The Missing Girl

by Norma Fox Mazer

  POLICE SEEK INFORMATION ON MISSING MALLORY GIRL

  Mallory—Police are looking for information that would lead to the whereabouts of a Carbon Street child who was reported missing late Sunday evening. Autumn Herbert, 11, was last seen Sunday morning, when she left her home at approximately 11 A.M., according to Detective Kurt Brantley of the Mallory Police Department. Detective Brantley said the 5th-grade girl was reported missing by her distraught mother. So far police have been unable to locate anyone who has seen her since she left her home on Carbon Street.

  Detective Brantley described the girl as 5'2", weighing 135 pounds, with waist-length brown hair and hazel eyes. She was last seen wearing blue jeans with embroidered flowers on the back pockets, a yellow T-shirt, a red jacket, and white sneakers with a red blaze on the heel, Brantley said.

  Anyone with information is asked to contact Detective Brantley at the Mallory Police Department (555-3166) or call Crime Stoppers (555-3513).

  * * *

  TUESDAY MORNING: SLEEPING AND CRYING AND SINGING

  HE’S GONE, AND you’ve been sleeping. You had a dream about Poppy and Fancy, and they were talking to you, and you were happy. And then you woke up.

  All morning, when you’re not sleeping, you’re crying. You think S&C. When you’re not S&C, you peel strips of wallpaper. You peel carefully, trying to peel off whole sections with the sailing ship that reminds you of that song Poppy sings, the one that always makes you smile and tear up at the same time.

  “‘Four strong winds that blow lonely,’” you sing, “‘seven seas that run high.’” Your voice wobbles, but you go on. “‘All these things that won’t change, come what may. Well, our good times are all gone—’” You never really thought about those lines before, but now the words make a jagged lump in your stomach, and you go back to peeling wallpaper, and keep T&F—trying and failing—to get yourself up on the windowsill.

  You curl up on the cot, and you’re crying again. You hold yourself, and you cry and cry, and your eyes ache, and your face is all tight and swollen. And you remember how Poppy always told you, Crying don’t do you one bit of good and plenty of not good.

  Then and there, you make up your mind. You’re not going to cry again.

  Later, you find yourself wishing he’d bring you an apple.

  Wishing he’d let you watch TV.

  Wishing he’d take you outside, even for five minutes.

  And you find yourself thinking how you’ll ask him for these favors in your nicest voice, and how he’ll say yes, yes, and yes.

  TUESDAY EVENING: MY ADVENTURE

  HELLO! HERE I am with The Urge, because I had an adventure, and when Autumn my sister isn’t disappeared anymore, I’ll tell my adventure to Mrs. Sokolow my teacher, and she’ll say, “Fancy, good for you! Stand up here in front of the class and tell everyone your adventure.”

  And I will! I’ll tell everybody I was in a car with two police, and we drove around different streets, and the man police said, “Honey, keep looking out the window, okay? And tell us if you see anybody that talked or acted funny with you and your sister.”

  And then the lady police asked me a bazillion questions, like, “Where did you go with your sister? What places? What did you two do? Did anybody talk to you?”

  I told her lots of people talk to us, and sometimes we go to the candy store, and sometimes we go to the park, and I feed the cute little baby ducks with bread that the nice man gives me, and baby ducks are sooo cute.

  I was just saying nice things, but the lady police said the F-swear, and the man police said, “Laura, please,” and the lady police said, “Chris, we’re not going to get anything worthwhile from her.”

  Which meant me, and she thought I didn’t know, but I did, and when I go back to school again, I’m going to tell everyone about going in the police car, even Kevin Farley, who just shakes his head all day long and doesn’t like me. And Mrs. Sokolow my teacher will say, “Good for you, Fancy. You had an adventure!”

  TUESDAY EVENING: FIDDLEHEADS

  HE NOTICES THE red bumps on your hands. He says, “What’s that rash on your hands?” and you say it’s probably from being under the blanket without a sheet.

  He brings you a sheet. He wants you to say thank you. You say it.

  He wants you to say he’s a nice man. You say it.

  You ask if you could have a pillow, too. He says he’ll think about it. “If you’re a good girl, maybe.”

  He puts you on his lap.

  You go away, you float out of your body and swim along the ceiling and float right out the window, and you’re with Poppy in his truck, taking a ride to find fiddleheads, which Poppy likes to do every spring. Fiddleheads are like free vegetables, and you’re the one who most likes to go with Poppy to find them down by the creek, where the ferns grow in the marshy places.

  Mommy is always happy when you and Poppy bring back a bag of the funny coiled little green things. “They charge eight bucks a pound for them things at the market,” she says, kissing Poppy on the cheek because he’s so smart. And she cooks them with cabbage and carrots and makes a nice gravy, and you and your sisters and Mommy and Poppy all sit down and are so nice and happy together.

  WEDNESDAY MORNING: BORED LONELY

  HE OPENS THE door and crooks his finger. You pick up the pail. He walks you down the stairs, his hands on your shoulders.

  After he takes you back to the room, he brings you food. He spreads the newspapers and makes the tablecloth joke. He puts down a small box of cornflakes, a glass of water, and a banana. He doesn’t like milk, and he won’t buy it. He watches you eat the dry cornflakes. When you’re done, he says, “Was it good?”

  “Yes,” you lie. You’re still hungry. You’ll be hungry all day.

  “How about a smile?” he says.

  You make a smile.

  “Nice,” he says. “You should always smile.” He smoothes his tie. He’s wearing pressed pants, a blue shirt with white stripes, a blue flowered tie, a black cardigan sweater. His face is all shaved and clean. His hair is combed neatly. If you didn’t know, you’d think he was a teacher or a minister.

  He pets your hair, then he looks at his watch, and he says, “You be a good girl while I’m gone.” You don’t say anything. “Are you going to be a good girl while I’m gone?” he asks. You say, “Yes.”

  He pets your hair again or maybe he doesn’t, because he starts twisting your hair around his hand. He twists it and twists it, until you cry out, “You’re hurting me.”

  Later, you’re so bored, so lonely, you find yourself:

  looking forward to going downstairs (someplace other than this room)

  wondering about supper (maybe there’ll be something different)

  thinking about his return.

  Thinking about his return? And then it hits you. You’re getting used to being a prisoner.

  WEDNESDAY, MID-MORNING: FREAKS

  SITTING ON THE floor in the living room, Beauty was staring blankly at a TV show in which two women were yelling at each other about the man sitting between them. It was a freak show, hair falling around the faces of the furious women, their hands clawing the air, while the man sat there, his arms folded, a little smile on his face.

  This was the third day Autumn had been missing. The third day Beauty and her sisters had stayed home from school. Beauty had made the decision. “We can’t go to school. We wouldn’t be able to concentrate on anything.” By now they had all stopped crying. They roamed the house, restless, or stared at the TV. They forgot meals, but neighbors brought them food, or they ate popcorn and chips. They were in waiting mode. Waiting for the police, waiting for someone, for anyone to bring them Autumn, or at least news of her. And silently Beauty prayed, Good news, please. Make it good news.

  The phone rang, and Beauty leaped up, although it was probably just Jane Russo, the reporter from the Mallory paper, who called a few times every day to ask if they’d heard anything.

  “What is it with you people?” a man
said on the other end of the line. “What’d you do with her? You bunch of freaks, you shitty people, you child abusers, you better—”

  Beauty slammed down the phone. She was shaking.

  WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON: TOUGH GUY

  THAT FIRST DAY, when he led you up the stairs like a dog on a leash? You thought he was taking you hostage. You were young then.

  Was it Monday or Tuesday when you imagined yourself leaping into the air and karate kicking straight through the window? Ka-booom! You imagined yourself sailing out, landing on your toes, taking off for home. You were young then.

  You ball up your fists and bang on the window. “Break, damn it,” you scream. The window stares back at you with a blank face. Like his face, you think.

  You trot around the room. You’re a horse. Around you go. Once, twice, three times, six times, ten times.

  You’re a kickboxer. You kick the cot with each pass.

  You’re a tough guy. You run, smashing your hand against the wall. Your hand hurts, but you’re a tough guy. You trot faster, wall to wall to wall, kicking, screaming, smashing.

  WEDNESDAY EVENING: WHEN…

  YOU HEAR HIM outside the door…

  you see the door knob turning…

  you watch the door opening…

  your eyes swing around the room, corner to corner to corner, as if there’s someplace to hide.

  There isn’t.

  You don’t move. Your hands bite into each other.

  He’s carrying the chair.

  WEDNESDAY EVENING: WHAT DOES HE WANT?

  THE MAN STANDS at the sink, washing dishes and listening to the sound of her little feet above his head. He’s read about men who do bad things to little girls. He’s not like them. He’s just a lonely man. He’s always been lonely, except for eight years ago when he also had a little girlfriend. He’s tried to obliterate her and her red curly hair from his memory. It ended badly. That little girl wasn’t nice. Because of her, he lost his freedom for five years. Five bad years. He pulls the plug on the sink, yanks it up hard.

  He doesn’t like to think about that, or what happened when he got out, either. How he was supposed to report in constantly. How no one wanted him to live near them. How they put signs on his car. How he couldn’t get a job. A miserable, miserable time. It’s all behind him now, like a bad dream. He came through it, though. Took himself away from that poisonous atmosphere, and now he has a new name, a home, a job, and, best of all, he’s not lonely. Thanks to her! After all, it’s her doing that she’s here. He didn’t do anything to make it happen. She came to him, walked right up to him, didn’t she? As good as invited herself into his life.

  He picks up a blue plastic mug. Hers. She’s coming along, getting used to things, not like the first day when she would hardly speak, just kept crying, her face all snotty and wet. And the sounds she made! Cat sounds. Piercing, mewling cries that sent shivers into the palate of his mouth.

  The cats regard him, one from under the table, one from the top of the refrigerator. Violet’s a climber. The male is exactly the opposite, always under things. To each his own, the man thinks. Every cat, every man, wants something different. And what does he want? He holds the blue plastic mug to his lips. He wants her to be his. To sit on his lap. He wants to stroke her hair, her face, her arms and legs. He wants her to be happy that she’s here. He holds the mug against his lips a moment longer, then places it carefully in the dish rack.

  WEDNESDAY EVENING: BLOODY HELL

  THE SPRAY OF THE headlights briefly lit up the ditches, the rutted road, the sprawl of trees. Beauty’s eyes ached from peering into the thick darkness. Next to her Mim was a small, solid presence, leaning close, looking out the window with her. The truck hit a rock or maybe a dead animal and lurched to one side of the narrow road. “Bloody hell,” Nathan said for at least the third time. “These roads are worse than New Hampshire.”

  “But this is a good old truck,” Mim said, patting the seat. She was sitting between Beauty and Nathan. “What’s its name?”

  “Name?” Nathan said, as if the word were from a foreign language.

  “You didn’t name it?” Mim said. “When I get my pickup truck, I’m going to name it.”

  “Crazy,” Nathan said, and laughed.

  Beauty shifted. She knew Mim was trying to keep Nathan calm. Already, twice, he’d said they should give up this “crazy search” and go home. And now he said it again.

  “It’s getting late. How about we call it a night?”

  “No!” Beauty said, and then more quietly, “Please. Not yet.”

  Four days had passed since Autumn disappeared. Vanished, as if she’d been swept up and off the face of the earth. Beauty had little hope that this needle-in-a-haystack search, this trawling from the truck and praying for something, would produce the miracle of finding her sister, but it was unbearable to stay in the house, hour after hour, day after day, night after night, and do nothing.

  Nathan slowly steered the truck down the dark country road. They might have been anywhere—or nowhere. The road curved, went uphill, then down again. They approached a lit farmhouse, passed it and the looming shape of a barn, then darkness descended again. The road grew narrower still, ruts grabbed the tires, and suddenly Nathan pulled over to the shoulder and cut the engine.

  “You know this is stupid, don’t you?” he said. “Beauty. I’m talking to you. This is your idea, and I respect it, but it’s stupid. I’m sorry, but it is. We have no idea where she is, or what we’re doing on this road. She could be across the country for all we know, she could be—”

  “Stop,” Mim said. “Don’t.” Beauty felt her huddling closer.

  “We’re just wasting our time,” he said quietly. He took off his cap and put it back on. “Come on, you girls know the cops are doing the real work. Am I right?”

  Beauty didn’t answer, just kept peering into the darkness. Was something moving there on the side of the road? She pressed her face harder against the cold window. Bushes. A few trees. Nothing else, not even an animal, but down the road, everything could change. It could happen. They could find her. Maybe stumbling along, lost. Maybe lying by the side of the road, left there…“Let’s go,” she said.

  “Wait a second. Just tell me why we’re here. I mean, why are we on this road?”

  When Beauty was silent, Mim said, “It’s something to do.” She slid her hand into Beauty’s. “It’s something, isn’t it, Beauty?”

  “Yes,” Beauty said. “It’s something.” That was it, exactly.

  “Look,” Nathan said, “I understand. You want to contribute, but like I said, we’re just wasting time. Beauty, you listening? Why don’t we just let the cops get on with it?”

  At that moment headlights appeared in the distance. Slowly they grew stronger. Beauty stared, unblinking. Now she could hear the sound of the engine. For over an hour they hadn’t seen a single car, yet here was this one, coming steadily on, straight toward them.

  Beauty watched the hypnotically bright beams cutting the air, gripped by the thought that, at last, it was going to happen. Something momentous was about to take place. That car was bearing Autumn toward her. She threw open the door and leaped out of the truck. She ran down the middle of the road toward the car.

  “What are you doing?” Nathan shouted. And she heard Mim, too. “Beauty, wait!”

  She ran straight into the headlights, waving her arms. The car stopped, and a man looked out the window. “You need help?”

  Beauty leaned on the hood, breathing hard, bracing herself with both hands. “My sister,” she said. “I’m looking for my—”

  “Say what?” The man had a bushy beard, wore a red-checked cap. “Are you stuck? I have a cell, I can call a tow truck.”

  “No, it’s not that.” He was alone. Or was he? She went around to the passenger side and peered into the car. A big dog slept on the backseat, his head on his paws. Newspapers were piled next to him. Bottles littered the floor.

  Beauty stepped back ont
o the shoulder of the road and waved the man off, but he didn’t go. “Who’s in that truck you just came barreling out of?” he said suspiciously.

  “It’s okay. It’s my cousin and my sister.”

  “That her coming?” Mim was making her way down the road. Beauty nodded. “You sure everything’s okay?” he said.

  “Yes. I’m sorry I made you stop.”

  He shrugged and slowly pulled past her. Then Mim was there and took her arm. “Come on, Beauty,” she said. “Come on.” She walked her back to the truck, waited till she was seated, then got in herself and slammed the door.

  “I guess it’s okay if we go home now?” Nathan said, but he didn’t turn the key in the ignition.

  Beauty covered her eyes with her hands and rocked. Now they would go back to the house without Autumn. And they would all go to sleep, and another night would pass without her littlest sister at home. “No. No. No.”

  Nathan put his arm around her. “Take it easy,” he said.

  Beauty pressed herself against him. “Oh, please. Oh, please, oh, please,” she heard herself wailing. She wanted so much. She wanted love, she wanted him…or someone. She didn’t know what she wanted…but oh, yes, she did. She did! She wanted Autumn safe home.

  Mim’s hands were on her shoulders. “Beauty,” she said, “Beauty,” and the sound of her voice brought Beauty back to herself. Abruptly she was sober and moving away from Nathan. “Sorry,” she gasped. “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s nothing,” he said, “don’t worry.” He turned the key in the ignition.

  THURSDAY MORNING: NOTES