Sia nodded and left Gumper behind. “Watch him,” she said, giving Gump a rub on the head. “Don’t let him out of your sight.”
• • •
“Read this,” Jilly said, and she typed a web address into Sia’s laptop.
The coffee shop was buzzing with people wanting more information about Toad, hovering and lingering like bees on the brightest flower. But Sia sat with her back to them. Arms crossed.
“What is it?”
“Just read.”
Sia glanced at the clock. 11:05 A.M. She looked at the screen.
It was a short article, no more than a few sentences, about a man who had gone missing in Italy three months before. There was no photo, just a family’s plea and a brief physical description: tall, lean, sandy hair, unusually handsome. He’d been drinking with friends at a party. There’d been a fight over a car. No one had ever seen him again. His name was Marco Duchella.
“Marco Duchella,” Sia said.
“The name fits him,” Jilly said. “And the description.”
“Yes,” Sia conceded, “but not the way he disappeared. Can you imagine Toad drunk or in a street brawl?”
“No, not the way we know him, but he probably wasn’t always this way . . . this silent.”
Sia nodded. This was the first real possibility, and the fish seemed to grow as she considered it. She could feel its tail scratching at the base of her esophagus. She closed the laptop.
“What do you think?” Jilly asked.
“It’s possible, I guess.”
“So? What next?”
“I’m going to write to Marco Duchella’s mother. I’ll call the newspaper in Italy for her address.”
“Just send an e-mail.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“It’s too personal for e-mail. I’ll send the letter express. It will get there fast enough.”
Jilly chugged the rest of her coffee and looked at the herd of people near the door hungering for some tidbit of new information they could work over during lunch. She stuck out her tongue at them and they scattered like startled ants.
“Sia?” she said, and her voice took on that warning! warning! tone that drove Sia nuts.
“Yes, Jilly?”
“You do remember that you haven’t written a word since Jackson disappeared. You haven’t even written a grocery list.”
“Not true,” Sia said. “I wrote a list about Toad a few days ago and signed my name in three books.”
“Yes, both are excellent steps in the right direction, but neither is much precedent for an entire letter.”
“Well, this is something I have to do, so I’ll do it.”
“You’re going to write?”
“A letter, yes.”
“Okay. I assume you’re going to tell Richard that you’re doing it?”
Sia paused. “No, I’m not,” she said. “There’s almost no chance that Toad is Marco”—she opened her laptop and glanced at the computer screen—“Duchella from Italy. If it gets out that there’s a possible lead, the press will go even crazier. I’ll have five hundred reporters at my doorstep instead of fifty.”
“You think Richard is going to leak a story to the press?”
“No, but things happen. Look at the gill fiasco with Dr. Gupta.”
“Mm-hm.”
Sia’s story sounded good—lots of bravado—but what she was really saying—and what Jilly knew she was really saying—was that sitting down to write anything, especially a letter about a missing man, was going to be excruciating and that if anyone knew she was going to try—after all this time—she was almost sure she wouldn’t be able to do it.
“Bottom line?” Sia said. “I’ve got more than enough on my hands now. So you, my lovely fat-mouthed friend, please keep your trap shut.”
“I can keep a secret,” Jilly said.
Sia smirked and raised her eyebrows.
“I can. You watch.”
• • •
One word at a time, Sia told herself, taking a pen and paper from her bag.
As she scratched Dear onto the page, it was like a gazillion bees were stinging the tips of her fingers.
Family, she added.
Sting.
She looked at the name on the website again.
Duchella, she wrote.
Sting. Sting.
But she kept going, trying to ignore the fluttering of words in her head.
“It’s like a party in there,” Jackson would have said.
• • •
“You know,” Jilly said, “you don’t have to tell them everything.”
“Yes, I do.”
“Why?
“Because.”
• • •
Four very painful hours later . . .
Dear Family Duchella,
My name is Odyssia Dane, and I’m writing to you from a small town in Massachusetts on the East Coast of the United States, many miles from where you live. Recently I found a man on the beach near my house, and though I’ve been known to make surprising discoveries on this beach, finding a man is a first, even for me. Thankfully, he seems pretty healthy, and although he had some cuts and bruises when I found him, he is beginning to heal nicely.
This man eats well, very well, but he doesn’t speak. At all. I don’t know if he spoke in his previous life, but since I found him, he hasn’t uttered a single word. He didn’t have any identification on him, and I don’t know if he knows who he is or where he came from. I only know that he is sad and silent, and I assume it was something terrible that caused him to land in this state on the beach. I’m trying to help him get home. I call him Toad.
Since I learned of your missing son, I’ve been hoping that the man I found on my beach is the man missing from your life. I know how hard it is to lose someone you love.
Over a year ago, my own husband disappeared. His name is Jackson. He went out for coffee one morning and there’s been no sign of him since. None. He never made it to the coffee shop, and Mrs. Windwill, the busybody in town who sees everything, didn’t see a thing.
Sometimes at night, I lie in bed and try to move into Jackson’s present. Though I can’t help but imagine him dead, I pray he’s not. The police have insinuated that he ran away, that he left me, that I didn’t know the truth about my husband, but that is impossible. I was my husband’s truth.
So I try to imagine he is someplace beautiful with many trees. He was a park ranger and if he doesn’t have trees, he doesn’t function very well. I’m quite sure that wherever he is, there are trees. There are also many animals, because he feels the same way about animals that he does trees. He especially loves bears, black bears and grizzlies, although the latter scare me to death. That is, he used to tell me, exactly why I love them. Every time he went off to hike in Alaska or Montana, I worried until I heard from him. He said I was silly. I didn’t care. I worried anyway.
It would have made much more sense for Jackson to disappear while hiking. Then I’m quite sure we would have found his body, mauled and devoured by one of the animals he loved so much, and after a time, that would have been okay with me. That would have made sense.
As it is, he simply vanished. Since that day, there hasn’t been one sign of my husband. No movement in his checking account. Nothing missing from his personal items. And though some of the authorities would like me to think he planned this, I don’t; if he had, he would have taken the photo of his parents and brothers from the dresser. He wouldn’t have gone anywhere without that.
But all of this is side matter, isn’t it?
I don’t know if Toad is your son, but I have enclosed a few photographs to help you figure that out.
Sincerely,
Odyssia Dane
• • •
“Stilted,” Sia sai
d, “but done.”
• • •
“You okay?” Slow-Pour Sally asked.
The Dogcatcher jumped. Then bumped her head against the brick windowsill.
“If you’re thirsty,” Sally said, “I can get you something to drink.”
The Dogcatcher crept from behind the line of garbage cans that had protected her. Through the window of Starbucks, she saw Sia stand and fold her newly written letter in thirds.
“A macchiato maybe?”
Scritch. Scratch.
“How about a mocha frappuccino? The ladies love them.”
Itch. Itch.
The Dogcatcher skittered away from the window and headed toward the riverfront.
“It’s not a problem,” Sally called after her. “I make a great latte. On the house.”
“The Merrimack. The Merrimack. The mighty, mighty Merrimack,” the Dogcatcher chanted.
CHAPTER 102
The third, fourth, and fifth letters about Toad arrived on the same day. After that, they arrived in bundles. At first Bert tried to follow Sia’s orders and leave them in the mailbox at the end of the driveway with her other mail, but soon there were too many. He couldn’t have stuffed them into the mailbox if he’d tried.
“Besides,” he told her, “those photographers and reporters keep offering me money . . . big money . . . for just one of the letters. It’s too much pressure.”
“Fine, Bert. Bring them to the door.”
Bert smiled.
• • •
And so the letters came:
A woman in Brussels was concerned for Toad’s well-being.
Another in Singapore offered, in the event he was never returned home, a marriage proposal.
This one had been looking for a quiet guy all her life—“The world is just too noisy.”
That one was sure Toad was her neighbor’s cousin who was wanted for unmentionable crimes.
A man in Brooklyn had just broken up with his lover and needed a rebound boytoy who wasn’t afraid of a little pain.
This one wanted to let Sia know she was doing a noble thing—“Like Mother Teresa.”
The redhead sent a few photographs Sia wished she’d never seen.
A lonely woman in Texas wanted Sia to know she was selfish for keeping Toad to herself. “He’s not a piece of jewelry you can lock in a box and wear around your neck like a trophy when you go out. He’s a man. With needs.”
And these were only the letters in English. There were dozens in languages Sia couldn’t even recognize.
• • •
“Any progress on the novel, Sia?” Jilly was feeling brave. All these letters/words strewn throughout Sia’s house . . . they were bound to have an effect . . . bound to get Sia writing again.
“Jillian, really? That’s what you’re worried about right now? My manuscript?”
Oops.
“No, I’m not worried, Sia. But . . .”
“Tell your boss to stick it.”
CHAPTER 103
“Another lead?” Sia said into the phone. “Have you even been able to confirm or deny the French one yet?”
“Not yet,” Richard said, “but we have to follow up on all of them.”
“So?”
“It seems a man who matches Toad’s description is missing in Italy.”
“Italy?”
“Yes.”
“Is the family’s name Duchella?”
“No. Why do you ask?”
“No reason. Why do you think this lead might hold water?”
“There are some indicators.”
“Such as?”
“Let me find out more.”
“Why can’t you tell me what you know now?”
Richard paused. “Sia, there’s a good bit of sadness in this story. I’d rather tell you only if it turns out to be the right one. Okay?”
The fish sliced through Sia’s middle. “Oh, that doesn’t sound good, Richard.”
“Just wait until I know more.”
• • •
Then knock-knock:
“What are those, Mom?”
“Peach muffins.”
“For me and Toad?”
“For the reporters.”
“What?”
“Odyssia, those reporters are here to stay. It’s time to make friends.”
“I will not, Mother.”
“Well, I will.”
Sia couldn’t imagine trying to stop her mother from doing anything, so she waved her hand at her. “Fine, but be sure to tell them I have not endorsed these muffins.”
“I will, sweetie.” She kissed Sia on the cheek. “Here are a few for you and Toad. One for Gumper and Jilly, too.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
As M made her way toward the reporters, Channel 7’s gangly geek narrated: “Odyssia’s mother is walking down the path toward the gate. She is not getting in her car. She is . . . she is . . .” The narration stopped as M handed him a fresh-out-of-the-oven peach muffin.
“Mmmmm,” he said as he pressed his nose to its spongy top.
As Sia watched M hand out muffins to the rest of the newshounds, the Girl Scout song M always sang rang in her head: “Make new friends, but keep the old. One is silver and the other gold.”
“Bullshit,” Sia said as she bit into a muffin.
CHAPTER 104
If she squinted, Sia could still see a tiny bit of the warehouse through the trees. The oaks were tall. The white birch taller. The poison ivy? Flourishing.
“‘I’ve left a trail,’” she said, summoning “Hansel and Gretel” from memory, “‘like last time!’ Hansel whispered to Gretel. But when night fell, they saw to their horror that all the crumbs had gone.
“‘I’m frightened!’ wept Gretel. ‘And I’m cold and hungry. I want to go home!’”
Sia turned and followed the narrow path into the woods.
• • •
“What did you think you were going to find?” her therapist asked.
“Jackson.”
“Really?”
“Well, maybe not Jack himself, but some sign that he’d been there.”
“Like what?”
Sia put her head in her hands. “A shoe. His wallet. His . . .”
“Yes?”
“His body.”
CHAPTER 105
Oh, they were jealous, all right. The gangly geek and his newsy cohorts. Oozing green as Melissa Cho strutted by, dragging her cameraman along by the nose:
“Not fair.”
“An exclusive?”
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
“Why her?”
“She’s not even a national news reporter.”
“Do you think she’ll share?”
“Motherfucker.”
“Where did she get those god-awful shoes?”
• • •
As they groused, the Dogcatcher lurked behind the neighbor’s rhododendron. Crouched behind the silver Prius parked not twenty yards away. Even crawled under a low fence three doors down.
No one noticed.
• • •
“You have ten minutes,” Sia said. “Ask the questions you want to ask. Film what you want to film. Ten minutes and you’re gone.”
Jilly rolled her eyes.
“And you,” Sia said, “quit making faces or you’re out of here.”
Jilly stuck out her tongue.
“Where is he?” Melissa asked.
Sia took a deep breath. This was it. She was bringing the devil into her house. It damn well better be worth it.
“He’s out here,” Jilly said and she opened the back door. “Ta-da!”
Melissa stepped onto the patio and gasped. “Holy shit.”
“I know,” Jilly whispered to her. “He’s fucking gorgeous up close, isn’t he?”
Toad was where he always was . . . in the chair facing the water.
Gumper was also where he always was . . . standing by Toad, leaning against his leg.
Melissa turned to the cameraman. “Are you filming?”
He wasn’t. He was staring at Toad, too.
“Film!” Melissa said.
“You’re not going to miss anything,” Sia said. “This is it. All that you’re going to see of Toad. No dancing. No walking. No chatting on the telephone or browsing the Internet. Toad sits. Toad stares. That’s it.”
“Seriously?”
“Yes, Melissa, did you think I was exaggerating?”
Melissa nodded. “I think the world does.”
CHAPTER 106
Plum Island Beach is a gently sloping shelf extending some distance out to sea. As a result of the slope, tidal flow does not reach very far horizontally, while breakers are small and close to shore. Boats can easily be launched from or landed on the beach. The shelf causes strong undertow currents that can pluck the thoughtless bather out of the shallows and draw the unsuspecting swimmer out to sea. During severe storms the beach is inundated and the breakers strike the dune line. Over the centuries a number of ships have been wrecked in the shallow waters off Plum Island Beach.*
“Thoughtless bather?” Jilly said.
“Yep.”
“Wiki says that?”
“Right here.”
“Do we have bathers here in Massachusetts? That’s so . . . Scandinavian.”
“If Wiki says we do, we do,” Sia said.
“I’m pretty sure I’ve never seen a bather on our beach. I’d like to, though,” Jilly said. “Bathers are naked, right? Swimmers wear suits?”
“Think so.”
“Is Toad a bather?” Jilly asked.
Sia looked over at Toad. Just what the heck was Toad? An alien? A fish? A brokenhearted man? A freak? A criminal? A runaway? A great pretender?
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