Prodigal Blues

by Gary A Braunbeck

  I stared.

  Something about the newer flier seemed strange to me but I couldn't figure out what. I finally got up and walked over to the board, excusing myself as I accidentally bumped into a young man in a tan shirt, then folded aside the dry-cleaner's advertisement that half-obscured the face on the poster.

  A few years ago, the news department of a television station in Columbus (in their ongoing quest to always give viewers something to worry over or feel bad about) came up with the bright idea of doing an experiment to see just how many people actually pay attention to posters of missing children. They took a photograph of the Programming Director's seven-year-old daughter and made up over one hundred Have You Seen Me? posters, then taped, stapled, and thumbtacked them at high-traffic locations in various shopping malls throughout the city. They left the posters there for three days and then, over the course of the weekend, had the PD's little girl sit on a bench somewhere inside the mall they were targeting that day (they hit five malls before the story aired on Monday's six p.m. broadcast). There were two hidden cameras; one was directed on the little girl at all times, while the other—a small spy-cam disguised as a snap-clasp on the outside of a female reporter's purse—wandered the mall getting video of people looking at the poster as they entered (at least two posters were taped on the doors at each entrance); these happy shoppers would then proceed to walk right past the same little girl whose photograph they had just seen (she was even wearing the same clothes and hair style as in the picture). Five malls in three days, over a hundred posters, thousands of people looking at her face and then passing her, and only one person recognized her. Sometimes we're such a dandy species you don't know whether to boogie your socks off or climb a clock-tower with a rifle strapped across your back.

  The poster I was now staring at had a clear and very recent photograph of the little blonde girl I had seen three times today.

  My first thought was not, My God, I've found her!—not even close; it was this: A silver Airstream trailer with tape covering its windows would be an ideal place to conceal video and sound recording equipment if you were a news crew repeating the Columbus stunt. If I for one second had any doubt that this was some kind of staged news exploit, it was quickly put to rest by the information under her picture: her name was Denise Harker, she was six years old, and came from Fort Wayne, Indiana; she'd been missing for five months, and had last been seen guess where?

  The very truck stop restaurant in which I now stood.

  Understand something: I am not by nature a man who believes in meaningful coincidence; self-respect does not allow me the luxury of embracing the concept of a clockwork universe or a grand unification theory or even something as banal, insulting, and simple-minded as fate; for me, claiming something as "coincidence," be it meaningful or not, is the last desperate gasp of the rationalist before surrendering to the weight and knowledge of chaos; I can't even take shelter in the leaky cave of determinism because I suspect that disorder is already hiding there in the shadows. In short, peddle coincidence somewhere else, I'm not buying.

  I dropped the dry-cleaner's ad back in place, shook my head, and returned to my booth. I finished my coffee, poured a fresh cup, and was just raising it to my mouth when a small but insistent gothic bell started sounding in my head.

  What if it isn't a stunt?

  But what if it is?

  But what if it isn't?

  What if—

  Shit, shit, shit.

  I wandered over to another bulletin board, trying to look as nonchalant as possible while riffling through the ads and fliers, looking for another poster with her face on it.

  This is stupid, it's a stunt. It has to be.

  Uh-huh.

  But what if it isn't?

  Shut up, why don't you?

  I'm just saying…

  I found her poster soon enough.

  See there, Holmes? A stunt.

  Be quiet, Watson, and do consider: What if it isn't?

  What if it is? This grows quickly wearisome...

  When you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.

  Personally, Holmes, I always thought that particular platitude was a big, steamy load.

  I rubbed my forehead, sighed, and did my best to examine the room without being too obvious about it. The first time around, something didn't seem right; on the second scan, I realized what it was: nowhere in this restaurant did I see a State Trooper, Highway Patrol officer, cop, or even security guard. Still, I kept looking.

  On the third pass I accidentally made eye contact with a mean-looking, tattooed biker-type, then decided to have one more cup of coffee and think things over before I either made a fool out of myself or had the biker ask me for a date. I was halfway back to my booth when

  (seriously, how can you be sure?)

  I turned around and walked to the far end of the counter where another bulletin board hung. This time the poster was tacked over the ads, in plain view.

  I pretended to read a flier for a fish fry sponsored by a local church while debating what to do. If it was a stunt, I'd be calling them on it (and what are the odds this is for real? I asked myself, then told me to put a cork in it); if it wasn't a stunt, then some anguished family was going to be very relieved and happy come dinnertime tonight.

  The entrance, I thought. Go to the entrance and see if another one's hanging there.

  Then what?

  One thing at a time.

  At no point did it cross my mind that even if I did find another poster with her picture on it, it would prove nothing because I still hadn't seen her.

  Still… which the gothic bell in my head wasn't.

  I meandered out of the restaurant and toward the main entrance. Like a lot of truck stops these days, this had more than just a restaurant; it also boasted a video-game room, private showers ($5.00 for fifteen minutes), a mini-mart for all your road-food needs, a small clothing store, an equally small traveling-supplies shop, a combination tobacco/newsstand, and a video/DVD store where you can! Own! The! Latest! Hit! Releases! By the time I reached the main entrance, I was easily forty feet from the restaurant. I hoped my waitress didn't come back and think I'd skipped out on her; Muriel would never forgive Cletus for making her go through all that trouble for a lout.

  I was almost rammed in the nose by one of the doors as a loud and frazzled-looking family of five pushed inside; I stood back just in time to save myself a trip to the emergency room and got a good, clear look at the poster taped to the glass.

  Enough already.

  I caught the door before it closed and pulled off the poster. I doubted I was committing any societal disservice; there was another copy on the second door.

  Stunt or no, I was going to say something.

  But you still haven't seen her, have you?

  Shit, shit, shit.

  Okay, then; if I went up to an employee or could find a cop or security guard and told them that I thought I'd seen this girl around here today, that would be enough, wouldn't it? But then if I couldn't prove I wasn't just yanking their chain I could be in trouble.

  Shit, shit sh—

  (hold on, rewind, get a grip)

  —the butter dishes.

  I all but bolted out the doors. If the Microbus and trailer were still in the parking lot, then I had something solid to show… whomever I could find. (This was a truck stop, for chrissakes! I refused to believe there wasn't at least one overweight and underpaid balding security guard somewhere on the premises.)

  Once outside I lost all bearings for a few moments—there were too many trucks coming and going, too much noise from the gas pumps, too much exhaust in the air—but then one of the semi-cabs I'd spotted earlier pulled away and I was blinking from the glare of the sun off silver finish.

  They were still here.

  I considered going up to the Airstream and banging on the door until one of the news-crew personnel opened up and I could call their bluff, then decided that
was a job best left to a security guard… providing I could find one.

  Back inside the truck stop, I asked the girl working the tobacco stand if there was a security guard she could call. Something in my face and voice must have told her that this was serious, because she nodded her head and picked up the phone. I gave her my name and told her I'd be in the restaurant.

  I got back just as the waitress was walking away from delivering my food. We almost collided with each other.

  "I'm sorry," she said. "Guess I'm a little tuckered. I need to stop working double-shifts. Your food's on the table, and I'm getting your little girl's order now."

  "What?"

  She walked away, giving me a straight-on view of my booth and my meal and the little blonde girl with big eyes who sat there staring at me.

  After a moment, she raised her hand and gave me a little wave.

  I gave her the same in return.

  The poster still in my hand, I approached her, then sat down, glancing around for something that might be hiding a spy-cam. I looked at her for a moment, saying nothing, then slid the poster toward her. "Is Denise really your name?"

  She gave a slow nod of her head. Her hair was flattened and greasy in places, as if it hadn't been washed for several days. There was a smudge of dirt on her left cheek, a small scrape on her right. The shirt she wore looked to be about two sizes too big.

  I leaned forward. "Are you okay?"

  She looked down at her feet and gave a small shrug.

  "Denise?"

  She looked up as if she'd just been caught stealing something.

  I tapped the poster lying between us. "Listen, I don't want this to sound mean or anything like that, okay, but… is this some kind of a joke?"

  She shook her head as her eyes began tearing, then reached up and wiped her nose on the back of her hand, and it was this last thing, this simple, reflex, child-like action, even more than her tears, dirty hair, and smudged face, that told me in no uncertain terms she was scared half to death, because the way her too-thin arm shuddered as she lifted her bruised hand to her runny nose, the way she didn't even care about the streak of snot she left behind, the way her bony shoulders began hitching as sobs spluttered out before she could stop them, all of it made a fist that slammed into my gut and finally sent the message to my brain that this little girl with the big eyes and killer smile was terrified and hungry and hurt and sick and you-bet-your-ass for real.

  Shit, shit, shit.

  The waitress came back a few moments later and set a tall, frosty glass of orange juice in front of Denise, noticed she was crying, and said, "Aw, honey, what's wrong?"

  I looked at Denise, then at the waitress who was looking right at her. I took one second to note that, although the poster with Denise's face on it was laying face-up in plain view, the waitress took no notice.

  "Miss?"

  The waitress turned toward me. "Is she feeling all right? We got some children's aspirin back there that I could—"

  "—would you ask Muriel to come over here, please?"

  "Is there something wrong with your order, sir?"

  "Not at all, it looks great, but I'd appreciate it if you'd ask her to come over here right now. It's kind of urgent."

  The waitress nodded her head and left.

  I reached across the table and took hold of Denise's hand; she jumped at my touch, frightened—no, scratch that—terrified, but did not try to pull away.

  "Denise, the person who's driving that bus I saw you in… are they the person who took you from here?"

  She shook her head, dribbling snot and tears onto her shirt.

  "The person who took you, are they here anywhere?"

  She looked up at me, then squeezed my hand and said: "…I'm real sorry, mister. Honest I am." Her voice broke hard on those last three words.

  "Sorry? For what, hon?"

  Before she could answer, Muriel came up to the booth. "Jenny said you wanted to see—"

  The words died in her throat when she saw Denise. "Oh, Lord…"

  I held up the poster. Muriel waved it away. "I don't need to look at that, Mark. I know who she is, all right. I been seeing her face in my dreams for a long time now." She looked at me with tears in her eyes. "It was my restaurant that she disappeared from. Why wouldn't I remember what she looked like?" She knelt down and took hold of Denise's hand. "Oh, hon, a lot of folks been looking everywhere for you, you know that?"

  "Will you call my mommy and daddy?"

  She brushed some hair from Denise's eyes. "Oh, you bet I will, hon, I'll go start making calls right now." She turned to me and took hold of my hand. "You done a real wonderful thing, finding her like this."

  "Actually, she found me."

  "What's that?"

  I shook my head. "Nothing. What do we do—"

  "Everything okay here, Muriel?" He was neither overweight nor balding; this security guard looked to be in his early thirties with maybe five-percent body fat: he could've probably broken my spine with two fingers.

  "Trevor," said Muriel, shoving the poster at him. "Mr. Sieber here has found Denise Harker."

  "Hold on a second," I said. "I didn't—"

  "Well, I'll be damned," said Trevor. Then: "'Scuse the language, ladies."—this said with a nod toward Denise. "Is she what you needed to see me about, sir?" This said while clamping a congratulatory hand (so big I could have sat in it) on my shoulder.

  "Yes," I managed to get out, offering the poster to him. They were caught up in the excitement, and my trying to explain what had brought us all to this point suddenly seemed ridiculous; I'd have plenty of opportunity to explain everything to the police.

  Trevor folded up the poster and tucked it into his pocket, then knelt down next to Denise. "Denise, we've got to call an awful lot of people about you—"

  "I wanna go home."

  "Of course you, do," said Muriel, stroking Denise's hair. "And that's just where you're gonna be by bedtime tonight."

  Denise sucked in a sob and wiped her eyes. "Promise?"

  "I swear it, hon. I swear it."

  Denise gave a little shudder, then pulled her glass of orange juice closer and took a few sips. The way she craned her neck to reach the straw broke my heart.

  "Do you want to come with me?" asked Trevor.

  Denise shrugged, glancing around with wide, panicked eyes. A small crowd was gathering around the booth, people nearby having either overheard or figured out for themselves what was going on, and everyone wanted to see if it was true.

  "Okay," said Trevor, turning around and raising his arms to hold people back. "Go back to your seats, please, give 'em some room. There's nothing to see here." He looked over his should at me: "Did I just actually say—?"

  "Yes."

  He shook his head. "My wife's right, I watch too many cop shows." He spent the next minute or so assuring people that everything was all right, that Denise was fine but they were making her nervous, cha-cha-cha. When things calmed down, he bent over and whispered, "I think maybe we ought to move to someplace a bit more private."

  "Denise can come in back," said Muriel. "My apartments just behind the restaurant and she won't be bothered there. I'll wait with her." Then, to me: "I'd offer to hide you there, too, but it's kinda small."

  "That's okay. I'll just go on back to my room."

  "Well, hell," said Trevor, nodding toward the entrance. "That didn't take long."

  "Watch your language," snapped Muriel.

  "Sorry."

  Denise almost giggled at that. Almost.

  A reporter and camera operator were making their way into the restaurant. I cursed under my breath; it hadn't even been ten minutes yet—God bless the age of cellular communication. Denise was rattled enough without someone sticking a microphone and camera in her face.

  "Take her back with you, Muriel," I said. "I'll talk to them."

  "The hel—heck you will," said Trevor. "The State Police'll be here soon enough, and they won't be too chipper if you tell you
r story to the news people before talking to them."

  I glanced at my food with regret. Looked like it would have been really tasty.

  "Go," said Muriel, tapping my wrist. "I'll have one of the girls box it up and bring it over to you."

  Trevor took hold of my arm and guided me to my feet. "There's a delivery door in the back, you can go through there." He dragged me toward it. I barely had a chance to turn my head and see Muriel quickly usher Denise behind the counter and through the kitchen's swinging doors. Denise looked at me and mouthed "I'm sorry," once again.

  What was she apologizing for?

  "Here, you go," said Trevor, pushing open the delivery door. "Turn left for the motel. I'll let Edna know that you aren't to be bothered until the cops talk to you."

  "Except for my dinner."

  "Right, except for your dinner. Got it."

  "Thanks for everything."

  "I ought to be thanking you—and not just for finding that little girl. This is the most excitement I've ever had on this shift. I actually feel like I'm making a difference today, you know? How often does a guy get to say that?"

  I smiled and nodded my head as the reporter called out and Trevor closed the door between us.

  I was just passing the motel office when Edna and her husband came out.

  Edna, cigarette ash holding steady (I wondered if it was the same smoke from earlier), took my hand and said, "Is it true? Did you find that little girl who got took from here?"

  I didn't feel like launching into the whole explanation, so I nodded my head.

  "Oh, that's wonderful!" She threw down her cigarette, cupped my face in her hands, and gave me a grandmotherly kiss.

  "Edna," said her husband. "You're embarrassing the boy."

  "Don't get your gruns knotted up the crack, Earl." She still hadn't let go of my face. "Oh, Mark, you don't know how sick we all felt after she disappeared. Muriel, she cried for weeks over it."