Carthage (11 page)

But he’d showered, and shaved, and put on clean pressed clothes, and his thick-tufted hair had been brushed properly. He knew to speak to the TV audience by way of the TV interviewer and he knew not to be nettled or discomfited by certain of the woman’s questions.

Arlette gripped in her right fist a wadded tissue. Her tongue had gone numb. Her eyes were fixed to the rapacious eyes of the heavily made-up Evvie Estes. Her terror was, her nose would begin to run, her eyes would leak tears, unsparingly illuminated in the bright TV lights.

Our daughter. Our Cressida. If anyone has any information leading to . . .

Then, there came the surprise of the ten-thousand-dollar reward.

Not one of the law enforcement officers who’d been interviewing the Mayfields had known this was coming. Judging by her confusion on camera, Arlette had not known this was coming. Zeno spoke in an impassioned voice of a ten-thousand-dollar reward for information leading to
the recovery of—the return of—our daughter Cressida.

SURPRISING NEWS—A REWARD.

Not a great idea.

Many more calls will come in.

Many more calls will come in.

FOR INSTANCE,
from “witnesses” who’d sighted the
missing girl,
they were sure: in and near and not-so-near the Nautauga Preserve.

As far north as Massena, New York. As far south as Binghamton.

In a 7-Eleven. Hitchhiking. In the passenger seat of a van headed south on I-80.

Wearing a baseball cap pulled low on her forehead.

Wearing sunglasses.

Coming out of the Onondaga CineMax on Route 33, with a bearded man—the movie was
The War of the Worlds
with Tom Cruise.

As far north as Massena, New York. As far south as Binghamton.

Dozens of calls. In time, hundreds.

Most valuable were calls from “witnesses” claiming to have been at the Roebuck Inn on the night of Saturday, July 9.

Guys who knew Corporal Kincaid by sight. Women who’d seen a girl they suspected to be, or believed to be, or knew to be Cressida Mayfield, at the inn: in the crowded taproom, on the deck overlooking the lake, in the women’s room “sick to her stomach”—“splashing water on her face.”

One of the bartenders, who knew Kincaid and his friends Halifax, Weisbeck, Stumpf—“The girl came in from somewhere. Like she was alone, and kind of scared-looking. In jeans, a black T-shirt, and some kind of top, or sweater. Not the kind of girl who turns up at the Roebuck on Saturday night. Maybe she was with Kincaid, or just ran into him. I think they left together. Or—all of them left together. It was a pretty loud scene, with the band on the deck. But definitely, it wasn’t any bikers she was with—this girl ‘Cressida.’ Hey—if other people call about Kincaid, and it turns out it’s him, like if the girl is hurt—do we split the ten thousand dollars? What’s the deal?”

And there was an ex-girlfriend of Rod Halifax, named Natalie Cantor, claiming to have been a “friend” of Juliet Mayfield’s in high school, who called Zeno Mayfield’s office phone to tell him in an incensed, just perceptibly slurred voice that whatever happened to his daughter, Rod and his buddies would know—“Once, the bastard got me drunk, slipped some drug into a drink, he’d been wanting to break up with me and was acting really nasty trying to pimp me to his disgusting buddies—Jimmy Weisbeck, that asshole Stumpf—out in his pickup. Right out in the parking lot, the son of a bitch. They’re all mean drunks. I don’t know Kincaid, but I know Juliet. I know your daughter, she’s an angel. I’m not joking, she’s an angel. Juliet Mayfield is an angel. I don’t know the other one—‘Cress’da.’ I never saw ‘Cress’da.’ Anything you want to know about that poor girl, Rod Halifax will know. I wasn’t the first girl he got tired of, and treated like shit. It was not ‘consensual’—it was God-damn fucking
rape
. And I was sick afterward, I mean—infected. So, ask
him
. Arrest him, and ask
him
. Anything that’s happened to that poor girl, like if they raped her, and strangled her, and dumped her body in the lake—you can be sure Rod Halifax was responsible.”

ZIGZAG TIME ENTERED
her head: hours moved slow as sludge while days flew past on drunken-careening wings.

Until she could think
A week. This Sunday is a week. And she hasn’t been found
and it would have the ring of tentative good news:
She hasn’t been found in some terrible place.

He would never forgive himself, she knew.

Though it could not be his fault. Yet.

Arlette had long gotten over being jealous—at any rate, showing her jealousy—of her daughters. Particularly Zeno adored Juliet but he’d also been weak-minded about Cressida, the “difficult” daughter—the one whom it was a challenge to love.

At the very start, the little girls had adored their mother. As babies, their young mother was all to them. Which is only natural of course.

But quickly then, Daddy had stolen their hearts. Big burly bright-faced Daddy who was so funny, and so unpredictable—Daddy who loved to subvert Mommy’s dictums and upset, as he liked to joke, Mommy’s
apple cart
.

As if an orderly household—eating at mealtimes, and properly at a table, with others—walking and not running/rushing on the stairs—keeping your bedroom reasonably clean, and not messing up a bathroom for others—were a silly-Mommy’s
apple cart
to be overturned for laughs.

But Mommy knew to laugh, when she was laughed-at.

Mommy knew it was love. A kind of love.

Except it hurt sometimes—the father siding with the daughter, in mockery of her.

(Not Juliet of course: Juliet never mocked anyone.)

(Mockery came too easily to Cressida. As if she feared a softer emotion would make her vulnerable.)

Arlette knew: if something terrible had happened to Cressida, Zeno would blame himself. Though there could be no reason, no logical reason, he would blame himself.

Already he was saying to whoever would listen
I wasn’t even there, when she left. God!

In a voice of wonder, self-reproach
Maybe she’d have told me—something. Maybe she’d have wanted to talk.

COUNTLESS TIMES
they’d gone over Saturday evening: when Cressida had left the house, on her way to the Meyers’ for dinner.

Casually, you might say indifferently calling out to her mother and her sister in the kitchen—
Bye! See you later.

Or even, though this was less likely given that Cressida wouldn’t have stayed very late at Marcy’s—
Don’t wake up for me.

(Had Cressida said that?
Don’t wake up for me
?—intentionally or otherwise?
Wake up
not
wait up
. That was Cressida’s sort of quirky humor. Suddenly, Arlette wondered if it might mean something.)

(Snatching at straws, this was. Pathetic!)

Certainly it was ridiculous for Zeno to reproach himself with not having been home at that time. As if somehow—(but how?)—he might have foreseen that Cressida wouldn’t be returning when she’d planned, and when they’d expected her?

Ridiculous but how like
the father.

Particularly,
the father of daughters.

EACH TIME
the phone rang!

Several phones in the Mayfield household: the family line, Zeno’s cell, Arlette’s cell, Juliet’s cell.

Always a kick of the heart, fumbling to answer a call.

Deliberately Arlette avoided seeing the caller ID in the hope that the caller would be Cressida.

Or, that the caller would be a stranger, a law enforcement officer, possibly a woman, in Arlette’s fantasizing it was a woman, with the good news
Mrs. Mayfield!—we’ve found your daughter and she wants to talk to you.

Beyond this, though Arlette listened eagerly, there was—nothing.

As if, in the strain of awaiting the call, and hearing Cressida’s voice, she’d forgotten what that voice was.

DRIVING TO THE BANK,
fumbling with the radio dial, in a panic to hear the “top of the hour” news—almost colliding with a sanitation truck.

Recovering, and, in the next block, almost colliding with an SUV whose driver tapped his horn irritably at her.

And, in the bank, bright-faced and smiling in the (desperate, transparent) hope of deflecting looks of pity, waiting in line at a teller’s window
exactly as she’d have waited if her daughter was not missing.

This fact confounded her. This fact seemed to mock her.

Wanting to hide. Hide her face. But of course, no.

“Arlette? You are Arlette Mayfield—aren’t you? I’m so sorry—really
really
sorry—about your daughter . . . We’ve told our kids, one is a junior in high school, the other is just in seventh grade, if they hear anything—anything at all—to tell us right away. Kids know so much more than their parents these days. Out at the lake, and in the Preserve, there’s all kinds of things going on—under-age drinking is the least of it. All kinds of drugs including ‘crystal meth’—kids don’t know what they’re taking, they’re too young to realize how dangerous it is . . . I don’t mean that your daughter was with any kind of a drug-crowd, I don’t mean that at all—but the Roebuck Inn, that’s a place they hang out—there’s these Hells Angels bikers who are known drug-dealers—but parents have their heads in the sand, just don’t want to acknowledge there’s a serious—tragic—problem in Carthage . . .”

And not in the bank parking lot, can’t let herself cry. Not with bank customers trailing in and out. And anyone who knew Arlette Mayfield, including now individuals not-known to her who’d seen her on WCTG-TV with her husband Zeno pleading for the return of their daughter, could stare through her car windshield and observe and carry away the tale to all who would listen with thrilled widened eyes
That poor woman! Arlette Mayfield! You know, the mother of the missing girl . . .

CALLS CONTINUED TO COME
to police headquarters.

Though peaking on the second day, Monday, July 11: a record number of calls following the front-page article, with photos, in the
Carthage Post-Journal
. And the notice of the ten-thousand-dollar reward.

Myriad “witnesses” claiming to have sighted Cressida Mayfield—somewhere. Or to have knowledge of what might have happened to her and where she was now.

In some cases, making veiled accusations against people—(neighbors, relatives, ex-husbands)—who might have “kidnapped” or “done something to” Cressida Mayfield.

Zeno had wanted these calls routed through
him
. It was his fear that a valuable call would be overlooked by someone in the sheriff’s office.

Detectives explained to Zeno that, where reward money is involved, a flood of calls can be expected, virtually all of them worthless.

Yet, though likely to be worthless, the calls have to be considered—the “leads” have to be investigated.

The Beechum County Sheriff’s Department was understaffed. The Carthage PD was helping in the investigation though this department was even smaller.

If kidnapping were suspected, the FBI might be contacted. The New York State Police.

Was offering a reward so publicly a mistake? Zeno didn’t want to think so.

“Maybe the mistake is not offering enough. Let’s double it—twenty thousand dollars.”

“Oh, Zeno—are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure. We have to do
something
.”

“Maybe you should speak with Bud McManus? Or maybe—”

“She’s our daughter, not his. Twenty thousand will attract more attention. We have to do
something
.”

Arlette thought
But if there is nothing? If we can do nothing?

There was Zeno on the phone. Defiant Zeno on two phones at once: the family phone, and his cell phone.

“Hello? This is Zeno Mayfield. We’ve decided to double the reward money to twenty thousand dollars. Yes—right.
Twenty thousand dollars for information leading to the recovery and return of our daughter Cressida Mayfield. Callers will be granted anonymity if they wish
.”

IN CRESSIDA’S ROOM.
Drifting upstairs in the large empty-echoing house as if drawn to that room.

Where, if she’d been home, and in the room, Cressida would have been surprised to see her parents and possibly not pleased.

Hey, Dad. Mom. What brings you here?

Not snooping—are you?

“Her bed wasn’t slept-in. That was the first thing I saw.”

Arlette spoke in a hoarse whisper. They might have been crouched in a mausoleum, the room was so dimly lighted, so stark and still.

In the center of the room Zeno stood, staring. It was quite possible, Arlette thought, that he hadn’t entered their daughter’s room in years.

Detectives had asked Arlette if anything was “missing” from the room. Arlette didn’t think so, but how could Arlette know: their daughter’s life was a very private life, only partially and, it sometimes seemed, grudgingly shared with her mother.

Detectives had searched the room, as Arlette and Zeno stood anxiously by. As soon as the detectives were finished with any part of the room—the closet, the old cherrywood chest of drawers Cressida had had since she was six years old—Arlette hurried to reclaim it, and re-establish order.

With latex-gloved hands they’d placed certain articles of clothing in plastic bags. They’d taken a not-very-clean hairbrush, a toothbrush, other intimate items for DNA purposes presumably.

Cressida’s laptop. They’d asked permission to open it, to examine it, and the Mayfields had said yes, of course.

Though reluctant even to open the laptop themselves. To peer into their daughter’s private life, how intrusive this was! How Cressida would resent it.

The detectives had taken it away with them, and left a receipt.