Boy Still Missing

by John Searles

  When she let go of me, I could see a purple puff of skin under her left eye, like the bruises Leon got after a fight. The flash of color seemed to belong on him. But on Edie the look was like smeared makeup, messy and all wrong. I heard my father say Size ten right in her teeth.

  “What happened?”

  “Do I have to tell you?” she said, closing the trunk. “I’m sure you can put two and two together.”

  The bruise was split in the middle by a sharp line of blood. I thought of the painted lips of a doll, deep red dried into a smile. Edie smelled of hampers and used clothing. Her hair was wormy and unwashed.

  “Are you going somewhere?” I asked, keeping my voice low.

  “Yeah,” she said in her raspy, rock-band voice. “Fucking crazy.”

  I laughed, unsure whether she meant it to be funny.

  “I’m going away for a few days,” she said. “But I needed to see you first. Do you want to come inside for a while?”

  I followed her up the short stack of stairs to the house. A seashell wind chime hung by the door, clanking out hollow noises in the breeze. The kitchen had fallen apart since my last visit. The stove, cluttered with dirty pots. The windows, fingerprinted and cloudy. The table looked as if it had been interrupted during a meal—two plates, half emptied of fish sticks and french fries.

  Edie brushed her fingers through her mess of hair. Every one of her long nails was gone. All of them bitten down to nothing, like her pinkie nail that first night. “Do you mind if I take a minute to freshen up? Last time you found me in my nightgown. And this time I look like a rag doll. I should at least clean myself up.”

  “I’m just glad to see you,” I said, grateful that she gave me an opening to compliment her. “Take your time.”

  When she was safely down the hall, I looked for some sign of my father. The desk in the corner was piled with pink and yellow bills the color of baby clothes: $5,614.10 owed to D.T.E. Manufacturers in New Jersey; $2,952.72 owed to Galepsy Dye Incorporated in Alabama; $3,982.19 owed to Marathon Truck Rental right here in Holedo. FINAL NOTICE. FINAL NOTICE. FINAL NOTICE. Underneath all that, a blue doctor’s bill asked Edie for $350 even, the “Services Rendered” column neatly torn from the page. The bills of a rich lady, I thought. But why hadn’t she paid?

  My stomach grumbled, and I made my way to the fridge. Empty except for club soda, salad dressing, jelly, and assorted crap. If my father had been spending a lot of time here, there would have been Schlitz or Bud. Maybe Edie dumped it all out the way my mother sometimes did. I wandered to the hallway to check out the shoes and to see about that old sneaker I had left behind. But there was just a matted carpet, the color of a brown egg, which led to the door. No high heels. No cleats. No slippers.

  Edie’s footsteps shuffled about the other side of the house. A drawer opened and closed. I went back to the kitchen and picked up the phone to dial, carefully muffling the rotary as it wheeled its way back to zero.

  “Hello.” It was Leon. I pictured him in his basement bedroom, doing flies on his bed to build his chest muscles, stopping to grab the phone.

  I whispered, “You will never guess where I am.”

  “In a fucking jail cell,” he said.

  “No. I talked the old lady out of buying the station. So guess where I am.”

  “Home, popping the pimples on your ass,” Leon said.

  “Try Edie fucking Kramer’s, nipplehead.” Even if the bruise on her face had distracted me from wanting her at the moment, I could still act like I did.

  “Pindle. You’re not starting this little fantasy again, are you?”

  “It’s the truth.”

  “I’d love to hear more, but I’m on my way to fuck Mrs. Lint.”

  Lint was the blond algebra teacher who had flunked Leon last year. He was always saying he’d love to give her an F right back. I pictured Leon at home with his mother and her tall skinny glass of vodka tonic clinking with ice cubes as she smoked her mentholated Salems. I hated when Mrs. Diesel’s bitchy personality completely rubbed off on him. He barely believed me the first time I told him about kissing Edie. No way would he believe me again, unless I had proof. “Wait fifteen minutes and call here. When Edie answers, ask for me. Then you’ll see.”

  I heard her padding down the hallway so I settled the plan with Leon and hung up. Edie must have made a pit stop, though, because the house was quiet again. When she didn’t show, I made my way over to the back of the kitchen. Through a narrow door I could see a sunroom I hadn’t noticed before. The mattress from the basement covered the center of the white wooden floor. On top lay a zigzagged blanket, some pointy high heels, and a scattering of pillows. I felt the heat of the room press against my skin when I stepped inside.

  “The light’s nice in here,” Edie said from behind me. “I put the mattress in this room so I could nap in the afternoon.”

  When I turned around, she looked more like the Edie that Leon and I always talked about. Brushed blond hair that curled at the ends. Barn-red lipstick. A cloud of sweet perfume. She still wore the loose shirt, only now there were black pants beneath.

  “Have a seat,” Edie said.

  I sat on the edge of the mattress, and she did the same. Between us there was a single unstrapped shoe, red as a cooked lobster. I wanted to ask what she needed but decided to go with the flow the way Leon always said to. This was my chance to be cool.

  “Do you get high?” I asked, trying to sound casual.

  “I used to,” she said. “But I’ve decided to cut back on my vices. You know, clean up my act.”

  Just my luck. Everything was all wrong—Edie’s bruises, her messy house, and her clean act. Still, I kept trying. “Too bad,” I said, tempting her. “I have some good stuff.”

  “Well, by all means light up. Just because I’m turning into a nun doesn’t mean you have to.”

  “Really?” I said. My voice sounded more stretched and thin than I would have liked. It felt stupid to light up and smoke in front of her, but I couldn’t back out. Besides, once she saw all the fun I was having, she was bound to change her mind. I took the joint and the Doghouse matchbook from my pocket. Edie pulled an ashtray from the shelf. A blue-scaled ceramic fish with a wide-open mouth. Edie and the fish watched as I lit the tip and toked. “Monster,” I said when I exhaled. I had heard someone call it that in a movie once. It sounded pretty cool, so I said it again. “Monster.”

  “I bet,” Edie said. She kept switching her position on the mattress, folding her legs beneath her on one side, then another. I wanted her to get comfortable so she could concentrate on us.

  Thinking of Leon, I looked at the clock in the kitchen. Almost one. The whole day seemed like a blur now—the ridiculous auction, my mother and her secret stash, my father quitting his job. “I wonder what Officer Roget wanted when he called,” I said out loud without meaning to.

  “Who?” Edie said.

  “Oh,” I said. My tongue had grown an inch, gained a pound. My head felt spongy. “Never mind.”

  I took a couple more hits and shook my head, trying to focus on Edie’s lips. Good old Mr. Bruise below her eye kept getting my attention instead. It seemed strange my father had let loose on her like that. For all the talking he did, I had never seen him hit anybody. Not me. Not my mother. Still, Edie’s eye was proof enough. “I’m sorry about your face,” I said.

  “Don’t be. You didn’t do it.”

  In the reflection of the window I caught a glimpse of myself. My face was the wide-eyed, scrappy kid’s face in the Boys’ Club commercial. Only it was stretched like a caricature of myself around the end of the joint. T-shirts and sweaters never looked right on me, so I covered up with the same gray sweatshirt, the hood carried on my back like an empty, useless pouch. I decided I should anchor myself in a conversation before my mind drifted off into that reflection. “So what do you need me for?” I asked.

  Edie tilted her head and looked at me. She was beautiful despite her beat-up face. “I wouldn’t have snuck th
at note in your mailbox if I had someone else to talk to,” she said.

  “Yo comprendo,” I said and laughed at my Spanish. Edie didn’t seem to think it was funny, though, so I pulled my lips together. Something in my head was shrinking, fading away. I watched the thin line of smoke twist its way through the air between us until Edie spoke again. “Do you love your parents?” she said finally.

  That was not the type of question I had expected her to ask. “Yeah,” I said. “I guess.”

  “Both of them?” she asked.

  “Yes,” I said. Then I thought about it. “I guess I love one more.”

  “Your mom?” she said.

  No matter how stoned I was, I wouldn’t let Edie trash my mom. I could confuse the old lady with opposites. I could take off when she was making lunch. But that was me. “Yes,” I said, defensive.

  “I don’t blame you,” she said. “Mothers are usually easier to deal with. And your father can be a real prick.”

  Trashing him didn’t bug me so much. In fact, it made me feel like I had pulled something over on him. “Yeah,” I said. “A fucking prick.”

  “Do you think he and your mom will stay married?” she asked.

  I thought of the conversation in the car with my mother. “Yes,” I told her. “They have big plans. They want to buy a house. Drive around on his motorcycle. Make breakfasts together.”

  “Breakfasts?” Edie said. “Motorcycle? I didn’t know he had one.”

  “Yup,” I said, sounding smug because I knew more about him than she did, even though I’d just found out about the motorcycle an hour ago, and even though he didn’t own it anymore.

  “Well, I guess there’s a lot about him I never knew,” Edie said. “That’s no surprise.”

  “Don’t feel bad,” I told her, taking another hit of the joint. The smoke in my lungs left me with a confused confidence. I decided to say whatever came to mind. “I’m here now.”

  “I’m glad for that,” Edie said, leaning toward me. “Dominick, can I show you something?”

  This was it. We were going to kiss again. Maybe even fuck. “Show me,” I said. “Show me anything.”

  Edie knelt in front of me and put her hands on the bottom of her shirt. I swallowed hard. The pot had left my head feeling cinder-blocked and messy. For months I had waited for this moment, but I still didn’t feel ready. She needed to look more like the women Leon and I checked out in Hustler and Penthouse. Splayed and nipple-pinched, gazing off into nowhere like the eyes of that fish ashtray. Instead Edie stared at me intently, her face marked by that bruise. Signs of my father’s love all over her. “Are you ready?” she asked.

  No more pot, I thought. “I’m ready,” I said.

  Slowly she lifted her shirt. Her skin was creamy and white beneath. Her stomach fatter than I had imagined. I thought of the hard belly my father had made in the kitchen a few hours ago. Now the gesture seemed funny after all, and I laughed. Edie ignored the sound and kept pulling the material up, stopping before her breasts. “Why are you stopping?” I asked.

  “What do you mean?” she said. “This is what I wanted to show you.”

  “Your stomach,” I said, trying to sound appreciative. “It’s beautiful.”

  “Dominick,” she said and pulled my hand toward her. Sparks ran between us. She pressed my palm and fingers against her belly. “I’m pregnant.”

  The sponge in my brain squeezed itself out and left me suddenly sober. My hand yanked back on its own. That SHARON TATE MURDERED headline popped into my head for a split second, then vanished. “Pregnant?” I said.

  “Pregnant,” she repeated.

  All at once it came to me in one of those “boy meets girl” kind of stories. Only mine went like this: Woman has affair with man and gets knocked up. Man already has a wife, and a kid to boot. Man beats the shit out of her. Woman picks herself up and contacts man’s kid. Here the story fell apart. Woman wants kid to. . . to what exactly?

  “Why are you telling me this?” I asked, not caring how my voice came out. Shallow and quivering. Young and confused. Fucked up all the way.

  “I told you. I don’t have anyone else.”

  “So get a shrink,” I said.

  Edie rolled the shirt back over her belly. Five months, I guessed. Maybe a hundred. I had no fucking clue when it came to this baby shit. “Why don’t you get rid of it?” I said.

  “I’m keeping the baby,” she told me. “People in this town think I’m a whore anyway. So now they’ll have their proof. But I’ll have my child.”

  I snuffed the joint out in the fish’s mouth. I thought the sucker looked happy. “So why do you need me?”

  “Forget it,” Edie said. Her eyes were moist and mapped with tiny red veins. The smoke. Or maybe tears.

  I let out a huff. “This just isn’t what I expected.”

  “I understand,” Edie said, rubbing her stomach.

  But I don’t think she truly did. She had no idea I wanted to kiss her again. Maybe even more. There was no use bringing that up now. My father had won after all. “So what can I do for you?”

  “I need you to talk to your father for me,” she said.

  “And tell him what?”

  “Tell him I need his help,” she said. “Financial support.”

  I laughed. “If you remember, he quit his job working for you. He doesn’t have a dime. And you’ve got this big house. Your business.”

  “The business is dead,” she said. “He helped piss away every last penny.”

  I thought of those bills the color of baby clothes. FINAL NOTICE. FINAL NOTICE. FINAL NOTICE. “You’ve got your house,” I said.

  “I can’t pay the mortgage anymore, and my ex-husband refuses to lend me money. Listen, if you could just talk to him. Explain my situation. I need some help getting back on my feet. Believe me, I’d rather get a bank loan than beg from that bastard. But the bank would laugh me right out of the building.”

  I thought of my mother’s money, hidden somewhere in case of an emergency. No doubt she would keep her fifties and hundreds at the bottom of one of her music boxes—a plastic ballerina twirling every time my mother made her deposit. I thought of the half brother I already had living on Bleecker Street. If I helped Edie, I would know this brother or sister. I wouldn’t have to wonder. My mind flip-flopped like that fish come to life on dry land: I could lend her some dough for a bit and she could pay me back down the road without my mother knowing.

  No, I couldn’t.

  Yes, I could.

  I couldn’t. I could.

  I couldn’t.

  Just then Edie reached her hand up and touched the dried slit of her wound. She rubbed gently with her pinkie and naked ring finger. I pictured all five of my father’s fingers curled into a tight fist, swinging into her soft face. I hated him for doing that to her.

  “I could—” I blurted as the “couldn’t” faded to black.

  “Talk to your dad?” Edie said.

  “No. I could lend you some money.”

  “Dominick,” she said. “That’s very sweet. But I need real help. A lot of money.”

  I wondered how much I could get away with. After all, my mother would never really use it. “Listen,” I said, figuring the math would come later. “We both know my father won’t give you anything. So let me loan you some cash for a while. You’ll be surprised at what I can come up with.”

  The phone rang—sharp and unfamiliar. Leon. Suddenly our plan seemed as crazy as one of my mother’s. I didn’t want him to know about this part of my life anymore. Edie wasn’t a Penthouse girl or Hustler whore. She was choiceless and sad, like so many other real-life women seemed to be. I wanted to let the phone ring and ring. But Edie went to the kitchen where I could see her and answered. “Dominick Pindle?” she said like a question, eyeing me from the doorway. Her free hand pressed to her cheek.

  A faraway voice in my head said, He’s not here. He is riding his bike in the parking lot behind the Doghouse. He is home eating canned tomato so
up in front of the tube with his mother. I looked at Edie and shook my head no. I slid my index and middle fingers across my throat in the way that means “cut.” It looked like I was slashing the skin there, the breathing tube beneath. Again and again I slashed. Shook my head no.

  “You must have the wrong number,” Edie said. “There’s no one here by that name.”

  When she hung up, I looked at her—bruises, belly, and all. “If I get you the money,” I told her, my voice angled and serious, “it’s just between you and me.”

  THREE

  Four hundred fifty dollars and twelve cents from her music box.

  Two thousand nine hundred twenty-five dollars from between her mattress and box spring.

  Three thousand from a Thom McAn shoe box in the back of her closet.

  A steady stream of hundreds from under the two-tone beige carpet in her bedroom.

  The radiator broke in our apartment, and my mother took to wearing her coat all day and night—sometimes even to bed. Walking around the kitchen, covered up in an ankle-length black wool number, she looked like the angel of death. Chalky white face. Hard, chapped lips that peeled and shed layers like two miniature snakes. The soles of her white socks gone gray because she’d been wearing them so long. “You’re giving me the creeps,” I told her as she steadied a teakettle over her mug and poured. Water funneled down in a great steamy release. I thought of that kids’ rhyme:

  This is my handle.

  This is my spout.

  Tip me over and pour me out.

  I wondered if someday soon I would sing that song to Edie’s baby.

  “It’s freezing in here,” my mother said. “I need to cover up.”

  She was right about the cold. Outside our kitchen window, crooked fingers of ice reflected the blue light of the moon, frozen right down to the sill like igloo prison bars. I made an O with my mouth and forced a burst of air from my lungs. My breath was a tissuey cloud before me, and then it vanished. As dishonest as I had been since I made the money deal with Edie two months ago, I half expected to breathe fire. Horns and a pitchfork—that was me. “Why don’t you call the landlord for once, instead of Marnie?”