by T. Greenwood
“Absolutely,” I say.
At the library, while Effie catches up on scheduling her route and stocks the bookmobile with some new releases, I sit in a child-size chair at the long computer counter in the makeshift children’s room they made in the annex because of the flooding, and go online.
“How to find someone who is lost in the woods”
Expert trackers say that when people get lost in the woods, they leave a couple thousand clues behind for every single mile they travel, though most are imperceptible to the eye: a snapped branch, a leaf imprinted with their sole, a crushed bit of moss. That searchers, if they are trained, can spot these clues. I think of our bumbling group in the woods. About our collective blindness.
People think you need to know all sorts of things about a missing person’s personality, about their history, to figure out how to find them, to figure out the way they will behave if they are alone and lost in the woods. But one psychologist suggests that the key to finding someone in the woods is simply knowing one thing: their age. Most people lost in the woods are found within a one-to-two-mile radius from where they became lost. For children, this mileage is reduced to a range of two-thirds to one-and-two-thirds of a mile. Older children, between seven and twelve, tend to run, their legs informed by the impulse to flee, whereas smaller children, between three and six, simply burrow in somewhere.
If she is lost, not taken, that means that she is still close. That I could, if I was careful, find those clues. Find her.
I read the stories, one after another, of children found in the woods: nestled into caves and hollows. Found sleeping under piles of brush, inside formations of rock.
Adult humans can go weeks, even months, without food, but only three days without water. For a toddler, this is reduced to one week without food. And, depending on the conditions, dehydration could set in after only hours. I think of the rain the other night, of that vast lake across the road from where she disappeared. Pray that her instinct would be to drink if she found a puddle, a creek. And I even wonder, for a moment, if she’d be better off if she’d been stolen instead of lost, if she had been taken by someone; then at least maybe she’d still be alive. And then I think about what else this would mean, and it’s too difficult to imagine.
When we get back to the camp after returning the bookmobile to the library, there are three messages on Effie’s machine. The first is from Devin. He says he’s decided to stay a few more days. The curator he’s dealing with at Gagosian is out of town until Friday. Devin’s family is all in Queens. He’ll stay there, catch up with his nieces and nephews, and drive back home on Saturday.
The second message is from Jake asking if I’ve already paid the water bill. I am the one who manages our money: balances the checking account, makes sure the bills get paid on time. I worry about all the things that might get neglected without me there to take care, and part of me hopes he is lost without me.
When the third message starts to play, I pray that it’s Ryan. That he’ll have some news from the police department. But it’s not. It’s Effie’s friend Mena, Sam Mason’s wife.
“Hi, Effie! Just wanted to let you know we’re flying into Burlington on a red-eye Thursday night. We’ll be at the cottage sometime Friday. Can’t wait to see you guys! Of course, we won’t have the house set up yet, but if we can use your kitchen, I’ll cook. Maybe Saturday night? Give me a call if you want. Otherwise, I’ll call when we get there.”
Sam Mason. The author that Jake is dying to meet. If he had any idea we’d be having dinner with Sam and Mena Mason on Saturday, I bet he’d forget all about Charlie’s tantrums, all about Jess, and fly right up here. The possibility of this pisses me off, the truth of this.
“Would you mind?” Effie asks. “I haven’t seen them since last summer. But if you’d rather not have company . . .”
“No, not at all. Of course. Please, don’t put anything on hold for me.”
“She’s an amazing cook,” she says. “Unbelievable.”
“Tell her to make that soup I like! The lemon kind,” Plum says. “And baklava.”
Plum comes over to me in the kitchen nook and settles into my lap. She’s too big for this, her legs long and skinny like a spider’s. I lean down and sniff her hair. It smells like trees.
“End of new messages,” the robotic voice announces.
I’m not sure what I expected. I have no idea how long it takes to track down a license plate number. Or what will happen after they do. I wonder if I’ll hear anything at all, or if I’ll just have to keep biding my time. Ryan had said we needed to let the police feel like they’re putting these puzzle pieces together. But we are still holding on to the most important one: the barrette.
I can’t help but feel like this is a big mistake. This is not a game.
“You should change your bandage,” Effie says, motioning to my hand.
Even though I didn’t go swimming, the bandage still looks dirty from our trek through the forest. I think of all of the cautions they offered at the clinic. I gather the stuff we picked up at the drugstore. I’d sat in the car this time, while Effie went in. No need to almost pass out at the Rite Aid again.
In the bathroom, I unwrap the gauze from my hand, toss it in the trash can, and study the wound, which doesn’t even look real. My flesh is pale, and the black stitches that are holding my skin together seem almost primitive, barbaric. I use the special soap the nurse gave me, and the sting of it brings tears to my eyes. “Motherfucker,” I mutter under my breath and grit my teeth. I apply the antibiotic cream next and then try to rewrap the wound. It’s impossible to do with one hand. I grab the gauze and go out to the kitchen.
“Can you help?” I ask Effie.
“Sure,” she says, setting down the knife she’s using to cut an apple for Plum.
The phone rings, and I drop the gauze as I’m handing it to her. I am so accustomed to muted cell phone rings or vibrations, the loud, jangling sound of the landline startles me, reminding me again just how on edge I am.
Effie picks up and cradles the receiver between her chin and shoulder as she opens the fridge door. “Hello?”
I watch, not wanting to give away how anxious I am. How disappointed I’ll be if it’s not Ryan calling with some news.
“Yes, she is. Hold on,” she says, and nods at me. She mouths, “Ryan.”
I take the phone with my good hand. Plum gets up from the kitchen nook, and I touch the top of her head as she squeezes past me through the doorway.
“Did they find out who the truck belongs to?” I ask, trying not to sound too eager, too demanding.
Ryan pauses on the other end of the line. I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and wait.
“The owner of the truck is a guy named Vince Alfieri. He’s from Holyoke, Mass.”
“The college?” I ask. I’d known some girls when I lived in Boston who’d gone to Mount Holyoke. Athletic, smart girls with big white teeth. Moneyed. When I think of Mount Holyoke, I think ivy-strangled bricks, sprawling grassy quads. Clean notebooks and golden retrievers. Polo shirts and leather deck shoes and tanned ankles. Lacrosse sticks and tiny pearl necklaces on pastel sweaters. Jake grew up in South Hadley; we’d gone to the Mount Holyoke campus a few times when we were visiting his parents.
“No. Holyoke the city. Industrial sort of place. Depressed economy. Lots of drugs there in the last few years. Drug-related crime.”
“Oh,” I say, all those visions of collegiate affluence slipping away. “Does he own property up here? At Gormlaith? Has anybody talked to him?”
“Not yet,” he says. “But listen, here’s the interesting thing. I had my friend dig a little into that guy Sharp’s background too. To try to get some more information about who he is, what the lewd-and-lascivious conviction was for.”
I can feel my heart beating in my hand.
“And?” I say, both wanting and not wanting to know.
“Well, he spent three years in jail for exposing himself to a neighbor.”
“How
old?” I ask, as if this can somehow keep her safe. If his previous victim was twelve or thirteen, then maybe that would somehow protect her. This little three-year-old girl.
“Five,” he says.
“Oh God,” I say, my hand flying to my mouth. I have to sit down.
“But that’s not all,” he says. I’m not sure I want to hear more. That I can handle hearing any more.
“That wasn’t his most recent visit to prison,” Ryan says.
I shake my head. What else could this monster have done? Images flood my mind, and I shake my head as if I can jar them loose. Blur the focus.
“He was actually in for trafficking,” he says.
“Human trafficking?” I ask, horrified, thinking of a 60 Minutes episode I saw recently about children being kidnapped from the streets in third world countries and thrown into the sex trade. Little girls.
“No, no,” he says. “Drug trafficking. He just got out a couple years ago after a five-year stint at Norfolk.”
“What’s Norfolk?”
“State prison,” he says. “In Massachusetts. It appears our friend Sharp’s last known residence was in Springfield, Mass.”
“Springfield?” I repeat.
“Just about ten minutes down I-91 from Holyoke. He discharged parole six months ago. After that he was clear to leave the state.”
I struggle to make sense of what any of this means. Sharp is a convicted sex offender and drug trafficker. He’s from Springfield, Massachusetts, but he’s been living out here in the backwoods of Vermont for the last couple of years or so. The guy in the truck is also from Massachusetts. Could they be related? Just friends? Partners in crime, maybe? But what sort of crime? And what does Lisa have to do with any of this? I can’t help but think of that house full of children. And those thoughts are more horrifying than I can handle.
“Does this Alfieri guy have any sort of record?” I ask, almost not wanting to know.
“Not as far as I can tell. Of course, if he’s using an alias or something, then there might be more to the story. But on the surface, he seems clean.”
“What do we do now?” I ask.
“Well, my friend at the PD passed this info along to Strickland.”
I sigh, rub my temples. My head is starting to pound. “But he didn’t believe me either; he thinks I’m some stupid drunk who hallucinated the whole thing. Or made it up for attention. He’s just as bad as Andrews.”
“Maybe so, but I know Strickland. I know how he operates. And the way Andrews threw him under the bus over the search, I suspect he’s pretty eager now to save face. If he can somehow prove you were telling the truth, then he can save his own ass.”
“So what does this have to do with her?” I ask. “With the girl?”
“To be honest, not a whole lot,” he says. “But I have a feeling the police are going to become a lot more interested in finding her now.”
I am seething. All of this has become an elaborate battle of the egos, and what’s at stake is a child’s life. I can’t wait for this cockfight to play itself out.
With Jake gone, I wake up with the first hints of light in the sky. At home, I usually linger as long as possible before rising. Many mornings Jake is long gone before I get up.
“Don’t you hate waking up after the day’s already started?” Jake usually asks, like it’s a race. As though by the time I roll out of bed I’m already lagging behind everyone else, as if I’ll never be able to catch my stride.
I know he thinks I have just never transcended my adolescent tendencies to sleep as long as possible before being forced to get up and start my day. Even back when I was working, when the world demanded my presence, I was late to the game.
My intentions are always to wake early, the optimism of my alarm clock–setting never wavering. But inevitably, predictably, its sounding is followed by at least a half dozen swipes at the snooze button before I am finally, reluctantly, pulled into consciousness.
Jake, on the other hand, rises early and takes a short run in the park, then comes home to shower and have breakfast before heading in to work. All the while I remain dreaming.
He is a creature of habit: after his run—coffee, a hard-boiled egg, a slice of toast with butter. Every day, no deviation. I, on the other hand, eat something different every morning: oatmeal, donuts from the bakery down the street, omelets made with an unpredictable assortment of vegetables and cheese and meats. I am impulsive in this, as in most other things as well. I grow bored easily, with food as with everything else. Mangoes, special sausages from the farmer’s market, weird smelly cheeses. Whenever we took trips
I always wanted to try the most exotic dishes; I’m the kind of person who tells the waiter to surprise me. Jake says he loved me at first because I made him feel adventurous. That if not for me, he’d never stray from his routine.
I used to imagine when we finally had a baby, that Jake would be better prepared. He was already accustomed to staying up late and rising early. His life was already measured into increments, each hour predictable and safe. Children love routines; this is what I read on the Web sites I searched. Jake would be that steady force, and I would adjust.
My own mother was like a scrap of paper in the breeze—her every moment dictated by the wind, by whim. As a child, I longed for the routine I saw in my friends’ homes. At Effie’s house, they had Taco Tuesdays. Pizza and a family movie on Friday nights. Saturdays, her father took her and her sister on outings (to museums and on hikes, kayaking on lakes, or exploring historic landmarks), but they were always home in time for supper, which Effie’s mother ensured was waiting for them on the table. I used to think this would be the kind of family I would make. And that someone like Jake could make that happen.
But after Guatemala, any semblance of order I’d managed to establish, any routine, quickly devolved. I returned to the comfort of my own chaos, and Jake remained steady. Predictable.
How did I not notice? How did I miss the cues, the clues that something in Jake’s routine had changed? I feel stupid and so, so sad.
Like Jake, Effie wakes up early. By the time I get dressed and make my way from the guest cottage to the camp, I can see the light on in the kitchen window. Hear the sounds of the public radio station, smell the freshly brewed coffee.
“Knock, knock,” I say.
“Good morning,” she says, smiling, and gives me a hug. “How did you sleep?”
I shrug. I have been dreaming of the woods. I spend all night wandering, looking for her. By the time I wake up, my legs are exhausted. I must sleep with my entire body clenched tightly like a fist.
Surprisingly, Plum is up as well. She is sitting in the kitchen nook, writing. She is wearing soft pajamas; her hair is a puffy halo around her head.
I sit down next to her and snuggle into her.
“What’s this?” I ask, looking over her shoulder.
“It’s a letter for the fairy,” she says.
“Oh, cool,” I say.
I hope you liked the candy we left for you.
Maybe you can leave something for me, so I know you are real. Also, are you Star?
Love, PLUM
Effie is making a giant salad, chopping veggies and hard-boiling eggs. They rattle around in the boiling water on the stove. The kitchen is steamy. She is becoming more and more like her grandmother, Gussy, I think. Up early, already thinking about lunch. About dinner even. When we were kids I would never have imagined her so domesticated. We were little feral creatures when we were children. But I guess this is what motherhood demands.
“Hey, can I borrow your bike?” I ask her.
“Sure, it’s in the shed. You going on a ride?”
“Yeah. I feel like I need to get out, get some exercise. All I’ve done since I got here is eat.” The words feel hollow, and I wonder if she knows I’m lying.
“Plum might want to go with you,” she says, and my heart sinks.
Plum looks up at me hopefully.
“I was thinking abou
t going all the way into town. I don’t think she can go that far yet, can she?”
“Oh, no. She just tootles around here.”
“I can ride all the way. I’m really good at bike riding,” Plum argues.
“You know what,” I say, nudging Plum’s shoulder. “How about tomorrow we take the bikes up to the swimming hole and leave this note for Star,” I say.
She looks disappointed, but shrugs. “Okay.”
“Will you be back for lunch? I’m just making a big chef’s salad,” Effie says.
“I should be back in a couple of hours,” I say. “I just need to clear my head.”
“Let me help you get the bike out of the shed,” Effie says, wiping her hands on her apron. “It’s a total disaster in there.”
We find the mint-colored beach cruiser in the back of the shed, covered with cobwebs. There is a ratty rattan wicker basket attached to the handlebars, a rusty bell. I untangle it from the girls’ bikes and back it out of the shed. The chain has slipped off and I need to thread it back on. The seat is low; I am a good head taller than Effie, and so I dig around for a wrench to raise it.
I haven’t ridden a bike in ages. Brooklyn is not conducive to bike riding, at least not bike riders like me. I’m a drifter. I get so caught up in the scenery around me that I tend to weave into the road. I went riding once and was nearly killed by a semi. And even if I’m not in danger myself, I’d likely pose a risk to some innocent pedestrians.
Effie and I lived on our bikes as kids. They were the vehicles to our freedom. From the time we were Plum’s age, we were allowed to go as far as our bikes would take us. We never worried about helmets, about strangers, about anything but the burning of our calves as we pumped our legs to pedal up hills, and the beautiful release when we made it to the top, the wind in our hair as we coasted down the other side.
“You’re not going back to his house, are you?” Effie asks. I can see the worry in her eyes. The cautious plea for assurance that I won’t do anything stupid.
