The Narrows(32)

“Hi,” Ben said to the daughter, setting the coffee cup back down. “You’re Brandy?”

Brandy nodded, her eyes drinking him in. She seemed as though she could be knocked down by blowing on her.

“I’m Ben Journell.”

“You knew my dad,” Brandy said, catching him off guard.

Yes, he’d known Hugh Crawly. Though Hugh had been a few years older, Ben had gone to school with him and, for a couple of years back in the days of their unbridled youth, they’d maintained a laconic, easy sort of friendship. In a town as small and inquisitive as Stillwater, Ben was certainly aware that Hugh Crawly had picked up and left his family in the night roughly a year or so ago with a woman purportedly half his age. Ben would have never mentioned the girl’s father to her, for fear of dredging up bad memories and overstepping his boundaries; now that she’d mentioned him, Ben found he didn’t know how to react. His hands fumbled along the brim of his hat, which he held in front of him.

“I did, yeah,” he said eventually.

Wendy smoothed a hand through her daughter’s hair. “I’ll make you something to eat.”

“I’m not hungry,” Brandy said.

Wendy went to the refrigerator anyway and began to take out some lunch meat and half a loaf of French bread. Without looking at him, Wendy said, “Ben?”

“No thanks, Wendy. I’m good.”

He watched her cut frantically through the bread.

“Have a seat, Brandy,” Ben said, pulling one of the kitchen chairs out for the girl. He reseated himself at the table, setting his hat on the tabletop and looping one finger in the handle of the coffee mug.

Brandy sat down, her eyes never leaving him.

She’s trying to be tough, he realized. She’s trying not to cry. He couldn’t help but wonder how tough a kid suddenly had to be when their father sneaks away and never comes back. Especially if that kid had a younger sibling they felt obligated to look after. This made him think of his own father, and even as a grown adult with no siblings, he had felt completely lost and frightened when his father had died. He recalled the nights in the house after his father’s death when he thought he heard the old man getting up and walking down the hall to the bathroom…only to remember that he was no longer among the living and it was only Ben’s bittersweet memories playing games on him in the night.

“When was the last time you saw your brother, Brandy?”

“Last night. He was downstairs watching some horror movie on TV when I went up to bed.”

“What times was that?”

“I’m not sure. Mom had already gone to bed. I guess around eleven.”

“And what happened when you got up this morning? Your mother said you noticed he was gone.”

She told him about finding the kitchen door open, mud and wet leaves on the floor. “When I went out to hang the laundry, I noticed his bike was still against the garage, too. That’s when I started to get worried. Oh,” she sparked to life and looked at her mother, who was still busy making sandwiches at the counter. “We found his shirt, too.”

At the counter, Wendy set the knife down. Her shoulders appeared to slump.

“Yes,” Ben said. “Your mom told me about the shirt.”

“I went to his friend Dwight’s house because I thought he might be there. He wasn’t.”

“Dwight?”

“Dandridge. They live a few blocks up the road.”

“Did Dwight say where he might have gone?”

“He said maybe to Hogarth’s Drugstore. There was something in the window he said he wanted to buy.”

Wendy came over and set a hefty sandwich down in front of her daughter. Brandy stared at it with a muddled look of contempt and sadness, like someone looking at a dead animal on the side of the road. Without a word, Wendy returned to the counter and began preparing another sandwich.

“Did he have an argument with either of you?” Ben asked.

Brandy shook her head.

“He’s an eleven-year-old boy,” Wendy said from the counter, her voice slightly raised. “He’s always arguing.”

“I understand.”

“Go upstairs, Brandy.”

The girl looked at her mother, her face expressionless.

“You heard me,” Wendy said. “I need to talk to Ben alone.”

Brandy pushed away from the table, hugging herself with both arms, and crossed silently into the next room. A moment later, Ben heard the stairs creaking as the girl ascended. She’d left her sandwich behind, untouched.

Wendy sat down in her daughter’s chair. Her hands shook and the worry and fear were clearly visible on her face.

“What is it, Wendy?” he said. Of course, he knew Wendy well enough too, though she was a Stillwater transplant. Hugh had met her when he was living and working in Pittsburgh and he’d brought her back with him like some kind of prize he’d won at a state fair. Wendy was still pretty, but she had been youthful and beautiful back then. For the first time, Ben wondered why she had remained in Stillwater after Hugh had left. This wasn’t her town, wasn’t her home. She owed nothing to the land or to its people. Ben doubted she felt the same obligation he’d felt in staying here to take care of his ailing father. Moreover, she did not have that obligation tethering her to Stillwater. Ben had it and it had become stronger, not weaker, after his father had died. He wondered what could be going through Wendy Crawly’s head.