Something Missing (24 page)

Breaking routine, violating his rules, was continuing to haunt him.

The dog growled and continued to tug, snapping up more fabric, pulling Martin even closer, and as the neckline of his shirt shrunk, the dog gathering more and more fabric in its jaws, Martin felt his airflow begin to constrict. He wondered if Cujo might choke him to death before the dog ever managed a bite.

With fear and frustration rising from his belly, Martin lashed out, head-butting the dog in the muzzle with the center of his forehead. The dog let out a piercing whine and released the shirt, tumbling back into the room and out of view.

Martin’s victory was short-lived, as seconds later the dog made another attempt at his wrist, leaping into the air and coming even closer than before. Realizing that the angle of his pull on the window was likely the problem, Martin used the brief respite in the battle to reverse his hands so that they were grasping the outside of the window rather than the inside. Using the full weight of his body, he pulled as hard as he dared, fearful of ripping the window from its frame, and this time he was rewarded with the rapid descent of the glass. As his hands passed
the sill, the dog made one final attempt at grabbing hold of his wrist, and Martin actually felt the dog’s hot breath on his skin just before the window sealed shut, knocking him and the dog back in opposite directions.

Martin released the window just as it slammed shut, falling backward into the bush behind him. Prickly limbs lashed at him as he descended to the ground, his fall broken by a combination of the bush’s branches and the mulch piled beneath.

He had survived.

Feeling more tired than he ever had in his life, Martin marshaled his energy and picked himself off the ground, pushing past the branches until he emerged into Laura Green’s backyard. Free of the house and dog, he expelled a premature sigh of relief.

“What are you doing?” a voice announced from behind him.

Martin spun, adrenaline still coursing through his veins, and saw a young, blond-haired girl, perhaps six years old, sitting at the Fisher-Price picnic table that he had mentally inventoried earlier. She was staring up at him, her brows furrowed as if a question mark had lodged in her throat.

“Hello?” she said, louder this time. She appeared to be friendly but dreadfully curious, and in possession of a distinct accent, English or perhaps Scottish.

Martin thought about turning and running, getting back to his car as quickly as possible, but instead he stood his ground and replied with a hello of his own, adopting the hitherto-undefined accent of the girl.

He hadn’t meant to speak in the accent. It just came out that way.

“Are you still looking for your dog?” she asked.

“My dog?” Finding Cujo in the backyard was the last thing that Martin wanted to do. And again he had replied in an awkward facsimile of the girl’s accent, as if he’d been suddenly saddled with Alfredo’s verbal limitations.

“Your dog,” the girl repeated emphatically. “I heard you calling for him a wee bit ago. Andy, right?”

It took Martin ten painfully long seconds to make sense of what this girl was saying. The only dog that he could think of
was Cujo, the one who had nearly strangled him to death just seconds before. But then it came to Martin. In a flurry of words, still mimicking the girl’s accent as best he could, he answered. “Oh, you mean Sandy. Sandy is my dog. Yes, I’m still looking for Sandy. You heard me calling for Sandy, right?” As he spoke the words, he began scanning the backyard, looking for Blondie’s parents. He assumed that they were close by.

“Is Sandy a boy dog or a girl dog?”

Remarkably, Martin didn’t know. He had never assigned his fictional dog a gender. He thought about the Sandy in his first-grade reader and couldn’t remember if the author had ever distinguished a gender. So he said the first thing that came to mind. “A girl dog. Sandy is a girl dog. Sandy is my girl dog.”

“My dad says girl dogs are bitches. I can say ‘bitches,’ but only if I’m talking about girl dogs. Did you know that girl dogs are bitches?”

Martin marveled at the way this child spoke, using words that he said his entire life but twisted in a remarkably new vernacular. His astonishment over her accent allowed him to relax a bit.

“Yes, I knew that. But I don’t call my Sandy that word. That wouldn’t be nice.” As he replied, Martin smiled. That was something his mother might have said.

“But Daddy says it isn’t bad, because it’s grammerly correct.”

“Where is your daddy?” Martin asked, the inquiry suddenly making him feel like a child molester.

A child molester with a ridiculous Irish accent.

“Daddy’s in San … San something. He comes home soon. Me and Mum are staying with Auntie Bea until Thanksgiving. Where do you come from?”

The scope of the question baffled Martin. Was the little girl asking what town Martin lived in or what country? Did she want to know where he had just been or where he had been
born? At that moment Martin realized that he was trapped in an unrehearsed conversation. For so much of his life, probably starting the moment he left the driveway after being scolded by his stepfather, Martin had spent much of his life rehearsing for all future conversations. Practicing them in his mind. Running through word choices, sentence combinations, and possible retorts. Whether it was paying for gas at the Mobil or explaining his latest writing assignment to Jim or visiting with Jillian in the diner, he was prepared for whatever he might need to say.

But never in his life had he prepared for a situation like this.

“I come from here,” he finally said. “I live in America.”

“Oh,” Blondie replied. “You talk funny for an American.”

He did. Though he was doing a fair job of imitating the words that Blondie was saying, he was guessing at the others, the ones she hadn’t said, and he was certain that those words weren’t sounding good.

More important, he was talking too much. It was time to move.

“I have to go. Okay?” And as the words came out of his mouth, he realized how ridiculous they sounded. He was asking a child for permission to leave, and his question hadn’t been rhetorical. Had Blondie answered in the negative, told him to stand his ground with a “Stay put, buster,” he might have done just that. Without a rehearsal, Martin had no way of gaining control of the conversation, making it more important for him to leave now.

“Where’s
your
daddy?” the girl asked.

This was perhaps the most unrehearsed question of Martin’s life.

“I’m not sure,” he answered with blind honesty. Martin’s mother and father had divorced when he was in second grade, and though he had visited his father quite frequently for a year
or two after the divorce, their communication had become less and less frequent as his mother became more publicly involved with the future stepfather who had broken up the marriage. He wasn’t even sure how he had finally ended all contact with his father. The Sunday afternoon visits to the apartment behind the liquor store evolved into Christmas Day drop-bys and second-rate birthday parties with just Martin, his father, and an occasional girlfriend sitting around a table, eating cake and searching for something to say. Eventually even these visits faded until one day Martin had stopped seeing his father entirely. It wasn’t a conscious choice, at least on his own part, but in fairness, he couldn’t remember clamoring to see his namesake either. Though Martin could recall missing his father for quite a while, he also knew that in his heart he had allowed his new father to replace the old. He had embraced the new life that his stepfather had brought into the household, a life of slightly fewer arguments and slightly more money. More presents under the tree and a new pair of sneakers whenever needed. Martin despised his father for leaving as only a seven-year-old could, and blindly pledged his allegiance to his father’s usurper, unaware of the man’s potential for cruelty and selfishness. Eventually Martin learned that his stepfather had purposefully kept him away from his father, wielding his influence as a psychiatric social worker to reduce his father’s visitation rights, hoping to eliminate the influence that the man might exert on his son. But Martin had apparently made it easy.

Had barely put up a fight.

For that reason, Martin hadn’t seen his father in years. Even after Martin’s stepfather had left his mother for a younger woman, two or three years prior to her death, Martin made no attempt to reconcile with his father. A healthy dose of guilt and remorse, combined with the awkwardness that two decades apart can create, had kept them apart.

Of course, Martin’s career had a lot to do with their continued separation as well.

In addition, Martin was still angry with his father. Though he was willing to accept some of the blame, he also knew that, for whatever reason, his father had let him down as well. Martin could not remember even a single time when his father had fought for his right to see his son. Though Martin had allowed a strange man to fill the shoes of his father, his father had allowed it to happen without so much as a peep.

“Do you
have
a daddy?” Blondie asked, impatient for an answer. Her first question had stymied Martin, and there was no telling how long he had stood there, allowing the question to hang in the air, before the girl had asked her follow-up. But this question forced Martin into action.

It was time to go.

“Look at the time,” Martin said, glancing at his wrist. “I have to run.” And just that quickly, Martin felt in control of his movements once again. Dodging a question was a strategy that Martin employed quite often. Finally his training had kicked in.

“Okay,” the girl said with disappointment filling her face.

“Well,” Martin replied apologetically, “I’ve got to find Sandy, right?”

“Can I help?” the girl asked, leaping up from the picnic table in excitement.

“Sure you can,” Martin replied, firmly in control of the situation now.
And speaking without the accent
, he noticed. “But you’ll have to ask your mum, okay? Run along and ask her if it’s all right, and I’ll wait here for you.”

Without answering, Blondie turned and sprinted for the door of Mr. and Mrs. Matching Volkswagen, faster than Martin would have expected. As soon as she turned the corner and passed from view, Martin turned and began jogging back in the direction of his car, using a slightly faster pace than normal. Before Blondie
had even entered the neighboring house, Martin was well up the street and out of view.

Once back inside his car, Martin permitted himself a few minutes to regroup. First he allowed himself to relax, waiting for the quiver in his hands to subside and his breathing to return to normal. He couldn’t quite believe what had just happened. Yet the pride that he had been feeling from his experience in the Clayton household was beginning to suffuse this situation as well. Though he had blundered badly, he once again had managed to escape unscathed.

Next he took a moment to retrace his steps, looking for any evidence that he might have left in Laura Green’s home. Though his escape had been harried and nearly disastrous, he was sure that the desk had been left in order and that the window had been returned to its original state. For a moment he wondered if Cujo had managed to tear any of his shirt loose, but a quick visual inspection showed that, although torn and slightly frayed, all the fabric seemed to be present.

Next he examined the clock on the dashboard. 4:11. He would need to be in West Hartford before 5:00 if he wanted any chance of success. That might be tough. Traffic through the capital city was often bumper-to-bumper at this time of day, and if this were the case, he didn’t have any time to waste. Throwing his car into drive, he headed back down West Middle Turnpike and toward Interstate 84.

As he wound his way through traffic, Martin began rehearsing his lines, looking for a way to convey the necessary message in a realistic and natural way. He would have only one chance to nail this performance, and rarely had he found himself forced to perform under such pressure. Developing a mental script had always been easy for Martin. Words had always flowed naturally from his mind, and he was the master of internal dialogue. It was rare when he didn’t have a conversation of some sort running
through his head. He was also quite adept at anticipating the responses of others and therefore often had rebuttals, retorts, and counterpoints at the ready. Though his contact with other people was somewhat limited beyond his exceptionally small circle of friends, he was quite the wordsmith.

Where Martin required more preparation was in his actual performances. He was by no means a natural actor, and so his prepared speeches often came across as unnatural and insincere. With a great deal of rehearsal, he had found he could sound believable, but in this case the only rehearsal he would have would take place while behind the wheel of his Subaru, darting between traffic. He found himself almost hoping that he wouldn’t make it to West Hartford on time, so that he wouldn’t be forced into an unprepared performance.

This ended up not being the case. At 4:42 Martin pulled into the parking lot at 50 South Main Street in West Hartford, the location of West Hartford’s town hall (as Martin had suspected). With time to spare before the 5:00 closing, Martin rehearsed his lines a few more times, trying to find the right combination of words and inflection. Still feeling unprepared but with no more time to spare, Martin climbed out of his car at 4:50 and headed for the front doors to the large brick building.