Long Bright River: A Novel (23 page)

It is odd to be spending the first day of my suspension engaged in police work.

When I wake in the morning, I put on a dark sweater and a plain baseball cap. When Thomas sees me, he looks suspicious.

—Why are you wearing that, he says. Where’s all your stuff?

—What stuff?

—Your bag, he says. Your duty belt.

—I’m off today, I say.

I still haven’t determined what, exactly, to tell Thomas, and I need to buy a little bit more time until I decide. I don’t know how long my suspension will be, so I can’t tell him I’m on vacation.

—No Bethany! says Thomas. But he knows better.

—Bethany, I say.

After Bethany arrives and takes over, fifteen minutes late as usual, I drive toward South Philadelphia.

There was a time in my life when I was frequently a passenger in Simon’s personal vehicle. In fact, if I try, I can still imagine myself inside of it: it smelled of leather, and faintly of cigarettes, which Simon smoked only occasionally, but usually on nice days, when he could roll the windows down. He kept it clean and polished it on the weekends. The Caddy, he always called it, with affection. He liked cars: his father had taught him about them, he said, prior to his death.

Now, regarding it in its place outside the headquarters of the South Detectives, I am reminded, against my will, of the many times we were intimate together in that car. Just as quickly, I turn my thoughts away.

In Truman’s car, I park not far away. I lower both visors. I need to stay alert, so I have brought an audiobook to play: this way, I can keep my gaze on the door of the building. I’ve also brought along some food and water. The latter I’ll ration very carefully to avoid the need for a restroom.

All morning, the front door swings open and closed, admitting various personnel, most of whom I don’t recognize. Once or twice I think I catch a glimpse of Simon, only to discover it’s a lookalike.

At eleven a.m., however, I spy him: he emerges from the building and, glancing to his left, turns right, toward his vehicle. He’s wearing a nice overcoat. Gray dress pants and shiny black shoes are visible beneath
it. His hair is slicked back. It’s a typical look for him since he became a detective.

Instantly, I’m on high alert. The street we’re on is a relatively quiet one, so I’ll wait to start the engine of Truman’s car until after Simon has already departed.

I follow him. He may be on assignment, I think, going to interview someone in the South Division, a person of interest or a victim or a witness. Or he may just be taking an early lunch. He starts out going north on Twenty-Fourth Street. At Jackson, though, he suddenly does a U-turn, and heads south.

He makes a right on Passyunk. And suddenly, I find myself following him onto the highway.

I suppose I know where we’re going even as we go there, but it still takes me by surprise, the way things happen just as you predict them to. The inevitability of the moment.

He takes the exit for 676 East, and then takes the Allegheny exit off 95.

I could close my eyes, practically, and still drive the rest of the way.

The neighborhood is crowded today, and it occurs to me that it’s the beginning of the month. Paychecks have arrived. Customers are out. To my right, a distraught young woman throws her bag to the ground and then sinks into a crouch, crying.

One block from the Ave, Simon pulls over abruptly and parks. I’m forced to drive past him so as not to alert him to my presence. I’m keeping an eye on my rearview, and I’m almost sideswiped by a car emerging from a small street to my right. I turn right onto the Avenue and park as soon as I can find a spot: out front of a soup kitchen, today, where thirty or forty people stand in line, waiting for the doors to open. I exit
my vehicle. Then I peer around the corner of the building I’m in front of, seeing whether Simon’s walking my way.

He’s not.

I can see, from here, that his Cadillac is empty. This means he went on foot in one of three directions, all of them away from me.

I jog toward his car.

What is he doing in Kensington at this time of day? His work is in South Philadelphia. All of his cases are there. It is possible—unlikely, but possible—that he’s doing undercover work. But if he were, he’d have dressed down for the day.

When I reach Simon’s car, I look down the side street it’s closest to, and then I jog until I reach another side street half a block away. But I don’t see him on either. I keep going, running now, picking up steam, peering down every small side street I come to, looking for his gray dress coat, scanning houses for open doors. Five minutes go by.

I’ve lost him, I think.

At last, I stop on a side street called Clementine, one of the blocks in Kensington that’s relatively well taken care of, only a couple of abandos, the rest of the houses kept up. In the middle of the block, I put my hands on my hips, winded, disappointed that I’ve lost my chance. Truman, I think, would probably not have lost him. His years of vice training have made him good at tailing people.

When I look up, I find myself in front of a house that, for some reason, looks familiar to me.

Have I made an arrest here before? Have I done a welfare check?

Eventually, I focus on the metal silhouette of a horse and carriage that adorns so many storm doors in this part of Philadelphia. The horse, I notice, is missing its front legs. And suddenly I’m seventeen again, waiting outside this door with Paula Mulroney, trying to get inside, trying to get to my sister.

I close my eyes, only briefly, just long enough to will myself back to that moment: one in which the question of whether Kacey is alive is still
unanswered but the answer to it will turn out to be
yes.
One in which, though I didn’t know it then, I was about to find my sister and bring her home.

At the sound of the front door swinging inward, I open my eyes.

A woman is staring at me. I can’t remember if it’s the same woman who opened the door all those years ago; in my memory, that woman had black hair, and this woman’s hair is entirely gray. But it’s been well over a decade. It could be her.

—You okay? says the woman.

I nod.

—You need something? she says.

I don’t want to waste my money—I don’t have much to spare these days—but I fear the woman will be suspicious if I don’t. Maybe, too, she has information I can use.

Maybe she still knows Kacey.

So I say yes, and the woman opens the storm door with the metal silhouette on it, and then I am back, suddenly, in the first house my sister ever died in.

The last time I was in here, there was hardly any furniture. There were people in the shadows everywhere I looked.

Today, the house is warm and surprisingly well kept. It smells something like cooked pasta. Pictures on the wall: Jesus, Jesus, Mary, an Eagles poster signed by somebody whose signature I can’t read. There are tidy throw rugs on the floor and there’s plenty of furniture, cheap-looking but new.

—Sit down, says the woman, gesturing to a chair.

I’m momentarily confused. I have my made-up order ready: as many Percocets as the twenty in my pocket will buy me. Three, maybe, depending on dosage. One if the woman suspects I’m an amateur. I’ll get outside, I think, and throw them in the gutter. I’m going to spend twenty dollars, basically, for any information the woman can give me.

I keep my hands in my pockets, warming them up, while the woman disappears briefly into the kitchen and then reemerges, holding a glass of water in her hands. She hands it to me.

—Drink that, she says. You don’t look good.

I do as I’m told. Then I wait. I feel as if there’s been some misunderstanding.

—How’d you hear about me? the woman says.

I pause. A friend, I say.

—What friend?

I hesitate, deciding. Matt, I say.

A safe gamble of a name, in this neighborhood.

—You’re a friend of Matty B’s? says the woman. I love Matty B!

I nod.

—Drink that, she says again. Obediently, I take a sip.

—You sober today? says the woman.

—Yes, I say. It’s the first truthful thing that’s come out of my mouth since I’ve been here. I’m starting to feel bad.

At this, the woman reaches out and puts a hand on my shoulder. Good work, honey, she says. I’m proud of you.

—Thank you, I say.

—How many days you have?

It’s only then that I notice the framed
Twelve Steps
print on the wall behind her head, small enough so it would only stand out to someone who was looking for it. Jesus’s head, in the picture next to it, is tilted mildly in its direction, as if he’s contemplating the steps alongside the viewer. I wonder if this is by design.

I cough into my hand. Um, I say. Three days.

The woman nods seriously. That’s great, she says. She looks at me. I bet it’s your first time getting clean, she says.

—How’d you know? I say.

—You don’t look too tired, she says. People who’ve been at it for years just look more tired out. Like me, she says, and laughs.

I feel tired, though. I have felt tired since Thomas was born. I have felt overwhelmed since moving to Bensalem. And I have felt exhausted since Kacey went missing. But I know what she means: I’ve seen the same people the woman is referring to, people who have been in and out of sobriety for a decade, for two decades, for more. In sobriety, they often look like they just want to go to sleep and stay there for a while.

—Anyway, says the woman. Are you going to meetings? Do you have a place to stay?

She glances at the stairs.

—I got about six people staying with me right now or I’d give you a bed. Actually, she says, let me think. Wait here a second.

The woman marches over to the bottom of the staircase and calls up it. TEDDY, she says. TED.

—It’s okay, I say. I have a place to stay.

The woman is shaking her head. No, she says, we can get you in here.

A man calls down the stairs. What’s up, Rita?

—Really, I say. I have a good place to stay. My grandmother’s house. No one’s using there.

The woman, Rita, looks at me doubtfully.

Still watching me, she calls up the stairs. When you going to West Chester?

—Uh, says the invisible Ted, Friday?

Rita says to me, There. We can get you in here Friday if you want. Maybe Thursday night if you don’t mind the couch.

I begin shaking my head, and Rita says, I know, I know, you have a place to stay. Just keep it in mind, she says. Then her face changes. I’m not gonna charge you anything, honey, she says. Is that what you’re worried about? Oh no, this is something I do for myself. Pay it forward, that kind of thing. Only thing I ask for is that you bring in food to share when you can, toilet paper, paper towels, that kind of stuff. And if I think you’re using again I’ll kick you out.

—All right, I say.

I’m starting to feel terrible, misleading this woman.

She looks at me.

—You’ve got a funny way of talking, she says. You from around here?

I nod.

—Whereabouts?

—Fishtown, I say.

—Huh, she says.

All I can think about is how to gracefully leave. But I still haven’t gotten a chance to ask her about Kacey.

—Here, says Rita, let me give you my number. You have a phone?

I take it out. Rita recites the digits of her phone number, and I enter it. While I’m looking at the screen, a text comes in from Truman.

Where are you?

Not far from K and A,
I write back.

Then I pull up a picture of Kacey, and I hold the phone out to Rita.

—What’s that? says Rita.

—I’m just asking people in the neighborhood if they’ve seen her around, I say. I’m her sister and she’s been missing for a while.

—Oh, honey, says Rita. I’m sorry to hear that.

She takes the phone from my hand and holds it at arm’s length from her face, trying to focus. She brings it a little bit closer. Her brow furrows.

—That’s your sister? she says, looking up at me.

—It is, I say. Do you know her?

In an instant, a cloud passes over Rita’s face. She is calculating something, realizing something, making connections that I can’t understand.

—Get the fuck out of my house, she says to me suddenly. She is pointing to the door. Leave.

I receive no further explanation. By the time I’m walking down the front steps, the door has slammed behind me. I turn back once to look at the horse and carriage silhouette before picking up my pace and heading back toward where Truman’s car is parked.

I can see my breath. I tuck my chin down inside my jacket. My eyes water.

I watch for any more sightings of Simon. No luck.

Truman texts me again.

How fast can you be at Kensington and Somerset?

2 mins,
I respond.

A moment later, another text comes in.

K and Lehigh now,
he says.

He’s moving. Not wanting to stop. Wanting to lose anyone who’s tailing him.

It’s faster for me to walk, actually, than to get in the car and drive. I beat Truman there, and I wait for a while on the corner. I wish I had something warm to drink. The cold has gotten its claws in me, and I can’t stop shivering.

I jump when Truman says my name.

—Come on, he says. I parked near here. Let’s talk in your car.

Inside, I get behind the wheel, and I tell Truman to start talking.

I do and don’t want to hear what he’s discovered. I glance at him out of the corner of my eye. He looks grim. He’s thinking of how to tell me something: I know it.

—Truman, I say. Just tell me.

I went to the house off Madison, he begins. The one with three Bs on it. I rapped on the plywood covering the back door. A minute later, McClatchie appears. Looking really bad, really strung out. Nodding a little, you know. Which, okay, I think is maybe gonna work in my favor. His guard is down.

Who are you?
he says.

I texted you about a girl,
I say.

He’s really high, I’m noticing. Can barely hold his head up.

Okay,
he says.

I wait.
So what’s the story,
I say.
You got a girl for me, or what?

He goes,
Yeah. Come in.

So I follow the guy into this boarded-up house. Inside there’s a bunch of people nodded out, and a couple shooting up. Nobody says anything to me.

McClatchie leans up against a wall, spacing out, and practically goes to sleep. I’m freezing, and the house smells like shit, and this guy seems to have forgotten that I’m there. So I say to him,
Hey. Hey.

He wakes up a little.

Where’s your phone? Show me the girls again.

He finally takes it out of his pocket, pulls up some photos, hands me the phone. I start flipping through them and I recognize a lot of the girls that were on there last time he showed me. But no Kacey.

I look at him. Now I know, in that moment, that if I ask about Kacey, he’ll peg me. He’ll connect me to you.

But what do I have to lose, I think. Besides, I thought there was a
small chance that he’d be so out of it he wouldn’t even put two and two together.

So I go,
Where’s the redhead? I saw a redhead on here last time.

And McClatchie goes, real slowly,
Aw, that’s Connie.

I said,
I want that one.

And he said,
Connie’s out of commission.

Then he raises his head up and looks at me, and I swear it’s like a hawk zoning in on something. His whole expression changes. He stares at me. His eyes get really focused.

Two guys across the room rise from the dead, lift their heads up off the floor and start looking at me, as if I’m causing trouble, and suddenly the mood in the room starts changing.

Why,
McClatchie says.
Why do you want her so bad.

I don’t know, man,
I say.
I like redheads.

I’m already backing out of the house. I’m facing him, still, in case he’s packing.

He comes toward me. Perking up now. Looking more alert.
Who sent you?
he’s saying.
Her sister? You a cop?

That’s when I turned and booked it. Turns out my knee works pretty well these days.

But I heard him calling after me, all the way down the block.

You a cop?
he was saying.
You a cop?

Truman looks at me, scratches his cheek.

I’m getting a feeling: like cold water is spreading through my veins and arteries.

—What does that mean, I say.
Out of commission.

Neither of us can answer.