Shackled (5 page)

He looked ridiculous. I wanted to tell him so. Except then when I did, I also laughed. I hardly recognized the sound.

“Yes, I do look ridiculous,” David said. “But at least I'm having fun. Lookit, there's five more here. You wouldn't even have to sit next to me or anything.”

He didn't say it bitterly. In fact, I couldn't quite figure out how he meant it. Sarcastic? Flirty? Just a statement of fact?

So just to show him I couldn't be manipulated, I climbed into the swing beside his and pushed off. Pretty soon we were in sync, up and down, back and forth, not speaking. For no good reason I remembered suddenly in grade school, when Tara and I got into sync like this, we shouted, “You're in my bathtub!” I don't know why. It was just one of those things kids said, I guess. We'd heard other kids say it before. It always cracked us up.

Maybe because of the way my stomach kept squishing up into my ribs, then down past my belly button, I didn't feel quite as hopeless as I had at the police station. Maybe the g-forces were relaxing my guts or something.

“I'm gonna jump,” David announced.

“Don't!” I said.

“Why?”

“You'll crack your skull open and your brains will fall out and I am not cleaning it up.” This was a phrase my mom always used to say to me and Jeffrey. For pretty much any occasion. Jumping on the couch, climbing ladders, whatever.

“Nah. I'm gonna do it.”

“David—”

And then he was airborne. A wild splay of arms and legs that I thought for sure would result in multiple compound fractures. But David landed expertly on his feet like a gymnast, and threw his fists up over his head as if to complete the image.

“Stuck the landing!” he announced.

I wanted to jump too. Instead I dragged my feet in the sand until I could hop off. “You could've been killed,” I said.

“I doubt it.”

“Whatever, it's your ass on the line.”

David grinned. “Hey, come here,” he said, and took off through the sand again.

What was I supposed to do? I followed after him, grumbling because of all the sand slipping into my sneakers.

David jumped onto a wooden deck plugged into the ground
by a giant spring. He spread his feet and bounced back and forth on the platform, making it rock.

“Awesome!” he said. He stopped bouncing and held out a hand. “Come on up.”

“No,” I said, taking a step back.

“Come on,” David said. “I'm going to show you something.”

I made a face to let him know I was suspicious, to say the least. Since I had to kill time before work anyway, I went ahead and climbed aboard.

I didn't take his hand, though. He didn't seem to notice.

“Hands up,” David said, raising his own in a limp sort of way. It reminded me of a dog sitting back and begging, the way his hands curved at the wrist.

I raised my arms like a zombie.

“Geez, no, loosen up,” David said. “Relax your shoulders. Bend your elbows. Let your hands float a little. See?”

“Okay . . .”

“Now just follow me,” David said. He put his wrists against mine, and began moving his hands in slow circles. I was reminded of
The Karate Kid
and wax on, wax off.

“Is this some kind of dance?”

“Nope. Martial arts.”

“What? Come on.” Secretly I was pleased I'd sort of guessed right in my head.

“It is,” David insisted. “It's wing chun. Or you can call it sticky hands. It's what Bruce Lee practiced before he created Jeet Kune Do.”

“Can you say that again in American?”

“Nope,” David said. “Now I'm going to move a hand toward you. You just stay attached to my wrist, okay? Go with it, but don't let me in.”

“Uh . . . okay . . .”

He gently eased his right hand toward my shoulder. I resisted.

“No, relax,” David said. “Blend. Blend.”

“Like a milkshake?”

“Like a tree. Bend with the wind instead of trying to stand against it.”

“You are making no sense.”

“I know,” David said. “It's a gift.”

“Are you going to make me wax your car, paint your house, paint your fence?”

“I'm not that inscrutable,” he said with a smile. “But I am working on it. Cultivating that whole mysterious inner peace and calm thing, yet maintaining the ability to whoop on a bunch of kids in skeleton tights . . .”

We hadn't detached our wrists through the entire conversation. He kept moving his hands, his wrists lightly touching my own. Suddenly—though not in a surprising way—he moved his right hand toward my shoulder again. I let him get close, but shifted my shoulder away and let my hand drop, taking his with it.

“Yeah,” David said. “There, you got it. Nice.”

I got a weird cramp in my face, and after a second I realized
I was smiling. And that I didn't want a cigarette. And that my heart was slower than it had been in the past six years without major pharmaceuticals. . . .

I stopped moving. Dropped my hands. David dropped his too.

“That was awesome,” he said.

My heart sped up. I wanted a smoke.

I hopped off the platform and started heading for the car. Sand sucked at my feet, making it feel like I was walking through a swimming pool. The same sensation as I'd had yesterday at the Hole in the Wall.

“Pelly?” David called. In a moment he had fallen into step with me. “What's up?”

“What're you doing?” I said, my voice low and tight.

“Um . . . hanging out at the park?”

“Stop it.” I paused and looked up at him. “What are you
really
doing?”

David's body sagged. He sort of snorted. “Trying to cheer you up, actually.”

“By teaching me karate?”

“Wing chun.”

“Whatever. I don't want to be
cheered up
, all right? Life sucks, and that's it. All the swinging in the world won't change that.”

“Or bring her back,” David said.

“
Or
bring her back, that's right!” I said. Then I blinked. “Wait, what's that supposed to mean? What are you saying?”

“Nothing,” David said. He shook his head, eyes averted. Then he glared at me. “I just thought it had been a bad couple days for you, is all. And maybe you'd want to get out of your head for a while.”

“There's no getting out of my head,” I said, crossing my arms and staring down at the concrete.

“Clearly,”
David said, and the sharpness in his voice startled me. “Jesus, Pelly. You know, I don't even know why I bothered. You ask me for help, which I then give you, and then—and then this. This is what I get.”

“I'll give you gas money—”

“What the hell, are you kidding me?” David's eyes bugged out, and he took several paces away from me as if he needed the room to use his long arms to gesture more effectively. “
Gas
money? How about just taking it easy for a minute? How about, I don't know,
smiling
?”

“I don't see anything funny here,” I said.

“Well that sure makes two of us.” David turned and looked out at the playground for a minute, then began walking toward the truck without waiting for me. “Let's just go.”

I followed David, thinking,
Good work, Pelly. If “bitch” was an Olympic event, you'd be a medalist.
I snapped my rubber band till my wrist was red. My calves tingled in anticipation of being bled, of releasing the tension and switching my brain off.

Neither of us said anything as David drove us to the Hole in the Wall. He turned the radio on, a little loud, something
playing Top 40. Then when we pulled into the dirt parking lot, my body stiffened in the seat and I sucked in a breath.

“What now?” David said.

I shook my head. Stared at the entrance. Even in broad daylight the building I'd come to appreciate as a home away from home looked like an ancient dungeon, waiting to consume me.

“I don't know if I can go back in there,” I said. My stomach felt the same way it did a few years back when I started ditching school. Cramped and fluid. My chest constricted, my breath quick and tight. I swallowed and shivered, hearing the creep's keys jingling in my head.

David didn't say anything for a minute. I saw him shaking his head a little. Then he said, “Guess you better call out sick, then.”

With that, he got out of his truck and shut the door, heading into the Hole. I watched him go, feeling absolutely useless and stupid and petrified. I couldn't move. Couldn't dig out my phone, or get out of the car and walk home, and I sure couldn't go to work.

So when David reappeared from the Hole a few minutes later and walked back to the truck, I assumed it was to tell me to get the hell out of it. Go walk home, or come in and go to work, but definitely and certainly get out of his truck.

He climbed in, his mouth drawn tight. “Home?” he asked.

“What are you . . . what did—”

“Told Eli you were sick and I'd take you home. But I don't
care if you actually go home or not, I'll drop you off wherever you want, I do not care.”

I was not attracted to David Harowitz. But right then I came perilously close to kissing him. No one had done anything like that for me before. He was pissed, yes. And I didn't blame him. I had that effect on people. But still. He'd gone to the trouble.

“Um, sure,” I said.

“Sure, what.”

“I mean home, sure.”

David pulled out of the parking lot without another word.

I said, “Aren't you going to get in trouble with Eli?”

“Who knows, who cares,” David said. “I just like to live dangerously. I'm a real adrenaline junkie.”

Clearly he was joking, but he didn't smile.

I decided silence was my best option. I watched the city go by, grateful I wasn't out in it. I wondered what Tara was doing, where she was. Truthfully, I'd hoped for more from Detective Larson. There had to be some way to make him understand I wasn't out of my mind. Or no more so than usual, anyway.

And I knew what I had to do.

“Um, David?”

“What.”

“Can I ask you for another favor? And you can say no.”

David barked a mirthless laugh. “Oh,
may
I?” he said. “Trust me, I know I can say no.”

He ground his teeth for a couple seconds, then said, “What is it.”

“Could you maybe take me up to Paradise Valley? I need to talk to someone.”

“Wow,” David said. “You must think I am the world's biggest pushover weenie doormat.”

“No. No, it's not that.”

“Well, I think I am.” He switched lanes. Signaled and everything. He was a really careful driver. “I don't know why I'm doing this. Where are we going?”

I wiped my hands on my jeans. “To see Tara's parents.”

SIX

Tara lived—I mean, her family lived—in a newer development where the houses looked like they'd been manufactured at some mansion factory and shipped here. You could practically walk from red-tile rooftop to rooftop. The Homeowners Association ensured every lawn was green and fresh. Every street clean and smooth. Every flower expertly clipped. A pretty place to live, I guess. But also kind of sterile.

“Nice neighborhood,” David muttered.

“Yeah.”

“What do her parents do?” David asked after I pointed to the next turn we needed to make.

“Her dad's an architect. Her mom teaches college classes from home. Like, online. History. That's what they did when we lost Tara, anyway. I haven't talked to them since Tara's older
sister, Carla, went out of state to college. That was a few years ago now.”

“Well, at least we've gotten everyone's attention,” David said, kind of low, like the neighbors could hear.

I saw what he meant. David's rusty red pickup stuck out, as my mom once said about an old dress, “like a turd in the caviar.” Any car older than three years in this area was cause for alarm.

“Where do you live?” I asked. For some reason I felt like I needed to know.

David shook his head quickly. “Not like this,” he said, his eyes darting around at the large houses. “Not here. Not in a place like this, I mean.”

He blew out a breath. I'd never seen him nervous like that before. Funny that it would take a sort of rich part of town to make him respond like that.

I had David park on the street in front of the Jacobses' house. Or what I hoped was still their house.

“What're we doing here again?” David asked as he kept glancing around the neighborhood. “I mean, what exactly is your big plan? You sure you want to open this up with them?”

“No, I'm not entirely sure,” I said through closed teeth. “It's just that maybe something will trigger a memory for them, like maybe that guy used to work for her dad, or coached soccer when Tara used to play. Something. I don't know. I just know that I can't sit around waiting.”

“You don't have to do it,” David said. “I mean, it was spur of the moment.”

“I
know
,” I said, turning to stare at the house. Just seeing it again was making me chilly beneath my skin. For a moment I imagined Tara coming bounding out the front door, summer-tan and sixteen, ready to jump into a Jeep and conquer the world. I ran with her, smiling, squinting at the sun, thinking,
You can't stop me, you can't stop me.

I sucked in a breath. I'd never been that girl. I could never
be
that girl. Not unless I got Tara back.

I sat motionless as David drew in a long breath through his nose. He still didn't look comfortable being here. But then to my surprise, he said, “So you want me to come with?”

“No,” I said. “It's probably better if you wait. Do you mind?”

David shut off the engine and said, “Nope.” He leaned across me and opened the glove box. He took out a book and sat back in his seat. I grabbed it away from him and looked at the title.

“
Tai Chi Classics
?” I said, recognizing it from the café. “You really are into this whole cage-fighting thing?”

“Hardly,” David said. “Wing chun and tai chi don't have much to do with MMA.”

“But you really do study it?”

“Sure. Since I was little. Seven or eight.”

“Are you, like, a black belt or something?”

“Not exactly.”

“That's cool.”

“Thanks,” David said. “Are you stalling?”

“Kind of.”

“You okay?”

He'd been asking that a lot lately. I nodded. Let the breath out. “If it was your kid, you'd want any information that was out there, wouldn't you?”

“Probably.”

“And if I tell them what's happening, they might be able to make the cops do more. Right?”

“What is it that you think the cops are
not
doing?”

“I don't know, but . . . well, you saw Detective Larson this morning. He doesn't believe me.”

“That's not what I saw, Pelly.”

“I mean he doesn't think anything will really come out of it, that's all,” I said, squeezing my hands into impotent fists. “Not that I was, like, lying or anything. God.”

“No, I—sorry,” David said. He shifted around in his seat. “Well, if you're gonna go, go.”

“Okay,” I said. “Okay. David?”

“What.”

“Thanks.”

I climbed out before I could see or hear a response. I was afraid I wouldn't have liked it.

A pale brown stone path curved to the front door. I followed it, wondering if an alarm would sound if I stepped onto the grass. I rang the doorbell and waited.

Mrs. Jacobs opened the door and gazed down at me.

“Yes?”

It felt like someone had jabbed a needle into my heart. She didn't even recognize me.

“Mrs. Jacobs? It's me. Penelope Wells? Pelly?”

Her frown stayed in place for another long moment, lips drawn down, eyes tired. Finally she straightened up a bit and almost smiled.

“Pelly,” she said. “My God. How are you? Come in.”

Relieved, I walked into the house and Mrs. Jacobs shut the door behind me. She walked—or shuffled, really—to the kitchen. A coffee scent not as good as our Hole in the Wall blend filled the room. It smelled burnt.

“Please, sit,” Mrs. Jacobs said, gesturing weakly to a kitchen chair.

I sat down and folded my hands tightly in my lap. Now that I was here, I didn't know how to tell her what I'd seen. I should have given myself time to rehearse.

“How have you been?” Mrs. Jacobs asked, sitting across from me. A laptop sat open on the table in front of her. “It's been so long.”

Her forehead wrinkled when she said it, like there was more than one meaning to her words. I suppose there was. Wondered suddenly if my being there hurt her. If I reminded her too much of Tara.

Everything on the planet probably reminds her of Tara, just like everything reminds you of how things used to be and how
you can't drive past that mall without looking for Tara like she'd still be—

Snap.
I used my rubber band, keeping my hands under the table. Focus, Pelly. Focus.

“I need to tell you something important,” I said carefully, staring at the tabletop. It was the same table as when I'd been here last. I recognized a knot and crack in the wood that reminded me of an old oak lollipop.

“And I don't know how you're going to take it,” I went on. “I tried talking to the police this morning, but . . .”

Her forehead wrinkled again. I'd always thought Mrs. Jacobs was a pretty woman. Elegant and put-together. After Tara disappeared, though, day by day her appearance had deteriorated. Either her hair had turned gray or she stopped trying to cover it up, I don't know which. Fine wrinkles that had made her distinguished six years ago had grown into deep creases that didn't flatter her skin. Even her beautiful brown eyes seemed to have a film over them.

“All right,” she said. “What is it? Are you in trouble?”

“Oh, no, I'm fine,” I said. “It's just that . . . I got this job at a coffee shop in downtown Phoenix a few months ago, and yesterday I saw . . . Mrs. Jacobs, I saw Tara.”

Her jaw went rigid, eyes unblinking.

“I know how that must sound,” I added quickly. “I didn't believe it myself at first, but it was her. She had that mole on her neck and everything. She was with this old guy, this creepy older guy, and she was so pale and skinny . . .”

I babbled on and on while Mrs. Jacobs sat rock-still in her chair, staring at me.

“So I called the police, and this morning I went to the station and talked to Detective Larson, you remember him? And I ID'd the guy I saw, at least I think I did, but . . .”

I trailed off as I looked into Mrs. Jacobs's eyes.

This was a bad idea, my coming here. A terrible, horrible, no-good, very bad idea.

Mrs. Jacobs rose from her chair and walked stiffly to a cabinet near the fridge. She took out a prescription bottle, and I couldn't help but notice several others on the bottom shelf. She shook out two small pills and placed them on her tongue, then splashed them down with a half-empty glass of water nearby.

Her hands shook the entire time.

“So, yeah. That's it, that's everything,” I said. I had to fill the silence. It was giving me goose bumps.

She hadn't moved since taking the pills. Just stood by the counter, gripping its edge.

“Mrs. Jacobs? Are you all right?”

“No,”
she growled. “I am rather
far
from all right.”

I sucked in a breath and bit down on my lower lip.

Mrs. Jacobs whirled on me but kept a hand on the counter as if to steady herself.

“Six years,” she said. “Six years I've waited and prayed for my little girl to come home and she hasn't. How dare you come in here saying this kind of nonsense? Penelope, how could you?”

“I'm sorry,” I whispered.

“I never blamed you, I always blamed myself,” Mrs. Jacobs went on as if she hadn't heard me. And it kind of looked like she hadn't. “I thought that was clear, I thought you understood that . . .”

“I did,” I said, and immediately it sounded wrong. Like I was saying it
was
her fault.

“Get out,”
Mrs. Jacobs barked, pointing a sharp finger toward the front hallway.

I dropped my head and raced out of the kitchen, out of the foyer, and out the front door, not stopping to bother closing it behind me, all but running down the stone path to David's car, climbing in, and slamming the door shut. My eyes had irised halfway shut, like tunnel vision.

“Go,” I said.

David set his book aside. “How'd it—”

“Stupid,” I said out loud. I was saying it only to myself.

Winter sunlight warmed the interior of the car. I gazed slowly around at the neighborhood; at the various shades of tan paint coating all the look-alike houses, the cloudless sky overhead, the shiny cars parked on pristine white carports. The Jacobs home sat in a cul-de-sac.

A dead end.

This neighborhood, the Jacobses' house, the calls to the cops. All of it.

“So stupid,” I whispered.

I could feel David wanting to ask, wanting to know, wanting
to do something. Finally, he did the absolute right thing: he tossed his book under his seat, started the car, and took me home.

I didn't say thank you. But I did try.