one would help. How can you turn down a plea like that? How can you say no to a man crying on your front step with his cuffs turned up as if he never made it past the third grade?
“You’d better come in.”
“She was wearing a bright pink sweater and rubber boots.” He came in and there were reeds on his feet and they stuck to my floor. “I told her not to go along the river. But she did anyway. She’s got a set of brass bells around her wrist that tinkle like Christmas toys so we can’t miss her.”
“Where is your wife?”
“She’s retarded.” He threaded the rim of his hat through his hands and tossed it aside. “She’s retarded and she doesn’t understand. Not tonight, anyway.”
“Haven’t you told her?”
“She’s off her meds.”
She was simple, I knew that. I knew a little. She came to a few of my parties. She had problems with the complicated things in life – area codes, traffic circles, and long grocery lists – but I wouldn’t have called her retarded. So I let him in. He sat on the couch. He was cold and he had on a scarlet vest and hip waders from the Salvation Army, but I let him in anyway.
He didn’t like my place much. I am a bachelor. I live alone. I live with the petrified skeletons of ancient Badland creatures that I put together for a hobby, and that sort of thing is against his religion. Fossils are popular here. They’re not a bad hobby. They don’t mean you’re derelict or anti-social or have disregard for other people’s beliefs, but he sat between the calcified bones and his eyes flitted from femur to cranium and tried to pretend they didn’t exist.
I handed him a glass of brandy although I felt a little bad for it. He’s a religious man who has lost his daughter and all I did was give him liquor. But he rolled down the brandy in one shot and didn’t even wince. Maybe there were things I didn’t know. The more time goes on, the more I realize I do not know, like the production of pins or the evolution of Mesozoic flowers.
“Have you told the police?” I asked.
“Why?”
“So they can help us look for her.”
“They won’t.”
“What do you mean they won’t? That’s their job.”
“She has to be gone twenty-four hours.”
“No. That’s not right. How old is she?”
“She’s seven.” He nodded. He shut his eyes and counted the years. Maybe he was counting something else, too. “No, wait. She’s eight.”
“Eight? Then they don’t wait a whole day to go looking for an eight-year-old who’s missing in the river.”
“They will with her.”
“Why?”
He shrugged. “She’s done it before.”
“That is ridiculous. Call them now. I know one of the sergeants.”
“Do you have a phone?”
I didn’t. I do not like things electronic. They are scabbied. They are horsehair. They get in the way of the real things in life. Real things are bones. Real things are beasts. Real things are proving the past and rye, and drinking with women late into the night and then having them naked on top of you, braids up and down, growling. People spend all day long on cellphones, Blackberries, and computers and don’t even know what the insides of their kitchens look like, so I don’t bother with them.
“Even we have a phone,” he said.
“Let’s walk down to the station.”
“It won’t do any good.”
“They have all the proper tools for a search. They have ropes. They have maps and infrared. They’ll make it easier.”
“You have lights and ropes,” he said.
That was true enough. Outside, the sun died orange and sent a long shadow across my workbench just to prove his point.
“Besides,” he said, “we’ve been through this before with them. They’ll want to look in the house first. They’ll want photographs. They’ll want to ask my wife questions.”
“So let them.”
“No. She’ll screw things up. There’s always an excuse. They’ll never look in the right places.”
“What are the right places?”
He did not
“You’d better come in.”
“She was wearing a bright pink sweater and rubber boots.” He came in and there were reeds on his feet and they stuck to my floor. “I told her not to go along the river. But she did anyway. She’s got a set of brass bells around her wrist that tinkle like Christmas toys so we can’t miss her.”
“Where is your wife?”
“She’s retarded.” He threaded the rim of his hat through his hands and tossed it aside. “She’s retarded and she doesn’t understand. Not tonight, anyway.”
“Haven’t you told her?”
“She’s off her meds.”
She was simple, I knew that. I knew a little. She came to a few of my parties. She had problems with the complicated things in life – area codes, traffic circles, and long grocery lists – but I wouldn’t have called her retarded. So I let him in. He sat on the couch. He was cold and he had on a scarlet vest and hip waders from the Salvation Army, but I let him in anyway.
He didn’t like my place much. I am a bachelor. I live alone. I live with the petrified skeletons of ancient Badland creatures that I put together for a hobby, and that sort of thing is against his religion. Fossils are popular here. They’re not a bad hobby. They don’t mean you’re derelict or anti-social or have disregard for other people’s beliefs, but he sat between the calcified bones and his eyes flitted from femur to cranium and tried to pretend they didn’t exist.
I handed him a glass of brandy although I felt a little bad for it. He’s a religious man who has lost his daughter and all I did was give him liquor. But he rolled down the brandy in one shot and didn’t even wince. Maybe there were things I didn’t know. The more time goes on, the more I realize I do not know, like the production of pins or the evolution of Mesozoic flowers.
“Have you told the police?” I asked.
“Why?”
“So they can help us look for her.”
“They won’t.”
“What do you mean they won’t? That’s their job.”
“She has to be gone twenty-four hours.”
“No. That’s not right. How old is she?”
“She’s seven.” He nodded. He shut his eyes and counted the years. Maybe he was counting something else, too. “No, wait. She’s eight.”
“Eight? Then they don’t wait a whole day to go looking for an eight-year-old who’s missing in the river.”
“They will with her.”
“Why?”
He shrugged. “She’s done it before.”
“That is ridiculous. Call them now. I know one of the sergeants.”
“Do you have a phone?”
I didn’t. I do not like things electronic. They are scabbied. They are horsehair. They get in the way of the real things in life. Real things are bones. Real things are beasts. Real things are proving the past and rye, and drinking with women late into the night and then having them naked on top of you, braids up and down, growling. People spend all day long on cellphones, Blackberries, and computers and don’t even know what the insides of their kitchens look like, so I don’t bother with them.
“Even we have a phone,” he said.
“Let’s walk down to the station.”
“It won’t do any good.”
“They have all the proper tools for a search. They have ropes. They have maps and infrared. They’ll make it easier.”
“You have lights and ropes,” he said.
That was true enough. Outside, the sun died orange and sent a long shadow across my workbench just to prove his point.
“Besides,” he said, “we’ve been through this before with them. They’ll want to look in the house first. They’ll want photographs. They’ll want to ask my wife questions.”
“So let them.”
“No. She’ll screw things up. There’s always an excuse. They’ll never look in the right places.”
“What are the right places?”
He did not
Similar Books
