I don’t know if I could ever be a good lawyer. Lawyers are organized. The folks at Sears keep their files in such good order that I bet I could start from nothing and find whatever I needed in fifteen minutes or less. But I don’t even have to do an actual search. That’s because I’ve got inside information. I happen to know that Amber Carson accessed the very file I’m looking for earlier today when Alicia called her. So all I have to do is use the “Recent Documents” utility on her computer: point, click, and there it is. Which is kind of a shame. I went to a lot of trouble to memorize the model number of the blanket—all ten characters—and now I don’t even need to use it.
The database notes show the entire history of my doomed electric blanket. Turns out 9,308 blankets were sold before it was discovered that some percentage of the controller units had been manufactured with faulty resistors. As of today, 379 consumers have complained, and of those, 163 have accepted a new blanket. When the problem was first noticed, the legal counsel had advised that there should be no product recall, but rather, Customer Service should go with a “replace as requested” plan. Only one customer had complained that he believed the blanket made his heart pacemaker malfunction, but there was no injury and no lawsuit. Still, to be on the safe side, the legal staff set the policy that any complaining customer with a pacemaker should be advised to discontinue use of the blanket and return it immediately for refund, credit, or exchange.
I’m glad I know enough about computers, because all I really want from the file is the list of 379 people who complained about the blanket. And with a couple simple sort functions, I’ve got their names and addresses and phone numbers isolated in a list. Printing out the list would make a big stack of paper—unless you know how to format, which I do. And it turns out that Amber Carson is an important enough person in the Sears legal department to have her own little laser printer on a worktable by a window that looks out over the rolling lawn. So I put the whole list into seven-point type, single-space it, format it into six columns, and print it out. I end up with just three pages—very small type, but readable.
I fold the stack of pages inward from top to bottom three times, and then fold the result in half lengthwise twice more. What I end up with is a wad of paper about an inch wide and two inches long, the perfect size to stick up into my left armpit—gross and uncomfortable, but effective. As long as I keep my left arm clamped against my side, the paper is completely hidden.
By 12:47, I’m on my way to hunt for Alicia. I could just go to the main entrance and wait for her, because that was our plan. But what’s the fun of that? I’d rather track her down.
I glide through three different doors, then down one stairwell, along one corridor, through one last door, and then I’m outside.
It’s a lot more springlike in Hoffman Estates than it was in Hyde Park. People are all over the place, eating lunch, resting, talking with friends. They look like creatures who have crawled out of burrows to soak up some sunlight. Except for the smokers. There’s a little group of them outside almost every doorway, standing around, looking sort of defensive. They’re not outside for the fresh air. I hold my breath when I go past so I don’t have to smell the stuff.
The map at the reception area said the personnel offices are in a building that’s close to the main entrance. Again I wait for someone to help me through the security doors. Once inside, I’m lost. I’m on the ground floor, and it’s an area about the size of three football fields. There are partitions and corridors, nice offices around the perimeter, paintings and posters everywhere, bright and cheery, but it’s still like a maze. This is an employees-only area, so there are no signs, no helpful maps or diagrams except for the occasional emergency evacuation poster.
So I just wander. My shoulder is aching and my arm is starting to go to sleep from the pressure of the clump of paper in my armpit. I’m almost ready to give up and head for our rendezvous spot.
Then I hear Alicia’s laugh, complete with that little snort at the end. I follow the sound to a glass-walled conference room where she’s sitting with a bottle of Snapple and a thick blue folder on the table in front of her. Alicia’s smiling and nodding, moving her head to follow the voices of the people at the table. She looks like she could have just graduated from college. With honors. And three proposals of marriage.
Apparently the guy who picked her up from reception is the big joker, because as I approach, he says something I can’t quite hear, and Alicia and the two other people in the room start cackling again. Also at the table is a man who looks as old as my dad, but with a wrinkly face with a gray mustache and not much hair up top. He’s wearing incredibly thick glasses. The fourth person is a woman who’s maybe thirty, maybe younger. She’s got short blond hair and big earrings, and she’s wearing a soft gray pants-and-jacket outfit with a pink shirt. A nice enough face, a good smile, but squinting. Then I see this lady’s like Alicia. She’s got a white cane on the floor by her chair.
The meeting’s just breaking up, and I’m outside looking in. I get too close to the glass, and my breath fogs it up, so I move back a little. I watch Alicia. She shakes hands, first with the older man and then the woman. The smiles and handclasps are so strong, so real and warm. And it’s like this wave sweeps over me, and my eyes get blurry, and I swallow hard. Alicia takes the arm of the younger man, and I turn and walk away fast. I don’t want her to know I saw any of this. I don’t want her to feel like I’ve been spying on her. I know she came on this trip to help me out. But this meeting she just had? These people she’s met and talked to and laughed with? This is something she’s done on her own. It’s part of her life, not mine. It’s got nothing to do with me.
I’m in the reception area when Alicia and her guide appear, and I keep well away. Another warm handshake, then he’s gone, and the woman at the desk says, “Alicia, I noticed you arrived by cab earlier. Would you like me to call one for you?”
Alicia hesitates, so I hurry over and gently tap on her cane. She’s startled, but doesn’t show it, and then says to the lady, “Yes, that’d be great. And be sure the driver knows this is for a ride to Hyde Park in Chicago. Some drivers don’t want to go that far. And thank you.”
“Certainly. We get good service from the local cab company. They’ll take you wherever you need to go. There’s a bench to the left outside the front entrance if you’d like to wait outdoors. Otherwise, I can show you to a seat inside the doorway.”
Alicia smiles again, says, “Thanks,” and heads for the doorway.
Thinking I’ll be helpful, I take hold of her cane out in front of her hand. She stops and shakes her head sharply. I pull my hand away, and then follow her outside. I wait until she’s found the bench and sits down.
No one’s near, so I say, “I got in, and I printed out a long list of names. Can I put it in your backpack?”
Alicia nods, swings the pack off her back, and unzips the main compartment, holding it open. There in the bag I can see the thick blue folder that she had in the conference room. I glance around, take the list from under my arm, and drop it in. Alicia feels it hit the backpack, so she pulls the zipper closed, swings the bag behind her, and loops the straps back over her shoulders. She whispers, “So, you got something?”
And I whisper back, “Yeah.”
The cab that arrives has no divider between the front and back seat, so I can’t talk to Alicia. There’s nothing to do but settle back in the seat and look out the window.
The outer highways aren’t too crowded, but when we get closer to O’Hare, everything bogs down. The cab is crawling through afternoon traffic, I’m three feet away from two other people, and I can’t talk to either of them. I’ve never felt this alone. And the worst part is that Alicia seems perfectly content not to talk. She seems glad that she doesn’t even have to try.
The driver looks up into his mirror and says, “My sister? She works at Sears out in Rockford. Good company, y’know? Good benefits.”
Alicia nods and smiles, then turns her face
toward the window. The cabby makes a few other attempts to get a conversation going, but Alicia just nods or murmurs a little, so the guy gives up and punches up a country station on the radio.
It’s a slow ride home. It’s almost three, and right on schedule, the cab arrives at my house. I’ve got the list of names stuffed back under my arm. The driver puts the car into park and says, “That’ll be fifty-eight dollars, miss.”
Alicia pushes her door open and I scramble out. Then I lean back inside and I whisper, “Call you later. And thanks.”
Alicia nods slightly to me, then faces the cabby and says, “I’m sorry—I just remembered an errand I have to run. Could you drop me at the big library on Fifty-sixth Street between University and Ellis?” Because that was our plan.
The driver shrugs and puts the car back in gear. “It’s your money.”
Alicia closes her door, and the cab pulls away. I watch her go.
There’s a gust of wind from the east, and I shiver. I turn to go inside.
And I feel like something has ended. Or maybe begun.
Or maybe both.
chapter 22
CALLS FIFTY-NINE AND SIXTY
After I’m home, and after I get Mom off my case for being gone so long, and after I get my door locked and put on some clothes, I unfold the list and flatten it out. I stare at the names and I think about how I got them, and I’m not proud of myself for being a sneak thief. But it had to be done. Because something had to be done. Can’t just sit around and do nothing.
And I think about Alicia. I feel like I should call to make sure she got home okay. But she’d probably just get all hissy about how she can take care of herself. So I root around in my desk until I find a clipboard and put the list on it. Then I pull the cell phone loose from the charger wire, flop down on my bed, and go to work.
My first fifty-eight phone calls to the people on the blanket list break down like this:
thirteen phone service messages that say stuff like, “This number is no longer in service”;
eight answering machines that I don’t leave messages on;
six husbands who don’t know their wives had done any such thing as exchange an electric blanket, and who couldn’t care less;
five wives who don’t know their husbands had exchanged an electric blanket, and who also couldn’t care less;
six lonely old people who remember something about a bad electric blanket, but who really just want to talk to me about their grandchildren, or Wheel of Fortune, or the weather, or the cost of heating oil, or anything at all;
eight people who hang up because they think I’m trying to sell something;
six kids who don’t know when Mom or Dad will be home, or who say Mom or Dad can’t or doesn’t want to come to the phone, and could I call back later;
and six people—two men and four women—who are actually pleasant and cooperative, but had no strange blanket events to tell me about.
Fifty-eight phone calls and not one hint about anything unusual that might have happened because an electric blanket had stopped working properly.
Mom has gotten over being mad about me going out today without telling her anything. Dad has come home from the lab for dinner, but he doesn’t smile about anything. I can tell he’s still churning the data. And for two and a half hours before dinner and two and a half hours after dinner, I’m in my room going through the names from my crumpled stolen list. I’m lying on my bed, microwaves burning up my brain, running up a killer phone bill.
So it’s about quarter of ten, and I make the fifty-ninth call. I know it’s kind of late, but I skip ahead two names to a person who lives in Denver, because it’s an hour earlier there.
“Mr. Borden?”
“Yes?”
“Sorry to bother you at home, but I’m doing a survey about your experience with a Sears electric blanket.”
“A blanket?”
“Yes, from Sears. Do you recall exchanging the blanket?”
“Yeah, we had a pink one. It was prob’ly my wife did it. But it wasn’t really our blanket. It was just…left here.”
“Left there? You mean at your home?”
The man doesn’t answer at once. His voice is strained. “My daughter. Sheila. That was her blanket.”
“May I please talk with her, then?”
“No, she’s…she’s gone now.”
I hear the catch in his voice. And that certain way he uses the word “gone.”
I don’t know what to say. “Oh. I…I’m so sorry, Mr. Borden. I hope you don’t mind me asking, but this is pretty important. Do you think your daughter’s death had anything to do with the electric blanket?”
“Death?” he says. There’s anger in his voice. “She’s not dead. That’s the hell of it. She’s just…gone. Over three years now.”
I feel the hair on my arms stand up—invisible goose bumps. “Gone, you mean like…how? Like run away from home? Something like that?”
The man blows his nose, clears his throat. “Don’t really know. She dropped out of college, moved back home, gets a job. Then she takes up with some of her old friends, starts staying out late. Came home drunk most nights. Sleeps next day till noon, gets up, goes to her job at the restaurant, and on like that for about two months. Then one night she comes in late, goes to bed, and the next morning…gone.”
“…And you haven’t heard from her since?”
“Only once. She called, asked could we send her two thousand dollars—two thousand more than the four she already stole when she left. Send it Western Union, she says, to this grocery store in Florida. So I did it. Probably stupid, but if you have kids, you know why I had to do it. That’s about two years ago. Since then, nothing—’cept a note last Christmas. And it’s not like it was even a card or something nice for her mother. Just one of those computer messages.”
My heart almost stops. “You mean an e-mail?”
“I guess so. It’s just plain letters on a piece of typing paper. Sent it to Mrs. Harlan’s house next door, then her boy made a copy on his computer and brought it over to us.”
“Mr. Borden, it’s really important that I talk to your daughter. Do you still have that message your neighbor brought to you?”
“You kiddin’? My wife keeps everything—pictures, bits of hair, baby shoes, first tooth, report cards—everything. Tore her up when Sheila left.”
“Could you find that paper for me?”
“You mean right now?”
“Please…if it’s not too much trouble. It might be a big help.”
“Hang on. I’ve got to walk upstairs.”
I’m on my feet now, pacing. I go over to my desk and open up a little notebook. My hands are so sweaty, it’s hard to hold the ballpoint. He’s taking a long time.
There’s a click on the line as Mr. Borden picks up another extension.
“You still there?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Okay. Here’s what it says: ‘Dear Mom and Dad, I just wanted to say Merry Christmas. I know I left so suddenly, but I think it was the best thing for all of us. Sorry if it hurt you. I think about you a lot, and I hope I can come home to see you again. Love, Sheila.’”
I don’t want to hear all this, but once he’s started, I can’t interrupt. His voice is thick at the end, and when he stops, I say, “Mr. Borden, at the top of the page, is there something that has the ‘at’ symbol in it—a little ‘a’ inside a circle? It might even say ‘From,’ and then have a bunch of letters or numbers?”
I’m holding my breath. “Yeah, up at the top. It says ‘From,’ and then there’s something like that.”
“Can you please spell it out for me, just exactly the way it’s written?”
“It’s not written, it’s all typed.”
“That’s what I mean. Just the way it’s typed.”
“It says ‘e-i-l-a-s-h,’ then that ‘at’ doohickey, then it says ‘g-l-o-w-z’ and then a period, and then ‘n-e-t’—‘net.’ And that’s all of it.”
<
br /> “Mr. Borden, thanks so much for your help. I really appreciate it.”
“Well, you’re welcome. And I hope you can fix this blanket problem of yours.”
“Thanks. Me too.”
I push the button to end the call, and I see the phone wobbling. That’s because my hands are shaking. Maybe this is nothing, just a coincidence. But if there’s anything at all to find out, I will. Because now I have Sheila Borden’s e-mail address: [email protected]. Her dad probably never even noticed that “eilash” is just “Sheila” mixed around a little. That’s probably the only e-mail he ever got in his life.
Dad and Mom are both in the study, sitting in the big armchairs on either side of the tall reading lamp. Dad is dozing, a clipboard with notes and diagrams lying in his lap. Mom looks up from her book and smiles when my clothes walk in. I sit down at the computer, and she frowns.
“It’s almost bedtime, Bobby.”
“I just have to use the Net a few minutes.”
She goes back to her book, and when the computer is ready, I open up a search engine. I find the people search features, and jump around until I see what I need. It’s a reverse-hunt engine: You put in an e-mail address, and unless the person you are looking for has been a freak about online privacy, that e-mail address leads you right to the rest of their data.
So I scroll to the right box, and I key in “eilash@ glowz.net.”
I’ve got her: Sheila Borden lives in Miami, and I’ve got her street address and her phone number!
When I shout, Dad sits up straight and his clipboard clatters to the floor. Mom stares over her book at me.
“What?”
“Oh, sorry. Nothing. Just found a cool website, that’s all.” Because I don’t want to jinx this. It’s probably nothing, and besides, I don’t want to get stuck trying to explain about my field trip to Sears for the rest of the night.
“Well, it’s your bedtime. And you too, David. You’ve been sitting here snoring, so don’t tell me you’ve got work to do. Up now, both of you.”
Things Not Seen Page 15