by Julia Stoops
The trunk of the Toro is caved in. The lights smashed.
A cop tries to wave us back. Franky leans out the window. “Sir, this is their house.”
The cop bends to peer through the windows. “Pull over here.” He waves Franky toward the curb like we’re on some unfamiliar street and might not know what to do. “I’ll need to ask you folks some questions.”
PART FIVE
62: FETZER
While Franky was pulling over, I quietly said, “I think this is about Harry Lane. We helped Kate with the story, okay? We did some supplemental research. That’s all. That’s all we say.” Knowing full well that it wasn’t enough, and right away the cops would see we didn’t have a consistent version of what that supplemental research was. But within seconds we were summoned out of Franky’s car and led away from each other. Dee gripped Nelson’s hand. “I need you to step over here, ma’am,” said the cop. Dee just wound her hand tighter around Nelson’s arm. The male cop went and got a female cop. I don’t know what she said because by then I’d been escorted to the other side of the road, but she pried Dee from Nelson and led her away.
Jen was sitting on the ground near the house with a big tall dude standing by her. Nelson was in a cop car. Franky was in another cop car. Dee was taken somewhere behind the fire truck. Cops and firemen went in and out of our house.
Pretty much the loneliest I’d felt in a long time.
Turns out they were barely interested in our story. Had we ever seen these guys before? Nope. Didn’t actually get to see them at all. Did we know why they’d do this? Possibly. But when I explained, my cop got fidgety and went back to watching what was going on around the house. They thought it was drugs. They brought in dogs. They searched, but didn’t come up with even a seed. I sat, damp and coatless on the wet sidewalk, and prayed and prayed Jen didn’t have a secret stash. Then I sat in a cop car and prayed thanks that she didn’t, and for dry upholstery and that we’d decided a couple of years ago to clean ourselves up, substance-wise. And Deirdre’s place was still clean, last I checked.
When the cops figured out it really wasn’t drugs, they started treating us like victims instead of criminals. We were allowed back together. Some Red Cross folks turned up. Coffees were brought, and blankets, and soup in waxed paper cups with plastic lids. Chicken noodle. It was the best tasting soup in the world. Jen stared at the oily yellow broth for several seconds, then dipped in her spoon and ate. I was allowed to check out the Toro. The engine turned over but the network was zapped. Technically drivable, but illegal without lights.
The last of the cops went away, and we stepped inside our house. It smelled terrible. The thugs had emptied the fire extinguishers, and anything that wasn’t broken was covered in white powder. There was nowhere to sit. For a while we wandered around and stared at broken shit. Deirdre sat on the floor, silent and dry-eyed.
After a while we got some plywood left over from doing Dee’s darkroom. Boarded up the living room window, the kitchen window, and Nelson’s window. We used big nails, and hammered them hard.
The brown velvet sofa was slashed, stuffing all over the kitchen floor mixed in with the food from the fridge. The chairs were in pieces. The green Formica table was a lopsided M shape, cracked right down the middle. The black living room sofas were smashed. Pieces of the TV were scattered all the way to the basement stairs. We broomed piles of debris out the broken front door, then we nailed plywood over that, too. Upstairs wasn’t so bad, just clothes and bedding everywhere. Except Nelson’s room was dripping wet from putting out the fire in his closet. His bookcase was tipped over, and the window was smashed. But the basement was the worst. So much crap on the floor it was like rubble. We had to clear a path to get from the bottom of the stairs to the basement door. The computers were smashed. The web server obliterated. The CD library lay in a stomped-on pile. Filing cabinets on their sides, and paper, paper, everywhere. Jen crouched on the concrete floor and hugged her knees, her face buried in her hair. “The Crusher,” she whimpered.
That threatening hate mail we’d received? No one could remember where it had gotten filed away, and it was probably destroyed, anyhow.
By late afternoon a cop called and confirmed the two guys had not been caught. Naturally, we didn’t want to spend the night. Not even at Dee’s place, which they never touched.
Franky offered his place, but I knew it was tiny, and I suggested Isobel’s instead. I had the phone open about to dial when it rang. It was Kate. Eager to share more feedback about the story.
I cut her short, told her what happened. And that I thought it was related.
A moment of silence on her end, then, “Oh, shit. You all okay?”
“We’re fine. But Kate. Did you tell anyone at all about—”
“Are you kidding? I would never do that. No. Not a soul. But listen, two guys? What did they look like?”
“We never saw them. Why?”
“Then how do you know they were two guys?”
Irritated, I muttered, “We heard them. It was obvious.”
“Sorry,” she said. “But look. Last couple of days there’s been this pickup. This blue pickup. I kept seeing it around. Never really close, but once I noticed it, it just seemed to be everywhere. It was creeping me out. Even outside Adrian’s daycare. I was going to confront them. But when I started walking toward it, it left. Then this morning it was on my street. It drove away as soon as I stepped out the door. I never got the plates, but I could tell there were two young guys.”
“This morning? What time?”
“About seven thirty. Then a half hour later I got a call. Blocked ID. It was a man, and he said, ‘Soon you’ll understand.’ And I said, ‘Understand what?’ and he said, ‘Not to believe anything so stupid again,’ and then he hung up.”
“Jesus. Did you make a report?”
“About what? That I keep seeing a blue pickup around? They never threatened me.”
“What sort of guys?”
Kate shrugged. “Just ordinary guys. White. Youngish. Short hair, but casual—sweatshirts I think. Could have been students, I don’t know.”
“What about the call?”
“I don’t know if it was connected.”
“But it was.”
She sighed. “I’d bet money it was, yeah. But I don’t have anything useful to give the police. So what did they do? Is anything missing?”
After I described the state of our house, she insisted we come stay with her. I figured it was as much for her as for us. Under threat, you seek the company of those who understand the same threat. And seeing as she was a mom living alone with a kid, I said yes.
So we all grabbed a change of clothing and sleeping bags and went to Kate’s. Turned out her apartment had about as much extra space as Franky’s. Sure, it was two bedrooms, but the second bedroom was just big enough for her home office. Apparently we were going to sleep on the living room floor. But Kate’s apartment was soft and bright, with oyster-colored sofas so deep that sitting in them might get you digested. And Kate was so kind with her hot coffee, fluffy towels, and ice packs for our bruises and sprains.
Six insomniacs crowded around Kate’s kitchen table that night, and Kate brought out a half-full bottle of Scotch. Jen asked if she could borrow a laptop and if there was Wi-Fi. Yes and yes. Jen reminded us the website was mirrored elsewhere, thanks to some activist friends in the Netherlands, so even though our server was gone, the site was still accessible. Seeing our site come up brought a tear to my eye, and we drank a toast to at least being alive to the world. Jen drafted a notice for the home page explaining why we weren’t going to be answering emails for a couple of days. It took the whole rest of the bottle and Kate insisting that Jen remove “fascist assholes” and “war-hungry goons” from the text. Eventually Jen posted a neutrally worded notice. And Kate brought out the second bottle.
63: NELSON
Deirdre’s muttering something. Nelson leans in close.
“. . . and saints of God,
pray for me.”
Not the Catholic stuff now, please.
“How many is that?” he whispers. So much for Lent. He tries to pry the drink from her hand, but she says, “Fock off.” Her elbow clips his chin, and whiskey splashes.
Jen yanks the laptop away. “Gah! Careful with that glass!”
Fetzer has the glass out of her hand in a second. “Quit wasting it,” he says.
Deirdre sways, looks around. “Where’s me drink?” Nelson rubs her back. She focuses on Fetzer, gasps like she was holding her breath. “Bastard, you took me bleedin’ drink.”
Before Nelson can catch her, Deirdre tumbles off the chair and squirms away. She balances on wobbly knees. Her eyes close and her hands clasp. Her face twists like a used tissue. “Holy Mary,” she whispers. “Please forgive me. Please don’t cast out this wretched sinner.”
“Deirdre, come on, no one’s going to cast you out,” says Nelson. It’s hard to keep the irritation out of his voice.
Her eyes snap wide. “I need to find the ocean.” She pulls on the edge of the table and it tips and everything slides off and Jen shouts and Kate wails. Deirdre whimpers, “God have mercy.”
They wrest the table upright. Now there’s whiskey on the floor, and corn chips and cheese.
“Sorry,” says Nelson. They barely know Kate and he’s embarrassed to meet her eye. “I’m really sorry.”
Franky says, “You get her other end,” and together they pick Dee up. Her armpits are hot and damp. Franky has her under the knees. “Mea culpa,” she whimpers. “Mea culpa. Mea culpa.”
“Put her over here,” says Fetzer. They lay her down on a camp mattress, and Nelson straightens her thin legs.
“There you go.” Fetzer pulls a sleeping bag over her. “Nice and comfy.”
Nelson takes Deirdre’s small hand. It’s so hot. Their cheap, unmatched rings touch. Fetzer says something about all of them needing to get to bed.
“Need to get to the ocean,” says Dee. Her head knocks against the floor.
“Relax,” says Franky. He lifts her head, and Nelson slides a pillow underneath.
Kate kneels beside Deirdre. “You’re going to be okay, hon.”
Dee turns her face away. “God protects your baby.”
“You’ll feel better tomorrow,” coos Kate.
Deirdre’s face disintegrates again. “Thought I was forgiven. I really did.”
Nelson takes Dee’s meandering, gesturing hand, tucks it under.
“Where’s the bleedin’ ocean?”
“Deirdre?” says Nelson. “I’m going to be right here, okay?”
“I’ve ruined everything.”
“Shhh, okay? You’re not making sense.” He hopes like hell she doesn’t throw up on Kate’s beige carpet.
Dee closes her eyes, gulps, opens them right away. Stares at the ceiling.
“Normally—” she says.
“What, sweetheart?” His wedding-ring hand on her hair. The gold plate wearing off, a dull metal showing through.
“I’d ask you to hold me. So I don’t fall. But now—”
“You’re not going to fall, sweetheart.”
A brief smile on her delicate lips. “Such an optimist.”
He strokes her cheek. Her eyes close and her face relaxes. “But now, I should—”
Long slow strokes across her forehead and down her beautiful hair. “Should what, sweetheart?”
Her lips move, and he leans in closer. She’s whispering, “God have mercy. God have mercy. God have mercy.”
Nelson opens his eyes. His mouth tastes foul. Fetzer’s face is two feet away.
“Happy Monday,” Fetzer mutters, and rolls onto his back. Closes his eyes with a sigh.
“Thanks, I’ll do that,” says Kate from the kitchen.
They’re not camping.
“See you tomorrow,” says Kate. Then the beep of her phone going off. The click of it being returned to its cradle. Past Nelson’s feet Kate moves back and forth in her kitchen. Thick white terry robe. Naturally she owns a thick white terry robe. Her hair’s looking flat in the back. Nelson has never seen her look anything but salon perfect before. The radio’s on, but he can’t tell the station. White walls, beige carpet. Blue-and-white-striped blinds in the kitchen.
Behind him there’s shuffling. “You awake?” says Franky.
“Get your foot out of my hair,” says Jen.
Franky says, “Sorry,” then, “Is Dee in the bathroom?”
Nelson turns over. Empty space beside him.
“How should I know?” says Jen.
In unison Nelson and Fetzer sit up, look around.
A high, stinging sound fills Nelson’s head and eats its way down his spine.
“Impossible,” says Fetzer. “She was out like a light.” He struggles up, grunting. Looks in the bathroom, peeks into Kate’s bedroom, into her office.
“Hey, Kate?” he says at the kitchen door. She swings around, smiles sadly. Turns the radio down even lower.
“You know where Deirdre is?”
64: FETZER
This is what we pieced together. She’d gotten her shoes on, gotten Kate’s pink leather coat that was hanging by the door, and let herself out. You can see downtown and the river from Kate’s living room; it’s a twenty-minute walk down the hill.
She’s done this before, we told Kate. Kate had planned a day off work. Planned to spend it at home with her kid, but in her ever-expanding graciousness, she dressed him up warm, and in her car and Franky’s we drove up and down the steep winding streets of Southwest Hills and Goose Hollow. Drove around downtown. Crossed the river and looked in the bars and cafés on Grand and MLK, starting with the crab house. Went back to our house, which still smelled bad. Looked in at Deirdre’s place. Went to the diner.
“I hear what happen!” said Mr. Nguyen as soon we walked in. He gave me a quick up-and-down like he was checking for wounds. “Terrible!”
“It gets worse,” I said. “Deirdre’s missing. Did she come by here?”
Mr. Nguyen’s eyes went straight to Nelson. Nelson stared back, his face still and sleepy. He’d panicked, of course. Hands in his hair, pacing, bumping into things. We couldn’t leave him alone like that, but we couldn’t take him with us, either. Kate had some Percocet left over from an oral surgery. She told him they were ibuprofen.
“Where she go?” said Mr. Nguyen.
“We don’t know. Last time she did this she came back in a cab. Very drunk.”
Mr. Nguyen looked at the floor. “Sorry to hear. You eat?”
Which we hadn’t, so the cereal and eggs and coffee were welcome. Whenever he wasn’t with a customer, Mr. Nguyen was at our table, but the rest of the time we ate in silence. When we were done Kate pulled out her purse, but Mr. Nguyen waved her away.
“No, is on house. You need to rebuild.” He emphasized rebuild like a man who knows what that means. “Any time you need to eat, come here. Is on house from now on.”
His ball cap that day showed bug-eyed Bart Simpson and the words Eat My Shorts. I got up and hugged the guy.
But Kate didn’t put her wallet away. She stared into the empty billfold. “I had fifty dollars in here,” she said.
My heart dipped further.
We kept looking. By late morning the calls started coming. Isobel from the station. People from the infoshop. Indymedia. Strangers who’d gone to the website. Shock. Sympathy. Curiosity. Anecdotes about home invasions. Police horror stories. Police hero stories. Offers of food, a place to crash.
Early afternoon Kate pulled into a Taco Bell parking lot and turned off her car. It was just her and me, and the baby asleep in the back—the others were in Franky’s car. It was raining, and the sky was flat gray. Kate said, “I’m exhausted,” and dropped her face into her hands.
“Let’s get you home,” I said. There was a cut on my palm from crawling down the path the day before. It was starting to swell.
Kate’s hair was limp at the back, and it occurred to me she must curl it ev
ery day to get it looking bouncy. She fished in her purse for a Kleenex, honked into it. Then she twisted around to gaze at her son. “Fetzer. I have this feeling. I hate to say it, but I have this feeling that all this driving around is futile.” Adrian was waking up and gurgling.
I said, “Yeah.”
Kate got up on her knees and had a one-way conversation with Adrian about his diaper. Then she said, “I think you should report her as missing.”
It was a wall I’d walked up to and kept hitting my head on: I didn’t want Deirdre to be “missing.” For all the times I’d wanted to throw her out of the house, I absolutely did not want her to be gone.
“Isn’t there a time delay on that?” I said.
Kate sat back down and shook her head. “Not if you suspect the person might—” She squeezed the Kleenex into a wad. “Oh god, what about John?”
“I don’t know. Right now, I’m stalling, because I have no fucking idea what to do.”
Franky had pleaded with her to file a report about the stalking. “Police’ll take it seriously if they know they did it to a lady with a baby,” he said.
There was a warrant out on the two guys, but as Kate pointed out, Portland has thousands of outstanding warrants, and we had no real description and no useful evidence.
Sitting in her car with me, she must have been wondering what the hell she’d gotten herself into. After a minute of us staring at the rain, her phone rang.
“Yeah?” she said, then, “I arranged a day off. No. No, I’m dealing with a situa— No. When?” She looked at her watch. Mouthed Fuck. “Yeah. Okay.” She closed the phone and groaned. “Some bullshit urgent meeting with the senior editor. Maybe Saddam’s resigned. He gets all ‘mission control central’ when something big unfolds. You want me to drop you off at the diner? Maybe I can connect you up with the others.”
“I’ll go with you,” I said.
“You don’t want to do that. I might be an hour or two.”
“I’ll wait in the lobby.”