Edgar and Lucy

by Victor Lodato

  A man in a yellow T-shirt examined Edgar’s clothing, and then his hair and hands and fingernails—even inside his mouth. There were tweezers and scrapers and popsicle sticks. Invisible things were placed inside baggies. Edgar understood that they were looking for Conrad—as if Conrad’s body were somehow still here.

  “He’s not…” Edgar tried to explain.

  “Who? You can tell us.”

  “Tell us,” repeated the woman with wet hair.

  But, again, Edgar fell into rocking silence.

  The man in the yellow T-shirt stood. “We need to do a full exam.”

  “No, we’re transporting him. They’ll do it there.”

  Another friendly-sounding person—this time a black woman—escorted Edgar to a car. Within, a metal grate separated the front from the back. “For your protection,” she said when the boy hesitated. “Don’t worry, someone will sit with you.”

  Edgar rubbed his nose. He could still smell the deer bones.

  Other people approached; often they spoke in numbers. “We have to do a fifty-seven.” “Call in a four-nineteen.” Someone was talking into a radio, saying, “Echo, Delta, Golf.”

  Edgar was in the cage now, sitting beside a bald man in glasses.

  “My name is Mike. I’m going to stay with you the whole time.”

  His voice was fragrant and wet. Edgar could see a white button on the tip of his tongue.

  “Would you like a peppermint, buddy?”

  Edgar shook his head and curled up against the door.

  “Let me lock that,” said Mike, reaching over Edgar’s body.

  “Don’t touch me.”

  “I’m not touching you. I’m not touching you.” Mike held up his hands as if Edgar had pointed a gun.

  The two people up front, who’d been chatting, fell silent.

  Edgar pressed his face against the tinted window. Outside, a man in blue shorts leaned against a tree. A German shepherd, also dressed in blue (a padded vest with buckles) waited patiently at the man’s feet. When the car began to move, Edgar tensed.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I have to—we have to get the dog.”

  “Don’t worry, hon,” a woman murmured through the grate. “Everything’s going to be fine.”

  Edgar shook his head. “He’s in the water.”

  “The dog?”

  “No.” Why didn’t these people understand? “I—I’m—”

  “It’s okay,” Mike said. “Shhh. We know who you are.”

  * * *

  Edgar had been given an aspirin—but maybe it wasn’t an aspirin, because he fell asleep and when he woke up he had a tummy ache and someone in rubber gloves was carrying him down a hallway.

  When he woke up a second time he was on a narrow cot. His clothes were gone and he was wearing a flimsy blue gown. The room was small, with walls of gray cement. There was a window, but the glass was dark, almost a mirror, and gave the impression of being in a house at night. In one corner, on the linoleum floor, was a pile of old toys—mangy stuffed animals and scattered pieces of a plastic castle. On the wall: a framed poster of baby chicks.

  A man with a nametag was sitting near the toys in a too-small chair. He lifted his hand in greeting and was about to speak when a woman entered the room. She wore a blue suit and clicky heels. Her hair was neatly pulled up and sat on her head like a biscuit. Edgar couldn’t understand why she was smiling.

  He didn’t smile back. When she said, “Hello,” he asked where his ring was.

  “Your what?”

  “It was in my pocket.”

  “We’ve got everything,” the woman said. “We just have to look at it.” She sat in a chair beside the cot. “I’m very glad to see you, Edgar. I’m Rebecca.”

  “And I’m Evan,” said the man in the corner. “I’m here for your safety. If you feel uncomfortable about anything, you just let me know.”

  Edgar closed his eyes. The lights were too bright. Plus, he didn’t like the way the woman was staring at him.

  “We’ve called your mother, but we just need to—”

  “Where are my clothes?”

  “Are you cold?” asked Evan. “Maybe he’s cold.”

  “Are you cold?” said Rebecca.

  “Where am I?”

  “You’re home.” When she reached for Edgar’s hand, he pulled away.

  “How do you know my name?”

  “It’s all right, Edgar—I’m a friend. I just need to ask you a few questions, and then you can see your mother.”

  At the second mention of this word, Edgar felt dizzy—and then frightened. He turned toward the wall and began to rock.

  “You’re upsetting him,” said Evan.

  “I’m not upsetting him. Edgar,” the woman crooned. “Edgar—come on, look at me.”

  When Edgar didn’t, she told him again that she was his friend. “I’ve been looking for you for a long time. This is a great day.” She told him that he should be happy. “Don’t you want to see your mom?”

  Edgar looked at the poster of baby chicks and noticed the cracked eggshells in the background. The jagged edges were all the same, and Edgar wondered if the eggs were fake.

  “You don’t have to be afraid.” The woman spoke slowly, almost in a kind of rapture. “I know it must have been terrible, Edgar, but we found him. Do you understand? We found him.”

  The boy was crying now. Evan stood and walked over. “I think we need to wait until the family is here.”

  “The family’s here,” Rebecca whispered. “I just have to ascertain his safety.”

  “Well, do it quickly,” said Evan.

  The woman pushed a sprig of hair off her forehead and leaned toward the cot. “I’m not going to ask you about what happened out there, Edgar—okay? We can talk about that later. I just need you to tell me a couple of things before I can bring your family in here—all right?”

  “I want…” Edgar couldn’t get the words out.

  “Rebecca—he’s not up to this. You need to stop.”

  “I have to ascertain what’s going on. He’s clearly unhappy about something.”

  “Of course he’s—”

  “Please, Evan—just let me do my job.”

  The man backed away, and the woman opened a folder. She placed a photograph on the cot.

  Edgar felt something awful come over him—a sickening wave of shame.

  “Do you know this person, Edgar?”

  It was a blown-up photo from a driver’s license.

  “You know this person—yes?”

  Edgar nodded.

  “Who is it?”

  A bark-like sob erupted from the boy’s mouth.

  “This is your mother, yes?”

  The boy’s voice—“yes”—was as small as a grain of salt.

  “And has she ever hurt you? Or—”

  “Hasn’t this already been settled?” interrupted Evan.

  “It’s just procedure. I have to ask.” The detective turned back to the boy and smiled, as if his tears were invisible. “You can tell me, sweetheart.”

  Edgar shook his head. He wasn’t going to let this woman trick him. When she started to speak again, he screamed.

  The woman flinched and dropped her folder.

  Evan stood. “Just—just calm down, Edgar. We’re going to bring her in.” He moved hastily toward the door.

  “Stop,” ordered the detective. “I will get her.” Her hands were shaking as she adjusted her collar. When she looked at the boy again, it was to apologize. “I know your mother’s a good…” The woman’s voice caught in her throat. “Please forgive me, Edgar.”

  * * *

  In another room, down the hall, Lucy waited with Ron. The baby was at home with Netty. Lucy paced beside a small table. “I don’t understand—is he here? Why can’t we…?” She was only half certain she wasn’t dreaming.

  Ron was confused, as well. The police had called him at work, claiming that they were at the Fini residence, but that no one was ther
e. When Ron had shown up, an officer explained that the boy had been found and that he’d escort them to the station. They would’ve arrived there sooner, but it had taken a while to find Lucy, who’d been traipsing through the woods.

  Neither understood why Edgar hadn’t been brought straight home. The policeman had said something about procedure. Also something about having to identify the boy. It was a disturbing word—but since the man hadn’t offered any condolences, then surely the boy was alive. It was not a question, though, that Lucy could bring herself to ask.

  When she’d asked if Edgar was hurt, the officer had said, “Someone will talk to you at the station.” The man was a mumbler and not particularly friendly. Ron was offended by his manner, but took Lucy’s lead and remained silent. He didn’t wish to upset her further by making a scene, or by demanding information that might prove deadly.

  In the back of the police car, Lucy had clutched the butcher’s arm. As they’d proceeded, unreally, at five miles under the speed limit, she’d silently counted the lampposts on summer lawns. Edgar had always liked to count things; now she understood why. The abstraction of numbers was helpful, reductive, a pretense of order. Twenty-six. Twenty-seven. Twenty-eight.

  In the waiting room, though, there was nothing to count. A little pressboard table, some folding chairs. The door had a small window with a cross-hatching of embedded wire. The fluorescent light seemed to suggest insects.

  “What did they say again?” asked Lucy—but Ron couldn’t remember now. He was so furious at the Ferryfield police that he wanted to bust a wall. Seeing the same anxious rage growing in Lucy, he made an effort to stay calm. He tried to take her hand, but she was moving too fast.

  “They can’t just ignore us.”

  “Why don’t you sit down, babe?”

  “This is—this is—I’m not waiting. Fuck this.” When Lucy marched toward the door, Ron made no attempt to stop her.

  As soon as she stepped into the hall, she heard the commotion—someone screaming.

  She moved slowly, as if through tar—down the cement hallway, past identical metal doors, and then there was Ms. Mann—face drawn, dressed for a funeral.

  “Oh my God—tell me.”

  The detective touched Lucy’s arm. “He’s okay. He’s okay. We just—”

  Lucy made a garbled sound and fell to her knees. When she looked up, she saw the man standing by an open door, gesturing toward her with an odd formality, saying, “Please,” like a maître d’.

  Why couldn’t she stand? She felt something like terror. How would she be able to look at the boy without dissolving? Ms. Mann tried to help her up, but Lucy refused. Ron was there now, lifting her. Ceiling vents shuddered with air-conditioning, and as Lucy moved toward the little room at the end of the hall, her vision blurred.

  Cold walls and stinging lights. The smell of burnt coffee and too much human breath.

  My mother was so close I could hear her footsteps. I could hear her breathing. I could hear the slow pity of a large black clock and the man from Child Protection and Permanency saying, “Come in, Mrs. Fini.”

  I remember it as if it were yesterday.

  She was crying when she came into the room, and I was crying. Other children’s toys on the floor, strangers watching us, Ron in the corner like a timid bull. My mother’s mouth a shape I’d never seen before. We kept our distance for what seemed a long time, as if a river raged between us.

  “Your feet,” she finally said—I suppose because they were bare. She was trembling and her voice came out in bits. I looked away, at the floor. Covered my face.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, taking my words. Our sobs like the cries of dogs.

  Still, we didn’t go to each other. We waited, shivering—both of us understanding that the river was real, and that, like before, it had the power to carry us away. We were frightened, and ashamed.

  But my mother was brave. She stepped into the water—and I stood to receive her.

  BOOK SEVEN

  HOME

  If I loved you less, I might be able to talk about it more.

  —JANE AUSTEN, EMMA

  73

  Time

  For a long time I didn’t talk about him—not in any detail. Not to the police or to my mother. Back then I could only say meaningless things. “I got lost.” “I’m sorry.” “No, he didn’t touch me”—when of course he had, though not in the way everyone feared.

  My first days at home were a slow-moving dream filled with too much light. It was summer still, and I didn’t have school. I spent a lot of time in my room, where I tried to reacquaint myself with my figurines, many of which didn’t seem to recognize me.

  My mother and I kept a polite distance, though we were always in danger of crying when we looked at each other. At night, I often had terrible dreams and finally was brave enough to go to her room. “You okay, pal?” the butcher asked, and I could only say, “Yes”—even as I moped closer to their bed. When my mother opened her side of the sheets, I crawled in.

  After that night, our bodies began to remember, and then it seemed that every time we saw each other—even if we’d only been apart for five minutes—we embraced. Soon it became almost a joke, and if the butcher caught us failing to perform, he’d say, “What, no hug?” My mother and I would then go through the motions—sometimes hammily—and Ron would always applaud.

  The lies I’d accumulated about the butcher fell away with alarming haste. And though these lies had been expanded upon by Conrad, they’d originated in me, out of fear and jealousy—things that were by no means gone in regard to my mother’s husband, but were greatly lessened by the fact that I better understood now how to be with men. My heart didn’t stop when Ron boomed, “Eddie, my man!” or when he banged around my grandmother’s pots and pans, or when, one night after dinner, he picked up my hand to look at the tip of my finger and said, “You wouldn’t even know it was ever missing.”

  “Poor Netty,” my mother said, recalling how Mrs. Schlip had had to wrap a piece of me in her rain cap. Ron nodded at the memory, and a lightness fell over us—I suppose because it’s a comfort to pretend that the heaviest burdens are never your own.

  When I first saw Henry and Netty, it was at their shop. Netty cried so hard that somehow she knocked over a box of jelly jars, which made everyone laugh, even Henry, who declared the broken glass “very good luck.” Whether this was guile or superstition on his part, I don’t know—but we all accepted it.

  Luck. The word was mentioned often. My mother and I were on television. We watched ourselves, eating popcorn. Fini boy found. Missing albino safely at home.

  It wasn’t over, though—my life in the Barrens.

  A few weeks after I was back, my mother received a call from an animal shelter in Hammonton. The police had brought Jack there, and since she was quite old—something I hadn’t realized at the time—it was implied that she’d soon be destroyed.

  My mother was upset, but not about the dog. She couldn’t understand why these people were calling us. She’d hung up on them. When I asked her to call back, she refused.

  I’d barely spoken a dozen words in those first few weeks—I mostly slept or stared at the baby—but now I argued with my mother and I wasn’t satisfied until she and Ron drove me to Hammonton, where, it was agreed, I was only to say goodbye to the dog, but where, once we were reunited, there was no parting us.

  When I asked where the fish were, the woman at the shelter said she only had cats and dogs. “But there was an aquarium,” I explained. “There were eleven fish.” I looked at my mother and the butcher, hoping they would join my cause, but they only smiled stiffly as if I were Dorothy back in black-and-white, mixing things up.

  “You had a pretty bad bump on your head,” my mother said. When it came to the Barrens, she seemed to prefer that the greater part of it be assigned to silence. And since this was my proclivity, as well, I was easily lulled back into secrecy.

  It was strange, at first, having Jack in the house, dr
inking water from one of Florence’s old mixing bowls, or curled up under the piano gnawing bones from the butcher shop.

  I couldn’t quite figure out what it all meant. It seemed both wonderful and terrible—and often, just past the edge of my happiness, I would glimpse the tattered orange clouds and the jon boat. Seven bridges and not a single angel.

  * * *

  That anyone dies in water is terrible. You can’t see it. It happens behind a curtain, in darkness. It has to be imagined.

  Drowning. For a long time I couldn’t even say the word—let alone write it. I couldn’t imagine it. But then it became the one necessity, to go back to the bodies and make a bed for them, a story. What they must have felt—what you imagine they must have felt.

  I think my father, at the end, believed in eternity. Conrad, only in oblivion.

  Sometimes I wonder if he watched the boat for a while before he went down with the anchor; if he watched me sleep. Was it night still, or morning already? If it was night: was the water cold? If it was morning: I wonder if he could see the edge of the Barrens in the first light, the mouth of the Mullica, the faraway plains of pygmy pine. His papers were in order—I know that. He was, according to himself—and like my father—thinking clearly when he went down.

  And I want him to go down, I want him to die—and at the same time I know this isn’t quite the truth.

  When I remember him, sometimes it’s with terror, sometimes with grief. Certain days, there’s a wishful melancholy, like when you look through a discarded photo album in a thrift shop and think, I know these people. That compulsion—almost a sense of duty—to carry these strangers home.

  * * *

  About a month after my return, I discovered a little card in the pocket of the suit I’d worn to my grandmother’s wake. Honey Fasinga, Bon Vivant.

  It took me another two weeks to get up the guts to call. “I’ve been meaning to visit,” she said when I finally did. “Why don’t I stop by on Friday?” She asked if she could bring her boyfriend.

  I told her my mother and the baby had a doctor’s appointment on Friday, and she said, “Good. Babies are boring. And you’re the one I want to see.”