Nobody's There

by Joan Lowery Nixon

  “I’m not going to spill anything. I think you’ve watched too many old private-eye shows on TV.”

  “Don’t interrupt. Children should be seen and not heard.” Mrs. Merkel hurried on. “Your main job will be to drive me where I need to go and make sure I don’t misplace any of my equipment.”

  “What equipment?”

  “Don’t ask stupid questions. Private-eye equipment. Digital phone, notebook and pen, dark glasses, maybe a camera. Now, tomorrow—”

  “Sundays I get off.” Remembering what was printed on one of the sheets in her folder, Abbie quickly added, “And on Monday after school the girls who are in the Friend to Friend program will meet with Mrs. Wilhite.”

  “A lot of good it’s going to do me to have you for a driver!” Mrs. Merkel complained.

  “The meetings are only one Monday a month,” Abbie explained.

  “I’d say they’re one Monday too many. You already know what they expect you to do, so anything else is a waste of time.”

  Abbie wanted to laugh, realizing that she and Mrs. Merkel had finally agreed on one thing. “I’ll see you Tuesday after school,” Abbie said. “Would you like me to drive you to the grocery store?”

  Mrs. Merkel brightened. “I’d like to go to that big supermarket in the new shopping center,” she said. “The store in my neighborhood has a bunch of losers for clerks. They can’t get along with anybody.”

  “I’ll see you Tuesday,” Abbie said, eager to leave.

  Mrs. Merkel nodded before she slowly climbed out of the car. She paused before she closed the door, bending down to look in at Abbie. “Tuesday at three o’clock. Don’t be late. No excuses. Besides going grocery shopping, I’ve got big things in mind. I won’t tell you my idea because you’d just blab it to everybody.”

  The excited flush on Mrs. Merkel’s face worried Abbie. “Remember what Officer Martin told you,” she said. “The police don’t want you to do anything dangerous.”

  Mrs. Merkel’s eyes narrowed. “Maybe I should let that stupid group leader know you’re uncooperative.”

  For an instant Abbie closed her eyes, pretending in the darkness that she could magically cause Mrs. Merkel and Mrs. Wilhite to disappear. She opened her eyes again, half hoping her wish had come true, only to see Mrs. Merkel staring at her.

  Abbie sighed. “I’ll be here on Tuesday at three o’clock,” she said.

  On Sunday morning after church, Mrs. Thompson drove Abbie and Davy to the Pancake House.

  “How come we’re here?” Davy asked as he pressed his nose against the car window. “We only eat here on birthdays.”

  “And special occasions,” Mrs. Thompson said, her voice so light and bright that Abbie half expected to see stars float out of her mouth with her words.

  “Why is this a special occasion?” Abbie asked. She tried to think what they might be celebrating and came up blank.

  “We’re celebrating the beginning of more family time together,” her mother answered.

  Davy threw off his seat belt, bouncing on the seat. “You mean Dad will be here too?” he shouted.

  Mrs. Thompson sucked in her breath. “No, honey. He won’t be here. It will be just you and Abbie and me. We’re the family now. And we’re going to have fun and do things together and talk—really talk—to each other.”

  As Mrs. Thompson opened her car door and stepped out, Davy confronted Abbie. His eyes reddened with the tears he was obviously fighting to hold back. “What’s with Mom?” he demanded.

  Abbie shrugged. “I don’t know. Humor her.”

  Davy’s lower lip curled out, and he frowned. “It’s because of you.”

  “Me?”

  “Getting arrested. Now Mom’s gonna try to be Supermom and drive us crazy, and it’s all your fault.”

  Shocked, Abbie tried to answer, but Davy had jumped out, slamming the door so hard that the car rocked. Abbie got out of the car on the other side and hurried to catch up with her mother, who had crossed the parking lot and was waiting for them in the shade of the restaurant’s overhang.

  Abbie took a good look at her mother. The breeze from the bay had caught the hem of her pale blue skirt, swirling it around her long legs. Her strawberry-blond hair, which Abbie was glad she’d inherited, gleamed in the late-morning light. For a moment Abbie could see her mother not as a middle-aged woman, fifteen pounds overweight, but as a young woman excited and happy about life. That must have been the way Abbie’s father had seen her when they first fell in love.

  As Mrs. Thompson stepped inside the air-conditioned restaurant, Abbie caught up with Davy. She gripped his shoulder hard. “Don’t do anything to spoil Mom’s day, or you’re history,” she said.

  “Quit that,” Davy complained. He tried to wriggle free.

  Abbie released her grip, but she said, “I mean it. Mom’s had a tough time, so be nice to her.”

  Davy whirled to face her, anger still in his eyes. “Mom’s had a tough time? What about us? What about me? Because of her I haven’t got a dad around anymore.”

  “You’re wrong!” Abbie cried. “Dad left because he didn’t want us. As far as he was concerned, we were nothing. We were nobody. It’s not Mom’s fault.”

  “Shut up! That’s a big lie! Dad wants us to live with him—I know he does—but Mom won’t let us.”

  Abbie saw the fear and desperation in Davy’s eyes. Aching for him, and hating her father even more, she put an arm around Davy’s shoulders. “Right now it doesn’t matter what you believe or if you’re right or wrong. We’re all hurting,” she said. “Be good to Mom. Okay?”

  Davy broke away. He ran to the door of the restaurant, tugged it open, and disappeared inside.

  Soon they were seated, menus in hand. Abbie stared at the words, which became unreadable dark squiggles on the page. She wasn’t hungry. She really didn’t want pancakes. She didn’t want anything more than life as it used to be, and that was impossible.

  “Oh, doesn’t everything look wonderful?” Mrs. Thompson asked cheerfully. Her voice was so high and brittle Abbie winced, expecting the words to shatter and crash to the floor. “Davy, they’ve got that Strawberry Tower you like so much.”

  “I hate Strawberry Towers,” Davy grumbled.

  Abbie kicked his ankle under the table. He automatically kicked back, and she jumped as his shoe connected with her shin. Behind the menu she glared at him, but he simply looked away, as if he didn’t care what she had promised or threatened.

  “How about the apple pecan pancakes?” Mrs. Thompson asked, her voice less perky.

  Aching for her mother, who was trying much too hard, Abbie said, “Great idea, Mom. That’s exactly what I want.”

  “Davy?” Mrs. Thompson asked.

  Someone suddenly stepped between Abbie and Davy, resting his hands on their shoulders. Startled, Abbie quickly glanced up and saw her father.

  “Dad!” Davy shouted so joyfully that people nearby turned to look and smile.

  “I saw your car outside,” Dr. Thompson said. “I thought I’d stop by and say hello.” He pulled out the fourth chair at the table and sat down. “I’ve just moved into a condo two blocks from here. It faces the water and has a place to store my boat. Has a nice view, too.”

  “Who cares?” Abbie wanted to say, but she clamped her lips together tightly and stared down at her menu. He wouldn’t hear if she spoke. She didn’t exist. She was a nothing … a nobody.

  Abbie saw her mother’s lips part, as though she intended to speak, but Davy burst in, shouting eagerly, “You’ve got a boat? Really? Dad, if you’ve got a boat we could go fishing!”

  “Davy, I—”

  “Is it a sailboat? Does it have a motor?”

  “Yes.” Dr. Thompson shot a quick, guilty glance at his wife before he added, “It’s just a sixteen-footer. Got it secondhand.”

  “Wow!” Davy shouted. “Dad! Could I come and live with you?”

  Dr. Thompson cleared his throat. “Davy, not—”

  Abbie slapped her
menu down on the table. She could feel the heat in her face and knew she was blushing. “Be quiet, Davy,” she commanded. “You’re yelling.”

  Davy did lower his voice, but he leaned toward his father, clutching his arm. “Could I, Dad? Could I come and live with you? Now? It wouldn’t take me long to pack.”

  Dr. Thompson’s forehead puckered, and he looked at Davy sadly. “We can’t talk about that now, son,” he said. “Maybe after I’m settled … Your mother …”

  In the silence Abbie watched the expression on her little brother’s face twist from joy and excitement to misery. She instinctively stretched out a hand to touch his arm. “It’s okay, Davy,” she said.

  But Davy shrugged her hand away. “Mom won’t let me, will she?” he cried, tears running down his cheeks. “Why won’t you let me live with Dad, Mom?”

  Mrs. Thompson glared at her husband. “That was cute, putting it on me,” she said. “Tell him the truth. Tell Davy that the decision to leave us was all yours. Tell him you don’t want him around to interfere with your romance.”

  “Be reasonable, Sandra,” Dr. Thompson said.

  “Tell him,” Mrs. Thompson insisted.

  Dr. Thompson pushed back his chair and stood. His back was straight, his expression stern. Abbie could picture him in his intimidating classroom. “Sandra, I stopped by only to give my family a friendly greeting,” he said. “I didn’t expect you to turn it into an unhappy issue.”

  Mrs. Thompson spoke slowly. “You coward! Get … out … of here.”

  Davy twisted in his chair, trying to grab his father’s arm. “Dad, can I go with you? Please?”

  Dr. Thompson bent to touch Davy’s cheek with his own. “You can’t, Davy,” he said sadly. “You heard your mother.”

  As his father strode out of the restaurant, Davy wadded his napkin, shoving it up against his eyes. “I hate you, Mom,” he muttered. “I hate you.”

  Abbie met the gazes of the people who were staring, forcing them to look away. “Mom,” she said. “Let’s go home. We’ve got pancake mix in the cupboard. I’ll make some pancakes.”

  Mrs. Thompson gripped the arms of her chair, her face as blotchy as though she’d been slapped. “Yes, Abbie,” she whispered. “Let’s go home.”

  Davy refused to eat Abbie’s pancakes, and Mrs. Thompson took only two bites before she pushed her plate away. “I’m sorry,” she said to Abbie. “Lately I seem to have very little appetite.”

  As Davy threw open the pantry door and began to cram the pockets of his jacket with packages of peanut butter crackers, Mrs. Thompson asked, “Davy, what are you doing?”

  “Getting something to eat,” he answered.

  “Abbie made you these perfectly good pancakes. She—”

  “I hate pancakes. You can’t make me eat them. I’m never going to eat pancakes again.” He ran to the kitchen door.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Outside.”

  “Where outside?”

  Davy turned and glared at his mother. “P.J.’s coming over. That’s okay, isn’t it? I mean, you are going to let me see my best friend, aren’t you?”

  Mrs. Thompson sighed. “Honey, I wish you’d try to understand. If you’d like, we could find a quiet place to talk.”

  Davy didn’t answer. He raced out the kitchen door, slamming it behind him.

  In misery Abbie watched a tear roll down her mother’s cheek. Another followed and another. She stared down at the wedding ring on her hand, not moving, not even seeming to notice she was crying. Abbie got up, pulled a fistful of tissues from the box on the kitchen counter, and handed them to her.

  “Mom,” she said, “let’s go to a movie this afternoon. Okay?”

  When Abbie didn’t get an answer she kept talking, realizing she was babbling but unable to stop. “We can see that new sci-fi film. Davy will like that one. I mean, all the kids are talking about it, and he hasn’t seen it yet. That ought to make him feel better. Oh, I mean, you know—distract him. We could even take P.J. with us and stop off afterward for hamburgers. Want me to call P.J.’s mom?”

  Mrs. Thompson leaned back in her chair and mopped at her eyes and nose with the tissues. “If it’s okay with you, Abbie, I really don’t feel like a movie today. You can ask Gigi over if you’d like to.”

  “Gigi and her family are driving to Corpus Christi to visit her grandmother. I’d like to do something with you, Mom. Really, I would.”

  “Davy doesn’t understand …”

  Abbie patted her mother’s shoulder. “I know, Mom. But he will.”

  “I should take him to counseling, but right now I can’t afford it.”

  Mrs. Thompson got to her feet, gave Abbie a hug, and left the kitchen.

  The telephone rang, and Abbie reached for it eagerly. Maybe Gigi hadn’t gone out of town.

  “Hi, Abbie,” a deep, soft voice said. “This is Nick Campos.”

  Abbie stood silently, her mouth open, and Nick went on. “Remember me? English class?”

  “Y-Yes,” Abbie said. Of course she remembered Nick. He was tall, with dark curly hair and deep brown eyes. Nick was fun and good-looking.

  “I was wondering if you were free to go to a movie with me this afternoon,” he said.

  Abbie was startled and confused by her mixed-up feelings. Nick was a nice guy and had a great smile. But Dad had a great smile too, and what was behind it? A man who would walk out of the lives of his wife and children as if they didn’t matter.

  Abbie gripped the phone. She cleared her throat, when her voice didn’t seem to be working, and tried to speak up. “I’m sorry, Nick. It was nice of you to ask me, but I can’t go out today. I’ve got … other stuff to do.”

  “I shouldn’t have called so late,” Nick said. “It’s just that it’s such a pretty day, and I got to thinking about you, and … well … can I call you again for a date, Abbie?”

  “Yes,” Abbie said, wishing she had said no.

  Nick said goodbye, and Abbie echoed the word. She slowly hung up the receiver. Probably at any other time of her life a call from a cute guy like Nick would have thrilled her. Upset by her feelings, she grew even angrier at her father.

  As she cleaned the kitchen, Abbie tried not to think about him. Every time he came to mind her stomach clutched and pain tightened her chest.

  Sunday’s Buckler Bee still lay folded on one end of the table. Abbie sat at the table and spread the newspaper flat. The headline dominated the top half of the first page: BANK PRESIDENT SHOT. Below the headline, next to the news story, were two large color photos. One was a fairly recent shot of Delmar Hastings with his wife and children. The other was a studio portrait of the bank’s head cashier, Irene Conley.

  “So that’s who Irene Conley is,” Abbie said aloud. She had seen Irene working in the bank but hadn’t known either her name or her job. The picture flattered her. Blond hair, green eyes, mouth just a little too wide—the real-life Irene didn’t have the softness of features that the camera had given her.

  Abbie read the story but didn’t learn much more than she had from the group of senior citizens. “At seven-fifteen A.M. Saturday an unknown person or persons robbed the Gulf East Savings and Loan. The head cashier had been knocked unconscious, the president of the bank had been shot and killed, and the vault was found open. No estimate has yet been made as to the amount of the missing money.”

  As she thought about the crime, Abbie felt a wave of sorrow not only for Mr. Hastings and his family, but also for Irene Conley. How horrible it must have been for her to come back to consciousness and find her employer dead.

  Abbie studied the picture of the Hastings children. The youngest boy looked close to her age. You lost a father too, she thought, but at least you know that your father didn’t want to leave you. He wasn’t like mine. With a shudder, Abbie quickly turned the page of the newspaper.

  Beside her the telephone rang. Her mind still on her father, Abbie angrily gripped the receiver. If this is Dad, she thought, I’m going to
tell him exactly what I think of him for butting in and spoiling Mom’s day.

  “Hello,” she yelled at the phone.

  “Don’t yell like that. Keep your voice down, or you’re going to ruin everything.”

  “Mrs. Merkel?”

  “Of course it’s me. You shouldn’t have to ask.”

  Abbie took a deep breath and answered with satisfaction, “It’s Sunday, Mrs. Merkel. I have the day off.”

  “Day off? What kind of an assistant are you? Days off are for people with nine-to-five jobs, not for private investigators. I need you. Right away.”

  “I can’t.”

  Mrs. Merkel lowered her voice. “They’re on my block now, you stupid girl.”

  “Who’s on your block?”

  “The crooks. Who else?”

  “But—”

  “Don’t argue. Is Mrs. Wilhite going to tell me you have Sundays off when I tell her I asked you for help and you refused to come?”

  “Look, Mrs. Merkel,” Abbie said. “I’m not going to let you intimidate me. If I get in trouble with Mrs. Wilhite, well, okay. So be it. Just because you tell me that crooks are on your block, you expect me to—”

  A recorded message suddenly interrupted Abbie. “If you wish to place a call, please hang up and dial again.”

  Abbie slammed down the phone. “Crazy old lady!” she grumbled. “She hung up on me.”

  Mrs. Thompson appeared in the doorway, raw hope in her eyes. “Was that call for me?” she asked.

  Abbie groaned. It wasn’t Dad, if that’s what you’re asking, she thought. Oh, Mom, don’t hope that he’ll call you. Don’t expect him to. He isn’t going to apologize for what he did. He isn’t going to beg you to take him back. Not ever.

  “It was Mrs. Merkel,” Abbie answered. “She’s worried about some crooks.”

  “Crooks? What is she talking about?”

  “I don’t know, Mom,” Abbie said, “but I’d better drive over to her house. Could I use the car?”

  “Sure,” Mrs. Thompson said.

  The phone rang again, and Abbie picked it up. She turned away so that she couldn’t see the spark of hope on her mother’s face.

  “Get over here fast!” Mrs. Merkel yelled into the phone. “Those crooks are coming closer. They’re practically next door.”