May We Be Forgiven Part 49

"What's wrong?" she asks.

"Nothing's wrong," I say. "I was just checking in."

"You don't usually make unscheduled calls," she says.

"Surprise," I say.

There's something in Ashley's voice that's not right.

"I didn't get you away from something important, did I?"

"No," she says. "I was just doing my homework."

She is a bad liar-but I say nothing. "What was for dinner tonight?"

"I think it was fish," she says.

"What kind of fish?"

"White, with a kind of yellow-orange-colored sauce," she says.

"Did you eat it?"

"No," she says.

"What did you have?"

"There was a vegetarian option-stuffed sh.e.l.ls and salad."

"Everything else okay?" I ask.

"Yeah, I guess," she says.

"Okay, then, I'll say good night-talk to you tomorrow, the usual time."

"Thanks," she says.

I hang up feeling awkward, like I stepped in something I don't quite know what.

The 11 p.m. news has live coverage from a candlelight vigil being held in the park where the girl was last seen-the same park where I take Tessie, the one where I had my sobbing meltdown. Women in packs are running through the park in a Take Back the Night rally and throwing their running shoes over the telephone wires. The police are following up on multiple leads but have no new information as of this hour.

I open a can of salmon for the cat; she shows no interest. I leave it on the counter as a peace offering and go up to bed. None of the animals join me.

Life goes on-a lie. I think of volunteering, joining one of the search groups that are combing the nearby woods, but I worry someone will figure out who I am-someone will make something of it.

The next day, I try and distract myself with the book. I work for an hour or two. I move paragraphs here and there and then back again.

I get in the car and drive in circles and ask myself: What am I doing? Do I think I'm looking for her?

I think of where people might congregate, might meet to worry as a group. I can't go to the Starbucks-it's too close, like a ground zero. I think of an excuse-light bulb-and go to the hardware store.

Men are gathered there, doing what men do, pretending they're not worried, pretending they're not human, but wanting to be together nonetheless.

"I was out with them last night-going through the woods. I let 'em use my truck."

"It's a d.a.m.n shame."

"They'll find her; girls do this, they run off...."

"They don't do it anymore. That was before; now they stay close to home, it's no longer safe."

"What do you know?"

"I raised three of my own."

Life continues, but I don't really know how anyone can carry on when someone is missing. Life is suspended; worse than suspended, it is a living h.e.l.l, it's impossible not to be driven mad with worry, fear, lack of information. The brain loops, cannot let go, cannot take a breath, because to let go even for a second might mean to forget; to stop sending the search signal might let her fall through the cracks.

Out of the corner of my eye I see DeLillo at the register. I can't tell if he's listening in on the conversation or not. He's buying duct tape and dust masks and a flashlight.

"Putting together your disaster kit?" the guy behind the register asks.

"Spring cleaning," DeLillo says. He glances up at me, blankly, expectantly returning my glance. We make eye contact, but then I quickly look away.

I buy my light bulbs. Somehow I want to scream at them: You're wrong, you're all wrong, the world has changed, something evil has risen, like a serpent hand of Hades, has slithered its ugly head up from below, out from within, and s.n.a.t.c.hed something fresh off the shelf.

The way they talk about it is so suburban, so brainlessly parochial, that it is unbearable. I leave, almost running out of the store, gasping for air.

A panic attack, as though my familiarity with a kind of darkness, my less-than-oblivious musings, has caught me off guard.

I remind myself that I did not do this, and yet just knowing, just feeling, just being the little bit more familiar than most with the impulses that allow such things to happen makes me uncomfortable. I think of myself as an outsider-a suspect. My devolution, my despicable descent into adultery and murderous familial fellows.h.i.+p, has welled up and undone me.

And then she is there, on my doorstep, waiting, as though nothing has happened. "I've been terrified you were gone," I say.

"Gone where?"

"Missing."

"What are you talking about?"

"That girl."

"What girl?" she asks.

"Are you blind? Don't you see the posters all over town or watch TV?"

She says nothing-she knows but doesn't want to talk about it.

"I saw you," she says. "Outside the store, giving away the kittens."

"You were there?"

"It's my grocery store."

"How come you didn't say anything?"

"I liked watching you."

"What was I doing?"

"Giving away kittens."

"Are you stalking me?"

She changes the subject: "Did you give all the kittens to good homes?"

"I had to keep one."

"For your daughter?"

"I don't have children."

"Right," she says, like I'm lying. "You just borrow them...."

"You want the truth?"

She says nothing.

"My brother, the owner of this house, is insane."

"There's one in every family-no biggie," she says.

"There was a murder in this house," I say, wondering if I am being provocative because I'm annoyed with her.

"Really?"

I nod ever so slightly, as though realizing the enormity of what I'm saying.

"Was this before you bought the house?" she asks.

"Like I said, it's not my house."

"Oh, right," she says, "I s.p.a.ced." And then she crosses her legs and s.h.i.+fts, preparing herself, bracing for information. "Okay, I'm ready."

And all that comes out is so short, as though the story has sucked itself back into the deep ether, like a tragic genie racing back into the bottle-my own guilt, my awareness that I've not actually discussed this with anyone.

"My brother killed his wife."

A long pause.

"On purpose?" she asks.

"Hard to know," I say.

"That's terrible," she says.

"Awful," I say, and realize that, except for the calls I made when it happened, I haven't told anyone.

"It's really kind of a downer," she says. "You're making this up, right? This is like one of those weird urban legends?"

"Why would I make it up? Does it make me more attractive? That's my big secret, what's yours?"

I try to get a careful look at her. What color are her eyes? Why does nothing about her stay in my mind? I think of taking a picture with my phone-her and the kitten, something to hold on to, to a.n.a.lyze, and submit as evidence if need be. She is wearing casual clothing, which makes her look young. Her hair is neither blond nor brown, neither thick nor thin; it frames a face that is like so many faces. She looks like everyone and like no one. Her hands are the only giveaway: the skin is a little loose on the fingers, which are thin and nimble, almost monkeylike. There are a few light-tan freckled pigment spots on the tops of her hands-age. I return to her face. She is and is not similar to the missing girl, whose photo I have printed out and placed in the center of George's desk.

"Is there anything you want to tell me?" I ask.

"Can you stop?" she says. "You're freaking me out." She takes a breath. "Why did you ask people if they had other pets, and if the cat would live indoors or out, and if the new owner would be so kind as to e-mail photos of the kitty to you?"

"How close did you get?"

"You're in a bad mood. Maybe I should go," she says, but makes no move to leave. "I saw the part where you got into an argument with the guy from the pet store and had to move your stand."

"And you saw that we made up and I gave him the last two kittens?"

She shakes her head no. "I guess I left before that happened."

"I need to know something about you," I say.

"I play the flute," she says.

"More," I say.

"I majored in French literature, with a minor in library science."

I nod.

"I wanted to grow up and be a spy," she offers.

"What side would you spy for-us or them?"

"Them," she says, without a pause. "I never felt like one of us."

"What prompted you to come here now?"

"Last time I saw you, you had one of those really cool rain showers, and I thought maybe I could try it, and I brought you a little gift."

"What?" I ask.

"I ate it," she says. "There was a bake sale; I bought two seven-layer bars, and then I stopped at McDonald's and got a coffee, and on my way over here I just powered right through both of them."