When He Vanished Page 3

  “I didn’t have a good time with Bruce when we were kids,” John says at last. “You know — the way it was with Bruce was like one week the light would shine on you, you’d hang out constantly — he treated you like you were his best friend. Then another week and you’d be in his shadow and he acted like you didn’t exist. There was no in-between.”

  Okay, I think, that’s something. Bruce was a jerk when they were young. I can see that, being that he’s so energetic and outgoing, it might have taken some years to get under control. And kids are raw and uncensored in high school, the empathy taught in kindergarten displaced in a confusion of adolescent hormones.

  Plain Jane.

  The two words grab me as I refill my coffee — two words I haven’t heard put together in a while. Aside from a few bad apples, I liked school and had good friends. John was an outsider and the whole school experience left a bad taste, though he’s never gone into specifics. I’ve been to one reunion so far — the ten — and my twenty is coming up in three years. John graduated high school at seventeen and would’ve had his twenty-year reunion last summer, but he never mentioned it, come to think of it.

  I draw closer to him and put my hand on his shoulder. “Well the light is shining on you this week, honey. So let’s make hay. We’ll show them a nice time, and then he’ll move on to someone else, right?” A playful bump with my hip doesn’t seem to rouse him out of it. Though it does test my mobility and I can feel the inflammation settling around the base of my spine, near the sacrum.

  John finally stands and pushes in his chair. “He threatened to kill me once.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Because he was a bully.”

  “How old were you?”

  “Twelve, thirteen — something like that.”

  “Did you tell anyone about it?”

  “After a week of it I told my parents. Well, my mom. She knew his mom so she called her up and they talked about it.”

  “Did it help?”

  “It went from him saying he was going to kill me to him calling me a momma’s boy, calling me a pussy, all of that. Oh and get this . . . we had two — count them, two — African-American kids in our school. One of them was named Gerard. One day after school, we’re in Bruce’s cousin’s car — his cousin is driving — and we see Gerard walking down the street, and Bruce rolls down the window and yells out, ‘Hey! Blackie! How big is your dick?’”

  “Ah, man . . .”

  “Yeah, but then there’s this . . . a couple weeks later and they’re the best of friends. Bruce and Gerard.”

  “It sounds like — like an authoritarian kind of thing.”

  “Exactly. He intimidates people and then offers friendship. And they take it because . . . small school, I guess.”

  “Because it’s better to forget the insults and be praised,” I think aloud. “Better not to live in fear of someone but think of them as on your side.”

  Plain Jane. Plain Jane is insane.

  I shrug off the internal voice. “Does he have brothers and sisters or is he an only, like you?”

  “He had a half-sister. I don’t know what happened to her.”

  “It sounds to me like a kind of pathology.” I’m still thinking it through. “You abuse people then pay them special attention.”

  I’m glad John is finally talking because I knew there was something hidden beneath the surface. But it still feels off, like he’s covering the real problem.

  Or maybe I’m conflating his past with elements of my own.

  “And in the meantime,” John is saying, “I’m on the outs. No one is talking to me — Bruce, his cousin, or even Gerard, who I was always friendly with. They’re all writing shit on my locker, calling me John Gayboy instead of John Gable. Fun stuff like that.”

  “You never got the school involved?”

  “No.”

  “I guess those were different times.”

  He shrugs. “Yeah. I don’t think kids get away with that stuff today.”

  Probably not. Russ has never been remotely bullied, at least that I know of. Melody is in the seventh grade and so far there have been no real problems with other students. Even the minor things are nipped in the bud.

  “Did Bruce ever actually hurt anybody?”

  “He never really got into actual fights — he’d talk his way out of it. I think he learned it from his mother’s boyfriends. We didn’t know it at the time, but his mother had a couple of abusive guys. There was one week that Bruce wasn’t at school, and when he came back he had a broken arm.”

  My hand floats up to my mouth. I pull it away after a moment of silent horror — and now I’m definitely mixing my own story with John’s, with Bruce’s.

  “It doesn’t excuse anything,” John says.

  “No — it doesn’t excuse anything. But it makes some sense of it. You know, if he had abusive men in his life when he was a kid, then lashed out at others, he pulled the same stuff on them.”

  John looks at me, probing, but then he lowers his gaze. “Yeah, he pulled it on kids he thought were weaker. Like me.”

  “John . . .” I take his hand, try to draw him close. He’s like a live wire, electric current running through. “Hey, hey, honey. It’s okay. We don’t have to do anything you don’t feel comfortable with.”

  A tear slips down his cheek. “You must think I’m pathetic.”

  “Absolutely I do not. That’s ridiculous.”

  At last he embraces me and I bury my face into his neck. “You’re a good man. Someone from your past is just stirring up memories.”

  “I love you.” His breath pushes against my hair. “I’m sorry.”

  “I love you too. And you don’t have anything to be sorry for,” I say, with more coming to mind. “How about this? We have them over tonight. Feed them some grilled chicken. Make polite conversation. We say it’s been nice to catch up and send them on their way. Done.”

  John shakes his head. “It won’t end.”

  “We do it tonight, bang-boom, and you’re off the hook, no week-long anticipation. And if he says he can’t, then you’re safe for two weeks. What?”

  John is giving me a look. “Safe?”

  “You know what I mean. I just mean you’re in the clear.”

  He lets go of me and smacks the back of the chair with the heel of his palm, slamming it against the table. “Fuck!”

  The move startles and frightens me and I take a step back. “John . . .”

  “Why can’t people just leave me alone? What is the frigging point?” He stalks out of the room and down the hallway, his last words muffled when he encloses himself in his study. “I was fine. My life was fine . . .”

  I’ve never been co-dependent and I’m not going to start now. Clearly this is beyond social discomfort, more than John’s general disfavoring of small talk and get-togethers. It’s about childhood victimization. It’s what Bruce does to his sense of security, somehow, as a man — but it’s not about me, not about my own trials and tribulations as a kid.

  Plain Jane’s life is a runaway train!

  Plus there have been our own challenges afoot, getting older with two jobs and two kids, trying to keep the marriage spicy — and I suspect a trouble spot with John’s work that’s been going on for a few weeks, maybe even a couple of months. It’s just not the best time for him, and now here comes this unexpected complication.

  I need to soldier on, keep to my own track — always the best plan.

  First, gathering the reusable shopping bags, I continue to prepare for the trip to the store. I drag Russ from his room and into his winter boots and parka then step in front of Melody’s door, face to face with the homemade mailbox that’s been Scotch-taped there since we first moved in. Heart stickers and My Little Pony stickers adorn the manila file folder that’s stapled to form a pocket for leaving notes. In the midst of everything, my baby girl is growing up, going through her own difficult almost-teenaged times.

  I rap my knuckles softly against where
her name is written in pretty handwriting.

  “I know,” Melody mutters from within her room. “I know — I’m coming, hang on . . .”

  Maybe Bruce saw something beyond physical appearance. Our teenaged daughter resembles John in other ways: sullen and temperamental.

  When she opens the door she gapes at me and says, “What? Mom, what?” and I realize I’m grinning.

  You have to find the humor in life where you can.

  CHAPTER THREE / PARANOIA

  Fresh snow covers the evergreens and melts in the sunlight flashing between cotton-white clouds as we drive into the sleepy little mountain town. The hospital where I work looks typically indifferent; two nurses are huddled together out front, smoking cigarettes. After a few turns we drive alongside a row of small houses and stop at the much larger house at the end. John calls the early Victorian home where Mel takes her piano lessons “the mansion,” and it’s looking every bit regal today with its lighted windows and twinkling garlands of snow.

  “Time to make the donuts,” I say.

  Melody doesn’t respond or move.

  “What’s the matter?”

  She pushes my hand away. “Nothing.”

  There have been signs she’s getting her first period — but talking about it in front of her brother would mortify her. I try to catch her gaze but she’s looking out at the piano teacher’s house.

  “Who was that guy, again?” Melody asks.

  The question is so out of line with my thoughts it takes me a second. “A friend of your dad’s — well, someone he knew from high school.”

  “He was weird.”

  “Mel . . .”

  “He was loud.”

  “He had a bullet hole in him!” Russ makes a shape with his fingers and thumbs, about the size of an orange.

  “Melody . . .” I’m still hoping she’ll look at me but she grabs the door handle.

  Colette, Melody’s piano teacher, emerges from the house. I wave and she waves back.

  “Okay.” It’s more a sigh coming out of me than a word. “I’ll be back in an hour. And, Mel, if you, you know . . .”

  She shoots me a look. Though my daughter has a rebellious streak, she’s otherwise been sweet her whole life, so the fire in her eyes unnerves me. My mother tried to prepare me for this but I never really listened. When it happens, you’ll know. You turned into a woman overnight.

  No I didn’t, Mom. No one turns into a woman “overnight.”

  “Just please don’t be late,” Melody says. “I don’t like hanging out in there. It smells like mothballs.”

  “Melody Grace Gable.” I’ve finally snapped, defaulting to a stock reprimand. Whether I agree with her views on womanhood or not, I’m becoming my mother. “I don’t know what your deal is today, but you need to make an adjustment, okay? Take a deep breath and let it out. Realize how fortunate you are to—”

  “Okay, Mom.” She shuts the door behind her before I can get in another word. The regret is instant, my words ringing in my ears. Melody walks up to the house where Colette opens the door and ushers her inside, looks back and gives another wave.

  Colette and her giant Victorian house with its steep roofs and black shutters in our otherwise economically depressed little town, with her cedar hedgerows running the front walk toward the pillared porch and bright red front door. All alone in there, her headhunter husband only home about three full weeks of the year. I know this not just according to local gossip, but because their nephew is my ex-husband, Marcus Gainsborough.

  Making Melody Colette’s great-niece.

  “Mothballs,” Russ laughs. “Mothballs. Do moths have balls?”

  I lower my hand. “Russ.”

  Driving back through the narrow streets and into town, I’m struck with a pang of nostalgia for a younger Mel, missing those big brown eyes and that gap-toothed smile. Where has my spunky, sweet little girl gone? I realize that teenagers swing between moods, but it still sucks.

  The town is tiny, not much more than the grocery store, drug store, hardware store, diner, gas station, and a couple of bars. I open the backseat to help Russ out of his booster seat and he stares up at me. “Did you see that bullet hole the man had?”

  “It wasn’t a bullet hole. It was a scar.”

  “It was awesome.”

  I’m hauling him out and closing the door. I happen to glance over to the street where an SUV is rolling along, not moving very fast, perhaps even slowing. Its tinted windows obscure the interior but I feel something — someone — looking out at me.

  “Mom.”

  The vehicle gains speed and continues down the street.

  “Mom?” Russ is tugging on my arm. “Can I get a Tasty-tea?”

  “Um, we’ll see, honey.” I keep a hold of Russ by his shirt, watching the SUV until it’s out of sight, feeling sure it is the same one from last night but knowing there’s no good reason for thinking that; it was dark and I only really saw the vehicle from the rear.

  I’m slipping into paranoia, hunting for secrets. Melody’s dislike of Bruce, John’s palpable anxiety — both family members are having an effect on me whether I like it or not. I grab a shopping cart and push through the automatic doors.

  * * *

  John’s text comes in the middle of the soup aisle. I called him. They’re good for dinner tonight.

  I text back Great and start adding things to my mental shopping list.

  Bruce doesn’t strike me as vegetarian but I decide to check with John anyway. He says he doesn’t know, causing me a pinch of frustration. Can you find out for me, honey?

  The other question is whether or not to get alcohol. John doesn’t drink, I seldom do, but I might need a glass if my husband is going to be ornery for the next several hours. And our guests might enjoy it. Would you be okay if I got some wine?

  I form a recipe — some rosemary for the chicken legs, fresh parsley, a side of rice, a side of broccoli. The phone buzzes again on my return to the produce section. No not vegetarian. Wine is fine.

  Riding the front of the cart, Russ leaps away and runs down an aisle. I text John back: You sure?

  Grocery stores don’t sell wine in New York State so if John is truly all right with it, I’ll take a trip to the liquor store at the other end of town. I catch Russ ogling the sugary cereals with cartoon characters beckoning. “Hey, get back on your horse, mister.”

  “Can I have these?”

  “That cereal is made out of cookies, Russell. No.”

  We’re not food fascists. John grew up in a family perpetually on a shoestring budget and a father who was rarely around, so his mother did what she could. We’re both health-conscious but we don’t judge; we just want our kids to eat decent food. If I followed every health or diet fad I’d be crazy. This week, red meat is good for you; next week it causes cancer. Lectins are bad, meaning tomatoes and beans . . . except tomatoes are high in vitamin C and beans are a staple diet in nearly every country U.S. doctors once mined for the healthy blood plasma. Excess sugar gets stored in your liver and turns to fat . . . but if you’re a vegan then you’re blowing lines of it in the back of your hemp automobile. You can’t win.

  The grocery store is small like the rest of the town. I have a line of sight out to the parking lot and the street beyond — I don’t know what causes me to look out there, maybe just movement catching my eye, but I see it again — or, I think I do: the same SUV driving slowly, and now it’s going in the other direction.

  “Mom,” Russ whines. “You never let me have anything fun.”

  I drag my attention back to the shopping and to Russ. “That’s not true, mister.”

  “Yes it is. All you think about is homework and food and clothes and giving me haircuts.”

  “I think about other things, too, kid.”

  “Like what?”

  Like stalkers in SUVs.

  “Like how you need a bath.”

  He freezes and looks up at me with exaggerated wide eyes. The scream starts low in his
chest. “Nooooo!” It rises to a crescendo before he takes off in a run.

  His comedy lifts my heart and I start after him, almost running with the shopping cart, and round the corner into the next aisle where the laughter dies in my throat as someone says, “Gotcha!”

  Russ has run into the arms of Bruce Barnes. “Mom! Look who it is!”

  A lock of hair has fallen across my forehead and I push it aside. “Hi.”

  Bruce ruffles Russ’s hair in an oddly old-fashioned manner. Good boy, slugger. But his grin is disarming as always. “Fancy meeting you here, ma’am.”

  “I’m just picking up a few things for tonight, actually.”

  “Oh, great. I just got off the phone with John. You guys are really so nice. Thank you for inviting us over to dinner.” If there’s any hint of irony, Bruce tucks it away somewhere his eyes can’t betray. “John said you were going to figure out something to eat but I wanted to get a dessert.” He’s got a basket with him and looks down at its contents. “Couldn’t decide whether you guys like ice cream or—”

  “Ice cream!” Russ hops up and down.

  “—or cake,” Bruce finishes. “So I got both.”

  “That’s very thoughtful.”

  “I figured this was a special occasion. Who knows when we’re going to get the chance to do it again — right, Russ? You’ve got to live in the moment.”

  “Right,” Russ says. “Can I see your bullet hole?”

  “Russ,” I say, “come here.”

  He gives me a mopey look and drops his shoulders as he shuffles toward me. Bruce is unfazed. I start to form the words to say goodbye and he tilts his head. “So what do you do? You’re a nurse here in town?”

  “Nurse practitioner.”

  “Oh yeah?” He raises his eyebrows in a way signaling he’s unsure what it means.

  “I have some of the responsibilities of a physician. I oversee a small staff right now. I’m mostly focused on the older patients at the hospital.”

  Bruce nods. “That’s great.”

  I want to ask him about the SUV. Want to ask him so bad I’m afraid I’m going to blurt it out Tourette’s-style. But if he’s in here, and the vehicle is out there, they’re obviously unconnected.