Make Believe

by Joanna Scott

  He opened the door to Jenny’s room and in the sheet of light that spread across the room in front of him he saw Marge’s stocking feet at the end of the bed, toes pointing toward the ceiling. It took another moment for Eddie to find form within the dark corner, to see, with effort, his wife lying beside her grandson, her head propped on a pillow, her arm bent to cradle the sleeping child. Eddie could tell from the stiffness of her body that she was awake and still resentful, that she considered Eddie an intrusion and wished him to get out. So he got out, retreated to their bedroom, where, after a brief hesitation, he dove face first onto the mattress in an attempt to smother the memory of what he’d just witnessed. A woman, his wife, lying with her sleeping grandchild, a harmless scene that in different circumstances would have provoked in Eddie a sweeter sentiment but now seemed to him unbearably perverse, not because of any physical intimacy but because of the implication of exchange: Marjory Gantz, seduced by the devil, unable to distinguish between wrong and right, between truth and falsehood, between guilt and innocence, had traded her husband for the child.

  The king is dead! Long live the king!

  The weather turned hot — hot and dry and still — the lake glassy, algae slopping at its edges, trees buzzing with cicadas and Marge buzzing with hot resentment, though not because Dorrie Jelilian claimed to have spied Eddie entering a bar in Gifferton. Marge had seen at once the obvious innocence in Eddie’s face and had persisted with the accusation only because it gave her unexpected pleasure to drive Eddie toward fury. She’d wanted to make him rage, fume, sputter, stomp, while she sat calmly by, watching him spin loose, out of control.

  Eddie was right about one thing: little Kamon Michael Templin had changed Marge. But change depends upon changelessness, and Marge considered the possibility that she had resented Eddie ever since he’d sent Jenny away. Maybe she’d resented Eddie from the moment she’d agreed to marry him and had accepted resentment as an inevitable aspect of their marriage, perhaps had even nurtured it so she’d have something to give color to her solitude. She’d been strong enough to drive her first husband from the house and to raise her family alone; with Eddie, she’d been strong enough to deceive him into thinking she was weak.

  Not strong enough to defy him, as it turned out. She’d let him send Jenny away, convincing herself that in the long run Jenny would learn a necessary lesson about responsibility. And that’s exactly what happened: Jenny learned that if she wanted to be a responsible mother and hold down a job, then she had to drive from the mall to the city to pick up her son and drive home to Arcade on a wet night in April when the roads were slick. But if Marge had been strong enough back when Jenny was pregnant, then Jenny would have learned about responsibility from the refuge of the home where she’d been raised. If, then. Follow the logic to its source and you’ll find Marge letting Eddie push her around.

  Not anymore, thanks to Kamon Michael — Bo, as she’d come to call him. He had indeed changed Marge, strengthened her with his own resentment. He didn’t like her — he had no reason to like her, given her record of disinterest. Yet he couldn’t help but prefer her to Eddie. Dangerous Eddie. As sure as the weather would turn cold again, he would turn against the child. Marge found herself savoring the premonition along with the corresponding intensification of meaning. In such a dangerous world anything could happen, and risk made ordinary activities seem freshly poignant.

  And then in a different sort of mood Marge stopped relishing the possibility of danger and simply accepted the situation. The tension, as she explained it to herself, was entirely natural. Eddie couldn’t be blamed for his inexperience with children; Bo couldn’t be blamed for his inexperience with adults. They were at odds and would remain so, like two houses on opposite shores of the lake. Nothing would happen, and accusations would wither away for lack of proof. Consider Dorrie’s gossip: how wrong she’d been to include Eddie in Joe Simmons’s escapades. Joe could make a fool of himself, but not Eddie. Eddie Gantz was not the philandering sort, never had been, never would be. Neither would he let himself hurt the child, and Marge was wrong to consider him dangerous.

  Hot, still, dry summer days. Marge drifted idly, sometimes imagining the worst that could happen, other times anticipating nothing out of the ordinary. She let Ann baby-sit for Bo while she had lunch with her friends. She worked in the kitchen and the garden, took daily walks, sat in a deck chair and drank iced tea while Bo played with his cat in the backyard. She wondered how she could doubt Eddie, wondered how she could trust him, wondered what she could do to make everything turn out all right, wondered what she meant by all right, decided that the case against the hospital should be dropped; no, that the boy deserved whatever the lawyers could win for him; she contemplated the dust, a dry summer after a wet spring and now all this dust, dust on her eyelashes and in the creases of her palm, dust on the counters, dust giving the boy’s black cat a brownish sheen. She imagined the lake evaporating, shrinking away from its shores, transforming into a muddy swamp. Sometimes she feared the devastation of a terrible drought; other times she enjoyed the slow, hot days and wanted summer to last forever. She felt content, suspicious, pleased, anxious, proud, aghast, strong, weak. She wondered how she was changing and what part of herself would never change; she wondered what to do, what not to do, what to expect and what to discount out of all the things she heard over the course of any one day.

  And then one hot August morning Ann announced that she would be moving in with Mervin. Bo was watching television, and Marge had just started to make lemonade when Ann came down to the kitchen in her oversized T-shirt and declared her plan. She would be turning eighteen in two weeks and had a right to make her own decisions. She’d live with Mervin, study in a food services program at a nearby business college, Mervin would learn to cook, and someday they’d open a restaurant together.

  “Don’t pull this on me, Ann.”

  “I’m not pulling anything. I’m just telling you the facts.”

  “I need you here.”

  “Yeah, and I’m like, like the perfect baby-sitter, cheap and available.”

  “That’s not what I mean.”

  But it didn’t matter what Marge meant — Ann had made up her mind, made it up without giving a thought to her family, and nothing Marge said would dissuade her. So without another word Marge continued twisting a half lemon in the juicer, sensed the cold stare of Ann’s eyes on her back and a few minutes later felt herself released, though she hadn’t heard Ann leave the room.

  Marge waited a long forty-five minutes before she went upstairs to find her daughter. Instead of Ann she found Ann’s boyfriend, Mervin, lounging on Ann’s bed.

  “How long have you been here, Mervin?”

  “Hi there, Marge. I didn’t hear you —”

  “Where’s Ann!”

  “She’s in the bathroom.”

  “Then I’ll talk to you, Mervin. I think Ann should stay at home. She’s better off at home, and if you care about her, if you really want —”

  “Aw, Marge —” Ann had come in from the shower wearing shorts and a bright red tank top, a towel draped over her wet hair. “We’ve made up our minds. But anytime you want us to watch Bo, you just bring him over.”

  “I’ll let him play my drums,” Mervin added, tapping a rhythm in the air — tah tah tatata tah ta ta.

  “He’s a good kid. You were right, Marge. He’s better off here. Settling finally, I’d say.”

  Marge watched her daughter rub her hair dry, watched Mervin watching Ann, felt herself weakening as she watched them, tears glazing her eyes, so she turned toward the open window. Once she could control her voice again she said, “You’re leaving because of Eddie.” The silence that followed confirmed what she feared, even though after a long minute Ann said, “I wouldn’t do anything because of Eddie.”

  Oh, but you would, Ann. What Eddie wants — Eddie being the sort — you being the sort — Mervin offering — and all the dust, the dust, the goddamn dust!

  She left
them in the bedroom that would soon stand empty. Instead of going directly downstairs she stood in the hall, not intending to stay and listen but unable to stop straining to hear what they were saying, their low voices buzzing, wordless, the sound conveying no more than the fact that they didn’t want anyone to overhear what they were saying.

  Marge sidestepped to peek into the room and saw within the frame of the doorway Mervin sitting on the end of the bed, his thin arm stretched out toward Ann, who had her back toward him, his hand dipping into her shorts while she tugged a comb through her hair.

  “By the way,” Marge burst out, abruptly entering the room. Mervin drew back his hand, pressed it under his thigh as though to subdue it, and Ann whirled around. “I was thinking you’ll be wanting, you’ll need —”

  “Could you knock, please, Marge?” Ann muttered.

  “Linens, towels, that sort of thing, yes? Let me see what I have to spare, some towels, maybe a couple of blankets, yes? pillows, you’ll need pillows and washcloths, whatever else, feel free to ask…”

  “Fine, that’s great, thanks, Mom.”

  Who?

  She’d never gotten used to that name and felt flattered, as though she’d been mistaken for a movie star. She returned to the hallway, chewing lightly to contain the grin on her face, and started sorting through sheets in the linen closet, pulling out supplies for Ann. With a dry washcloth she wiped her forehead. Still an hour until noon and here she was dripping with sweat.

  Later, Marge liked to think a premonition brought her back downstairs to check on Bo, but more likely it was just a sense of time — she’d been upstairs long enough and so went downstairs, crossed the living room to pull the drapes closed against the hot sun, heard the crash-bang of the television show, and went to offer Bo a glass of lemonade.

  He wasn’t on the couch where she’d left him. He wasn’t on the floor behind the couch, where he sometimes hid. In the first few minutes Marge felt annoyed at him for hiding and ignoring her calls, making her search high and low — in the kitchen, in the basement, upstairs in his room, downstairs beneath the dining room table, behind chairs, on the back deck, in the backyard.

  “Bo! Bo, come here! Bo! Ann, where is Bo?”

  How he loved to play hide-and-seek, to sneak away when he thought Marge wasn’t looking. “Bo!” A cunning child, pretending to vanish into thin air. But he never wandered far, never —

  “Ann, where is Bo? Ann!”

  “What?”

  “Where is your nephew?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Smack of cold fear. The child was gone, really gone this time! He’d wandered beyond calling distance, out of sight, out into the world. Maybe he’d gone down to the creek, yes, that’s where children went when they ran away from home, to the creek to wade in the silver water! If not to the creek, then down to the lake. A small child alone by the lake. The lake ate children, swallowed them whole, devoured one or two each year and spit them back in pieces — a sneaker, a headband, a ring, a limp, naked body. A small child alone by the lake. Or the creek. The world was too dangerous for children, who couldn’t comprehend the risk of life.

  “Bo! Bo!”

  Marge sent Ann to search the creek, Mervin to follow the path into the woods, and she ran down to the lake, drops of sweat stinging her eyes, her breath coming in huffs, her breasts flopping, a scene that in hindsight would make her laugh — thick, foolish woman jiggling in a panic down the lawn, across the road, down the steps to the pebble beach, waving her arms and calling to Frank Jelilian, who was steering his boat toward the south end of the lake. He couldn’t hear her above the noise of the motor and just kept on going, unaware that a child might be drowning, Jenny’s child, Marge’s grandson, the only one in the world who still needed her.

  Think, Marge, think. There was no sign of him on the shore, no overturned bucket or spade, whatever he might have brought along with him, if he’d brought anything, if he’d even come here to the lake. Probably he hadn’t come down to the lake, for wouldn’t Frank Jelilian have seen him and headed straight over to find out what Bo was doing, a young child alone at the water’s edge?

  If not the lake, then the creek. Marge climbed back up to the road, walked up the driveway because she didn’t have stamina left to run, and headed across the backyard into the field. “Bo!” she called. “Ann!” Her heart had sprung loose from her chest and lodged in her throat. “Bo!” She cut through the meadow, pushed aside the brambles that had grown over the path connecting the field to the old logging trail, headed down the trail, and met up with Ann around the first bend.

  “He’s not,” Ann said, gasping for breath. “He’s not.”

  The sun shone like melted gold behind the glaze of white clouds; the cicadas buzzed; a blue jay screamed; gnats swirled across the trail. It was so dusty and hot, and the dust clung to Marge’s skin like a thin wet cloth.

  Children disappear and sometimes they magically reappear and sometimes they don’t. Sometimes they run off to the creek without telling their mother where they’re going. Sometimes they disappear forever down a dark, empty road. Now Bo had disappeared, and Marge would be to blame for it. She’d let him slip away, let him wander off into the dangerous world.

  “Oh!” she said, her voice barely rising above a whisper. “Oh.” She tottered back along the path to the meadow, dragged herself through the crackling grass with Ann close behind, and stopped to rest against the maple tree at the side of the backyard. This tree, rough bark against her hand, leaves hanging limply in the dusty air — its solidity appalled her. That it should stand so brazenly alone while a little boy might be running for his life, yes, this was the only way Marge could imagine him, a little boy running along a path, across a lawn, down a sidewalk, running anywhere, stumbling, scraping his knees as he fell and picking himself up to run some more, running away from death, a monstrous thing near enough to cast a shadow across the boy but still outside the frame of the scene as Marge imagined it. Bo running, running, running. Marge ran, too, ran back inside the house and picked up the phone and started dialing one of the numbers posted beside the phone, the number of the sheriff’s office.

  She got that lousy Myrna Joyce on the line, the secretary who was trying to steal Joe Simmons away from his wife. Marge tried to explain but couldn’t put the words together to make sense, so Ann took the phone from her and gave Myrna the information — the boy missing for a good hour by then, a boy dressed in navy shorts and a striped cotton shirt, a four-year-old child who was small for his age, a brown-skinned boy, black hair needing a trim, the son of Jenny Templin and —

  Kamon Gilbert. The Gilberts! Of course, why hadn’t Marge considered it? Those Gilbert folks, damn it! She tried to take the phone from Ann but Ann resisted, listened to whatever Myrna was telling her, and then slammed the phone in its cradle.

  “Those damn Gilberts!” Marge shrieked.

  “We’re suppose to wait here,” Ann said, peering over the sink to see through the open window into the backyard.

  “Oh!” puffed Marge, picking up the phone and hitting redial, shouting as soon as Myrna answered, “Go find those Gilberts, the ones, you know, you know, they’ve stolen my grandson.” Myrna told her to sit tight, Joe would be right over, and Marge said, “Go to hell,” and hung up the phone.

  “Oh!” Marge had to sit down; she had to stand up. Didn’t anyone care what happened to her grandson? Why weren’t sirens wailing, people shouting, police gathering in her front yard? She’d lost the child of the child she’d lost a year ago, and no one cared, not even Ann, who had gone back outside to smoke a cigarette. All of a sudden she desperately wanted Eddie with her, wanted to hear his quiet, decisive voice making plans, devising strategies, promising her that he wouldn’t sleep until he found the boy. He’d be angry with her for letting the child out of her sight, but his forgiveness would be quick and total. He’d forgiven her for accusing him of lying, hadn’t he?He’d forgiven her for taunting him and ignoring him. He deserved a better wif
e. Why he put up with her she couldn’t say.

  She snatched a cigarette from the pack Ann had left lying on the counter, pinched it tightly to keep it from trembling between her lips, and lit the end with a kitchen match. She stared at the phone, prepared to make the call she wanted to make to Eddie, but her right hand hovered in midair and Marge just kept on starting at the dull black plastic and puffing on the cigarette, her first in three long years. She wanted to call Eddie and would call him soon, but first she’d finish her cigarette. She rehearsed what she would say: Eddie, I need your help. Bo… Michael… little Michael has —

  The ring of the phone startled her, causing her to drop her cigarette, and the ember left a small brown welt in the linoleum. The phone rang four times before Marge finally picked it up.

  “Hello?”

  “You’re there.” Eddie’s voice. Eddie always speaking nothing but the truth.

  “Yes.”

  “Joe called me. Now I know you’re worried, Marge, but just keep yourself steady and he’ll turn up. I’m coming home.”

  “I’m thinking that those Gilberts… they’ve stolen him.”

  “You’re thinking that?”

  “Yes I am.”

  “Those Gilberts are Christian folks, whatever else you want to say about them.”

  “They could have snuck inside the house somehow…”

  “You tell Joe what you’re thinking when he gets there. He’ll look into it. I’m coming home now. I’ll be there in, what, about twenty minutes.”

  “Eddie —” He’d hung up. Into the silence of the dead connection Marge said, “I’m sorry.”

  Joe arrived and Marge followed him on his search through the house, listening to him tell about the time a mother had called to report a missing child, an eighteen-month-old baby that had fallen asleep between the plush cushions of the couch. No one saw him there for a good hour until a deputy sat down on the couch to begin filling out a report, and the child began to cry. And then there was the time that the Jelilian boy ran away from home and hitched a ride with a trucker to Cleveland. And Marge’s own daughter Jenny, remember how she’d gone off with Tony to the creek and Marge called to say she’d been kidnapped?