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Jack shook his head sadly. “So you justify lying to people because they are gullible enough to believe you? That is circular reasoning of the worst sort. You can’t say that people deserve to be taken advantage of just because they are naïve enough to think better of you. Why not just be better?”
I rolled my eyes. “These aren’t some beautiful, well-intentioned villagers being pillaged by an evil duke, Jack. Do you have any idea how excited people were to imagine that a body had been found? The lurid fascination, the absolute craving for vicarious cruelty that lurks behind the façade of soccer moms and church dads? Or what about what happened to old man Whithers a few weeks ago? You think I caused that? Oh, no. All they were doing was waiting for permission. Permission to hate. Permission to act on hatred. And the minute they perceived even a wisp of affirmation, they became openly the monsters they really have been in secret all along.”
Jack nodded, his eyes on mine. “I see. And what do you become?”
“Entertained.”
Jack shook his head. “I thought better of you.”
The disappointed father routine was tiresome. Besides, like so many other things in his life, Jack hadn’t quite mastered the role. I preferred Andy Watson’s performance.
“Living up to your expectations is not the driving force behind my motivations.”
Jack nodded, sucking in his lips. “All right then, Jeff. I can’t do this anymore. I’m sorry to leave you in the lurch, but I have to quit.”
I made no effort to repress my smile. “What a shame. Just when I was finally taking you off the HOA beat.”
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“Well, that would have been nice, no doubt. I hope you’ll be careful with what you do.”
Standing, I shoved my hands in my pockets. “Life is too short and brutish for caution.”
Something sparked in Jack’s eyes. “Hobbes was saying that life outside society is short and brutish and nasty. But what you’re doing is exactly what’s putting you outside society.”
I shook my head. “Oh, Jack. Do you really think you’ve spent all those years studying and reading just so you could pull that quote out in just this moment? That somehow, all those books meant something after all? That this is the argument you’re meant to win?”
“I’m not narcissistic enough to believe anything of the sort. I read because books matter in the moment they live. Because words do matter. And maybe there are still some words that might matter to you.”
“Oh, I agree whole-heartedly. Words absolutely matter. Maybe they matter more than anything else. I guess we’ll find out.”
Jack pursed his lips and stared at me for a long moment before resignation crept into his gaze. He turned and left without saying anything else.
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Dissatisfaction left a bitter taste on my tongue. I wasn’t sure why the interaction with Jack left me feeling so uneasy.
I remember when I was very young―perhaps six or seven―I had spent a summer afternoon carefully gathering cicada shells into a shoebox. I’d been fascinated by the tiny legs that still gripped the tree trunks with fierce determination, the curl of the torso, the bulge of the eyes, the perfect split down the back from which the transformed being had made its escape. It had amazed me that the creature’s shed skin could so perfectly preserve its former shape. Eagerly I’d run back to the house to display my treasure to my mother.
She’d been horrified, repulsed. In vain I’d tried to convince her of the wonder of the things. Eventually I’d given in and carried the shoebox back outside. My mother was beautiful, and she loved beautiful things. How could she not be impressed by the collection I’d worked so hard to acquire?
How could Jack, of all people, not see the wonder and beauty of language that could so easily propel people into action? It was downright mystical, when you thought about it. Biologically, we people are consumed with our own survival. Our individual own, first and foremost, followed by the compulsion to recreate and defend that progeny. Yet something as ephemeral and insubstantial as words could inspire action that defied those biological impulses.
Never mind the grand eloquence of ideas like patriotism and defense of the faith that have had men hurling their bodies into graves for millennia. What about the much sillier and simpler constructs? The right combination of words could compel an otherwise calm and reasonable man to brawl with a stranger on the street whom he has no chance of beating, can persuade an intelligent, professional woman to follow a rapist or murderer into a corner from which she will never emerge. The right combination of words can even convince a child that no monsters exist when all reason and all senses clearly state that they do.
If anyone in this town was going to understand the power of what was taking place here, it should have been the English teacher.
Oh, well.
Dictionary.com: uncanny valley: noun, psychological concept that describes the feelings of unease or revulsion that people tend to have toward artificial representations of human beings
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Patience has never been a strong suit of mine.
The television droned with reruns of Law & Order and Criminal Minds, but I didn’t pay attention. I was listening to Ada’s voice on her voicemail message, over and over, while my dinner grew cold in my lap.
She didn’t even have one of those cutesy messages that some people like to record, something original or sarcastic or funny that leaves you with a real sense of the personality behind the number. Hers was the stock message, professional and matter-of-fact. But it was still her voice.
“Unregarded loneliness.”
Lately I’d been waking out of a sound sleep, with those disembodied words drifting through the air as if they’d just departed her lips.
Standing up abruptly, I shoved the uneaten pizza onto the end table. I strode into our bedroom and pulled out the drawers of Ada’s dresser. She’d thrown a few things into a suitcase that night, but most of her belongings still lay in their customary disarray. I pushed past the silky panties and tangled bra straps, searching for the little address book that she kept in spite of her cell phone.
There!
I took it with me, retreating back to the chair that was becoming a world unto itself. Flipping through the pages, I quickly found the entry I was looking for.
Raul Grigori.
Ada’s step-father. For the first time, it struck me as meaningful that Ada and I both had dead mothers. You’d think that would have seemed more seminal earlier. I rarely thought about my mother’s death anymore, though. It had been a dreadful day, as I suppose all such days must be, and I had no inclination to dwell on it. And Ada … well, I hadn’t asked much about it, to be honest. A stroke, I think. Uncommon in one so young, but blood pressure and birth control pills and some such. Ada had been close to her step-father, but he and I had never met.
As the phone rang, I had the sensation of hurtling down some dark, icy tunnel, on whose walls I could find no purchase to slow my descent.
“Hello?”
“Is this Raul Grigori?”
“Yes, it is. Who’s this?”
“This is Jeff Paine. I–I’ve been seeing your daughter, Ada.”
“Ada?” His voice sharpened. “Is she all right? Is something wrong?”
“Well, that’s why I’m calling. She … left a couple of weeks ago. I haven’t heard from her, and I’m starting to get worried. I was hoping you might know where she is.”
“Did you two have a fight?�
��
This was hard to explain. “No, we didn’t fight. She just needed to leave. Something to do with her art. She didn’t have a real plan, I don’t think. I had expected to hear from her by now, but I haven’t. I keep calling her phone, but it just goes to voicemail.”
“My God. How long has she been gone?”
“A couple of weeks. Maybe a little longer than that. So you haven’t heard anything? Seen her?”
“No, nothing. But that’s not unusual for us. Sometimes we go a few weeks without talking. Have you called her friends?”
“I know that no one at the restaurant has seen or heard from her.”
“Oh, God. Oh, God.” His voice had deepened, as if he were sinking into a hole.
“Look, Mr. Grigori. We haven’t met, and I didn’t mean to worry you. I just thought you might have heard something. I’m sorry to have bothered you.”
“No, no, I’m glad you called. Have you notified the police?”
“Do you think I should?”
“She’s missing. Yes, I think we should.”
“Well, I’m not sure she’s really missing. She wanted some time to herself. Said she needed to figure some things out. I don’t want to start a manhunt and piss her off.”
“I’d rather risk pissing her off than have some maniac hurt her when we weren’t even looking for her.”
Parents, even step-parents, are very predictable.
“Okay. Yeah, sure. I didn’t think about that. Should I call?”
“No, no. They probably won’t pay attention to you. They’ll just think she’s mad at her boyfriend. Let me try to call her. If my call goes straight to voicemail, too, I’ll call the cops. I’m the next-of-kin. They have to listen to me.”
“Sure, that makes sense. Do you want the number for the police station here?”
“Yeah, that would help.” Grigori lived in the Springs, on the other side of the mountains.
I rattled off the number by heart. I’d called it often enough, chasing down stories.
“I’m more worried now than I was before I called you,” I confessed.
“I wish you’d called sooner. I’ve got to go now. I’m going to try her phone. I’ll let you know what I find out. Is this your cell number?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll text you, then.” The phone went dead in my hand.
Absently I retrieved my cold pizza and took a bite, chewing thoughtfully. Now perhaps events would move along more briskly.
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A journal would be helpful, I thought
Returning to our bedroom, I dug through my own dresser ’til I found the journal Ada had given me months ago. The leather cover was printed with images of old atlases, no doubt meant to encourage me to believe that there were still places in the world I needed to go.
A pen. I needed a pen. Maybe two pens.
And a gin martini.
Just for fun, I thought. Cast a doubt in this direction, cast its shadow in the other. See if anyone could find out where truth walked. If it walked at all.
Claire’s face came to mind for no reason at all.
Another incentive to head to the bar. Maybe she’d be back. Diversions were rare enough in this place. I’d take what I could get, even if it came in the form of a Frank Turner fan.
I checked my watch. Nine-thirty. Not too late. I could get a little time in, anyway. Bars close early in this town, especially during the week. But that was time enough for a few entries and a couple of drinks. I could finish up at home later.
I considered putting on a clean shirt and brushing my hair, but that would just work to negate the appearance of a harried and possibly mad man. I shoved my wallet into my back pocket and headed out the front door.
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Lorna was back behind the bar tonight. I wondered who the other fellow―Pauli?―had been, but not so much that I would waste time asking after him. If he were still around, I’d see him again soon enough. And if not, he could join the other mythological creatures who made up Brisby’s short history.
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I slid into my usual spot and snapped a quick salute in Lorna’s direction. She was hustling a tray of drinks, but she cast me a welcoming grin over her shoulder. A few minutes later, she was back, wiping down the bar in front of me more out of habit than an observation of any grime.
“Gin martini, Jeff?”
“Please.”
I opened my journal as I waited, tapping my pen against the back of my head and pondering the blank pages. It wouldn’t do to be too overt. But too oblique and maybe no one would even bother to read it.
A sweating martini glass appeared before me. Lorna leaned toward me, clearly in a talkative mood. Maybe it was all the truckers in the place tonight. She was usually a more self-sufficient sort, but I guess even bartenders get lonely. Perhaps more often than the rest of us.
“So, how’ve you been, Jeff?” Even when chatty, she kept her eyes on the room. She’d have made a better cop than Morris for sure. Probably better than Santiago, too.
Her comment struck me as singularly unaware. Curious, I trod carefully.
“Oh, you know. The paper keeps me busy.”
“It must, huh? Is there really that much news to report in this town?”
I laughed softly, pleasantly surprised to find that amusement could still touch me. “You’d be surprised. Don’t read the paper, huh?”
She half-turned toward me at that, her expression stricken as she laid a hand on my arm. “Oh, damn it, Jeff, I’m sorry. I really don’t. You know, I don’t even get out of bed ’til afternoon, and … well, I just don’t get around to it.”
I shook my head at her. “No worries, Lorna. You’re probably better off not knowing all the minutiae that motivates the people in this town. Besides, working here, you’re more informed than I am.”
“You might be right at that.” She recovered quickly from her bout of contrition. “Besides, what good would it do me to stay up-to-date with all the latest goings-on with ISIS or North Korea or even the president of the United States? It’s not as if I’m going to change any of it. It’d just keep me up at night for no reason at all.”
I sipped my martini. Damn, that stuff was good. Cold and clear and just as bitter as me.
“On the other hand, if everyone thought like that, nothing would ever change,” I suggested mildly, more out of habit than any desire to affect her.
“And you think anything ever has? I’ll stick to what I can see for myself, thank you. I can make sure my customers have a cold drink in their hand while they’re here and a safe ride home when they leave. That’s enough responsibility for me. If more people took care of their own, the world would be a better place anyway. I don’t guess those suicide bombers or gassers or what-not have any idea what’s become of their own. They’re too busy worrying about the big, wide world, and look where that’s got them.”
Another sip. Lorna was making more sense all the time. Although after a lifetime of chasing down knowledge, even in the most pitiful of ways, I couldn’t bring myself to embrace the head-in-the-sand doctrine of social responsibility.
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I jumped as Lorna slapped the bar in front of me.
“Well, I better mingle. Keep an eye on those cold drinks.” She winked at me. “Just give me a wave when you need your next one, Jeff.”
* * *
December 11, 2016
I feel her slipping further and further away from me. She locks herself in her studio almost every night now. What is she uncovering on those canvases? I am consumed with the wanting to know, but I am terrified to find out. Perhaps the distance is an imagining of my own. I can’t sleep withou
t her. Funny to think, when just a few weeks ago I didn’t even know her name. So I sit up in this chair, with Picasso curled contentedly on my lap, and wait for her to emerge. She comes out of that room a new and strange creature who nightly bears less and less resemblance to my Ada. Wild, bright eyes that look on places I cannot see and that do not see me at all. Still, she needs me, doesn’t she? The sex is fiercer and more powerful than ever. That must be her, that hungry, desperate little monster with its sharp claws and tearful face. How does a man hope to keep a dragon fed?
* * *
Sucking the last onion off the toothpick, I regarded my first entry with great satisfaction. Ada would have been pleased, I thought. And to know that the first entry in the journal she bought me was all about her―that would have delighted her self-absorbed little artist’s soul. Don’t misunderstand me, I never begrudged her that self-absorption. It was no greater than my own, certainly, and a necessary fault for any artist. How to excavate the soul of man without excavating the soul of self, right?
Absently I waved to Lorna, and moments later, my second martini appeared. Lorna came and went like batwing shadow this time, seeing that I was fully engrossed in my pages now.
Nine across: five letters, pearl seeker
Let’s see, let’s see … not too many entries. Just enough to hint at the approaching storm …
* * *
December 16, 2016
It’s all about hacking today. Russia hacked the elections, Russia hacked the Joint Chiefs of Staff, I’m pretty sure Trump hacked the ability of Americans to think for themselves. Ironic, since he is clearly incapable of the same himself. The world is full of puppets, cheerfully decked out in costumes of every political persuasion and social passion, but the same master holds all the strings. Who is that, I wonder? How would it be to seize those strings? Easier, I would guess, to cut them, but not as entertaining. Besides, the way these puppets cling to their harnesses, they deserve to be forced to dance.
God, Ada. Are you ever coming out of that room? This silence makes me sick and dizzy.
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