How to Be Lost (2 page)

T
HE
C
HRISTMAS PARTY
was coming to an end, though Elvis’ Christmas Classics was still blaring. The bartender from the Liquor Barn was packing up the unopened bottles, someone had stolen the mistletoe, and only a few of the guests were left. Mom, in red-and-black striped pants, held a meatball on a toothpick and nodded seriously, listening to a man in a bow tie describe his boat restoration project. Madeline was putting Saran Wrap around everything that wasn’t tied down, pushing the plastic against bowls and platters with concentration. Ron seemed amused by a tall woman’s tale of woe at the poodle groomer. “I said one red bow,” she exclaimed, “and they made little Keenie’s ears into pigtails! Now that is tacky.”

Agreeable Ron. He smiled sympathetically.

I had finally extricated myself from a lengthy lecture. Dr. Randall, who had been our pediatrician, was discussing with himself whether Princeton had changed since the day they let ladies in the door. I had no opinion, I said a few dozen times, having never been to Princeton, but Dr. Randall seemed to have enough opinions of his own to keep the conversation going for some time. In conclusion, Dr. Randall finally said, the whole university had gone down the drain—no offense there, Caroline—since females had started meddling.

The bartender saved me. He walked right up, interrupted Dr. Randall’s discussion of ladies’ lacrosse, and said, “Excuse me, but could you sign the bill?” He was handsome in a swarthy way: black hair, deep blue eyes. His nose was large. “Sorry to interrupt,” he said, not looking the least bit sorry.

“Sure. No problem.” I smoothed the fabric of my red taffeta dress and rubbed my lips together. Unfortunately, they felt dry, as if all the Juniper Berry Max Factor Lip Stay I had applied had worn off on my wine glass. I followed the bartender back to his makeshift bar, a foldout table my mother had covered with a linen tablecloth. He pulled a clipboard out of a carton and flipped a page. “I’m Caroline, by the way.”

“Oh,” he said, looking up. Good heavens his eyelashes were long. “I’m Anthony,” he said. “I’ve been working at your mom’s Christmas parties for years.”

“Really?”

“Really,” said Anthony. He held the clipboard toward me. “You can sign here.”

“I never realized,” I said, “that it was you.”

“People don’t.”

“Oh,” I said.

Anthony looked impatient. He poked the clipboard in my direction. “I have a question for you,” I said.

“Do you?” said Anthony. “What’s that?”

“How do you know how much to bring?”

“How much liquor?”

“Yeah, and wine.”

He smiled. “My dad’s been doing the same parties for a long time,” he said. “You know who’s going to be where.” He nodded to the man in the bow tie. “He’s going to drink vodka, and his wife used to like her gin. So you’d figure a half bottle for her. The Watsons, they drink wine. Mr. Kenton, Scotch. Mrs. Kenton, G&T’s. You get the picture.”

“And my mom?”

“Pinot grigio and soda,” Anthony said, smiling.

I smiled back. “Me?”

“You don’t live here anymore,” said Anthony. “Your sister, though: pinot grigio, like your mom. But not tonight.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well,” said Anthony, “why don’t you ask her?”

“Oh,” I said. “I guess I will.” After a pause, I said, “How about Ron?”

“Famous Grouse Scotch,” said Anthony. He added quietly, “Like your dad.”

“What?”

“Nothing. That was before my time, anyway.”

I swallowed. “I like gin,” I said, “and Scotch, sometimes. And beer.”

“I like beer,” said Anthony.

“Let me sign that,” I said, taking the clipboard and signing my name under the enormous sum.

“Thanks.”

“I live in New Orleans now,” I said to Anthony, “and I’m a bartender, too. Well, cocktail waitress.”

“I’m not a bartender,” said Anthony. “I own the store.”

“Oh.”

“Your mom, she requests me. Tradition, I guess.” We looked at my mother. She was beautiful, her smile lit from the glow of the tiny white lights she had strung around the branches of the Christmas tree. She sipped her drink, and then she laughed.

“Why’d you move all the way down South?” said Anthony.

“Oh God,” I said, “I hate it here.”

“What’s New Orleans like?”

“I don’t know,” I said, flustered. I had not expected him to be interested. “It’s hot,” I said. Anthony waited. “It’s wild,” I said. “Like another country. Normal rules don’t apply.”

“What do you mean?”

“I met someone last week at Midas Mufflers,” I said, “who was on crutches. I asked him what happened. He had been driving down a one-way street when someone smashed into him driving the wrong direction.”

Anthony looked confused.

“Things like that happen in New Orleans. That’s what I’m saying. And people drop things on the ground. Like, I think I’ve had enough of this sandwich. I’ll just drop the rest on the sidewalk!”

“Good place for dogs, then,” said Anthony.

“I guess so.”

Anthony hoisted a carton. “Well, have a great Christmas,” he said, “Caroline.”

“Thanks,” I said. I walked him out, past the last few guests, the untouched cheese ball, the remains of the maple ham. We passed underneath the doorway where my mother had hopefully hung the mistletoe, but as I said, it was already gone.

M
ADELINE WAS UP
early, drinking tea. By the time I shuffled downstairs in my pajama pants and T-shirt, she had cinnamon rolls in the oven. There was also a full pot of coffee, and I poured myself a cup. “Good morning, sleepyhead,” said Madeline.

I smiled. “Is that the Times?”

“Yup.” She pushed the paper toward me.

“You’ve been up a while?”

“I couldn’t sleep.”

I sipped my coffee. “Really?” I said. “You know what helps, a late-night Scotch.”

She laughed. “I’ll have to remember that.”

It was strange, sitting at the breakfast table with my sister. There was so much between us. Our whole stories, up to a point, were the same. But when Ellie disappeared, my relationship with Madeline crumbled slowly. We stopped spending time in the imaginary city we had made in our backyard, stopped using the nicknames we had created for that place. Madeline and I blamed each other, or reminded each other, or something.

When I was sixteen, I went away to boarding school in Connecticut, and Madeline stayed home. She wrote letters to me for a while, but when I didn’t answer, she stopped. She kept sending birthday cards, though, every year. I tried to remember her birthday, but most years, I forgot. I knew her—there was almost no need for words—but I did not know who she had become. This new Madeline, someone’s wife, someone who lived in New York City, a place I had always thought of as metal-gray and cold. I had never even seen her apartment.

“I have to talk to you about something,” she said.

“Yes?”

“A few things, actually.”

“Sounds bad,” I said.

“Well,” she said, “it’s….”

“Ellie,” I said. “I know.” She was always between us. Ellie, who was gone.

“He’s coming over today.”

“Who?”

Madeline looked down at her wedding ring, twisted it. “Ken,” she said, “the Simpsons’ lawyer.”

“You’re on a first-name basis, huh?”

She looked up, anger flashing in her eyes. “That’s not fair.”

“And it’s fair to forget her?” I said.

“I’m not…,” Madeline sighed. “I’m trying to find some closure,” she said.

“Yeah,” I said. “That’s what I hear.” I stood, lifted my cup from the table.

“I’m sorry,” said Madeline. “I know this is hard for you.”

“It’s hard for everyone,” I said.

“He’ll be here at one,” said Madeline.

My mother was still asleep, and I stood in the doorway to her room. She looked so fragile in her wide, white bed. I remembered how she had gone to bed before my father every evening, leaving him drinking in the den.

I would come in to say goodnight to my mother and she would slide her reading glasses down her nose, look up from whatever British murder mystery she was reading, and open her arms to me.

I was right next to her, and suddenly I missed her so much my throat felt hot with tears. She opened her eyes. “Hi, cutie,” she said. I smiled, clutching my coffee cup. My mom sat up in bed, reached her arms heavenward. “What a party!” she said. And then, her arms still open, she said, “Come here,” and I did.

The lawyer was not a professional-looking man. He was, in fact, disheveled. I had expected a gray-haired fellow, distinguished in a Brooks Brothers suit. But when I wandered downstairs, I found my sister sitting on the couch next to a scrappy-looking dude in a leather jacket. Leather jacket! “Caroline,” Madeline said, standing. Ron sat on a wing chair, looking a bit peaked.

I walked toward the unhappy threesome, held out my hand.

The lawyer stood and took it. “Ken Dowland,” he said. I closed one eye. Had I seen him on late-night TV?

“Caroline Winters,” I said. “Hi.” He shook my hand, and I shook back. His fingers were cold, but then, it was December.

“Where’s Mom?” said Madeline.

“She’ll be down in a sec,” I said. “Hear the hair dryer?”

“Oh,” Madeline smiled, “yeah.”

We exchanged pleasantries—yes, all the wreaths seem to be up, no not too much salt on the roads, wouldn’t it be great to have snow on Christmas?—and then my mother came down the stairs, dressed in a sweater with reindeer on it. She wore matching red socks with loafers and corduroy pants. “Oh, hello!” she said gaily, as if the lawyer who wanted us to declare Ellie dead was a treasured guest.

“Hi,” said Ken Dowland, rising again.

“Don’t get up,” said my mother, but she, too, shook his hand.

“Well,” said Ken, “I guess Madeline’s told you why I’m here.”

There was no sound. “Ah,” said Ken, “I’ll backtrack.” He rubbed his palms together. “I’ll begin at, ah, the beginning.”

“Would anyone like some hot cider?” asked my mother.

“I sure would,” I said.

“Sure,” said Ron amiably. Madeline shot him a look. “What?” he said.

“It’ll just be a minute,” said my mother, standing and heading toward the kitchen. “I’ll put a cinnamon stick in each one!” she called.

*

Ken Dowland crossed his legs. His mug of cider hung precariously from one finger. “I’ll begin at the beginning,” he said. My mother’s eyebrows were raised as if she was fascinated, but I could tell from her dull eyes that she wasn’t listening. Madeline looked keyed up. Ron studied his fingernails, which I was unnerved to note had been manicured.

“In 1989, as I’m sure you know, Helen Simpson disappeared on her way home from Cedar Place School in Yonkers. She was eleven.” Ken reached into his nylon backpack—what kind of lawyer carries a backpack?—and pulled out a dog-eared manila envelope. From it, he took three snapshots and placed them on the table. In one picture, Helen sat on the lap of a woman with a bad perm. Helen was cute: messy hair, the whole bit. She wore glasses and a green windbreaker. Ken didn’t say anything as he laid out the pictures. The second picture showed Helen in a gauzy dress, blowing out candles on a birthday cake. The last picture was Helen by herself, looking embarrassed in a Halloween costume. I believe she was supposed to be a banana.

Ken Dowland cleared his throat. “Helen walked to and from school every day. On the morning of September twenty-fifth, she did not come home. Her mother,” he pointed to the women with the bad perm, “called the police at five-oh-six p.m.”

My mother began to cry, silent tears down her cheeks, but Ken pressed on. “A statewide search was conducted. Helen’s coat,” he pointed to the green windbreaker, “was found in a motel room along I-95. For ten years, there was no further trace of Helen Simpson.” I was beginning to be pretty sure I had seen Ken Dowland on late-night television. He seemed the type.

“In 1999, a man named Leonard Christopher was arrested in upstate New York for the rape and murder of Allie Stephens.” Ken whipped out the photo: another little girl, another heartbreaking smile, this one above a T-shirt that said, “A Chorus Line.” My mother was crying full-on, now, and I was getting tired of Ken’s dramatic act. I didn’t like thinking of Ellie as nothing more than a blurry snapshot.

“Christopher led the police to a field in Syracuse,” said Ken, “and showed them where he had buried Allie.” He tapped the photo. “Allie’s body was exhumed, and other bones were found near the site, teeth that were proven to be Helen Simpson’s.” Another tap. Madeline put her hand over her mouth.

“Look, Ken, let’s cut to the chase here,” said Ron, surprising everyone.

Ken nodded soberly. He gathered the photos and leaned toward my mother. “Leonard Christopher has told his cellmate there were other girls. Since Yonkers is only twenty miles from here, we decided to contact you when Leonard described a girl who sounds like your…,” his voice trailed off, but just for a moment. “Like Ellie,” he said, and then he continued. “Leonard Christopher’s trial begins in February. His cellmate is willing to testify. In order to try him for your daughter’s murder, however, Ellie needs to be declared dead, and not missing.”

“Christ,” said Ron, shaking his head.

“What if she’s not dead?” said my mother. There was a hush in the living room, all the gaiety of the Christmas party gone. Ken stole a look at Madeline, who stood up.

“Thanks Ken,” she said. “We’ll be in touch.”

Ken stood and shook her hand. “I really appreciate your time,” he said, “and the, um, cider.” He gestured to his drink, untouched on the coffee table, and leaving a wet ring that would be impossible to remove.

My mother stared into her lap. She wasn’t crying anymore.

That night was Christmas Eve mass, and as usual, Ron and I were ready first. He sat in the den rubbing his eyes. He wore a navy-blue suit, and his tie had candy canes on it. He was freshly shaven, his wet hair combed back from his forehead. When I came down the stairs, he looked up and smiled. “Hey sis,” he said.

“Hi,” I said. “Are you still smoking?”

“No,” said Ron, taking a pack from his jacket pocket and grinning wickedly.

We walked down by the water, our hands shoved in our pockets for warmth. “How’s the Big Easy?” said Ron.

“Oh,” I said, “Big. Easy.”

“Lots of crazy times?”

I laughed. “Hardly.”

“Did you buy Cisco when I told you to?”

“No, Ron,” I said, “I didn’t.”

“Good thing.”

We sat on the bench overlooking Long Island Sound. Behind us was the condo complex pool, emptied for the winter. “I’ve never even seen your apartment in the city, isn’t that weird?” I said.

“Better hurry,” said Ron.

“What does that mean?”

“We may be moving,” said Ron, exhaling into the winter night.

“Where?”

Ron shook his head. “Ask your sister,” he said.

We sat without speaking for a time. “You know,” said Ron, finally, “Maddy misses her too. Just as much as you do.”

“Of course,” I said. I was not interested in getting into it with Ron. We had never seen eye-to-eye. After they became engaged, Madeline brought Ron to New Orleans to meet me. Ron looked at my apartment with such scorn that I almost punched him. “Imagine what you could do with this place if you tried,” I heard him telling Madeline when he thought I was out of earshot. They stayed at the Ritz Carlton in the Quarter, and when I offered to take them on a tour of my favorite neighborhood bars, Ron declined quickly. At the end of the visit, he asked me if I needed money. I called him an asshole, and I wasn’t sure if we’d moved past that.

“We all miss her,” I said, trying to think of another topic that would get us back to the condo. World events? The economy of New Orleans? The new Saints stadium?

“The difference is,” said Ron, standing up and throwing his cigarette into the water, “that Maddy thinks it’s her fault.”

“What?”

Ron smiled sadly. “Ask your sister,” he said, again.

I looked at my cigarette, glowing between my fingers, and I brought it to my lips.