Bring Her Home

by David Bell

  Paige looked up. “Of course. Why?”

  “Mom said something interesting when Jimmy was dying. You know, the cancer had come back and it was clear he wasn’t going to make it. Mom said she was glad Aunt Denise wasn’t alive to watch her son die. We were what, teenagers when Jimmy died? I’d never thought of being a parent that way. That the worst thing would be seeing your own child hurt. Or dying.”

  Paige remained silent, the phone held in front of her.

  Tears pooled in his eyes, obscuring his view of the soft carpet, the coffee table with its scattered magazines. His uneaten food from earlier.

  “I get it now. In a real way, I get it.”

  The movie came on again and Bill turned his attention to the screen. But the volume remained muted. John Wayne was punching a guy over and over, knocking him through doors and walls.

  “Look, your family needs you,” Bill said. “And there’s no funeral here. Nothing.” Bill pointed toward the front of the house. “You can come back if something changes.”

  “I’m staying. You’re getting to the end of your rope. That’s why you said all those things to the reporters today.”

  Bill stared at the screen, not fully paying attention to Paige. He was lost in his own thoughts. A spiral of horrific images played in his mind. Where could Summer be? Dumped in the woods? Locked in a basement? Stored in a morgue?

  In a hostile place, dying alone?

  He replayed what the lawyer said, what the counselor at school said. Even Paige’s suspicions. Was something happening to Summer that would make her run away?

  Was she starting a new life?

  “She called him,” Bill said.

  “Who?”

  “Julia. She called Adam when I didn’t answer the phone that day.”

  That day. He was accumulating things that could simply be referred to as “that day.” Julia’s death. Summer’s disappearance.

  That day.

  “She did?” Paige sounded surprised. “You mean she called him, looking for some kind of help?”

  “I don’t know. He didn’t answer. He was in a meeting or something, so he didn’t get the call.” Bill lifted his hand to make a gesture, but he let it drop back onto the couch.

  “What?” Paige asked.

  “It’s silly. But they were always kind of flirtatious, the two of them. Mildly flirtatious. She talked about how handsome he was, how strong he was, like he was a real man. I don’t know. I told you I thought she might have been having an affair of some kind. Even one that was just emotional.”

  “He’s good-looking,” Paige said, then caught herself. “I mean, if you’re into that kind of guy.”

  “The ruggedly handsome kind?” Bill said.

  “I’m sure he has a small dick,” Paige said. “All that digging and plowing in the yard must be compensating for something. Right?”

  “Thanks, I think. Well. I was pissed he didn’t tell me about buying the kids beer, and I was pissed Julia called him as she was dying. I just . . . All of this is bringing up a lot of old stuff.”

  “Sure. Of course.” Paige reached out and squeezed Bill’s arm. “I’ll stay a few more days. Just in case. Okay?”

  “Thanks.”

  “We can watch Flying Leathernecks or something like that if you want.”

  She went back to tapping at her phone, biting her lip in concentration. Bill turned the sound up again. A few minutes passed, and then Paige asked, “How do you know Adam didn’t take the call from Julia?”

  “What? He said he didn’t.”

  “Did they check the phone records?” Paige asked. “The police?”

  Bill had never thought about it. “Why would they? There was nothing suspicious about her death. It was an accident. They didn’t check into anything like phone records.”

  Paige looked at Bill for a moment, seemingly on the brink of saying something else. But she didn’t. She went back to pecking at her phone.

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  Before he could ask Paige exactly what she was talking about, the front doorbell rang. They both looked up.

  “Expecting anybody?” Paige asked.

  “Probably another reporter, some straggler with a late deadline.”

  Bill rehearsed a speech as he walked to the door, something intended to shame the journalist for bothering a distressed family at the worst possible time. Even as he played the scene in his head, he felt ridiculous. Yelling at someone for doing their job? Why?

  And then he saw it wasn’t a reporter at all. Anna Halstrom stood on the front stoop, a heavy coat bundled around her body, her long hair lifting in the wind. She smiled when she saw Bill, and he hustled to the door, pulling it open and stepping back so she could come in, out of the cold.

  “Anna,” he said. “Did you say you were coming by?”

  “No. And I should have called.” She stepped into the foyer, rubbing her hands together. “This is an impulsive visit. I’m on my way to a night class I take, and I realized I had to tell you something. I hope I’m not overstepping my bounds here.”

  “Why don’t you sit?” Bill said.

  “Okay. Just a moment.”

  Paige appeared, still holding her phone. Bill made the introductions, and Anna expressed her sympathies to Paige.

  “We all love that girl,” Anna said. She sat on the couch, tucking her long skirt beneath her body. She wore sandals despite the cold, and round, silver earrings the size of satellite dishes. Bill sat in a chair, and Paige remained in the doorway, twirling the string on her hooded sweatshirt while Anna started to talk.

  “Is this about Summer?” Bill asked. “Did you remember something? I was thinking maybe she was upset because her sixteenth birthday was coming up. She was supposed to go on a trip with Julia. That would have happened next month. Did she mention that?”

  Anna listened as though unsure what or whom Bill was talking about. “Oh, sure. Maybe that upset her, yes. But she never mentioned that to me specifically. I’m here to talk about Summer, but only tangentially.”

  “Oh,” Bill said. He couldn’t keep the disappointment out of his voice. He couldn’t hide the anticipation he felt for every piece of information, the burning hope that it would finally be the key to unlock every closed door. “What is it, then?”

  “It’s about Clinton Fields.” Anna pressed her lips together and turned from Bill to Paige and then back again, as though seeking their permission to keep talking. When no one said anything, Anna went on. “I think there’s a misunderstanding about him, some confusion about his character. I thought about it because of what you said on the news and then what they said on the news.”

  “What do you know?” Bill asked.

  Anna rubbed her hands together some more. The bracelets on her wrists jangled. “Everybody knows he broke that other boy’s jaw at the bus stop a couple of years ago. But not everybody knows why.” She held up her hands. “I have to ask for complete discretion here, from both of you. This cannot leave this house.”

  “Of course,” Paige said.

  “What is it?” Bill asked.

  “Yes, Clinton broke that boy’s jaw. And it’s terrible. I abhor violence. I abhor the way we socialize our boys to solve problems that way. But . . . Clinton has a younger brother. About a year younger. He’s at the junior high now. His name is Isaac. A really good kid, but Isaac is gay. He’s been slowly coming out to his family and close friends. I know this because I’ve been consulted by my colleague at the junior high. It’s a big issue to take on for a counselor, and we try to help each other out.”

  “I don’t understand,” Bill said. “What does his brother’s sexual preference have to do with Summer?”

  “Nothing,” Anna said. “Except that when Clinton broke that other boy’s jaw, it was because the other boy was saying horrible things about Isaac. Calling him . . . Well, you can imagine
the names. Clinton overheard him and the fight started. Clinton was angry beyond belief. He beat the boy pretty good, but then again, who knows what any of us would do to protect or defend someone we love, right?”

  She looked to both of them for support. Paige nodded. And Bill said, “Okay, so this kid said horrible things about his brother. Clinton must have told the police or the school that.”

  “He didn’t. His family wouldn’t let him, because they didn’t want the secret about Isaac out to the whole community. To protect his brother, Clinton took the full punishment and let everyone think he’s a thug. Do you see?”

  Paige cleared her throat. “You’re saying the situation is much more complicated than it appeared to be at first. That Clinton had a good reason for reacting as violently as he did.”

  “Basically. Again, I abhor the violence. But I also abhor that narrow-mindedness, the attack on a young boy’s identity.”

  Bill didn’t want to sound insensitive or obtuse, but he said, “Still, it was an attack.”

  “It was,” Anna said. She looked at her watch. “I’ve taken too much of your time. I just wanted you to know. And . . . I know Clinton. There’s sensitivity in that boy, despite his flippant exterior. I just don’t know what to make of this whole situation, but I wanted you to have all the facts.”

  She stood up, her skirt flowing free as she walked to the door. She gave both Bill and Paige a hug and insisted that they call her anytime if they needed help or advice.

  “I hope I didn’t muddy the waters for you,” Anna said as she went out the door, “but I believe in transparency. And now you know everything I know.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  Later that night, Bill woke up on the couch. He’d sipped more whiskey and swallowed some kind of antianxiety pill Paige had handed him. When he opened his eyes, his head felt foggy, like a thin membrane of cobweb had been stretched over his gray matter.

  The TV still played. Another movie, something black-and-white. The men wore their hair plastered back against their heads. The women all wore skirts and heels.

  Bill looked around the room, squinting. His hand hurt, but he could move it. When he flexed it, some of the soreness eased. He saw a depression in the couch cushions where Paige had been sitting. For a moment, he felt like they were little kids again, falling asleep in front of the TV, waking up a little scared because Mom and Dad were already off to bed.

  Bill straightened up, rubbing the back of his neck as he blinked to clear the cobwebs from his brain.

  “Paige?” He whispered in case she’d gone off to bed and fallen asleep. “Paige?”

  He looked at his watch: twelve fifteen. He reached for the remote and turned the TV off. He was about to stand, when Paige came hustling from the foyer at the front of the house.

  “Bill?” she said, also whispering. Did she think he was asleep, sitting up with his eyes open? “Bill,” she said again, her voice more insistent.

  “You don’t have to whisper. I can’t believe I let you give me that pill. I need to be up and—”

  “That car’s back. The one I saw drive by.”

  Bill processed the news slowly through the fog of the pill and the booze, and then he remembered the car that had freaked her out the other night.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. It’s in the driveway. The end of the driveway.”

  “Maybe it’s a reporter this time.”

  “This late?”

  “They come around anytime they want,” Bill said, remembering the morning after Summer disappeared, when the reporters seemingly lived on his lawn. “Just ignore them. Let’s go out and—”

  “No, Bill. Just get up and look. Please?”

  Bill stood up, his lower back aching. He wished he hadn’t fallen asleep in that position. He walked to the front of the house and looked through the window. He saw the headlights of a car glowing at the end of the driveway. They shone against the house, illuminating the back wall of the living room.

  “I think they’re just turning around,” Bill said.

  “No, they’ve been there for a few minutes. I waited before I woke you up. I thought they might just be turning around too, but they didn’t leave. It’s the same car. Look. It’s a silver sedan. See?”

  “It’s a Camry or something like that.” Bill patted his pockets, searching for his phone, but he didn’t have it. “Call the police if anything happens.”

  “Anything like what?”

  “I’m going out there,” Bill said. A surging excitement grew in his chest, an upswing of energy he hadn’t felt since he was a child, something close to giddiness.

  “Don’t go out there, Bill. You don’t know who it is.”

  “Paige, my daughter’s missing. For days, missing. I don’t give a damn. Besides, what if this is it?”

  “It’s what?”

  “Summer. This person. They have her, and they want to bring her home.”

  “Bill?”

  But he was undoing the locks, pulling the door open, and running across the lawn toward the silver sedan as fast as his legs would carry him.

  Bill wasn’t wearing shoes. His socks slipped against the frosty grass, the cold seeping in and freezing the soles of his feet.

  He didn’t care.

  The sedan’s headlights still glowed, and Bill cut across them as his feet reached the driveway and then went around to the driver’s side of the car. When he got there, the car shut off, the lights going out and leaving Bill alongside the vehicle beneath the cold glow of the distant stars.

  A streetlight above provided some illumination. He looked through the window, trying to make out the figure behind the wheel, but he saw only a vague outline, a shape that didn’t resolve into anything coherent.

  Then the door came open. But no dome light shone.

  “Bill?” Paige stood in the doorway. “Should I call the police?”

  Bill waved her off, took a step toward the car, trying to see inside, into the backseat.

  A woman stepped onto the driveway. She looked to be slightly older than Bill. Her professionally colored hair, a kind of reddish brown, hung loose to her shoulders. She wore no makeup, and dark skin, from lack of sleep or strain or illness, circled under her eyes.

  Bill took her in quickly, but then resumed looking into the back of the car. He wanted to see Summer. He hoped he would.

  “Mr. Price?” the woman said.

  Bill ignored her, moving closer to the car on his cold, wet feet. But he saw nothing in the back except scattered fast food wrappers and crumpled cigarette packs. A liter bottle of Diet Mountain Dew, half-empty, sat in the cup holder in between the two front seats.

  “Mr. Price?”

  Bill turned to the woman. “Do you know where Summer is?”

  The woman looked thin and bony, every part of her body a sharp angle. She wore a hooded sweatshirt with a Cincinnati Bengals logo stitched above her left breast. The sweatshirt looked new, but a greasy stain from spilled food stood out on one of the pockets.

  “I wanted to talk to you, sir,” she said.

  “About Summer? Where is she? Why have you been driving by here?”

  “Do you want to talk out here?” The woman shivered and looked down at Bill’s shoeless feet. “Or could we maybe go inside?”

  “Inside my house? At this hour?”

  Bill looked back, and Paige still stood in the doorway, the phone in her hand. When she established eye contact with Bill, she made an exaggerated shrugging gesture as if to ask him, What gives?

  “My sister wants to call the police,” Bill said. “You’re freaking her out.”

  “I don’t mean any harm,” she said. “I know it’s late, but the media was around earlier. I would like to talk to you. Your sister can listen as well.”

  Bill studied the woman for a moment, and then he walked to th
e back of her car, stepping gingerly as small pebbles jabbed at the bottoms of his feet. He stopped at the trunk.

  “Can you pop this?”

  The woman looked puzzled. “Why?”

  “Can you just do it?” Bill asked. “I’m sure the fob in your hand will do the job.”

  The woman shrugged. “If you insist.”

  “Please.”

  The woman reached into the car and brought out her key ring. She came alongside Bill, and he smelled cigarettes and a sour odor like spoiled food. The woman pressed the fob, and the car made a robotic chiming sound as the trunk unlatched. Bill threw the trunk open.

  Bill peered inside. He saw scattered clothes, some papers, and a spare tire. He stuck his hand into the dark recesses where the streetlight didn’t reach, and when he was satisfied that Summer wasn’t inside, he nodded, and the woman closed the trunk again.

  “I’m not a maniac or anything,” she said.

  “That’s exactly what I’d say if I were trying to convince someone I wasn’t a maniac and I really was.”

  The woman looked a little hurt. She ducked her head, her slightly greasy hair falling around her face. She looked like she needed a shower. “I lost my daughter too,” she said. “And, I don’t know, maybe we can help each other.”

  Bill shifted his weight from one foot to the other, trying to stay warm.

  “You know something about Summer?” he asked. “That’s all I really care about.”

  “I might. That’s all I’m saying. I might.”

  The woman looked sincere. And somewhat pathetic.

  And Bill was getting colder and colder.

  “Okay,” he said, nodding toward the house. “Let’s go in.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  Paige stood in the doorway as they approached, as if to say, What the hell are you doing?

  But Bill waved Paige and her concerns aside, rushing into the house where the welcome warmth of the furnace greeted him. “It’s cold, Paige. It’s cold.”

  The woman followed Bill inside, and in the bright light of the foyer, Bill saw that she wore new jeans and expensive running shoes, but the pink polish on her nails was chipped, the skin nearby red as though it had been chewed on. Bill peeled off his socks and threw them aside, then rubbed his hands together to get warm.