I found nothing, so operations were moved to our bedroom. Same approach there—over, under, around, through. I even checked my own belongings to make sure they hadn’t been used as new hiding places. Lily kept a diary, which I read, but I found nothing other than small gripes and triumphs, philosophical musings. Events and ideas that meant something to the day but would be quickly forgotten if not recorded. A touching note, but one that did not deter me, was how many times she wrote about us and how much better life had become since we met. There was progressively more nothing as I worked through our home from room to room, object to object. What was I looking for? Often I held something in my hand and stared at it as if I were the first archaeologist to discover hieroglyphics. You know they are of the greatest significance, there are stories and information, whole worlds here, but all of it is a million miles away from your understanding although only twelve inches away from your eyes.
Working for hours, I cut my hands and tore a fingernail reaching and pulling, twisting things apart. I stopped to make a sandwich and ate it looking at the small pile I’d assembled on the floor that might mean something. None of it meant anything. I knew it. I knew Lily was hiding something. The more I worked and thought about it, the more I was convinced her outburst was only the tip of one big iceberg of a lie. The proof was here, but I could not find it.
In the end, at three o’clock in the morning, when I had filled the pad with notes, checked and double-checked that everything was back exactly as I’d found it, finished cursing, finished double– and triple-checking… I had come up with exactly two things: There was absolutely no trace whatsoever of Rick Aaron. No letters, no diary entry, no old shirts shoved in a back drawer with his name tag sewn in, no photographs, nothing. How could that be? How could you love someone so much and, despite a bitter end, not keep something of theirs to remind you of a time in your life when you thought of nothing but them? I knew couples who’d thrown each other’s clothes out the window when they broke up, or gave the other’s belongings to the Salvation Army, but all of these people kept something. Not Lily. To judge by what I had “excavated,” the only proof of Rick Aaron or Lily’s relationship with Lincoln’s father was the stories she had told.
The second thing I found was a couple named Meier. Gregory and Anwen Meier. At the bottom of her underwear drawer was a small clipping from a dog magazine announcing Somerset Kennels, home of champion French bulldogs. Proprietors Anwen & Gregory Meier. An address and telephone number were given at the bottom. Lily loved dogs, so at first I thought she’d saved the paper because she was planning on buying one of these bulldogs when old Cobb passed away.
The next mention of these people came in a newspaper article I found slipped into one of her books. The article was old and yellowing, whereas the book was new—the copyright date only a year old. Mrs. Anwen Meier miraculously walked away from a collision on I-95 that totaled her automobile. Mrs. Meier was admittedly driving over the speed limit when she lost control of the vehicle. It left the road and crashed into the pillar of an overpass. Although suffering from mild shock, she was treated and later released from the hospital. In the margin of this article, Lily had written: “Anwen = Very beautiful’ in Welsh.” So they were friends, old school pals? I thought the connection must be with Gregory. Why else would she look up the name of the other woman?
The third “piece” of the Meiers was another newspaper clipping, also yellowed. It appeared to be from the same paper, simply announced the couple were leaving Fowler and moving back to New Jersey, their home state. Gregory Meier is quoted as saying they had had a great four years here but felt it was time to go back home “to fulfill a lifelong dream for both of us, which is to raise pedigree dogs.”
Lily had some other clippings and photographs but not many: a group shot of the gang at her restaurant, one of an older couple I assumed were her parents, a few of strangers (none fitting her description of Rick), but the Meiers won the contest with three items. Interesting.
I was embarrassed going to Mary again with my suspicions, so I asked around and found another good detective agency. As if sneaking into a porno movie, I hurried through their door and explained what I wanted to a sympathetic middle-aged man with fishing trophies on his wall: Anwen and Gregory Meier. Here’s the address in New Jersey. Please find out everything you can about these people. It was a brief, comfortable conversation. But when it was over and I was driving to my next appointment, two things struck me. First, the detective, a Mr. Goff, hadn’t once asked why I wanted to know about the Meiers. Who was I and where did I get off sniffing into their lives? What if I were someone bad, or dangerous, and compiling this information to use against them? Goff wasn’t interested. Just the facts, bud. You want to know about their foibles and affairs, blemishes, hidden scars, what they eat for breakfast when they’re alone together and feeling very in love? You pay and I’ll find it.
I did not feel wrong doing this so much as stained. Sometimes it is right to look all around another’s life; yet the act, however correct, lessens us. This notion led to the second thing that chilled me about the meeting with this detective: no matter what I discovered about Lily Aaron via the Meiers, I was breaking the trust between us by taking this course of action. Even if it turned out she was hiding something surprising, or dubious, I was the one to blame. Granted, I had already looked through our house for telltale signs, but that was only between us. We both lived there. Now I’d crossed the line—gone “out” to search, and that changed our world.
In the meantime Lincoln was home, energetic and apparently fit as a fiddle, despite a big ugly bump on his head. Lily allowed them to keep him in the hospital the necessary twenty-four hours, but was slipping the kid into his sneakers and jacket the moment he was cleared. We were told to keep close watch on his alertness, reflexes, and orientation. If anything was amiss, we were to get him the hell back fast. We kept him home from school three days, but by then he was so itchy to get back to his life, we let him, after telling his teachers to watch him too.
For the most part Lily returned to her old good self once she felt the crisis was past, although there were exceptions. For one, she didn’t apologize, much less mention, her behavior at the hospital. Instead she acted as if nothing had happened. Even Lincoln’s accident was like a years-old ink smudge on a white handkerchief: yes, if you looked hard you could see the faint shadow of a mark, but why look when its presence was all but invisible?
One Sunday the three of us drove down to Venice beach to people-watch and have dinner. The skateboarders, bag ladies, beach bunnies, Rastafarians on roller skates playing guitars, flat-out insanes, and other beings from the great beyond that congregate there were out in force and we walked among them as if they were the surreal topiary and great loony statues at Bomarzo or Disneyland.
In the past we’d spoken several times about having our palms or tarot cards read one day. Feeling this was as good a time as any, I suggested going to one of the many fortune tellers who’d set up card tables along Ocean Front Walk. Lily wasn’t interested. I didn’t push it, but Lincoln got excited and started in. She said no three times before permitting him, but insisted she choose the one, who turned out to be a hippie so stoned out and vacuous-looking that I was surprised he was even able to cut and lay down his cards without dropping them. A strange choice of soothsayers.
“Phew, kid, this is adamant stuff. The Ace of Wands is your card. I mean, there are multiple wands here.” That comment and a few other forgettable earwigs cost five dollars.
There was a combined restaurant/bookstore nearby where we ate. After the meal, we went into the store to browse a while, each going in his own direction. About fifteen minutes later I looked up and by coincidence saw Lily outside talking with Lincoln’s stoned fortune teller. Still sitting, he pointed to something on the table in front of him. I couldn’t make out what but assumed it was one of his cards. Lily paid close attention and wrote hurriedly in a small notebook she often carried. He’d speak, tap the card,
gesture, and she’d scribble scribble scribble. I watched until they finished. She took out money and gave it to him. They shook hands and she started back toward the store. I lowered my head to the book in hand. Don’t ask me what the title was. I couldn’t say. She came in and right over to me, smiling and friendly.
“What do you say, lover? About ready to go?”
“Give me another five minutes. I want to check one other thing.”
She went to find Lincoln while I asked the woman at the counter for the section on tarot cards. There were two books. The first said, “Wands. This suit indicates animation and enterprise, energy and growth. The wands depicted in the cards are always in leaf, suggesting the constant renewal of life and growth. The associations are with the world of ideas, also with creation in all its forms.” The second said, “It is the suit of beginnings, of formless fire energy. It requires clear goals and plans, it requires a firm foundation for the energy not to burn itself out. Notice that the knight rides through a desert, devoid of houses and people as well as trees and water. Without something to carry that energy to a purpose, the desert will not open up to life.”
The way I usually do “Paper Clip” is to draw the two figures and their surroundings first, then write the caption. Normally I know how I want it to look and sound, but there are times when the drawing completely changes the final words.
A line I came up with, driving back from Venice, was: “Truth is like oxygen—get too much of it and it makes you sick.” I envisioned my two characters with fishing poles in hand, their lines going into the screen behind them. One of these guys has hooked a fish so enormous that the only detail we see of it is the beginning of a mouth and a colossal eye. Where did the idea come from? I hadn’t found out anything real “bad” about Lily, no terrible new truth. Yet. Still, way down deep in my bones I felt something big and surely bad was coming. Heavy intuition. The sound of devils whispering…
I drew my two guys fishing, drew their fish, wrote the words “Truth is like…” at the bottom of the page, and stopped.
Take out a new sheet of paper. The two are running away from gigantic images of themselves on the screen. I wrote, “Honesty is the Scariest Policy.”
New sheet of paper.
I did four different variations on the idea and would have done a fifth if Lily hadn’t come into the room and asked me to come to bed. As was her way, she put a hand on my shoulder and looked at what I had on the drawing board. My stomach tensed. What would she say? Could she know why I’d done this?
“Gee, Max, these are cynical. They’re not like you. Or are you in a bad mood? Do you really believe this?”
“I believe truth isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.”
“Really? You told me you’re not a big liar.”
I wanted to say this, I wanted to say that. To turn around and look her in the eye, demand, “Are you a big liar? Because you got me running scared, Lily. The more I pursue this, the more my imagination’s going bad. What’s going on? Tell me your secrets. Tell me the truth. No, tell a lie. Say everything’s fine. Even if I don’t believe you for a minute.”
When she left I started another drawing. The two face the reader. Rising out of the screen behind them is a big hairy monster’s arm. It’s clear in the next second it’ll snatch them up and eat them for dinner. Oblivious to what’s coming, one says, “Believe me, Paranoia’s the only sure growth industry in the nineties.”
“Mr. Fischer? This is Tony Goff.”
“Excuse me?”
“Tony Goff, of the Known/Unknown Agency.”
“Oh yes, of course. Excuse me.”
“I gathered a dossier for you. Whenever it’s convenient, I’d like to arrange a meeting.”
“Is there a lot?”
“Yes, it’s quite substantial. I have, oh, almost a hundred pages of material.”
“A hundred pages?”
“Yes, well, in a federal case there’s invariably a great deal of paperwork.”
“Federal? Oh Christ, okay. Can we meet today?”
“I’m at your disposal.”
“My God, they’re both so beautiful!” I looked up quickly to see how Goff reacted to my gush. But it was impossible not to exclaim when you saw the Meiers for the first time. He’d shown me three pictures. You can be fooled by photographs, tricked by light or angle into believing someone is more or less than they really are. But line up three and you get a good idea of what’s true. Anwen and Gregory Meier were beautiful. They belonged at gala openings, in glossy magazine ads for tanning oil or skimpy underwear. See a couple like this on the street and you love and hate them in equal measure. The lucky ones. Golden People. Without knowing a thing about them you assume they’re rich, successful, have a fabulous sex life, a wonderful life generally.
“Wait till you see this last one.” He found a sheet in his thick folder and slid it across the desk to me. “A little different, huh?”
“That’s not the same woman!”
“It is.”
“Unbelievable. She looks fifty years old and dying of cancer.”
“She’s only thirty-three now, and that shot was taken several years ago. I tell you, though, I’ve seen the life sucked out of people for a lot less reason than the one she had. Would you like a cup of coffee?”
“No, thanks. Tell me the story, Mr. Goff.”
He rubbed the back of his head and stared at me a long few moments. “Are you a journalist, Mr. Fischer?”
“No. Why do you ask?”
“Because of this.” He pointed at the folder. “I know those nonfiction crime books are very popular these days. You know Michael Mewshaw’s? He’s my favorite. The one about the boy who murdered his parents? Outstanding.”
“What does this have to do with the Meiers?”
He didn’t appear to be in any hurry. Pushing his chair back from the desk, he locked his hands behind his head, elbows out, and looked at the ceiling. “A million kids a year disappear in America now. One million. That’s the newest finding. No big thing anymore. In my opinion, it started going out of control back in the sixties when they began vanishing and turning up on communes. Drugs were suddenly for celebrities and not just weird things beatniks took. And Free Love! Since being a virgin didn’t matter anymore, kids could do what they wanted with their bodies and feel grownup the minute they reached puberty. What can my parents tell me I don’t already know? Instant independence. Now, to make it worse, there’s a fifty-percent divorce rate, which means every other kid comes from a broken home. The real statistics are coming out on child abuse in the home. And these new, cheap killer drugs… Ah, don’t get me started. I’m not even talking about teenagers here. Kid fifteen or sixteen runs away, they’re old enough. Maybe not enough to know better, but they can fend for themselves.
“The Meiers’ baby was kidnapped. Two months old. They were living in Garamond, Pennsylvania, at the time. Gregory Meier was a banker in Philadelphia. He went to Haverford College, his wife to Bryn Mawr, which is right next door. Both of them came from New Jersey. High school romance, from what I can make out. They’d been married two years when the baby was born. A boy. His name was Brendan. Brendan Wade Meier.”
“A boy. This was how long ago?”
Goff looked through his papers. “Nine years. Nine years and… three months.”
“Go on.”
He didn’t. He stared at me instead. “You don’t know any of this, do you?”
“No, nothing.”
“You don’t know these people?”
“No.”
“That’s funny, because I would have sworn you did. Just by the way you talked to me about them the first day. Gave me their name and said look into it… As if you expected me to know who they were too.
“Anyway, Mrs. Meier went to the Garamond Shopping Plaza one afternoon. Her husband liked French bread, so she’d gone to buy a loaf at a special bakery there. According to her testimony, she left the baby carriage in front of the store, but only because there w
as a big plate-glass window that allowed her to see it clearly from inside. Said she’d done it many times before. There was no one else in there, so the exchange took no more than two, three minutes. She left the place, stuck the bread into a bag hanging off the side of the carriage, and wheeled it away. Now comes a very key point. She said when she left the store, she did not look into the carriage. Only slid the bread into the bag and walked to her next errand. At the door to this next place she looked down to see if the baby was okay and discovered for the first time it was gone.”
“What—” I stopped; I had to clear my throat. “What happened after that?”
“What happened? It’s all in the folder, but basically another small face went onto the milk cartons: ‘Have you seen this child?’ The boy’s been missing nine years, Mr. Fischer.
“The Meiers did everything they possibly could but turned up nothing. My sources told me they’re still spending a great amount trying to find him.
“But, you know, a lot of the time with a tragedy like this, almost worse is what happens to the parents. What I gathered was Mr. Meier suffered some sort of breakdown. Then they moved from Garamond to Missouri—”
“Fowler, Missouri?”
He looked a while through the file. “Yes—Fowler, Missouri. That’s right.”
“Where she had a car accident?”
Goff nodded, still scanning his file. “I’m not on any kind of firm ground when I say this, but I don’t think it was an accident. There’s a real feeling here she was trying to kill herself.”
After Silence Page 9
