by Evelyn Piper
“Yes, Doc, that’s right.”
“To be kind?” she whispered, leaning on the Lieutenant’s desk.
Dennis could see the tear sliding down the curve of her cheek. “To be kind to you, that’s all.” He heard her low “excuse me.” The lieutenant made a helpless gesture, and then yanked at his belt.
“Why don’t you give yourself a break, Mrs. Lake? Why don’t you let us get your mother to you?” She shook her head. He yanked at his belt again. “See, it’s we don’t think you should be alone at a time like this. How about getting a friend to stay with you?”
“I have no friends. For heaven’s sake,” she said, “I’ve only been in the city three weeks. I have a job. I work very hard. It’s very high pressure in New York, and when I get home I try to make it up to Bunny for not being with her. By the time I put my baby to bed I’m ready to crawl in next to her.”
“How about one of the girls in the office?”
“No,” she said. “I don’t want anyone in the office to know about this. It’s important that they don’t know. I know you’re trying to be kind,” she said, but her teeth clenched.
“Okay, listen, if you have no friends—New Yorkers aren’t as hardhearted as they’re cracked up to be—anyone in the house you live in would be glad to help out.”
“No one in the apartment house. There’s no one in the apartment house. I don’t need anyone, really, I don’t. I’ll go,” she said. “I won’t bother you. Not you, either,” she said to Dr. Newhouse. “Thank you, but I’d rather be alone now.”
19
It was just more of the same, she thought. It was just like Officer Klein, kindness, that’s all; it turned out to be kindness, that was all. It was only because she wanted each of the policemen in the outer office to be out looking for Bunny that she found something peculiar in the way they looked at her. She wanted the whole force to be turned into Missing Persons.
On the sidewalk, a young woman laughed up in a man’s face. She wanted the whole world to be turned into a Missing Persons squad. Blanche moved up the street, trying in her mind to turn the clock back. It wasn’t night at all. It was daylight. She saw Bunny coming out the front door of the school. (But how? Because now she could hear herself closing that heavy front door after herself.) She was Bunny trying to find Mommy. She had covered the houses in the direction which she had taken that morning from the school to the subway, forgetting that by the time Bunny had toiled down all those steps—two feet on each—deep sigh of achievement at each step—by the time Bunny reached the bottom of all those stairs and trotted through the blue hall and got the door open (somehow, obviously!)—she, Blanche, would have been out of sight. Bunny wouldn’t have seen her to follow her, so she might have gone in the opposite direction.
As Blanche passed the school, she saw a light on the top floor, but she hurried on. If the director found Bunny, she would call the police, and so on . . . When she reached the first house that she hadn’t covered previously, she could hardly breathe. On the ground floor, the people were very encouraging. They told Blanche that if Missing Persons was after Bunny, they’d find her. Once, they said, a relative had been lost and Missing Persons turned the neighborhood inside out. Upside down. They told Blanche that she didn’t need to worry.
Instead of walking upstairs, Blanche went out of the house. The street was quiet. Why hadn’t they told her that the neighborhood had already been turned upside down by Missing Persons? Why had nobody mentioned that they had already been questioned by them? Even the people who had been annoyed with her hadn’t said that. Blanche looked up and down the block. The nearest drugstore was the one where the soda jerk had said Bunny might not be alone. She couldn’t make herself go back into that drugstore, and she walked in the opposite direction until she found another.
The telephone number for Missing Persons was Canal 6-2000. When the telephone was picked up, Blanche said, “Will you connect me with someone who can tell me—someone who has a list of lost persons? Missing persons?
“I want to know if someone has already been listed as missing, please. I think I saw . . .” She felt she had to give some explanation which would throw them off the track, and broke the sentence off, leaving it as vague as that. When the next voice came on she said, “Can you tell me whether a child of three—Bunny Lake—has been listed as missing?”
“When?” they asked. “Where? Address? Description?”
Blanche wondered if the voice was going down a list, running his finger down a list.
“No, ma’am, there is no Bunny Lake listed as missing. Do you wish to report it?”
“Are you quite sure? Are you absolutely sure?”
“Yes, ma’am, I’m sure. It’s my business to be sure. Do you want to report this person as missing? Who is this? What is your name?”
Blanche put the receiver down and walked out of the booth. There was no one at the soda fountain so she stood there staring at the list of prices. Hamburgs—35. Ham and eggs—65. They were not looking for Bunny. Ham and cheese—35. They had told her that they were looking for Bunny, but they were not. They had told her that Klein was looking for Bunny, but he was not.
“I’ll be with you in a minute, Miss,” the soda jerk said. “My God, the way some people won’t wait a second!”
20
Blanche stood outside the drugstore. “I don’t understand,” she whispered. “I don’t understand!” How could it be, she thought, and put her palms to her head because her head was going to burst open from the pressure inside it. You were brought up to not fear policemen but to trust them. The law. The minions of the law. Guardians of the . . . “We’re doing everything possible,” the lieutenant had said. Everything she had been taught to believe was exploding inside her head like Roman candles.
If she went back to the precinct station on Sixty-Seventh Street and told them that she simply did not understand . . .
But they had lied to her. They had lied to her. What would stop them from lying now?
She walked along the street, looking into faces. “Don’t you have any friends?” the lieutenant had asked. “New Yorkers aren’t as hardhearted as they’re cracked up to be,” he had said. But weren’t they? She stared into the faces she passed. Maybe all policemen lied. Maybe no one in the world owed another the truth; maybe all kindness and charity was a lie. She looked at the lights in the building on the opposite side of the street and remembered the lights on the top floor of the school.
Maybe nothing was honored of what she had been taught, but money was honored, debts were. The school was where she should go since she had paid that woman $350 to take care of Bunny. That debt the director must honor. Blanche swerved to avoid the man and woman coming by her and began to run toward the school.
Blanche went to the red door and found the bell and pressed it. After a little while, she heard a window being thrown open and moved out toward the edge of the sidewalk so that the director would be able to make out who it was, facing the building so that the director couldn’t mistake her for someone who had no claim on her. She bumped into someone. “Excuse me,” she said, and called up toward the open window, “It’s me, Miss Benton. It’s Blanche Lake.”
“It’s late, Mrs. Lake.”
She frowned up at the dim face on the top floor, because any mention of time made her angry. “I must talk to you.”
“I’m very sorry.”
“Sorry isn’t enough. I must talk to you. I don’t understand what is happening.” The window closed and Blanche ran back to the red door, putting her ear to it so that she would hear the sound of steps. She tried to wait patiently, reminding herself that there were three flights. Then she did hear steps, but behind her; she swung around to tell whoever it was to be quiet so that she could hear Miss Benton coming and it was Dr. Newhouse. She said, “Go away.”
He said, “I wish I could, Miss Lake. I assure you I wish I could. I have a damned heavy schedule tomorrow, I . . .” Because he was annoyed, he pushed her aside rather brusqu
ely and rang the bell, not once but four times, so that she peered into his face. He pressed the bell again in the same way, four times.
Blanche said, “She’s not going to let me in!” She raised her fists to hammer on the door but he caught them.
“You’ll only hurt your hands.” He held both her hands with one of his, pressing them against his chest.
“Do you think I care?” It was intolerable, somehow, that his cashmere sweater should be so soft. She tried to pull her hands free.
“She’ll let us in,” he said. “Be patient. Be still.” He held her hands quiet against his soft sweater. “She’ll be down in a few minutes.”
21
“Won’t you come in?” Miss Benton said, holding the door open.
The genteel phrase and Miss Benton’s voice, which was as soft as Dr. Newhouse’s sweater, were equally intolerable. “Won’t you come in?” As if she were inviting her to tea! Blanche pushed past Miss Benton into the hall with the blue paint and the wooden benches along the wall.
“Shall we go into the office, Dr. Newhouse?” Miss Benton opened the office door and put the light on in the room.
Dr. Newhouse looked from the wooden desk to the wooden chairs and back again to Blanche. “Upstairs. Maybe you can get Miss Lake to take something, Miss Benton. She’s pretty much done in.” He looked hard at Miss Benton, pressing his lips together, shaking his head.
“Of course,” Miss Benton said. She led the way upstairs obediently.
Dr. Newhouse waited for Blanche to precede him.
Blanche saw that Miss Benton had changed her suit for narrow black trousers and a black sweater. She wore some bracelets which tinkled as she walked, and the sound of the bracelets, brassy and insouciant, grating on Blanche’s ears, was magnified. Halfway up, Blanche stopped so short that she brushed against Dr. Newhouse behind her. “Of course I’m not going to ‘have something’! How ridiculous! All I want is for you to tell me—you must know—you must have asked—why aren’t the police looking for Bunny?”
“Let’s go on up, shall we?”
“Let’s not go on up, shall we? They’re not looking for Bunny, do you hear? I telephoned Missing Persons and they’re not! Why not?” Blanche pulled off Dr. Newhouse’s arm, which was now supporting her.
“Upstairs,” Dr. Newhouse said.
Blanche, glancing up, saw how Miss Benton silently questioned Dr. Newhouse. Miss Benton didn’t want her upstairs; she was asking him if she had to have her upstairs. If Miss Benton didn’t want her upstairs, Blanche would go up.
There was a small round table pulled up before the fireplace. A neat fire was burning in a black grate, dancing its shadows on a long circular cloth on the table, glinting off the china and silver. The door to the kitchenette was wide open and Blanche could smell dinner cooking and see the pots on the small range. The tiny plupping sound was coffee perking. She had been fixing dinner for someone. She had been expecting someone. She had a date, Blanche thought. It was intolerable that Miss Benton in neat narrow trousers and the black sweater and bracelets should have been expecting a date, should have softly set down the gleaming silver. “I want to know!” she shouted. She had frightened Miss Benton. She saw how Miss Benton was looking at this doctor for help.
“Haven’t they found someone responsible for her?” Miss Benton was asking the doctor.
They wanted someone responsible. When they found someone responsible, they would tell. They would tell Mother and then Mother would tell her. Blanche threw up her hands and covered her face. “They did find Bunny! They don’t have to look anymore, that’s it, isn’t it? They have found Bunny!” He was pulling at her hands to make her see, but she would not see; she bent her head and dug her teeth into his hand. “Dead!” she screamed, but covering her face again because she had got rid of his hands. “They found her dead and they didn’t dare tell me! Tell me,” she said, and now removed her hands. “You tell me—tell me!” She pulled at his sleeve. Tell me! I’m her mother. No one else is her mother, I am. You tell me!”
He said, “No, they didn’t find Bunny. No one found Bunny, Miss Lake. No one found Bunny dead. Get a glass of water,” he said. He had his arms around her now. “Reach into my pocket, right side. There’s a vial there. Now water.” While Miss Benton hurried into the kitchenette, he said, “I want you to take one of these sedatives and I’m going to explain. Sedative and explain.”
His voice was a sedative, she thought, shuddering. His soft sweater was a sedative.
“Miss Benton is going to explain. I promise. Thank you.” He held the glass toward Blanche and gave her the pill, but when he saw her lips press together, he dropped the vial back into his pocket. “Just the water. Sip it while Miss Benton explains. Just the water, then.” He tipped the glass to her lips. “Your child was not found dead. Drink the water, please.”
He was waiting to see her make some movement. She swallowed a little of the water and then took the glass from him, but only to get it out of the way. “If Bunny isn’t—if I’m wrong and they haven’t—found her—then why aren’t they looking for her?”
“Get her the book.”
“Do you think we should, Dr. Newhouse?”
He kept his eyes on Blanche’s face. “Yes, I do.”
Miss Benton went to a small desk in the corner of the room and lifted a notebook off it. It had a stiff paper cover. She opened it and gave it to Dr. Newhouse, who looked around and laid it on the edge of a small table next to an easy chair. Blanche realized that she would see this notebook only if she first sat on the easy chair, so she sat.
“This is the list of parents in the Benton School, 1955 to 1956.” He pointed to where the date was clearly printed, then ran his finger down the page on which there were names, addresses, and telephone numbers.
“This is the Threes Group,” he said. “This is where your name should be. Please read it.” As Blanche read, he read off the names aloud. “Your name isn’t there, is it?” He turned to the other lists, running his finger down them. “It isn’t in any of the lists.”
“What have lists got to do with finding Bunny?”
Miss Benton came around to where Blanche could see her. “When I returned from the agency this afternoon and heard what I thought was a burglar in the basement, I was so startled that it threw me off base. I wasn’t quite myself, I suppose. And then when you said that one of the children had been locked in, all that mattered was finding her. I didn’t stop to ask questions about the child. If the name meant nothing to me, well, the first day—and as I told you, I’m always bad at names, anyhow. Any child locked in—naturally!
“We rushed around to find her and when we didn’t, we first assumed that she had gone out of the building, then you and that policeman went off to search for her and I called the staff to find out what they knew. They knew nothing. None of them had seen or heard of—her,” she said. “Actually the reason I went to my registration book was to get your number and call you to get the thing clear in my mind.” She pointed to the notebook. “You saw for yourself—And I had to wait to reach you until you called me back. Do you remember that I asked you for your telephone number? I said I had it down in the office and that I didn’t want to go down, but it actually was because I don’t have your telephone number.”
Blanche looked from Miss Benton to the book on the table. She ran through the names again, then examined the book. A dime-store notebook, names, addresses, telephone numbers, written in ink. “I don’t understand.”
“Get the application blanks. Miss Benton will get the application blanks and show you that there isn’t one there for Bunny.”
“Of course there is an application blank for Bunny! Let me see them. I filled one out for Bunny and I also filled out a check for three hundred and fifty dollars. The tuition was seven hundred dollars, payable in advance, but I didn’t have the whole amount, so . . .”
“In the back of that notebook you’re holding are notations on tuition received. And here are the application blanks.” Sh
e held up a thick file of them. “I brought them up from the office to make absolutely sure.”
“Of course I filled out an application blank.” Blanche held her hand out for the file.
“Do you have your cancelled check from the bank?”
“No, I don’t. It hasn’t been returned yet,” she said. “It isn’t time to get the cancelled checks yet.”
Dr. Newhouse took the thick file from Miss Benton. “Show her where the dates of checks received are noted.”
“They all had to be in by August fifteenth. I deposited them as they came in so you certainly should have had your cancelled check, shouldn’t you?”
“My check was written on September twenty-first.”
“All tuition checks had to be in by the end of August. I couldn’t operate if checks came in September, now could I? There is no school that I know of which doesn’t . . .”
“But you took Bunny in because of the little girl who dropped out. I know your groups were all filled in June; you told me so.” She saw Miss Benton raise her eyebrows at Dr. Newhouse.
“I told you so?”
“Stop shaking your head at him as if I were crazy. I don’t mean you. I mean your teacher—your representative. I was so happy,” she said, turning away from the raised eyebrows. “I was going to find a woman to take care of Bunny while I was at work, after Mother left New York, the way I’d done before, but that wouldn’t have been half as good as a school where there were other children for Bunny, and Mother didn’t approve of schools, but she kept telling me stories of women who took care of children and weren’t trustworthy. She had this story about a nurse who doped two children with gas from the kitchen stove. And giving children beer to make them sleepy. So you can imagine how relieved I was when I got your letter saying you had been told by the registrar of the Stevenson Nursery School that I wanted to get Bunny in there, only they were all filled . . .”
