by Sydney Avey
“I don’t think so. I think he just started driving again. His Dad can fix it if he gets stopped, as long as it’s not a DUI. Mr. Schwartz can probably fix that too.”
I don’t know what to do with this information. I can’t see how Scott has any connection to Sophie’s disappearance if his interest has dropped off.
We sit around the kitchen table, drinking coffee and waiting. Roger goes outside about every fifteen minutes and walks up the driveway to look up and down the street. At eleven o’clock, I follow him out and stand with him by the mailbox. The boys have raised the garage door and flipped on the light, a beacon to let Sophie know we are up and waiting for her to come home. Inside the garage, the boys idle with a component that has been giving them trouble.
Los Altos summer nights are chilly. I look up into the black sky, bright with stars. Cutting across the expanse of twinkling lights, the Milky Way lays a trail of pale dust, remnants left by an invisible Creator tidying up the universe with a celestial broom. Off in the distance toward the highway, search lights crisscross a moonless heaven. Miles away, teenagers are riding Ferris wheels, chair-o-planes, and drop towers at a summer carnival in the Sears parking lot. I send up a prayer for a little lamb who has wandered away, and picture her eating cotton candy at the carnival instead of indulging an image of her lying dead in a field. Roger puts his lips to my ear.
“This isn’t doing any good. Let’s go in.” Walking back into the house, Roger turns to me, “Well, what were you doing on a summer night when you were eighteen?”
“Sneaking out of my dorm room to meet Henry.”
Maybe Sophie has a boyfriend. I hadn’t thought of that. I think back to the night I fell asleep on a blanket on the beach next to Army Air Corps recruit Henry Carter and missed curfew. I never gave a thought to my nervous roommates who covered for me.
Valerie and Andy have gone to bed. The boys close up the garage and go into their room. The house is dark now, except for the side patio light I’ve left on to light Sophie’s way when she returns. I expect that the boys have left their light on too.
I am still awake at one in the morning when a car drives slowly up the road. I sit up straight in bed, holding my breath. Next to me, Roger snores, pulling soft jerks of oxygen up through his nose and expelling his breath in a contented hum. The car engine cuts off before the car slows to stop on the street in front of the driveway. A door rolls open and shut, but I don’t hear voices. Then the engine comes on and the wheels come alive, spinning in the gravel on the road as the car roars off. Whoever was concerned about making a quiet approach doesn’t seem to mind announcing their departure. Next door, Petey begins to bark.
The front door squeaks open. Voices whisper in the hallway and shoeless feet pass our door. I shake Roger, who rolls over and finally opens his eyes.
“She’s home.”
He pats my hand and shuts his eyes.
“Should I get up and go talk to her?”
“No. Wait and talk to her in the morning. She’s home safe. Go to sleep.”
I sit staring into the dark and then I give in and fall back on my pillow. I tuck the sheets up under my chin and wonder if what Roger said is true. Is Sophie safe?
Just as I begin to fall asleep, the shower starts up. It runs for what seems like hours.
R
I’m up early, making coffee when sleepy-eyed Valerie pads into the kitchen, her hair hanging in her face.
“I’m sorry I just couldn’t stay up last night, Mom. Did Sophie come home?” She pulls her hair back, fastens it low on the nape of her neck with a barrette, and accepts a cup of herbal tea.
“I heard her come in around one o’clock.”
We wrap our robes tightly around us and take our mugs out on the patio to enjoy the cool morning air.
“It’s going to be another hot one, today.” Valerie keeps moving. “Let’s walk down by the creek.”
Valerie and I have all our serious conversations down by the creek. When Leora’s house stood on this property, we picked our way through weeds on pink stepping stones shaped liked playing card suits, hearts and diamonds, clubs and spades, down to the rickety boardwalk that hung over the water. Now a paved walk replaces the old stones and an expansive redwood deck puts the old board platform to shame. Then, we leaned on a rough board rail that gave a visual promise to protect us from tumbling off the edge of the rotting platform into the rocky waters. Now, the pillars that hold up the deck are set in cement. The guardrail testifies that we can approach the edge with no worries. We stand shoulder to shoulder and look out, watching the brackish water skip over the rocks.
“What are you going to do, Mom?”
“What do you mean?”
“Are you going to talk to her?”
“Of course. I just don’t know what I’m going to say.”
Valerie leans her elbows on top of the polished brass rail cap, cradling her tea mug. She breathes in the tangy peppermint, dipping her head lower to let the steamy fragrance moisten her face.
“I can’t help you there, Mom. This is all stuff I’m going to have to learn.”
“I want to respect her privacy, but she has to understand that we worry when she doesn’t come home and doesn’t call.”
“It’s more than that. We’ve been the target of some pretty nasty stuff. At some point you have to wonder if someone will go farther than attacking the house and start attacking the people in it.”
“Oh, I don’t think anyone would do that!” But as I say that, the image of a sharp nail trap set on the driveway flashes a warning. What if I had backed the car out of the driveway before my tires went flat? What if a tire had popped on the highway? Whoever laid that trap didn’t care what happened to me.
“Valerie, I heard the car that brought her home. I didn’t hear a car door slam, I heard it slide back. It was a van or a bus. Scott drives a bus.”
“Mom, a lot of guys drive those. Maybe she’s met someone up in the city.”
“Maybe.”
As tempting as it is to blame Scott for everything, I don’t want to be as unfair to him as our neighbors have been to us. The patio door slides open and Roger comes through, blinking at the sun that has popped out over the treetops. Our tea has cooled. Valerie takes our mugs back to the kitchen and I stand with Roger where he’s watching the sprinkler heads pop on, checking for leaks.
“Are the boys up yet?” I put my hand in the crook of his elbow.
“Up and gone.”
“Is Sophie up?”
“I don’t think so. Her door is closed.” Roger is focused on a sprinkler valve that’s stuck, pouring an arc of water that is creating a muddy depression in the lawn. “I’m going to go the hardware store to get the parts to repair that.”
I wish he were more concerned about the repair that’s needed to fix this family.
Sophie’s door stays closed all morning. A few times, I walk down the hallway to Valerie’s room listening for sounds of life. Valerie has gone to the college this morning to collect some books she left in her closet-sized office. I make it a practice never to fold any of the laundry she leaves piled for days in baskets out in the garage, but today it’s a useful charade. I’ve made several trips up and down the hall with armfuls of sheets and towels to stack on top of the bed. Finally, I hear Sophie stirring behind the door. My hand is poised to knock on the door when something restrains me. Let her come to you.
I change into capris and a blouse and go to work in my studio.
R
Around noon, a different person emerges from Sophie’s room. I walk into the kitchen to put my sandwich plate in the sink and someone wearing a long-sleeved kimono style robe I’ve not seen before is sitting at the counter staring into a cup of coffee. But that’s Sophie’s hair, pulled over one shoulder.
“Good morning.” I try to inject enough cheeriness into my words to put Sophie at ease and invite conversation. She lifts a dull-eyed face to me and gives her head a barely imperceptible shake. It’s as if she’
s re-entering Earth from Mars. Then I watch the work of a practiced professional. Her face transforms into an expression of polite attention.
“Good morning Dee. Have you had breakfast? I’m making some toast.”
“I’ve had breakfast and lunch.”
Sophie looks up at the kitchen clock. “Gosh, is it that late?” She looks back at me. She knows she’s not leaving this kitchen until I get an explanation. She runs a finger back and forth on the inside of cup handle, rehearsing what she’s going to say to me.
“Dee, I’m sorry I didn’t call to tell you I was going to be late.”
“One in the morning is pretty late.”
“I know. Class ran over. I missed the train so I caught a bus. I figured I’d call and tell you when the bus pulled in, but the bus broke down on the expressway and it was hours until they got it repaired.”
“Who brought you home?”
“A nice person who was on the bus offered to drop me off at my house.”
This is total fiction. I can’t imagine why Sophie is lying. She’s hiding something but I sense that probing for the truth will only push her farther away.
“Sophie, we were worried sick. If this ever happens again you call immediately and someone will drive up to the city to get you.”
She sits stone-faced. She has no intention of filling in the missing pieces. Truth lurks like a troll under the bridge between independence and accountability. I soften my tone and address the trolls.
“Sophie, if for some reason you want to stay out all night just let us know. We don’t need explanations. We just need to know that you’re safe.”
Tears fill her eyes. “I didn’t want to stay out all night. I don’t want you to think that.”
For some reason, I think that’s the only truthful statement she’s made in this entire conversation.
Interlopers
Interlopers
Summer is losing its flavor. Like a skin-split peach that lies heavy in the hand, oozing sticky juice and smelling swampy, the dregs of summer need wrapping and tossing. Valerie is starting her third trimester. Humid air constricts her like plastic wrap she can’t remove.
“I want this baby out now.” She’s stretched out on the living room couch under the ceiling fan, a pillow supporting her bulk. She levers her bare legs up and down, chafing at the scratchy upholstered cushions she chose for the sleek Danish modern couch. “I sure didn’t choose this furniture for comfort, did I?”
“Baby isn’t ready and, no, you didn’t.”
“Sophie is working hard getting the nursery ready.”
“I’ve noticed.”
“Have you noticed she hardly ever leaves the house anymore?”
“I’ve noticed that too. She told me in July that the studio was closing for a month, but that was over a month ago.”
“I can’t believe she’ll be happy working as a nanny. I will pay her, you know, but I still feel like I’m somehow taking advantage of her.”
“I agree. Not that you mean to take advantage of her, but that she needs to figure out her life. She seems to have gotten off track.” I’ve been thinking about this for over a month, trying to figure out what could have happened to send Sophie into the shell she seems to have grown overnight. I have no time to puzzle on it today. I push myself out of my chair and pat Valerie on the shoulder as I pass the couch. “I’m going over to Laura’s to see how her trip to Berkeley went. Can I get you anything before I leave?”
“Thanks Mom, no. Bring me home a juicy story.” Valerie wiggles her eyebrows in a salacious gesture, then turns onto her side and scrunches her pillow under her back. She looks like a beached elephant seal. Puffy ambles in from the atrium.
“Nooooo, Puffy,” Valerie looks at me helplessly as Puffy jumps up and tries to find a spot to cozy fifteen pounds of feline fur into.
“Have fun, you three.” I toss her a copy of American Baby and head off to pick up Laura.
We’ve decided to drive over Highway 17 to walk Goldie on the beach. By now, the beach-goers that snarl traffic all summer on this curvy road should be starting some serious back-to-school shopping. Two hours after I collect Laura and Goldie, we have our feet in the sand on the long stretch of Sunset Beach. Laura lets Goldie off her leash to frolic in the surf while we leave our footprints on the wet sand. We dodge clumps of seaweed, stopping to poke at sand crabs and stare off into the overcast sky at the pelicans that dip in the water and slurp up fish. Neptune’s school is out, releasing an easily replenished snack supply.
I have to prompt Laura to serve up the details of her weekend in Berkeley. I can’t tell by her manner if her relationship with Mike has a future, or if she’s just come to terms with how things are, the way I did for so many years.
Roger and I slow-danced around a permanent relationship for a decade. We told ourselves it was because of distance. Without thinking, we pitched our voices to dissonant chords and pursued separate melodies that led us to opposite coasts. Then, an invisible hand plucked a heartstring. Our dissonant lifestyles resolved themselves into harmony. But if the Lyricist is plucking any strings now, Mike isn’t listening.
“How did it go?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Did you surprise him, or did you tell him you were coming?”
“I called him and told him straight out that I was coming to see him, and that I was planning on staying the weekend.
“Was he surprised? What did he say?”
“Surprised? No, not really. It was almost like he was prepared. The first thing he said was that he would make a reservation for me at the Claremont Hotel. Then he told me all the places he wanted to take me, all the things he wanted to show me, all the people he thought I’d be interested in meeting.”
“Wow, he sounds like my travel agent.”
“You have a travel agent?”
“Roger and I are thinking of taking a trip after the baby is born, to give Andy and Valerie some time alone to adjust to being parents. But that’s beside the point. It sounds like Mike was trying to avoid being alone with you. Was he?”
“That’s what it seemed like to me at first. But then...” Laura turns her head toward the high tide that rumbles in on August afternoons. The ocean fills our ears with the muffled roar of an Ancient who speaks guttural tongues we cannot discern, but that thrill us.
“But then?”
“After campus tours and visits to cafes and record shops and bookstores, we ended up sitting on a blanket on a grassy hill in Strawberry Park at sunset. We weren’t a priest and a widow; we were just two people like all the other crazy people in Berkeley.”
The wind is picking up. It flicks away the tear that trickles down her cheek. She sniffs hard and blinks into the briny blow. A bit of sun pops out to wink at us and skirt behind the next cloud. She turns to look at me and starts to laugh. Her laughter sounds like freedom.
R
The phone is ringing in the kitchen as I walk through the atrium toward the family room. I go to answer it before I notice that Valerie is rooting around in the pantry, well within reach of the phone.
“Don’t answer it.” Valerie walks out of the pantry, balancing cans of tomatoes sauce and paste. “It’s been ringing like that all day. When I pick it up, I hear breathing and then someone hangs up.”
“Who would do that?”
“I don’t know. Kids, probably.”
“All day?”
“I don’t know, Mom. I’m trying to ignore it. It’s very annoying.” Valerie starts banging pots around that are wedged together in the cabinets.
“Where is everyone?”
“I never know where the boys are. Probably the garage. Sophie is cleaning windows. Roger and Andy are outside inspecting the grounds.” Valerie rolls her eyes.
“What are they looking for?”
She stands at the counter, looking from the can opener she holds in one hand to the large stainless steel spoon she holds in the other. She seems surprised to find her hands full. Setting both
implements down, she puts her hands on her hips.
“Well, let me tell you about that. Carlo took it upon himself to start hacking on our Italian plum tree that hangs one little branch over into his yard.”
“That tree shouldn’t be pruned until February!”
“He didn’t prune it, Mom, he attacked and murdered it. He took a chainsaw to it. After he whacked off the branch that had grown over on his side, he leaned over on his ladder and topped the whole tree. In the process, he dropped his chain saw over the hedge into our yard. He says that when he came around to get it, he found a bunch of trash stashed under the hedge. He had the nerve to come to the door and tell me he found evidence that someone has been camping down there behind the trees.”
“What kind of evidence?”
“He wouldn’t tell me. All he would say was, tell the men to go down there and look.”
I walk through the living room and poke my head out the patio door. In the distance, a patch of sky shows where the stately old Italian plum used to spread its limbs. Now that the tree has been laid bare to the sunlight, it stands naked and ashamed. Where once its limbs arced to the ground heavy with fruit they now stick out like amputated stumps. Branches lay in a tangle at the base of tree. Andy and Roger approach the house, stomping dirt off their feet as they come up the walkway. Roger looks up at me, shaking his head.
“That’s a hell of a mess we’ve got down there.”
“It’s not our mess, it’s Carlo’s. Let him clean it up!”
Roger ignores my comment. “I think Carlo’s right. It looks like someone has been camping down there in the fruit trees. When we let it get overgrown like that, it created a perfect environment for someone to erect a little lean-to.”
“Are you taking Carlo’s side in this? He’s probably killed that tree.”
Andy puts his hands on my shoulders. “It’s okay, Mom. We’ll get Carlo over here to haul off the limbs he cut off the tree. He did a hatchet job, that’s for sure, but I don’t think he’ll charge us for his time.”
“You think this is funny?”