The Perfect Mother

by Aimee Molloy

  Someone related to Winnie’s grandfather’s business.

  Alma. Nell is adamant that Alma played no role, but Francie doesn’t know what to believe anymore. Is it really possible that someone came into Winnie’s home, took Midas from his crib, and Alma heard nothing? Yesterday Francie read that Alma’s brother in Tucson was arrested a few years ago for stealing a car. That an uncle back in Honduras had killed someone.

  The thing that’s really beginning to trouble her, though, is Winnie’s stalker. Archie Andersen. She circles his name several times. There wasn’t much written about him, and she couldn’t find even one photo of him online. It was years ago, before the Internet and Facebook and twenty-four-hour news, and the only definitive information she dredged up was an article in People saying that Archie Andersen had showed up at the Bluebird studios, making it all the way to the set a few times, forcing Winnie’s mother to go to the authorities more than once, to eventually file for a restraining order. At the time he was sixteen years old, convinced he and Winnie were meant to be together. And then he appeared at Winnie’s mother’s funeral, wailing as if he’d lost his own mom, until he was forcibly removed by Winnie’s boyfriend at the time.

  Archie would be in his early thirties now. Just like that guy at the Jolly Llama—the one who’d approached Winnie so suddenly, as soon as she was alone at the bar. The last person she was seen with.

  Francie e-mailed Nell and Colette a few hours earlier, asking if they thought the police were making a mistake by not looking into Archie Andersen.

  I would guess they are considering him, Colette wrote back. Despite what the media has suggested, the police are not that dumb.

  But how could Colette be sure? If Mark Hoyt and company were, in fact, getting this Bodhi Mogaro thing wrong, what else might they be screwing up? Francie hears the shower water go quiet and then the curtain gliding open, and she shuts the notebook, sticking it hastily back into the drawer. In the living room, she lifts Will from the bouncy chair, grabbing the diaper bag and Moby Wrap, and calls good-bye to Lowell.

  He steps from the bathroom in his boxer shorts, towel-drying his hair as she’s walking out the door. “Where you going?”

  “May Mothers.” She clears her throat. “There’s a last-minute meetup at the Spot. Just got the e-mail.”

  “I’m so glad to hear that, sweetheart.” He steps back into the bathroom. “That’s exactly what you need.”

  Francie tries to block out the buzzing of an overhead light as she bounces Will back and forth in the chilly, empty waiting area, stopping to browse a table laden with stacks of pamphlets. Countering Terrorism through Information Sharing. LGBTQ Outreach. If you see something, say something.

  She startles at the sound of a door slamming behind her and turns to see Mark Hoyt walking into the lobby of the police station with a man who has an unkempt beard and shifty eyes and is wearing a black T-shirt and baggy jeans. The man looks at Francie, making eye contact for a split second before he nervously looks away. Hoyt turns to her after the man has left the station. “Mrs. Givens. Sorry to keep you waiting. Why don’t you come on back?”

  Francie follows him past an officer who sits at a desk behind a pane of glass, studying the sudoku board on the back page of the Post, and down a well-lit hall. “Was that guy here to talk about the investigation?” she asks Hoyt.

  “No.”

  “Is he a suspect?”

  “No.”

  The hall is lined with a few small offices, and when they reach Hoyt’s, he stands aside, inviting Francie to lead the way in. It belongs on the set of a bad cop show: a battered desk covered in crooked stacks of manila folders, papers spilling out messily. Three paper cups, half full of coffee, are lined next to an archaic desktop computer. A puckered layer of brown-and-green mold lines the top of one of the cups.

  “You want some coffee?” he asks.

  “No thank you. I’ve given up caffeine.” She nods down at Will on her chest. “For the baby.” She feels a twinge of guilt lying to the police, but she’s certainly under no obligation to tell them she’s mostly given up nursing. And besides, she’ll start crying if she says it out loud.

  “I can probably scare up some decaf if you’d like.”

  “Then yes,” she says. “Thank you.”

  He partially closes the door behind him, and she takes in his office. Mark Allen Hoyt. Born in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn. Grandson and son of cops. Six years with the US Marine Corps. Graduate of the New York City Police Academy. She found his biography online, posted as part of a talk he gave at a Staten Island high school career fair last year. She leans over his desk, examining the stack of folders, assuming they deal with Midas. He can’t possibly be working on another case. She timidly reaches across the desk as the door swings open behind her. She snatches back her hand, knocking a coffee cup with her elbow, its contents spilling onto her shins and sandals and the stained carpet below.

  It’s Stephen Schwartz. “I’m so sorry,” she says, reaching into the diaper bag for wet wipes. “I’ll clean this up. I didn’t mean to—”

  “Come with me.”

  His tone is unfriendly, stern even, which annoys her. Perhaps she shouldn’t be snooping around Detective Hoyt’s desk, spilling his disgusting, moldy coffee, but Schwartz should be happy to see her. As far as he knows, she may have valuable information to help the investigation, something to assist in actually solving the case and finding Midas alive. But there’s not a hint of gratitude in Schwartz’s voice as he gestures down the hall. “Leave it. I’ll have someone take care of it.”

  “But Detective Hoyt is on his way back. He’s getting me coffee.”

  Schwartz waves his hand. “Come with me.”

  She follows him, relieved Will shows no sign of waking. The formula she’s been feeding him has really helped his sleep, and she’s hopeful the eight ounces he hungrily drank on a bench outside the police station will keep him down for at least another hour.

  Schwartz opens a door at the end of the hall. It’s frigid inside and stark, the fluorescent light yellowing the plain white table and four metal folding chairs. Francie catches her reflection in the glass wall opposite her—the growing plane of gray at her roots, her protruding belly—and looks away. Hoyt is sitting in one of the chairs, his legs stretched in front of him, crossed at the ankles. He points to a chair and slides a Styrofoam cup of coffee toward her.

  “Have a seat.”

  “I’m going to keep standing, if that’s okay. The baby doesn’t really tolerate stillness.” Francie picks up the cup, feeling nervous. “A lot of babies don’t.” She takes a sip of the coffee. It’s lukewarm and bitter, swimming with coffee grounds; she resists the urge to spit it back into the cup. Schwartz closes the door and leans against it. “So, Mary Frances Givens. What gives us the pleasure of seeing you this morning?”

  She sets the coffee on the table and resumes bouncing Will. “I’d like an update on the investigation.”

  Hoyt raises his eyebrows. “You’d like an update?”

  “Yes. It’s been six days since Midas was abducted. I’d like to know where things stand.” She fights to keep the apprehension from her voice. “I’d like to know why you haven’t found this baby.”

  Schwartz glances at Hoyt. “Well, you should have told us that sooner,” Schwartz says. He pulls back an empty chair, sits down, and draws a small notebook and pencil from his chest pocket. He licks the pencil’s tip, his face a study of concern. “Can I have your e-mail address?”

  “My e-mail address?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Why?”

  “I want to send you the full report. And updates as they come in.”

  “Text is much more efficient,” Hoyt says. “You might want to get her cell.”

  “Good idea.” Schwartz’s pencil is poised above the paper, his enormous eyebrows raised expectantly. “What’s your cell?”

  “You’re being funny.”

  Schwartz snickers and tosses the pencil onto the table. “Yes
,” he says. “I guess you might say I’m being funny.”

  She feels her face flushing with anger. “Well, can you at least tell me what’s happening with Bodhi Mogaro? Are you going to charge him? Or is it true about the mix-up with that surgeon?”

  “Francie,” Hoyt says. “You know we can’t comment on an active investigation.” He takes a sip of his coffee, watching her. “Is this why you came today? To see what we know?”

  “Yes. Well . . . I’ve also been thinking about some things. Things you might want to be aware of.” She keeps her eyes on Hoyt. Unlike Schwartz, he wears a wedding band. Maybe he has children himself. “There’s a guy who lives a few blocks from Winnie.”

  “Okay,” Hoyt says.

  “A registered sex offender.”

  She’s right. Hoyt is sympathetic. Something in his face softens when she says this, and he leans forward on his elbows. “Francie, do yourself a favor. Stop reading the crime blogs. It’s going to make you crazy.”

  “No, you don’t get it. Apparently, there was a middle-aged white guy sitting on the bench near her house that night, and he’s a sex offender. Yes, fine, I read about it on a crime blog, but so what? And you can look it up—where sex offenders live. There’s one in the big apartment complex a few blocks away.” Francie knows she’s talking too fast, and she tries to slow down. “I’ve been watching her house.” She reaches into the front pocket of her diaper bag for the photograph she took and had printed at the pharmacy. “This guy comes by a lot, walking a little dog. He seems to have a weird interest in her building. Like, he’s always stopping in front of it, peering into the windows. Almost like he’s casing it, to be honest.”

  “Why have you been watching her house?”

  “Well, not watching it, like, through binoculars or anything. I live nearby. I walk by there with the baby. The idea that it’s a neighbor who took Midas makes a lot of sense. Think about it. It was Winnie’s first time out of the house at night. Her first time away from the baby. It has to be someone who knew that. Who was watching her.”

  “It sounds like you’ve been watching her,” Hoyt says.

  “What? No. I mean—” She pauses to compose herself. “She’s my friend.”

  “How long have you known her?”

  “Awhile. Four months. But we knew each other over e-mail months before that.”

  “Four months? That’s not a whole lot of time.”

  “Yes, it is. And also, this is different. We’re new moms. You wouldn’t understand. It’s a special kind of friendship.”

  Hoyt is silent, nodding, expecting her to go on, but she doesn’t want to. She doesn’t want to explain to this guy what it’s like; how the members of May Mothers understand Francie in a way nobody else has. How often they were there for her during her pregnancy, when she was terrified that she would lose this baby, like she’d lost the others. How much they’ve helped her since Will was born—sending articles, responding to her questions and her reflections on motherhood, helping her battle the isolation.

  “I’m not here to talk about friendship,” she says to Hoyt. “There’s something else I want to tell you. A confession, really.” Hoyt glances at the wall of glass, and for a moment she wonders if there’s someone behind there, watching them. “Something happened that night, and it’s only hitting me now how strange it was.”

  “And what was that?” Schwartz asks. He sounds bored.

  “Do you remember that guy I mentioned when you interviewed me? The guy at the bar, who approached her out of the blue?”

  “Yes.”

  “You should find that guy. Bring him in.”

  Schwartz leans back, tipping his chair so that it’s balanced on the back two legs, and clasps his hands behind his head. “I’m no legal scholar—hardly made it through police academy, if you want to know the truth—but I’m pretty sure approaching a woman and offering to buy her a drink is legal. At least in New York.”

  “I’m not suggesting those things are illegal, Detective.” She’s trying her best to keep her voice steady. “I’m suggesting that the behavior is a little suspicious.”

  Schwartz begins to speak, but Hoyt raises a hand to stop him. “Fine. I’m going to play along. What’s suspicious about a guy speaking to a woman at a bar? Isn’t that why guys go to bars?”

  “Maybe. But—”

  “Your friend Winnie is a very beautiful woman.”

  “Yes. I know. But—” Will squirms at her chest, and Francie realizes she’s stopped bouncing. “But I have an idea of who that guy might have been. It didn’t dawn on me until this morning, really. This is something you have to pursue.”

  “What is?” Schwartz asks.

  “Are you familiar with the name Archie Andersen? Winnie’s stalker?”

  Schwartz sighs heavily and stands up, walking toward the door. “I’m going back to work.”

  She looks at Hoyt after Schwartz has left, feeling a twinge of relief that they’re alone. “I really think that guy at the bar could have been Archie Andersen. Have you looked into him?”

  Hoyt rubs his eyes. “Francie, you need to know we’re doing our job. We’re taking this case very seriously.”

  “Do you have children?” Her voice sounds strained, and she silently berates herself. This is no time to cry.

  “Three.” He reaches into his back pocket for his wallet, taking out a wrinkled photograph of three little girls standing in a kiddie pool. “I’m old-school. Still like these things on paper. This was a few years ago.” He examines the photo more closely, as if he hasn’t seen it in some time. He shakes his head. “They really do grow up fast.”

  “Can you imagine, Detective, how upsetting it would be to lose one of those little girls before they had the chance to grow up? Like Winnie has?” She lifts the diaper bag from the back of the chair, accidentally bumping Will’s head with her arm, causing him to wake with a start. His eyelids flutter open and his face grows pink, on the brink of a wail. She feels the sweat pooling around the fabric of the baby carrier, and the sudden need for fresh air. “I’ve said what I’ve come to say. I couldn’t have lived with myself if I didn’t.”

  She starts for the door, but Hoyt steps in front of her. “Listen, Francie. I meant what I said. We’re doing everything we can to find Midas. I want to see that kid alive as much as anyone.” She nods and tries to move past him, but he rests a firm hand on her arm. “And you want to know the truth? In cases like this, when a baby goes missing, when there’s no sign of forced entry, no revenge motive, we have to start looking in places we don’t want to look.”

  She yanks her arm away and hurries down the hall toward the exit. Will is crying louder, drowning out the buzz of the light, but she can still hear Hoyt’s words as she charges toward the lobby.

  “I mean it’s time to start questioning the motives of people who knew him. I mean, Francie, people close to the family.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Night Six

  My mom always said I was naive. She was, of course, usually referring to an interaction with my father: my most recent decision to forgive him for something he said, or something he did, for the way he came home drunk again, pulling me out of bed by my arm, dislocating my shoulder, telling me to put away my fucking shoes, left in the middle of the hall, trying to kill him.

  “He feels bad about it,” I’d say the next morning, avoiding her eyes as she held the ice pack to my shoulder. “He didn’t mean it.”

  She’d shake her head. “You’re so clever about everything except him.” I can see the disappointment in her eyes. “When are you going to learn?”

  Maybe she was right. Maybe I’ll never learn. The truth is, this is all so much harder than I expected. How stupid of me to think I could simply steal away and be happy. For one thing, I’m bored to death. There’s nothing to do here. Nothing to occupy my thoughts. And god knows that boredom doesn’t suit me. Idle hands and all that.

  Joshua is the same way. He’s happiest when we’re out, walking into town for
a turkey sandwich and ice-cold beer from the little shop near the library, or at the secluded swimming hole we discovered, under the bridge, down the wooded path, stretched naked on a rock afterward, drowsy and pink with sun. But I told him today I don’t feel safe doing those things any longer. There are people around—walking their dogs, delivering mail—and they’re starting to ask me how I’m doing. That’s the problem with these country people. They’re so nosy. Go back inside, I want to tell them. Go back to your cross-stitch and frozen macaroni and cheese and your twenty-four-hour cable news. I’ve been practicing my responses; going over my story again and again with Joshua, trying not to trip up, to come to believe my own lies.

  I should be a pro at this by now. I’ve been lying my whole life.

  My mom’s not feeling well. It’s the flu. She’s sorry, but she asked me to call and cancel for her.

  Don’t be ridiculous, I’m not asking you to leave your wife. I’m not interested in anything more than what we have.

  Sperm donor, I’d say, leaning in, smiling as if this person—bad-mannered enough to ask me who the father was after I started showing at five months—was the only one I was trusting with the secret. Feeling the tug of motherhood, and I can’t wait around forever for the perfect guy now, can I?

  But things aren’t quite so simple this time. The lies are more complicated, easier to get tangled in. So no more going out, no matter how bored we are. And no complaining about it either. I’m going to make the best of a bad situation. Like I did with dear Father.

  I’ve started already. This morning, Joshua woke up moody and distant. Did I get mad? Did I demand to know what was wrong? Nope. I left him brooding in front of the television and went out into the sunshine, walking the property, collecting the wildflowers that grow near the brook. I brought them inside and pressed them between the pages of cookbooks, like my mom and I used to do. He was in a much better mood when I got back, and after breakfast we went through the house together, throwing away things we don’t like—those tattered throw pillows with the scratchy cases, the outdated curtains in our bedroom, the family photos I can’t bear to look at any longer—rearranging the place so it feels more like our home.