The Deep End of the Ocean (15 page)

On Sundays, the phone would ring all day. Sometimes, his mom would pick it up. Sometimes, she wouldn’t. A couple of times, after she picked it up, he heard her yelling swear words—like “You sick buster!”—and then she called his dad and he had to come home from the restaurant so his mom could go to bed. His dad was pretty upset when that happened, and once he even called the police in Madison.

So Vincent answered the phone most of the time now.

Often the person who called would be Detective Bliss, who said to call her “Candy.” Or the lady from Compassionate Circle. Or Uncle Bick. Uncle Bick always made him actually get his mother, even if Vincent said she was asleep, and he could also make her talk, even if in just one words.

Two times, though, it was a man Vincent didn’t know. Except he knew it was the same man. He sounded like he was calling from a room with all the sounds sealed out of it, a room that didn’t even have normal noises in the back, like TV or cars going by. He asked, “Are you the brother of the little boy?”

Vincent told him, “Yes.”

And the man asked, “Do you know why he was stolen?”

Vincent said, “No.”

The man said then, real whispery, “Do you know how our Lord Jesus Christ punishes sinners? That he who disturbeth his own house shall reap the whirlwind?”

It wasn’t what he said that scared Vincent, but how angry he sounded. Mad at Vincent. Like Vincent was the one who stole Ben. Vincent tried to tell him, “My mommy’s asleep,” even though that embarrassed him a little, because he usually didn’t say “mommy” anymore; but the guy just kept right on, hissing, “Do you know about Benjamin in the Bible, son? Vanished into slavery in Egypt? Do you know what sick people do to little boys like your brother?”

The one time, Vincent called his mother, and something in his voice made her shake her head and sit up—she had been watching a bass-fishing show that he was pretty sure she wasn’t really interested in. “What?” she said. “What?” He just held the phone out and shook it. And his mother took it and when she heard the man, she really yelled, “Don’t you ever call my house again, you—”
f
word,
a
word,
p
word.

The next time the man called, Vincent just said, “I believe in God,” and hung up. The man called back and left sixteen messages. “Pick up the phone, if you want to know what really happened to Benjamin,” he kept saying. Sixteen times. Vincent counted. Then he never called back again. Vincent figured it was the kidnapper. But when his dad heard the tape he said it wasn’t; it was just a sick buster who had nothing better to do with his sick life than scare women and children. He gave the tape to the police in Madison. They came over to the house in a squad car to get it.

Vincent started to think he could tell whether it was a good call or a bad call by the ring. If it was Aunt Tree or somebody, Vincent thought it could hear a kind of friendly bounce in the ring. If it was police or strangers or guys wanting to sell his parents some graves or houses or something, it would have sort of a distant sound, as if it didn’t really know where it was ringing. So he tried to only pick up when he heard the bounce, and by Christmas vacation he had determined that he was right about twenty times out of twenty-five; he kept count by making a little tiny ink mark on the bottom of the kitchen table where they put the raw, crummy wood that didn’t have the gray covering on top. It was entirely possible that he had ESP.

Usually it was Grandma Rosie who called.

Grandma would say, “Is your mama there, Vincenzo?”

And Vincent would say, “Yes. She’s sleeping.” Even if she wasn’t. Because if he gave his mom the phone, she would just hold it and listen to Grandma Rosie, hardly saying anything, and he would hear Grandma Rosie’s little phone voice getting louder and louder on the other end. Which made him want to jump out of his skin, because he couldn’t really tell his mom to say something.

When Vincent told Grandma that his mom was sleeping, though, that was another problem. She would say, “Hmmmmmm.” He could hear her tapping on the table with her little silver pen, the one she used to write orders at the Golden Hat. Then she would say, “Where is the baby?”

And he would say, “Sleeping, too.” Even if
she
wasn’t. He could tell that was what Grandma Rosie wanted Kerry to be doing, because people always thought babies were better off sleeping. Then Grandma Rosie would ask if he was watching television. She would ask him to spell a couple of words—usually, two easy, like “ran” or “fat,” and one hard, like “nose” or “high,” which could fool you. She would say, “I was thinking my car might come up to Madison this weekend. But Grandpa said no, too many people getting married this weekend. Everybody’s getting married on the west side, ’Cenzo.” She said that almost every time. Except just the past week, she was saying, “Soon we will be there for Christmas,” and asking if Vincent had been a good boy, and what Saint Nicholas would bring for him.

That was when he told her he was asking for Ben.

He could tell right away Grandma Rosie didn’t like the idea. She said, “Oh, Vincenzo.
Carissimo.
” Like he had said he got suspended for fighting or something. Vincent had actually expected her to be proud of him, and have her voice get all purry, the way it did when he sent her the recital tape the first year he took Suzuki violin. But, he figured, probably she was just tired. He asked to talk to Grandpa Angelo. Grandpa would probably like the idea better; he was really missing Ben. Grandpa said it made his heart feel like a bone in his throat or something—Vincent couldn’t exactly remember the way he described it. But Grandpa hadn’t been home. And Grandma Rosie got off the phone really quick.

Vincent thought he’d have to tell Dad, and see if Dad would help him with the letter to Santa. He didn’t want to tell his mom.

Christmas Eve was going to be on a Monday, and on the Friday night before, Uncle Paul called to tell Vincent’s mom they’d be up that night. Then, Vincent started getting really excited. Uncle Paul’s twins, especially Moira, were really nuts and rough, for girls; he always had a good time with them. “Can the twins sleep in my room?” he asked Uncle Paul. “I have an extra bed now that Ben’s gone.”

There was a long pause, in which Vincent could hear somebody’s car phone or radio click in and out on the line. “Uh, okay,” said Uncle Paul. “Let me talk to your mom.”

Grandpa Angelo and Grandma Rosie arrived Saturday morning. Vincent’s dad had to make three trips to the car to bring in all the presents. Vincent began to read the gift tags on the packages out loud: “To Kerry, from Santa.” “To Beth, F.U.F.I.L.” (that sounded like a swear, but Grandpa Angelo did it all the time; it meant “From you father-in-law,” and it was funny because Grandpa had an Italian accent). Then there were a whole stack of boxes that said, “To Ben from Grandma and Grandpa.” “To Ben from Santa.”

Vincent followed Grandpa Angelo out into the kitchen. “Grandpa,” he said. “You made a mistake. These are for Ben, and you know, Ben is kidnapped right now….”

Grandpa’s eyes got all red in the white part. “I know, ’Cenzo,” he said, squatting down. “But Grandma and me, we think if we keep on believing that our Benbo will come back to us, the Lord will answer our prayers. And so we buy him gifts, so we don’t forget our Ben, and so he will have them when he comes home.”

“I’m going to show my mom.”

“Okay,” said Grandpa Angelo. “In a little while.” He looked around. “Where’s the Christmas tree?”

Vincent felt bad. He knew that he could have told his dad that nobody had remembered to put up a Christmas tree; but he was afraid his dad would cry if he did. So Vincent ran upstairs without answering Grandpa and got his mom. She usually didn’t come down until around lunchtime, but she came right down today, and she had on normal clothes instead of her red Badger sweat pants with the holes in them, the ones she slept in and wore all day. She had on black pants and a white shirt tucked in. Vincent was proud of her. She kissed everybody.

“Mom,” Vincent said, tugging on her arm, “I want to show you something special.”

But he didn’t get to show her Ben’s presents right then, because Aunt Tree and Uncle Joey drove up. Aunt Tree told everybody she didn’t know whether she should come or not, because she was starting to have breaks and hicks. Vincent assumed this had something to do with Aunt Tree’s baby, still in her tummy, and he was right.

“Ahhhhh,” Grandma Rosie said. “Maybe a Christmas baby!”

“They have hospitals right here in Madison, Tree-o,” Dad said.

“Little early yet,” said Grandpa Angelo.

“Just a few days,” Grandma said. “Easier, anyhow, if it’s a little early. Her first one.” Aunt Monica wasn’t coming, because she was spending Christmas with a boyfriend. Even though she had long nails and could play the piano, Aunt Monica didn’t have a husband yet; she always told Vincent he was the only man she could count on.

Aunt Tree couldn’t run upstairs, and she hadn’t wrapped all her presents yet, so she made Vincent her “lieutenant,” telling him to get her the tape and the ribbon shredder. And then, just when he was about to show his mom the gifts for Ben, suddenly Dad’s buddy Rob came with a tree—an already decorated tree!

Vincent smelled it, and it wasn’t fake. Rob said Delilo’s Florists had given it to Dad for free. The tree made everything look better. Everybody took a long time putting the presents under it. Vincent went to get his Playskool tape recorder, to hide under the tree behind some of the packages. He planned to turn it on right before he went to bed, in case he couldn’t stay awake long enough, so that he could tape Santa. He figured that if he could be the first kid in America to actually prove there was a real Santa, he could get on TV. He’d told Jill about this idea, and she told him it was excellent. Tonight would be a test. If he could hear what the grownups said on his tape after he was in bed, at least until it clicked off, then he knew he’d catch Santa for sure.

Rob stayed for a glass of wine, and Aunt Sheilah had already taken the twins up to bed by the time Vincent finally got the chance to tell his mother about the gifts for Ben. She was sitting on the couch, holding a cup of coffee but not drinking it, and he walked up to her quietly and said, “Look, Mom. All those presents are for Ben. Grandpa and Grandma brought them. Wasn’t that nice?”

Grandma Rosie was sitting across from Mom, embroidering on a picture she was making for Aunt Tree’s baby, and Mom didn’t even look at Vincent. She just walked over to the tree and held up one of the packages and said, real flat, “Rosie.”

Even to Vincent, Grandma looked up as if she was guilty, like she’d been caught passing notes in school with the word “piss” written on them. “Bethie?” she asked softly. “What, dear?”

“What are these?”

“Presents for Ben.”

“You brought presents for Ben.”

“Yes.”

“Rosie, why did you bring presents for Ben?”

“Because,” Grandma Rosie said, in her talking-to-a-kid voice, “I believe that Ben will be found. And I want him to know that his family didn’t forget him, when he is found.”

“Do you have the impression that we have forgotten Ben?”

“No, my dear.”

“But we didn’t get Ben any presents.”

“I understand that.”

“In fact,” said Mom, “to tell you the truth, I didn’t even want to have this whole…go through this whole big holiday act. I didn’t want to do anything except sleep through it. And when you do this, when you act like he’s just out of town on a business trip and he’ll be back anytime, Rosie, do you know what that does to me?” Her voice was getting loud, and Vincent heard the chairs scrape as his dad and Rob got up in the kitchen and came out to see what was the matter.

“Beth,” Grandma Rosie was saying, “no one meant to upset you.”

“But you
knew
it would upset me.”

“Bethie,” said Vincent’s dad, “please. You know what they said in the Circle. Everyone needs a ritual.”

“But I don’t, Pat!” Vincent’s mother was crying now. “And I’m his mother! I don’t want to do a bunch of stupid things to pretend that my baby is alive and on his way home, when that’s the cruelest lie in the world! I don’t want to rub my face in all this shit!”

“Beth honey!” Aunt Tree said then. “Take it easy. Ma didn’t mean anything.”

“Take it easy? Take it easy?” his mother cried. “How can I take it easy when nobody except me seems to want to accept that this is over—it’s
over
? And we’re just all going to go on acting the way we always have, eating and sleeping and baptizing babies….”

“What’s my baby got to do with this?” Aunt Tree asked, grabbing her tummy; she was mad. “Listen, Beth. You’ve got to snap out of it at some point. No one can talk to you. I can’t. Pat can’t. If you don’t have any hope at all that Ben will come back—”

“Come back? He’s not even four yet! What’s he going to do? Get an Amtrak schedule?”

“What I mean, Beth, is that if the rest of Ben’s family wants to keep up hope, that’s our business. It’s not an insult to you. And furthermore, Beth, what do you care? How does it affect you? You’re an…island, Beth. You don’t care even care about my baby….”

“No. I don’t.”

“Well, you should. Life goes on.”

“If I never hear anyone say ‘Life goes on’ again, it’ll be too soon, Teresa.” That was a first. Vincent had forgotten Aunt Tree’s real name.