“I’m sorry about what I said.”
“I wish I knew what you heard, why you think I would say something like that. It was at dinner?”
“I think so. On Saturday night, after you got mad at us about making noise. Then you and Dad were in his office.”
“I didn’t get mad at you . . . Dad and I were in his office? I’m not sure that’s right.” Thinking back to Saturday night, it’s easy to get the order of things confused even though it was recent, because so much has happened since. We had our dinner, the awkward meal to end all awkward meals, but I don’t recall being in his office alone with him.
Melody regards me with a sleepy face. “Where do you think he is?”
“That’s what I’m going to find out.” I pull her into an embrace. “You need to get some sleep.”
“I can’t,” she says in a soft voice that’s close to my ear. “I have bad dreams.”
Her unease reminds me I still haven’t talked to John’s father or stepmother. They don’t even know he’s missing, unless Ridley has called them. But if she has, I would have heard from Frank by now. I check the clock on my phone: it’s going on eleven, but in Arizona it’s only eight. He might still be up.
Melody pulls back from me. “I dreamed about an old woman.”
“An old woman?”
“Yeah. This, like, gray old woman.”
It’s as though Melody has peeled back the lid on my private thoughts. “What was her name?”
“I don’t know. She didn’t have one.”
“What was she like?”
“She was, like, trying to talk, but then all that came out of her mouth was dirt.” Melody is looking at me, then her gaze wanders. “Hey — a ladybug!”
I see what she’s talking about. The round red beetle moves along the back of John’s desk. It’s getting to be that time of year when insects invade our home and flies buzz in the windows on warm days. Melody sticks out her finger and the ladybug climbs on. I watch her, caught in this delicate limbo between childhood and adulthood. She laughs as the bug tickles her; it follows the ridge of her hand and circles her wrist. “They smell if you squish them,” she says.
“What else happened in your dream?”
“I’m going to take it into my room.”
“Mel . . .”
She flicks me a look, having already left the subject behind for this new discovery. “It was just a dream, Mom.”
Just a dream. I’m searching for coincidence again, thinking of Selma Ford, making connections where they don’t exist. Just like my own mother did.
“Goodnight, Mom.”
“Okay. Goodnight, honey.”
With Melody gone, I ease myself onto the floor and continue going through the old tax files, bills, reports from auto mechanics on the car, and linger over the estimate on fixing the brakes, which John had done a few months before, like I told Ridley.
Maybe John’s Subaru plays a bigger role than I’ve been seeing. I did suspect the license plate could be wrong, but that was just the shock of the moment. What else? Could there have been some other mechanical failure the police haven’t figured out yet? Probably not. I keep going through the stack anyway, a growing pile of them on my left.
My phone vibrates in my pocket. I recognize the number.
“Bruce?”
“Jane — how are you?”
“Bruce, I, ah . . .”
“Can we talk? I know you probably have some things you want to ask me. And I’m sorry about earlier — about how I acted on the phone.”
“This is a really hard time.”
“I know, I know. I talked to the police — you still don’t know where John is.”
Whenever it’s said aloud I feel vulnerable, like I’ve just given up some sort of protection.
“Let me help you,” Bruce says. “Okay?”
“I’m not sure what you can do, Bruce.” Talking to him is a bit awkward. I gain my feet and start to pace John’s study, the floor creaking.
“Listen, I talked to the troopers and I spoke with someone named Ripley.”
“Ridley.”
“Yeah. So, I explained to her about John, about how he and I go way back and—”
“You got angry when I suggested you threatened John. You said maybe I didn’t know him all that well, or maybe I didn’t know everything about him. There’s been a lot of that going around lately and, if you want to help, the best thing you can do is be specific with me.”
“I know. I’m sorry, that was . . . everything from back then, you know — I was a little shit, okay? I know that. And I don’t make any excuses. I just meant that John was going through something, that’s what I know, but I expressed it poorly.”
“What exactly, Bruce? What exactly did he say?”
Bruce sighs. “Jane, look . . . I mean, men go through these things.”
“What things? Tell me what he said, Bruce, and please don’t spare me.”
“He just — you know. Well, we’ve been talking for a couple weeks, actually.”
The blonde woman. Maybe that’s who Melody heard. He had an affair after all.
“First he just said he felt smothered — suffocated, or something. And I suggested—”
“Suffocated? He said that?”
“I think so, yeah.”
“Suffocated how?”
Another sigh, and Bruce jostles his phone, making scratching sounds. “Wife, kids, responsibility, routine.”
I let that sit for a moment before I say, “Okay.”
What more do you need in order to accept it? John left you for someone else.
“Bruce, did he tell you he was . . . Did John say anything about . . . about another . . .”
A long silence from Bruce, then, “Someone else? Another woman?”
“Maybe that.” He seems to think about it. “We didn’t get into specifics, Jane . . . but, maybe.”
“You didn’t get into specifics? He either said he was having an affair or he didn’t.”
“Here’s the thing . . . I just feel guilty, like I had something to do with this.”
“How could you have anything to do with this?”
“I want to help — let me help, okay? I’ll do anything you need.”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask Bruce about Rainey’s illness. Detective Ridley had no information on it. Or about her having a private conversation with John that Melody overheard. But despite the direness of the situation, social custom overrides. Am I really going to question the legitimacy of someone’s sickness? Am I going to suggest some sort of conspiracy, something Rainey did to cause John’s disappearance? I have to keep some sense of decorum or I’m lost.
“Bruce, I appreciate you calling and your willingness to help. But I think, right now . . .”
“Just keep it in mind, okay? You need someone on your side, Jane. I mean the cops are good but — you know, they have other cases. They’re slow and methodical. You need someone helping you through this. If it were me, John would do it.”
Well, until Saturday, I didn’t even know you existed. “That’s nice of you.”
“Listen, you didn’t let me finish. So it started with him talking about feeling smothered, but then he started acting — I don’t know . . . paranoid.”
“Paranoid about what?”
“It started when I came over that morning. And then afterward, after dinner that night, when we were on the phone.”
I picture John at his desk, the way he was when I brought Russ in for his goodnight kiss, the look in John’s eyes, like he was a stranger.
“He was scared, Jane.”
“About what?”
“He wouldn’t say. But he did tell me — well, he admitted he’d been drinking.”
“He told you that.”
“Yes.”
“What was he scared about, Bruce? Please, just tell me.”
“All I know is he thought he was being watched.”
I see the SUV in my mind’s eye. I think about John’s intense r
eaction — the way he sped up, almost seeming to taunt the person tailgating us. “Bruce, you need to tell the police what you just told me. Have you told them?”
“I told Ripley. Uh . . . Ridley. But I don’t think they’re going to know what to do with it. I mean, the idea that John is acting paranoid? The way they see it, he’s been drinking and he takes off. The cops aren’t going to prioritize it. Especially if he was . . . well, if you think that’s true about him and someone else. Like maybe it’s a disgruntled husband or something — shit, I don’t know. But my point is, without something solid, they’re just not going to care enough. I know some of these guys and you need more help.”
I pinch my forehead, close my eyes as my mind shifts gears. “Bruce, there was blood in the car. That’s not solid? And guess what? I think John’s file cabinet has been broken into.”
I open my eyes when I hear something on the other side of the house — an engine winding down, as if a car is pulling up. Jolted into action, I leave the study and slip into Russ’s room with its view of the driveway, just in time to see a set of headlights wink off and hear the engine die.
The flood lamps come on, bathing the vehicle in bright light. It’s an SUV.
“Bruce . . .” My heart starts hammering. “Did you just pull up to my house?”
“What? I’m nowhere near you. Why? Jane, is someone there?”
Panicked, I move quickly out of Russ’s room and cross the hallway. “Mel,” I say, a bit breathless, “close your door and lock it.”
She sits up in her bed, fear spreading across her small, pretty features. “Mom? What?”
“Just do it.”
I move on toward the front door. I think it’s locked already but want to check. Then there’s the back door, the door to the basement — each secure, I think, but I need to make sure.
“Jane,” Bruce says, unmistakable fear coming through. “Jane, call the cops.”
“I’m going to.” I check the front door — the lock is engaged. My heart thunders in my chest and my neck and scalp tingle. I hear a door slam shut in the driveway and risk a look through the window beside the door.
The driver must see me standing there because he stops halfway up the walk.
It’s my stepbrother, Leland.
“Jane you there?” Bruce is still on the phone.
“I gotta go.” I’m not sure if he hears me because my voice barely registers in my own ears. Just dirt coming out of my mouth, maybe.
I cancel the call and dial 911, not taking any chances. My mother nearly killed Leland’s father. With everything that’s happened, he could be dangerous.
The line is ringing as I hurry from the door to search my bedroom — John keeps a baseball bat at his side of the bed. It’s cool and smooth in my grip.
“911 emergency response, can I have your—”
“My name is Jane Gable. I’m calling to report an intruder.”
There’s a delicate knock on the door. I enter the living room to see half of Leland’s head in the door’s semicircular window and let out an inadvertent scream.
“Mommy!” Melody wails from her bedroom.
“Ma’am, is the intruder in the house?”
I yell toward the front porch. “Get away from the door, Leland!”
“Do you know this person, ma’am?”
“He’s outside. On the front porch. He’s not welcome here.”
“Jane!” Leland’s muffled voice comes through. “Hey, Janie, come on . . .”
I run past the laundry room to the rear door and lock it, talking to the dispatcher in one long train of thought. “He came over uninvited. I haven’t seen him in years and now my husband is missing and he’s showing up — there’s no restraining order or anything, but—”
“Ma’am, are your doors locked?”
I’m running downstairs to make sure the basement door is secure. The slide bolt is already engaged. “Yes.”
“Is there any other way the intruder could get into the house?”
“He could break a window.”
“Who else is there with you?”
“My children. Are you sending someone? Please send someone.”
“Ma’am, I’ve alerted the police. Someone will be there in a matter of minutes. Just sit tight.”
Returning to the first floor, I approach the front door slowly but don’t see Leland’s head. Bat in hand, I step to the window.
Leland has walked back toward his car. He looks over his shoulder, sees me and stops. Then he opens the SUV’s passenger door and leans in.
The fear is like a paralyzing agent, freezing me in place as I imagine my mother aiming a gun at Leland’s father and pulling the trigger. I envision Leland taking another gun from his car, one he plans to use on me and the kids.
Then I’m in Melody’s room, sitting with her on the bed, the bat in one hand and the phone to my ear in the other, and the dispatcher is trying to reassure me. “Someone is coming, Jane. Sit tight — someone is coming . . .”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN / LELAND
Plain Jane. Plain Jane’s life is a runaway train!
When I was six, a man named Alfred Pinchot moved in with us. He had heavy-lidded eyes and scars on the backs of his long-fingered hands. He was a drug addict. When he became abusive, my mother didn’t go to the police. Eventually, he moved on.
After Alfred Pinchot, Mom told me and my half-brother and half-sister that the Earth had been created by a race of alien beings. One day, in the delicatessen a few blocks from our First Avenue apartment, she had a public meltdown. She told strangers that a massive solar explosion would engulf the planet and bring the end of days.
Pretty soon, kids at my school heard about it.
Plain Jane, your mother is insane. Two girls would rap it like a hip-hop song. One of them, whose name I forget, would beat-box, pursing and popping her lips in rhythm with the singer, Dalia Dannon. Dalia would spit the words like she was on stage: Plain Jane / your mother is insane / your motherfuckin life is a run-a-way train! What? Oh!
My half-brother went into the military and ended up staying overseas. My half-sister lives in Iowa and is married to an Evangelical Christian accountant. I’ve never met my biological father, but their father, Pinchot, is around somewhere, likely sitting in someone else’s living room with that spooky unfocused look, the TV on but he’s not really watching. Pinchot would be unsurprised to hear of my mother finally turning on the next abusive lover, Daryl Chase.
Maybe Pinchot already knows. Maybe, when he saw the news reports of an attempted murder landing a Troy woman in a maximum-security penitentiary further upstate, he snapped out of his daze and took notice. Maybe he patted his chest for bullet holes and counted himself lucky.
When my mother was with Daryl Chase, I was already out of the house. So was Leland, who’s about my age. I saw him only a few times after my mother pointed the small Glock pistol she’d taken from a friend and pulled the trigger — I saw Leland at the arraignment and again for sentencing. His father recovered, though still suffers breathing problems from the bullet that nicked his diaphragm.
Leland’s problems, well, I always thought they were more mental in nature.
* * *
The troopers are back in my driveway, having arrived together in one car. Both men. One of them is outside, going through Leland’s vehicle, a dark blue SUV with rust around the wheels.
Leland is in the back seat of the police car, behind the wire mesh. He could have left before the cops got there; it took them almost ten minutes to arrive yet he remained in the driveway.
The other trooper is inside the house, writing down what I’ve been saying as I watch out of the window. His radio crackles and a voice says, “Clean.”
“Okay, ma’am,” the trooper in front of me says. “We’ve had a look and there are no weapons in this individual’s vehicle — he said he reached into his car to get a pack of cigarettes. That’s what you saw. Anyway, he has no wants or warrants, so unless you wish to press charges,
we can go ahead and—”
“What sort of charges could I press?”
“Well, trespassing on private property, that’s about it. You say he didn’t threaten you? Threaten to hurt you or the kids?”
“No. Not exactly.”
“And there’s no restraining order or injunction against him, nothing like that?”
“No. He just showed up. Maybe he has reason to . . . I don’t know . . . maybe he . . .” I’m shaking again, questioning whether I’ve completely blown this out of all proportion.
Finished with the SUV, the trooper still outside gets into the front of the police car and shuts the door. I can see that he’s talking to Leland.
I cradle my head for a moment. Melody stands beside me and gives me a squeeze. Her presence makes me feel guilty. I’m the adult, the one who’s supposed to make sane, rational decisions, and yet she’s the one showing adaptability, coming to comfort me even though she blames me for John’s disappearance — even though I just freaked out and screamed and ran around the house checking the door locks when a not-entirely-strange man showed up.
“All right,” the officer in my living room says. “Well, he says he’s very sorry for it. Claims he knows nothing about your husband, except he heard about the disappearance and just wanted to talk to you.”
“At eleven o’clock at night?”
“We’ll warn him that if he sets foot on your property again uninvited, we will arrest him on sight. Okay?”
“Did he say how he heard about it?”
“I think a lot of people are talking, if you want the truth. It’s a pretty tight-knit area.”
“But he doesn’t live around here.”
“Correct, ma’am. We have his current address over in Cohoes. He was visiting his father today, he says, and he decided to stop by to see you, and he regrets it.”
I’m looking at Leland still, who nods in the backseat at something the first trooper is saying. He then makes some strange gesture, orbiting a hand around his head with his finger pointed down. What does that mean? My mind is seizing on every abnormality now, every unexplained moment, as my life continues to disintegrate. I draw a deep breath and let it out slowly, feeling some of the tension release.
“I’ll go talk to my colleague and we’ll wrap this up. Just sit tight, ma’am.”
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