by Todd Young
The following morning, Jack woke late. The apartment was empty. He fixed himself some cornflakes and then went for a walk, wondering where Em had gotten to. Not knowing the layout of the town at all, he figured he’d simply walk a square—three blocks in four directions. When he reached the corner, he realized he’d found the local high school. The bell rang, and the children came out for lunch. He turned and watched through the wire as they found benches to sit on. A boy with orange hair attracted his attention. Jack wondered if he was a younger brother of the Jameson twins. Near the gate was a notice board. Jack stopped by it and began to read the notices, an advertisement for the school’s production of Joseph and his Technicolor Dreamcoat attracted his attention, the colors startling. Then he saw: Have you seen Sissy? The same sandy hair and freckles, but her photo was black and white, blown up to full page size. She wasn’t smiling. Sissy Caraway was last seen on the tenth of this month at her boyfriend’s house in Wendchester. She walked home at around eleven-thirty p.m., heading for … Was the boyfriend supposed to be Rafe? He wondered, but guessed they must mean that, which put a whole different slant on things.
At home, Em and Carol were sitting at the kitchen table.
“You know anything about Sissy—Caraway?” he said to Carol.
“The slut who’s disappeared?”
“Slut?”
“Was she a slut?” An actual whore? Jack wondered.
“You bet she was a slut, Em. She was like that when she was fifteen. After all the boys.”
“Yes, but she wasn’t actually selling herself.”
“She was with that boy out at Wendchester.”
Em raised her eyes to Jack’s.
“What’s his name?”
“Carter.”
“That’s it. Ralph.”
“Rafe.”
“Is it?”
Em nodded. She watched Jack carefully.
“It was his party,” Carol said.
Jack wanted to know what this meant. “His party?”
“His birthday party, I think.”
“The week before last.”
“What happened?”
“Nobody knows, but she hasn’t been seen since.”
Jack nodded slowly.
“Are you okay?” Em mouthed.
He nodded again. Yes. Why wouldn’t he be okay?
She frowned and turned to Carol. “What did your mother say?”
“She said a little slut like that was bound to run away from home.”
“No—I meant about you staying for a couple of weeks.”
“Oh—she said fine. She’s not my keeper.”
“I know that, but still, I like to stay on good terms. With your sister drinking and everything.”
“I’m glad to be out of it.”
Em chewed a corner of her lip, and then glanced up at Jack again. “Carol’s making fried chicken for dinner—if you want some.”
7
Jack had taken only one of the codeine tablets last night and none of the diazepam. He hadn’t really been in the mood to get high, but now something like a fever gripped him. There were twenty-nine codeine tablets left in the box and he decided to take all of them, but perhaps no diazepam. When he went out to Rafe’s again tonight he’d be flying high, or he would be if he waited a few hours.
He took a nap, set his alarm for six forty-five so he didn’t miss the chicken, and then woke to the smell of it just before the alarm rang. He hadn’t yet looked at the film he’d taken of Rafe last night, so he uploaded it to his computer and watched it through to the point where Rafe had come back from the shower and was naked and getting changed again. His skin was pale around his groin, and his cock was the perfect size for a boy. He didn’t know why people went on about size mattering. It mattered to him, but he found it kind of funny that Rafe was small. His sac was puckered into a crumpled ball. Jack watched as he toweled himself carefully between the legs. He gripped one end of the towel behind his back and the other in front of his chest and used it like sling, sliding it back and forth. He looked so clean, Jack could imagine sucking on his hairless hole. Rafe stepped into the green and white satin boxers, and plucked at his cock a couple of times. He turned out of the room with the towel, and Jack realized it was over. Rafe had gone downstairs.
Em called out, “Jack!” and he shut the computer down.
After dinner, he took a shower. He dried his hair vigorously. The box of codeine was on the shelves behind the mirror. He poured himself a glass of water. Then he took the tablets slowly and deliberately. By the time he got out to Rafe’s he’d be high. He pushed the last one through the foil, set it on his tongue, and studied his reflection for a few moments. Dark and cheery had become dark and dangerous, or it seemed that way. The scar on his cheek was worse than the scar on his forehead, because that was right up near the hairline and he could hide it. All he had to do was let his bangs flop forward. But he looked foolish like that, like a kid, and anyway, he was used to raking his hand over his head. What did it matter anyway? He was handsome wasn’t he? Would Rafe think so?
He washed his hands and felt a little gloomy. What he really needed was the diazepam, and maybe all of them. He opened the mirror to the shelves, found the bottle, and poured a third of them into his hand, then another third, and then the rest.
As he was getting dressed in his bedroom he began to grin. The codeine felt mad. He’d had diazepam before—Valium—but all it did was make you dopey and relaxed. With the codeine it felt insanely good. But he felt so tired. What he really needed was a coffee, some Pepsi, or some amphetamines. Carol had a little brother who had attention deficit hyperactivity disorder, and he knew she took his Ritalin, a prescribed amphetamine that had the same effect on a person as speed—so long as you didn’t have ADHD.
He spied Carol’s handbag from the kitchen. Em and Carol were in bed, and Em’s bedroom door was closed. The handbag was sitting on an armchair in Em’s living room. Without thinking much about it, he stole into the room and snapped open the bag. Three prescription bottles were nestled inside. He had to take the bag out to the kitchen to see what they were. Two of them he’d never heard of, but the third bottle was Ritalin. It was about two-thirds full. He shook eleven of the little tablets into his hand and then put Em’s handbag back. He swallowed them in the kitchen.
On the drive out to Wendchester he feared another wreck, but he’d come prepared tonight. He was wearing Rafe’s thong beneath his trousers. It was a little small, but he felt incredibly pumped. His cock was straining to free itself of the constriction, but he figured it could stay like that until he got home.
He parked his car beneath the tree and set out on the long walk, cupping his cigarette with his other hand. The draw of each and every breath was like a miracle—the night sky, the moon, the stream that ran under the road at one point—all of it was miraculous. He stopped on the bridge and looked down at the swirling water of a whirlpool. A person falling from here would most likely drown. The water rushed and churned, glinting in the moonlight. He finished his cigarette and then walked on slowly.
As he cleared the trees on his right, Rafe’s house came into focus. He wondered what had happened to Rafe’s parents. Perhaps they were overseas. They’d looked like a happy couple, together with Rafe in the photos, but now the boy was alone? Where had they gone? If they came home, Jack was going to be in serious trouble.
Rafe was in the living room. Again Jack climbed carefully onto the veranda and made his way to the French windows at the side of the house. Rafe was sitting on the couch, dressed in a white pair of sneakers, a white pair of underpants, and a white cap with a blue “R” on it. He was also wearing a watch, a white one that looked like a Swatch and probably was one. He was watching a comedic game show on PBS, something from the BBC, and every now and then he smiled, though he didn’t break into laughter until ten or fifteen minutes later, and then Jack guessed it had been a very funny joke.
He shifted his weight from his left to his right foot, and was aware for
a moment of the thong etched into his crack. It was more than a little tight, and perhaps he shouldn’t have worn it, as it had Rafe’s smell in it.
Rafe had eaten his dinner on the couch by the look of it. An empty plate and glass were sitting on the side-table. Jack watched him, careful not to be seen. Rafe had no idea he was there.
Eventually, the show ended and Rafe got up. He turned to collect the plate and glass and Jack realized he was wearing a jockstrap, the wide, white straps cupping his perfect ass and lifting it higher. Jack whistled silently as Rafe left the room. Then he took a few quick paces along the veranda and turned the corner to the kitchen window.
Rafe entered. He stacked the plate and glass in the dishwasher and then walked through to the laundry. He re-emerged a moment later with a box full of papers and cardboard cartons. He set this on the dining room table and turned into the kitchen again. In the drawer, he found a box of matches. Then he picked up the box from the dining room table and frightened Jack. He opened the back doors and walked through them, only fifteen feet or so from where Jack was standing. Jack got a prize view of his ass, but his chest was heaving. Rafe set the box down and turned back into the house. He walked through and into the hall.
Jack got off the veranda and walked hurriedly toward the old barn in the distance, turning every now and then to see if Rafe was coming out again. An old oak provided some shelter. He stood behind it and watched the house. Rafe appeared again, this time with a pile of newspapers. He set these on top of the box, closed the wide glass doors, and then picked up the box and advanced on Jack.
Jack gripped the tree. Rafe was only thirty or forty feet from him and was coming in his direction. Then Jack realized what he was doing. An old cement block incinerator stood not far from the tree. Soon Jack could hear Rafe’s breathing. He stopped, ten feet away at most, dropped the box on the grass and bent forward, his ass naked in the darkness. He upended the box into the incinerator. Then he struck a match, lighting his face.
The fire flared with a whoosh, lighting Rafe’s naked body red and gold. He stared into the flames. Jack relaxed. He lowered the heels of his shoes and cracked a twig. Rafe’s head jerked, his eyes alive. He stared at the tree, then peered into the darkness beyond it.
Their eyes met.
“Is someone there?”
Jack held his breath.
“Is that you, Mike?” Rafe advanced a couple of steps. Then they really could see one another. Rafe stopped, frozen in fear. Feeling wild, Jack took a step sideways and held his hands up. Between two of his fingers was an unlit cigarette. He lifted it to his mouth, lit it, and then took a step forward.
Rafe’s eyes flitted over his features, tracing the scar on his cheek and forehead. “Who are you?” he said.
“Jack,” he said. “Jack Markman. I’m a private investigator. I’m investigating the disappearance of Sissy Caraway.”
“Sissy?”
“That’s right.”
Rafe nodded. “But what are you doing out here in the dark, and …?” It seemed to only occur to him now that he was wearing what he was wearing. His feet turned inward and he looked embarrassed. He blushed.
“I’m trying to trace her movements. You’re Rafe Carter? Is that right?”
“Yes. Sure I am.”
Rafe’s voice was high and clear and Jack felt his cock pulse. Once again, he was aware of the thong, of the fact that he was dressed in Rafe’s thong, which he’d been wearing only last night.
“You were her boyfriend?”
Rafe nodded.
“And it was here, at a party in the house.”
“In the barn,” Rafe said. “My eighteenth.”
Jack made no reply.
"It was the weekend before last.”
“Can you tell me what happened?”
“Now?” Rafe said.
“Or perhaps tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow.” He hesitated. “Who hired you?”
“Well. No one. I thought you might.”
“Me?”
“It might be in your best interests. They say you were the last to see her alive.”
Rafe nodded. His eyes smarted with tears. He turned to go, walked a few paces away, but was obviously very conscious of his ass being bare. His gait was pigeon toed, and his hands were held awkwardly, like he wanted to cover his nakedness from behind. He turned back again. “If you come tomorrow. I’ll talk to you then.”
Jack nodded, and watched him walk toward the lighted house.
8
In the morning, Jack woke with a headache again. He felt odd, as though he was hungover, and then remembered all the medication he had taken. He thought of the Ritalin, and of Carol. Hopefully, she wouldn’t notice he had taken any.
Em and Carol were in the kitchen, talking at the table.
“Margaret was always like that,” Carol said. “Always the first to a bottle.”
“Hi, Jack”
Jack nodded at Em. “Hey, Carol,” he said.
“Hi, Jack.”
“Enjoying your stay”
“You bet. With a sister like mine … well, it’s a relief to get out of the house.”
“Is she getting any help?”
“Help? Believe me, she’s had help. Only last year, Momma had a counsellor over from Midland.”
“Was he any good?”
“Hopeless. She started on the bourbon after that.”
Jack nodded. He fixed himself some cornflakes and sat down at the table.
“We’ve had some news of Sissy,” Em said.
“Oh, yeah?”
“Apparently there’s a private investigator on the case. Her boyfriend, the boy out at Wendchester, has hired someone.”
Jack swallowed a mouthful of cornflakes awkwardly. Em studied him.
“Nobody knows who he is, Mike says. Some stranger to the town.”
Was this the same Mike, Rafe’s friend? Did everybody in this town know everybody else?
Carol excused herself and got up. A moment later, he heard Em’s bathroom door close.
“Jack. Tell me. Have you taken some sort of interest in this boy?”
“I’ve met him.”
“And …?”
Jack shrugged. “I really don’t want to talk about it.”
He finished his cornflakes in silence and then fixed himself a coffee. Em wandered away. Then he heard the both of them laughing in Em’s bedroom. He had to get out of the house. He took a shower, cleaned his teeth, and dressed as he imagined a private investigator would dress: in faun trousers, a blue button-down shirt, and black lace-ups.
He arrived at Rafe’s just after midday. Rafe’s car was in the drive. He parked behind it, sat for a moment listening to the ticking of the cooling engine, and then opened the door.
He rang the bell and waited, listening to the echo of the bell from inside the house. It was cool on the veranda, but the day was heating up. But for a smattering of puffy white clouds, the sky was blue. He glanced sideways along the veranda in one direction and then in another.
The door opened. Rafe in loose white trousers, a black tank top and black and white flip-flops. He was wearing his white watch, but didn’t have the cap on, the cap from last night.
“Hi.”
“Hi. Rafe, isn’t it?”
“Yeah. But I’ve forgotten your name.”
“Jack. Jack Markman,” though this was a lie. His name wasn’t Markman.
“Come in.”
Rafe held the door wide and Jack stepped into the hall, which was impressive, its central feature a wide staircase, one that branched right and left. There was couch and two armchairs with a rug arranged in front of an unlit fireplace. But it didn’t look as though anyone sat in here.
Where were the boy’s parents?
“You live here all alone?”
Rafe nodded.
“What about your parents?”
“They passed on. Last summer.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
Rafe lowered his h
ead. He was sad. There was a sadness about him. Though Jack had been so interested in him sexually that he hadn’t noticed it before now. He turned away and walked toward the back of the house, into a hallway beyond a door at one side of the staircase. Jack was expected to follow, and so did, though he couldn’t help noticing how diaphanous Rafe’s trousers were. He was wearing a jockstrap. The white one from last night? And the straps were clearly visible beneath the white cotton of the trousers.
Beyond three doors on the left, the hallway opened onto the family room at the back of the house. Through the wide glass doors Jack could see last night’s scene with the barn in the distance, the cement block incinerator, and the garden’s boundary fence. Beyond it was farmland, though Jack didn’t suppose Rafe farmed it.
“You own all of that?” he said, nodding at the scene.
“I have a lot of money.”
“You shouldn’t tell people that.”
“Everyone knows. I inherited the house and land and more than seven million in insurance.”
Seven million? Who insured themselves for that amount of money? “Even so, it isn’t wise to tell people you’ve never met before. People get funny about money.”
“I’m learning that.” He adjusted his cock and balls unselfconsciously.
“I’m from out of town.”
Rafe nodded. “I was just about to fix myself something to eat. Do you want something?”
“Sure.”
“Some toasted sandwiches?”
“That would be fine.”
Rafe walked into the kitchen, pulled a leg of ham, a tomato, and a block of cheese out of the fridge. After hesitating for few moments, Jack took a seat on a stool by the counter.
“I told a friend of mine I’d hired you, so I’ve hired you if that’s okay with you.”
“Sure it is. I could use the work.”
Rafe made no reply.
“It’s twenty-seven dollars an hour if I’m on the case.”
He nodded, but Jack wondered if what he had said had registered at all.
A few moments passed in silence.
“So. You want to find Sissy?” Jack said.
“Find her?”
“I gather she’s disappeared.”
