“Just throw the stuff in the back seat,” I said. She sighed, opened the rear door, and set the bags on the floor. She slammed it shut and got in the front.
“Sorry I'm late,” I said.
Sarah nodded. “Did you get anything?”
“Hmm?”
“At Kenny's. Did you get anything? Did the drop-thingy come in?”
“No,” I said. “It hadn't come in. But it's hard to get, they stopped making it years ago, and Kenny doesn't even know for sure whether he can get one. I'll just have to keep looking around, you know? Like, maybe next time we go to New York, I can check that shop down in Greenwich Village, the comic store that had all the really obscure model kits?”
“Whatever,” Sarah said. “I got the steaks, and some romaine, which was, if you can believe this, the same price as it was at Mindy's, there must be, like, a frost or something in California, I don't know, and the other stuff I needed, plus I got some more frozen pizzas. I bought five of them on the weekend, and I looked in the fridge last night and there wasn't a single one left.”
“Don't look at me.”
“The kids must be making them after we go to bed. I make them dinner, they say they're not hungry, that they went out for lunch, or had a snack at someone's house after school, and then at ten o'clock they're in the kitchen heating up pizzas. It makes me crazy.”
I said nothing the rest of the way home. I knew Sarah was still thinking there was something wrong with me, but she wasn't going to bring it up again. She grabbed the bags from the back seat while I went to open the front door, but it was already unlocked. There were several pairs of shoes in the front hall, kicked about haphazardly, which meant Paul and Angie had brought some friends home with them. As Sarah went past me into the kitchen, I said, “Hang on, I think I left something in the car. I'll be back in a second.”
I pressed the trunk button on the remote and watched it swing open. I reached inside and grabbed the purse in my right hand. This was the first time I'd had my hand on it since learning it wasn't Sarah's, and it was like touching ice. A chill swept over me.
“Stupid stupid stupid stupid stupid,” I whispered to myself.
Of course, now that I knew it didn't belong to Sarah, I realized that the purse did not look familiar to me. It was a dark brown leather bag, and Sarah's tastes ran to black and deep blue. To Sarah, this would be one of the more moronic aspects of this crime. I could almost hear her now: “If you'd been asked to kidnap me, instead of steal a purse, would you have been able to pick me out of a crowd? Or would you have come home with the housecoat lady?”
Again, I tried tucking it under my jacket, which looked almost as ridiculous as if I'd simply carried it out in the open. But I was able to get through the front door and into my study without Sarah seeing me, although she heard me and called out, “You want to start up the barbecue so we can do these steaks and then help me rinse this lettuce?”
“Yeah, in a minute,” I said, slipping the purse out from under my jacket.
About then, Paul and three of his friends—Andy, Hakim, and Darryl—came bounding down the stairs from his bedroom, rounding the corner and heading for the door to the basement. Darryl had several video-game cartridge boxes in his hand, indicating to me that they were planning to park themselves in front of the downstairs television for the next several hours. Andy caught a glimpse of me as he passed the study door and shouted, “Hey, Mr. Walker!”
“Hi, guys,” I said.
“Nice purse, Mr. Walker,” Andy said. “Suits you.”
My heart skipped a beat. “Thanks,” I said, closing the door. I flicked on the desk lamp next to the keyboard, sat down in my writing chair, and set the purse on the table.
Sitting there, in the quiet of my study, the video game noises in the basement and the soft sounds of water running in the kitchen both muted by the closed door, with the handbag of a woman I did not know on the desk in front of me, I began to sweat. I took a couple of deep breaths, letting them both out slowly, in a bid to get my heart rate down a bit.
“Relax,” I said. Okay, I had done a stupid thing, a really stupid thing. But this was a problem that could be solved. In short order. Before Sarah got wind of it and had something she could lord over me the rest of our marriage.
I unzipped the top of the purse and peered inside. I didn't want to look very closely. I had a sense of the invasion I was perpetrating. All I wanted was a wallet. For a name and an address. The purse had some heft to it, there was a lot of stuff in there, but my interests were very specific. I just wanted to track down the owner.
There were some tissues, a couple of white tubes down in the bottom I realized were tampons (oh man), a film canister, a couple of letter-size white envelopes stuffed with papers, a small makeup bag, a set of car keys with a “VW” emblem on the side, and a red leather wallet. Gingerly, I reached into the bag and took it out.
I unsnapped and opened it. There was the usual assortment of credit cards. I took one out, a Visa, and read the name: Stefanie Knight. Okay, Stefanie, now we just have to find out where you live. I rooted around in the wallet. There was a twenty and a five, a mini-pocket for coins that was heavy with pennies, and there, tucked in with the cash, was a hard plastic card that looked like a driver's license.
I took it between my thumb and forefinger and held it under the lamp. Her photo wasn't terribly flattering; driver's license pictures never are. Her hair wasn't quite as blonde when it was taken, and there were dark lines under her eyes, like the picture was taken during a police lineup rather than at the DMV. But there was a passing resemblance to the woman in the off-white suit that I'd walked past in the grocery store.
And I had the same feeling, looking at the photo, that Sarah said she'd had upon seeing the woman, that she knew her from someplace. I studied the photo for several seconds, tried to place her. I felt as though I'd seen her someplace recently, but exactly when and where wouldn't come to me. It's like when you see your mailman at the mall; you know you know him, but seeing him out of context throws you, hinders recognition.
Next to the photo was her actual license number, a long jumble of numbers and letters, and below that, her name—KNIGHT, STEFANIE J.—and an Oakwood address on a street I didn't know: 2223 Deer Prance Drive. If not our own neighborhood, it sounded like a street in a new development someplace.
So, I had a name and an address. All that was left was for me to do my civic duty and return the purse to her. In an hour, this would all be over, and there'd be nothing else to do but laugh about it.
12
i wrote stefanie knight's address on a piece of paper and tucked it into my pocket. Then I put the wallet back into the purse. I was going to have to take the purse back out to the car again, and needed something to put it in so I wouldn't have to keep hiding it under my jacket. I opened the closet in my office and found, tucked way in the back, a Nike gym bag that was stuffed with some old track pants, sweat socks, and a couple of T-shirts. It brought back memories of a time when I believed in physical fitness.
I yanked the clothes out to make room for the purse, felt myself getting a bit queasy, and then wondered whether it wasn't bad enough that I had stolen Stefanie Knight's purse. Did I have to return it smelling like moldy cheese?
So I threw my clothes back into the gym bag and looked for something else. I found a heavyweight plastic shopping bag with a drawstring top that had come from a shoe store, and stuffed the handbag into that.
I had a map book in the car to help me find Deer Prance Drive. Hanging on to the bag from the drawstring, I slipped out the study door, careful not to be glimpsed from the kitchen, and made my way out to the front step. I'd toss the bag into the car and—
“Hey,” said Sarah. She was standing at the end of the driveway. How did she get out there? Did she have a transporter in the kitchen? And she was talking to Trixie, dressed in a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt.
“Oh, you're out here,” I said. Trixie gave me a knowing smile.
; “Zack,” Trixie said.
“Trixie was telling me you guys had coffee the other day.”
I nodded. Things seemed to be spinning.
“You people who work from home,” Sarah said, pretending to scowl. “No bosses to answer to, coffee breaks whenever you want them. No commute into the city. I should be so lucky. What I don't get is, and this is something I've talked about with Zack, when you work from home, don't you start feeling isolated, with no coworkers to talk to?”
“Well,” Trixie said, “that's not always the case.”
“Sure,” I said. “I'm on the phone a lot through the day. You're still talking to people, even if it's not face-to-face.”
“Of course, you have people coming to your house,” Sarah said to Trixie.
“That's right. And it can get pretty busy, they start stacking up like planes.”
Sarah chuckled. “You know, I wouldn't miss commuting in to The Metropolitan. Maybe you could use an assistant.”
Trixie nodded with mock enthusiasm. “Sounds great. I'd be happy to show you the ropes.”
“I really should get going,” I said.
“Where would that be, exactly?” Sarah asked. “I thought you were going to start the barbecue for the steaks. And what's in the bag? You taking back some shoes?”
“No, it's an old bag. I've got something in here to take back to Kenny's.”
“You were just there.”
“I know. I was telling him that that Batman kit I bought a while ago came without some of the parts it was supposed to have, and he said trying to order individual parts would be impossible, so he said just return the whole kit and he'll try to get a replacement.”
“And you need to do this now.”
“He closes pretty soon, and I was thinking I might work on it tonight, after dinner.”
“I always liked Batman,” Trixie said. “Although I guess my favorite was Catwoman. Something about the outfit.”
Sarah sighed. “If you can, be fast, 'cause I'm getting hungry.”
I tossed the bag into the back seat, then worried Sarah would look in it. But so long as she believed it had something to do with Batman, I was safe. “I'll just get the barbecue going,” I said, and ran back into the house, through the kitchen, and out through the glass doors to the deck. I opened the lid on the barbecue, turned on the gas, and, forever the optimist, pressed the red ignition button.
Nothing.
I clicked it a second time, then a third. “Goddamn thing.” Why did I think it would suddenly start working now, just because I had an urgent errand to run? This'll work forever, the salesman said when we bought it. How long ago had that been? Three months, four?
By now, there was enough propane circulating in the atmosphere that if the red button beat the odds and actually worked on the fourth try, they'd be picking up pieces of me in Trixie's backyard. I turned the valve off hard, waved my hand around to disperse the gas, and went into the house for some matches. Confident there was no leftover propane hanging around in the atmosphere, I turned the gas back on and immediately dropped a lit match into the bottom of the barbecue. There was a soft “poof” as the flame ignited.
I got the burners on both sides going, then lowered the lid to let the heat build up.
Paul and his buddies were coming into the kitchen as I came through the glass doors. “What's to eat?” Paul asked.
“I'm just heating up the barby,” I said. “If your friends want hot dogs or something, I think we've got some in the fridge. I've got to go out for a few minutes.”
“Don't forget your purse,” said Andy, who was already into our fridge like it was his own. “You got any Coke?”
“Dad,” Paul said. “You got a sec?”
I didn't, but I stopped anyway. “Yeah?”
“Angie told me she told you what I wanted to do.”
I was trying to remember. “Maybe you could refresh my memory.”
“About a tattoo.”
“No.”
“No, she didn't tell you?”
“Yes, she told me, and no, you can't get one.”
Paul was crestfallen. “Can we, like, talk about this?”
“We are talking about this. And I'm saying no.”
“I don't believe this. You haven't even heard me out. You don't even know what I'm asking for.”
“Are you asking whether you can get a tattoo?”
“Maybe, yeah, but—”
“You're too young. You need my permission, I think, at any reputable tattoo parlor, to get a tattoo at your age, and I'm not signing.”
“Everyone has them, Dad. It's not a big deal.”
“I'd love to discuss this with you, but I have an errand to run.”
“Sure. Walk away.”
I grabbed my cell phone off the table by the front door and slid it into my jacket pocket on the way out, didn't stop to chat with Sarah and Trixie, who were still at the end of the drive, and squealed out.
Once I was down around the corner on Lilac, where I couldn't be seen, I pulled over and got out the map book. Deer Prance Drive was on the other side of Oakwood. I got across town in about fifteen minutes and found that Stefanie Knight's house was in a new development that was every bit as architecturally fascinating as our own, except this one was completely finished, no uncovered foundations, no houses waiting for sod.
Deer Prance was off Autumn Leaves Lane (God almighty, where would it end?), and as I turned onto it, I leaned back in the seat enough that I could reach into the front pocket of my jeans and fish out the piece of paper with the street number on it. There was still another hour of sunlight, and the house numbers were easy to read.
Deer Prance was a street of relatively new townhouses, and I found 2223 on the left side, about two-thirds of the way down. The driveway already had an old Ford Escort in it, and there was no room either behind or next to it for my car, so I found a spot at the curb.
As I got out of the car, the drawstring of the bag looped around my hand, I noticed that for a new development, this stretch already had a slightly run-down look. The paint was peeling on some of the garage doors, one car up the street was on blocks, and tucked out of the way between 2223 and 2225 were a rusted-out stove and an abandoned tricycle.
As I mounted the steps, I noticed two cases of empty beer bottles, just outside the door, waiting to be taken back to the store. There was an aluminum screen door between me and the wooden front door, but I didn't have to pull it open to knock. There was no glass or screen in it, so I rapped directly on the wood.
I could hear some talking inside, and a radio going, but no sound of approaching footsteps. After about ten seconds, I knocked again.
Inside, a woman's voice: “Jimmy!”
A pause, a young man's voice, from somewhere deeper in the house, perhaps upstairs: “What?”
“Door!”
“Get it yourself! I still can't find Quincy!”
“Jesus, why the fuck did you let him out anyway?”
“Get the frickin' door yourself, your legs broken?”
“You better find him lickety-split!”
I heard some padding toward the door, and then it opened only a crack.
“Yeah?” I saw a sliver of a woman's face. One eye, a cheek, half a mouth.
“Uh, hi. I was looking for Stefanie?”
“Stef? You're looking for Stef?”
Stef. Now that rang a bell.
“Yes,” I said. “Would she be in?”
“I'm gonna invite you in,” the woman said. “But when I open the door, you have to come in real fast. Y'understand?”
Hesitantly, I said, “Sure.”
And then the door swung open wide, the woman grabbed me by the wrist and dragged me inside, then closed the door forcefully. I was going to have to be fitted with a whiplash collar.
“I don't want Quincy to get out,” she said. I glanced around the floor, looking for a little dog or cat, but saw nothing.
This woman might have been fifty, but it h
ad been a hard fifty. Her hair was gray and pinned back, and she wore a white short-sleeved blouse with enough grease stains to qualify it as a Jackson Pollock. Her short sleeves revealed meaty shoulders and upper arms.
“So you want Stef?” The woman cocked her head just a little, looked me up and down, and her eyes danced darkly.
From upstairs: “Is it for me, Mom?”
“No!” Not taking her eyes off me. “Just keep looking!” She sighed. “She don't live here,” she said coolly, glancing down at the plastic bag that hung from my wrist.
“Oh. Okay. See, I had this address for her, but if I've got the wrong house . . .”
“You got the right house. But she don't live here no more. She hant lived here for a couple years at least. What's your business with her?”
I wasn't sure whether to say. So instead I asked, “Would you happen to be Stefanie's mother?”
“Yeah.”
“I had something I had to return to her, and was going to drop it off here, but if she doesn't live here, maybe you could tell me where I might find her.”
“Is it whatever you got in the bag there?”
“Maybe if you had an address?”
The woman jerked her head to motion me further inside. I followed her into a narrow kitchen where the sink was stacked with dishes and a cigarette sat burning in an ashtray on a table that was part of an aging aluminum and formica set that couldn't have been original to this house. The table surface, what you could see of it, given the number of empty beer and wine bottles, was pockmarked with cigarette burns. “Just follow me,” she said.
There were more burns on the cracked linoleum floor and several places where it had been gouged, revealing plywood underneath. The counter next to the overloaded sink was littered with more dishes and more empty beer bottles and crumpled Big Mac cartons flecked with shreds of lettuce and smears of Special Sauce.
“Like I said, she hasn't lived here for, I don't know, a couple years now.”
She'd never notified the DMV of a change of address, I figured. It occurred to me that maybe she didn't come from a home where a high priority was placed on attending to such details.
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