He's Gone

by Deb Caletti

  Maggie grips my arm. Her eyes shine. I remember this, from my adultery and divorce in the suburbs—how thrilling your tragedy can be to other people.

  Desiree Harris is not listed anywhere. I am searching the white pages on my phone with no luck. If I had my damn computer, this would be easier. I try to call Nathan, knowing he’ll have access to her cell number, but there’s no answer. What now? Think, think, think.

  Kitty, the receptionist. She could get that information. But it’s Sunday, and she won’t be at work. Kitty what? What’s her last name? Wait. Something funny. Bizarro? Maybe Bissaro? Please, please, please. I try my phone again, but those damn online white pages are useless. I hunt for her name in the phone book that, thankfully, we still have under the kitchen counter. It’s been years since I’ve used a phone book, and, wow, the print has grown smaller. How do people even read these things? I hunt around for my reading glasses. Katherine Bissaro, there it is, thank you.

  She answers. “ ’Lo?”

  “Kitty?”

  “Yes?”

  “This is Dani Keller. I’m sorry to call you at home, but I need your help. I’m trying to reach Desiree Harris, but I don’t know her number. You don’t happen to have that, do you?”

  “Not here.”

  “God, Kitty, I’m sorry to ask this of you, but can I meet you over at BetterWorks and get it from you? It’s an emergency.”

  She hesitates. “Yeah, uh, hold on a sec.” I hear her speaking to someone on the other end, and then she’s back. “Mrs. Keller? I live, like, two miles away. I usually bike. My boyfriend, Jesse, said he’d give me a ride over. I’ll call you back.”

  “Kitty, that would be amazing. Thank you so much. I really need to get in touch with her.”

  “No problem. If I can help at all about, you know, Mr. Keller …”

  “Thank you.”

  I’m an idiot, though. Because when I hang up, I realize I haven’t given her a way to reach me. Wait, if she has Desiree Harris’s number, she’ll certainly have mine! And what about caller ID? I don’t need to worry. But I do worry. As the minutes pass, I’m getting more anxious. I need to get a hold of this Desiree immediately. I need some answers before Detective Jackson comes up with answers of his own. How long does it take to go two blocks? I wait five minutes exactly, and then I phone BetterWorks.

  There is ringing, and then the answering system picks up. Of course, it’s Sunday. I try one of the back lines, but there is only more ringing, endless trilling. I wait four more minutes exactly and try again. And again.

  Finally, “BetterWorks.”

  “It’s me. Dani Keller.”

  “I just got here.” She’s out of breath. “Let me find it for you.”

  “Fantastic,” I say. “Thanks so much again.”

  She puts me on hold. The piped-in music comes on automatically—some jazz piano number. I feel a weight on my chest, as if something’s pressing there. It’s hard to catch my breath. I felt this way once before, when I fell off the monkey bars in elementary school and landed flat on my back. I remember the recess teacher’s big face looking into mine, the orange balls of her necklace dangling over me. I thought I was dying. No air, no ability to even gasp … Wait—twice. I’ve felt this way twice. I’d gone to court for a temporary order of separation from Mark, and I met my attorney in her office beforehand. This same thing had happened. She pulled a paper bag from her desk and made me breathe into it. I thought it was darkly humorous that she kept a stash of them handy. When my bill grew, I understood even better why they might be necessary.

  Kitty is back. “Mrs. Keller? I know I took a long time, but I was talking to Doug, and I was thinking that it’s against policy to give out those numbers.”

  “What?”

  “It’s against policy. I was thinking maybe I should call Desiree and give her your number.”

  “Kitty.” I try to breathe. “Do you understand that this is an emergency?”

  “Just stay right there. I’ll call her now.”

  She puts me on hold again. The jazz song ends, and another begins. It’s the screaming-horns kind of jazz, and I want to claw at my own skin at the sound of it and at this waiting, waiting, furious, crazy waiting. Ian doesn’t even like jazz. Why he has jazz on his answering system is beyond me. I once played a mellow guitar-type jazz album at a dinner we held for some colleagues of his, and he said, I thought you had better taste than this.

  I stamp down a feeling of fury, the way you make sure a fire is completely out at a campground. It doesn’t do much good. Cinders are flying everywhere now. I make a deal with myself. If she’s not back in ten seconds, I’m going to get in my car and drive over there. I’ll talk my way past that guard. I’ll get on the damn computer and find the number myself. It’d be quicker than this.

  “Mrs. Keller?”

  “Yes, I’m here.”

  “Desiree isn’t answering.”

  I keep the cry of anger down with great effort. I imagine Desiree Harris at Nordstrom. She’s in the dressing room. Her cellphone is ringing, but she has a new red dress half over her head. Or else maybe she and Kitty did talk. They talked and Desiree is avoiding me. That’s what’s going on. Of course it is.

  I try not to sound as furious as I am, I really do. “May I have her cell number please? As you can imagine, this is rather important.”

  Kitty sounds nervous. “We can’t give those out, Mrs. Keller. It’s against the rules.”

  “My husband made those rules. You might want to remember that.”

  Oh, the dripping venom, the bitch tongue. My old self is gone, and good riddance to her, the pathetic, self-defeating Goody Two-shoes. Ian gives me a hard time about the way I pour on the nice to every salesperson, barista, waiter, telemarketer, or person I bump into in an elevator. A guy came to repair our furnace once, and I asked him if he needed something to drink. I asked how long he’d been in furnace repair. I told him that it must be gratifying to do his job, to provide something people needed so badly, warmth on a November day. Ian was disgusted. You act like you’re personally responsible for everyone’s self-esteem. He was right.

  Kitty’s voice is strained, stretched tight as glass. “I’m so sorry, I can’t …”

  I open my mouth, where a string of vicious words are waiting—I can feel them pressing in my throat. Instead of speaking, I slam that phone down so hard that the plastic case smacks against the wall, which causes Pollux to leap to his feet in alarm. His eyes are chocolate pools of distress.

  I dial Nathan. I reach Tim’s Shoe Emporium instead, whatever and wherever the hell that is. Goddamn it! I try again.

  “Dani? You okay?” Nathan says this instead of hello. “I’m sorry, shit. I see you’ve been calling me. I’m in my car. I couldn’t hear over the radio.”

  “I’ve got to reach Desiree Harris and can’t get her number. I tried Kitty, but she won’t give it out. Kitty called Desiree herself, but she says she’s not there. I don’t believe it. I think she’s avoiding me.”

  “I’m not … I’m at … Just a sec.” I hear him place an order for a number three with a root beer, and an intercom voice gives him a total.

  “You’re at Taco Time?” I’m shocked, actually. It seems so wrong. A detective is about to catch me in a lie about my missing husband, and his business partner is ordering a beef soft-taco meal.

  “Dani, you sound awful.”

  “You’ve got to get her to meet me. Or at least talk to me on the phone.”

  “I don’t think this is a good idea—”

  “Nathan.” I attempt to infuse my voice with reason. I unclench my fist, where my nails have left little red crescents in my skin. “She might know something. I’ve got to reach her.”

  “I’m worried, Dani.”

  “No one’s more worried than I am.”

  “That’s not what I mean. I mean, this might not look good. It feels … aggressive. I don’t want anyone to get the wrong idea.”

  “It’s not aggressive, Nathan. It’
s desperate. If she doesn’t want to talk to me, there’s a reason.”

  “She’s probably afraid.”

  “Exactly.”

  “No, I mean, you calling like this …”

  “Afraid of me?” Ludicrous. I can’t even imagine it.

  “Yes.”

  I don’t say anything.

  “You should hear your voice.”

  I shut my eyes. It’s a two-second form of prayer without words. “Nathan, please help me,” I beg.

  “Let me call her,” he says.

  I hear a voice on the intercom again. Hot sauce or ketchup with that? And then there is the rustle of a paper bag. I summon every atom of calm I might have in my sorry cells.

  “Thank you, Nathan,” I say.

  Picture this, my first meeting with Paul Hartley Keller:

  Ian and I are drinking a glass of wine in that narrow furnished apartment. It’s just the two of us so far. Ian keeps looking at his watch. Paul Hartley Keller is late.

  Our knees are touching. Ian rubs my leg. I reach for my glass on the coffee table.

  “Darling,” he says. “If you hold the glass up there, you warm the wine. Hold it by the stem. Or with your fingertips.”

  “Ian, relax. Why are you so nervous?”

  “I’m not nervous.”

  I feel a prickle of irritation. “I won’t embarrass you.”

  He leaps up at the knock. I stand, too, and pull my black skirt down. We’re going to the Twilight, Ian had said earlier in the week. You know that black skirt you have? That tight white satin shirt? That’d be perfect.

  Ian answers the door. I can see where Ian gets his looks, first off, and his taste for expensive things. Paul Hartley Keller, even with his fleshy jowls, is a handsome man. He’s got a full head of gray hair, brushed back from his face, and icicle-blue eyes under bushy brows. He’s a big man. His suit is dark, beautiful, and he has a cashmere overcoat. His voice is large, too.

  “Hell of a lot closer to civilization than your last place,” he says as he comes through the door. He is huffing badly; I hear a little wheeze that makes me nervous. But he fills that room. I feel his energy the minute he steps inside. This is much better than I was imagining. All at once, the night seems to hold possibilities. I’m actually excited for it. Who knows what might happen. You can tell this about Paul Hartley Keller right off: He makes things happen.

  “Dad.” Not a hug, but a handshake. “This is Dani.”

  “Mr. Keller,” I say.

  He looks me directly in the eyes, holds my gaze. “Paul. Please.” He takes my hands. “Oh, your hands are so warm,” he says.

  Ian stands around. He’s waiting for something, I can tell. What? Some acknowledgment of his new living arrangements? The apartment is stylish; there’s a view. The building is new and it still smells new. The furniture it came with is leather. The appliances are stainless, though Ian never uses anything in the kitchen except the microwave. But, really, what is there for Paul Hartley Keller to admire?

  “Shall we?” Paul Hartley Keller says. “I left the car unlocked.”

  “Not exactly a dangerous neighborhood,” Ian says, and meets my eyes. I smile, but I think he’s being overly sensitive. Paul Hartley Keller takes my arm, a firm grip, and stands close to me in the elevator. I slow my pace to his on the way to the car, aware of his effortful breathing, but the truth is, it’s better for me, too, with the shoes I’m wearing.

  “Aren’t you a breath of fresh air,” he says. “A beautiful one like you, I bet you’re a very powerful woman.”

  I laugh. “Well …” I say. We arrive at his Mercedes. It’s new. Gorgeous. Brushed silver.

  He knows what I’m thinking. “Silver fox like me, eh?” I almost blush. I feel nervous, but it’s the good kind of nervous, the kind that’s hiding a secret center of giddiness. He opens the front door for me. There’s a moment of awkwardness, as I don’t want to sit in the front, but I do so anyway. This leaves Ian to sit in the back. I glance behind me, give him a brief look of apology. He looks like he’s about seven years old back there.

  Paul Hartley Keller asks me what I do, and I tell him about my graphics firm. I use the word firm, though you could hardly call it that. I admit this. He chuckles. “Creative professions have the highest job satisfaction in the world,” he says. Maybe he’s making this up, but, oh, well. Who cares? He pays the parking attendant with a folded bill and doesn’t wait for change. It’s a small, thrilling world in that car; it smells lush, lush leather and breath mints, and it feels lush. Music is playing, and the ride is like velvet. Ian keeps poking his head between us from the backseat, interjecting comments.

  “I can’t hear anything back here,” he whines.

  “You want me to turn this down, just say so.” Paul Hartley Keller’s hand hovers near the car’s stereo system.

  “That’s fine,” Ian says.

  “It’s the José Granada Trio,” he says to me. It’s some sort of flamenco. He turns it up a notch. “Like it?” I do like it. I like it a lot. It’s unusual and sexy and fun. He snaps the fingers of one hand as he keeps a casual but commanding hold of the wheel with the other. He smiles as if to say we share the joke. He’s the kind of man who’d be a great dancer, though. He’d guide you with a strong, definite hold. He’d know what to do.

  The city looks especially beautiful through those tinted windows. Paul Hartley Keller pulls up to valet parking at the restaurant. The college kid opens the door for me. He’s dressed in black valet pants, a vest, and a crisp white shirt. It’s crazy, but I feel somehow glamorous getting out of that car. My legs feel longer; I’m more elegant.

  Paul Hartley Keller has his hand on the small of my back as we go inside. We walk in together. Ian is behind us somewhere, separated at the revolving door. All these stories I’d heard about his father, and now look. He’s utterly charming. He’s not at all what I’d been expecting.

  Paul Hartley Keller seems to know the hostess. We’re seated at a perfect table by the window. And this place—wow. There is a view here, too. A wider, more expansive view than the one in Ian’s apartment or office; it’s of the city and the sound and the mountains beyond. It goes on forever.

  Ian is already looking at his menu. “What’s the rush?” Paul Hartley Keller says. “You have a train to catch?” Ian sets the menu down. The restaurant is glittery with candlelight. I glide my napkin to my lap, where it feels as delicate as an orchid.

  Paul Hartley Keller orders wine. The sommelier arrives with a white towel over one arm. Paul Hartley Keller sniffs and swirls and nods his approval. The wine is poured—red. I make sure to hold my glass with only my fingertips.

  “Better than this,” Ian says. He holds his glass out to me, cupped in two hands. It’s cruel. I redden. I don’t know why he wants to skewer me.

  “Private joke?” Paul Hartley Keller says.

  “The way Dani was holding her glass earlier.”

  “She could keep it on the table and lick from it like a cat, and she would look lovely doing it.” He clinks my glass. I clink his.

  “Are you having the trout?” Ian says to me. He’s forgotten that I don’t like white fish.

  “The grilled bluefin is excellent,” Paul says.

  “I’ll have the petite filet,” I say to the waitress when she returns.

  “Ah, the girl likes her meat,” he says. It sounds seductive, electrifying. I may be a powerful woman after all, who knew? Paul Hartley Keller tells us in great detail about a trip he’s thinking about taking, a cruise, but not the kind where a hundred people are huddled together on deck chairs. He likes his space. He likes the best service. The Greek Islands, the Aegean Sea, Santorini, Ios. The way he describes them, they sound like luxurious chocolates in a blue silk box.

  “I should tell Dani my Microsoft story,” he says.

  “I could tell her. I know it by heart,” Ian says. He’s becoming snippier and increasingly rude as the night goes on. The wine is amazing. A gentle heat blows through and disappears after ea
ch sip.

  Paul Hartley Keller tells me how he warned Bill Gates about the idea Bill had to develop a computer for a regular person to use. “ ‘Doomed to fail,’ I said to him. ‘The average person doesn’t want to mess with that technological bullshit.’ He was sitting right there in my own living room. Just a kid. And Paul on my other side. The other Paul.”

  “Oh, no,” I groan appreciatively. “Now, there’s a big if only …”

  “How are things going with your start-up?” he asks Ian.

  “Six years, it’s still a start-up?”

  “Whoa,” Paul says. He holds up his hands as if to ward off a blow. “The best companies can take years to get off the ground.”

  “It’s going great. Profitable. Too profitable. Fifty percent of my stock may go to my ex-wife.” He looks up at his father. I can see it for what it is. It’s a line of connection thrown out his father’s way. Paul Hartley Keller lost a fortune to Ian’s mother when they divorced.

  Paul shrugs.

  “It’s been tough, you know?” Ian’s eyes are soft in the candlelight. They are almost pleading.

  “You’ve been sitting in the middle of this for over a year,” Paul says. He spins the wine in his glass, sips again.

  “I know. It’s hell.”

  “What’re you doing this halfway for? Get in and finish the job. Move on.” Well, obviously, I couldn’t agree more. He touches the cuff of my blouse with the tip of his finger. He looks in my eyes. “I’m a man who always finishes the job.”

  I feel a warm rush, and I am ashamed of myself. It’s attraction, but it’s also turning to disgust. I’m not sure who attracts me and who disgusts me. I look at Ian, and I swear he has shrunk; it’s the wine or maybe the terrible, terrible yanking ropes of lineage and years of humiliation, but I swear Ian looks about a foot tall. He’s a tiny man sitting in that chair.