Songs for the Missing (34 page)

She worried about him now. He was smoking, though she’d asked him not to. She’d hoped he would go back to coaching, but he said it was too soon. Instead he went fishing, taking the boat out after work and on Saturdays, calling from the lake to say he’d be late for dinner, or not to bother, he’d grab something at the marina. She reheated leftovers in the toaster oven, or just had yogurt. The bat bag sat in the garage, gathering cobwebs along with Kim’s car. Sunday was reserved for church and visiting his mother, who was struggling. Fran understood that he was grieving; what made her impatient was the way he withdrew into himself. At her most uncharitable, she thought he actually enjoyed wallowing. Secretly she was afraid he’d given up.

She could have used his support. While she still organized local events for Kim, she’d taken on the CUE Center’s crusade for a national database of missing adult children. Like the Amber Alert system, it would have the ability to instantly notify the public. The biggest road-block they’d run into wasn’t official but practical: police mistakenly upholding an eighteen- or nineteen-year-old’s right to disappear, in violation of Suzanne’s Law. When she spoke to groups, she said, “That’s exactly what happened to us,” because, in retrospect, it was. The police hadn’t believed them, and wasted crucial hours. People came up to her afterward and said they ought to sue, an idea she dismissed with little thought. Money wasn’t the point. If she could spare one family what they’d been through, it would be worth it.

She couldn’t completely blame him for not wanting to come with her to these speaking engagements. He’d heard her spiel before, and often her audiences were small—members of the Lions or the Rotary, the blue-haired regulars at backwater libraries—but she tired of having to explain his absence. Driving home cross-country after a poorly attended event, she wondered if they were still in this together, and then when she pulled in, his car was gone.

It was partly her fault. In the spring he’d been so miserable, and she couldn’t be there every weekend. She encouraged him to take the boat out, thinking it would be good for him. Now she wanted to hold him liable for following her advice.

Connie thought it was his way of removing himself from the situation so he wouldn’t have to deal with it, and Fran mostly agreed. When threatened by anything unpleasant, he retreated, whether that meant into silence or his hobbies or just another room.

When she confided with some of the other mothers online, instead of confirming what she was feeling, they told her to let it go. Everyone has their own schedule, they said, everyone needs their own space. Be patient. There were worse things he could be doing.

Go with him, one woman from Missouri said—advice Fran took as a challenge, impractical as it sounded. His trips lasted for hours, and she had so much to do, but what better way to get close to him? On the boat he couldn’t run from her.

Friday at breakfast she asked if he was going out tomorrow.

He nodded over his cereal.

“Want some company?”

His hesitation was deliberate, quizzical. He shrugged. “Sure.”

“What time do we have to get up?”

“Four thirty if you want to catch anything.”

“I can do four thirty.”

“The weather’s not supposed to be so great.”

“That’s okay.”

“We won’t be back till after lunch.”

“I’ll make some sandwiches.”

“You’re going to get up at four thirty on a Saturday,” he asked.

“I’m up at five fifteen every morning.”

She liked that she’d surprised him, she just wished he didn’t act like it was a bluff. That night he gave her another chance to back out, shaking his head and smiling as if she didn’t know what she’d gotten herself into, until she wondered if it was a bad idea. She had a vision of the two of them trapped on a tiny raft surrounded by miles of open water. It would be a kind of test, like surviving on a desert island—but that’s what a marriage was, wasn’t it? They would have to help each other or die.

In the morning the clouds blotted out the stars. The forecast was for scattered showers, winds five to ten miles an hour, waves three to five feet. “That’s from last night,” he said. “They’re just guessing.” He stood in the driveway, trying to read the sky like a farmer. “Hope you don’t mind getting wet.”

“Good fishing weather.” She’d heard him say it a million times.

“I like your attitude.”

As they came down the long hill through the park she could barely see the lighthouse, a white blip in the mist. Fog hung low over the ball-fields and the parking lot—soaked though it hadn’t rained, the middle ranked with custom pickups and empty trailers. The marina was lit and busy with fishermen, most of them his age, wearing the same uniform of jeans and windbreakers and baseball caps, paired up or solo, a few with grown sons. “Could be ugly,” he called to them. “We’ll find out, won’t we?” They all knew him, waving or tipping their chins in recognition as they readied their gear, then pausing to watch her pass as if she was bad luck. Except for a heavyset teenager in a Browns hoodie and olive barn boots, she was the only female there.

He was so practiced at unsnapping and then folding the cover that she felt like she was in the way. She handed him the rods and his tackle box across the gunwale, then stood on the dock feeling useless while he rearranged the cockpit. He turned the key and the gauge cluster glowed a radium green. She’d gotten him the fish finder for Christmas. It was the first time she’d seen it out of the box.

“We should have enough gas. We’re not going way, way out.”

Because of her? No, she wanted to say, let’s go as far as we can.

She waited while he primed the engine. It caught on the first try, idling deeply, lug-a-lug-a-lug.

“Okay, cast off the lines. Aft first.”

“Got it.”

She didn’t need him to remind her. When the girls were little they were here every weekend. She undid the lines and hopped onto the bow, scissoring around the windshield as he backed into the inlet and joined the slow file of boats heading out, their running lights gemlike in the dark. He stood to steer, the wheel at his waist, guiding them by the blinking NO WAKE buoys. There was no wind and the air smelled fishy. She could feel the resistance of the water beneath them. It made her impatient, as if they were late.

They cleared the mouth of the inlet. Across the harbor, in the murk, an ore boat sat at port, black as a whale, a spotlight shining on its flag. The water was choppier here, pitching them about, and he eased the throttle forward so the bow rode higher. As they glided by the lighthouse she saw puffed-up gulls sleeping on the rocks, and then, without a word, he gunned it and they were beyond the breakwater and dashing across the lake in the dark, smacking the waves, the spray stinging her face. The engine was deafening and the wind made her squint. She ducked down and hung on to the grab bar, bracing herself, struggling to see ahead of them. He wasn’t doing it to scare her—she was sure he drove even faster when he was alone—he was just giving her a taste of what it was like. When he looked over she smiled to show she was having fun.

They motored out for a while. With the fog and the darkness there were no landmarks, just the navchart on-screen she couldn’t read. She thought he was losing the others, that he was trying to find a quiet place where they wouldn’t be disturbed. Her image of him fishing involved solitude and calm, almost like meditation, the lake an empty space he could fill with his thoughts, but here he was—“There you go!” he hollered—stabbing at a green blob on the fish finder and racing off to intercept it.

A raft of boats was already parked over the spot. He slowed, their wake pushing them from behind, and dropped it into neutral, claiming a space on the edge of the pack. The sun must have risen; the gray surrounding them was brighter now. From across the water came the gurgle of an outboard. She thought they were too close, as if they were intruding.

“Let’s get you set up,” he said, leaving the wheel unattended.

The swells rocked them. He was used to it, moving easily, while she kept a hand on the seat back to stay upright. According to the finder the fish were between fifteen and twenty-five feet down. He measured out her line and tied on her lure, which was tapered and silver and speckled to look like another fish, with oversized eyes and three grappling-style hooks. He showed her the button to free the reel, trapping the line against the rod, then hauled back and let fly, lifting his thumb as he cast. The lure rose in an arc, floating high and dropping into the water with a plop. He pushed the button so she could reel in and try it herself.

Hers flopped off to the right, not half as far.

“That’ll work,” he said.

Years ago she’d known how—she actually hadn’t been bad—and she was pleased she could still do it, if stiffly. She had to coach herself through the individual steps: Button, thumb, reach back, cast and let go at the same time. He did it with an offhand ease, whipping his straight and far, letting it sink a long time before reeling in, deftly jerking the rod left and right to imitate a smaller fish darting away.

“Looks like Tommy’s on ’em,” he said, as a guy in a blaze orange hat a couple of boats over netted something big. What were they—perch, bass? She had no idea, but now she wanted one, if only to prove she belonged here.

She was getting better, even if she wasn’t catching anything. Occasionally she put the lure where she wanted to, though never as far out as his. It began to mist, droplets coating her face so she had to wipe them away. He had an extra slicker for her, several sizes too big, with a billed hood he cinched tight with a drawstring. It was only after he’d put his on—the yellow cuffs cracked and dirty—that she realized he’d given her his new one. She couldn’t decide if it was kind of him or condescending, treating her like a guest.

“Got one on,” he said a minute later, his reel whizzing as the line paid out. The fish ran sideways and then astern, zigzagging, bending the tip of his rod. “Hook feels like it’s set pretty good. I’ll just let him tire himself out.”

“Want me to get the net?”

“I think that’s a fine idea.”

It didn’t take long. As he reeled in the last twenty feet, the fish flashed just under the surface. She dipped the net in and hauled it up, unexpectedly heavy, its gills still flexing.

“It’s not going to win any prizes, but it’s a nice little smallmouth.” He pinned it against the lid of the cooler to work the hook out with a pair of pliers, then slipped it overboard. It lolled in the water, stunned, then swam off.

He caught another that looked like it might be the same one, then another. “Why don’t you come over here and try.”

They switched places. On her fifth or sixth cast, she felt a tug on the line, but when she jerked her rod to set the hook she lost it. “Shit, I had something.”

“Hit ’em again.”

Her arms were getting tired. She rushed and let go too early and her lure sliced off to the right, crossing his line. “Sorry.”

“No problem.”

She dropped her next cast exactly where she wanted it.

“Nicely done,” he said, but then nothing happened.

“Why am I not getting any bites?”

He shrugged and pointed to the water. “Ask them.”

The mist accelerated to a sprinkle and then a steady rain that tapped at her hood. Most of the other boats left, but a couple stayed. A drop hung from the tip of her nose. She had to continually rub it off with a knuckle.

“You okay there?” he asked.

“Just frustrated. I can see why this is addictive. It’s like gambling.”

“Except all you win is fish.”

“And you don’t even keep them.”

“It’s catching them that’s the thrill.”

“I’m trying.”

“You’re doing good,” he said. “I’m amazed you came out at all.”

“I figured it was the best way to spend some time with you. I haven’t seen much of you lately.”

“I know.”

“So what’s going on?”

“Just fishing.”

“I noticed.”

“Not every day.”

“Pretty much.”

He looked at her as if she was being cruel by making him explain. “It relaxes me. When I’m out here, I don’t think about anything but fishing.”

“That’s great, just don’t forget about the rest of us, okay?”

“I don’t.”

“I don’t know, sometimes it feels like you’re avoiding me.”

“I’m not.”

“What am I supposed to think when you don’t come home all week, Ed? The only time I see you is at breakfast.”

“I’m sorry.”

The mood was broken. She’d promised herself not to bitch at him, and now there he stood, scolded, rain dripping off his chin.

“Don’t be sorry, just talk to me. Maybe I’d like to go fishing after work too. Not every day, but ... Just keep me part of it, whatever you’re doing.”

“The same here.”

It took her a second to interpret this. Her first reaction was to argue that there was no comparison between her work on the database and him fishing, but, standing in the pouring rain, a mile offshore, it seemed like a fine point.

“That’s fair,” she said.

They sealed it with a peck and a wet hug, apologetically declaring their love for each other. The rain made a frying sound on the water. Only one other boat remained, and it had a cabin.

“Ready to head in?” he asked, as if this was all she’d wanted.

“Forget that,” she said. “I’m gonna catch something.”

A Break

It was how they told time. By the fall they’d picked up the awkward yardstick used by new parents—sixteen months, seventeen. They counted backwards, snagged on that last day, which grew less and less present as week by working week the rest of the world surged ahead.

The semester swept Nina along, reading assignments and papers occupying her evenings. The leaves changed and the weather turned. In the morning frost coated the inside of her window. For break, she and J.P. visited Elise and slept on the floor of her dorm room. They’d spent so much of the summer together that it wasn’t weird. The bond between her and Elise had never been stronger. It was only after J.P. dropped her off that she missed Kim, as if she’d been there with them.