Time and Trouble

by Gillian Roberts

  Billie tried to look neither startled nor amused. Special knowledge, indeed. She cleared her throat. “About the baby-sitting…” she prompted.

  Sophia nodded and glanced fearfully toward the kitchen, toward the thought of Arthur, who’d saved her, whom she was attempting to delude along with the insurance company—Arthur, who owned her poor, unskilled self. “Penelope’s done more than her usual sitting this year. She was saving toward college. At least until she met him.” She frowned. “Unless she wasn’t baby-sitting at all. Unless that was a lie so that she could meet him.” Her indignation was short-lived. She sagged and sighed.

  Arthur, having presumably finally learned how to boil water, reappeared carrying a tray laden with a carafe, a box, and a small ceramic bowl.

  Billie watched the Redmonds’ interaction, or noninteraction, with the fascination she might give the stylized motions of Kabuki theater. Husband and wife seldom looked at each other or directly responded, unless Arthur’s growls counted. Now, while Arthur made much fuss over his tea ceremony, clattering cups onto the tray, twisting the carafe top, and asking Billie what flavor she wanted, Sophia, without acknowledging his arrival, continued to look skyward and mull over baby-sitting clients.

  “She made up this box of different kinds,” Arthur said, holding out a calico-covered box with neat rows of packaged teabags. “Any kind you can think of. Peppermint, chamomile, raspberry-lemon…”

  “Lemon, please.” Billie didn’t want tea. Didn’t want to stay long enough to drink it. But going along with the Redmonds’ sense of timing, not interrupting their performance piece, promised to be more rewarding than forcing them into her mold.

  “Oh,” Sophia said, “of course! How silly of me—our next-door neighbors! Don’t know how I forgot! Lord, Sunny uses her all the time, what with those three boys of hers.”

  Billie nodded encouragement. “Good.”

  “Sugar or sweetener?” Arthur asked.

  “Nothing, thanks.” Billie’s house was chaotic and a mess, but there was a sense to the interruptions and detours. A three-year-old lived there. A Russian immigrant. And a crazed single mother. Theirs was an intricate and jaggedy dance, but it was with each other, and in the end, or at least so far, it worked. But living here in this tidy, controlled unhappiness would drive her mad. She wondered if perhaps Penny was. “If you have those addresses, or phone numbers,” she told Sophia Redmond, “I’d appreciate them, and if you think of any more people, let me know.”

  “All nonsense,” Arthur grumbled. “The kids she baby-sits didn’t take her away. Neither did their folks.”

  Sophia said nothing.

  “It’s possible that the young man in question spent time with her while she baby-sat,” Billie said.

  “That’s against the rules,” Sophia said firmly.

  So was running away. And so was faking an injury. “Perhaps he picked her up, gave her a ride home. Or she mentioned him by name to a client.” Billie felt less and less sure of the worth of these names as she spoke, but Arthur was such a pain in the ass, she wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of agreeing with him. Besides, if she didn’t gather names and a list of places to go and people to see—what would she do? “It’s a start,” she added. “Could I see her room before I leave?”

  “Her room?” Sophia looked on the verge of panic.

  Because she can’t go up with me? Billie wondered. Can’t monitor me, or mist the air with her babble? What is she hiding? “A girl’s room has a lot of clues as to her interests, friends, maybe even this mysterious young man,” she said. “Or his address.”

  “It must be filthy! I’ve been sleeping down here on a roll-away and I haven’t had a chance to dust or tidy, and she isn’t the neatest girl. A teenager, you understand, we’ve all been there, maybe you even have children of your own, you’d understand, but even so, I’m so ashamed—”

  “Sophia!” Arthur uttered his rebuke/command/reflex without looking up from his teacup.

  Billie took the combination of Sophia’s flutters and Arthur’s bark as permission. She stood up. “I’ll only be a moment.” She waited half a second, watching both their expressions, but their eyes still didn’t meet, and she didn’t think they were hiding anything. Not collectively, at least.

  Sophia’s voice gave instructions and running commentary the entire time Billie was en route to Penny’s room. “The room at the back,” she said. “When you’re up the stairs, go straight back. It’s all pink, you’ll recognize it. I tried to make a nice place for her, but nothing was ever enough. But I’m sure that kidnapper didn’t buy eyelet dust ruffles for her.”

  “Sophia!” Arthur’s voice seemed far away as Billie entered a room so pink, she felt in utero. She wondered whose doings it was—Sophia for the girly-girly bedspread and curtains, the ruffled and useless pink desk lamp and Penelope, perhaps, counteracting by painting her walls such a hot purply-pink they were reason enough to flee?

  No photos of friends. No rock- or movie-star posters. No address book or diary in dresser drawers or desk. No schoolbooks. Nothing in the wastepaper basket except a crumpled flyer about specials at Thrifty. A whole lot of clothing gone; the pieces that were left the sort that would be worn by the lampshade-bedspread girl. Penny was leaving behind the girl her mother wanted her to be.

  That one, the one she’d left as a souvenir for her family, was without character or definition, and certainly mean-spirited about dropping clues to her whereabouts.

  It didn’t feel like a teenager’s room. Particularly one who’d rushed off impetuously. She felt sure that somebody had been up here cleaning and possibly removing and Billie didn’t think it had been Arthur or Wesley. That’s what Sophia’s protests were about—fear that Billie would know she was agile enough to climb the stairs.

  Billie made her farewells, promised to keep the Redmonds informed, and left, carrying the photo and list of names. Then she drove her car half a block and sat waiting, feeling like the infamous dirty old man parents warned against.

  The school bus discharged three children, two girls who headed around the corner and one scrawny boy. He looked even younger than eight, his head too big for his neck, his back slightly bent under the burden of an overstuffed pack. What on earth could he be carrying in it? Were the schools that rigorous about homework in third grade? She watched him until she was sure he had to be Wesley and then walked toward him.

  His eyes widened.

  Don’t talk to strangers. How many times must Sophia have repeated that to him? And she was right, and Billie was asking the kid to break a promise, do something potentially dangerous. “Wesley?” Billie the stranger asked.

  He walked more quickly.

  “I know you aren’t supposed to talk to strangers, but I’m not really one, and I’ll only take a minute. Maybe less. Can I walk you home?”

  He looked suspicious, confused and frightened. She felt a maternal pang, transposing her own son to this boy’s place. Last thing on earth she wanted to do was scare a kid. “My name’s Billie August and I was just at your house talking to your mom and dad. I’m trying to help them find Penny.”

  He stopped and narrowed his eyes still more. She wondered whether there was any basis to squinting. Did reducing vision really sharpen it? What was the boy looking for?

  Wesley resumed his trudge, but less vigorously. Besides, they were near enough home for him to bolt to safety if needed.

  “Could I ask you a few questions? It’s okay if you don’t know the answers, but if you did, it would help a lot.”

  “Do you know where Penny is?” His little-boy voice made his question a hopeful passage played by a flute.

  “Not yet. First, we have to find out the name of the fellow she went away with, then there’s a really good chance we’ll find her.”

  “She said she’d call me, but she didn’t.” He shrugged skinny shoulders under an all-weather jacket. “I don’t know where she is, lady.”

  “You must miss her a lot. Sounds like you’re
her special friend.”

  He darted a suspicious look at Billie.

  “Because she told you she was going to leave, but she didn’t tell anybody else. In the whole world.” The white porch was close ahead. “Can we sit on your steps?”

  “I don’t know where she is,” he repeated, but he put his backpack on the bottom riser.

  “Did she talk to you about this boy?”

  “He isn’t a boy. He’s a man. Penny said that. He was a man, not immature like everybody else. Her knight in shiny armor.”

  Behind her, Billie could swear someone had pulled a curtain back and was watching.

  “He went to college,” Wesley said.

  “Now? You mean he’s in college now?”

  He looked unsure, then shook his head. “He went. Not anymore. He can go back in time, too. But like a game.”

  Billie nodded. “Did you ever meet him?”

  He shook his head.

  “Did Penny say his name?” she asked casually. “Do you remember?”

  He flicked a glance toward his house, then looked at Billie. “She said it was our secret. But I think maybe he’s a bad person. I think he took her away, kidnapped her—know why?”

  Billie shook her head no.

  “Because she wouldn’t leave. He was gonna rescue us. But then he took her away and left me. Or maybe soon they’ll come get me, too, and that’s why she told me she’d call. She wouldn’t leave.” He shook his head, confirming his words. “She wouldn’t leave me.” He blinked quickly. “Not ever. She said.”

  Billie sighed, not feigning the sympathy she felt for him. And for Penelope Redmond, who had surely meant those words, before life intervened. “Well, then,” she said softly, “we probably should do whatever we can to find her, correct?”

  He looked at her gravely. “His name is Stewart. I wasn’t supposed to tell, but if he took her away, if he’s bad… ‘My Stewart,’ she said. ‘The Stewart.’ But I don’t know where he took her. I hate him! I hope you arrest him!”

  And then, before Billie could say any of the platitudes adults offer as a smokescreen against the naked pain of children, he turned, and blinking hard again, grabbed his backpack and ran up the front steps.

  Nine

  Arthur Redmond watched Wesley skitter double-time toward the stairs.

  “Hold it right there!” Arthur boomed. The kid was his flesh and blood, no denying it. He looked like snaps of Arthur at his age, but the resemblance was skin-deep. He disliked the very thought that some of his DNA had turned into Wesley. The kid was more rabbit than boy, jumpy over the ghosts and ghoulies he saw everywhere. Including, apparently, in the face of his own father. “Where you running to?”

  Wesley silently turned and walked back to the living room. Bump, slide—the bookbag behind him.

  “Don’t drag that thing on my floors!” Sophia called out.

  Arthur winced. The sound of her was an icepick through his ear into his brain.

  Wesley, minus bookbag, came in and waited.

  That’s how it was with both of them. They waited. Arthur felt like he had to act, do things, say things, or they’d pounce. Except for Penny, who liked to pounce first, who wasn’t afraid. They’d better find her, and fast.

  The kid’s eyes were red-rimmed. Rabbity. Why didn’t he ever smile? Why didn’t he bring anybody home? Play ball after school? Ride his bike with somebody, not by himself? What was wrong with him?

  “Weren’t you even going to say hello to me?” Sophia’s voice was almost coy, full of mellowness now that her floors were no longer in jeopardy.

  Her floors. Her curtains. Her sofa. He couldn’t stand how she labeled the things she took care of as “hers.”

  “Don’t put your dirty hands on my cabinets,” she’d say.

  If Sophia passed a dustrag over it, it became hers. What was Arthur’s, then, besides the mortgage? “She make you cry?” he asked his son.

  Wesley looked as if he might cry again. “Nobody made me cry. I wasn’t crying!”

  “Then you’d better have your doctor take a look, because you have pink-eye.” Arthur could feel Sophia shoot him a glance, but the boy needed toughening. Who’d he think he was fooling? A crybaby. He needed to know he couldn’t get away with lying to his own father. “What did she want?” he asked.

  Wesley looked at the floor. At her floor. Her fake Aubusson or whatever it was. Supposed to make her house look homey. “Who?” he squeaked out.

  “You think I’m suddenly blind or stupid?” Arthur said. “That woman you were talking to on the front steps. One minute ago.”

  “She said she talked to you first,” Wesley said.

  “I’m not saying you shouldn’t have—I’m asking what she wanted!”

  “Arthur.” Sophia sounded like she had a whole lot on her mind, but was too tired to get out more than his name.

  “Are you going to answer me? What’s wrong with you?”

  “She—she—she wanted to know about Penny. If I knew where she was.”

  “Did you?” God knows, he and Penny were always whispering, giving each other meaningful looks, laughing until their father walked into the room, although what a teenaged girl, nearly a woman, had to tell a twerp, he’d never know. It was close to sick, their relationship, like she was his second mother. Only because his first mother was so useless. “Did you maybe remember something new?”

  Wesley shook his head.

  “He’s tired,” Sophia said. “All that school and the ride home. Let him have a snack, rest—”

  “He isn’t a baby! We’re talking! So what did you tell her?”

  “Nothing.”

  “I saw you yakking! I saw you opening and shutting your mouth—what was that? Air coming out?”

  Wesley blinked. Sometimes Arthur was convinced the boy was honestly mutating into a rabbit. The resemblance was astounding. “I told her to arrest whoever took Penny away, and I hope she does! Can I go now?”

  Arthur felt the muscles of his arms clench. No, he wanted to say. No. You can’t. Because I say so. He couldn’t even think why he’d want to keep him here, his scrawny neck bowed, eyes on the floor—her goddamned floor—except that he couldn’t stand this fearful, cowardly creature scurrying away from him. Always away. He was hers, like the floors, the dining-room table. Everything. Nothing was his. No gratitude in this house.

  “Have a snack before you go upstairs,” Sophia said. “The apples are delicious, and there’s lots of…” But Wesley was long gone.

  “You could get him one,” Arthur said. “They’re so good and healthy for him, why don’t you behave like a mother? Maybe if you did, your daughter wouldn’t have run off.”

  “I can’t walk right…. I—”

  “The cane’s right there. You’re supposed to try it, aren’t you? You could make it into the kitchen, for God’s sake.”

  She sat where she was, a lump. He was beginning to think she was faking the injury. Only reason it’d taken him so long to figure it out was he couldn’t understand why she’d want to. And lie to him, too. She didn’t need money. He worked like a pig so that he could pay for everything. Just look at her list of possessions to prove that. Not like she had a real job with real working hours. She did the books for him, a few odd jobs, and the rest of her time was spent dusting and watching the tube. What more did she want?

  Then it dawned on him. She wanted to avoid him. To do nothing for him. Wanted all the benefits he provided but no physical contact even if it meant sleeping on a roll-away. Which was increasingly fine with him. Let her be an invalid.

  “You’re wrong,” Sophia said.

  Of course. He always was to her. Wrong in every way. Too mean to her baby boy. Too strict with her daughter, the girl he’d taken in and raised as his own. Too cheap with the household money. Too everything. Big news.

  “About her.”

  Her? Wrong about her? Who? “You mean that snotty kid detective you hired? I’m not wrong—she’s a waste of money. Get your ass out of that chai
r and you could ask the same questions she’s going to. You’re the one had to provide all the information as it is.”

  “It isn’t my fault.”

  “And when you decide to hire somebody, you use an article in the paper—a puff-piece—as a guide. And then, you didn’t even get the goddamned owner, the one the story’s about. You got a kid. You’re crazy, you know that?”

  “We got them both. And that doesn’t change the fact that she knows.”

  “The detective? Which one? Who are you talking about?” He looked at the room. The teacups and paraphernalia were still on the table, where they’d stay till the house collapsed if Sophia kept playing cripple. Until he left. Then she cleaned up, because she could not stand clutter or mess. As if he wouldn’t notice, put two and two together. “Who knows what?” He could have been questioning the ceiling, the cold tea the August woman had left. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  He swore—if she didn’t get her act together soon, start talking like a human being, acting like one, shape up that twerp son of hers, find her goddamned lying and dangerous slut of a daughter—he didn’t know what he’d do.

  Sophia peered at her hands like she’d never noticed them before, like she was so involved with examining them she hadn’t heard him.

  “Who knows what?”

  Now she lifted her eyes, shocked that he’d raised his voice, then lowered them as she looked down at the arm of her easy chair. At the big rose flower print with the green leaves. It had taken her a whole year to find what she wanted, and when she had, it was as ordinary as mud, far as he could see.

  She knew the silent treatment drove him up the wall. She used it like torturers used the rack. God knows she babbled if anybody else was around. Couldn’t stop talking, except when they were alone, which she made sure happened as little as possible.