ABC Amber LIT Converter (2 page)

“Fill her up today?” he asked, just staring out over the roof of Rhonda’s car. He swatted at a bug by his left ear.

Rhonda nodded up at him from the open window of her blue Honda. She smiled, but he did not seem to see. Jim unscrewed the gas cap, selected the grade—regular (he didn’t bother asking)—and began to fill her tank.

“Peter around?” Rhonda asked, trying not to sound too hopeful as she peered into the garage.

“Took the day off,” Jim said, and Rhonda felt her heart sink.Stupid, stupid, stupid, she told herself.

“All by myself here,” Jim said, sounding a little bitter. He rubbed at his earlobe. The bug had gotten him after all—probably a blackfly, it had been a terrible year for blackflies.

Pat was out getting her hair done, Rhonda would learn later, which was why, when Trudy Florucci pulled up in the rusted-out Corsica, parking in front of the ice machines, Jim left the pump running to go back into the store to take care of her. Pat usually ran the cash register; she ran the whole place, actually—dealing with the books, the deliveries, carding high school kids for beer (a task she took pleasure in). What she did not take pleasure in was when a new delivery driver or salesman went right for Jim with questions, requests, sales pitches, assuming he must be in charge. Some even called him Pat. She took to wearing a large nametag that saidPAT, STATION OWNER AND MANAGER . That day, Pat was gone, getting her three-month perm down at Hair Today.

Trudy left the engine running, thinking she wouldn’t be long, that she should leave the radio on for her daughter, little Ernie Florucci, who sat strapped into the backseat with its faded upholstery riddled with stains and cigarette burns. Ernie had just
been picked up from school. She was wearing a red corduroy jumper and had her brown hair in pigtails held with matching red elastics. Ernie was in second grade.Second grade, Rhonda would think later, trying to go back in her mind to what she had been like at that age, how vulnerable she must have been, how small and insignificant.

Trudy had left the radio playing, the volume up loud enough that Rhonda could hear it from her own car. It was country music, which Rhonda never listened to, even as the radio stations that played it seemed to multiply, so she didn’t recognize the song. It was a love song maybe, a song about heartbreak—aren’t they all,Rhonda would later think.

The music was distracting to Rhonda as she sat nervously going over what she might say in the interview, what questions they might ask. She had spent the past two days reading up on zebra mussels so she would sound smart, informed. She wanted the researchers to know she cared enough to do her homework. She was rolling over these facts in her mind, thinking about the sneaky destructiveness of the invasive species, about the photos she’d seen of larger native mollusks smothered by zebra mussels—when the third car pulled into the lot, right alongside Trudy’s Corsica.

It was a gold-colored Volkswagen Beetle, and Rhonda’s first thought wasShit, Laura Lee Clark . Tock’s mother. Rhonda put her head down, pretending to study the dial on her radio. She was not in the mood to make chitchat with Laura Lee, who was sure to bring up Peter and Tock (such a happy couple,she was fond of saying), and little Suzy’s latest brilliant endeavor (a genius,Laura Lee insisted,my granddaughter’s a genius ). Rhonda kept her head down, but glanced up just enough to see the driver open the door and climb out. That’s when she saw that the car was not driven by crazy old Laura Lee Clark at all, but by a large white rabbit.

“You mean someone wearing a rabbit suit?” one of the state troopers would ask her later. “Like the Easter Bunny?”

“Yes,” she would tell him. “Of course. A white rabbit suit. A costume. It was a man wearing a costume.”

“How do you know it was a man, Miss Farr? With the costume?”

“I don’t know, I guess. It just…it just seemed like it would be a man. And he was tall.”

“Six feet tall,” the trooper repeated back to her, reading from his own notes.

But the truth was, when the rabbit got out of the car, there in the Pat’s Mini Mart parking lot at quarter to three on a Monday afternoon, it didn’t occur to Rhonda that there might be a person inside. He hopped like a bunny, moved quickly, nervously, jerking his big white head one way, then the other. He turned toward Rhonda, and for an instant he seemed to stare at her with his blind plastic eyes. She imagined she could almost see his nose twitch as he gave a slight nod in her direction.

Rhonda watched as the rabbit rapped on Ernie’s window with his big white fluffy paw. The little girl grinned up at him and pushed open her door. He leaned down and Ernie touched the bunny fondly on the head, right behind its ears, and unbuckled her seat belt.

The rabbit held out its paw and Ernie took it in her own small hand, stepping from her mother’s car to the gold Volkswagen, getting in the passenger seat without a struggle, without any hesitation. The little girl smiled the whole time.

THE GOLD VOLKSWAGENhad a dent in the rear bumper.

That was all Rhonda could tell the troopers when describing the car. She told them how, at first, she thought it was Laura Lee, then it turned out not to be. She hadn’t thought to get the license plate number.

“But it was a Vermont plate? Not out-of-state, Quebec, like that?” one of the troopers asked.

“Yes, Vermont,” Rhonda said, hating herself for not even thinking to notice the plate and commit it to memory. “I think so anyway.”

“Okay, was there anything else distinguishing about the car? Some rust? Was there anything in the backseat maybe?”

“I didn’t see into the backseat. And no, it was just a gold bug. Nothing unusual except the driver.”

“The rabbit,” the cop said, a trace of skepticism in his voice. He was the shorter of the two and Rhonda believed he couldn’t have been more than nineteen, barely over adolescence. The rash of pimples at his temples looked painful, more like boils, really, under the shadow of his wide-brimmed hat.

“Yes, therabbit .” Rhonda’s voice shook a little this time, from nerves and frustration, the frustration of having to explain herself again and again, of knowing what Trudy said was true—it was Rhonda’s own fault that Ernie was gone. She had taken no action. She watched the small girl in the red jumper be taken as easily as she had watched life unfold beneath the lens of her microscope: as a passive observer slightly in awe of the sight before her.

This was not who she was. She was a doer, someone who made lists. Someone who was methodical and looked at things with a keen, scientific eye. She always knew the next logical step in any situation. But for some reason, that afternoon, she sat staring, paralyzed, dumbfounded. Hypnotized by a white rabbit.

The other trooper was with Trudy on the other side of the store. Jim had pulled the folding chair with the ripped padding from behind the counter and set it up beside the candy rack, next to the Hershey bars and Good & Plentys. Together, he and the policeman had guided the nearly hysterical Trudy to the chair and were doing their best to calm her. Only moments before, when it
finally sunk in that Rhonda had seen the abduction and done nothing, Trudy dove at her and tried to put her eyes out with her freshly manicured nails. Trudy’s nails were no joke. They were two inches long, filed to points, and showed off a fresh coat of a reddish orange that reminded Rhonda of a bleeding Creamsicle. The taller state trooper, the one who seemed to be taking the lead role in the investigation, pulled Trudy off and led her across the store to the chair Jim was setting up. Rhonda stayed with her back against the beer cooler, her head bowed.

“You did nothing!” Trudy called back. “You sat on your fucking fat ass and watched my little girl get taken away!”

Rhonda did not consider her ass fat but, compared to Trudy’s size six figure, Rhonda was a big girl—a chunky, five-foot-five-inch size fourteen who carried most of her weight in her torso. Rhonda’s face was round too, and she was forever trying to find a haircut that might help make it seem less so.

Once the taller trooper had settled Trudy into her chair, he resumed his questioning.

“Is there anyone you know who might have taken your daughter? A family member? An ex-boyfriend, maybe?”

“I’m a fucking widow! I don’t have any boyfriends. I have Ernie and my sister and that’s all.” She began to cry, mascara running black streams down her pale face, cutting tracks through her foundation.

“Please, ma’am. I’m sorry. I know this is hard. But has Ernie told you about anyone? The parent of a friend, maybe? A stranger watching her play?”

“It was the rabbit!” Trudy cried. “Fucking Peter Rabbit! Oh,God !” She was sobbing and fumbling in the pocket of her denim jacket for the new pack of cigarettes and her lighter. Lottery tickets fluttered to the floor. The tall state trooper leaned down and picked them up, held them in his hand while she lit her cigarette, studied them like they were evidence.

“She’s been telling me for over a month now about Peter Rabbit visiting her. Taking her to Rabbit Island in his submarine. She even drew pictures of it. Christ! I thought it was all made up!”

Jim sauntered over and put a reassuring hand on Trudy’s arm, giving it a squeeze with grease-stained fingertips. “I called over to the beauty shop. Pat’s on her way. Don’t you worry, Trudy. Ernie’ll show up. Just like that girl down in Virginia. They found her safe and sound, now didn’t they?”

Rhonda thought of eight-year-old Ella Starkee, the little girl kidnapped in rural Virginia last month and found in a hole ten days later. She survived by catching rain in a rusty tin can and eating earthworms. Rhonda shivered. Trudy glared at her, eyes glazed with fury.

“The fat girl knows more than she’s saying,” Trudy spat. “I mean, why the fuck else did she just sit there? She probably knew the guy. They were working as a team. She was the lookout. Don’t kidnappers do that?”

“We’ll investigate her thoroughly, ma’am,” said the cop.

The shorter trooper with the bad skin led Rhonda outside, where they stood talking on the oil-stained pavement.

Rhonda watched Trudy stare out at her through the glass window with its collage of beer and cigarette signs.WEDNESDAY SPECIAL: 5 CENTS OFF EACH GALLON OF GAS ALL DAY!!!MECHANIC ON DUTY , promised another. But wherewas Peter?

Trudy continued glaring out at Rhonda like she expected to suddenly notice a white fluffy tail peeking from beneath her blazer.

WHEN DETECTIVE SERGEANTJoe Crowley arrived at Pat’s Mini Mart, he called in a team to come and search the area. More state police arrived along with a white forensics van. They took pictures. They searched the parking lot for tire tracks and other evidence. They dusted the passenger side of Trudy’s car for fin
gerprints, even though Rhonda had made it clear that the culprit’s hands were well covered. After all, the bunny had furry white paws.

Crowley put out an APB for the gold Volkswagen, for Ernie Florucci. He issued an AMBER alert. He sent the taller trooper home with Trudy, instructing him to pick up the girl’s rabbit drawings and a recent photo of Ernestine. The trooper helped Trudy up out of the tattered chair and gently handed her the lottery tickets he’d been holding.

“You can’t forget these,” he told her with a wink. “I’ve got a feeling they’re real lucky.” Trudy gave a half smile and stuffed the tickets into the pocket of her denim jacket, then walked to the car, leaning into the cop as he guided her, his arm around her waist.

Sergeant Crowley had an air of authority that made Rhonda relieved and hopeful. If anyone could find the little girl and the rabbit, Crowley could. He was in his mid-forties (her father’s age) and wore his salt-and-pepper hair very short. He had on dark trousers, a white shirt, and a dark green tie with a gold clip. He looked, to Rhonda, like a man who had been in great shape once, an ex-athlete who blew out a knee and had let himself fill out a little.

“Miss Farr, is there anything else you can tell me about the rabbit? Anything at all?”

“No,” said Rhonda, shaking her head. There was nothing else she could tell him. Not aboutthis rabbit, but once, long ago, there had beenanother white rabbit and he too, in time, had somehow slipped away.

APRIL 11, 1993

THERE WAS SNOWin the woods. Her feet were slipping as she ran in her good yellow Easter shoes, ankles numb from cold. Lizzy was beside her. They were holding hands. Laughing each time they fell. Lizzy wore matching yellow shoes with pale satin bows: she had seen Rhonda’s and begged her mother to take her to the mall for an identical pair. It was like that with the girls: whatever one had, the other longed for.

Lizzy and Rhonda told everyone at school they were twin sisters living as cousins, when the truth was they were not related at all. But still, the other kids believed the story about them being twins. It was an easy lie to believe, because they looked so much alike: two chunky girls with straight, dark, tousled hair, dirt under their nails, funny overbites from sucking thumbs too long. They were quiet girls with big brown eyes. Koala bear eyes, lemur eyes, eyes that seemed to take up their whole plain faces.

They had been best friends since before they learned to talk—sharing a sandbox, being walked by their mothers in matching pink strollers down to the lake. And when words came to them, they seemed, the way their mothers described it, to develop their own secret language—a coded communication that no one else could understand, full of words such asdaloor ,ub ,ta , andskoe . Their parents were worried that the girls would go on speaking this way to one another, would have no need for the rest of the world, for words likecat andswim andthank you .