Periphery (30 page)

The floor is covered in shards of white china and brown and red splatters of coffee and salsa. I hear a buzzing in my ears, but my mind is empty. Never, in all our arguments over eight years—and we’ve had some bitter fights—has she called me that word. In fact, she’s forbidden it to be spoken aloud in the house, by anyone, about anyone. Sure, I think it, because it’s the rhetoric that NDY is fighting, because it makes killing us palatable, but I never thought that she was thinking it about me.

My throat dry, my mouth hanging open, I can only sit and stare. She crumples, puts her head on the table. She’s not making any noise, but from the way her shoulders are jerking up and down, I can tell that she’s crying.

“Well,” I finally croak out, “I guess there’s no more to be said about that.” I turn and wheel down the hall.

“Sis!” she cries from the kitchen. I keep going. “Sis!” she chokes out again. “Sisco! Fran!”

I don’t answer. I’m heading to bed, to unconsciousness.

“Sis, I’ll pick you up after class, okay? I’ll come by at noon and then we’ll go to Jill’s together, alright? Alright?”

She waits for me to respond. When I don’t, she calls out, “I have to go, but I’m sorry, I really am. I’ll pick you up later, okay? We can talk then. Hey, I love you….” There’s a pause. Then I hear the front door open and shut. I climb into bed.

I wake to Coleman nudging me in the face. “Cut it out, Coleman. What the fuck.” I shove her away and pull myself into a sit. The clock says 6:30. A rosy half-light is coming through the blinds. Is the sun rising or setting? Then, with a sick feeling, the fight comes back to me, and I realize it’s evening, and Rena didn’t pick me up at noon as she had promised. Well, that might be for the best—a cooling off period for both of us.

I tentatively make my way to the living room. I am not looking forward to the conversation we’re going to have to have.

But the room’s dark. The kitchen’s empty, too. Smashed breakfast dishes still on the floor. Rena must have picked up the cams and then gone to do some scouting and snooping. She’s still in the field.

Coleman dances ahead of me, whining and nosing at the door. I realize that, wrapped in my cocoon of hurt and anger, I neglected to take her out for her afternoon relief and exercise. That’s why she woke me. “I’m sorry, buddy,” I rub her ears. “I’ve been such a bad mama today. Wanna go out?” She pants and twirls with excitement.

When I swing open the back door, the cold air hits me in the chest. Late March is still winter in New England and I’m not wearing a coat or gloves. After Coleman does her thing I lead my reluctant pooch back inside.

“Tomorrow, buddy, okay? Tomorrow we’ll play extra B-A-L-L to make up for today, okay?” Coleman wags uncertainly.

I send Coleman to her crate and get a mop and dustpan to clean up the mess. After, I examine the dog’s paws to make sure she doesn’t have any splinters from the broken china. Finally, I can’t procrastinate any more. I check the net and the phone for messages. There aren’t any. I suck in my breath, hold it for a count of five, let it out. I don’t know what we’re going to say to each other, but we have to start somewhere. She always calls me on her way home, and our fight doesn’t justify her not checking in. But I won’t start with that. We need to find a way, as Pop says, to “be gentle with ourselves.”

My nerves a little calmer, I hit Rena’s number. The line’s already open and it takes me a minute to figure out what I’m seeing. It sort of resembles Rena’s car interior—there’s red vinyl and a window through which I see some grass and darkening sky. It looks like a fun-house mirror image of what I usually see. Then I realize why it looks so weird: it’s the inside of Rena’s car, but it’s sideways. Which must mean the car is on its side. So where’s Rena?

“Hello?” I say. My voice seems to come from somewhere outside of me, like I’m hovering near the ceiling, looking at the image of night falling in Rena’s toppled car. “Hello?” I repeat, louder. “Rena, answer the fucking phone.” Silence.

“For Chrissake, say something. Rena! We can work things out. It’s no big deal. Answer the phone.” I taste salt water and realize I’m crying. “Please?” I whisper. “Rena, are you there?”

I know that I’m babbling pointlessly. If she could answer, she would have. I listen intently and hear the distant chirping of a colony of peepers, those miniscule frogs that hatch in vernal pools. Other than that, I can’t pick up on any sound or movement.

I call Jill. “What’s wrong?” she says as soon as she sees me. God only knows what I look like, but I don’t care. I don’t bother with her question. “When did Rena come by your place today?” I ask, my voice shaking.

“She didn’t,” Jill says simply. “Fran, what is going on?”

“Are you sure? Are you sure she didn’t borrow any of your cameras or anything? Were you in all day?”

“I went to the grocery store for a little bit this afternoon. Hold on, I’ll check with Burt. He was watching the game. Burt!” she yells toward another room, “Did Serena come by today?”

Burt’s voice echoes faintly back, “Nope.”

Jill looks at me and shrugs. “Sorry.”

“Are you sure?” I’m trying not to cry. “Were you both home all day?”

“Yeah, Fran, I told you. I just went to do those errands, but other than that I was home. And Burt’s been planted in front of the idiot box all afternoon,” she waves toward the other room. “Now tell me what’s wrong. You’re scaring me. Maybe we can help.”

Her words penetrate my fog of panic. Yes, maybe they can help. I tell her, using as few words as possible, about Rena’s upended car, about how Rena always calls me on her way home, about how she was supposed to pick me up at noon but never arrived. I don’t mention the fight.

Something about the way Jill’s become super-calm is setting off sirens in my head. I can barely hear over them. It’s the kind of expression I wear when there’s a crisis and I’m trying not to alarm someone. “Oh god,” I say, “Oh god, this is bad. You think this is really bad, don’t you? This is bad. This is bad.” I can’t stop repeating myself.

“Fran,” Jill says my name slowly. “Look at me.”

I focus on her freckled nose, her green eyes.

“Good,” she continues. “Now, don’t panic. I’m going to put out word to the whole Nornerk, okay? Burt and I’ll start calling and posting people. Don’t call the police yet, alright?”

“The police!” This hadn’t even occurred to me. “Oh my god! The police! Should I call them?”

“No. Fran, listen to what I just said. Don’t call them yet. Let’s check the nerk first. Let’s make sure that she’s not visiting someone or out clicking and her car got stolen and she just lost track of time and doesn’t know it yet. There could be a lot of explanations for this. Let’s not draw attention to ourselves prematurely, okay?”

“Okay, okay,” I repeat numbly. I have no idea what she just said, but she seems to know that.

“Where was she going when she left this morning?”

“To class. She’s mentoring that ally, Dorothy Gottlieb.”

“Oh yeah. So, did she make it to class?”

“I don’t know! Oh my god, you’re right. I should check if she made it to class. I need to call Dorothy! I have to hang up!”

“Wait, wait!” Jill waves an arm. “Just put me on three-way, okay? Don’t hang up.”

“Right, right. Good idea.” I press Dorothy’s number and a pixie-ish student appears on the left side of my split-screen. Her dirty-blond hair is dyed hot pink at the tips and she’s hugging a few blouses on hangers to her chest.

“Yeah, hello?” She says warily. “Are you Dorothy’s mom?”

“What? No. I’m nobody’s mom. Is Dorothy there?”

“No, she left.” The girl is sucking on a lollipop. She looks about twelve.

“Well, do you know when she’ll be back? This is really important.”

“No, you don’t get it,” the coed says, taking the lolly out of her mouth and examining it. “She left, left. I mean, gone. Like, she packed up some stuff and said she was dropping out. But she left a bunch of her stuff and said I could take whatever I wanted,” she adds defensively. “That’s why I’m in her room. She gave me the keys.”

“What? That doesn’t make sense.” This could not be happening. “What about Serena? Where’s Serena?”

“I don’t know any Serena,” the pixie shifts her weight from one foot to the other, becoming bored. “Look, are you Dorothy’s mom or something? Because honestly, I don’t know where she went.”

“No, I’m not her mom! I don’t give a shit about Dorothy! I’m looking for my partner, okay? Tall, gorgeous, black hair—”

“Oh, her. Kinda intense looking? Older, like maybe a senior? Kind of a bitch?”

“Yes! Yes, that’s her! Where is she?”

“I dunno. I saw her, though. She came here looking for Dorothy, too. She even started to go through Dor’s stuff. But I told her that wasn’t cool because Dor said I had first dibs. She—what’s her name, Serena?—told me to fuck off. Nice girlfriend you’ve got. I wasn’t gonna take that shit. I told her to leave Dor’s stuff alone or I’d call security. So she called me some names which I am not gonna repeat and then she left. But I’ll tell you what, if she comes back,” the student waves her sucker at me, “I’m calling security right off. I’m not even waiting. She has no right—”

“Did she say where she was going? What time did this all happen?”

“Geez, you’re as bad as her. I don’t know, okay? All’s I know is what I just told you. I gotta go.”

“Wait, please,” Jill cuts in, tries to soothe the girl, who’s scoping the room for more loot. “I know we haven’t been that easy to deal with, but our friend is missing. We’re just really worried. We think she’s had a car accident. So, we’re trying to find her. That’s why we could really use your help.”

“Oh,” the student nods. “I’m sorry about the accident.”

“So, do you have any idea what time that was—? When you saw her?” Jill encourages.

“Well, I’d just gotten up, and I was going to lunch. So, sometime before lunch.”

“Fran,” Jill’s tone is urgent. “Was the clock working? Was there a time stamp when you looked in the car?”

This is such an obvious thing to check I can’t believe I missed it. Without wasting a second, I put Jill and the college student on hold and open the line to Serena’s car again. In the upper right corner, along with today’s date, is the time stamp: 11:37 A.M. So, she had placed a call to me—probably as she was driving home. Probably, as she had promised, to let me know she was coming to pick me up.

That’s when I start to sob.

I’m still crying nonstop in front of the image of Rena’s car when I hear someone at the door. Thank god! I’m crying anew. I spin around, Coleman and I make for it as fast as we can.

The doorbell rings. Rena wouldn’t ring the bell to her own house. I slow down, look through the peephole. It’s Jill.

“Hi,” I edge back to let her in. With both of us in chairs, it’s a tight squeeze.

“Hi,” she says, leaning forward to squeeze my hand. “When you didn’t come back on the line we got worried. So I decided to come over.”

“Oh. Oh, yeah. I forgot about you and that dimwit. Sorry.”

Jill doesn’t bother to reply but makes her way to the phone screen, examining every centimeter. I see her checking the time stamp. “Burt’s alerted the nerk. He’ll let us know after everyone’s checked in. Why don’t we go into the kitchen and have some tea?”

“I don’t want any fucking tea. I want Serena.”

“I know, honey. Right now we’re doing everything we can. But here’s the thing: I think we have to tread lightly, because we don’t know where Dorothy’s gone. Nobody in Nornerk can reach her. We’re thinking about posting to USNerk. It’s just a little too coincidental, them both disappearing at the same time.”

“Oh my god! Poor Dorothy! I didn’t even think of that. Jesus, maybe she was picked up for being in NDY! Poor kid, she was still in training.”

“Yes,” Jill says very slowly. “Or maybe Dorothy’s smarter and more experienced than we gave her credit for.” Jill’s searching my face.

“You mean you think she saw the shit coming down and escaped before Rena did?” Even though I know this is not the time, I can’t help but be indignant on Rena’s behalf. “I doubt that. Rena’s a pro. She’s been doing this for years.”

“Yeah, that’s what we’re all worried about.”

“Who’s ‘all’? And what do you mean, ‘that’s what you’re worried about’? Jill, make some sense, will you?”

“I mean, maybe Dorothy’s a plant. Maybe Serena’s reputation in NDY spread outside NDY. We’ve started doing some digging.” Jill shakes her head and says ruefully, “We should’ve done it before. We can’t find a Frank Gottlieb in Denver.” She’s chewing her lower lip. It’s chapped and raw.

“Maybe he’s gone underground since he was diagnosed.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Jill shrugs, but I can tell she doesn’t have a lot of faith in the idea.

“So, what does this mean? Rena’s being detained? Have you tried any of our plants at the precincts? Any media buzz from party headquarters?”

“We’re looking into all that. Burt’s coordinating. As soon as he finds out anything, he’ll call here.” The words are barely past Jill’s cracked lips when the phone beeps. I jump on it.

Burt’s scratching his bald cocoa pate. “Hi Fran, how’re you holding up?” he begins.

“Fine.” I don’t have time for pleasantries. “What’s the news?”

“You and Jill should turn on the TV.”

“Channel one or two?”

“Two.”

“Again, for those just tuning in…” the perma-perk smile of Sandy Sanderson is stunning as ever but his voice is lowered—an indication that he’s reporting something serious. “We’re reporting, as it unfolds, a shocking development for the CFR/Green party. At approximately three o’clock this afternoon, Peter Sjorgren, an intern with the Barns campaign, was discovered in the company of suspected terrorist Serena Sullivan. The pair skidded off the road and rolled into a ditch near Sjorgren’s Chelmsford, Massachusetts home. According to authorities, the couple,” two pictures appear behind the anchor—one of Rena, the other, a good-looking young blond man, “has been living in sin, not only as unmarried fornicators, but also as supporters of the anti-American, anti-Environmental-Right-to-Die, or ERTD, group, Not Dead Yet.

“We have Rhianna Spooner on the scene at the site of the accident. Rhianna, what can you tell us?”