The kids were not asleep. They were doing exactly what I would’ve done at their age: watching scary movies. Both were camped out in the living room with their phones and tablets and a pile of junk food. I joined them.
They thought I had been out patrolling the neighborhood, helping to protect Hidden Oaks from Owen Oliver. We have our own private security, but last night a group of residents decided to help be on the lookout. I just wasn’t one of them.
The kids already knew Millicent wouldn’t be home until morning. We told them she would be with a group of girlfriends who didn’t want to be alone. Neither cared. I’m not sure Owen Oliver is real to them. He is the boogeyman on TV, the psycho in the movies. It doesn’t occur to them that any woman—a teacher, a neighbor, or even their mother—could be at risk. My feelings about this are conflicted. I want my kids to feel safe. I also want them to know how dangerous the world is.
Still lying in bed, I start to wonder about where Millicent took Naomi, about what will happen to her. What may already be happening. To stop myself, I get up and turn on the TV. The sports channel. While listening to the baseball scores from yesterday, I make coffee. The newspaper thumps against the front door, and I leave it there. Instead, I drink coffee and watch cartoons until the kids get up, then turn off the TV before they come downstairs. Rory is first to the kitchen. He grabs the remote and clicks on the news.
“So who got whacked?” He takes a bowl out of the cupboard and dumps cereal in it.
“Don’t say whacked.”
He rolls his eyes. “Okay, who got murdered?”
Jenna appears in the doorway. She looks back and forth between Rory and me. “Did it happen? Did Owen come back?”
Rory turns up the volume on the TV. The reporter they show is not Josh. It is a young blond woman who looks like Owen’s type.
“Police tell us they won’t know anything for a while. Given the concern about last night, they have received many calls about women who have not answered their phones or checked in with their families. We don’t know if any of these women are actually missing, and it will likely be some time before the police have sorted everything out . . .”
“The police are idiots,” Rory says. He turns to Jenna and pokes her arm. “Like you.”
She rolls her eyes. “Whatever.”
They stop talking about Owen. I do not hear his name again until we are in the car, on the way to Jenna’s soccer game. During a break in the music, the radio announcer says the police have received more than a thousand calls from people claiming they saw Owen Oliver on Friday night.
Still no word from Millicent, though I lie to the kids and tell them she is having brunch with her friends. Neither seems to care.
At the game, I start checking my phone more often.
A few of the parents talk about the news, speculating about Owen and the Friday the 13th note and wondering if it was all a hoax. One of the fathers said it had to be, but the women were not so sure. When he laughed, a woman asked what was so funny about claiming someone would be killed on Friday the 13th.
I check my phone. Still nothing.
Jenna’s team is up by one. I give her the thumbs-up. She smiles and rolls her eyes at the same time. It occurs to me that the thumbs-up sign is probably uncool.
Then I see her. She is behind Jenna, near the parking lot, and she is walking around the field. Her red hair is down, bouncing as she moves. She is wearing jeans, sneakers, and a T-shirt with a lion, the school mascot, on the front. She’s always trying to look like all the other soccer moms, but she never succeeds. Millicent always stands out.
As she gets closer, she smiles. It is a big, wide smile that reaches to the depths of her eyes. Relief floods through my veins. Only then do I realize how nervous I have been. Silly. I know better than to doubt Millicent.
I reach out to her. She slides her arm around my waist and leans in to kiss me. Her lips are warm, and her breath smells like cinnamon and coffee.
“How’s Jenna doing?” Millicent says, turning toward the field. I cannot stop looking at her.
“Winning by one.”
“Perfect.”
She slips away from me and says hello to some of the other parents. They chat about the game, about the beautiful weather, and, eventually, about Owen.
When the game is over, I have to go to work. It is Millicent’s Saturday to take the kids out to lunch, and we have only a moment alone in the parking lot. The kids are in the car, buckled up and arguing. We stand together between our cars.
“Everything good?”
“Perfect,” she says. “No problems at all.”
We go our separate ways, and as I drive to the club, I feel more than happy. Buoyant, maybe. Like I’m floating.
* * *
• • •
AT THE CLUB, I have a rare Saturday lesson with Kekona, our Hidden Oaks gossip. I think she scheduled it because she wants to talk about Owen, about what may have happened the night before, and our lesson confirms it. Owen is all she talks about.
“Fifty-three women. The news says fifty-three women were reported missing between last night and this morning.” She shakes her head. Kekona’s long dark hair is rolled up into a bun at the base of her neck.
“Owen did not kidnap fifty-three women last night,” I say.
“No, he didn’t. He may not have kidnapped anyone. But fifty-three families believe he did.”
I nod, absorbing her words, wrapping my head around so much pain. I feel removed, as if it has nothing to do with me.
Twenty-six
WE WAIT FOR everyone else to figure out what happened. When the news is on, Millicent winks at me. When someone mentions Owen, I give her a look only she understands. It is our thing, the thing that separates us from everyone else.
I first felt it after Holly. Again after Robin, and then after Lindsay. After each woman, Millicent and I had a moment in which we were the only ones in the world. It felt the same as it did when we climbed that big tree. It feels that way now, after Naomi.
Millicent and I are wide-awake while everyone else is asleep.
* * *
• • •
BY MONDAY, THE police are down to two women. All the others have been found or have returned home. I hear this on the radio during the drive to work, and it surprises me. I had no idea it would take this long for everyone to realize who had gone missing. It almost makes me want to send another note to Josh, to let him know it was Naomi.
Almost. But the more time they spend trying to figure out who is missing means the less time they spend trying to find her. The police do not even know who to look for.
Halfway through the day, I get a call from the school principal. This is odd, because the school always calls Millicent first, but the principal says Millicent isn’t answering her phone. She also tells me there has been an incident at the school and that I need to come down there right away. I ask if it’s Rory.
“It’s your daughter,” she says. “We have an issue with Jenna.”
When I arrive at the school, Jenna is sitting in the corner of the principal’s office. Nell Granger has been at the school forever and has not changed a bit. She looks like a sweet old grandmother who would pinch your cheeks until they bruised.
Jenna is staring at the floor and does not look up.
Nell gestures for me to sit, and I do. Then I see the knife.
Six-inch blade, stainless steel. Carved wooden handle. It comes from our kitchen, and now it is on top of Nell’s desk.
Nell taps her pink fingernail against the knife. “Your daughter brought this to school today.”
“I don’t understand,” I say. And I am not sure I want to.
“A teacher saw it in her backpack when she was taking out a notebook.”
Jenna sits against the wall, facing us, but her head is still down. She says nothing.
She shakes her head. Says nothing.
Nell stands up and motions for me to follow. We walk out of the office, and she shuts the door behind us.
“Jenna hasn’t said a word,” Nell says. “I was hoping you, or your wife, could get her to tell us why she has the knife.”
“I’d like to know myself.”
“So this isn’t something you’ve—”
“Jenna has never been violent,” I say. “She doesn’t play with knives.”
“And yet . . .” Nell does not finish the sentence and does not have to.
I go back into the office alone. It does not look like Jenna has moved an inch. I move a chair closer to hers and sit down.
“Jenna,” I say.
Nothing.
“Can you tell me about the knife?”
She shrugs. It’s a start.
“Were you going to hurt someone?”
“No.”
Her voice is strong, unwavering, and it startles me.
“Okay,” I say. “If you didn’t plan to hurt anyone, why would you bring a knife to school?”
She looks up. Her eyes do not look as strong as her voice. “To protect myself.”
“Is someone bullying you?”
“No.”
It is all I can do to stop myself from grabbing her by the shoulders and shaking the answers out of her. “Jenna, please tell me what happened. Did someone threaten you? Hurt you?”
“No. I just wanted . . .”
“Wanted what?”
“I didn’t want him to hurt me.”
“Who?”
She whispers his name. “Owen.”
The punch to my gut is shocking. Painful. It never occurred to me that Jenna would be afraid of Owen.
I put my arms around her. “Owen is never going to hurt you. Not in a million years. A million trillion years.”
She chuckles a little. “You’re stupid.”
“I know. But not about this. Not about Owen hurting you.”
Jenna pulls back and looks at me, her eyes not quite as wide now. “That’s why I brought the knife. I wasn’t going to hurt anyone.”
“I know.”
She waits outside the door while I speak to Nell, who nods and half smiles as I explain Jenna’s fear of Owen Oliver. I say he has been all over the news for a few weeks now; his face is all over the Internet, the TV, and even on flyers in front of the grocery store. “Something like this was probably inevitable,” I say, pointing to the knife. “Now that I think about it, this doesn’t surprise me at all. The media hasn’t stopped talking about Owen since he came back.”
Nell raises an eyebrow. “You think he’s back?”
It feels like I am thirteen, covered in dirt and bruises, and a little blood at the corner of my mouth. My fight with Danny Turnbull had gone well, at least from my perspective, except I was sent to the principal’s office. When I told my principal Danny had started the fight, she gave me the same look Nell Granger is giving me right now.
“I don’t know if he’s back,” I say. “But obviously my daughter thinks he is.”
“So she says.”
“You have some reason to doubt her? Because I don’t.”
Nell shakes her head. “No, no reason. Jenna has always been a good kid.” She doesn’t say “so far,” but she doesn’t have to.
“Can I take her home now?”
“You can. But I have to keep the knife.”
I do not argue.
Jenna has been excused for the rest of the day, so we have lunch. We go to a big chain restaurant that has a ten-page menu, with everything from a greasy breakfast to barbecued ribs and everything in between. We have been to this restaurant a hundred times, and Jenna always orders a grilled cheese-and-tomato sandwich or a club. Today, she orders a salad with dressing on the side, and no soda, just water.
When I ask if she is okay, Jenna says she is fine.
I want to talk to Millicent. I want to tell her about our daughter. But my wife is still not answering her phone.
She must be with Naomi. They are probably in some bunker or cement room, just like in the movies, and this is why she has not picked up the phone. It does not ring underground.
Or maybe she is just busy.
I send her a text, letting her know everything is fine, even though I’m not sure it is. After sending it, I hear the familiar sound of a breaking-news alert.
On the other side of our booth, there is a bar area with multiple TVs, and Naomi stares back at me from all of them. She looks larger than life on the giant screens. The banner across the bottom reads:
LOCAL WOMAN STILL MISSING
“That’s her, isn’t it?” Jenna is also looking at the screens. “She’s the one Owen took.”
“They don’t know for sure,” I say.
“She’s going to die, isn’t she?”
I do not answer. Inside, I am smiling. At least half of me is.
The other half is worried about Jenna.
Twenty-seven
NAOMI. NAOMI WITH her hair down, with her hair up, with no makeup, and with her lips painted bubble gum pink. Naomi in her work uniform, in jeans, in a green satin bridesmaid dress. Naomi is everywhere, all over the TV and online and on everyone’s lips. Within hours, her three friends have multiplied. Suddenly, everyone knows her, and they are more than happy to tell reporters all about their dear friend Naomi.
We are at home Monday night, and the TV is on. Millicent is here. She offers just a vague explanation of her afternoon absence. In return, I give her a vague explanation of what happened at Jenna’s school. I make it sound much less alarming than it was.
“Basically, it was a big misunderstanding,” I say.
Millicent shrugs. “You’re sure?”
“I’m sure.”
The news is on. Jenna is obsessed with it, but Rory is bored unless there is new information. He orders her to change the channel. She refuses.
I did not realize how Owen Oliver would affect our kids. Holly and Robin never had this kind of publicity. Now, they have been talking about Owen for weeks. Jenna may talk about Naomi forever.
This makes the good feelings I had start to fade.
I walk out to the backyard. In one corner, we have a large oak tree. The kids’ old playset is in the other corner; it has been wasting away for years. I forgot it was even here, but now all I can see is how faded it is, how the plastic is cracked and it must be dangerous. I go back through the house, into the garage, and get my toolbox. It is important, even crucial, that I take the playset apart and get rid of it before someone gets hurt.
The bolts hold tight, even though they are big pieces of childproof plastic. I break one with the hammer.
“What are you doing?”
Millicent’s voice does not startle me. In fact, I expect it. “What does it look like?”
“It looks like this could wait until tomorrow.”
“But I want to do it now.” I cannot hear her sighing, but I know she is. She stands behind me and watches me break another plastic bolt. “Are you going to watch me all night?” I say.
She goes back into the house. The sliding door slams shut.
Less than an hour later, I have worked up a sweat and made a pile of plastic. I leave the backyard looking worse than when I started.
No one is in the living room. I hear them upstairs; someone is in the bathroom, and someone else walks down the hall. I sit down in front of the TV. A sitcom is on, and the family is like mine, with two parents and two kids, but they are much funnier than we are. Their problems do not involve thirteen-year-old girls bringing knives to school or sons blackmailing their fathers.
During the commercial break, a preview of the news comes on, and I turn the channel t
o another show, and another, and I keep doing this until Millicent comes into the room and takes the remote away from me. She leans in close and hisses in my ear.
“Get your shit together. Now.” She tosses the remote to the other side of the couch and walks out of the room.
* * *
• • •
IT MAY SEEM like I never stand up to Millicent, but that isn’t true. It may not be often, but it’s not unheard of. It happened once, at least, and I remember it well. It was important enough to stand up for.
Rory was six, Jenna was five, and Millicent and I were too busy to breathe. I had two jobs. In addition to giving private tennis lessons, I also worked at a health club. Millicent was trying to sell real estate. The kids were in two different schools—kindergarten and first grade— and one always had to be dropped off or picked up. We had two cars, but one always seemed to be broken. Still, we had food and a roof and all the necessities. Everything else was just a pain in the ass.
One day, a windfall. A weird thing I never saw coming. There had been a class-action lawsuit against a former employer of mine, from a job I had back in high school, and after ten-plus years it had finally settled. Maybe the class had been small, or maybe the lawyers were better than most, but my portion was $10,000. It was more than I’d ever had at one time.
Millicent and I sat at the kitchen table and stared at that check. The kids were in bed, the house was quiet, and for a while we dreamed of all the things we could do with it. A week in Hawaii or a month in the mountains. A trip to Europe. The engagement ring Millicent deserved. We had a glass of wine, and our dreams became more ridiculous. Custom-made clothes. A home theater system. Fancy chrome wheels for both of our old cars. Ten thousand dollars was not a vast fortune, but we pretended it was.
“Seriously, though,” she said, finishing off the last of her wine. “The kids. College.”
My Lovely Wife Page 13
