by Joseph Souza
He freezes and looks at me. “What paper do you work for?”
“The Tacoma Tribune.” I show him my fake badge with the woman’s name lifted off the paper’s Web site.
“Don’t they have any missing persons in Tacoma you can write about?”
“There are certain aspects of this case that make it intriguing on a national level,” I say, making it up as I go.
“Like the fact that she’s an oppressed minority and we’re all racist white dudes from affluent backgrounds? For your information, I grew up in a middle-class household outside of Detroit.”
“Then tell me your side of the story.”
“That’s the thing. I don’t know what happened to her. None of us do.”
“Don’t let them label you. Control the narrative and get ahead of this story before it controls you.”
“Hold on a sec.”
The door closes and I pace nervously on the porch. What am I getting myself into? Am I crazy to impersonate a reporter? Is it a crime? I walk past the wicker chairs and hanging swing. Alongside the house sit some empty kegs stacked three high. I wander back to the front of the house and sit on the rail. A few minutes pass before the door opens. This time another guy appears. He’s tall, but with short black hair combed over to the side and his bangs spiked. He’s good-looking but not as handsome as the blond Adonis who answered earlier. He waves me inside and I follow him to the back of the house, passing an ornate spiral staircase. We arrive in a large room with overhead lighting, beaded leather sofas, and a baby grand piano off in the corner. The lid is raised. He motions for me to sit across from him. Between us is a coffee table on a hand-knotted Persian rug.
“Bill said that you’re a reporter and want to talk to us about Mycah Jones.”
“Yes.”
“I’m Tanner, the president of this frat.”
“Nice to meet you, Tanner.” I introduce myself using the reporter’s name.
He leans over the table. “It’s absolute bullshit what they’re saying about us.”
“Oh?”
“There were about seven or eight of us drinking in town that night, but we had no reason to go after Mycah Jones, despite her sorry-ass behavior on campus.”
“Sorry in what way?”
“She’s been nothing but trouble ever since she arrived at Chadwick, always trying to stir things up and drive a wedge in the student body.”
“What has she been doing?”
“Pushing all this nonsense about racism and gender inequality on campus. Where do they come up with this shit?”
“Is it true?”
“Maybe in the past this place had issues, but certainly not now. Minorities are treated no different here at Chadwick than anyone else. In many ways they’re treated better, and the rest of us are held to a higher standard.”
“Have you ever considered that maybe your perception of campus life comes from being a privileged white male?”
“What are you talking about?” He looks at me as if I’m crazy. Have I pushed him too far?
“I’m just playing devil’s advocate,” I say. “So why do the police think that someone on the lacrosse team might have something to do with her disappearance?”
“When Mycah became president of the student body, she purposefully singled out the lacrosse team as the representation of all that was evil with Chadwick. We were easy targets. We’re white, mostly come from good families, and are the embodiment of the school’s past. But we’re not all spoiled rich kids. Many of us come from working-class backgrounds. My father works as a cop in Maryland.”
I jot all this down like I’m a real reporter. He’s eager to talk, so I don’t want to interrupt him unless I absolutely have to.
“Here’s the irony. Mycah comes from money. Her father’s supposedly some rich investor in Manhattan. Last year she organized a protest in front of our frat house and brought along every oppressed minority group with her: LBGT, blacks, socialists, Hispanics, Asians, whoever felt they were oppressed, which is just about everyone these days. They tried to run us off campus by saying they felt ‘threatened’ by our existence. Can you believe that?”
“Obviously she didn’t succeed.”
“That’s because some of the alumni promised not to donate any money to Chadwick if they kicked us out. Mycah wrote an editorial about it in the school newspaper, detailing how minorities on campus have for years been suffering from institutional racism. She pushed for gender-neutral bathrooms and safe spaces on campus. The bitch—excuse me—even got elected president of the student body by guilting white students into supporting her. Personally, I think the election was rigged by the administration, but no one can prove it.”
“She obviously feels strongly about these issues.”
“People like her can never be happy unless they have something to rail about. So they keep manufacturing lies in order to keep their message relevant or else it will fade into the background. Perpetual crisis, I call it. Eventually these morons will need to grow up and get a life.”
His words sting, forcing me to momentarily reexamine my own assumptions. But before I have a chance to reflect on it any further, he continues.
“The final straw came when she took a selfie of herself next to the statue of Ebenezer Chadwick. In it she was holding a lacrosse stick in front of the Confederate flag and was wearing a Chadwick sweatshirt. She tweeted it using the hashtags #ChadwickRepubli-cans, #WhiteMalePrivilege, and #EbenezerScrooge.”
“Maybe it was a joke.”
“She said she was only trying to make a humorous statement, but even the administration made her apologize for the photo. Unfortunately, it only made her more popular with certain groups on campus, completely dividing the student body. But at least she was forced to step down as president.”
“Were there many students on campus who didn’t like her?”
“Hell yeah. But many more did. She even wrote an editorial blaming white males for global warming and climate change. Can you believe that?” He shakes his head in disbelief. “Now the entire Greek system is on probation and may be done away with because of her lies.”
“Do you think any of her detractors would try to harm her?”
“I think some would like to, but I don’t know anyone who would actually go through with it. The players on this team are all great guys. And trust me, no one wanted anything to do with that girl’s drama.”
“I’ll bet there were some players willing to overlook her faults.”
“Yeah, she’s smoking hot. That’s part of her appeal. It’s all in the marketing, right?” He laughs. “Unfortunately, she’s been backed to the hilt by Chadwick’s new director of diversity despite the fact that Mycah tried to get her fired.”
“Tell me more.”
“I forget her name. They hired her a few years ago to help smooth tensions on campus after all this political-correctness bullshit started getting out of control. I was a freshman at the time. The president claimed they hired her to attract top minority students, but I think it was more to keep the lid from blowing off this school.”
“So they brought in more minorities?”
“What do you think?” He laughs. “They instituted this new policy where students whose parents make under sixty grand get to attend Chadwick for free.”
“It’s called equal opportunity,” I blurt out, instantly regretting it.
“Tell that to my parents, a cop and teacher, who are struggling to help pay three college tuitions. And now I have student loans up the yang.”
“Do you know this diversity officer’s name?”
He leans back against the sofa, looking like a future CEO or hedge fund manager.
“I can’t remember. Her husband was hired as a tenured professor in the African-American studies program. I think her position is half-time. She also teaches a few courses in the department.”
“Did you attend the vigil the other night?” I ask.
He fidgets nervously. “The whole team was there.
As much as us guys didn’t like Mycah personally, I never wanted anything bad to happen to her. It wouldn’t have looked good if the team didn’t show up. It would have given the administration another excuse to screw us over.”
I jot it all down, excited, feeling as if I’m a real reporter breaking a story, a story that will never get printed. I thank him for his time before leaving. My endorphins are popping and streaming. I can’t believe what I just accomplished. Maybe I should have been a journalist instead of an English major. The adrenaline rush that comes over me is like nothing I’ve ever experienced. I feel so intoxicated with power that I don’t want to return to my old humdrum existence as mother and wife.
I drive home in a state of giddiness. But that falls away as soon as I walk through the front door. My boring life returns in full force like a blunt slap in the face. Soiled breakfast dishes sit in the sink and on the counter. Piles of laundry await folding and putting away. Soon the children will be home and the usual pattern of my drudgery will begin all over again.
LEAH
Thursday, October 15, 7:42 a.m.
BEFORE GOING TO BED I WAITED UNTIL ALMOST ELEVEN O‘CLOCK for Clay to come home last night. I was exhausted and fell quickly to sleep, but I heard him stagger in just after midnight. He tossed his clothes on the floor and collapsed heavily into bed. Even from my side of the mattress, I detected the stale scent of beer on his breath. It oozes from his pores and gives off a stench that never fails to repulse me.
The children are at the table and eating breakfast when he staggers downstairs. He pulls up a chair and takes us in. Despite shaving and showering this morning, he looks like hell. His hair sticks up in every direction and his skin appears blotchy, as if he slept on a hairbrush. Despite his pitiful appearance, I marvel at how handsome he is. At times he reminds me of one of those disheveled detectives in those TV crime dramas. Nevertheless, I’m still angry with him. I need help around here. Chores are piling up and I can’t possibly do it all myself. The twins need him. They need their father’s love and attention more than ever. Doesn’t he realize this?
I scramble three eggs in a pan, caramelize his turkey sausage, and scrape butter over his whole-wheat toast while he reads the paper. I set his coffee down in front of him. He manages to mutter, “Thank you,” under his breath as I let Mr. Shady out to do his business. Once Mr. Shady comes back inside, I sit down across from Clay and stare at the children. Zack is reading a comic book. Zadie is moving her head back and forth while softly singing a song from the movie Frozen.
“You came home pretty late last night,” I say.
“I know and I’m sorry. I’m so behind on everything at the brewery that it’s pathetic.”
“We need you here, Clay. The kids need their father.”
“I know, babe. Just give me a little more time to get a handle on things.”
“I can’t parent them all by myself. You should probably hire another person to help you and Ben.”
“I’m not quite there yet, but once we start turning a profit, I promise you I will.”
“You’ll wake up one day and Zack and Zadie will be grown up and off to college, and then you’ll be sorry.”
He sighs and puts his head in his hands in frustration.
“You forget that I was a single parent for almost eight months while you were out here setting up your brewery.”
“I know and I can’t tell you how much I appreciate what you’ve done for our family.” He reaches out and clasps my hand. “Just give me a month or so to get straightened out and I promise things will get better.”
I sip my coffee and stare at him. “I had to speak to Zack’s principal yesterday.”
“Oh?” He turns and watches as Zack flips the page of his comic book. “What did he do now?”
Zack keeps his eyes glued to the muscular superhero.
“Speak up, son. You must have done something if your mother had to go down and speak with the principal.”
“I’m guilty of reading a book,” Zack says.
“Mein Kampf,” I add.
“Mein Kampf?” Clay wrinkles his face before bursting into a fit of laughter. “Holy shit.”
“It’s not funny,” I say.
“It was for a book report. I read that Mein Kampf was banned in Germany, so I wanted to see what the big deal was,” Zack says. “I wanted to find out why the German people liked Hitler so much.”
“Sounds like a reasonable explanation,” Clay says, biting into his toast. “Kid’s into history.”
“He’s way too young to be reading Mein Kampf,” I say. “Do you know the stigma that could attach to him if other students find out about this? They’ll label him a Nazi and he’ll be teased and bullied throughout school. It could even affect your business, Clay.”
“Okay, kiddo, maybe you shouldn’t be reading that sort of thing,” he says, running his hand through his son’s hair. Zack jerks his head away as if repulsed by his father’s touch. “What’s the matter?”
“You know I don’t like to be touched.”
“Sorry for showing some affection.”
“You’re never around anymore,” Zack says.
“I’m trying to support our family and provide you with a nice home.”
“Whatever. You know I don’t like being touched.”
“When did this start happening?” Clay turns and glares at me.
“I don’t know,” I say.
Zadie starts to sing louder.
Zack stands as if to leave. “It’s just a stupid book. I don’t know why you two are making such a big deal out of this.”
Clay walks over and gives me a peck on the cheek before fleeing out the door. I load the dishwasher, clean the table, and wipe down the kitchen counter. The kids gather their book bags and take their lunch containers out of the fridge. There’s a Frozen-themed lunch box for Zadie and a Jurassic Park lunch pail for Zack. I usher them to the front door and wave good-bye, happy to have them gone. Happy to be finally alone with Mr. Shady and my myriad of thoughts.
Although I should be cleaning, I sit down with a second cup of coffee and stare out the window. The blinds are open, affording me a full view of the Gaineses’ home.
I can’t wait for Clarissa to leave. I’m going to slip into her house once she leaves and start reading the latest entry in her diary. I’m getting closer to some truths. I finally feel like I have a distinct purpose in life—which is to locate this missing girl. How could Clarissa not want to be my friend once I find her?
* * *
Clarissa’s right on schedule. Same routine as always, except for one thing. She’s wearing sunglasses today. Did Russell strike her last night? I bristle with rage. The poor thing. No wonder she’s pushing me away. She walks her children down to the car and buckles them into their seats. Then she backs up and speeds out of the neighborhood.
Mr. Shady jumps up the moment I stand. It’s been two days since I’ve taken him around the neighborhood, and I have no intention of giving him a proper walk this morning. Maybe later, after I accomplish a few things, but not now. He barks knowingly, as if he can read my mind.
I stand over him as he sits by my feet, whimpering in fear. “Go be a good boy and lie down.”
I sneak out through the sliding glass door and around the back until I’m standing on her porch. Her sliding door is locked today and I shudder at the implication. Is she on to me? Does she know I’ve been sneaking inside and reading her diary? But there’s no way she could know. There’s no mail deliveries or busybody neighbors snooping around, and I’m certain that no one saw me coming or going. I creep around to the front of the house, and to my relief, the door is unlocked.
There’ll be no wasted movement in my steps. I know exactly what to look for and where to go. I find Clarissa’s diary and key in the same place as yesterday, unlock it, my hands fumbling in excitement, and open it to the last written page.
Wednesday, October 14
I can’t believe he did it again. The bastard shoved
me last night. And all because I refused to have sex with him. His anger seems to be getting worse since SHE disappeared. Two nights in a row and my ribs are killing me. I’m an intelligent, educated black woman with a good job and two beautiful children. This shouldn’t be happening, I keep telling myself. I’m a sad statistic of a long-held racial stereotype: the violent black man.
Now that he can’t be with her anymore, he’s turning his wrath on me. But I won’t do it. Not when he’s like that. I can’t do it. Even when he forces himself on me, I refuse to play along and feign pleasure and moan and groan like a beached seal. After our brief struggle last night, I lay there, my mind floating above it all, thinking of better things. Things like how nice my life would be without him. How I could be a better person and help make a difference in this world. But he knows I can’t leave him. Not yet anyway.
So now we learn she was pregnant. Why am I not surprised? I’m betting anything it wasn’t her boyfriend who did it. Yes, I’m fairly certain that Russell is the father. But as much as my husband disgusts me, I know in my heart that he’s not a killer. Or kidnapper. Am I being naive? Is it possible to make the leap from wife abuser to killer? Emotionally, I know I’m burying my head in the sand. I wouldn’t be surprised at all if he had something to do with her disappearance.
But. I. Just. Can’t. Accept. It.
I must keep a close eye on him. Maybe follow him around and see where he goes. It’s possible she’s still alive. Maybe he’ll leave a clue to her whereabouts. Mycah was only screwing him for grades and a recommendation to a prestigious law school. Her campus activism is such utter bullshit that it makes me sick. It was always about her and never the cause. She could care less about social justice. Her behavior makes a mockery of the civil rights movement. Funny that it’s a complete contradiction to her private life. I’m sure this will soon come to light. LOL. Then the real Mycah Jones will be revealed as the bitch she really is.
Yet I can’t say anything about this or he’ll expose me. If that comes out, then I’m done in academia. All my hard work will have been for naught. But that’s not my real fear. No, my real fear is that Russell will kill me if I expose his relationship with her. And that’s probably why Mycah disappeared. She was planning to rat him out as the father of her unborn child.
