‘Yeah, right. You know what the subtext is, don’t you? This is what being against the war leads to. This is what a Liberal looks like.’
‘At least they are not cutting Terry dead. They’re acknowledging that he’s brave. Your father is brave, Stacey.’
‘Yeah, I know. I’m the coward. Mom, are you crying?’
‘I thought I was all cried out. I didn’t think it could still hit me this hard.’
‘Don’t cry.’
‘He says he still loves me.’
Stacey has nothing to say to that, though, under the circumstances, her father’s comment seems to her obscene.
‘I don’t think politics has anything to do with this,’ her mother says. ‘But what will we do?’
‘I don’t know. I’ll drive home. I’ll see you in a couple of hours.’
‘I think it wouldn’t hit me so hard if she weren’t everything I’m absolutely not. It’s like a slap in the face.’
‘We’ll figure it out and we’ll face it together, Mom.’
‘Bless you, Stacey.
Stacey emails two of her professors. Family emergency, she writes. I regret that I will not be in class today as I have to drive upstate to be with my mom. I expect to be back tomorrow. Please let me know of any reading or assignments I will miss. Thank you.
She turns on her TV and flips through the cycle on her remote until she finds headline updates on CNN.
In the wake of the Taliban’s brutal attack, an embedded reporter says, in the hitherto safe region of the north, fears of further deterioration grow. While it is still hoped that General Petraeus can turn the tide in Afghanistan, the general himself admits that the forecast is continuing turbulence.
She gets the latest weather alert. Travel Advisory: Tropical storm Delia is now over Bermuda and could strengthen into a hurricane. Present wind speeds of 50 mph have been noted. Trajectory of the storm will bring heavy wind and rain to the entire east coast.
Stacey turns off the TV.
She texts her friends: News no Big Deal, but Mom needs me. Will be gone for today.
She stuffs pyjamas and toothbrush and books for the test into a duffel bag. She picks up the framed photograph on her desk. It shows her mother and father, arms linked, sitting on the front porch of their house. Stacey, aged about ten, is between them, a white ribbon in her hair and lace around the edges of her bobby sox. Her father is so good looking, with such beautiful eyes and such long lashes that his friends used to tease You should have been a girl. Her father is in uniform. Tucked behind the frame is Stacey’s photocopy of the letter he wrote after his discharge, after he took off the uniform for the last time. It is folded and refolded into a small neat square. She opens it and reads it again.
This is the start of a new life. I have always been loyal to country and family, but I am against war and I am not suited to the role in which I have been cast. After I’m patched up, I’ll be able to do something that I’ve wanted to do for a very long time. I hope you can forgive me. I do love you both – I know you’ll find that hard to believe – but I won’t be coming back.
Stacey runs her fingers along the spines of books shelved above her desk and lets them settle on the leather-bound Collected Works of Shakespeare, the last birthday present he gave her before he was deployed the last time. She was still in high school. She pulls at the volume and turns to the title page, to the inscription written in a very military hand. The thick nib of the fountain pen has left punctuation so emphatic it suggests stab wounds of ink.
To Stacey:
May all your college literary dreams come true.
Happy Birthday. Love, Dad.
Below this, in smaller and finer cursive, is a quotation:
There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamed of in your philosophy.
(Hamlet, Act I, Sc.v)
Stacey thinks about adding the Shakespeare to her duffel bag but changes her mind and reshelves it. She tosses her bag into the back seat of the car and heads north on the Interstate for the two-hour drive. On the way something becomes crystal clear: she will not go to the Wilkinsons’ party. It cannot be done. In spite of the two sixteen-wheelers, side by side, neck and neck, who won’t let her pass, she calls her mother, one hand on the wheel, the other to her ear.
‘Mom?’ she says. ‘I’m on my way. Listen, I’ve made a decision—’
‘Before you say anything,’ her mother says, ‘and no matter what you decide, I’ve made up my mind. I’m not going to go to the party.’
Stacey starts to laugh and then she begins to cry. ‘Mom,’ she says, ‘I’m going to have to pull over. I can’t even see.’
To Stacey’s immense relief, the only car in the drive is her mother’s. Before Stacey has braked, her mother is running down the steps from the porch and the two simply hold each other without a word for two minutes, three, maybe five.
‘So where is he at this moment?’ Stacey asks.
‘We both thought that your first meeting should be private. Just the two of you. You and your dad.’
‘You discussed this?’
‘Stace, whatever else, you’re his daughter. He cares about you. We both do. We’re worried about you. That’s not going to change.’
Stacey kicks a few stones from the drive. ‘I feel like I’ve stepped into a parallel universe,’ she says. ‘Tell me, Mom, is his face …? Will I recognise him?’
Stacey’s mother raises her hands and her eyebrows to indicate that the question is not answerable. ‘He’ll be waiting in the lounge at the Wayside Inn,’ she says.
‘Can you, you know, prepare me a bit?’
‘There’s no way to prepare,’ her mother says. ‘There’s simply no way to prepare.’
Stacey peers into the murk of the bar at the Wayside Inn. Jimbo is there. He’s always there: homeless, but known to everyone in town, a courteous panhandler. Everyone gives: a dollar here, a dollar there. Jimbo has that ability to make them all feel virtuous, and not only virtuous but appreciated, recognised, stamped with the Good Housekeeping Seal of Approval. They all need Jimbo.
Jimbo is sharing a booth with a woman who might have stepped out of a sit-com. She could be the mother from Leave It to Beaver, all dressed up for a restaurant dinner with Ward Cleaver’s boss. Her hair is permed, her shockingly red lipstick looks slightly clownish, much larger than her natural lips. Her eyebrows are plucked and pencilled. She wears a tight sweater, a bouffant skirt, and stiletto heels.
This is exactly why Stacey has been so desperate to get away from the Upstate, to escape enclaves of the Fifties preserved in amber, to take refuge in the state university, in the capital city with its African-American mayor. From the shadows, she stares at Beaver’s mother. What rock do these people crawl out from under? she wonders. Was there anywhere other than the small-town Deep South that bred such caricatures?
But Jimbo waves to her and she waves back and she knows that Southern courtesy requires her to join their table, however briefly.
‘I’ll have a Coke,’ she says to the Wayside waitress. To Jimbo and Beaver’s mother, she says Hi. ‘I’m waiting for someone,’ she tells them.
‘Hi, Stacey,’ Jimbo says. ‘Good to see you again. This is Theresa.’
Beaver’s mother – with her lotion-swathed hand and red fingernails – reaches out and covers Stacey’s hand with her own.
‘Hi, Stace,’ she says, in a strangely low and gravelly voice. ‘I’ve missed you. You have no idea how much.’
Afterlife of a Stolen Child
1. Darien
Chance of thunderstorms was the forecast and so naturally Simon offered to drive Melanie and the children into town. All the mothers in Bayside made a social thing out of daily shopping, nothing more than a status notch in my humble opinion – my viewpoint being that of observant neighbour – and the Goldbergs certainly cared about status in a conspicuously nonchalant way. The daily trip to the butcher, the baker, the greengrocer and the beeswax candle-maker signified leisure and
summer and Long Island and the right sort of environmental angst. The mothers shopped for locally grown vegetables and free-range chickens and fresh-baked artisanal bread. The town market was a half-mile inland from the Goldbergs’ house, the dunes and the beach two hundred yards the other way.
People walked or rode bikes. Bayside was so tranquil, the summer regulars said, that you could hear the cedar shakes swell when it rained, yet Simon could always imagine one hundred and one forms of harm. He was a city boy, used to knowing what to watch for, what to listen for. Serenity made him nervous. I can vouch for this. I visited them once (before the event) in their unnecessarily large apartment on the upper west side. There I saw Simon almost at ease.
I visited their Manhattan place afterwards too, just once, to offer condolence.
There was an edgy quality to that meeting, although it was before the police declared me a ‘person of interest’.
It is perhaps relevant to explain that I was not the owner of the house next door in the Hamptons. For that momentous year I was subletting. I am a nomad by instinct, I come and go, and for that very reason I adapt quickly to each new address. I am a listener and I am a watcher and I’d wager that within a few weeks I know as much of everyone’s business as the long-term residents know.
‘You could get drenched,’ Simon said to Melanie on that day in Bayside, the day that would make headlines in the News and the Post.
‘So?’ she said.
Simon sighed and rolled his eyes at me. We were on opposite sides of the hedge between the summer houses, both spraying for powdery mildew and black sooty mould. ‘The long walk in wet clothes,’ he explained as to a child. ‘Pneumonia.’
‘Nonsense.’ Melanie was clipping the rain-cover to the double stroller, each fastener snapping shut with a thock, a very satisfying and reassuring sound. ‘If it rains, I’ll roll this down and they won’t get a drop on them. See?’ She demonstrated and Simon set down the sprayer and walked over to the shell-grit path. ‘And as for me,’ Melanie said, ‘I’ve always adored walking in the rain.’ She began humming that old Johnny Ray song and they both peered through the plastic windshield at their children. I couldn’t see very well from beyond the hedge, so I’m guessing here. Six-month-old Jessica was fast asleep, her little soft-boned form slumped low in the canvas seat. Joshua, whose second birthday they had so recently celebrated, pawed at the plastic from inside.
‘He doesn’t like it,’ Simon said. ‘He feels trapped.’
‘Don’t be silly.’ Melanie made a funny face at Joshua through the plastic and Josh laughed and perhaps he made a funny face back. ‘Anyway,’ she said, rolling the plastic back up and securing it in two canvas loops, ‘we probably won’t even need it. You know how incredibly local these thunderstorms are. It can be raining on one side of the street and not on the other.’
That, Simon thought – and I always knew what he was thinking; I zeroed in on him as a confider of secrets within twenty-four hours; I have a talent for picking victims – that was precisely what was so alarming: the sheer arbitrariness of harm, the way it could touch down like the flick of a whip, random, focused and deadly. ‘I wish you’d let me drive you,’ he said. ‘If there’s lightning, you’re not to shelter under a tree.’
Melanie laughed. ‘You want to keep us all in cotton wool.’ She stood on tiptoe to kiss him. ‘Poor Simon. Here we are giving you a whole morning to work on your book and you’re going to waste it on worry.’
‘I’m spraying for mould,’ he said. ‘And then I’m mowing. You’ll be back before I get to my book.’
‘We’ll go to Joan’s for lunch. We’ll spend the afternoon there. You can have the whole day.’
I watched Simon bend over to kiss the sleeping Jessica on her forehead. When he leaned toward Joshua, his son squirmed and giggled and pulled his T-shirt up over his face.
‘You haven’t shaved,’ Melanie said. ‘You’re scratching him.’
Simon tugged at the soft cotton shirt, pulled it back from over his son’s eyes. ‘I see you,’ he said, and his son squealed with hyper-excited glee.
‘Say bye to Daddy,’ Melanie said.
Simon waved. He watched till they turned the corner before he came back to the hedge.
‘I know you think I’m neurotic,’ he said, ‘but they seem intolerably fragile to me.’
I went on spraying. It wasn’t the kind of statement that required a response.
Simon steamrollered on in his melancholy academic way, as he usually did and does. ‘Harm seems so arbitrary. So … malevolent. It terrifies me.’
‘I’ve got a dental appointment in town,’ I said, as much to shut off the spigot of his pathetic and privileged anxiety as anything else. ‘Later this morning. I’ll keep an eye on them for you.’
2. Melanie
‘I don’t like that man,’ she tells the children. ‘He watches us. We’re going to have to get shades on our windows.’ She wipes a thin film of salt from her cheek. The sea breeze, deceptively cool on the beach, turns sticky on the landward side of the dunes. Her sweat is dripping into her eyes. It stings. ‘Maybe we should have taken your daddy’s offer, Joshua,’ she says. ‘It’s so hot. I hope it does pour. Wouldn’t that be lovely, pun’kin? I just adore walking in the rain.’
The walk seems twice as long on sultry days.
‘We’ll go to Joan’s house after the shopping,’ she says. ‘We can all cool off in her pool.’
Melanie has an easy elegance about her. She wears white linen pants and a racer-back navy top. Her sandals are Birkenstocks. She swims and jogs and plays tennis. She has worked on getting her waistline back since Jessica’s birth, but the truth is, already she is toying with the idea of getting pregnant again. There is something so gorgeously languid about that fecund state. It must be the earth-mother syndrome.
She brakes the stroller and leans into the front to fan the children. ‘Poor babies,’ she says. ‘I thought there’d be more of a breeze. As soon as we’ve got the vegetables and the bread, we’ll get ice-creams, Josh, okay?’ She bends low and covers their silky little cheeks with kisses. ‘You’re so delicious, I could eat you,’ she tells them. ‘Even your sweat smells good.’
Jessica sleeps on, oblivious. Joshua is drowsy but smiles at the kiss and the thought of ice-cream.
‘Chocolate,’ he murmurs.
‘Okay. Chocolate. It’ll be cooler when we get into town.’
There are spreading trees that make a green tunnel of Main Street. Outside Ryan’s Bakery, two strollers are parked in the shade. Melanie manoeuvres to the head of the line so that Josh will have a clear view of the dogs. They are tethered by their leashes to the bike rack and they rub noses and sniff behind each other’s tails. She sets the stroller hard up against the plate glass window, directly under the oversized decal of the R, and pushes the brake lever with her foot.
Of course, she has never stopped replaying that moment. She has never stopped wishing, she has never stopped asking What if?
What if she had nestled her little ones behind the Nelson toddler, at the back of the line, beneath the final gold-leafed Y of Ryan’s Bakery, would the world have tilted a different way on its axis? Would the climate have changed? Would a different child have been taken?
‘Mommy will just be inside a few minutes, Josh. If Jessica wakes up, you can sing her the lollypop song, okay?’
‘Okay.’
‘Then chocolate ice-cream,’ Melanie promises. ‘After we get the baguettes.’
3. Joshua
There are three dogs and one of them is lifting its leg. Joshua watches the little river of sunlight spurt out and twist like string, then fall into a black puddle beside the curb. He tries to see exactly where the yellow turns dark. The puddle smells like Jessica when her diaper is wet.
Right now, Jessica has the sleep smell and the baby-powder smell. There is a little bubble of drool on her chin. Joshua leans over to wipe it but his leather harness won’t let him go. He fiddles with the buckle but it ignores him. He
tugs. He manages almost to kiss Jessica on her cheek.
There is always plenty of kissing, Daddy kissing him, Mommy kissing him, everyone kissing everyone all over.
And then something arrives, a swooping thing like a black crow coming at him, the jab of its vicious beak. Abrupt change of weather, end of kissing time, but Josh can’t understand. There is a van that pulls up, dogs yapping, a knife, he knows knife, he sees a knife and his harness lets go. It’s like a fast fierce wind that flattens, that blows everything flat (the bakery smell, Jessica, the dogs), rush, crash, his body seizing up, he can’t breathe … He can’t even figure out who it is, but it’s someone he seems to know and there’s another smell he seems to recognise, not Jessica, not the dogs. Is it the man who watches?
Your mommy said …
This isn’t right. It doesn’t feel right. But he seems to know that face, he knows that smell.
You have to come with me, your mommy said …
‘Mommy!’ he screams in sudden terror but a hand is clamped over his mouth.
And then the thunderstorm? The black sky? Black clouds over his head?
Joshua is always trying to remember what he remembers. There are opaque things that swirl around and around in fog like clothes in a washing machine. They are there, he knows they are there, but he can never quite see them clear. He catches glimpses of what he once knew, fragments that tantalise. He remembers Jessica. He remembers baby smell and sleep smell. He remembers car-seat smell and that other smell. He remembers mama and chocolate. He remembers the dogs.
4. Melanie
The smell of a bakery is like the smell of babies, it’s like pregnancy, that yeasty rising. Tonight she is going to talk Simon into letting Joshua sleep in their bed, all four of them curled up together like fresh croissants. Simon thinks Joshua is too old for this, that it isn’t healthy for him, that it will turn him into something squishy and damageable. And yet when Joshua is in his own room, in his own bed with side-rails, it is Simon who wakes every hour and gets up to check. Just in case.
Forecast Page 10
