Big City Eyes

by Delia Ephron

  “Coral Williams started a rumor about your brother and me, that we were involved,” I explained.

  “I read your column,” said Mooney, with an astonishingly girlish giggle. “You’re having some sort of man trouble, or I’m not a detective.”

  Heat of tropical proportions rushed from my head to my toes. I must have turned shocking pink.

  “Leave her alone,” said Blocker. “Stop giving her a rough time.”

  “I’m not having a rough time. I’m fine.”

  “You heard the woman,” Tom said. He clapped Blocker on the back and thanked him for ruining his afternoon off. “Take it easy, Lily.” Very curt. He could not have been more curt, before he strode away down the hall.

  CHAPTER 16

  DRIVING DOWN the hill, along a residential street, I passed a woman carrying out garbage and a man covering a motorboat with a tarp. At the sight of these everyday tasks, I suffered acute envy of the ordinary. I was living with the kind of anxiety that a person must get when she receives a dire medical diagnosis. I have crossed a line and entered the other side. I inhabit some science fiction world where the species to which I belong carries an overwhelming burden of dread. That’s what distinguishes us from others who have only workaday worries. This envy of strangers might have been misguided—who knew what grim prospects the man with the motorboat might be facing—but under the circumstances, it seemed forgivable.

  My deep funk was not from my interchange with Chief Blocker or Detective Mooney, or from the coolness of relations with Tom. I had handled all that with aplomb. I had to confront Sam.

  After swinging right, off the road to the police department, I traveled Main to the big intersection, took a left on Barton, and followed it past the better shops. Out here the picturesque looks of Sakonnet Bay took a dive, with a jumble of dilapidated structures: an abandoned one-pump gas station; an auto-body shop; a junk store, its perimeter strewn with stacks of wooden doors and windows, bathroom sinks. Things perked up half a mile later, thanks to the presence of the old-fashioned three-story all-American brick high school.

  After parking on the opposite side of the street, I cut across the broad, well-kept lawn, and hurried into the building, and down the hall to the main office. I needed my son, Sam Davis. I showed the woman my driver’s license, establishing my identity. Would she please get him out of class, so I could take him home, it was very important.

  As I waited in the corridor, watching a supposedly normal-range boy—at least he had normal-range hair (NRH)—open his locker and try to stop everything inside from falling out, I considered the best way to confront Sam, the way that might produce the truth, much as I might not want to hear it.

  Sam gave the impression that he had awakened from a deep sleep. As he slouched toward me, his face knotted with confusion, his eyes blinking, he appeared to be adjusting to daylight. Only the spout on his bald head was jaunty, a small, hardy plant on the surface of the moon.

  “What?” he greeted me.

  “I need to talk to you.”

  “Is Dad okay?”

  “Yes, he’s fine. I have to talk to you, that’s all.”

  “You got me out of class to talk?”

  “It’s important.”

  He groaned—I was obviously exhausting his boundless goodwill and patience—and left the building ahead of me.

  “Sam, wait up.” I chased after him, hearing him mumble. “I can’t understand what you’re saying.”

  He repeated his words, “You’re getting really nuts, Mom,” then dodged several vehicles to cross in traffic. When I got into the car, he was already ensconced, biting a nail. His army surplus jacket had bunched up around him, the collar jabbing into his chin. He dropped his grimy backpack to the floor between his legs.

  “Why is your backpack caked with dirt?”

  “Chuydah.”

  “Sam, if you speak Klingon, I swear, I’m going to throw you out the window.”

  That was not how I intended to begin. Truly not. “Look, I’m sorry.” That wasn’t how I intended to begin, either. With an apology. We started down the street into the center of town.

  “What was in your column today?” he asked.

  “It was about the woman who died. Why?”

  “Some kids were talking about it.”

  “What were they saying?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing?”

  “Shit, Mom, what do you want?”

  “Don’t talk to me that way. It’s rude. Don’t.” I pulled over in a red zone to try to collect myself. Somebody banged on the windshield and held out a white paper bag. I think we were being offered doughnuts. I shook my head.

  “Who is that?” asked Sam.

  “I have no idea. Someone friendly. Look, I found a small bottle, yellowish, on the floor of your room. What’s in it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Sam, please, don’t lie to me. Is it ketamine? Is it Special K?”

  He slammed against the door as he yanked the handle, and almost fell out. In an instant he was down the block, weaving through shoppers. I got out to bolt after him but realized there was no way I could chase my son down Barton Road. Why is that kid tearing through town when he should be in school? Already someone was speculating, mentioning the curious fact to a shopkeeper, who would relay it a few minutes later to his mother-in-law. I walked briskly in the same direction Sam had gone, straining to spy his lumbering form, peeking down alleys between stores; I had to set a pace closer to hurry than panic. Four or five folks said hello as they strolled by. I didn’t see him anywhere. I doubled back, now peering into shop windows, feigning an intense search for exactly the right gift. Another hello. A bright, cheerful greeting, that I felt forced to simulate in return. It was that damn column. I should never have said I was alone. Worse, adrift. Now people were going out of their way to be friendlier than ever. They’ll feel bad for gossiping about your kid, Art had warned. A memory of blissful anonymity overtook me, a recollection of being on a Manhattan street—hordes of people, and not a single one making eye contact. Privacy in a public place. What an undervalued asset. Then the big, beautiful soap bubble popped as a mittened hand wagged amiably in my face.

  I wound through LePater’s, in case Sam was cowering behind the paper towels, then the Variety Shop, where Tom’s wife had bought him grease-flavored jeans. Out again and into the parking lot. I investigated, row by row.

  When I returned to my car, Officer Scott was writing a ticket. “Sorry, Lily,” he said. Twenty dollars for parking in a red zone.

  Now I tracked Sam in the car, hunting up and down the streets in our neighborhood. I searched the hideaway in the vacant lot, tooled down Linden Lane past Deidre’s inviting shingled house, where bikes of various sizes were propped against the porch and Indian corn decorated the door. I worked up a lather of apprehension, charged blindly through stop signs, then halted in the middle of an intersection, jolted to attention by a red-and-white flash in my peripheral vision.

  Finally I went home and sat in the living room, flipping channels, awaiting Sam’s return. I settled on the cooking network, narcotized by directions for making sweet potato tamales, chicken mole, and Mexican corn soup. I brewed tea and forgot to drink it. The phone rang, and racing to answer, I cracked my knee on a kitchen cabinet—was even my spatial judgment skewed? It was Jane, only Jane, lamenting that she’d had no idea until she’d read my column that I was coming down off something big. “Are you all right?”

  “It’s long over. A New York thing. And it wasn’t big.”

  “I mean, are you all right this second? Your hello was weird.”

  “I was napping.”

  “Lily—”

  “What?”

  “That was strange, your putting in all that speculation about why the woman died. A jealous wife … as if I could do that.”

  “Of course you couldn’t do anything like that, Jane. I’m really tired, could I please get off?”

  “But—”
r />   “It wasn’t about you.”

  “I didn’t think it was.”

  “Jane, I’ll call you tomorrow. I promise.”

  “All right.”

  Was she angry? I was too worried to care.

  At three-thirty, I phoned Deidre’s. Her mother answered, and I accepted her dinner invitation. “Is my son there by any chance?”

  “No.”

  “He has a dentist appointment. He must have forgotten.”

  “Just a second.”

  I heard her shout for Deidre, as well as referee some small children, before returning to the phone. “She hasn’t seen him today. She thought he was home sick.”

  “Oh, no. He was home for a while but …” Now I was really in over my head. I forced a laugh. “It’s too complicated to explain. Tell Deidre that even though it’s Friday, he might not be able to see her this evening. If they had plans or something—”

  “Don’t worry. We’ll enjoy having her to ourselves.”

  I realized I couldn’t ask her to tell Sam to call if he showed up there. I had implied he would be otherwise occupied. This was such a muddle. “Sorry to bother you.”

  “You’re no bother,” she said, and I hung up.

  I wasn’t going to notify the police that he was missing. Not yet, anyway. There was nothing to do. Nothing to do but wait. My most hated scenario.

  Aside from informing the paper that I was working at home, I stayed off the telephone.

  I paced to the window again and again. The flagstone path to the front door faded in a gray twilight. I flicked on the porch light, a beacon for Sam. Except for that glowing yellow orb with a few moths flitting about, the world outside was now black. Black and very still, devoid even of the wind’s rustle. Occasionally a car whooshed down the block and away.

  At about seven-thirty the telephone rang. A hang-up click. I hit *69, but didn’t recognize the local number. When I dialed it, no one answered. At eight-ten the phone rang again. “Sam,” I shouted into the receiver, “don’t hang up.” But the phone clicked, and *69 got me to another unfamiliar, unanswered local phone.

  Now I was furious with Sam—for torturing me, for being so reckless. If only I knew he was all right. If only he would come home so I could kill him. At nine, the telephone rang again.

  “Hello.”

  “Lily, it’s Allan.”

  The last person I wanted to hear from.

  “You can relax. Sam is here with me.”

  “With you?”

  “He took the train.”

  “You’re kidding.” From here to New York City, then up to Boston? “I didn’t realize he had that much money. Or energy.”

  “He won’t tell me what this is about. Did you two have a fight?”

  “Not exactly.” Oh God, how should I handle this? “It’s between Sam and me.”

  In the background I heard a woman’s voice. Allan’s wife, Joanne, was always coaching him when he talked to me, suggesting things he might not have thought of.

  “Allan, would you please send him back? Don’t let him spend the weekend. Put him on a plane tomorrow.”

  “Hold it.” More back-and-forth with Joanne, until he announced in his reedy, nasal voice that he would do as I asked.

  “Thank you. Thanks a lot, Allan, I really appreciate it. Put Sam on, please.”

  “He doesn’t want to talk.”

  “So what? Put him on.”

  “Hi, Mom.”

  “Sam, you’re flying home tomorrow and we’re going to talk. When you get here, we’re going to talk about everything.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Is that a yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay, sweetie, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  So he was fine, at least physically. And I was not—couldn’t keep my head up from the events of today and the prospect of tomorrow. I turned off the lights and lay on the couch under a quilt. On the TV, a chef flipped pizza dough into the air, then smoothed it on a wooden board. The chatty show and the cook’s lively confidence as he sprinkled on a confetti of green and yellow peppers, mushrooms, and baby tomatoes lulled my eyes closed. I zapped the television and was soon asleep.

  The sound that awoke me was skittering. Squirrels perhaps, outside the window. Then a firm crunch of ground. Not squirrels now, not deer, not animals at all. Too precise and cautious. The clock on the VCR read eleven twenty-three. A branch fluttered against the window, and I discerned two more quick but heavy treads. I pushed the patchwork cover onto the floor. The feet padded outside. I could hear them circling from the living room window around to the enclosed porch, my office. Had I locked the porch door? I slithered down off the couch so whoever it was couldn’t see me through the window. I didn’t want to turn on a lamp. A flash of light might trigger rashness. The maniac might burst in. I crawled across the living room, feeling the way with my hands to avoid collisions, trying to recall precisely the landscape of the room. The nearest phone was in the kitchen.

  I scuttled more quickly on all fours across the hall. The rustling had now reached the kitchen door. I heard someone try the knob. I pulled the phone from the counter and dialed 911. “This is Lily Davis,” I whispered hoarsely. I didn’t know the night dispatch officer. “Three-twenty-five Windham Street. Someone’s trying to break in.”

  The officer told me to hold on and I could hear my SOS relayed over the wires. I felt for the cupboard under the sink. Let there be no mouse, I prayed as I opened it, pushed back the bug spray, sponges, and dishwasher detergent, and squeezed inside. The plumbing pipes butted my shoulder. The cordless receiver was jammed under my chin. I couldn’t speak—it was too cramped for my jaw to open—but I wouldn’t have dared anyway. The dispatch officer repeated that I should keep calm, help was on the way. I managed to shut the double doors—the first easily by gripping the edge, the second by hooking my fingernail under the bolt that secured the outside handle and teasing the door toward me. I was now stuffed inside an airless, pitch-black box.

  Contorting even further, I contrived to press my fingers into my ears. If the intruder entered, I’d rather not know. He could blast the cupboard open. Suppose I ended up a pulpy mush of bullet holes? Suppose I was nailed by a deer dart?

  “Lily, Lily.” Loud kicking rattled the back door.

  “Tom?” I rolled sideways and fell out of the cabinet. “Tom.” I sprang up and was about to turn on the light, when I stopped myself: Was he safety? I hadn’t heard a cop car, or the blare of an approaching siren. He had called my name, but he hadn’t announced himself officially as the police.

  The door shook, even the hinges strained as Tom pummeled. Why was he kicking? “Lily,” he shouted.

  I approached as to my death. I turned the light on. I rotated the security bolt. The door flew open.

  Tom had a young man snared. With one hand on the collar of the kid’s mangy sheepskin jacket and the other clenching his wrists behind his back, he shoved his prisoner inside. A beanpole of a boy I’d never before seen, his face spatter-painted with freckles, and his watery blue eyes rimmed with a stubby fuzz of eyelashes slightly more orange than his strawberry-blond hair. He smelled of fish.

  “Do you know Duncan Cates?” said Tom.

  It took me a minute to find my voice. “Duncan? Is this Dunkie?”

  The boy was crying now, his nose a leaky faucet of snot. Tom pushed him down into one of my breakfast chairs, then took off his own jacket and wrapped it around me. “You’re shaking, take some deep breaths.”

  I did as I was told.

  He opened a few cabinets, found a glass, and filled it with water. “Drink slowly.” He watched me before turning to the boy. “Are you out of your mind, Duncan? What the hell is this about?”

  Duncan wiped his nose with the hem of his T-shirt. “I was looking for Bernie.”

  “Bernie?” I was so frazzled, so disoriented. “Do you mean Bernadette?”

  “Bernadette Lester?” asked Tom.

  He sniffled an acknowledgment.

/>   “What makes you think she’s here?”

  “In the paper. What she wrote?”

  “My column?” I lowered myself carefully into the chair next to him. “Did you read my column?”

  “My mom did. You had something in it about Bernie.”

  “The overwrought hysteric?” Tom suggested. “How she let an overwrought hysteric move in?”

  “Yeah, that’s it. My mom said that sounded like Bernie.”

  “Your mom’s right, but Bernadette moved out.”

  “I just wanted to talk to her.”

  “That’s probably all he did want,” I told Tom. “You need a bath, Duncan.”

  “I know. I didn’t shower since the boat.”

  Tom checked with Dispatch, letting them know that everything was under control—a true statement in only the most immediate sense. He peppered his call with lingo and numbers, ending with “Ten-four.” I would be in the log. I was now a log item.

  Mr. Woffert, rifle in hand, knocked on the back door. Tom sent him away. I relaxed enough to offer Duncan a Coke and a hero sandwich. While devouring the sandwich in huge chomps, he fretted about Bernadette, and how they’d had a big fight because he sprayed her with the hose when he was washing his car.

  “There’s got to be a better way to express affection,” said Tom.

  “I really respect her,” said Dunkie.

  “That’s what Bernadette said,” I confirmed, handing him a second paper napkin, which he used to wipe his mouth and then to collect the crumbs on the table.

  I observed him the way one might a stray cat invited in for milk, finding myself reluctantly won over, resenting that he was more adorable than I’d originally thought. Tom seemed similarly affected; at least I fancied that I detected amusement mixed with his exasperation.

  “I don’t want to press charges,” I told Tom. “Can we let him go?”

  “Where’s your truck, Duncan?”

  “Around the corner.”

  Tom jerked his head in the direction of the door—the boy could skedaddle. Duncan put his plate in the sink and his napkins in the garbage, and thanked me over and over.

  “Did you phone here a couple times and hang up, Duncan?”