When He Vanished

by T. J. Brearton

  “It’s not — I mean, yeah, Mel just got her period, but that’s not ah . . . everything’s just happening at once.”

  “That’s how it works, right?”

  We’ve known each other for three years and worked the school consignment sale together. I decide that Karen is the nearest thing I have to a friend outside of work. But I’m just not ready to say anything yet. John could show up. He could be home already. The last thing I need is a scandal about my family in this little town where we’ve lived so far in relative peace and quiet. “It’s not a . . . I’m making too much of it,” I say to Karen.

  Her hand is on my upper back and I wonder who’s watching; the school is right behind us, all the classroom windows facing the street. Here it is, everyone, the moment you’ve been waiting for — the trendy couple from out of town, the divorcee and the alcoholic writer and their happy little joined family are finally crumbling! Gather round, y’all, and see what happens to the ones who don’t stick to their roots. Gather round!

  I turn to face Karen and force a smile. “I’m okay. Thanks.”

  She’s dubious, I can tell, an aura of friendly skepticism around her, unsure whether she should let it go.

  “It’s probably just the day,” she says. “My mother used to tell me that — ‘It’s just the day.’ Right up there with other sayings like ‘This too shall pass,’ which probably doesn’t help.”

  “No, it does. I appreciate it. Thanks, Karen.”

  “All right. I’ll see you later, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  I almost call after her but don’t, reminded that Karen is a veritable community switchboard and I don’t want rumors about my husband. There are a few things I can do on my own first.

  Back in the car, I text Melody: You okay?

  I check my face in the mirror — eyes are bloodshot, dark circles beneath. Hair is a bit frazzled but otherwise I’m just another working mom who had to hustle a little this morning. Time for a pep talk with myself: everything is going to be okay. John is going through something and, while his behavior is a bit scary, he’s a sane and rational man. He would never jeopardize his family, his marriage. And he would never cheat.

  Oh no?

  He’s too introverted. The only socializing he does is through me. I can’t envision it.

  Then what about his drinking? Remember the weekend you left with the kids and he spent the entirety of it drunk and depressed?

  That was years ago. Before Hazleton. Before he was published and truly working as a writer.

  Maybe a call to his agent is in order. There could be more to his work problems than I know about.

  What about all the time he’s been spending at the lake house?

  Well, he’s been clearing debris, making repairs and, occasionally, as it’s a four-hour drive, he’ll spend the night. So maybe he went back there for some reason and just didn’t tell me.

  Yeah, or maybe that’s where he meets the blonde woman. Until she finally shows up at our house, desperate with love and carrying his child.

  My phone jiggles with a reply from Melody: I want to throw up.

  I write back. I’ll get you something and be right home.

  A car horn blatts, the sound going right up my spinal column. I’d started to pull away from the curb without looking and now the motorist is glaring at me as she drives slowly past. The crossing guard gives me a worried look. I raise my hand — all good now, whoops — and he lifts his own arm in a tentative wave.

  Watch your shit, lady.

  * * *

  Mel ignores the egg sandwich I bought and takes the ibuprofen, then pulls the covers up over her head.

  “I don’t want to talk right now.”

  “All right . . . Just get some rest, okay?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  I pause in the doorway. “Hon — I’m sorry — did anyone come over last night? While I was at work?”

  Her finger pokes out of the white down comforter and just lowers it enough to reveal her eyes. “Who?”

  “I don’t know. Did you see anyone?”

  “You mean those people from dinner?”

  I don’t know what to say. Your brother says he saw a blonde woman. Melody is too mature to just shrug that off and I don’t have an explanation.

  “Anyone,” I say. “Did you hear anything? Your brother thinks he heard someone talking to Dad.”

  “He’s probably just making it up.”

  “Okay. Get some rest.”

  Before I leave she says, “I think maybe someone pulled in the driveway, though — I saw headlights. It was pretty late.”

  My stomach goes gummy. “Last night? You sure?”

  The covers lower some more. “It might’ve just been you, though. Coming home.”

  “You were asleep.”

  She makes a face that suggests it’s all she knows. Then she furrows her brow. “You sure you’re not mad?”

  “I’m not mad — I don’t know what you mean.”

  “You just seem it.”

  “I’m just trying to figure something out. We’ll talk more in a little bit, okay?”

  Back outside, the morning is still crisp and bright. Everything looks the same but different. The house is a natural wood color with sand-toned trim around the windows and doors and green shingles on the roof, but after three years it seems new and alien again, a place where strangers live; the windows that reflect the sky hide a truth inside.

  People coming and going? The woman Russ saw, possibly a couple of nights ago, possibly last night. My seven-year-old is not the most reliable witness. My daughter sleeps on the other side of the house, involved in her own worries. But even if their stories are unclear, they’re telling me what they believe is true.

  The driveway beneath my feet is still just the driveway, weeds sprouting in the cracks, a scattering of acorns from the previous fall, but as I scan the asphalt for a stray cigarette butt or an empty dented can of beer I’m thinking about invisible tire tracks and footprints.

  Circling around to the walkout basement, I find the door locked. I have to reenter from the front and descend the stairs. The recycling bins separate glass and plastic and I paw through both, finding nothing besides the usual soda cans and juice bottles. And then I’m standing in the doorway of John’s study again, wiping my hands with a paper towel, giving everything a fresh look.

  Beneath the long desk is a locked file cabinet. Beside it are shelves; stacks of paperwork on the top, some office supplies on the bottom. And the edge of something shiny — a glint of glass. I push aside a mug of pens and a tape dispenser.

  The bottle of bourbon has about an inch of liquor left in the bottom.

  “Oh, John . . .”

  CHAPTER EIGHT / SEARCHING

  In Hazleton, nearly everything closes early except for the two bars, open past midnight. I visit the Trailhead first, just a couple miles out of the town proper. At nine o’clock in the morning everything looks closed and locked. A lone pickup truck sits in the lot.

  I get out and burrow into my parka and smell dirt and sawdust riding the air. When the whine of a power saw splits the silence, I follow it around back where a man is up on a ladder.

  “Hello . . .”

  He shields his eyes from the sun as he looks down at me. “Hi — help you?”

  “Are you the owner?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Is the owner here?”

  “No.”

  “You wouldn’t happen to have his number, would you?”

  The guy gives me a long look then climbs down. He’s in his late forties or early fifties, dressed in coveralls. He dusts off his hands as he walks toward me and I take an inadvertent step back. “Ray is in Myrtle Beach with the family,” he says. “Everything okay? Something I can do?”

  I put on another smile. “Oh — everything’s okay. I’m just looking for someone. He might’ve been here last night.” He’d be the miserable writer drowning his guilt. Maybe the one with a superhero-ish blo
nde.

  The man gets a knowing glint in his eye. “Gotcha, gotcha — well, I don’t really know the staff here. I think maybe RJ was working the bar last night, though. You know RJ? You could try him.”

  “Thanks. You wouldn’t happen to have his number?”

  “Um . . .” He pats at his pockets. “No, don’t think so. I know where he lives, though.”

  “That would be great, if you could tell me.”

  He gives me RJ’s address and then looks me up and down. “Sorry for your trouble. Hope you find who you’re looking for.”

  “Thank you.”

  Five miles to the north side of town is The Knotty Pine. With darkened beer signs in the windows, this bar is also locked up, no one around, no cars in the driveway, just an overflowing garbage bin wafting foulness. I don’t expect to see my husband passed out on the floor, but I’m braced for it as I cup my hands and peer inside.

  The place is empty. I get back in the car.

  Marty Spicer’s number is actually in my phone. John’s agent is not someone I’ve talked to beside the one time we met in New York shortly after John was signed on, so I’m happy I had the presence of mind to record his contact info. But I’m expecting to leave a voice mail — don’t agents and those types start the day around 10 a.m.? It’s not that yet.

  “Hello.” Marty has picked up.

  “Mr. Spicer? Ah, Marty? Hi, it’s Jane Gable. John’s wife. I’m just—”

  “Jane! How are you, darlin’? Good to hear from you.”

  At least he sounds like a morning person.

  “I’m okay, I’m okay — ah . . . this is a bit weird to be calling.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “I’m just . . . I don’t know what the ethics are involved here, or if there’s a certain confidentiality with your clients but — I’m just going to come right out and say it. Has John been doing okay?”

  “Something happen?” His voice is tinged with concern.

  “You know, it’s one of those things . . .” The more I talk the sillier I feel. It’s one of those things? One of what things? Drinking and extramarital affairs? “I think John’s been having some . . . maybe it’s trouble with work, but he won’t really talk about it. I’m sorry to bother you about it and it’s probably fine. Just how writers are, right?”

  Marty chuckles. “Well let’s just say that the rest of us socialize blame but writers think everything bad is their fault. Masochists, all of them.”

  My own laughter sounds like a horse’s whinny. “Yeah, right. And — I don’t mean to break any sort of confidence, but I was wondering if . . .” I let the question hang in the air. I’m sure Marty knows what I’m driving at but I just can’t bring myself to ask.

  “Well,” he says, “yeah, to some extent John’s work is a privileged matter. But I’m sure you know we send him quarterly statements. So . . .”

  Not a bad idea. I can check John’s paperwork, see how things have been going. But that’s not really why I’ve called, is it? I’ve got to tell someone or I’m going to scream. And John’s agent is the safest person — out of town, barely connected to us.

  “I don’t know where he is, Marty. Right now I don’t know where he is, and it’s not like him to do anything like this. I think he might be drinking. He could be . . . I was just wondering if . . . you know, pressures from work — if he’s said anything to you.”

  Marty is silent, just the rumble and squall of the city in the background. “How long has he been, ah, gone?”

  “Since last night. I was at work, and when I came home he wasn’t there. He’d gone, and left our two kids in bed. No message, no nothing.” Keep calm. Keep your voice measured. “He didn’t respond to my texts all night. In fact, he left his phone at home. It’s password-protected, same as his computer — I don’t know, maybe he was working on something top secret?” Another loose laugh flutters forth. I’ve become batty, unhinged. What’s happening?

  Are you mad, Mom?

  “Jane, writers can really put themselves through the mill.” Marty brightens a little, as if we’re back on comfortable ground for him. “You know, for months they can just be deep in the cave, things can seem hopeless. But John’s always managed to come through.”

  “Yeah, right. Exactly. Really this is probably just nothing and I’m being . . . It’s been a lot with kids and work and . . .” I trail off, reluctant. Marty hasn’t responded to the comment about John’s drinking or whether they’ve talked, perhaps because that’s precisely where the line is drawn.

  A heat grows around my face and neck. I need to apologize for bothering him and go home and deal with this on my own.

  His next words come over somber and serious. “I’ll tell you, Jane — John and I haven’t really corresponded much lately. He’s sort of drifted away, to be honest. I mean I think it’s been, ah, yeah, it’s been close to five months or so since we even emailed, let alone talked.”

  It sends finger-like chills down my spine. “I thought, though — I thought he had a deadline? For a new book? He’s been in his office working non-stop.”

  “Well, whatever he’s working on, it’s not through me. The last deal we had was with Lake Union, and that was . . . uh, Edge of Night.”

  “You don’t have a book contract for anything right now?”

  “I’ve been waiting. Waiting to see what he comes up with. But like I said, you know, it’s been a while. We just had the one book deal. Edge of Night was a standalone. They’ve been ready, though. They’d pay an advance, even after Edge didn’t perform all that well. I mean, that wasn’t really John’s fault.”

  It’s a barrage of information. “Edge of Night didn’t do very well?”

  “Well the thing is . . . you sort of got this marketing lottery. Either you get all the spots or you get none of them. It was just bad luck with Edge and . . . You know, I wanted him to stick with his series, the other thing he was doing, but he wasn’t into it. I think he tried to write a sixth book, but it wasn’t coming off. So he had Edge of Night and I think he put a lot of pressure on that one to really perform well. It just got kind of swallowed up. It happens. I’ve played it laissez-faire because you hold any writer’s feet to the fire and they just throw you a rough draft.”

  Swallowed up. Part of me wants to give Marty a few choice words — he’s acting like these were all things beyond his control, but he’s taking his fifteen percent to advocate for John, not just shrug his shoulders and play it “laissez-faire” when John’s career is floundering.

  In the beginning of John’s series, I monitored sales, just for fun. It was exciting to watch the reviews come in and see the sales rank inching up on Amazon. He’d been trying to break into the business for so long. The day his first book cracked the top ten, we celebrated — we made love on the porch and drank sparkling grape juice like it was champagne.

  “Listen, Jane, I’m so sorry — can I call you back? I’m about to step into a meeting.”

  “That’s fine, Marty. Thank you so much for talking.”

  “Hope it helps.” He pauses and the city traffic noise is gone, but I hear the chime of an elevator. “I’m sure everything’s going to be okay. All right? Sometimes people just need to rejuvenate. Blow off some steam. But hey, when you talk to him, tell him to give old Marty a call, okay?”

  “Yeah, will do. Goodbye, Marty.”

  I set the phone down on the passenger seat and smooth back my hair, looking out at the dark and gloomy bar in the empty parking lot. Rejuvenating with a fifth of bourbon. Great. Blowing off a little steam with some woman or maybe some old high school classmate.

  I have no idea what to do now. Just wait for him to show back up? It’s still early. Probably he’s on a couch somewhere at the home of one of these mysterious friends, sleeping it off.

  The idea makes me feel lonely, like I’ve suddenly lost my husband. Not because he isn’t physically around, but because this isn’t the John I know. Even if he’s slipped up before, this feels more callous, even d
angerous; he’s never abandoned the kids like this. Wherever he is, when he wakes up he’s going to feel utter despair, I’m sure. But he’s going to feel even worse when I get a hold of him.

  The phone vibrates beside me and I grab it, expecting the apologetic texts to start rolling in. But it’s not John. It’s Melody. And my breath catches in my throat.

  Mom, someone is here.

  CHAPTER NINE / CRITICAL TIME

  I’m driving too fast, imagining the strange SUV parked in my driveway, its doors opening, people getting out. I can feel their bad intentions even if I can’t picture their faces.

  Or maybe it’s John who’s finally arrived home — he’s disoriented, even hurt, careening into the garage and alarming our daughter. I glance at the phone but she still hasn’t responded to my frantic replies: Who is it? Are you okay? The next time I look, I nearly go flying into a ditch and jerk the wheel to correct myself at the last second.

  Heart pounding down the road to my house, the driveway rolls into view with a vehicle parked halfway along its length. Though not the SUV, thank God, the green car is still vaguely familiar. I jam the brakes, block it in, and hurry to my front door.

  Halfway up the walk, I trip on a dislodged brick and go sprawling. My knee scrapes over the hard ground, and my palms grate against the sand John spread around on a recent icy morning.

  When I scramble back to my feet too quickly, the hasty movement contorts my back the wrong way. The sensation is instant: the cold slip of a disk, the muscles surrounding it seizing instantly in protest and protection. I let out a frustrated yelp of pain.

  Now I’ve done it.

  Then I’m clawing my way along the railing, up the porch steps, lurching my way through the front door.

  Karen Dewitt stands stunned, mouth hanging open. She lunges for me and circles an arm around my waist to help me stabilize. “Woah there! My God, what happened?”

  “I fell.” It takes a moment, but here it comes: feeling like an idiot, petrified and clumsy at the same time, like one of the Three Stooges if they’d starred in a Hitchcock movie.

  “Here, sit down, sit down.”