Things Not Seen (14 page)

When they're gone, Mom starts bustling around, cleaning up and taking glasses into the kitchen, all bright and cheery. “Wasn't this a lovely evening? They are such nice people. I can't get over how Julia was at Northwestern—you know, we only missed each other by two years. And she took some of my favorite courses, same professors, same lecture halls—David, I should have you calculate the chances of meeting someone like that. Do you know she even took that course on Rilke that I loved so much, the one about the
Duino Elegies
? I bet the chances of finding someone like that are a million to one, maybe more, don't you think?”

Dad's not talking. He's nodding, and he's trying to smile, and he's pitching in with the cleanup, but he's still working. Working on the Bobby puzzle.

I'm at his elbow at the sink, handing him plates to scrape and rinse. And I say, “So, tell me all about the blanket, Dad.”

Dad keeps busy with the dish brush. “Nothing to tell. Leo's got a few other ideas, but basically, we ran out of science. Sort of hit a theoretical dead end.” He pauses and looks my way. “But, you know, you did a good job—the way you approached that data collection. Good clear thinking, Bobby.”

“Thanks. So, did you get any other ideas? Any breakthroughs?”

He focuses on the dish brush, swishing the suds around, trying to get a streak of pizza cheese off a plate without getting his cast wet. I can tell that holding the plate puts a strain on his broken wrist. “Wish I had good news, Bobby, but I don't, not tonight.”

And that's all he says. He doesn't try to sugarcoat it for me. He doesn't say, “But, you know, son, I'm sure everything's gonna be just fine in the end.”

And later when I'm thinking about what Dad said and the way he said it, I tell myself that I appreciate his honesty. And I tell myself that Dad knows I'm not a little kid anymore, that he knows I'm mature enough to face facts. And I tell myself that in real life, things get messed up, and sometimes they stay that way. And I tell myself I'm proud of myself for being so mentally strong, so tough-minded.

But what I focus on as I head down toward sleep is what Mom says when she tucks me in. Because she says what I want to believe.

“Now, don't worry, Bobby. You get a good night's rest. I just know that everything's going to be fine.”

I
don't have a good night's rest. I miss my electric blanket. The down quilt Mom put on my bed is too light, and it keeps slipping off during the night. And off and on, all night long, I keep thinking about my electric blanket. It's definitely faulty. It definitely puts out an energy field. And I definitely spent the last seven hours of my life as a normal person tucked underneath it.

After I finally do get some sleep, I wake up Tuesday morning with a new idea—make that a huge idea, an amazing idea. Because if my condition
did
have anything to do with a bad electric blanket, there must be a lot of other people who bought that same electric blanket. Probably thousands. And if you get a bad blanket, you send it back. You complain to the manufacturer. There could have been a product recall. There would be records. And if there are records, then there are names. Names of people. And it's just possible that any one of those people could be…like me.

Dad's already gone by the time I get up. Mom says he stayed up late, running different tests, writing down results. Then he left for the lab early. “And he said not to disturb anything in the parlor.” So Dad hasn't really given up on the blanket either. Still, even if he was home now, I'm not sure I'd talk to him about my idea.

Mom leaves to get ready for her ten o'clock Introduction to Literature class, and I grab a pen and paper and go to the parlor the minute she's gone. I thought maybe Dad had taken the information sheets about the blanket to work with him, but they're on the piano bench. The fronts and backs of all four sheets are covered with Dad's tiny, precise handwriting. But I'm not interested in any of that. I don't need to formulate a workable theory. All I need is the model number and the manufacturer. It takes less than ten seconds to jot down.

My blanket is a twin-size, single-control, Dyna-Rest Supreme electric blanket, model DRS-T-1349-7A. The faded sticker on the metal bottom of the controller unit has the same numbers. And the blanket is unconditionally guaranteed for a period of three years by Sears, Roebuck and Company, Chicago, Illinois.

On my way into the den, I do the math. The blanket isn't under warranty. Mom got me this blanket the first day we moved here from Houston, which was in March of my fifth-grade year. I remember the day exactly—cold and windy, no azaleas in bloom, no heated swimming pool in the backyard.

Sears. You can't live in Chicago without knowing where Sears is. Sears Tower is the tallest thing in the city, and for a long time it was the tallest building in the world.

And you think if you know where the Sears Tower is, you know where Sears is. Wrong. That's an illusion. Because I do a little Internet search and learn that Sears moved their company offices out to the suburbs years ago, about thirty-five miles west—so far away, they can't even see their huge tower. I pick up the phone and start to dial the main number, and then I remember. I hang up, go to my room, get Mom's cell phone, carry it to the den, and dial again.

“Thank you for calling Sears. This calling menu has changed, so please listen carefully. If you know the five digit extension of the party you are trying to reach…”

And the recording goes on for about three minutes. I work my way through the menus and get to the consumer merchandise customer service line. Then I have to slog through nine choices until finally I'm asked to hold for the next available customer service representative.

After fourteen minutes and a lot of bad music, a voice says, “Hello, this is Renee. May I help you?”

I try to sound as grown-up as possible, because nobody at any company ever wants to talk to a kid about anything. “Yes, Renee, I'm calling about a possible problem with my electric blanket.”

“Yes, sir. But first, may I have your name and telephone number?”

So I give her Dad's name and the home number, and then she wants our Sears charge account number. “I don't have the card with me at the moment, because all I really want is some information.”

“Yes, sir? I will be happy to give you information about your Sears product. May I have the name and the model number, please?”

I give her the information, and while she's tapping away on a keyboard, I say, “I need to know if there's been a problem with this blanket.”

“Are you experiencing a difficulty in using or maintaining your Sears product, sir?”

This is tricky. “Well, I'm not sure. It might be acting a little strange.”

“Do you use a heart pacemaker, sir?”

“A what?”

“A heart pacemaker, sir.”

“No. I…I just want to know if there have been any problems with this particular blanket.”

“Sir, the notes I have for this product show that we are encouraging any customer who has this item to send it to our customer service center and receive a comparable product of equal or greater value in exchange. Any person using a heart pacemaker should be encouraged not to use this product. And Sears will pay the shipping and handling fees for the exchange. Would you like me to go ahead and schedule a UPS pickup, sir?”

“Can you tell me how many of these blankets have been returned?”

“I do not have that information, sir. We are encouraging any customer who has this item to send it to our customer service center and receive a comparable product of equal or greater value in exchange. And Sears will pay the shipping and handling fees. Would you like me to go ahead and schedule the UPS pickup, sir?”

“Does anyone have a record of who has returned this product to Sears?”

“I don't know anything about that, sir. But you can return that model number for a product of equal or greater value. Would you like me to go ahead and schedule a UPS pickup for your blanket, sir?”

“No. No, thanks. Good-bye.”

“Good-bye, sir, and thank you for calling Sears Customer Service.”

My next call is Alicia.

“Guess what?”

“Um…you woke up this morning perfectly normal, and you've also figured out what's wrong with my eyes.”

“Nice guess. But you know my electric blanket? It's made by Sears, and when I called customer service just now and asked about this model, the lady told me that anyone who calls about it is supposed to send it back for a free replacement. And the lady asked me if I use a heart pacemaker, because the note in the file says to tell anyone with a pacemaker not to use it.”

Alicia says, “So…that means something's seriously wrong with your blanket. How many've been returned?”

“Don't know. But if they're offering to replace it, a lot of people must have had trouble with it.”

“So can we talk to some of them? You get any names?”

“No numbers, no names. That's why I called you. Who should I call next?”

Alicia doesn't hesitate a second. “Definitely the legal department. My mom used to do public relations for big companies, and sometimes she had to do damage control. That's what she called it. You know, a company has a bad product, and they fix it, and then they have to do a media campaign to make sure people know everything's all fixed. But the lawyers are always in the middle of it. So you call the legal department, and you tell them you've got a question about product liability. Mom says that makes big companies crazy. You know, like when all those tires went bad on SUVs? That's why big companies hire jillions of lawyers. You say, ‘This is David So-and-so from the product liability research center in Baltimore or somewhere, and we've gotten a report that such-and-such a blanket is malfunctioning.' Something like that, just make it up. And see if you can get somebody to tell you how many claims they've had, who keeps the records, all that stuff.”

I gulp. “I couldn't do that. They'd never believe me…but how about this? How about I read you the phone number for Sears and
you
call them? You sound like you know what you're talking about…and I think you're a better actor than I am.”

“You think I'm a better actor? What does that mean? You think I'm a good liar, is that it?”

“Jeez—touchy, touchy. It's a compliment. I mean you could probably sound like you know something, and I'm just gonna to sound like this dumb kid, that's all. So, will you do it?”

Alicia pauses. “Okay. Wait till I record the numbers.”

“You've got a tape recorder in your phone?”

“No. My dad got me this tiny dictation thingy last year. It's like a notepad. I can record stuff and then play it back a couple times till it's memorized. My memory's gotten pretty good.”

“Cool.”

Then I tell her the information about the blanket, and the number at Sears, and she says she'll call me back.

Twenty minutes later, I've got my mouth full of English muffin and the cell phone rings. “Hi. What's the news?”

“No news. These people aren't giving anything away.”

“What happened?”

“I told the guy who answered in the legal office that I was doing a product liability inquiry about blanket model number so-and-so, and three seconds later this lady named Amber Carson picks up. Real serious. So I tell her I'm investigating a complaint from a family in Chicago about this blanket, and right away she just shuts down, tells me nothing. I asked her how many complaints they've had. She says, ‘I'm not at liberty to share that information.' She says, ‘Send me a letter,' and that was it. End of conversation.” After a pause Alicia adds, “I'm sure they have a list of people who've returned those blankets, but there's no way they're giving out any names.”

“And you think the records are in the legal department somewhere?”

“Sure. In their computer system. They've probably got a whole team working on bad products and recalls and claims. But think about it: If you were them, would you hand that information over just because someone asks?”

“No,” I say, “but who said anything about asking? If they've got it, then we go and take it.”

Alicia laughs. “You're kidding, right?”

“Am I?” There's a hard edge to my voice, and a plan forms as I talk. “You're the one who said I shouldn't just sit around for five days and do nothing, remember? So are you ready for a little field trip?”

Alicia is stunned. “What?…Go out there and try to
steal
the information? And what do you mean, am
I
ready? What do I have to do with any of this?”

I'm the Greek warrior again, more like a general now, planning my campaign, getting my troops ready for battle. “Simple. I can get inside the building, find the right office, get the information, and then print out a list or make a disk or something, but I can't carry floating paper or plastic around, at least not for very long. If I was a hacker and had a week to try to invade their computer system, I would. But I don't know how to do that, and I don't have a week. So I need someone to help. My parents and your parents are the only other candidates. Since I don't think they'd get behind the idea of stealing corporate secrets, that leaves you.”

“But…you could just do like when you went to the hospital to visit your mom.”

“No way. Too warm today. If it's sixty-five degrees and you wear gloves and a stocking hat and sunglasses and a scarf around your face, you look like a bank robber. And then once I got there looking very suspicious, I'd have to have a place to take off my clothes and hide them, and then come back and get them—it's too complicated. I need your help, Alicia. You be my body, and I'll be your eyes. Help me hail a cab, and talk to the driver and pay the fare, wait for me to come back and hand off the stuff, then we take a cab home again.”

Silence. Then she says, “What if you don't come back? Like if something happens to you?” I like the way she says that, the tone of her voice. But I keep being the warrior.

“Nothing's going to happen. I'm the secret weapon, remember? And even if something did happen, like if it took too long and I didn't come back to you on time—say, after an hour—then you find someone to help you get a cab, you tell the guy your address, and you come home. And I'd take care of myself. But I'm sure it'll be all right. So, what do you think? Can you get out, like, tell your mom you're going to the library early or something?”

“Yeah…I think I can get out…. Bobby, are you sure this is worth doing?”

“Sure? How could I be sure? Of course I'm not sure. But it beats doing nothing, right?”

“…I guess so…. What about cab money?”

“All set. I've got enough cash, my own money, birthdays and stuff. And if we run out, I can just walk into a restaurant or some store, and I'll help myself to the register…or maybe I'll try a little pickpocketing.”

No response.

“I'm joking, Alicia, I'm joking.”

“Not funny, Bobby.” No smile in the voice.

“C'mon, Alicia, lighten up. This'll be an adventure. Listen, you get all set, and be sure to bring your backpack, and I'll meet you at the corner of Fifty-seventh and Ellis in about twenty minutes, okay?…And if you're not there, then I'll come back home and call to see what's happened. Okay?”