Object of Desire

by William J. Mann

  “I’ve tried everyone,” Mom was saying, her face flushed red. “I even called Father McKenna, but he’s out of town for a diocesan meeting. I can’t ask Flo Armstrong, because she’s coming over to watch your grandmother—and besides, she’s a blabbermouth. She can’t know where we’re going. I can’t trust anyone, because they might call the police, and then everything would collapse.” The vein on her forehead was throbbing. “I wish we hadn’t had to sell Becky’s car. I’d try to drive myself.”

  It dawned on me to suggest Chipper. But I knew he’d refuse to get involved, and Mom would probably balk at asking him, anyway, since she hated him so much. Then another idea came to me.

  “I can call Troy,” I suggested.

  Mom looked at me. “That pot smoker? Danny, he’s not even old enough to drive!”

  “But he knows how,” I said. “And he drives everywhere. The only time he ever got caught was that time at the Dumpster. And that’s only because the cops were there. He drives everywhere, and his father knows it and is fine with it. He has Troy go to the grocery store and the post office and everything. Besides, he’s almost sixteen.”

  “No,” Mom snarled. “There’s got to be someone else.”

  “Well, then, maybe the Rubberman could see us another day.”

  “No!” Mom shrieked. “It’s got to be today! I want to go to sleep tonight knowing where Becky is!”

  She was pacing. Literally pacing. Walking around the living room in circles, over and over again. She looked like a cartoon. Nana was sitting on the couch, like she always did, her hands in her lap, watching Mom go round and round. Finally Mom stopped, mid-rotation, and looked at me with enormous eyes.

  “Goddamn it then! Call Troy!”

  He was glad to hear from me. I hadn’t seen him in a few days, preferring to spend my afternoons hunkered down on Chipper’s shag carpet, smoking the weed he bought from his own connections—far harsher than what I was used to smoking with Troy. I finally understood why some pot was called smooth.

  Troy was eager to help. He’d be at our house in twenty minutes, he said, and he made it in fifteen. In the driveway, with Flo Armstrong safely inside with Nana, Mom gave Troy the obligatory lecture as he sat behind the wheel of the Jaguar.

  “I’m only doing this because it’s an emergency,” she said, wagging her finger at him through the driver’s window. “You shouldn’t be driving, Troy. You’re too young. I’ll clear it with your father later.”

  “My father doesn’t care if I drive, Mrs. Fortunato,” Troy told her.

  She narrowed her eyes at him. “You haven’t been smoking any of that wacky weed, have you?”

  “No, Mrs. Fortunato. I gave that up.”

  I suppressed a smile.

  Mom got up front, and I slid into the back. We didn’t talk much as we headed up Interstate 91, past Hartford and through Bloomfield and Windsor. I think Mom was embarrassed and horrified at what she was doing: allowing an underage driver to take her to see a motorcycle gang leader who was no doubt a convicted felon. And, to make matters worse, she was taking her fourteen-year-old son along for the ride. But she was desperate. Everything Mom did these days was driven by her desperation.

  Once we’d crossed the state line into Massachusetts, she finally spoke. “We’re to meet Warren and his friends at a rest stop right after Springfield.” She looked at her watch. “We’re right on time.”

  “And where do we go from there?” Troy asked.

  “That I don’t know,” Mom said. “Warren said to meet him there, and he’d lead us to the Rubberman.”

  When we pulled off at the rest stop, I saw two motorcyclists waiting for us. It was Warren and one of the other guys who’d been in our living room. Mom greeted Warren with a hug. Troy and I waited in the car as she spoke with them. I saw her nod, then open her purse and hand Warren an envelope. More money, I assumed. Now I knew where the money went from the sale of Becky’s car.

  Mom came back and leaned her head through the passenger window. “I’m going with them. You boys wait here for me. They’ll drop me back here after I speak to the Rubberman.”

  “No!” I shouted from the backseat. “I’m not letting you go alone with them!”

  “Danny, just sit there and wait for me!”

  “No!” I pushed open the door and stood facing her. “I’m not letting you go alone!”

  “Danny! Stop this!”

  Warren had sauntered up to us. “Peg, it’s okay. The boy can come.”

  Mom shook her head. “He most certainly cannot. I shouldn’t even have brought him. He’s—”

  “He’s a brave boy, ain’t you, Danny?” Warren asked, fixing me with those hooded eyes of his. “You ever been on a hog, Danny?”

  “What’s a hog?”

  “A bike.”

  “I’ve been on a bike, but not a motorcycle,” I told him.

  Warren flashed his gap-toothed grin. “Well, today’s your lucky day, then.”

  “Oh, no,” Mom protested.

  “He’ll be fine, Peg.” Warren motioned for his friend to join us. “Lenny here will let him wear his helmet, just like I got a helmet for you, Peg.”

  Lenny smiled down at me. He was huge man, probably six-five, with shoulders so wide that when he stepped in front of me, he completely blotted out the sun. It was like standing in the shade of a tall tree. From head to toe, he was clad in leather: a leather cap, a leather jacket, leather chaps over dirty dungarees, and enormous leather boots. He wasn’t as old as Warren; there was no gray in his beard, and the face behind the whiskers was unlined. And—for some reason this reassured me—he had all his teeth.

  Mom made no further protest. I think she was worried that if we were late, the Rubberman would change his mind about giving us information. She placed the helmet on her head and instructed me to do the same.

  “Can I come?” Troy called from the car.

  “No!” Mom shot back.

  “Next time, buckaroo,” Lenny called cheerily to him. He had a Boston accent. “We don’t got enough helmets or bikes to go around.”

  “Wait here for us,” I told Troy. “Don’t leave or nothing.”

  “I won’t leave you, Danny,” Troy promised.

  I stuck the helmet on my head. It was way too big. Lenny leaned in to tighten it with the straps under my chin. I felt his rough fingers brush against my skin.

  Mom was already up on Warren’s bike, gripping his body the way I’d seen her do that time on the street. Lenny lifted his long leg and mounted his own bike, patting the soft quilted leather seat behind him. “Hop up here, kid,” he said.

  I obeyed, nearly falling off the other side of the bike. Lenny laughed and settled me where I was supposed to be.

  “Danny!” Mom shouted, “make sure you hang on tight!”

  I ignored her. She was embarrassing me.

  “Your momma’s right,” Lenny said over his shoulder. “Get your arms around me and hold on real tight.”

  There I was, wearing khakis, red Converse sneakers, a sweatshirt with the words ST. FRANCIS XAVIER emblazoned across the front, and a motorcycle helmet way too big for my head. Gingerly, I reached around Lenny’s enormous leather body, my hands barely reaching each other in front. As he revved the bike, the sound sent trembles through my body, and when he took off, the force sent me backward a little bit. I grabbed on to Lenny’s jacket for dear life. As we picked up speed, I held on to his solid frame as tightly as I could, my face pressed up against his leather. The wind rushed at us, and I could do nothing but press my face against Lenny’s back as we flew down the highway. The smell of his leather was intoxicating. My lips even picked up its taste.

  The day was bright, with an unbroken blue sky. On either side of us, rolling green hills stretched for miles. But I couldn’t see where we were going. My face remained pressed into Lenny’s back. I could tell when we got off the highway, however, since Lenny took a hard left and the entire bike leaned on its side. I was terrified that we’d fall over and go spinnin
g across the road, so I instinctively tried to counter Lenny’s weight with my own, leaning to the right. “Just hold on to me, kid,” Lenny shouted over his shoulder. “Don’t move around.” I did what he said, gripping him as fiercely as I could, my eyes once again closed against his back.

  Then finally we started slowing down. I opened my eyes and looked up. We were on a road that led through some deep green woods. Warren and Mom were ahead of us. We followed them down a bumpy dirt road. The bikers had to go real slow since there were so many ruts. Clouds of chalky dust were stirred up as we went along. My eyes watered, and I started to cough.

  Up ahead there was a small house made out of cement blocks. Several motorcycles were parked out front. Four Dobermans came bounding toward us, barking furiously. Warren slowed his bike to a stop and called out to the dogs, who seemed to know him. They ceased barking and gathered around his bike.

  Lenny stopped a few feet away. “Don’t let the dogs scare you, buckaroo,” he said. “They’re not as mean as they sound.”

  I was immediately embarrassed by the fact that my arms were still around him. The break of my embrace was jarring. I didn’t want to look at him. I kept my eyes lowered as I slipped off the helmet.

  The Dobermans were growling as we approached. “Hey, King,” Lenny called. “How’s it going, King?”

  The lead dog sniffed at him but growled at me.

  “He’s okay, King,” Lenny said. “He’s okay.”

  Out beyond the house, I spied the carcasses of old cars, their engines gutted. Overhead the trees were so thick, only scattered patches of sun managed to break through. The ground was covered with ferns and jack-in-the-pulpits and lilies of the valley, but the smell of the place was unlike any woods I’d been in before. Everywhere was the aroma of motor oil.

  Walking up to the house, Warren called through the windows, announcing our arrival. There was no response. Warren gestured for us to follow him. Mom told me to wait outside, but I ignored her again, keeping close behind her.

  The interior of the house smelled of motor oil, too, but mingled with the smells of cigarette smoke and wet dog. Through a filthy kitchen, we filed past a sink loaded with dirty dishes. Beer cans were stacked high on the counter. Off to our right was a small living room, where a gray-haired man sat in a large recliner, watching television. His back was to us. The rabbit ears on the set were twisted oddly, and the picture on the tube was all snowy. Some soap opera. I recognized Susan Lucci and knew it was All My Children.

  “Rub,” Warren called. “This is Peg, the lady I’ve been telling you about.”

  We came around in front of his chair. I almost gasped out loud. The Rubberman was unquestionably the ugliest man I had ever seen. His eyes were crooked, one pushed upward by an enormous scar that sliced through the right side of his face. His nose had been broken so many times that it looked as if it had been removed and pasted back on. He had no teeth, and the corners of his mouth were distended by more scars that ran across his cheeks. I knew immediately what had happened. Someone had used a knife to cut a hideous smile into his face, like the Joker in Batman. His body was misshapen as well, with one shoulder higher than the other, scrawny bones jutting out of his white tank top. His shriveled arms and sunken chest were covered with a mosaic of blue and red tattoos.

  The Rubberman did not move his eyes from his soap opera. He just reached over to the table at his side and lifted a can of beer to his lips.

  Mom spoke up. “We’re not the heat. I can assure you of that.”

  I cringed. I wished she would stop saying “the heat.”

  “Please, sir,” Mom said, “if you can help me find my daughter, I am prepared to be very generous.”

  He still said nothing, keeping his deformed eyes riveted on the TV. I glanced over. Susan Lucci as Erica Kane was arguing with Tom Cudahy. Not until the scene faded to a commercial did the Rubberman finally turn his attention to us.

  “How generous?” he asked in a low voice.

  “Extremely,” Mom said, and she opened her purse. She withdrew a thick envelope, which I figured to be stuffed with cash. It was even thicker than the envelope she’d handed to Warren. So much money being thrown around when we hardly had any.

  The Rubberman took the envelope, peered briefly inside, then placed it on the table.

  Warren stepped up. “Her daughter’s the bitch that Bruno’s taken on,” he said, oblivious to any disrespect he might be showing. “We’ve all seen her.”

  “Lots of bitches look alike,” the Rubberman mumbled.

  “Please,” Mom said. “Please, sir. I need you to help us find this Bruno.”

  “He’s like a son to me,” the old biker said, not looking at her. He was lighting a cigarette, taking a long drag. “Why should I help you take away his bitch?”

  “That bitch, as you call her, is my little girl!” Mom cried.

  My heart cracked in two. Suddenly the outrageousness of our situation overwhelmed me. Here we were, in the middle of the woods, and Mom was handing over what was probably the last of the money we’d raised to some filthy derelict and actually calling him sir. Peggy Fortunato was a proud woman. I’d seen the way she ran the church bazaars held by the Rosary Altar Society, clapping her hands and directing her ladies on how to best hang the crepe paper and set up the microphones. This was a woman who had once taken pride in her appearance, getting her hair done every Saturday, and in her spotlessly clean house, which had always smelled of Lemon Pledge. Not anymore. The visits to the hairdresser had stopped, and the dust was half an inch thick on the end tables in our living room. And now here was Peggy Fortunato, groveling in front of a man who didn’t even have the courtesy to shake her hand or look her in the eye.

  “Bruno’s in New York,” the Rubberman said, seemingly unmoved by Mom’s outburst.

  “Where in New York?” Mom asked.

  “I think the city.”

  “Will you talk to him for us?”

  “I have no phone here. How can I reach him?”

  “When’s he next due for a visit?” Warren asked.

  The Rubberman shushed him. The commercial was over. All My Children was back on. Erica and Tom were still arguing.

  “No!” I said, surprising myself with my suddenness. I reached over and switched off the TV. “Talk to my mother about finding my sister, or we take the money back!”

  “Danny!” Mom shouted.

  “Little boy,” Warren growled, “you shouldn’ta done that.”

  I saw Lenny’s eyebrows rise in disbelief.

  The Rubberman had me fixed in his crooked gaze. “You put that television back on now,” he said in a low, threatening voice.

  “Okay,” I said, starting to tremble, “but please, you gotta help us.”

  “I’ll help you,” he said impatiently. “Now put the fucking television back on.”

  I obeyed. The Rubberman watched for a few minutes without saying anything. We were all quiet, waiting.

  “All right,” he said finally, not waiting for a commercial this time. “Bruno is due up to see me this week. I’ll find out what I can about his bitch.”

  “Here’s Becky’s picture,” Mom said, handing him a photograph she’d removed from the family album. He didn’t take it from her, so she placed it on the table beside him, next to his beer. The Rubberman gave the photo a sidelong glance.

  “Looks like her,” he said. “But I can’t be sure.”

  “She has a birthmark that resembles a crescent moon on the inside of her upper arm,” Mom said. “It looks like mine. See?”

  She pulled up her sleeve to show it. The Rubberman barely glanced over.

  “You’ll be able to see the birthmark if she raises her arms and she’s wearing a sleeveless shirt,” Mom said.

  “She may be wearing less than that,” the Rubberman told her cruelly.

  I wanted to punch him. I saw the pained look that crossed Mom’s face. No doubt Bruno lived in a hovel as filthy as the Rubberman’s. Looking around, I realized that if Beck
y was with Bruno, this was the kind of life she was now living. The little girl who less than a year ago was still watching Saturday morning cartoons with me was now living as a biker’s bitch. It seemed too outrageous to be real. But maybe it was.

  Yet even as the Rubberman waved us away, agreeing to contact Warren through some bar they both patronized, I was filled with doubt. The story Warren’s girlfriend Lee Ann had told, about falling in with Bruno and being lured into his world, just didn’t seem to fit for my sister. Never once had Becky exhibited the slightest interest in bikers. She didn’t hang out with a rough crowd. She was a girl who wanted to be an artist, who had stood in our backyard at her easel, painting houses and sunsets and apple trees. She had a boyfriend she was crazy about, covering her notebooks with squiggly letters that spelled out “Chipper.” If she was with Bruno now, she was being held against her will; that was the only way to understand it.

  Maybe the Stockholm syndrome explained why she had never tried to contact us. But how had Bruno gotten her? Had he just snatched her off the street? Warren said that sometimes happened. But it had been the middle of the day! Sometime after noon, probably while she was walking back from the pond. It wasn’t a dangerous walk. Becky would have walked through the woods and then along a quiet suburban street. It was a route both Becky and I and lots of other kids had walked many times. How had Bruno got her? Had he just pulled up alongside her and grabbed her? She would have screamed. The houses were dense along that street. Somebody would have seen or heard. But in none of the hundreds of leads had there been any such description. It just didn’t make any sense to me.

  Straddling Lenny’s bike yet again, slipping on the helmet and wrapping my arms once more around his big torso, I couldn’t shake my doubts. This was all too surreal. I thought of the envelope of money sitting on the Rubberman’s table, and in my mind, I heard the arguments between Mom and Dad over the bills that were going unpaid. Lenny revved his engine. Carefully, we took off down the dirt road. I knew my doubts merely echoed the arguments of the police, who had told Mom that they doubted Becky had been kidnapped by bikers. For a while, I’d been swayed by Mom’s utter confidence in the theory, but now, coming here, riding around on the back of a motorcycle, everything just seemed far too absurd to be real. This wasn’t my life. It was somebody else’s.