Long Bright River

by Liz Moore

  I’m good, I say.

  So I give him some money and he takes it. Tells me to wait there. You’re not gonna run off with that, right? I say to him.

  Nah, he tells me. I’d be out of business in a minute if I did that. So he goes inside, pushes aside a piece of plywood that’s covering the door and disappears.

  * * *

  —

  I interrupt Truman.

  —Did you get the house number? I ask.

  * * *

  —

  —I was trying to figure it out, he says, but I couldn’t. It’s a house with white siding on it and there’s graffiti on a board over one of the back windows that says BBB. Three letters.

  Anyway, says Truman, as soon as he disappears inside I go up to one of the windows and try to get a look inside. I’m peering through cracks in the boarding. But it’s dark in there. I can’t see much. I think I can make out at least four people, maybe more. Everyone’s in different states of nodding out. One of them looked dead. Might have been dead, Truman says.

  * * *

  —

  I have seen houses like this more times than I can count. To me they look like a circle of hell.

  * * *

  —

  —I’m listening, Truman says, and from inside I hear what sounds like someone pounding up a staircase. A second later he comes back down and suddenly I see this guy Dock walking toward me, toward the back of the house. I jump back, turn around, and pretend to be minding my business.

  Here, this guy goes. You sure you don’t want me to shoot you up? Five bucks.

  Nah, I tell him. I got it.

  He eyes me up. Don’t shoot up near my house, he says. And test it first.

  I thank him, go to leave. I’m wishing I could get one more look inside. And maybe he notices me hesitating, because he says to me, You looking for something else?

  Like what, I say.

  A girl, this fucker says.

  * * *

  —

  I get cold. Truman watches me a little before going on.

  * * *

  —

  —I said, Maybe.

  He says, You want to see pictures? I got pictures.

  I said I did. He takes out his phone and starts flipping through photos of girls. And, Mick. I saw Kacey.

  * * *

  —

  I nod. I knew this was coming.

  * * *

  —

  —See anything you like? this shithead says. I say I do. But I want to get fixed up first. I tell him I’ll be back another time. He gives me his phone number. Call me when you need something, he tells me. I’m your guy, okay? I’m the doctor.

  * * *

  —

  I’m looking straight ahead.

  —You okay? says Truman.

  I nod. What I am feeling is a loathing that begins very deep inside me.

  —How did she look, I ask Truman, but I realize only after I say it that I was too quiet to be heard.

  Again I ask.

  —What do you mean? says Truman.

  —In the photo. How did she look?

  Truman sets his jaw. She was, he says. She wasn’t wearing much. She was skinny. Her hair was dyed bright red. She looked like she was maybe roughed up. One of her eyes was swollen. I couldn’t get a good look.

  But alive, I think. But maybe she’s alive.

  —One more thing, says Truman. Right when I was about to leave, someone comes around the corner. Tough-looking guy, tattoos everywhere, looks like a friend of Dock’s. He points right at Dock, happy to see him, and goes, McClatchie. How you been?

  —McClatchie, I say.

  —Right, says Truman.

  —Connor McClatchie, I say, remembering the Facebook photo, Connor Dock Famisall underneath.

  Truman nods. Then nods toward the MDT on the center console.

  —May I? he says.

  —Go ahead, I tell him. It feels like old times: like my partner, doing the paperwork while I drive.

  Truman’s login is disabled while he’s on medical leave, so I give him mine. Using it, he runs a search in the PCIC.

  I keep trying to look while I drive, and I almost swerve into oncoming traffic.

  —Jesus, Mick, says Truman. Pull over.

  But I don’t want to. Not until we’re far enough out of the neighborhood so that Truman won’t be recognized either. I keep scanning the road ahead of me, glancing in my mirrors, waiting to encounter a colleague. Or Sergeant Ahearn.

  —Just read it aloud to me, I say.

  Truman reads to himself for a while. Then he says, All right, here we go. McClatchie, Connor. DOB March 3, 1991, Philadelphia. Youngster, he says, glancing over at me.

  —What else, I ask him.

  He gives a low whistle.

  —What? I say. Tell me.

  —Okay, says Truman. We’ve got everything from armed robbery to assault to illegal possession of a firearm. Guy’s been incarcerated three—wait, four—five times.

  Again, he pauses.

  —And? I say.

  —Looks like he does have a charge here for promoting prostitution, says Truman.

  Pimping. Unusual, actually: most of the women in Kensington work for themselves. But there’s always an exception to the rule.

  He pauses. He also has a warrant on him, he says. That could be helpful somehow.

  —Could be, I say.

  I glance at the clock on the dash. It’s close to the end of my shift. Almost time to rescue Thomas from Mrs. Mahon, and Mrs. Mahon from Thomas. I also haven’t answered a call in too long.

  —Where’s your car? I ask Truman, and he tells me.

  For a while, I say nothing.

  Then, at last, I ask him. Do you think she was in that house? I say.

  Truman thinks for a long time.

  —I don’t know, he says. She could have been. I didn’t see her downstairs. But there was a second floor, and I know something was going on up there.

  I nod.

  —Mickey, says Truman. Don’t do anything stupid.

  —No, I say. I wouldn’t.

  Truman’s phone rings then, and he glances at it before telling me to pull over, saying that he’ll jump out where we are.

  —I can drive you all the way to your car, I say.

  —It’s okay, says Truman. It’s not far.

  He seems antsy to get out. The phone keeps ringing.

  He taps the roof of the cruiser, once, as he’s leaving.

  It’s only then that I realize that I never even told him about my meeting at lunch with Ahearn. If anyone would have advice on this front, it’s Truman—but Truman has already answered his call.

  I watch him for a while as he walks away.

  I wonder, again, whom he’s speaking to.

  At last, the day is over. I worry the whole way home about how Thomas’s day has been. I yearn for the release of reconnecting with him after a time apart: a quick hit of dopamine that lowers the shoulders and slows the breath.

  It’s already close to pitch-black when I arrive at home, and it’s not even five p.m. I despise these days: the darkness of the darkest part of winter. Every glint of sunlight feels edible, something sweet to swallow and store for the long cold night.

  The first thing I notice when I arrive is that there are no lights on in Mrs. Mahon’s house. My stomach clenches, just a bit. I exit the car and trot through the snow, up to the front door. I ring the doorbell. Without waiting long enough, I knock, too.

  I press my face to the glass at the side of the door, trying to see anything inside. Where are they? I’m ready to kick down the door. I’m back in work mode, my hand near my weapon.

  I’m about to knock again when the door swings open. Mrs. Mahon is on the other side of it, the room behind her
dim. No Thomas. She looks at me, blinking through her large glasses.

  —Is Thomas here? I ask.

  —Of course, she says. Are you all right? That pounding on the door, good lord. You almost gave us a heart attack.

  —I apologize, I say. Where is he?

  And just then he appears next to Mrs. Mahon, a strip of red above his upper lip. He’s been drinking something sugary. He’s grinning.

  —I hope you don’t mind that I gave him Kool-Aid, says Mrs. Mahon. I keep it in the cabinet for when my great-nephews come over.

  I have never seen Mrs. Mahon’s great-nephews in the entire time we’ve been living here. No, that’s fine, I say. Special treat.

  —We’ve been watching a movie like in the movie theater, Thomas says, his voice shrill with excitement.

  —He means we made popcorn and turned the lights off, says Mrs. Mahon. Come in, you’re letting cold air into the house.

  Inside, while Thomas is getting his shoes and jacket on, I notice a picture hung on the wall of the entryway: it looks like a class photograph, grainy and worn. There are many rows of children, ranging in age from kindergartners to young teenagers. The rear two rows are nuns, dressed in cardigans and skirts and simple head coverings, like the nuns in the parish school Kacey and I used to go to. The photograph is black-and-white and difficult to date. It’s hard to imagine that Mrs. Mahon was ever a child, but the image says differently. Quickly, I scan the children to see if I can recognize her, but suddenly Mrs. Mahon touches my elbow.

  —While he’s off getting ready, she says quietly, I should tell you that the man stopped by again.

  My heart sinks.

  —Did Thomas see him, I say.

  —No, says Mrs. Mahon. I recognized him out the window, so I told Thomas to go upstairs for a moment. And I told him you no longer lived here. Just as you asked.

  Relief.

  —How did he react, I say.

  —He seemed disappointed, says Mrs. Mahon.

  —That’s fine, I say. He can be as disappointed as he wants. He believed you?

  —Seemed to, said Mrs. Mahon. He was very polite.

  —He can be, I say.

  Mrs. Mahon sets her jaw and nods.

  —Good for you, anyway, she says. Most men I have no use for.

  She thinks a moment and then adds, One or two of them, I tolerate.

  * * *

  —

  Thomas is full of stories when we enter the apartment.

  —Mrs. Mahon let me watch E.P., he says.

  —What’s E.P.?

  —A movie. It’s a movie about a guy who goes on a kid’s bike.

  —A guy?

  —A monster.

  —E.T., I say.

  —And he says E.P. phone home. And Mrs. Mahon showed me how to do that with my finger, like this.

  He extends his little pointer finger toward me, and I touch it with mine.

  —Like that, he says again.

  —Did you enjoy it? I ask.

  —Yes. She let me watch it even though it was scary, says Thomas. He’s wired from the movie and, probably, from too much sugar.

  —Were you frightened?

  —No. It was scary. I wasn’t scared.

  —Good, I say. I’m glad to hear it.

  But later that night, after I put Thomas to bed in his own room, I am awakened by the pattering of little feet, and there is Thomas, wrapped up in a blanket, looking, in fact, much like the protagonist of the movie he watched today.

  —I’m scared, he announces, solemnly.

  —That’s all right, I say.

  —I lied because I am scared after all.

  —That’s all right, I say again.

  He pauses, biting his lip, looking down at the floor. I know what will come next.

  —Thomas, I say, warningly.

  —Can I sleep in your bed? he says, but in his voice there is resignation. He already knows the answer.

  I stand and go to him. I take his hand and walk him back down the hallway to his room.

  —You’re nearly five years old, I say to him. You’re getting very grown up. Can you be brave for me?

  In the darkened hallway, I see him nod.

  I steer him into his room and turn on the night-light for him. He climbs into his bed and I tuck the blankets over him and put one hand on his head.

  —Guess what, I tell him. I talked to Carlotta’s and Lila’s mothers to invite them to your birthday party.

  He’s silent.

  —Thomas? I say.

  He won’t look at me. Just for a moment, I hesitate. And then I think of everything I’ve ever read about how one instills strength and self-sufficiency in a child, how teaching a child confidence and independence young is essential to ensure the child will ultimately be a well-adjusted citizen and adult.

  —They said yes, I tell him.

  Then I give him a kiss on his forehead and quietly leave the room.

  I have to go to court the next morning to testify. The trial is for the domestic assault case from last week. Robert Mulvey, Jr., is the accused; it seems his wife has decided, despite her earlier reluctance, to press charges. Both Gloria Peters and I will be called to the witness stand.

  It would be a routine case, and a routine day, except for the deep discomfort I experience each time I look at Mulvey. His gaze is unwavering and trained on me, and every time our eyes meet—always against my will—I know I recognize him. Again and again, I try to place him, but I can’t.

  I don’t stay to see whether he’s convicted.

  * * *

  —

  Back in my vehicle, I compulsively check the clock on my dashboard.

  There are not many things I know about Connor McClatchie, but one of them is that at approximately 2:30 p.m. each day, he is at Mr. Wright’s store, shooting up and getting warm. Which means, of course, that he is out of the house at that time.

  Don’t do anything stupid, Truman said to me yesterday. But it isn’t stupid, I believe, to follow through on leads. In fact, it only seems reasonable.

  It’s eleven a.m. now, which means I have several hours to go until I can safely conduct my own reconnaissance of the place. I do my best not to focus on the time. But I can’t help driving, twice, down the little street called Madison—not too many times, not enough to alert or alarm anyone—and craning my neck to see down the alley that Truman described.

  If the layout of Center City—all right angles and symmetry—is evidence of the staid and rational minds that planned Philadelphia, Kensington is evidence of what happens when intention is distorted by necessity. Here and there, the landscape is dotted with small parks, many of which are oddly shaped. Aside from the firm and upright line of Front Street, and the diagonal one of Kensington Ave, the rest of Kensington’s streets are all vaguely askew, tilted just slightly off the firm equator of Center City streets like Vine and Market and South. Kensington’s streets start and stop without warning; they go from one to two lanes with equal abruptness. Madison is different than East Madison; West Susquehanna runs unapologetically below East Cumberland. Most of the small streets in Kensington are residential; on them, brick and stucco-fronted rowhomes stand shoulder to shoulder, except where they have been demolished, leaving behind empty lots that look to me like missing teeth. Some blocks are relatively well kept, and harbor only one or two abandoned, shuttered homes. Other blocks have been ravaged by the misfortunes of their residents; on these blocks, nearly every house looks empty.

  Many of Kensington’s side streets are intersected by even smaller alleys, which themselves are lined by the rears of houses that look as if they’re angry with the passerby, have turned their backs in a huff. These alleys are generally not passable by cars.

  It is down one such alley that I now peer, searching for the house with three Bs on it that T
ruman described.

  But if there is such a house, it’s not visible from where I am.

  * * *

  —

  When the time draws near, I park my assigned vehicle and enter Alonzo’s shop. He looks up and, judging correctly that I’m not there to purchase a coffee, points wordlessly to the closet where he’s keeping my change of clothes.

  —Thank you, Alonzo, I say to him, and go into the bathroom, and then, with as much dignity as I can muster, reemerge clad in my black, overlarge sweatpants and T-shirt.

  I say nothing. Only nod, and place my uniform and its bag back on the shelf, and then disappear out the door. This time, I leave my radio and my weapon with it. I have no way to invisibly holster it under my civilian clothes.

  * * *

  —

  I jog to Madison. It helps to keep me warm. I check my watch: 2:30 exactly.

  I slow my pace to a walk as I turn onto the street, and then down the alley that runs perpendicular to it. I try, and most likely fail, to look casual.

  There it is, all the way at the end: the back of the house in question. White siding. Three Bs spray-painted onto a board over one of the two back windows. One large, rotting piece of plywood over the place where a back door would formerly have been. It looks like it would be easy to push it to the side, and I imagine that this is how its temporary residents make their way in and out.

  I put my face up next to the board that covers the window, try in vain to peer inside through a crack, but the interior is too dark for me to see much. I hesitate for a moment, and then I knock rapidly on the board that covers the door. If Dock answers, I’m not sure what I’ll do.

  I wait for a while. And then a while longer. I knock again. Nobody answers.

  Eventually, I push the plywood covering aside, and, tentatively, I step inside.

  * * *