by Dan Proops
It had been six weeks since she’d been missing. This was the time the worry for her grew. And with each passing day the anxiety was compounded a little more. As time went on, as the second month of her disappearance turned to the third, it was Adam’s job to persuade his father that he was not to blame for it all. As the months wore on they’d descended from worry to grief and were joined together, both supporting the other, bearing the burden of fear with each other’s support. There was the occasional visit from detectives who did their best to console father and son.
Four months after Sarah’s disappearance, Tony Dresco was arrested for embezzlement. It was around this time Darius, guilt-ridden, spent more time taking himself to bed, firstly in the afternoons, then later, on into the evenings; and then he’d rarely leave the bedroom. Near his bed he kept a book, his mobile phone, and an alarm clock with digital numerals.
When Tony was convicted, he asked Darius for help, but it was not forthcoming. He blamed Tony for his outburst, for the expletives, for hurting Sarah. Tony Dresco began a four-year prison sentence and Darius began a seven-year span of self-imposed imprisonment, in his bedroom, confined to his bed.
Seven
Nigel was the perfect house guest; there were no chores too low for him. He filled the dishwasher, washed pans and cleaned the house, and was quiet when he came in from a night’s drinking, but he hadn’t thanked Adam for allowing him to stay. And then there were the insinuations that being a sculptor was a lowly life. Despite the fact Nigel didn’t have a penny, he spoke of money and business, and how important it was to own the right car and how a man was hardly a man if he couldn’t afford a Porsche.
Nigel was relentless when it came to clothing: ‘You need to get some new threads,’ he’d said one morning. Threads? Was Adam actually friends with this absurd pauper who pontificated about the importance of capitalism and that any man with any form of self-respect should own a sports car?
It was Nigel’s last day and he was preparing Darius’s tray of tea and digestives, and was in high spirits, saying a ‘peach of a job’ had come his way.
‘Your dad’s a good guy. You’re lucky to have a father like that—guy’s as smart as they come.’
‘He can be difficult sometimes.’
‘We’re all difficult sometimes, including you.’
Adam had no idea how to respond to this and as Nigel was about to pack up and leave, Adam made no attempt to become involved in pointless arguments. The friendship between Nigel and Darius was nauseating; he spoke of him as if he were royalty.
‘It’s been great staying here. It’s given me time to look for work. Got some interviews with a couple of banks.’
‘I’m happy for you.’
‘Me too, and your old man’s been super-kind. He said I could stay another week. Even a month if I need it.’
Adam smiled weakly, then went to his room to dilute the rage, or to make an attempt at it. How could he tolerate another month of Nigel’s quips and put downs, another month of Darius saying how wonderful he was? He had no idea how long the Blond Monster would be staying. Would the month run into two? Would he have to suffer his presence for a year? As these thoughts ran through his mind he took out his book and tried to read, without success. So he took out the recent letter from Sarah.
Adam, sometimes I wish it hadn’t happened so we could visit that cinema in Chelsea and be together like we used to. I remember looking after you when you were having trouble at school. That little bastard, Baker, no Bennett. Yes it was Bennett. He had it coming. I have no idea why you let him bully you. You were almost six foot tall as a teenager. I remember grabbing him by the lapels and shoving him up against a wall, y’know, that old crumbling wall outside the school. And then I said: ‘Fuck with my brother again and you’ll have me to deal with.’—something like that. Then I punched him. He didn’t touch you again, that little shit.
I remember telling Darius about it. I wish Dad hadn’t changed. He was such a kind caring dad when we were young. He couldn’t take it, losing our mother. And neither could I. You were strong then. It’s a beautiful thing, my bracelet: Sarah and Adam Forever. What a lovely inscription. I’m wearing it now, as I type. I was so happy that day, the day you gave it to me.
Adam folded the letter and looked back at the day Sarah had protected him; and his embarrassment combined with admiration for her. Adam rarely had enough money, as Bennett demanded it every day. ‘Give us your money, monkey-boy.’ Bennett was popular and had a gang of loyal followers. Adam remembered his face as he shrank away from Sarah, who was assaulting him with the rage of a bull.
He wished there was a return address. He had so much to tell his sister, so much love for her. He wanted to say that he wasn’t angry with her, that he wanted to see her for a walk in Central Park. But she wanted to remain apart from them all, and said there was a reason she wasn’t able to meet; she’d let him know when she was ready to see him. Darius would want to see her, and maybe that was the reason she was hiding. But now, alone, looking at the letter and thinking of her protecting him from a fifteen-year-old bully, Adam was burdened with an urgent need to respond to the letter.
Adam left for his studio. He’d been gazing at the block of wood for an hour, holding a chisel in his left hand, a hammer in his right. The block was a threatening presence, asking to be transformed into something beautiful. Adam went to the hunk of wood and the chisel found a corner, and he saw the wood fall to the floor, then he struck again, with more force, and then again. With every strike the anger grew, his face red with it, sweat down his back as he attacked the block of wood. Why couldn’t he see her? Why these letters where he was powerless and had no voice? She’d silenced him with her sudden reappearance. Why would she withhold her address, had she no compassion? Adam hacked at the wood with abandon, and then the final strike. The wood split in two with a sharp crack, the broken pieces falling to the floor.
He needed to see her. He’d spent years deep in fantasy-meetings in a thousand places. He’d seen them laughing together in cafés on street corners, in an old rowing-boat under a fading sky and in bookshops discussing authors. Why couldn’t he be content with the knowledge she was alive? Surely that was enough, that she was writing to him from her study in New York.
Adam left the studio and walked through the cold empty streets in the direction of Vauxhall to catch a tube to Earl’s Court. He was thinking about the forest again, the woods with the broken tree. He quickened his pace and tried to focus on a line of unlit streetlamps, counting each one to stave off the thoughts of the fallen tree. He felt the cold morning air about his neck. His arms were cold. He turned a corner and, without warning and with no resistance, his mind took flight.
He was walking in the forest, but it was a different wood, like a park. The afternoon was warm, the day bright and humid. The trees were wavering in a light breeze, the excitement of seeing her, a tingling in his stomach. The canopies were a myriad of colours, russet brown, yellow and crimson, the grass soft from recent rain. A parakeet was in a low branch, its plumage silver in the sunlight. Another joined it, then a few more. The birds were everywhere, lining the branches, some deep in the foliage of red maples and tall pines.
Sarah was here, somewhere, maybe deeper into the trees. He heard the wind rippling in the leaves above. Then he saw the tree with fresh orange wood where it had fallen. The parakeets were watching him in silence from the safety of the branches. Adam went to the tree and walked around the ripped shreds of wood. The trunk was barren apart from a pair of parakeets seeing to their feathers. He saw a note: a piece of paper flapping in the wind, nailed to the tree.
I’m surprised you’ve come again Adam. Really I am. Why do you pester me, looking for trouble? I told you how I enjoyed her death, the control I felt as she went limp in my arms. Her last breath was like a sigh, Adam. How do you like the parakeets? Nice birds aren’t they?
Adam was standing on a corner opposite a pub. He steadied himself by resting a palm on a cold wall. The
note on the tree was vivid in his mind. Why were they still there, these visions that led him to the tree? Why hadn’t they stopped? He knew Sarah was alive. He had the letters! He had proof. There was nothing to worry about now, as she was safe, safe in Brooklyn, but for some reason the letters did little to prevent his lapses into his subterranean Neverworld.
As he walked past newsagents and another pub on a corner of a loud, sprawling junction, he felt weak and frightened, as if the note were real, as if the man who’d written it was alive and well, satisfied with her death. The notes were written by hand in a sprawling script, in black ink, the writing just a scrawl.
Adam was to see Cassandra at the Soldier’s Arms. He re-read some passages from Sarah’s letters to bring her to life, to distance himself from the fallen tree and the note nailed to it. He’d have to do something about it. Maybe he needed a therapist. He didn’t want to see the fallen tree again. As he made his way to the pub, he realised there were only two more days until the next letter.
Eight
Cassandra was wearing a leather coat and a white silk scarf. She was reading the Bible. And the Soldier’s Arms smelt of damp, the air cold, with dull light struggling through the windows as dusk descended. Adam asked if she wanted another gin. She nodded. He brought the drinks to the table, then turned to her.
‘Cassandra, why are you reading the Bible?’
‘Because I want to.’
‘You sound angry.’
‘Adam, you haven’t called in a week. You used to call most days.’
‘Don’t be silly, I love you.’
‘Funny way of showing it, not calling.’
‘I’ve been preoccupied.’
‘Our relationship is drifting, Adam. You haven’t been around for a month. What’s happening?’
Maybe he should he tell her about the letters. He hadn’t told anyone about them, and he knew Darius would be beside himself with happiness if he knew she was alive. It was an act of cruelty to keep the letters from him, and an act of loyalty to adhere to her request for secrecy.
‘I’ve been working on a new sculpture. I’m sorry I haven’t called.’
‘Adam, I’ve been worried about us. I’ve missed you.’
‘I’ve been working. That’s what you wanted, wasn’t it?’
Cassandra sighed. She folded a corner of the Old Testament and closed the book, and Adam asked about the Bible again. Cassandra said she’d been questioning her faith; it was faltering. She’d been to church every morning to pray for belief. And reading the Bible made her feel like a Christian, a good Christian. She took his hand and he asked her what had happened to provoke the questioning of her faith.
Adam’s only thoughts on religion were that anyone who believed in Him was a complete maniac who should seek psychiatric help. He’d accommodated her faith for the simple reason that he loved her for every other nuance she possessed. Her allegiance to God had never bothered him. If she believed in elves and dragons it wouldn’t worry him. He saw tears swell in her eyes, and she took a napkin and wiped them away.
‘I know you don’t give a shit.’
‘Cassandra, what’s got into you? I love you. I could write it in blood.’
‘I wasn’t talking about me. I was talking about God.’
‘In that case you’re right. I don’t give a shit about a guy with a beard hovering in the sky, loving mankind and looking out for everyone.’
‘Very funny. This is serious, Adam. I go to church and concentrate hard when I pray.’
‘Should you be concentrating?’
‘No.’
When Sarah went missing, when the first week had turned to a month, Cassandra had been Adam’s carer, mother, and confidante. She’d said it would be all right in the end and that God would see her returned safety.
Adam looked for words that might console her. He said:
‘Why do you think this has happened now? You’ve always been fine with God.’
‘I’m frightened of losing Him, of losing something so important.’
‘You look unhappy—I wish I could help.’
‘I bought a book on the Holocaust.’
‘Why? You don’t even like talking about the war. You change channels if there’s something about it on television.’
Cassandra took out a heavy book from her handbag and placed it on the table. Adam saw the blurred photographs of emaciated children behind high wire fences. And a tear ran down Cassandra’s cheek. Her hands clenched and then unfurled. She laid a palm gently on the book as if to bring solace to the children with hollow eyes, and she opened it, and there were more photographs. Adam said he didn’t want to look at them and asked her to close the book. Cassandra looked up at him.
‘This is what He did to them,’ she said.
‘Let’s not speak of it now. You’re upset. I don’t want to talk about Hitler.’
‘I wasn’t talking about fucking Hitler.’
‘Who then?’
‘Adam, I was referring to God. He let this happen, all of it. How can I believe in a god who’d allow that?’
‘You’re asking the wrong person. But I know about loss. I’m an expert on that. I know your faith is important to you.’
‘So what am I supposed to do?’
‘I don’t know. I’m going half-mad myself. I’ve been thinking about the fallen tree again.’
‘I thought they’d stopped, those thoughts. You haven’t mentioned them in a while.’
‘Well they haven’t. And I’m sick of it. I try not to think of Sarah, but the horrors still come.’
‘You’ve got post-traumatic stress disorder. You told me if they came back you’d see a doctor about it. I know they distress you. Was it the same tree, the same fallen tree?’
‘Yes.’
As Adam reached out to touch her hand, Nigel breezed into the Soldier’s Arms. As he walked, he adjusted a lapel of his jacket. He asked if anyone wanted a drink and before a response was offered, he sat down and immediately said he didn’t have a penny on him. He noticed the book.
‘Terrible thing, the war. How they suffered. Six million. They killed six million.’
‘They killed more than that,’ said Adam. ‘A lot more.’
Nigel nodded, then smiled, and with the agility of a goat navigating a high crag, changed the subject. He said he’d lost his dole money on the horses and was angry about it as he’d been given a ‘hot tip’ from a ‘good mate’ on a ‘sure thing’. Nigel’s usual ebullience was replaced with sadness; it showed in his eyes. He slumped back in his chair, then asked if someone could buy him a pint.
‘Lost the lot. Damn horse. He was leading from the start. Then some other fucker got in front, right at the end of the race.’
‘I thought you’d found a job,’ said Adam. ‘That’s what you said the other day.’
‘Had two interviews. No luck, but all’s good. Something’ll come along.’
Nigel thanked Cassandra for the pint she brought him. Having a drink in front of him seemed to cheer him up, and he said when he found employment he’d give up gambling. He then went about his mission to flirt with Cassandra, overtly, employing an endless repertoire of compliments. He said she should be a model, then changed his mind and said she should become an actress. Adam was intrigued by Cassandra’s reaction: she seemed to enjoy it and was all girlish smiles and schoolgirl embarrassment. Adam wondered if she found his houseguest attractive; Nigel may be a penniless gambler but he was a handsome man.
‘You’re still wearing those old jumpers, Adam.’
‘Dunno how to answer that, Nigel.’
‘I wasn’t asking a question. Just wondered why you don’t get some new clothes.’
Cassandra was silent. Nigel looked at Adam with disgust, as if a moth-eaten jumper was a contagious disease, but nothing further was said about his attire. Nigel had lifted Cassandra’s mood with his compliments, self-deprecating humour, and his obsession over owning the right kind of sports car. Adam’s inadequacy was polarised: C
assandra seemed enamoured with Nigel. There was a look to her when he spoke, a look of delight and interest.
Adam thought of the photographs of the children in the camp, behind the wires, encircled by sheets of ice. Then he thought of Sarah. Her letter would be arriving the next day.
Nine
Adam woke to the sound of the stick. He’d been dreaming of sculpting, and the sound of the hammer on the chisel transformed to the sound of Darius’s cane on the ceiling. He went up to see him. His father was sitting upright in bed, his beard wet with spittle, his face gaunt, and his left eye looked pale, the iris misted.
‘You’ve been in better spirits for a few weeks,’ he said. ‘I guess you like Nigel staying here.’
‘Things are fine. Nothing’s changed.’
‘My mistake then. Just seemed to me you’ve been in a good mood for a while. I know you very well, Adam. Something good’s happened.’
‘I’m doing well at the studio.’
‘Don’t lie to me. I know how often you go there.’
‘Things are going well with Cassandra, and she’s made friends with Nigel, which is nice, isn’t it?’
‘I don’t think you’re happy about that. It’s something else.’
Adam had just been down to the hall, and the new letter was snug in his dressing-gown pocket. He wanted to tell Darius, as he’d wanted to tell Cassandra. He was keeping joy from his father: an old man, bedridden with depression and phantom chest pains, with nothing to look forward to but a cup of tea and digestives. At the end of her last letter, Sarah had been insistent that Darius know nothing about her. She’d repeated it many times and had pleaded, saying something about trust. But the guilt of withholding the letters from his father was becoming a burden.
Adam felt the smooth envelope in his pocket. How could he keep Sarah’s life a secret? Every day Darius woke, he was living with the loss of his daughter. With a single action he could bring great happiness to him. He felt for the letter again, feeling the paper between his fingers.