search. "An officer will be out to see you in about ten minutes."
Mark hung up the phone. "They're coming right over," he said. His voice sounded to him like an echo. He had become his own audience, observing the tragedy even as it spun itself around him.
Distantly, "The Star Spangled Banner" rose from a neighbor's TV. The baseball game was starting, and everybody else was safe, and nobody else's child was threatened.
Mary's hand came into his. "Do you really think that the man—"
"I don't know."
She wanted to lean her head against him, but restrained herself. They needed to be strong for one another, not to display weakness. She squeezed his hand. "He'll be found."
"I guess it's the step we just took. It makes you face how damn scared you really are."
Mary herself felt light-headed. She asked Sally to go downstairs and make some coffee.
As Sally poured out the grounds and measured the water, she tried to understand. Dad had said that Billy had waked up in the night and seen a man. What did it mean? Sometimes she and Billy would both wake up in the middle of the night and do something crazy like play Monopoly on the hall floor. They'd watch Chiller Theatre that came on channel six at two a.m. Saturday. Or they would talk, spinning dreams in the night. She wanted to get out of Stevensville as much as she'd wanted to get out of all the other little towns where her father taught.
Billy was a pretty bright kid. Surely he wouldn't have agreed to go with some man who came to the house in the middle of the night.
Her brother was also a total innocent when it came to certain things. You could give him an Oreo loaded with tabasco sauce and he'd pop it into his mouth every time. But he wouldn't let himself get kidnapped.
The arrival of the police alerted the neighborhood for the first time to the existence of a possible problem at the Nearys' place. People noticed the green and white car cruising slowly along, watched it as it came to a stop in front of the teacher's unkempt yard. Because they were recent arrivals most of their neighbors did not know the family; some of them didn't even know the name. Mark knew that the appearance of the police car would bring uneasy questions.
He felt queasy, watching the officer come up the walk. A curious distance imposed itself. The policeman approached as if he was a phantom coming up an unreal front walk, beneath a sun as bright as memory. How strange that Billy was not there wanting to see his gun. As he came swiftly across the porch through the door the percolator started rattling. Sally went back to the kitchen.
She went to the percolator, leaned into the steam and inhaled.
"Coffee's ready," she said as she entered the living room. The young policeman smiled.
He asked questions about Billy. His age, his looks, did they have a video to run on television?
Mark was horrified. A video! Television! Billy was gone, really and truly gone. He wasn't in the basement, he wasn't out visiting, he wasn't at the mall.
Mary's impulse was to run somewhere and seek him, shout his name, make more phone calls.
"We don't have a video," Mark said.
"But there are pictures," Mary added. She was sick inside.
Just because they had no video didn't mean that Billy was lost forever, but that was how she felt.
"If you get TV they'll run a video a little more than a photo."
Listening to the man, realizing that Billy was truly gone, Mary could have screamed her guts out. But she didn't do that sort of thing, it wasn't her style.
She crossed her legs and leaned forward. She understood nothing about the black storming ocean within her. Life had so far never brought her a suffering such as this. Not even Mother's death compared to it.
She found herself ally to the parents whose children were torn from their arms at Auschwitz, to those who saw their little boys hanged at Tyburn for the theft of a button, to those whose children were raped by the passing Huns or Teutons or Romans, to all who have stood
Mark hung up the phone. "They're coming right over," he said. His voice sounded to him like an echo. He had become his own audience, observing the tragedy even as it spun itself around him.
Distantly, "The Star Spangled Banner" rose from a neighbor's TV. The baseball game was starting, and everybody else was safe, and nobody else's child was threatened.
Mary's hand came into his. "Do you really think that the man—"
"I don't know."
She wanted to lean her head against him, but restrained herself. They needed to be strong for one another, not to display weakness. She squeezed his hand. "He'll be found."
"I guess it's the step we just took. It makes you face how damn scared you really are."
Mary herself felt light-headed. She asked Sally to go downstairs and make some coffee.
As Sally poured out the grounds and measured the water, she tried to understand. Dad had said that Billy had waked up in the night and seen a man. What did it mean? Sometimes she and Billy would both wake up in the middle of the night and do something crazy like play Monopoly on the hall floor. They'd watch Chiller Theatre that came on channel six at two a.m. Saturday. Or they would talk, spinning dreams in the night. She wanted to get out of Stevensville as much as she'd wanted to get out of all the other little towns where her father taught.
Billy was a pretty bright kid. Surely he wouldn't have agreed to go with some man who came to the house in the middle of the night.
Her brother was also a total innocent when it came to certain things. You could give him an Oreo loaded with tabasco sauce and he'd pop it into his mouth every time. But he wouldn't let himself get kidnapped.
The arrival of the police alerted the neighborhood for the first time to the existence of a possible problem at the Nearys' place. People noticed the green and white car cruising slowly along, watched it as it came to a stop in front of the teacher's unkempt yard. Because they were recent arrivals most of their neighbors did not know the family; some of them didn't even know the name. Mark knew that the appearance of the police car would bring uneasy questions.
He felt queasy, watching the officer come up the walk. A curious distance imposed itself. The policeman approached as if he was a phantom coming up an unreal front walk, beneath a sun as bright as memory. How strange that Billy was not there wanting to see his gun. As he came swiftly across the porch through the door the percolator started rattling. Sally went back to the kitchen.
She went to the percolator, leaned into the steam and inhaled.
"Coffee's ready," she said as she entered the living room. The young policeman smiled.
He asked questions about Billy. His age, his looks, did they have a video to run on television?
Mark was horrified. A video! Television! Billy was gone, really and truly gone. He wasn't in the basement, he wasn't out visiting, he wasn't at the mall.
Mary's impulse was to run somewhere and seek him, shout his name, make more phone calls.
"We don't have a video," Mark said.
"But there are pictures," Mary added. She was sick inside.
Just because they had no video didn't mean that Billy was lost forever, but that was how she felt.
"If you get TV they'll run a video a little more than a photo."
Listening to the man, realizing that Billy was truly gone, Mary could have screamed her guts out. But she didn't do that sort of thing, it wasn't her style.
She crossed her legs and leaned forward. She understood nothing about the black storming ocean within her. Life had so far never brought her a suffering such as this. Not even Mother's death compared to it.
She found herself ally to the parents whose children were torn from their arms at Auschwitz, to those who saw their little boys hanged at Tyburn for the theft of a button, to those whose children were raped by the passing Huns or Teutons or Romans, to all who have stood
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