All The Hidden Pieces

by Jillian Thomadsen

  The breath of judgment felt even hotter on Greta’s skin, the condemnation even stickier. Greta had to move back a few inches to even think of what to say next. Her appeal to family bonds was a papery intimation; she was as close to Marcia’s fortune as any stranger, same as any panhandler. And Marcia’s claims of parental sternness were not even accurate. She wasn’t the mama bird who kicked her offspring out of the nest and forced them to learn to fly. She was Griffin’s silent partner after all, a source of capital and decision-making.

  Greta wanted to expose Marcia’s misrepresentations but she chose instead to plead to her sense of maternal devotion. Even if Greta was an interloper onto the Brock family name, at least John was kin.

  “Marcia, he needs your help. He wasn’t interested in the book because he can’t read…at that level, I mean. He’s had learning difficulties his whole life…in basic reading and fluency. I think he’s probably dyslexic. But Treasure Island is quite simply above his level. Now there’s a school…”

  Greta’s voice trailed off because the more she spoke, the more Marcia looked confused. And then Marcia wasn’t confused anymore but entirely distracted. Her eyes followed the wings of a nearby bird, whose feathers swooped past the women and landed on the twig of a tree.

  “Alberto!” Marcia snapped.

  The butler hurried over from his perch just inside the house.

  “Alberto! Is that a woodpecker in my oak tree?”

  Alberto took a few steps towards the tree and made a clapping noise, which scared off the bird. He returned to the table and took a slight bow, his torso pitched forward so he was just a few inches from Marcia’s ear. “Is that all, Ma’am?”

  “Is that all? Alberto, we’ve got to do something about these creatures! That woodpecker wakes me up at all hours! Can you get rid of it? Tear down the tree, if that’s what it takes!”

  “I’ll see to it, Ma’am,” Alberto said, and trotted back towards the house.

  Marcia then turned her attention back to Greta. “I’m sorry,” she said with a heavy sigh. “You were saying…that’s right, you were saying about John, that he can’t read.”

  “Well, not that he can’t—”

  Marcia pivoted in her seat and faced the house. “Alberto!” she yelled.

  The butler appeared.

  “Alberto, why do I have to keep yelling? I’m about to lose my voice. Can you please stay in the general vicinity? Should I start to ring a bell?”

  “No Ma’am,” Albert responded. “I wanted to give you a bit of privacy. But it’s no problem; I will remain on the terrace.”

  “Alberto, can you please tear John away from the television and have him rejoin us?”

  “Certainly, Ma’am.”

  Alberto left the terrace and returned a minute later with John, who looked slightly dazed. He stumbled forward with a stooped gait, bangs hanging down over his eyes. If there was a silver lining, Greta was proud that John had allowed himself to be torn away from the television. He wasn’t smiling but he wasn’t screaming about being summoned either.

  “Thank you Alberto,” Marcia said, and watched her butler scurry towards a different perch across the stone-lined terrace.

  Marcia then turned her attention towards John, draping one arm loosely across his back. To Greta’s surprise, he didn’t shake off his grandmother’s clasp.

  “Now John…” Marcia began. “Are you excited to read Treasure Island?”

  John shrugged and paused for a few seconds before responding. “Not really.”

  “And why is that?”

  John shrugged again. “I don’t know. It looks long.”

  “Have you been told that you can’t read books of such a length?”

  John looked up at her. “I don’t know.”

  “Now let me tell you something Johnny. There’s no reason to be afraid of a book just because it’s long. It’s like being able to look inside someone else’s life for a bit longer…being able to really see inside someone’s heart and inside his mind. That helps shape our human character. And that’s why it’s so important to read books. Do you understand John?”

  John nodded.

  Marcia continued. “I mean, look at me, Johnny. I live alone – ever since your grandfather passed – but am I lonely?”

  “I don’t know,” John said.

  “No, I’m never lonely. I’m surrounded by books! I have Jane Eyre and Nick Carraway to keep me company. Anytime I want, I can search for treasure with Jim Hawkins! Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  John nodded and swatted his bangs out of his eyes. “Can I go back to watching television now?” he asked.

  “May I go back—” Marcia corrected. “And the answer is yes, you certainly may.”

  John left the terrace again – quickly this time and without need of an escort, his shoes flapping against the pavement as he jogged away.

  Marcia faced Greta and smiled. “My grandson is very smart, and no one can tell me otherwise. He saw those numbers hidden in the picture I drew right away, without any prompting. If he doesn’t like to read, it’s because he doesn’t think he can…because someone got in his mind and convinced him of what he can’t do. Now I like to focus on what children can do, let them think they’re capable of anything. Then they’ll start to come around.”

  It was this type of logic that raised Greta’s dander. She was a calm, rational person. But something about speaking with people who spouted platitudes not grounded in fact as sound advice – something about people who spoke knowingly who didn’t know – made Greta want to scream.

  Greta had to keep in mind though – she was dealing with a family member. And not just any family member but one who controlled the purse strings, who could change the course of John’s fate with a single decision to finance his education.

  “Marcia…” Greta said, and then took a deep breath. “John’s dyslexia isn’t an errant path he’s chosen to walk, a button that can be switched off once he changes his attitude. What John needs is more than what I can provide, more than what the public schools can provide. His case manager told me that and she said so very adamantly. John needs a special school to help him with his dyslexia, and this school costs thirty-five thousand dollars a year. They’re not going to give me any financial aid because of Griffin’s earnings…and Griffin isn’t going to help out either. I’m coming to you, begging you really, since you’re my last hope. Make it a loan instead of a gift, if you have to, and let me repay you when I can.”

  Greta’s voice was pleading, urging. She felt like the emcee of one of those televised call-in programs – when the host begs and cajoles in the name of charity – desperation dripping from their pores.

  And, like so many television viewers, Marcia was unmoved. She flared her nostrils and shook her head. “John’s going to be just fine,” Marcia said. “Once he realizes how important his grades are, he’ll figure out what he needs to do and then do it.”

  “I could have him read for you,” Greta insisted. “Or, I could show you the reports from school, the ones that show how poorly he’s doing. Whatever you need to see that might change your mind…”

  “Greta!” Marcia said, her voice was a piercing turret that stunned the air. “Young lady, my mind is made up and that’s the end of that!”

  Greta nodded and sat back in her chair. There was no use in protesting at this point. The conversation drifted away from John and then went further afield – to the topic of food and gardening – anything safe and impersonal. After thirty minutes of chatter, Alberto summoned Marcia and then the elder woman returned and delicately told Greta that it was time to go.

  Greta met John at the front steps and they hugged Marcia as distantly as possible – hand clasps on forearms, air kisses and smiles. Greta and John were halfway to their car when Marcia’s voice rang out, “Wait! You forgot!”

  They stood for a minute on the apex of Marcia’s circular driveway – in between a fountain and the front columns. Then Alberto appeared and thrust something i
nto John’s hands. Greta looked down and saw that it was Treasure Island.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  September 26, 2017

  Martinez and Hobbs located Johanna Wagner after five days of searching, checking in with local police precincts, talking with neighbors and following up on leads. A 2007 report of petty theft in Springfield led them to a hairdresser in Mount Vernon. Ten years earlier, the hairdresser had invited Johanna Wagner over for barbecue dinner…and once the ribs, baked beans and cornbread had been devoured, the two ladies sat on twin rocking chairs on back porch and fell asleep to the sound of crickets. When the hairdresser woke up hours later, Johanna was gone, along with an envelope of two hundred-dollar bills that she kept in a kitchen cabinet in case of emergencies.

  The hairdresser filed her claim, which had brought two rookie Mount Vernon police officers to Johanna’s trailer. She let them inside, politely plied them with ice water and explained that the two hundred dollars had been promised to her for unremunerated housecleaning services. The officers noted in the report that Johanna’s trailer was covered in boxes – a labyrinth of them so thick, it was hard to walk or even see around.

  “I’m moving,” Johanna explained. “I’m sick of this neighborhood.” She gave them her forwarding address and never heard from the Mount Vernon P.D. again. Even the hairdresser forgot or abandoned her claims to the missing two hundred dollars.

  When Martinez and Hobbs visited the forwarding address Johanna had given, they discovered that it was a tawdry, low-rent motel on the outer edges of Gainesville, Missouri. The structure had traces of powdery white paint, but most of that had chipped away to reveal decaying wood and an insect sanctuary.

  The Detectives walked inside the main office and introduced themselves to a woman behind a counter. The woman was late middle-aged and leathery, with tattoos stretching across her neck and down her arms. “Can I help you?” she asked.

  Martinez and Hobbs explained that they were looking for Johanna. They provided a physical description based on the ten-year old Mount Vernon Police Report. Johanna was fifty-eight years old, around five feet four, one hundred ten pounds, long brown hair, an athletic build. This was the best they had to go on since she didn’t exist on social media or the rest of the Internet, nor did she have a driver’s license or any other type of government-issued record. It was as though she lived in the cracks of a registered society, an invisible citizen.

  The woman behind the counter was not terribly helpful. She explained that most of the residents of the motel took up permanent residence, and they enjoyed the privacy and parsimony afforded by the low monthly cash-only rent payments. She remembered Johanna but had nothing to say about the woman, other than that she was quiet, kept to herself, and hadn’t provided a forwarding address.

  Hobbs and Martinez insisted on visiting the unit where Johanna had lived, so the front-desk clerk – after giving both a glare – took them on a tour. The unit was really a one-bedroom cabin near a lake, with the same chipping powder-white paint as the rest. The Detectives knocked on the door a few times but no one answered.

  After a few hard knocks, a man appeared from one of the neighboring cabins. His dense, black-gray hair was frayed and he stroked his large, protruding belly while he approached.

  “What’s goin’ on up there?” he asked.

  The clerk said “Nothing!” at the same time that Hobbs said, “We’re looking for a woman named Johanna Wagner. She used to live at this address but she moved away around two years ago. Do you remember her?”

  “Remember her?” the man stroked his belly. “Sure, I still talk to her. Is she in some kind of trouble?”

  Hobbs’s heart jumped. “No, sir. Her daughter is missing and we thought we should speak to her about it. Can you give us her phone number and address?”

  The man looked skeptical so Martinez added, “You may have seen the story of the missing family on the news. Greta Carpenter and the whole Carpenter family.”

  The man shook his had. “I ain’t got a television. I’ll get what you asked for and be right back.”

  Thirty minutes later, Martinez and Hobbs were driving through East Barry County, Missouri. They drove past farmland and penned in grazing cows, stalks of corn and flat dry earth. Eventually they found a section of ten or twelve motor homes demarcated by a green-painted wooden sign: Evergreen Acres.

  It didn’t take long to find Johanna. By this time, it was early evening, and the residents were out of their homes, all descended on two campfires set up near the asphalt and pebble parking lot. The Detectives parked their car and approached the group, who immediately ceased their activities and stared at the trespassers.

  Hobbs scanned the cluster – mostly kids, a few who appeared to be in their late teens or early twenties, a few older senior citizens planted in plastic chairs and one woman – skinny, five-feet four, with long gray-brown hair tied back in a ponytail.

  “Are you Johanna Wagner?” Hobbs asked, and the woman nodded solemnly.

  “I’m Detective Hobbs and this is Detective Martinez. Can we speak to you somewhere privately?”

  Everyone stared as Johanna put down a vegetable-laced skewer she’d been holding and approached the detectives. Without saying a word, she brushed past them and embarked on a northward trek alongside the lake. They passed the column of homes, then a playground and a smaller parking lot, until they finally reached an isolated picnic table.

  “This okay?” Johanna asked. “I’d take you inside my trailer but it’s too messy to find a seat.”

  The Detectives nodded and affirmed that the picnic table was a fine location. There was something about Johanna’s demeanor that struck Hobbs. It was her patience, her stillness. In most cases, when she and Martinez showed up at their door asking to interview someone, their subjects were shaky and scared. They tremored noticeably. In unsteady voices, they demanded to know why the meeting was happening. They were incapable of waiting for the news – the anvil everyone knew was going to drop.

  But Johanna sat patiently and waited for the Detectives to begin.

  “Ms. Wagner…” Martinez began. “We’re here to talk to you about your daughter, Greta.”

  After a few seconds of silence, Johanna replied softly: “I’m not sure what you mean. It’s been a lifetime since I last saw Greta.”

  Martinez pulled an eight by ten photograph of the Carpenter family from his satchel. It was a reproduction of the photograph from the master bedroom – saintly smiles on everyone’s faces, coordinated denim and white outfits, a choreographed pose of interlaced arms.

  Johanna looked at the photograph. She was stoic at first but then something inside of her stirred. She jerked in her seat and put her hand over her mouth. Johanna could see tears forming at the corners of her eyes. “She’s so beautiful!” Johanna exclaimed. “I haven’t seen her in years. Oh my god, she’s so beautiful.”

  So this was the moment for the trembling and agitating, Hobbs realized – this moment of raw vulnerability. If Johanna was determined to be tough for the interview, she had been defused by the sight of her daughter. It was one of things Hobbs liked about police work – the ability to witness this stirring of emotion.

  “How many years since you’ve seen her?” Martinez asked.

  “Years,” Johanna answered, still staring at the photograph. “Years and years, maybe fifteen, maybe twenty? At some point, you just lose count.”

  Martinez stopped writing and both he and Hobbs afforded the woman a moment of silence. It was obvious Johanna wasn’t going to be able to provide any leads, and in front of them lay the task of telling her that her daughter and family were missing.

  “Look at this little girl,” Johanna said, running her finger over the pig-tailed image of Olivia. “That is exactly how Greta looked when she was a baby. I can’t believe it.”

  “Yes, they’re a beautiful family,” Hobbs said. “And we came here to talk to you because they’re missing. No one has seen or heard from them since September 6.”

>   “Oh god,” Johanna said. She turned back to the photograph and ran her index finger over each family member’s faces, one at a time – as though she could rouse an answer from osmosis.

  “It’s strange,” Johanna eventually said. “My daughter has been missing for decades. I don’t even recognize the woman in this picture. This is a full-grown woman with children of her own. The girl I lost was a girl. She was like a little pixie – petite and fragile. She wore her hair up every day. She loved pop music. Every day I wait, Detectives. You never stop waiting. Every day, I wait for news. And now – two decades later – you’re here to tell me that my missing daughter is missing. I don’t even know what to think about it.”

  The tears that had formed in Johanna’s eyes fully matriculated and tumbled down the woman’s face. She sniffled very quietly and buried her head into her elbow. Hobbs could see tiny heaves moving the back of Johanna’s head, and she leaned over to place a hand on the older woman’s shoulder.

  “I’m so sorry,” Hobbs said. “We don’t want to stir up any more pain.” Peripherally, Hobbs could see some small children lined up at the far edge of the lake. They were presuming to skip stones but in actuality, they stood and stared at Johanna and the detectives, fingers coiled tightly around rocks and pebbles. There were no other adults in sight.

  “Can you tell us why Greta left home?” Hobbs asked.

  Johanna lifted her head. She swallowed and paused, and during this moment, the color of her face shifted from red to normal. She cleared her throat and her voice came out clear.

  “I named Greta after my grandmother. She was a tough old lady, stubborn and strong-willed, living in Germany until they came to America. And now, here we are. My little Greta was exactly like her namesake. Always stubborn and terribly strong willed. She never listened to me. She never paid attention at school. She always got into trouble. I just fought with her all the time. When she was sixteen, the principal called and told me she stopped going to classes. Then I found her with a bunch of her friends, under the concrete bridge near her high school, smoking cigarettes. And I yelled at her, boy did I yell at her. If she was younger I’d have smacked her too but by that age, she was as tall as I was – maybe taller. I told her she could go to school or leave the house. She chose to leave. When she was sixteen years old. The last thing she said to me was that if she left she would never come back. And she never did.”