Disappearing Acts

by Byars, Betsy

  Broadview didn’t live up to its name. The houses were close together; the street, narrow. The houses went up two and three stories with attics above, but now there were extra mailboxes on the porches to show multiple occupancy.

  Herculeah danced her way down the block. Suddenly she stopped and turned to beckon to him. Meat walked slowly forward and stopped beside her. They looked up at the house together.

  There were eight mailboxes on this porch, so the house must have been divided into eight small apartments.

  “Come on,” she said.

  She went up the stairs and peered at the nameplates on the mailboxes. “Marcie Mullet,” Herculeah read. “She’s number seven.” Herculeah flipped up the lid of the mailbox. “No mail.”

  She tried the front door. When it opened, she turned her delighted face to Meat and signaled him to come on. He followed her into a small, dingy lobby. Perhaps it had once been the front parlor of the house. There were eight plastic buttons on the wall beside a desk. Herculeah punched number seven.

  They could hear a buzzer sound upstairs, but nobody came down.

  “Let’s go,” Meat said impatiently.

  A man unfolded himself from a lean-back chair and peered at them. “Who’re you looking for?”

  Meat gasped with fright, but Herculeah, again, seemed pleased.

  “We’re looking for Marcie Mullet,” Herculeah told him. “Apartment seven. We’ve got something of hers we need to return.”

  “Not in,” he answered.

  “What time does she usually get in?”

  “No telling.”

  “Do you happen to know where she went tonight?”

  The man thought about it. “Seems like she said she was going to some restaurant. What was the name of it? It’ll come to me.”

  Herculeah couldn’t wait for him to remember. “Funny Bonz?”

  Meat’s heart was in his throat as he waited for the answer.

  The man smiled. “That’s it. Funny Bonz.”

  Herculeah and Meat looked at each other. Neither had anything to say.

  “If you want to leave something for Miss Mullet, I’ll see she get’s it.”

  “No,” Herculeah said. “We need to see her. It’s sort of important.”

  When they were on the street again, heading for home, Herculeah added, “It’s real important. In the morning first thing, we’ll come back to Broadview and—” She broke off. “No, first thing I’m going to pick up my photos. Meat, for some reason, those nineteen exposures are almost as much a mystery to me as Marcie Mullet. Anyway, after I see my photos, we’re off to Broadview.”

  Meat said, “In the morning, first thing, we ought to call your dad.”

  “ And tell him what? That you thought you saw a dead body? On April Fool’s Day?” She sighed with frustration. “If we had the body, I would already have called.”

  “We have the wallet.”

  “But what does that prove?”

  Meat was silent.

  “You know how my dad feels about my playing detective.”

  “But that’s what you are doing.”

  “Well, I’ll think about it. Maybe I’ll call him, maybe I won’t. Satisfied?”

  Meat was not satisfied at all, but he nodded.

  “I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “Right.”

  It was a morning Meat did not look forward to. But then, he told himself, remembering the events of the evening, mornings are usually better than nights.

  A small voice reminded him, Not always.

  11

  NINETEEN EXPOSURES

  “Herculeah!”

  Herculeah came around the corner fast, just as she had yesterday. Meat thought at first she was hurrying toward him—perhaps to show him her photos—but she did not glance across the street. That was strange. She had to have heard him.

  Meat moved to the steps of the porch and started down.

  “Herculeah!”

  Again she did not glance in his direction. What was going on? Was she getting ready to pull another of those stupid jokes?

  He crossed the street, moving with a speed that surprised him. It surprised Herculeah too, from the look on her face when she saw him blocking the steps to her house.

  “Herculeah—”

  She looked at him as if she did not know him. Her expression was one he had not seen before—strange and unreadable.

  “What’s wrong?”

  Her stare was blank. It was as if she had had a shock so devastating that she couldn’t take in anything normal.

  “Did you get your photos? I’m sorry I didn’t act particularly interested and—okay. I’m sorry I got mad yesterday over your taking my picture—but what with finding the dead body and all ...”

  He glanced down. In her hand was a yellow and black envelope from Cameras, Inc.

  “Oh, you got them. I’d like to see them.” He didn’t really want to, but being a good sport, he held out his hand.

  Herculeah clutched the envelope against her as if protecting it.

  “They can’t have been that bad,” he said. “Well, the ones of me could have.” His hand was still extended. Herculeah looked down at it as if it were the hand from a horror movie.

  “Is there something wrong with the pictures?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “Or is it that you went to Broadview. Is that it? Did you see Marcie Mullet? Is she dead? Is that what’s wrong?”

  She shook her head, and Meat realized that what was wrong had nothing to do with the body at Funny Bonz but with the pictures in Herculeah’s hand.

  “You might as well let me see them.”

  No reaction.

  “You know you’ll show them to me sooner or later.”

  Now she spoke for the first time. One word. “Maybe.”

  “So why not now?”

  She clutched the photos tighter against her.

  “Later? What time? Today? Tomorrow?”

  “I don’t know. I can’t think. I just don’t know.”

  With that, she swirled past him and fumbled with her key as she tried to unlock her door.

  “Aren’t we going to Broadview?”

  He had never seen Herculeah have trouble unlocking a door before. He had even seen her break locks.

  “I thought we were going to Broadview. Remember Marcie Mullet? Remember Funny Bonz?”

  She redoubled her efforts on the lock. It gave. The door opened, and in one swift movement Herculeah was inside.

  Meat went quickly up the steps and glanced in the small window beside the door. All he could see was the back of Herculeah’s coat. It was as if getting in the door was so stressful that Herculeah had to lean against the first thing she came to for support.

  He rapped on the glass. “Are you all right?”

  No answer.

  “Is it something about the pictures?”

  No answer.

  “Is it something about me? Something I did?”

  No answer.

  “Well, at least let me in. I hate it when people won’t let me in. I won’t mention the photos and I won’t mention Marcie Mullet. Just let me in.”

  Herculeah shook her head in a movement that was almost desperate. He watched as she ran up the stairs to her room and disappeared from view.

  Meat continued to peer through the dusty glass. Something was terribly wrong. Was it something about the pictures? Something about the murder?

  He couldn’t stand it. He rang the doorbell. Even as he pressed the bell and heard the ding-dong, he felt this was stupid and useless. When minutes passed and Herculeah did not come to the door, he knew it.

  Still, he couldn’t help trying one more time.

  Ding-dong.

  There ought to be at least two different rings for a doorbell, he thought, ding-dong when you were stopping by for a friendly chat and ... He couldn’t think of any sound that would show the depth of his need right now.

  Slowly, shoulders sagging, Meat headed for home. He t
ook his place in the living room, at the window, watching the house in case she reappeared.

  But hours passed, and she did not.

  Inside her bedroom, Herculeah sat on the side of her bed, still in her coat, clutching the envelope containing the photographs against her chest.

  She had been so excited about getting the pictures, she had arrived even before the camera shop was open. It was a strange excitement, not entirely pleasant.

  At last Cameras, Inc., opened the door and the envelope was in her hand. She had opened it there at the counter, tearing the flap of the envelope in her haste.

  “Some of the older photos are kind of dark,” the clerk told her. “I tried to lighten them, but sometimes when the film’s been in the camera awhile ...”

  The recent photos came first, one of her mom in the kitchen, one of her. Herculean smiled at the two of Meat.

  Then came the pictures that had been taken long ago, the dark ones. The smile faded from Herculeah’s face.

  She had moved to the front of the store and the light from the window. She couldn’t believe what she was seeing.

  “Is there anything wrong?” the clerk called from the counter. “I could probably lighten them a bit if I had more time. You wanted them this morning,” he reminded her.

  Herculeah didn’t answer. She crammed the pictures back into the envelope and ran out the door. Clutching them against her, she had run for home.

  The last person in the world she had wanted to see was Meat. She knew she was hurting him by not answering his questions. But showing him the photographs would have hurt him much more.

  Behind her, Tarot the parrot said, “Beware! Beware!” Herculeah did not even hear him. “Oh, Mom!” he said in Herculeah’s own voice. He had picked this up without any help.

  Herculeah didn’t react.

  Since Tarot’s entire vocabulary consisted of these few words, he closed his eyes and went back to sleep.

  On the bed Herculeah sat without moving, waiting for her mother to come home and tell her what to do.

  Hurry, Mom, Herculeah thought. Hurry!

  12

  MEAT ON HIS OWN

  Meat sat in front of the telephone. He was trying not to call Herculeah. He began doodling on the telephone pad.

  He remembered that when he was three he would write like this, big loopy letters, and when he had a page full he would run to his dad. “Another story?” his dad would say. “Want me to read it to you?”

  Meat’s happiest memories of his dad were sitting on his lap, listening to the funny stories Meat had written.

  “Hey, this is about a Flapdoodle. I didn’t know you knew what a Flapdoodle was!”

  Meat was surprised to find that in the middle of this pleasant memory, he had dialed Herculeah’s phone number. Well, he had tried.

  On the third ring a recorded voice came on. These recorded voices were always so cheerful, Meat thought, making callers who weren’t cheerful feel even worse. Mrs. Jones said, “This is Mim Jones. I can’t take your call right now, but you can leave a message at the beep, and I’ll get back to you.”

  At the beep, Meat cleared his throat and said, “Herculeah, I’m going back to Broadview to look for Marcie Mullet. If you don’t want to come with me, fine! I’ll go alone. Good-bye.”

  He hung up the phone, proud that he had resisted the urge to revert to childishly adding fourteen or fifteen pleases.

  He took a deep breath. Now that he had announced his intention, he had to carry it out. He had to go to Broadview.

  Meat put on his jacket and went out onto the front porch. He took more time than necessary zipping his jacket up. He kept his eyes on the upstairs window of Herculeah’s bedroom. He knew that was where she was and maybe if she saw him ...

  To give her plenty of time, he took out the blue wallet and opened it. He stared at Marcie Mullet’s ID picture on her driver’s license. The picture didn’t actually look like the girl on the bathroom floor. Her hair had been straighter and longer, but sometimes girls changed things like that.

  The statistics didn’t quite fit, either—five feet seven inches tall, 185 pounds. The girl on the bathroom floor had seemed taller than that, thinner too. Of course he wasn’t an expert on girls’ sizes.

  He checked the rest of the wallet, though he knew the contents—no folding money, three quarters, two dimes.

  But wait. What was this? There was a folded piece of paper behind the driver’s license.

  Meat took it out and unfolded it. He read the words and drew in his breath.

  “All right. All right. I’ll be at F.B. at 7:00. We’ll talk.”

  F.B. Funny Bonz.

  And seven o‘clock was about the time he found the body.

  He glanced again at Herculeah’s bedroom window. He wanted to run across the street, beat on the door.

  “I found a note—a note. You have to see this!” he wanted to read it aloud, giving it the menacing quality he felt it deserved.

  But he had been left standing at Herculeah’s front door enough times today. He went down the steps and at the corner turned toward Broadview.

  Herculeah watched from her mother’s office window as he put on his jacket and went through the blue wallet.

  She watched intently as he discovered the piece of paper, watched as he unfolded it. The look on his face made her want to run across the street and read the message for herself. But she couldn’t face Meat, not yet.

  When Meat was out of sight, Herculeah picked up the phone and dialed a number of her own.

  “Police Department, zone three. This is Captain Morrison. Can I help you?”

  “Hi, it’s Herculeah Jones, Captain. I want to speak to my dad.”

  “He’s not here, but I can give him a call if it’s important.”

  “I’m afraid it is.”

  Herculeah waited until he came back on the line.

  “Did you get him?” she asked.

  “Yes, he’s out that way. He says he’ll stop by on his way back to the station.”

  “Oh, thanks.”

  She hung up the phone and waited, walking back and forth in front of the window until she saw her father’s car. She burst through the front door and was on the sidewalk before her father had opened the door.

  “Hi, Dad, I am so glad to see you. Can you come inside? Please!”

  “I’ve got a few minutes. What’s up?”

  “Two things really,” she said as they went up the steps. “One is sort of, well, police business.”

  “Oh?”

  “I was wondering—well. Met thought he found a dead body last night.”

  “Herculeah, you kids have got to stop finding dead bodies—”

  “Just listen, Dad, please. Don’t give me the finding-dead-bodies lecture. Meat went into the bathroom of Funny Bonz. Funny Bonz is a comedy club in the basement of the old hotel. There was a body on the floor—it sort of fell out of the toilet stall. Well, then the man who runs the club, Mike Howard—”

  “Mike Howard ... Mike Howard,” her father said as if he were turning through a mental Rolodex.

  “Yes, Mike Howard. And this is really suspicious. Mike Howard goes to check and he is gone a long time—much longer than it would take him to check. And then he comes back and says there was no body—that it was probably some sort of April Fools’ joke.”

  “Maybe it was. And it’s not unusual for people to do drugs in public rest rooms.”

  “I guess, but I was wondering if a body fitting this description had turned up. The corpse was a girl with brown hair, maybe dyed. Her name could be Marcie Mullet.”

  “Is Meat at home?” her father interrupted.

  “No.”

  “I’d like to hear what he’s got to say about this.”

  “He could have gone over to Marcie Mullet’s house—it’s on Broadview—thirteen twenty-nine.”

  How do you know the name and address of this dead body?“

  “I don’t. I’m just telling you what Meat told me.”
r />   “I’ll swing by there.”

  “And, Dad, about the dead bodies?”

  “I am happy to say we have no dead bodies, identified or not.”

  “You probably wouldn’t tell me if you did.”

  There was a silence. Then her father said, “So what else is bothering you?”

  “Dad, this is one of the worst things that has ever happened to me in my life.”

  “Not again.”

  “I’m serious this time. I bought a camera in Hidden Treasures yesterday. I don’t know why I bought it except that I was drawn to it.”

  “Why can’t you shop at the mall like other girls?”

  “Oh, Dad. But even as I was buying it, something was bothering me about the other objects for sale on the table. Like I’d seen them before.”

  “So?”

  “But I couldn’t think where. Anyway, whoever had owned the camera had taken nineteen exposures. I finished the roll and got it developed.” She paused to swallow. “Well, there were five pictures of Meat and Mom that I took and nineteen others.”

  “So?”

  “The other pictures were taken a long time ago—maybe ten years ago.”

  “So?”

  “And I know the people in the pictures.”

  “Herculeah, don’t make me keep saying, ‘So.’ Just tell me what’s upset you about these pictures.”

  “They’re of Meat.”

  “Meat across the street?”

  “Yes, Meat and his dad. Well, seven of them are of Meat and his father doing normal things—like standing in front of the house and sitting on the front steps. There’s one of them in the park, and one Meat must have taken of his dad because his head’s cut off. Those were normal, everyday pictures like any father and son would take.

  “And then I remembered where I’d seen all those other things at Hidden Treasures before. One time I was over at Meat’s and he went into his mother’s room. He’d bought some pecan rolls from the Lion’s Club and they’d disappeared, and Meat suspected she’d hidden them in her closet.

  “So I stood outside the door as a lookout to warn Meat if his mom came home. Finally, I got curious about what was taking him so long and I went in there and he had a whole box of stuff—and now I remember that most of what was in that box was on the same table with the camera. Meat’s mom must have cleaned out her closet and taken all the stuff to Hidden Treasures.” She looked at her dad.