocks and replacement bulbs for Sammy’s heating lamp.
After putting her bags in the trunk, she surreptitiously crossed the street to Nick’s house. She glanced up and down the sidewalk, seeing no one except a grandmotherly woman following a little blond girl on a scooter.
Nick did not answer the doorbell. She knocked hard and rang again, panic shooting through her like darts. This time she heard footsteps and a turn of the lock, and then Nick swung the door open. “Sorry,” he said. “I was reading on the toilet. Come on in.”
His living room was as airless and grotty as two weeks previous. Out of the corner of her eye, Erica could see a yellow Formica kitchen, vintage 1965, and off that, the open door to the bathroom. Deep Purple played on the stereo. On top of the speakers, a goldfish, healthier than her recently departed ones, navigated cloudy waters. Nick wore gray sweatpants and a T-shirt featuring two humping pigs and the slogan “Makin Bacon.” The difference between this time and last time was that, oddly, the whole scenario comforted her. She sank onto the overstuffed couch, moving aside a pile of magazines as she did so.
“Did you like the CDs I gave you last time?” Nick asked.
Erica nodded.
“Wanna listen to the CDs with me this time?” “Under the Gun” blared out of the stereo, and the TV played some recycled situation comedy.
“Okay,” she said.
“You can take your kid out of that carrier if you want,” Nick said.
“No, thanks,” Erica said. She might not be a housekeeper like Debbie, but between her and Isabella, the cleaning lady, they managed to suck up the obvious dust balls. Here at Nick’s they took on a life of their own. God knew what Sophia might discover here, in the interstices of the brown shag carpet.
“Please yourself,” Nick said. He laid out the lines of coke with the precision of a Benihana chef, all social and civilized, out in the open on a regular table. It felt kind of strange, with Sophia sleeping against her chest, but after a couple snorts, she felt clear and clean. The Deep Purple record clanged to an end.
“Can you put some better music on?” Erica asked.
“‘Rikki, don’t lose that number. I don’t want nobody else,’” Nick sang.
“I hate Steely Dan! Don’t make me sick. You have no idea how I got teased about that one in college.” Erica leaned back against the scratchy couch.
“Journey?”
“Don’t make me sicker.” Erica groaned. “Do you have any Bloody Tampax?”
“Can’t say as I do,” said Nick. “My body doesn’t work that way.”
“It’s the name of a band. They’re a favorite of Jared’s. I thought you might have heard of them.”
“Oh, I suppose I might have.” Nick wrinkled his nose. “I tend to tune that crap out. How about Fleetwood Mac?”
“That would be tolerable.” She looked over at his turntable. “Don’t you have a CD player?”
“Nope,” said Nick, as “Tusk” tootled through the speakers. “I’m a dinosaur.”
�
�You’ve got that in common with Debbie and Ron,” Erica said. “Even though Ron is a DJ. He was just switched over from easy listening to adult contemporary. Can you define adult contemporary?”
“Beats me. I haven’t heard a good new song since 1975.” Nick laid out a couple more lines, and Erica almost asked him to stop—that was enough—but she reconsidered. Once she was alone, she’d be economizing, parceling it out.
“Do you know anything about that boot camp for teenagers?” she asked.
“You mean the Pritima Center?” Nick chuckled. “Of course I do. I’m a community counselor for the family clinic, remember? The Pritima Center is Arlene Rafferty’s pet project. She must get a commission from them.”
“It sounds like some creepy military school. Is it?” Erica tentatively unzipped Sophia from her carrier, where she was awfully warm, and laid her on her lap.
“Not military, exactly.” Nick said. “But the kids who go there come out podded. You know what I mean? You ever see The Invasion of the Body Snatchers?”
Erica nodded. “It’s one of my husband Ethan’s favorite films.”
“I gotta thing for ’50s sci-fi too. Maybe we should all go to the movies.” Nick chuckled. “You know, given what you were like in high school, I couldn’t picture you as you are today. Or then again, maybe I could.” He leaned back against the couch cushions, only a few inches away from her. When he stuck his elbows behind his head, she could feel them gently grazing her hair. “You dated that guy Jeff, right? The one who always played guitar under the stairs?”
“Yeah, for a while.” She was feeling so good, totally without reference to the outside world. Just good inside her body. Nothing could touch her. “Did you ever see Lobsterman from Mars?” she asked. That was another favorite of Ethan’s. She’d watched it several times with him in college. She hungered for those aimless weekends, that luscious purposelessness. To lie around watching dumb TV until they all ventured out for burritos or peanut noodles, the afternoon already shot, the pale sun slipping below the winter horizon.
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