Songs for the Missing (15 page)

“What can I do?” he asked.

“We’re going to have you working with Sergeant McKnight,” the lieutenant said, and deferred to her as if they’d practiced it, a tag team.

“We’ve gotten so much interest from the media, we’d like to use that to our advantage. Depending on how comfortable you are with it.”

That wasn’t what Ed meant, but she used the opportunity to go over Monday’s schedule—a local wake-up show, drive-time radio, a daily status report at ten thirty that could be used for the noon news, then an hour before lunch for print interviews. He’d never had to think about deadlines, and wished Fran were there. All he wanted was a simple physical job that made him feel like he was doing something.

As they walked him outside and showed him the exact spot where the car had been parked, he wondered if his sense of letdown was from a loss of control. At Lakeview he’d been in charge. Here he had no place in their chain of command. To them he was the clueless, distraught father, a role he’d resisted so far. They probably thought he was in shock—a suspicion he fought off constantly.

The feeling of uselessness nagged at him. The lieutenant was busy, and handed him off to the sergeant, shaking his hand and telling him he was welcome to visit the ERV anytime, an invitation that served to further exclude him. Ed left him a handful of buttons, aware that he was using her as currency.

The sergeant took him to see the dive team and the two black labs that were searching the reservoir. The divers worked out of a zodiac in the center while the dogs rode in their own separate boats, barely moving, heads hung over the gunwales. Both the handlers and the dogs wore blaze orange vests. One of the handlers waved to them. Naturally they waved back.

She was giving him the tour. In the car she pointed out landmarks he struggled to remember, thinking he would come back by himself and put up flyers before dark. There was the 7-Eleven, like any other. In the trash-strewn lot a little girl on a bike turned one-handed circles, eating a popsicle. Behind the high school he met a handler named Tammy with a white shepherd named Blizzard he was encouraged to pet. He couldn’t help but wonder if the dog had smelled Kim’s things and now held her scent in its memory. More teams rotated in, setting out bowls of water in the buggy shade. The sergeant introduced them as if they were couples—Pete and Duke, Helen and Lucy, Scott and Jager. To them he was a civilian, a lesser breed. He thanked them for giving up their weekends.

“They’ve got a lot of experience,” the sergeant assured him.

“I could tell,” he said.

On their way back through the bombed-out blocks he glimpsed street names he knew from Kingsville. Huron, Erie, Superior. He memorized them like a hostage, repeating the sequence as the sergeant finalized their plans for tomorrow. The first stop he made after saying good-bye to her was at a gas station, to fill up and buy a map. He persuaded the girl behind the counter to let him put up a flyer. Smoothing the tape against the glass was a relief.

On paper the city wasn’t that big. He took a minute beside the pump to highlight his route and carefully made his way back. He parked at the 7-Eleven, locking the Taurus, and walked along the boulevard with a tape gun and an armful of flyers, drawing stares from passing cars. The sun was low and the heat of the day had settled, the air freighted and thick. In minutes he was sopping. He put her face on every pole and bus shelter around the grounds, then did the other side of the street until he ran out of flyers. His ankle hadn’t bothered him driving, but now, coming back, he limped as if he had blisters. Two teenagers in front of the 7-Eleven watched him get into the Taurus as if he were covered in blood.

For the second time today he hit the drive-thru, taking the fragrant bag of Wendy’s back to his room. Dusk was falling over the motels, signs sparking on. In the lot the shuttle from Cedar Point was letting off exhausted families—moms with backpacks and souvenir cups, dads lugging plush SpongeBobs and Scooby Doos. He and Fran had made the trip when Lindsay was finally tall enough for the coasters. It seemed impossible that it had only been six years ago, and as he ate, watching the Indians game to fend off the silence, he remembered all of them getting off the Gemini and scampering down the exit ramp to get back on, vowing revenge. It was the smallest coaster, and the oldest, a rattling wooden racer he’d ridden as a kid. On the curves you could lean out and slap hands with your friends in the other train, taunting them as you pulled away. Later Fran confessed she was envious that both of the girls wanted to sit with him. For three nights the four of them had lived in a room this size—an idea that seemed equally impossible.

The game was his companion, talking to him as he explored the drawers and arranged his toiletries by the sink. Even for one person the bathroom was small. He pocketed his keycard and hobbled barefoot to the ice machine under the stairs and filled his bucket. With the door locked and chained, he knotted the bag around his ankle, spread a hand-towel over a pillow and lay back with his leg elevated. When the Indians failed to score with the bases loaded and no outs, he turned off the sound and called Fran.

It was cheaper for her to call him right back.

“Did you see it?” she asked, meaning the car, as if by some fluke it might not be Kim’s.

“I saw it.”

He told her about the bumper and the key and the dotted line. He described the hospital grounds, but left out the ghetto, as if it were unimportant. The ERV impressed her, and the dogs and divers, the helicopter, and he worried that he was selling her the same flashy package the police had tried to sell him. So far all they really had was the car, and it had been discovered by a security guard.

“They sound very professional,” she said.

“You’d like them. They’re all about lists.”

“There’s nothing wrong with a little organization.”

“What’s going on there?”

After church she and Lindsay and some volunteers from coffee hour broke down the command center. She didn’t know where to put all the boxes so they were in the living room in their own corner. She and Connie spent the afternoon calling possible sponsors for the walk-a-thon. His brother called, and some kid spammed the guestbook, but she’d backed it up so they only lost a few messages.

“You’ll never guess who we got an e-mail from. Terry Benjamin.”

“Wow.” She was the mother of a girl in California who’d been kidnapped and murdered by a paroled rapist. She was famous for her crusade to change the state’s sex-offender laws. Call-in shows tapped her as an expert.

“She was very nice. She said she talked to some TV people about Kim. She’s going to add a link to our site.”

“I’m going to be on TV tomorrow at six a.m.,” he said, just to hear her laugh. “Any pointers?”

“Don’t yawn. And don’t smile—you always smile too much. Did you bring something decent to wear?”

“I’ve got my blue shirt.” The action on-screen distracted him—a Tiger wheeling around second, sliding headfirst into third. “How’s Lindsay doing?”

“Okay. Cooper pooped in her room.”

“He
is
a super duper pooper.”

“I don’t know if you noticed, but he’s been super duper weird lately.”

“He probably misses Kim.”

“So do I, but I’m not pooping on the rug. It’s not like we don’t let him out. She was good about cleaning it up though.”

“Did she cut the grass?”

“Not yet. I’ll bug her about it tomorrow. How’s your ankle?”

“It’s okay.”

“What about you,” she asked, “are you okay?”

“I’m just tired.”

“Go to bed.”

“I’m going to.” Lying there with her voice in his ear, he thought he could fall asleep like this. They hadn’t made love in weeks, and the distance and the blank room only sharpened his longing. “I miss you, Franny.”

“I miss you too.”

“You know,” she said after a while, as if she’d been building up to it, “I can understand why they lied, but it doesn’t help.”

“I know.”

“It could have made a difference those first couple of days.”

“It might have just confused things.”

“I guess.”

“It doesn’t matter now,” he said, but he didn’t believe that. Everything mattered.

After they hung up he lay there a while in silence as if paralyzed, watching the Indians lose as the TV in the next room nattered through the wall. It was an effort to lift the remote. His ankle was still swollen, the skin blanched with cold. He didn’t know what he was doing here, or what he could possibly accomplish. If he left now he could be home by two, except the sergeant had scheduled all those interviews. He padded to the bathroom and brushed his teeth, leaning over the sink to avoid himself in the mirror. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he set the alarm, knowing he wouldn’t sleep. At home he had Fran to hold on to, her breathing and the reassuring scent of her skin. Here he was alone with Kim and the dwindling odds. All day his thoughts had been circling. In the dark they would gather and attack him, breaking down his rationalizations. Every night it grew harder, yet even now, on the verge of surrender, he could fool himself into believing again. The trick was simple. Before he pulled off his shirt he unpinned his button, angling it on the nightstand so that the last thing he saw as he reached for the light was her face.

The Loser’s Bracket

The game was scheduled for seven, and all day she prayed for rain.
Weather.com
had gone back on its promise of scattered showers, the cartoon drops holding off until midnight—too late. The hours ahead were solidly partly cloudy. The evidence was right outside her window. Hanging from the back of her door was her uniform, freshly ironed by her mother and delivered to her room like a costume, a new loop of yellow ribbon sewn to the front. In the bottom of her closet were Kim’s beat-up cleats. She would put them on and be an inspiration to her team—to the whole community.

She wasn’t even supposed to be here. According to the calendar on the fridge she was at camp. It was her last year. She was signed up to be a CIT, meaning next year she could apply for staff. That had been the plan, but her mother had called and canceled her reservation. It was more important for her to be here, and Lindsay understood. With her father gone, her mother didn’t want to be alone, though Connie came every day, as well as Father John. The neighbors were still bringing them meals. After having the house to herself it was like an invasion. Now when she wanted to go across the yard to Dana’s, her mother made her take her phone and watched from the back door as if she might get lost. Forget riding her bike to Micah’s. If her mother was free she’d drive her the half mile; if she was busy she’d tell her to invite Micah over—pointless, since her friends shunned the place as if it was haunted. Most of the time she stayed in her room, her mother clumping upstairs and checking on her, peeking over her shoulder to see who she was chatting with. She wasn’t allowed to talk to J.P. or Nina anymore. It was like being grounded, except she hadn’t done anything.

Then there were the public functions like tonight, where she was supposed to smile and shake everyone’s hand. She was sick of people she didn’t know asking her how she was doing and telling her how wonderful Kim was, or, worse, saying they were praying for her. At church it made sense—tomorrow she would stand up and say Kim’s name during the Prayers for the People—but at the bottle-return at Safeway it was creepy. Stooped old ladies with papery hands gazed into her eyes. All she could do was thank them.

Lindsay didn’t pray for Kim, not officially. She didn’t fit her palms together or get down on her knees beside her bed. She didn’t ask God why this was happening. She asked Kim.

It was like talking to herself, or talking to the screen while she was IMing someone. “I can’t believe you’re so stupid,” she’d say, responding to a snarl of thoughts. It wasn’t that she heard Kim’s voice in her head. They weren’t long conversations. She just found herself muttering things out loud.

“Who were you on the phone with just now?” her mother would ask, sticking her head in, and Lindsay would have to say Dana and then wait till she retreated downstairs.

Lindsay eavesdropped just as much, reconstructing calls from her mother’s side of the conversation, sifting through them for clues. When Connie was over they kept the stereo tuned to NPR and she had to battle the classical music and endlessly repeating news to hear what they were saying. Occasionally her mother would laugh, an abrupt, shocking bark that made Lindsay frown and wonder what Connie had said. Her mother never laughed with her father, but that was at night, when the house was quiet.

He was supposed to be coming home tomorrow, but then he was supposed to already be home yesterday. She wished he were back, if only to absorb some of her mother’s attention and restore the balance in the house. It was already too empty without Kim.

She played Text Twist to kill the time. By five the sky hadn’t changed. A little later her mother came up and said they needed to be there early to help set up. Besides the ribbons, they were selling pink sport bracelets that said KIM’S KREW. Everyone on the team would be wearing them. Thursday when the box came her mother gave her the first one as if it was an honor. Lindsay thanked her and went to set the unopened package on her dresser, but her mother wanted her to model it. Now it sat in the heart-shaped twig basket with the glitter-filled jellies she never wore.

ill buy 1 but im not wearing it,
Dana wrote.
way 2 gay.

On-screen she agreed, but that wasn’t her problem with the bracelet. The idea was that it would remind not just the wearer but anyone who saw it of Kim. Lindsay already did that.

“We’re leaving in fifteen minutes,” her mother said, looking in, because she hadn’t moved from her computer.

“Fifteen minutes.”

Standing at her dresser with her head bowed, she buttoned her top deliberately, a gladiator preparing for the arena—for the last time, she reminded herself. All she had to do was get through tonight.

She tucked in her shirt all around and cinched the built-in belt, then sat in her chair, bent double, and tugged on the silly stirrup socks, twisting them straight. She took off her watch and replaced it with the bracelet, self-conscious of the one’s absence and the other’s presence. In her closet, on the shelf, her hat sat atop her glove, the two untouched since her last game, before Kim. Taking them down, she felt like she was disturbing a shrine.