Madeline Mann

by Julia Buckley

  “I do too,” I responded. “I'll give you another piece, and I'll have one too, okay?” I pretended to make a plate for myself.

  I refilled his plate, and he became almost merry. “Daddy went to see Quint,” he said.

  “Oh?” I asked blankly.

  “Quinn,” Jamie corrected. “Quinn Paley. A friend of Logan's in Saugatuck. Noah is convinced that Logan went to see him, which I suppose is a possibility. He's done it before.” Her voice was carefully toneless.

  “You think Daddy went to Michigan?” I asked Noah.

  He shrugged.

  “Logan could be just about anywhere,” Jamie said bitterly. “He feels entitled to spoil himself.”

  It was true that Logan was egocentric; at least he had been as a teen, and he'd sailed through high school on a series of deceptions. He had continued to lie to various girlfriends, arguing to me that this was his time to play the field but still pledging his fidelity to individuals because of the rewards it brought him. I didn't know his self-indulgent behavior would last into adulthood; I suppose I feared it, though.

  He'd started dating Jamie in the spring of our senior year. I wondered vaguely what had made him commit to her above all the others. I wondered also if he still had affairs, especially in light of what my mother had told me.

  Jamie was yelling at Noah. “Sit right in the chair, Noah. Sit right, or I'll take your plate.” The threat worked, and Noah stopped swaying in his seat.

  The sound of a baby's crying floated into the kitchen.

  “Shit,” Jamie said, shoving in a last forkful of slaw.

  “You shouldn't swear,” Noah called after her sternly, his little face pulled into a disapproving frown that only emphasized its pudgy cuteness.

  “Sorry!” Jamie yelled contritely over her shoulder. She disappeared into a back room.

  “Your mommy's very busy around here, isn't she?” I asked Noah.

  “Yeah. But I help her, so…” He held out his little greasy hands, one of which still clutched a chicken leg, as if to say, “The problem is solved.”

  I looked around the cluttered room. “I almost forgot. I brought you something,” I told him.

  In a shot, he was out of his chair and standing in front of me, verifying the idea that little kids have no concept of personal space. I could feel his breath on my face.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  First I helped him wash his hands again, making sure to roll up his sleeves. We returned to the table; I pulled my tote bag into my lap and retrieved the crayons and coloring book. Noah's eyes widened with surprise and pleasure.

  “Thanks!” he said. “I could really use these!” He jogged over to the living room, kicking aside some toys so that he could lie on his tummy. “I have to do this before Cal wakes up. He eats crayons, which he shouldn't, because they're made of wack. And he breaks them, and he jumps on me,” he shared calmly as he began to shade in a clown's hair.

  “He sounds energetic. Let's surprise your mom and tidy up this room,” I suggested. I got down on my knees and began sorting. This was partly an instinct born of living with a very tidy mother, and partly a nosy response. I wondered if there might be some clue here or there to Logan's whereabouts. All books went in one pile, all videos in another. I found a laundry basket in one corner and began tossing toys and superheroes in it. I folded a tiny pair of sweatpants and an adult pair of jeans and set them on the arm of the chair. I shelved the books and put the videos on top of the television. I picked up some random M&M’s nearby on the carpet while I glanced at the contents of a little desk in the corner. Without actually touching things, I could see that it mostly contained bills to be paid and some personal correspondence. I stood up and tossed the candy in a wastebasket.

  Now Noah had the floor all to himself. I knelt down and walked on my knees until I reached his side. I watched him color.

  “So your dad has a friend named Quinn?” I asked.

  “Yeah,” he said to his book.

  “What makes you think he went to see him?” I asked, following a hunch.

  “Because that night he was mad. And I was watching him, and then he put me in his, um, lap.…” He was having trouble concentrating on me while he worked.

  “What was he mad about?”

  Noah selected a new crayon. “Mommy was mad at him, and that makes him mad. I know because he was squeezing me harder.”

  “Was he hurting you?” I asked.

  “No. He told me he wasn't mad at me.”

  “Of course not. How could anyone be mad at you?”

  Noah shrugged. He considered it a valid question. “He said Quint would get him out of a hole.”

  My metaphorical antennae began to quiver. “Out of a hole? What did he mean by that?”

  Noah smiled at me. “I was laughing. I told him he wasn't in a hole, and he said yes he was.”

  So Logan had been in trouble, and instead of confiding in his wife, he'd made some cryptic comment to his four-year-old son and then disappeared. God, you think you know someone, I thought dejectedly.

  So how could this Quinn have gotten him out of trouble? Maybe with money? And if so, was he the type, I wondered, who would take the money and run while his wife and children sat in a house where the larder was bare? Sure he was, if it suited him. Not having seen Logan in such a long time made me remember only the negative things. Or maybe, from my more mature vantage point, there really was not much to admire beneath his attractive veneer.

  Jamie came back in holding a smiling baby who pointed at me with a tiny finger.

  “Cal sees someone new,” she said with an indulgent smile. It was the first smile I'd seen, and for the first time she looked like the pretty girl from high school. “Oh God, you cleaned my house,” she said. “You're too nice.”

  I knew that was a thank-you, and I waved it away. “You've got enough to do. Listen, Jamie, have you considered calling the police?”

  She sat down on her couch and set the baby on the floor. The baby crawled immediately to Noah and, as predicted, picked up a crayon, put it in his mouth, and placed his diapered bottom heavily on the small of Noah's back.

  “Ow!” Noah yelled.

  “Honey, take those crayons and paper to the table or Cal will have them for lunch. Here, Mommy will clear a spot for you. Did Madeline give you those? Oh, look at the pretty book!” She jogged to the table, where the remains of our lunch sat, giving off an aroma. As she cleared, she considered my question.

  “I've thought about it, Madeline. But the thing is, Logan has taken…vacations before. He feels sometimes like he needs a mental health day, or whatever. So if he's, uh—resting—I'd hate to embarrass him with the police. But you never know. Yes, Cally, Mommy will cut up some chicken for you.”

  Cal had spotted the food and was now standing precariously at the foot of the table like a little beggar.

  “Wouldn't he call you?” I asked.

  “Not necessarily.” Her face reddened. “He feels guilty, and then he doesn't want to face me. We've had arguments about it, but…and the thing is, there are people I could ask for help—some neighbors, my family, you know. But this is an uncomfortable situation. I really don't want people asking me where he is or why I'm having trouble focusing on my daily… reality.”

  I considered her for a moment. “Isn't it your turn to take a mental health day, Jamie?”

  She rubbed at her eyes, then grabbed a rag and wiped a corner of the table so that Noah could sit down with his supplies. Once he was established, she began cutting up some chicken for her other son. Finally she responded.

  “You know Logan. When you describe him to people, he sounds like this incredible pig, but when you're with him…”

  “He's a pig with charisma,” I said hotly. “Where does he normally go on these vacations?”

  “Here and there. Once he stayed at the Hilton in Chicago. Another time he went to his dad's cabin in Michigan. This really gorgeous place. He took me there a couple times, and Noah's been there
. Cal has never seen it. Maybe he's with Quinn, but he's never done that before.”

  “Can we call his dad?”

  “The phone seems to be out of order, or maybe it's off the hook. And Logan left his cell phone here. I don't know what's going on. His dad makes the cabin available, because he lives at his girlfriend's place most of the time, and the cabin is basically empty for the use of Logan and his brother. I could call his dad, but it's just too humiliating to tell him I can't locate Logan, and could he see if Logan's vacationing out there, you know? But I can't drive all the way out there just to see. Noah's got school, and Cal takes two naps a day, and—”

  “Did he leave any money with you?” I asked.

  Jamie flushed again. “What's in my checking account. I still have to pay some bills, but I should have some left. Then I'll run out to the store. I know I look totally poverty-stricken here, but I'm really not.”

  I shrugged, then lied. “Luckily, Fritz tells me the band got paid for their last gig, and Logan never picked up his share. I'll see that Fritz brings it by today.” The amount I had in mind Fritz probably wouldn't wish to part with, but Jamie didn't have to know.

  Her relief was almost palpable. “Oh, thank God. You hate to keep borrowing from your parents, you know?”

  Oh, I knew.

  “I'll get out of your hair, Jamie, but…” Cal, that wandering boy, had returned from the table with a piece of chicken in his mouth and another in his fist, and was now crawling into my lap. He began to play with my necklace with his free hand, wearing an expression of pudgy concentration. His thistledown hair fluttered every time I exhaled. Then he looked me full in the face and smiled, revealing chewed-up chicken and eight little teeth. I felt a pleasant, warm sensation in my midsection.

  “Why don't you give me the address of the cabin? I'm supposed to do a travel article for the paper, so maybe I can write it on, uh…”

  “Saugatuck,” she said. “It's a cabin just outside of Saugatuck, Michigan.”

  Before I left, I handed Cal an elephant squeeze toy and some plastic keys. He pointed at them and then took them with a jubilant expression. “Gah,” he told me seriously, pointing at the elephant. Then, confidentially and so near my face I could smell his lunch on his breath, he repeated, “Gah.”

  I felt a stab of love for him and had a vague desire to take him to the zoo.

  I felt something much different for Logan Lanford, my old high school chum who'd grown up to be a fair-weather husband and a deadbeat dad.

  three

  On my way home, I stopped at the White Hen in Webley to get cash and make a phone call. Jack had been pushing me to get a cell phone, but so far I'd resisted out of sheer stubbornness. I jogged inside the building to do my cash transaction. I got two hundred dollars for Fritz to bring over to Jamie's house. It nearly cleaned me out, but I'd get paid on Monday, and I intended to be at least partially reimbursed by the Grinning Bishops as well.

  I made my way to the pay phone outside the front of the store, (one of the last pay phones in existence, I was guessing) near which a man stood smoking. He was a handsome Indian man of about thirty-five, with a cute Enrique Iglesias–style mole under his eye. He squinted while he inhaled, obviously enjoying every moment of his cancer risk; he smiled briefly at me when we made eye contact.

  I used a calling card my parents had given me for Christmas, got a long-distance number for Quinn Paley, and dialed. The phone rang three times; the voice of a young woman answered. “Yeah?” she said.

  “Hello,” I said uncertainly. “May I speak with Quinn, please?”

  She'd obviously expected me to be someone else; she seemed flustered. “Oh—sorry. Quinn's not here. Do you want me to take a message?”

  “My name is Madeline Mann. I'm looking for Logan Lanford.”

  There was silence at the other end of the line.

  “Do you know Logan?” I asked.

  “Yes. Quinn and me know Logan. He hasn't been around here in a while.”

  “So you haven't seen him in the past few days?”

  “Not me. Maybe Quinn. I can ask him when he gets back.”

  I was getting what I call one of my “mighty vibes.” There was something weird going on with Logan, I knew it, and not just from this phone call with an unhelpful teen. I thought for a moment. I could hear her breathing into the mouthpiece. Either she was nervous, winded, or asthmatic, I thought, tapping my car key against the wall in a staccato rhythm. “Okay. Maybe I can give you my number?” I said.

  She took my home phone number willingly enough and said that she would pass on the information.

  I hung up, disappointed that I hadn't solved Jamie's problem, and then dialed the number she'd given me for Logan's dad. There was no answer.

  I sighed, putting Jamie's information back into my purse. Suddenly the smoking man straightened away from the wall and took another drag on his cigarette.

  “That's a musical name, Logan Lanford,” he said, without apology for his eavesdropping. “I have actually heard it before.”

  That got my attention. I stepped forward. “I'm Madeline Mann,” I said. “I'm a reporter for the Wire. Do you work here?”

  He tossed down his cigarette butt, reluctantly, almost affectionately. Farewell, old friend. He was one of those people who made smoking look cool. “I am the manager here. Sunil Nagubadi.” He leaned over to shake the hand I was extending.

  “You said you've heard the name before? Logan Lanford? I'd appreciate anything you could tell me. I'm trying to locate him for…for a story,” I lied, feeling suddenly protective of Jamie.

  “I saw the man himself. He came here the other evening. He used the phone you were using, and I was here.” He smiled charmingly. “I am a heavy smoker; I'm here more than once a day. I have a non-smoking policy, so I send myself outside.”

  I liked Sunil, I decided. “You talked with him.”

  “No. Merely heard the name. He said, ‘I am Logan. Logan Lanford.’ I recall the name, because I thought it was rhythmic. And alliterative. Distinct.”

  “So that was all? And then did he go in to buy diapers?” I asked. “That's what he was supposed to do; it was why he came here.”

  Sunil thought, his hands thrust in his pockets. He looked more awkward without his cigarette.

  “No. Perhaps he would have done so, but then his friends came.” My question had triggered a further memory. He squinted at it.

  “His friends?”

  “Yes. Some men in a black car. Cadillac, maybe, or Lincoln. They pulled up next to him and rolled down the window.”

  “And he got in?” I prodded.

  “Well…” He paused, thinking. “I am not sure. I was here for a smoke, but I made a point of not eavesdropping. From what I saw he wanted to continue walking, but the car followed him. It was like a lover's quarrel, except this seemed like a group of friends.”

  “Could they have been enemies?” I asked. The weird vibes I'd been feeling were getting stronger.

  The idea seemed to interest him. “I am not sure. There were not really raised voices—to make me think there was a fight. But it did seem a bit, uh…” He looked past me at the magazines inside as his brain scanned for a word. “Sinister!” he yelled, pleased with himself. “Yes, it seems now almost sinister the way the car followed him. Especially because it had such a quiet engine.”

  “Could they be the people he called on the phone?” I asked.

  He shook his head, feeling for his pack of Camels. “No. They came too immediately afterward. There wouldn't have been time, unless they were a block away when he called.”

  “But you didn't feel the need to call the police?”

  Sunil looked uncomfortable. “Well, no. It's the memory which seems sinister. At the time, I was content to smoke and watch the car. I don't believe the man ever got in it. I believe he walked away un—ah, undetained.”

  “Did the car have any sort of distinguishing marks? Perhaps you noted a license plate number?” I asked without much h
ope.

  Sunil thought. He had worked a new cigarette out of the pack. He lit it and took a deep drag. For a moment, the smoke smelled good. Then it started to smell like pollution.

  “I cannot say that I saw a license number. I meditate while I smoke. But I think I noticed a bumper sticker.” He thought some more, puffing peacefully.

  “Do you remember what it said?” I finally asked.

  “No. But it was in the back window, rather than on the bumper, and it was a bright blue. I'm afraid that is all I can remember.”

  I assured him it was really quite a lot, and that I appreciated his help. I shook his hand again, gave him a card that the Wire had provided me, and took my leave. I left him standing there in a trance of utter satisfaction.

  Once in my car, I simply sat, watching a red tree dance in the autumn wind.

  Logan Lanford. God, it had been years since I'd really thought of him. He'd been my friend. I wondered why. Certainly he'd been one of the first people to find me sexually attractive. Perhaps that was why I kept a place for him in my heart, although I hoped not. I'd gotten enough loving attention from my high school boyfriend, Tim Ashbaugh. Another name I hadn't thought of in years, I reflected with a wry smile. By the time we'd graduated, Tim and I were talking about marriage in a rather desperate way, but we'd both gone off to college with relief, and we had rarely talked again. I hadn't kept in touch with Logan either, once I'd left the halls of St. Roselle High School. Things have a way of changing after high school; I left many of my friends behind with a sense of inevitability. It was time to move on, I had felt, time to grow. Had Logan grown too?

  I still sat, not starting the engine, considering possibilities. Logan had made a phone call. He could have called Quinn or his father and asked if he could stay for a while. It could well be that he was in Michigan, despite what the reticent girl had told me on the phone.