“I don’t really think it’s awfully funny,” Joyce reproached her. “Those were living girls, just like you, and now they
won’t ever have any more life. It’s not fun or exciting.”
Anita sobered on the surface, but her eyes twinkled. She skipped ahead, to show how unafraid she was.
Gail muttered, “I don’t like her.”
Mary Ellen stopped abruptly. “Uh-oh.”
“Did you forget something?” asked Joyce.
“No. I shouldn’t have gone in the water. I think I’ve got it.”
“Got it? Oh, my heavens.” The problem was clear from the way Mary Ellen stood, with her thighs pressed tightly together.
“There’s a little outhouse near the beach,” Joyce said.
“But I don’t have anything with me. I’ll have to sit on a towel in the car.” So saying, Mary Ellen wrapped her towel around her hips. “It always does this. It just comes on without any warning.”
“How long have you been having it?”
“About half a year. I’m almost thirteen.” In another half year. “I have this friend of mine who started when she was ten.”
Their car shimmered in the sunlight and its door handles burned their fingers. The plastic seatcovers burned, too. They all had to sit on towels.
“Do you want to stop at a drugstore?” Joyce asked.
“No, I have some at home.” Mary Ellen smiled, feeling a bond. They were both women together, while Gail stared at them, not quite understanding, and Anita sang, trying to attract attention.
Joyce drove past the Farands’ house, hoping to get rid of Anita, but the house was locked and the car gone. She wondered if she ought to tell Sheila what had happened at the lake. But what good would it do? Would Sheila want to know her child was vicious, and could she help it?
And if it was true about Foster, Sheila probably already knew that. What a mess it all was.
When they reached home, Mary Ellen showered and dressed and settled in her room to catch up on her school reading list, as she explained. Gail went to her own room, but it was invaded by Anita, who did not wish to be ignored. The child was almost schizophrenic, the way she seemed to have no idea of the undesirability of what she had done.
Joyce left it up to Gail to handle it. Gail’s distaste was bound to have more effect than anything anyone else could do or say, and besides, Adam was hungry.
And she was tired. The heat had done her in. From the peace of her own room, as Adam nursed, she heard Mary Ellen’s radio playing its endless disco beat. She fell asleep before Adam did and slept away two hours with the baby in the crook of her arm.
They woke together. She thought the house seemed very quiet, and wondered whether it was morning or afternoon, and where everybody was.
A look at the clock gave her her bearings. They had gone swimming, she now remembered, and Anita had tried to drown Gail. She did not want to recall that part of it. There had once been a time when she was fond of Anita’s parents, but now everything was mixed up, you couldn’t trust anybody.
Anita had apparently left, thank God. Gail was alone in her room, playing with tiny plasticene dolls that she had made herself.
“Gail, where’s Mary Ellen?”
“I don’t know.”
“She doesn’t seem to be in the house. Did she go out?”
“I don’t know.” A little more impatiently this time.
“Well, now look. If she went out, where would she go?”
“Mommy, I don’t know.”
There was nothing within walking distance except other houses, and Mary Ellen did not know any of the people in them.
“Did she go with Anita?”
“No,” said Gail, “Anita went home with her mother.”
Might she have gone to the woods to see where the bodies had been? She hadn’t seemed all that interested, but one never knew. And what if she ran into the killer?
No, she wouldn’t, Joyce thought. She wouldn’t.
Carl would be home soon. And if the girl wasn’t found by then …
She called the Farands’ house. Denise answered the phone. It seemed only logical that Mary Ellen might have gone to visit Denise. They were the same age, although they barely knew each other. But Denise had not seen her.
They can’t do this to me. Joyce felt an irrational anger at Gail. If the two girls had been in better communication, Mary Ellen would surely have told her where she was going. Gail only made her feel unwelcome.
She walked around the outside of the house, trying to see into the meadow, into the woods in back of the house. She dared not leave the children, dared not herself venture into the wilderness.
The meadow was a blaze of late afternoon light and filled with buzzing insects. A butterfly danced over the daisies.
She called from the stone wall. “Mary Ellen?”
Damn, the girl was just at the wrong age. And menstruating, too. What if he found that out? Would he let her go? Or would it enrage him?
She went back to the house. Carl was already late, it was seven o’clock. She prayed his train would be delayed, sitting on the tracks somewhere. She prayed for Mary Ellen’s safety.
Gail leaned over the stair rail and asked plaintively where she had been.
“Out looking for Mary Ellen,” Joyce replied. “Are you sure she didn’t say anything about where she was going?”
Gail looked hurt. “I’m telling the truth.”
“I know you are, honey. I just thought there might have been something you forgot.”
“Well, I didn’t, and I don’t know why you’re making so much fuss about Mary Ellen. She’s twelve years old.”
Gail paused, apparently reminded that so was Valerie Cruz. Joyce could read it on her face.
“Mommy, is anything going to happen?”
“If she doesn’t get home before her father does, something will certainly happen.” Take Gail’s mind off the murders. “And I just hope he doesn’t blame me too much, but I am responsible for her.”
“I’ll protect you,” Gail crooned in a dreamy voice. She would have loved a chance to take on Carl and defeat him. Then she asked, “What are we having for dinner?”
Joyce was appalled at the irrelevance of it, but realized she hadn’t even thought about dinner, and Carl would be coming any minute. It was too late to thaw anything, but she found a can of salmon in the cupboard. Salmon loaf was a good last-minute standby, although it had to cook for an hour.
After the loaf was in the oven, she turned on the radio to find out whether there were any train delays. Not that she worried about Carl—she only hoped he would be delayed until Mary Ellen came back. Damn that girl, anyway.
What if something did happen? And here I am, cursing her.
The heat had gotten to her, and so had the murders. She took another tour around the house while Gail set the table. The salmon loaf finished cooking and still neither Carl nor Mary Ellen appeared. They ate a bleak, nearly silent dinner, while the sun went down.
Now the meadow was gray in the twilight. She couldn’t be out this late, after dark.
And Carl, too. Where was he? The radio had said nothing about a serious delay on the railroad. If he had to work late, he should have called.
She jumped at the sound of voices outside the kitchen
door. Mary Ellen came in, alone.
“Good God, Mary Ellen, where were you? It’s been hours, and it’s dark outside.”
“Is Daddy here?” Mary Ellen seemed to be listening.
“Not yet, and you can be very grateful for that. Now, where were you?” Joyce went to the door and in the gathering darkness saw a slim youthful figure walking quickly down the driveway.
“Who’s that?”
“A boy. His name’s David. He was at the lake this afternoon.”
“Does he live near here?”
“No, he has a motorcycle. He left it out on the road because I thought Daddy was home. He took me riding and it was gorgeous. We were out all afterno
on.”
“I hope you realize—”
“Joyce, don’t spoil it. It was so gorgeous, with the wind on my face. It was like flying without an airplane.”
“Mary Ellen, I don’t want you to disappear like that without telling me where you’re going.”
Mary Ellen tossed her hair in a gesture reminiscent of Anita. “I can’t see what difference it makes where I’m going.”
“It makes a huge difference that I know where you are. I wanted to go out and look for you and I didn’t even know where to begin.”
Amusement flitted across the girl’s face. “I’m glad you didn’t. I’d have died.” She started into the living room.
“Yes,” said Joyce, catching her arm, “you might have. Don’t you understand? Two young women have been killed right here in this area. Don’t you understand?”
“I was okay.” Mary Ellen twitched irritably and tried to squirm free.
“And that boy you were with. We don’t even know him. He could have been—”
Another toss of the hair. “I know him.” “Mary Ellen—” Joyce let go of the arm, even knowing her captive might vanish. “What do you think your father’s going to say about all this?”
“You wouldn’t tell him!” She had finally gotten through to the child. “He’s so strict.”
“Maybe he should be.”
“Please, Joyce? It was so beautiful. You’ll ruin my beautiful day.”
Joyce wavered. She had the upper hand now, and she used it to extract a promise that this would never happen again.
Mary Ellen ate a tablespoonful of salmon loaf, then went to her room to dream of David and motorcycles. Joyce was clearing the table, leaving a place for Carl, when she heard his car in the driveway.
He was disheveled when he came in, and drenched with sweat, but he did not seem tired. His walk was energetic and his smile wide. He did not kiss her. It was too hot.
“What happened?” she asked, “Did you walk all the way from the city?”
“Walk?” he said vacantly, without seeming to hear her. “Some people came from out of town.” Yes, he had been drinking, she could smell it. “I had to catch a late train, and the air conditioning broke down.”
“Oh, poor baby. Do you want me to wash your suit?” She reached for his jacket, which he carried balled under his arm.
He clamped onto it, refusing to give it up. “That’s okay. Just leave it.”
“But you can’t wear it again like this. You’re soaked.”
“It’s okay. I’ll take care of it. You’ve had enough to do all day.” He started up the stairs.
“Do you want any dinner?” she asked.
“Maybe, in a while.”
She heard the shower running for a long time and then
he went down to the laundry room to put his clothes in the washer. When he came back up, his forehead and upper lip were already covered with new droplets of sweat. Even though the sun had gone down, a soggy blanket of warm humidity remained.
“I really could have done that for you,” she said. “It’s no trouble at all. I could have started it while you took your shower.”
“You never use the wash-and-wear cycle,” he explained. “I like my suit done just right.”
“But if you put it in the dryer anyway, you don’t need the wash-and-wear cycle. It all comes out the same.”
“What have we here?” He sat down at the table. “Salmon loaf. You haven’t made that in a long time.”
“It might be a little dry. I had to reheat it.”
“Doesn’t matter a bit, with that good sauce.” He was in a very genial mood, considering his ordeal on the train.
Mary Ellen walked through the dining room, wearing a pair of cut-off jeans and a tee shirt. She glanced at her father and crossed her arms over her breasts. He paid no attention. A moment later Joyce could hear her talking on the kitchen telephone, probably to David. She almost commented lightly that Mary Ellen had a boyfriend, but she bit back the words. Some fathers might be amused, but not Carl. And especially not when Mary Ellen was only twelve.
Besides, how could they tell about David? Or anybody? David looked too young and innocent to do the things the killer had done, but you couldn’t be sure. A man’s sexual drive and powers were supposed to be at their peak in the late teens.
The call was short. Mary Ellen had started to leave the kitchen when the phone rang behind her. She picked it up.
“For you, Daddy. It’s Grandmother.”
“Thanks, kid.” He went into the kitchen and sat on one of the dinette chairs, rocking it onto its back legs. His buoyant mood seemed to extend even to Olivia. He greeted her with an easy “Hiya. How are you?” listened for a moment, and then said cheerfully, “Nope. Can’t make it.”
Thank heaven, thought Joyce. For once he was not at his mother’s beck and call. Then he said, “Well, you know, I’ll be taking my vacation in a couple of weeks. Maybe we could see you then.”
She was shocked. When he hung up, she asked, “Why didn’t you tell me about your vacation?”
He was still thinking of the phone call. “Some friends of hers are going to be there this weekend and she wanted us to come over. I’ll be damned if I feel like seeing her friends.”
“But why didn’t you tell me about your vacation? How come your mother gets to know before I do?”
“There you go, jealous again.” He carefully straightened the chair he had sat on. “It just came through. I knew we couldn’t go anywhere because of the baby, so I didn’t put myself on the schedule, but it just happens that’s a good time.”
“Why can’t we go anywhere?”
“With a baby?”
She was still resentful and acting childish. Of course he was right. The baby was too young to be dragged around, and it would be a nuisance with all the special equipment they would have to take.
“Nothing wrong with home,” he said.
“No, I guess not.” Cedarville was a beautiful place. If she wanted to see more of the world, it could wait until the children were older.
She started the dishwasher and then went upstairs to take her bath. He had come home so late it was almost bedtime, and there was still Adam to feed, and Adam sometimes woke her at two a.m.
Before she could fall asleep, Carl came in and sat on the
edge of the bed. Her flesh waited for his touch. She was surprised at the anticipation she felt. Like a girl making love for the first time.
He did not reach out. He simply asked, “Then is it okay with you if we go and see Olivia while I’m on vacation, as long as her friends aren’t around?”
“What’s wrong with her friends?”
Touch me, she begged. Do something to show you love me.
“I just don’t feel like socializing,” was his reply. “But I think we should go and see her, so she won’t feel neglected.”
I feel neglected.
She took his hand and felt a slight jerk, as though his first reaction was to withdraw.
“What else do you want to do on your vacation?” She would keep it neutral and hope he would make the next move.
“I don’t know. What’s wrong with just hanging around home?”
“That doesn’t seem very special to me, but it’s your vacation. I just thought we should do something to entertain Mary Ellen. We could go swimming, I guess. Take a picnic to Bear Mountain. Visit some of those old houses, the Van Cortlandt Manor in Croton, the Philipse farm. Things like that.”
He chuckled. “That doesn’t sound much like Mary Ellen.”
“No, I guess not.” She had been thinking more of Gail, who loved the old restorations, with their guides in Colonial costume.
She moved his hand to her breast, which was shielded behind her nightgown and the sheet. He pulled away as though she had burned him.
“Carl,” she said, “it’s all right.”
“You haven’t seen the doctor yet,” he reminded her. “You told me you had to see the doctor first, and get his O
.K.
stamp. Where do you think he’ll stamp you?” He began to prod her abdomen through the sheet. It tickled. She doubled over onto her side.
“I didn’t mean we had to go all the way. Not right now.”
“You need your sleep,” he said, getting up from the bed. “I’ll be along in a while.”
He left the room, closing the door behind him. She lay alone in the stifling darkness, and felt empty.
13
The telephone rang while she was in the basement unloading the washing machine. Why not an extension in the basement? she wondered as she stumbled up the backless stairs.
It was Barbara.
“Hi, Joyce, how’s it going? I hope you’re keeping my kid on a leash.” She sounded grim.
“As best I can.” Good grief, had she already heard about Mary Ellen’s escapade?
“She’s more of a woman than I thought,” Joyce went on, hoping to avert further talk about Mary Ellen’s wandering. “She got what she calls ‘it’ yesterday, just when we were swimming. And Carl keeps bugging her about her clothes. It seems to bother him. Would you mind if she and I went shopping for some bras?”
“Bras? Did she ask for bras? That’s a new one.”
“No, but I thought—”
“Oh, you mean because of Carl. That’s something we don’t have to cope with here.”
“I think it’s because of the murders. He doesn’t want her—you know—conspicuous.”
“Oh, that bothers him, does it? Well, okay. As long as she wants it. It’s just something that never came up. They’re not the status symbol they used to be. What do you hear about the latest?”
“Nothing. Only a rumor that it’s the other missing girl.”
“I don’t mean that latest. I mean the latest Joyce, you really ought to keep in touch with the world. It’s your world. Haven’t you heard there’s another one missing?”
“Since when?” Oh, God, and Mary Ellen was out. It could have been Mary Ellen.
“This one might be different. The girl’s twenty-one years old, but under the circumstances, her parents are pretty worried. They say she’s not the sort of person who would just go off.”
(2001) The Girls Are Missing Page 7
