The Missing Girl (12 page)

You’re pretty sure he doesn’t recognize you. Why would he? You’re just a kid and you’re too shy to say about seeing him before. You ask him if he knows the best way for you to go home. “I live on Carbon Street,” you say.

He straightens up and repeats slowly, “Carbon Street,”

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like he’s thinking about it, about the best way to tell you to go home. He’s leaning on the rake, and you can tell he’s paying attention, not like some grown-ups, like that girl in the mini-market last week, when you went there to buy milk for Mommy. You stood at the counter for, like,
hours
, and she just kept talking on her cell and laughing.

“
Twenty-five
Carbon Street,” you say. “That’s my house.”

He nods. You don’t want to be rude and stare at him while he’s thinking, so you look around and check out his house. It’s tall and narrow, with just one little window in front and another, even smaller window up on the second floor, and it’s really old. It’s all gray and weathery. The other house down the street looks like it’s maybe even older. It’s sagging into the ground, and all the windows are boarded up.

“Carbon Street is right near Hill Street,” you say to kind of remind him that you’re still waiting. “Do you know where that is?”

He shakes his head finally and says, “No, sorry.”

“Oh,” you say, disappointed. “Well, thank you, anyway.”

You start walking back. It’s a long block, but you’re pretty sure that almost right after you turn the corner,
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there’re lots more houses. You’ll find somebody who’ll know how to direct you to Carbon Street. Maybe some nice lady will even drive you there. Then you hear the man calling you, and you turn around, and say, “What?”

And it’s funny, because he didn’t seem to recognize you, but you think you heard him say your name.

“I have a—” He stops, and you wait, and then he says,

“I have a city map in the house.”

“Oh,” you say. “You do? That’s great!” You walk back to him and say, “Can I see that map, please? I know how to read maps.”

The man leans the rake against the porch. “Come on in, and we’ll check it together.”

You’re pretty sure you shouldn’t go in his house, and you start to say you’ll wait outside. But he looks at you, frowning a little, and says, “Come on, then,” in that voice that grown-ups have, not being mean, but when they get a little bit impatient with you.

So you hesitate just for a moment, and then you say,

“Okay,” because you don’t want him to think you’re scared or anything, and you go up the steps after him and follow him into his house.

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OF AUTUMN

SUNDAY AFTERNOON: ROOM

WITH A VIEW

THE MAN WATCHES his pretty one trying to open the door, rattling the doorknob. “Open the door, please,” she says. “Please open the door. It’s locked.”

“Are you hungry?” he asks. He wants to feed her, take care of her.

She turns the doorknob again and again. “I want to go home now, please.”

“No,” he says quietly. “Not yet. You’re going to be my guest.”

“What?” she says. “Your what?”

“Guest,” he repeats. “I have a room ready for you.” He points upstairs. “The guest room. It’s all ready.”

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“What?” she says again, and then she starts screaming.

“Let me go,” she screams. “Unlock the door, let me go, please let me
go
,” she shrieks.

“Shh, shh,” he says, moving toward her. “Please,” he says. “Not so much noise.”

Her face is bunched up, her mouth gaping. He’s always been sensitive to noise, and his heart pumps too hard with every shriek. “Stop that noise,” he says, but she just goes on screaming.

The cat Harold leaps up onto the table and arches his back. “Off,” the man says. For a moment he’s torn between the two badly behaving creatures. He brushes the cat off the table with the side of his arm and reaches for his girl. “Stop that now, that’s enough,” he says, and he takes her by the arms. She wriggles and screeches and screams.

When she won’t stop, he’s forced to slap her. He doesn’t want to do it, but she pushed him to it. Still, he’s not out of control. He didn’t hit her too hard, and when she stumbles and falls, he leaves her on the floor for only a minute or two, to learn her lesson. Then he reaches down and helps her up. Her nose is bleeding. She’s crying, blubber-ing, which is almost as unpleasant as her screams. She’s
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leaking all over her face. Snot, blood, tears, spit. It’s disgusting.

“Here,” he says, and thrusts his handkerchief at her.

“Wipe yourself.”

She blots her eyes and says something: “Please let me go,” or “Can I go home now?” Something like that, but he isn’t really listening. He’s just noticed her fingernails, which are long and painted a repulsive pink. He’ll have to cut them, but that’s for later.

“We’re going upstairs now,” he says, taking her by the hand.

“No,” she says, dragging her feet. “No, I don’t want to, I don’t want to.”

She’s forcing him again to do something he had no intention of doing. He pulls her into the kitchen, where he finds a piece of rope in the back of a drawer and, with some effort, because she refuses to cooperate, he ties her wrists together. “Behave,” he says quietly.

“Let me go!” she screams. “Let me go!”

“I don’t want to do this,” he says, slapping her. She continues screaming. He has to slap her again. And again, harder. A few more slaps and she quiets down. After that everything is better.

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He leads her up the stairs by the rope, and she follows quietly. This is the way he wants it—comfortable, nice, both of them getting along.

“You’re the first guest,” he says, opening the door and pulling her into the room. “Do you like it?” She doesn’t answer. “It’s clean,” he assures her. He closes the door behind them. “Look at that window,” he says. “This is a room with a view.”

The small, uncurtained window looks out over the back of the property. Some brushy stuff, the ravine, trees, the mountains. It can be quite beautiful. He could probably rent this room without any trouble. Of course, he’d have to get a few things, a chest of drawers, maybe a mirror and a rug. Right now there’s only a canvas army cot standing against one wall and the bucket. That’s all she’s going to need. But even if she wasn’t here, he wouldn’t rent. Not a good idea. All he’d need to turn his life upside down was one snoop, one eager citizen who fancied himself an investigator.

He points to the bucket. “That’s the facility. Put on the cover after you use it.”

She nods. Her eyes are big. Big and beautiful and wet.

“Don’t cry,” he says. “I don’t like crying.”

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She whispers, “I won’t.”

“Good girl.” He strokes her hair. She shivers.

“Don’t be afraid,” he says. “You don’t have to be afraid of me.” She nods and shivers and blinks her big wet eyes.

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SUNDAY AFTERNOON: CAN

ANYBODY HEAR ME?

THE MAN UNTIES your wrists. You shake your hands to get the blood going again, and it feels so good to have the rope off that you blurt, “Thank you.”

“You’re a good girl,” he says, and he tells you that you’re a polite girl and he likes polite girls. He says it like he’s your father or something. Only Poppy never hit you.

Poppy never, ever, in his life did anything mean to you.

After the man takes off the rope, he leaves. He locks you in, and you’re so glad he’s gone you almost pee in your pants. You use the bucket, and it’s gross, and you’re afraid he can hear the pee hitting the sides.

You pull up your jeans and look around. You see faded
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wallpaper with big white sailing ships, you see a cot, and that’s it. There’s nothing else in this room to even look at, except the pail you just peed in. The cot is one of those sorry old army cots, rough brown canvas and heavy wood, like the one Poppy has in the garage for when he’s working on his pickup truck and wants to take a rest.

“Poppy,” you whisper, and then your eyes fasten on the single, small window, and you stand on tiptoes to look out, and what you see makes you want to cry. What you see is
nothing
. Just bushes and trees. Trees, trees, trees. No streets. No sidewalks. No houses.
No people.

Just below the window is a slanted metal roof, and you squint your eyes and imagine yourself sliding down the roof, right down to the ground. You push at the window, trying to open it, but you can’t budge it. Either the window’s too high, or you’re too short, or you’re not strong enough, or all of the above. Maybe you could open it if you could get up on the sill, but you know you can’t do that, either. It’s like how you can’t climb the ropes in phys ed. The first time, you knew it before you even tried.

If only you could yell for Poppy. If he heard you, he’d come and get you so fast that man wouldn’t have a chance to even
squeak
! There’s no way Poppy can hear you, but
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you yell, anyway. “Help! Help me!” you scream, and you pound on the window. “Help, help! Can anybody hear me?”

“I hear you,” the man says, closing the door behind him.

You shrink away into a corner.

“Keeping yourself busy?” he says in a normal, regular voice, like he’s your friend.

You crouch down, making yourself small, and bundle your arms around your legs. He smiles at you, like you’re doing something cute, and he locks the door and puts the key in his pocket.

Now you see that he’s carrying a hammer. He takes a nail out of his pocket and hammers it into the window frame. He takes another nail out of his pocket and hammers it in above the first nail. More nails. More hammer-ing. You don’t get it. Then you do.

He’s nailing the window shut. He’s nailing you in.

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SUNDAY AFTERNOON: GOOD

AND LOUD

ALL DAY BEAUTY was caught in a cooking frenzy. In a way it started with Autumn’s missing out on the pancakes. Around noon, after everyone had finished eating, Beauty made another batch of batter and put it away in the refrigerator for Autumn. Poor kid, by the time she came home, she’d be starved. Then, thinking about the sister she was really feeling sorry for, Beauty turned on the oven and assembled the makings for chocolate chip cookies. Flour, sugar, butter, baking powder, chocolate chips.

When Mim came downstairs to refill her water bottle, Beauty was spooning little mounds of dough, lumpy with
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chocolate chips, onto the cookie trays. Mim wiped her finger around the rim of the batter bowl, licked, and went for one of the doughy lumps. Beauty slapped her hand away.

“No! They’re for Stevie.”

“Make some for us, too,” Mim urged. “Comfort food.

We all need it, big-time.”

Beauty made more dough, enough to fill another two cookie trays. Once the cookies were baked, she could have left the kitchen, maybe should have, but she opened the cookbook and decided to make corn bread to go with the fricassee she was planning for supper.

She was aware of what she was doing—keeping herself busy so she wouldn’t brood over Stevie’s leaving and the hole it would make in their family. Weren’t they all deal-ing with the Stevie thing in their own ways? If hers was cooking, Autumn’s was not showing up for a meal. Mim had buried herself in her books all day, their father had disappeared into the garage, and for hours their mother had been unraveling a knitted blanket. As for Beauty’s
object of desire,
even he had retreated, sacking out on the couch. Only Fancy seemed fairly unaffected. Sure, she’d cried the night Beauty had broken the news about Stevie, but did she really get it? Probably not.

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Around three thirty, when Autumn still hadn’t come home, her mother was fretting, which meant chain-smoking, which Beauty hated. “Mom, don’t worry,” she said. “Autumn’s probably right down the block somewhere or with her girlfriends.”

“She’s going to hear from me when she gets home,” her mother said. “She needs a good smacking.”

“Mom, calm down,” Beauty said. Then she sent Fancy outside to call Autumn. “Just stand out there and yell for her, honey,” Beauty said. “Good and loud.” That had worked plenty of times in the past.

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SUNDAY EVENING: FINGERS

AND TOES

THE MAN SAYS, “Sit down.” He points to the cot. He’s still holding the hammer.

You unfold yourself from the corner and creep across the room. You keep your eyes on him. He stands there by the window, his arm on the sill, and watches you.

You sit down on the edge of the cot, which gives a little under your weight. You try not to blink or cry or shake or anything, but your fingers are tapping on your leg.
Tap,
tap, tap
. You can’t stop them. You can’t keep them still.

“Are you comfortable?” he says.

What does he mean? At first you thought that he was taking you for a hostage, like on TV. You wanted to tell
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him your family isn’t rich, but you were too scared to say anything. And now . . . well, now you don’t think it’s about money.

“Are you comfortable?” he says again.

“I guess so,” you whisper.

He gets down on his knees in front of you. He puts his hands on your hands and makes them stop tapping. He stares at you. You say, “Please don’t hurt me.”

“Don’t be a stupid girl,” he says. He unties your sneakers. He takes them off and peels off your socks. Your socks are stinky, and for a moment you wish that you’d put on a clean pair this morning.

“Naughty girl,” he says in his quiet voice. “Dirty feet.”

His voice is always the same. He doesn’t sound mad or disgusted, but then he smacks the bottoms of your feet, first one, then the other. You cry out. “Shh,” he admon-ishes.

He picks up your feet and rubs them on his cheeks.

Then he kisses your dirty feet, first one, then the other, and he says, “That’s how much I love you.”

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SUNDAY EVENING: SURE

AND POSITIVE AND POSITIVE

AND SURE

WHEN BEAUTY CAME back from her walk

around the neighborhood, looking for Autumn, the fricassee she’d made for supper was just about done. She poked her head into her sisters’ bedroom. It was past five and getting dark outside. “Did Autumn say anything to either of you about where she was going?”