by Aimee Molloy
“Good,” she says. Fine, even so, she thinks. He might not be Archie Andersen, but he’s still going to be able to answer some critical questions: why he approached Winnie, what they talked about, where Winnie went that night.
“You can be my Veronica,” he says. “Now if only we had a Betty.”
He glances at something behind her and without a word takes Francie’s hand, pulling her off the stool and toward the back of the bar. She struggles to keep pace, wine spilling onto her dress, trying to balance in the heels she’s wearing. They walk down a narrow, darkened hall that reeks of urine, and then into an empty back room, with a pool table in one corner and a battered couch in the other.
He leads her to the couch and pulls her toward him, his lips on her ear. “It’s more private back here,” he mutters and then nudges her backward, until she falls awkwardly onto the couch, splashing most of her wine. He sits beside her and puts a calloused hand on her knee, moving it slowly up her thigh.
“Not quite yet,” she whispers, removing his hand. She’s filled with relief as two guys enter the room. They head toward the pool table, wearing dusty work boots and tool belts; likely on a lunch break from a nearby construction project. She can’t help the thought: what if, by some stroke of horrible luck, they know her? What if they’re colleagues of Lowell, guys he’s worked with on a building project?
“I have forty minutes before I need to go to work, Veronica,” fake Archie says. He seems annoyed. She can’t really blame him. Sex Buddies is not exactly known as a place through which people get together at a bar during the day to discuss their shared interests. And she doesn’t have much time herself. She’s told Nell she’ll meet her at the Spot at five; there’s something Nell wants to talk to her and Colette about. In the meantime, she has this plan to execute. A plan she was awake thinking about all night.
She stands up, straddling his outstretched legs, and rests her hands on his thighs, her breasts inches from his face, enveloping him in the scent of her perfume. “I’m going to get us another round.”
At the bar, Francie fights the urge to look one more time at the photo of Will at the park, feeling another wave of guilt for lying to Lowell and Barbara, telling them she’d placed a classified ad on The Village website and had been hired to shoot a nine-month-old. She carries the drinks back to the couch, doing her best to appear composed and confident as she sits down beside him.
“So. Veronica.” His mouth is back near her ear. “What do you want to talk about?”
She takes a long sip of wine and then delivers the words she practiced this morning. “I need this drink. I lost my job.”
“That sucks.” He removes his baseball cap and strokes her neck with his nose.
“Yeah. I was a waitress. At this really cool place in Brooklyn. The Jolly Llama.”
He leans back. “I go there sometimes.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Not kidding. It’s a few blocks from my apartment.”
“That’s weird.” She squints and looks at him more closely. “Oh my god, wait a minute. It’s you.”
He frowns at her. “You who?”
“You!” She sets her glass on the sticky table and turns toward him, placing her hand on his knee. “Were you at the Jolly Llama on the fourth of July?”
He thinks about it. “Yeah, actually. How did you know that?”
“You’re that guy. What are the chances?” She laughs and slaps his knee. “My coworkers are not going to believe this. We’ve all been talking about you.”
He appears stunned. “Me? Why?”
“You’re the guy who was talking to that woman. That Winnie woman.”
“What’s a Winnie woman?”
Francie is surprised at the convincing job he’s doing, pretending he doesn’t know what she’s talking about. “Gwendolyn Ross? The actress? Her kid was abducted?”
“When?”
“Really? Do you not read the newspapers? Watch television?”
“Just sports.”
She can’t believe it. He really doesn’t know. “Do you remember talking to a woman at the bar that night? Pretty? You may have disappeared with her for a little while?”
Finally, a flash of recognition. “That woman had her kid abducted?”
“Yes. Her son Midas. He was taken that night.”
“Holy shit. I have heard about this. The girls at work are always talking about it. Midas. Like the Greek god.” He puts his beer on the table and leans forward, laughing. “That is insane. Wait until I tell my friends.”
“Why?” Francie asks, conspiratorially. “What will your friends say?”
“They were the ones who dared me to do it.”
The amusement drains from her voice. “Do what?”
“Talk to her. Hit on her.” He appears dumbfounded. “There were these moms there, out back.”
“Yes, I remember them. She was with them.”
“My buddies said they’d give me twenty bucks if I hit on one of them. You know, as a joke. Like, who could get with a MILF? I took the bet. The first one I tried denied me before I could even offer the drink, but then she—this Winnie woman—she was into it.” He scoffs. “Really into it.”
Francie takes another sip of her drink. She needs to slow down. The wine is muddling her thoughts. “So you didn’t know her before that night?”
“No.” He smirks. “But I sure knew her by the end of it.”
She softens her voice and peers at him from under her eyelashes. “I’m intrigued.”
He’s quiet, studying her. He takes the hem of her dress between his fingers and folds it over itself, making her dress shorter, exposing her freshly shaven thighs, shiny with peach-scented lotion. “You sure you want to hear? It’s really crazy.”
She forces a flirtatious tone into her voice. “I like really crazy.”
“Oh yeah, Veronica? Prove it.”
“Prove it?”
“Yeah. Let’s say I have an incredibly good story for you.”
“Okay.”
“But you have to earn it.” His face is inches from hers. “Kiss me, and I’ll tell you.”
He leans in and roughly presses his lips against hers, pushing his tongue inside her mouth. He pulls away eventually, leaving a bitter hint of beer in her throat. “I bought her a drink.”
Francie raises her eyebrows and then frowns. “That’s not really crazy.”
“No, that’s just the beginning.” He traces Francie’s collar bone with his thumb. “You want more?”
She nods as he slides his hand under her dress, gently forcing her legs apart. He squeezes her inner thigh, his thumb teasing the edge of her underwear. “Go ahead,” she says. Her voice sounds hollow and unfamiliar.
“I asked her to come home with me.” One of the construction workers at the pool table glances at them as fake Archie takes Francie’s hand and places it in between his legs. Francie can feel he’s grown hard, and he guides her hand back and forth over the fabric of his jeans.
“And did she? Go home with you?” she asks. He kisses her. When he pulls away, her vision is hazy. The smell of beer on his breath. The bruising stubble on his chin. It’s not him she’s seeing—not this man she’s calling Archie—but the science teacher. Mr. Colburn.
“No, sadly. She said she had this kid to think about. She was upset about it.”
Francie spreads her fingers wider, feeling a sinking sensation as she continues to press down on him. She closes her eyes. “Winnie was upset?”
“Yeah.” He forces aside her panties and she feels her arms being pinned down, the scratch of the cheap blanket on top of Mr. Colburn’s bed. She feels the urge to scream, but she can’t. “She said all she wanted was to go back to my place. Climb on top of me.” Her hand moves faster over the fabric of his jeans. “That she hated being stuck at home. Having this baby to worry about all the time.”
She whispers into his ear. “She said that? That she hated having a baby?”
“Something like th
at. We locked ourselves in the bathroom. I couldn’t keep my hands off her body. It was amazing. I told her to at least stay a little longer. Let me get her another drink.”
“And?”
“She started yelling at me. Telling me she had to go take care of things. That she wasn’t like that. Something about being a good mother.” His breath grows shallow on Francie’s neck, and she feels his body beginning to tense. “I would have killed to take her home. To shove her down on my bed. To rip off that dress.” He removes his hand from between Francie’s legs and clutches her wrist, pressing her palm down, forcing it to move faster, his eyes closed, his mouth open. “Winnie. My god. She was so fucking hot.” Francie feels the tears seeping from the corners of her eyes as he moans, deep and low, the sound filling the room.
They’re watching. Both of the guys at the pool table. Standing motionless, their cues held like pitchforks at their sides. Archie doesn’t seem to notice she’s crying as he stares up at the ceiling, licking his lips, his head resting on the back of the couch.
“Her kid. Abducted.” He shakes his head, sitting up and reaching for the rest of his beer. “I sure hope the police are asking her some questions. That girl was fucking nuts.”
Nell sits at a table near the window at the Spot, her mug of black tea growing cold in her hand as she scrolls through the photos she took last night of Beatrice; dozens of pictures of her tiny hands, her minute feet, the bottoms yellow like butter, sweet enough to eat.
Nell checks the door again, hoping Colette and Francie are on their way. She’s impatient to get to the day care to pick up Beatrice—knowing how ludicrous it is, the number of hours she spends staring at photos of her baby’s feet while paying strangers to care for her.
Nell drops her phone in her purse, and when she looks up, Colette is standing at the table, Poppy peeking out from the fabric of a Moby Wrap. Colette’s eyes are red and her freckles are stark and lacy against her skin, which is unusually pale. “You okay?” Nell asks.
“Did you see it?” Colette sits heavily on the chair across from Nell. “They identified the body.”
Nell nods. “I watched it at work, in the corporate café. Everyone was glued to the television. I thought it was going to be Midas. Ever since you called yesterday, I was sure the body was going to be his.”
“I know. Me too.” Colette leans in toward Nell. “I have to talk to you about something. I got this thing in the mail—”
Nell spots Francie near the door, squinting up at the chalkboard menu over the counter. “Oh good, she’s here,” Nell says. Nell stands and waves to Francie, surprised to see she’s wearing a tight, low-cut dress, offering a peek of her black lace bra underneath.
“Did you see it?” Francie asks, approaching the table. “The body?” Her mascara runs in smeared arches over her eyes, which are framed in long, false eyelashes, like the thin legs of a spider.
Nell nods. “I saw it. It’s—”
She sits down. “And Bodhi Mogaro? They’ve released him.” The news of his release broke earlier that day, in a press conference called by Oliver Hood. Standing on the steps of the jailhouse beside Mogaro, his wife, and his mother, Hood demanded an apology from the police officers involved in the investigation, from Commissioner Rohan Ghosh, from Mayor Shepherd.
“We’ll see the NYPD in court,” Hood said.
“I really need a coffee,” Francie says. “And some water.” Nell notices the way her words slur, the sheen of perspiration above Francie’s lips.
“Francie, are you drunk?”
Francie throws Nell an irritated look. “No, Nell. I’m not drunk. I’m a nursing mother.” She reaches for the water in front of Nell and takes a long drink. “I’m very shaken by this Hector news. I saw it on the way here. Do they have any idea who killed him?”
“No, but listen—” Colette says, but Francie cuts her off.
“He had keys to her building. He could have gotten in. Or let someone else in. They’re going to put that together, right? Even an idiot like Mark Hoyt will be able to make that connection?”
“Yes,” Nell says. “And they’re asking for volunteers to search the property and surrounding areas for Midas. We should go.”
Francie’s face is pinched. “You mean search for his body.”
Colette leans forward. “Listen. I have something I need to tell you—something very disturbing happened today.” She takes an envelope from her diaper bag, her name written in green block letters on the front. “This came for me today, at the mayor’s office.”
Nell sees the block handwriting. The green ink. She reaches into her bag at her feet and retrieves a similar envelope, her name written in the exact same print. “This came for me, at work,” Nell says. “It’s why I asked to see you. To show you this.”
The envelope was in her mail slot when she returned from lunch. She opened it sitting at the head of a conference table, before a meeting to brief the other officers of the company on the impending changes to the security system. She stumbled through her presentation, flustered by what was inside.
Francie’s eyes are wide. “Oh my god. I got one of those too. At home, this morning. I didn’t open it. What is it?” She snatches Nell’s envelope and pulls out the mug shot. “Who sent this?”
“I have no idea,” Colette says, her voice just above a whisper. “Someone who knows I’m working for the mayor. Which is, like, you guys, and Token, who I somehow doubt was the one who sent this.”
“What was he arrested for?”
“It doesn’t say here,” Nell says. “I did some digging, but—”
“Digging?” Francie is staring at Nell. “Where?”
“A few places. I wanted to see what I could find. I mean, why would I be sent this? It’s even creepier now. Why were we all sent it?” She lowers her voice. “I went into The Village website, to the May Mothers admin page. I broke into it, to see his profile, to learn a little bit more about him.”
“How—” Francie’s gaze is intent on Nell.
“It doesn’t matter. It’s something I can do.”
“And?” Colette says.
“And nothing. He hardly filled it out. He grew up in Manhattan, which I think we knew. His partner’s name is Lou. He didn’t even include a photo.”
Francie keeps her voice low. “You should go back in. Look at Winnie’s profile. See if she says who Midas’s dad is.”
Nell hesitates and then leans in closer. “I did.”
A man bumps roughly into Nell’s chair, spilling something on her shoulder. She turns, annoyed, and sees it’s someone she recognizes—a man from her building.
“Nell, hi. Sorry about that.”
It’s the guy who lives one floor down, the one who always has the cuff of his right leg rolled up, at the ready to mount some waiting bike; the one with the frowning wife.
“How you doing?” he asks. “How’s the baby?”
“Brilliant, thanks.”
The man nods. “Sounds like she’s having some trouble sleeping, huh?”
“What do you mean?”
“Lisa and I, we can hear the crying sometimes. Through the ceiling.”
“Oh, right. Well—”
“Lisa’s actually been doing some research. Do you give the baby a pacifier?”
“A pacifier? Yes.”
“Oh. Because Lisa read they can help to stop babies from crying.”
“Right,” Nell says. “I assume you don’t have kids—”
“Or there’s these new swaddles. Enchanted SleepSuit, or something. If the baby cries—”
“It’s nice of you to be so concerned,” Nell says, her patience waning. “But there’s no need. The crying last night. It wasn’t the baby.”
“It wasn’t? Who was it?”
“My husband. Sebastian.”
“Sebastian?”
“Yes. He was watching Beaches again. Gets him every time.”
The man offers a lopsided smile. “Right. See you later, Nell.”
They a
ll remain silent until he finishes pouring milk and sugar into his coffee at the nearby counter. As soon as he exits the café, Colette leans in toward Nell. “What did Winnie’s profile say?”
“It wasn’t there,” Nell says. “She doesn’t have a profile. There’s no record of her membership that I could locate.”
“What does that mean?”
“I’m not sure, exactly. I’m assuming she canceled it, and the system doesn’t keep a record of that. And really, who would blame her? Imagine her opening her e-mail, hoping for some good news about Midas, and then having to wade through sixteen new e-mails about Kegels.”
Colette rests her forehead in her hands. “This is getting crazy. I have no idea what we’re supposed to do now.”
“I do,” Francie says. She looks from Colette to Nell, her gaze disturbingly opaque, as if a shade has been drawn across her eyes. “We’re going to do whatever it takes to find Midas. We’re not giving up on him. Not until we have to. Not until we make sure we’ve done everything in our power to get him back, where he’s meant to be: safe with his mother.”
Chapter Fifteen
Night Eight
I’ve been thinking about something these past few days—that promise I made to myself when I found out I was pregnant. What a moment that was. Hovering above the toilet seat in the Duane Reade pharmacy, too anxious to wait until I got home to take the test, seeing the two bubble-gum-pink lines forming an immediate cross, like the one my mother hung over the door of her bedroom.
I will not, I promised, be one of those mothers.
I won’t read all of the books. Stress out about phthalates in my shampoo, pesticides in my creamer. BPA in my takeout Chinese container. I won’t ever, not once, stand in the grocery store, talking loudly to my child, hoping everyone hears how understanding I am, how close we are, as if parenting is a fucking piece of performance art.
I won’t become a different person.
And then how long did it take me to break that promise?
Three minutes.
