Nobody's There (6 page)

“I saw your car outside,” Dr. Thompson said. “I thought I'd stop by and say hello.” He pulled out the fourth chair at the table and sat down. “I've just moved into a condo two blocks from here. It faces the water and has a place to store my boat. Has a nice view, too.”

“Who cares?” Abbie wanted to say, but she clamped her lips together tightly and stared down at her menu. He wouldn't hear if she spoke. She didn't exist. She was a nothing … a nobody.

Abbie saw her mother's lips part, as though she intended to speak, but Davy burst in, shouting eagerly, “You've got a boat? Really? Dad, if you've got a boat we could go fishing!”

“Davy, I—”

“Is it a sailboat? Does it have a motor?”

“Yes.” Dr. Thompson shot a quick, guilty glance at his wife before he added, “It's just a sixteen-footer. Got it secondhand.”

“Wow!” Davy shouted. “Dad! Could I come and live with you?”

Dr. Thompson cleared his throat. “Davy, not—”

Abbie slapped her menu down on the table. She could feel the heat in her face and knew she was blushing. “Be quiet, Davy,” she commanded. “You're yelling.”

Davy did lower his voice, but he leaned toward his father, clutching his arm. “Could I, Dad? Could I come and live with you? Now? It wouldn't take me long to pack.”

Dr. Thompson's forehead puckered, and he
looked at Davy sadly. “We can't talk about that now, son,” he said. “Maybe after I'm settled … Your mother …”

In the silence Abbie watched the expression on her little brother's face twist from joy and excitement to misery. She instinctively stretched out a hand to touch his arm. “It's okay, Davy,” she said.

But Davy shrugged her hand away. “Mom won't let me, will she?” he cried, tears running down his cheeks. “Why won't you let me live with Dad, Mom?”

Mrs. Thompson glared at her husband. “That was cute, putting it on me,” she said. “Tell him the truth. Tell Davy that the decision to leave us was all yours. Tell him you don't want him around to interfere with your romance.”

“Be reasonable, Sandra,” Dr. Thompson said.

“Tell him,” Mrs. Thompson insisted.

Dr. Thompson pushed back his chair and stood. His back was straight, his expression stern. Abbie could picture him in his intimidating classroom. “Sandra, I stopped by only to give my family a friendly greeting,” he said. “I didn't expect you to turn it into an unhappy issue.”

Mrs. Thompson spoke slowly. “You coward! Get … out … of here.”

Davy twisted in his chair, trying to grab his father's arm. “Dad, can I go with you? Please?”

Dr. Thompson bent to touch Davy's cheek with his own. “You can't, Davy,” he said sadly. “You heard your mother.”

As his father strode out of the restaurant, Davy wadded his napkin, shoving it up against his eyes. “I hate you, Mom,” he muttered. “I hate you.”

Abbie met the gazes of the people who were staring, forcing them to look away. “Mom,” she said. “Let's go home. We've got pancake mix in the cupboard. I'll make some pancakes.”

Mrs. Thompson gripped the arms of her chair, her face as blotchy as though she'd been slapped. “Yes, Abbie,” she whispered. “Let's go home.”

Davy refused to eat Abbie's pancakes, and Mrs. Thompson took only two bites before she pushed her plate away. “I'm sorry,” she said to Abbie. “Lately I seem to have very little appetite.”

As Davy threw open the pantry door and began to cram the pockets of his jacket with packages of peanut butter crackers, Mrs. Thompson asked, “Davy, what are you doing?”

“Getting something to eat,” he answered.

“Abbie made you these perfectly good pancakes. She—”

“I hate pancakes. You can't make me eat them. I'm never going to eat pancakes again.” He ran to the kitchen door.

“Where are you going?”

“Outside.”

“Where outside?”

Davy turned and glared at his mother. “P.J.'s coming over. That's okay, isn't it? I mean, you
are going to let me see my best friend, aren't you?”

Mrs. Thompson sighed. “Honey, I wish you'd try to understand. If you'd like, we could find a quiet place to talk.”

Davy didn't answer. He raced out the kitchen door, slamming it behind him.

In misery Abbie watched a tear roll down her mother's cheek. Another followed and another. She stared down at the wedding ring on her hand, not moving, not even seeming to notice she was crying. Abbie got up, pulled a fistful of tissues from the box on the kitchen counter, and handed them to her.

“Mom,” she said, “let's go to a movie this afternoon. Okay?”

When Abbie didn't get an answer she kept talking, realizing she was babbling but unable to stop. “We can see that new sci-fi film. Davy will like that one. I mean, all the kids are talking about it, and he hasn't seen it yet. That ought to make him feel better. Oh, I mean, you know—distract him. We could even take P.J. with us and stop off afterward for hamburgers. Want me to call P.J.'s mom?”

Mrs. Thompson leaned back in her chair and mopped at her eyes and nose with the tissues. “If it's okay with you, Abbie, I really don't feel like a movie today. You can ask Gigi over if you'd like to.”

“Gigi and her family are driving to Corpus Christi to visit her grandmother. I'd like to do something with you, Mom. Really, I would.”

“Davy doesn't understand …”

Abbie patted her mother's shoulder. “I know, Mom. But he will.”

“I should take him to counseling, but right now I can't afford it.”

Mrs. Thompson got to her feet, gave Abbie a hug, and left the kitchen.

The telephone rang, and Abbie reached for it eagerly. Maybe Gigi hadn't gone out of town.

“Hi, Abbie,” a deep, soft voice said. “This is Nick Campos.”

Abbie stood silently, her mouth open, and Nick went on. “Remember me? English class?”

“Y-Yes,” Abbie said. Of course she remembered Nick. He was tall, with dark curly hair and deep brown eyes. Nick was fun and good-looking.

“I was wondering if you were free to go to a movie with me this afternoon,” he said.

Abbie was startled and confused by her mixed-up feelings. Nick was a nice guy and had a great smile. But Dad had a great smile too, and what was behind it? A man who would walk out of the lives of his wife and children as if they didn't matter.

Abbie gripped the phone. She cleared her throat, when her voice didn't seem to be working, and tried to speak up. “I'm sorry, Nick. It was nice of you to ask me, but I can't go out today. I've got … other stuff to do.”

“I shouldn't have called so late,” Nick said. “It's just that it's such a pretty day, and I got to thinking about you, and … well … can I call you again for a date, Abbie?”

“Yes,” Abbie said, wishing she had said no.

Nick said goodbye, and Abbie echoed the word. She slowly hung up the receiver. Probably at any other time of her life a call from a cute guy like Nick would have thrilled her. Upset by her feelings, she grew even angrier at her father.

As she cleaned the kitchen, Abbie tried not to think about him. Every time he came to mind her stomach clutched and pain tightened her chest.

Sunday's
Buckler Bee
still lay folded on one end of the table. Abbie sat at the table and spread the newspaper flat. The headline dominated the top half of the first page:
BANK PRESIDENT SHOT
. Below the headline, next to the news story, were two large color photos. One was a fairly recent shot of Delmar Hastings with his wife and children. The other was a studio portrait of the bank's head cashier, Irene Conley.

“So that's who Irene Conley is,” Abbie said aloud. She had seen Irene working in the bank but hadn't known either her name or her job. The picture flattered her. Blond hair, green eyes, mouth just a little too wide—the real-life Irene didn't have the softness of features that the camera had given her.

Abbie read the story but didn't learn much more than she had from the group of senior citizens. “At seven-fifteen
A.M.
Saturday an unknown person or persons robbed the Gulf East Savings and Loan. The head cashier had been
knocked unconscious, the president of the bank had been shot and killed, and the vault was found open. No estimate has yet been made as to the amount of the missing money.”

As she thought about the crime, Abbie felt a wave of sorrow not only for Mr. Hastings and his family, but also for Irene Conley. How horrible it must have been for her to come back to consciousness and find her employer dead.

Abbie studied the picture of the Hastings children. The youngest boy looked close to her age.
You lost a father too
, she thought,
but at least you know that
your
father didn't want to leave you. He wasn't like mine.
With a shudder, Abbie quickly turned the page of the newspaper.

Beside her the telephone rang. Her mind still on her father, Abbie angrily gripped the receiver.
If this is Dad
, she thought,
I'm going to tell him exactly what I think of him for butting in and spoiling Mom's day.

“Hello,” she yelled at the phone.

“Don't yell like that. Keep your voice down, or you're going to ruin everything.”

“Mrs. Merkel?”

“Of course it's me. You shouldn't have to ask.”

Abbie took a deep breath and answered with satisfaction, “It's Sunday, Mrs. Merkel. I have the day off.”

“Day off? What kind of an assistant are you? Days off are for people with nine-to-five jobs, not for private investigators. I need you. Right away.”

“I can't.”

Mrs. Merkel lowered her voice. “They're on my block now, you stupid girl.”

“Who's on your block?”

“The crooks. Who else?”

“But—”

“Don't argue. Is Mrs. Wilhite going to tell me you have Sundays off when I tell her I asked you for help and you refused to come?”

“Look, Mrs. Merkel,” Abbie said. “I'm not going to let you intimidate me. If I get in trouble with Mrs. Wilhite, well, okay. So be it. Just because you tell me that crooks are on your block, you expect me to—”

A recorded message suddenly interrupted Abbie. “If you wish to place a call, please hang up and dial again.”

Abbie slammed down the phone. “Crazy old lady!” she grumbled. “She hung up on me.”

Mrs. Thompson appeared in the doorway, raw hope in her eyes. “Was that call for me?” she asked.

Abbie groaned.
It wasn't Dad, if that's what you're asking
, she thought.
Oh, Mom, don't hope that he'll call you. Don't expect him to. He isn't going to apologize for what he did. He isn't going to beg you to take him back. Not ever.

“It was Mrs. Merkel,” Abbie answered. “She's worried about some crooks.”

“Crooks? What is she talking about?”

“I don't know, Mom,” Abbie said, “but I'd better drive over to her house. Could I use the car?”

“Sure,” Mrs. Thompson said.

The phone rang again, and Abbie picked it up. She turned away so that she couldn't see the spark of hope on her mother's face.

“Get over here fast!” Mrs. Merkel yelled into the phone. “Those crooks are coming closer. They're practically next door.”

A
bbie scanned Darnell Street as she drove onto Mrs. Merkel's block. A tar-encrusted black truck and a small trailer with roofing equipment stood on the street in front of Mrs. Merkel's home.

Abbie parked her car a short distance away and walked to Mrs. Merkel's house. She could see two men, their overalls as dirty as their truck, leaving the porch of the house next to Mrs. Merkel's.

As she reached to press Mrs. Merkel's doorbell, the door flew open and a gnarled hand shot out. Mrs. Merkel grabbed Abbie's arm, pulling her into the house, and slammed the door.

Abbie squinted in the dim light, examining
her surroundings. The room was tidy, but the furniture was old, its faded, stiff plush fabric a reminder that it must have been new in the forties. Crocheted doilies covered the chair arms, and inexpensive little figurines and knickknacks rested on a built-in bookcase. A foot-high Asian bronze horse with inset eyes of gleaming black stone stood, one front leg raised, on a teak pedestal at one end of a coffee table. The kind of over-sweet, floral scent that comes from a spray can hung in the air, and yellowed lace curtains at the windows filtered out most of the sunlight. Abbie noticed that there weren't any framed photographs, even though they seemed to belong in this setting.

Mrs. Merkel leaned back against the door. “Did you see those men?” she asked. “They've been in Buckler before, over on the next street—Effie Glebe's house.
Said
they were roofers. Ha! Tore up her roof. Put some gunk on it that leaked bad at the first rain. And I'd hate to tell you what a terrible high price they charged her. Effie filed a complaint, but by that time they were long gone from Buckler and the police couldn't find them. Now they're back—the same people. What a nerve. They think they can pull the same thing again and get away with it. I got a good look at them last fall, and I don't forget things like that. They've even got the same truck. They didn't know that they'd tangle with me.”