Things Not Seen

by Andrew Clements

  “Does anyone have a record of who has returned this product to Sears?”

  “I don’t know anything about that, sir. But you can return that model number for a product of equal or greater value. Would you like me to go ahead and schedule a UPS pickup for your blanket, sir?”

  “No. No, thanks. Good-bye.”

  “Good-bye, sir, and thank you for calling Sears Customer Service.”

  My next call is Alicia.

  “Guess what?”

  “Um…you woke up this morning perfectly normal, and you’ve also figured out what’s wrong with my eyes.”

  “Nice guess. But you know my electric blanket? It’s made by Sears, and when I called customer service just now and asked about this model, the lady told me that anyone who calls about it is supposed to send it back for a free replacement. And the lady asked me if I use a heart pacemaker, because the note in the file says to tell anyone with a pacemaker not to use it.”

  Alicia says, “So…that means something’s seriously wrong with your blanket. How many’ve been returned?”

  “Don’t know. But if they’re offering to replace it, a lot of people must have had trouble with it.”

  “So can we talk to some of them? You get any names?”

  “No numbers, no names. That’s why I called you. Who should I call next?”

  Alicia doesn’t hesitate a second. “Definitely the legal department. My mom used to do public relations for big companies, and sometimes she had to do damage control. That’s what she called it. You know, a company has a bad product, and they fix it, and then they have to do a media campaign to make sure people know everything’s all fixed. But the lawyers are always in the middle of it. So you call the legal department, and you tell them you’ve got a question about product liability. Mom says that makes big companies crazy. You know, like when all those tires went bad on SUVs? That’s why big companies hire jillions of lawyers. You say, ‘This is David So-and-so from the product liability research center in Baltimore or somewhere, and we’ve gotten a report that such-and-such a blanket is malfunctioning.’ Something like that, just make it up. And see if you can get somebody to tell you how many claims they’ve had, who keeps the records, all that stuff.”

  I gulp. “I couldn’t do that. They’d never believe me…but how about this? How about I read you the phone number for Sears and you call them? You sound like you know what you’re talking about…and I think you’re a better actor than I am.”

  “You think I’m a better actor? What does that mean? You think I’m a good liar, is that it?”

  “Jeez—touchy, touchy. It’s a compliment. I mean you could probably sound like you know something, and I’m just gonna to sound like this dumb kid, that’s all. So, will you do it?”

  Alicia pauses. “Okay. Wait till I record the numbers.”

  “You’ve got a tape recorder in your phone?”

  “No. My dad got me this tiny dictation thingy last year. It’s like a notepad. I can record stuff and then play it back a couple times till it’s memorized. My memory’s gotten pretty good.”

  “Cool.”

  Then I tell her the information about the blanket, and the number at Sears, and she says she’ll call me back.

  Twenty minutes later, I’ve got my mouth full of English muffin and the cell phone rings. “Hi. What’s the news?”

  “No news. These people aren’t giving anything away.”

  “What happened?”

  “I told the guy who answered in the legal office that I was doing a product liability inquiry about blanket model number so-and-so, and three seconds later this lady named Amber Carson picks up. Real serious. So I tell her I’m investigating a complaint from a family in Chicago about this blanket, and right away she just shuts down, tells me nothing. I asked her how many complaints they’ve had. She says, ‘I’m not at liberty to share that information.’ She says, ‘Send me a letter,’ and that was it. End of conversation.” After a pause Alicia adds, “I’m sure they have a list of people who’ve returned those blankets, but there’s no way they’re giving out any names.”

  “And you think the records are in the legal department somewhere?”

  “Sure. In their computer system. They’ve probably got a whole team working on bad products and recalls and claims. But think about it: If you were them, would you hand that information over just because someone asks?”

  “No,” I say, “but who said anything about asking? If they’ve got it, then we go and take it.”

  Alicia laughs. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “Am I?” There’s a hard edge to my voice, and a plan forms as I talk. “You’re the one who said I shouldn’t just sit around for five days and do nothing, remember? So are you ready for a little field trip?”

  Alicia is stunned. “What?…Go out there and try to steal the information? And what do you mean, am I ready? What do I have to do with any of this?”

  I’m the Greek warrior again, more like a general now, planning my campaign, getting my troops ready for battle. “Simple. I can get inside the building, find the right office, get the information, and then print out a list or make a disk or something, but I can’t carry floating paper or plastic around, at least not for very long. If I was a hacker and had a week to try to invade their computer system, I would. But I don’t know how to do that, and I don’t have a week. So I need someone to help. My parents and your parents are the only other candidates. Since I don’t think they’d get behind the idea of stealing corporate secrets, that leaves you.”

  “But…you could just do like when you went to the hospital to visit your mom.”

  “No way. Too warm today. If it’s sixty-five degrees and you wear gloves and a stocking hat and sunglasses and a scarf around your face, you look like a bank robber. And then once I got there looking very suspicious, I’d have to have a place to take off my clothes and hide them, and then come back and get them—it’s too complicated. I need your help, Alicia. You be my body, and I’ll be your eyes. Help me hail a cab, and talk to the driver and pay the fare, wait for me to come back and hand off the stuff, then we take a cab home again.”

  Silence. Then she says, “What if you don’t come back? Like if something happens to you?” I like the way she says that, the tone of her voice. But I keep being the warrior.

  “Nothing’s going to happen. I’m the secret weapon, remember? And even if something did happen, like if it took too long and I didn’t come back to you on time—say, after an hour—then you find someone to help you get a cab, you tell the guy your address, and you come home. And I’d take care of myself. But I’m sure it’ll be all right. So, what do you think? Can you get out, like, tell your mom you’re going to the library early or something?”

  “Yeah…I think I can get out…. Bobby, are you sure this is worth doing?”

  “Sure? How could I be sure? Of course I’m not sure. But it beats doing nothing, right?”

  “…I guess so…. What about cab money?”

  “All set. I’ve got enough cash, my own money, birthdays and stuff. And if we run out, I can just walk into a restaurant or some store, and I’ll help myself to the register…or maybe I’ll try a little pickpocketing.”

  No response.

  “I’m joking, Alicia, I’m joking.”

  “Not funny, Bobby.” No smile in the voice.

  “C’mon, Alicia, lighten up. This’ll be an adventure. Listen, you get all set, and be sure to bring your backpack, and I’ll meet you at the corner of Fifty-seventh and Ellis in about twenty minutes, okay?…And if you’re not there, then I’ll come back home and call to see what’s happened. Okay?”

  “…Okay.”

  “Good. See you in twenty minutes.” Then I push the end button on the phone before she has a chance to think some more. Because if she did that, really thought about it, she’d probably say “No way!” And maybe she’d be right.

  So I run up to my room, pull off my clothes, and roll up a handful of twenty-dollar bills.
<
br />   On my way through the kitchen, I stop and write a short note:

  Mom—gone to Alicia’s. I’ll call you later.

  Bobby

  And that’s true. I probably will end up at Alicia’s house. Just not right away.

  And then I’m down the kitchen steps and out the side door. I’m off to commit my first real crime.

  chapter 20

  DESTINATIONS

  A half hour later I’m shivering, standing at the corner of Fifty-seventh and Ellis. My hand is cramping up from holding the roll of money so tightly. I wait till the coast is clear and tuck the cash between my left arm and my rib cage, hidden by a layer of nonreflective flesh.

  Alicia is late. I look at the bank clock and decide to give her until 11:22. Then I see her tapping toward me, and I start trotting the half block to meet her. It’s too crowded, so I can’t call out “Hey, Alicia!” or something.

  I get close, and I’m about to say a quiet “Hi,” but there’s something about the look on Alicia’s face that stops me. I look behind her and I see the problem. The blind girl has a shadow. It’s her mom. Mrs. Van Dorn is about thirty feet back, holding a book open in one hand and glancing down at it every few steps so she won’t look odd for walking so slowly.

  Falling in step alongside Alicia, I whisper, “Don’t stop, and don’t look toward my voice—your mom is behind you.”

  Without breaking stride or turning her head, Alicia hisses, “I know! She can always tell when I’m lying, and it makes me crazy! And she’s so stupid that she thinks I can’t tell when she’s following me! Our front door makes this squeaking groan, and I can hear it half a block away.”

  “So, what are you gonna to do?”

  “Go to the library like I told her. And once I’m there, she’ll get bored and leave.”

  We get to the library and Alicia goes in and up the elevator, and her mother just sits down on a bench out front, reading her book and glancing up at the doorway now and then.

  The look on Mrs. Van Dorn’s face makes me feel sorry for her. She seems so sad and alone. She’s wearing the same look I keep seeing on Mom’s face. I’ll walk quietly into the den or the kitchen, and Mom will be in the middle of something, but stopped, not paying attention to the computer or the book she’s reading, and she’ll have that same kind of sad, distant look in her eyes. And I always have the feeling that she’s thinking about me. I think Alicia’s mom must do a lot of worrying too.

  Ten minutes go by, and then Mrs. Van Dorn gets up, heaves a big sigh, puts her book under her arm, and starts walking slowly back toward her house. She can go be sad and lonely at home.

  When I’m sure she’s really gone, I go up to the third floor of the library, find Alicia, and in five minutes we’re looking for a cab to take us to the Sears corporate headquarters in Hoffman Estates.

  The first two cabs refuse the fare, and I don’t blame them. It’s about a forty-mile trip. The third cabby looks at Alicia and says, “For you, fifty-five dollars—one-way. Okay?” I whisper, “Okay,” Alicia nods to the driver, and we get inside. When we’re settled, I take her right hand and press my money into her palm.

  Our driver heads straight for Lake Shore Drive north. There’s a thick metal-and-Plexiglas divider between the front and back seat, plus, the driver’s listening to some tinny music. Greek, I think. So Alicia and I talk softly about the plan. Which is pretty basic: I go snoop, she waits. I come back, we leave.

  “But where should I wait? I can’t just hang around in some lobby for an hour.”

  “Of course you can. Lobbies are made for loitering.”

  “Great. I just love to loiter.”

  So I say, “Fine. Here’s a better idea. When we get there, you can ask somebody where you go to get a job application.”

  Alicia wrinkles her nose. “A job application? Me?”

  “Sure. Companies love it when…um…people like you apply for jobs.”

  The eyebrows go up. “People like me?” she says. “You mean people with disabilities, right? Go ahead and say what you mean, Bobby. I know I’ve got a disability, okay? I’m not a baby. Just say it—disability!”

  The driver is craning his neck, looking at Alicia in his mirror, uneasy about this angry outburst from his lone passenger.

  I whisper, “Shh, the driver. Okay, okay: people who have disabilities. They’ll be happy to interview you because they actually have to prove that they try to hire everyone. It’s a federal law or something.”

  Alicia hisses, “It’s called the Americans with Disabilities Act, Mr. Smartguy, and I know all about it, okay?”

  “Fine.” And I sit back and look out the window past the lakeside park to the choppy waters of Lake Michigan. A mile or so out to sea, a huge tanker is steaming north. I wish I were on it.

  Once we’re on the Kennedy Expressway, we start talking again and work out the rest of the plan. Nothing much to it.

  And then I look out the window and start counting the planes circling O’Hare Airport. I spot seven without even trying.

  Then I start watching Alicia’s face. And it’s amazing to me, because I can look at everything—the whole overpopulated, overtraveled, overtrucked, overpaved, overbillboarded, full-color, three-dimensional world zipping by at seventy miles an hour—and I can get bored. And Alicia’s got nothing but her own thoughts and whatever she sees inside her head, and she’s not bored at all. She’s soaking up the trip. Completely alert. I watch, and she has a slight response to every little hum and thump of the tires, the jangling radio music, the flutter and rush of air in the window, the static and garbled bursts from the driver’s two-way, the rumble of a big Kenworth tractor, the whine of a jet on approach, an ambulance screaming past on the eastbound side. A constant flow, bright, fresh pictures with every second. As we sway and bounce and change lanes and brake and accelerate and feel our way along the highway, her nostrils flare like a wild pony sniffing the wind, and I know Alicia’s also processing the smells—the exhaust and kerosene, the accumulated scent of a thousand cab passengers, that half-eaten tin of salad on the seat by the driver—an ocean of airborne information to sift and sort.

  And watching her, I’m not bored.

  Still, it’s a long ride. When we finally arrive, I’m not prepared for the scale of things. The concrete and glass buildings are huge, not tall, but wide and deep and far apart. The place looks more like a college campus than the home of a retail giant. It’s like they took the whole huge, black Sears Tower, broke it up into short chunks, painted it with friendlier suburban colors, and then spread it out over two hundred acres of farmland. Bike paths, a fake pond or two, a basketball court, a huge day-care facility. Very pleasant. Unless you don’t know where you’re going.

  The young woman at the reception desk inside the foyer of the main building looks at Alicia, takes in the whole picture, and then says, “Miss? May I help you find someone?”

  Alicia goes to work. She faces the woman’s voice, smiles, and says, “Yes. I’d like to speak with someone in the employment office. I don’t have an appointment. I’m just looking for some information…about hiring practices for persons with disabilities.”

  “Of course. May I have your name?”

  “Alicia Van Dorn.”

  “Please wait just a moment, Miss Van Dorn.”

  While the lady punches out numbers on her phone, I scan the Sears Merchandise Group map and directory on the wall behind the desk. And I find what I need. Legal services is in a building about a quarter mile away.

  I make a mental note of where the employment offices are, and now I can leave. That’s what Alicia and I planned. She’s going to do her thing, and I’m going to do mine. When I’m done, I find her. It was 11:45 when we got out of the cab. The deal is that if I don’t find her by 1:15, she has someone call her a cab, and she goes back to the library in Hyde Park.

  But I don’t leave. I wait. And I can’t talk, but I tap lightly on Alicia’s cane, and she stiffens, then smiles slightly, and motions with her head and eye
brows, urging me to get going. But I wait anyway.

  About two minutes pass, and a young man wearing chinos and a blue dress shirt with a loud tie comes out of a corridor and walks right over to Alicia. “Miss Van Dorn?”

  Alicia turns and smiles. “Yes?”

  “Hi. I’m John Freeman. I’m with personnel, and I’d be happy to try to answer your questions. Let’s head this way. Would you like to take my arm?” He turns and offers his left arm, elbow crooked just right. He’s helped blind people before. And he looks like a nice enough guy.

  Alicia says, “Thanks,” lifts the end of her cane off the floor, and takes hold of his elbow. And they’re off.

  And now I’ve got one hour and ten minutes to find the names of some unhappy customers.

  chapter 21

  FINDINGS

  News flash: Invisible people make excellent spies and thieves.

  Finding exactly what I want at the legal department is ridiculously easy.

  Access through the security doors? A snap: I wait for a slow moving person of considerable size and slide through the doorway right behind his behind.

  Finding the right information? A cinch: I’ve got a name to work with. Amber Carson is the woman who stonewalled Alicia on the phone about two and half hours ago. I find her office on the fourth floor, which is the only hard part, and then I wait patiently in an empty cubicle until she goes to lunch at 12:25.

  Ms. Carson apparently trusts all her coworkers, because she doesn’t log off of her computer. Which is good because it saves me the trouble of finding Alicia and telling her that this is going to take a lot longer—which it would have, because I’d have had to wait until Amber Carson got back from lunch, then I’d have had to look over her shoulder to learn her password, and then wait for her to leave her office again so I could use her computer.