awful fairy-tale reverse transformation. Over just a few years, the old Amy, the girl of the big laugh and the easy ways, literally shed herself, a pile of skin and soul on the floor, and out stepped this new, brittle, bitter Amy. My wife was no longer my wife but a razor-wire knot daring me to unloop her, and I was not up to the job with my thick, numb, nervous fingers. Country fingers. Flyover fingers untrained in the intricate, dangerous work of solving Amy . When I’d hold up the bloody stumps, she’d sigh and turn to her secret mental notebook on which she tallied all my deficiencies, forever noting disappointments, frailties, shortcomings. My old Amy, damn, she was fun. She was funny. She made me laugh. I’d forgotten that. And she laughed. From the bottom of her throat, from right behind that small finger-shaped hollow, which is the best place to laugh from. She released her grievances like handfuls of birdseed: They are there, and they are gone.
She was not the thing she became, the thing I feared most: an angry woman. I was not good with angry women. They brought something out in me that was unsavory.
‘She bossy?’ Gilpin asked. ‘Take-charge?’
I thought of Amy’s calendar, the one that went three years into the future, and if you looked a year ahead, you would actually find appointments: dermatologist, dentist, vet. ‘She’s a planner – she doesn’t, you know, wing anything. She likes to make lists and check things off. Get things done. That’s why this doesn’t make sense—’
‘That can drive you crazy,’ Boney said sympathetically. ‘If you’re not that type. You seem very B-personality.’
‘I’m a little more laid-back, I guess,’ I said. Then I added the part I was supposed to add: ‘We round each other out.’
I looked at the clock on the wall, and Boney touched my hand.
‘Hey, why don’t you go ahead and give a call to Amy’s parents? I’m sure they’d appreciate it.’
It was past midnight. Amy’s parents went to sleep at nine p.m.; they were strangely boastful about this early bedtime. They’d be deep asleep by now, so this would be an urgent middle-of-the-night call. Cells went off at 8:45 always, so Rand Elliott would have to walk from his bed all the way to the end of the hall to pick up the old heavy phone; he’d be fumbling with his glasses, fussy with the table lamp. He’d be telling himself all the reasons not to worry about a late-night phone call, all the harmless reasons the phone might be ringing.
I dialed twice and hung up before I let the call ring through. When I did, it was Marybeth, not Rand, who answered, her deep voice buzzing my ears. I’d only gotten to ‘Marybeth, this is Nick’ when I lost it.
‘What is it, Nick?’
I took a breath.
‘Is it Amy? Tell me.’
‘I uh – I’m sorry I should have called—’
‘Tell me, goddamn it!’
‘We c-can’t find Amy,’ I stuttered.
‘You can’t find Amy?’
‘I don’t know—’
‘Amy is missing?’
‘We don’t know that for sure, we’re still—’
‘Since when?’
‘We’re not sure. I left this morning, a little after seven—’
‘And you waited till now to call us?’
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t want to—’
‘Jesus Christ. We played tennis tonight. Tennis , and we could have been … My God. Are the police involved? You’ve notified them?’
‘I’m at the station right now.’
‘Put on whoever’s in charge, Nick. Please.’
Like a kid, I went to fetch Gilpin. My mommy-in-law wants to talk to you .
Phoning the Elliotts made it official. The emergency – Amy is gone – was spreading to the outside.
I was heading back to the interview room when I heard my father’s voice. Sometimes, in particularly shameful moments, I heard his voice in my head. But this was my father’s voice, here. His words emerged in wet bubbles like something from a rancid bog. Bitch bitch bitch . My father, out of his mind, had taken to flinging the word at any woman who even
She was not the thing she became, the thing I feared most: an angry woman. I was not good with angry women. They brought something out in me that was unsavory.
‘She bossy?’ Gilpin asked. ‘Take-charge?’
I thought of Amy’s calendar, the one that went three years into the future, and if you looked a year ahead, you would actually find appointments: dermatologist, dentist, vet. ‘She’s a planner – she doesn’t, you know, wing anything. She likes to make lists and check things off. Get things done. That’s why this doesn’t make sense—’
‘That can drive you crazy,’ Boney said sympathetically. ‘If you’re not that type. You seem very B-personality.’
‘I’m a little more laid-back, I guess,’ I said. Then I added the part I was supposed to add: ‘We round each other out.’
I looked at the clock on the wall, and Boney touched my hand.
‘Hey, why don’t you go ahead and give a call to Amy’s parents? I’m sure they’d appreciate it.’
It was past midnight. Amy’s parents went to sleep at nine p.m.; they were strangely boastful about this early bedtime. They’d be deep asleep by now, so this would be an urgent middle-of-the-night call. Cells went off at 8:45 always, so Rand Elliott would have to walk from his bed all the way to the end of the hall to pick up the old heavy phone; he’d be fumbling with his glasses, fussy with the table lamp. He’d be telling himself all the reasons not to worry about a late-night phone call, all the harmless reasons the phone might be ringing.
I dialed twice and hung up before I let the call ring through. When I did, it was Marybeth, not Rand, who answered, her deep voice buzzing my ears. I’d only gotten to ‘Marybeth, this is Nick’ when I lost it.
‘What is it, Nick?’
I took a breath.
‘Is it Amy? Tell me.’
‘I uh – I’m sorry I should have called—’
‘Tell me, goddamn it!’
‘We c-can’t find Amy,’ I stuttered.
‘You can’t find Amy?’
‘I don’t know—’
‘Amy is missing?’
‘We don’t know that for sure, we’re still—’
‘Since when?’
‘We’re not sure. I left this morning, a little after seven—’
‘And you waited till now to call us?’
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t want to—’
‘Jesus Christ. We played tennis tonight. Tennis , and we could have been … My God. Are the police involved? You’ve notified them?’
‘I’m at the station right now.’
‘Put on whoever’s in charge, Nick. Please.’
Like a kid, I went to fetch Gilpin. My mommy-in-law wants to talk to you .
Phoning the Elliotts made it official. The emergency – Amy is gone – was spreading to the outside.
I was heading back to the interview room when I heard my father’s voice. Sometimes, in particularly shameful moments, I heard his voice in my head. But this was my father’s voice, here. His words emerged in wet bubbles like something from a rancid bog. Bitch bitch bitch . My father, out of his mind, had taken to flinging the word at any woman who even
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