Don't You Cry(76)

“You just found it today? Right now? Just a few minutes ago?”

But she shakes her head no. “It was a day or two ago,” and then she sighs and says, “It’s been a long week. A really long week,” as if that should explain to me why it’s taken her a day or two to return Esther’s purse. “I live nearby,” she says. “It’s on the way.” She tells me that Jane really should be more careful with her purse, “Carrying that much cash around,” and I know two things then: number one, this lady riffled through Esther’s purse, and secondly, when I look inside, I’m going to find fifteen hundred dollars in there.

Esther took the money out of the ATM, but she never used it. She didn’t hire some hit man to off me. She isn’t vacationing in Punta Cana, sipping a strawberry daiquiri.

Where is Esther?

“How do you know where we live?” I ask suddenly as we stand there on the front stoop, being enveloped by the cold autumn air.

“It’s on her driver’s license,” she tells me. “I wasn’t snooping,” she swears before I have a chance to ask, taking on a tone that is rueful and defensive all at the same time. She was snooping. “I was just trying to return the purse. You’ll give it to her? To Jane?” this lady asks, and I say, “Oh, yes. Of course,” and then I say my goodbyes, let myself into the building and gently close the door.

*

Esther’s and my apartment is empty when I step inside, but it smells like Esther: the scent of her cooking, the fragrance of her peony body mist. I’m struck with a wave of nostalgia.

I meander to her doorway and, as I cross the threshold into Esther’s refrigerator-box room, I see the Dalmatian Molly floating dead at the bottom of the fish tank. I drift to the side of the tank, flipping off the tank light so that I can’t see the poor dead fish on the hot-pink rocks, the swoosh of the filter making it look like she’s breathing when I’m certain she’s not. Her body lies flaccid, turning white—a sign of rot—and as I tap on the side of the glass, she doesn’t move. She’s dead. Esther’s fish is dead. How long has she been dead?

I mouth the words, Sorry, Fishy. I’m not sure what I did, but I’m sure I did something wrong.

I kindle a third search of the apartment, retracing every step I’ve already made twice. I’m growing desperate. I am desperate. There must be something more here, something I’ve overlooked. I look through Esther’s desk and dresser drawers again; I peer inside her closet. I grope at items at random and throw them to the floor, not worrying whether or not I make a mess. I crinkle her papers; I tug the drawers right off the IKEA desk, and search for a false bottom drawer. I breathe heavily, working hard.

There’s nothing there.

I make a mess of Esther’s room; I knock her pencil cup to the ground, angry and rash. I flip through the stack of textbooks and then toss them aside one by one, where they fall to the hardwood floors, making a clamorous noise. Down below, Mrs. Budny is likely two seconds away from reaching for her sponge mop, but I don’t care.

My cell phone rings—Ben, I’m sure, finally returning my call—but I can’t be slowed down. I need to find Esther. When I get to the bottom of the textbook pile, I rise to my feet and cross the room, stepping with dirty shoes on Esther’s aqua throw and orange duvet, leaving dusty footprints on the fabric, though as I do, I’m reminded of Esther’s words: The dill weed goes here. And the peanut flour goes here.

She wouldn’t like this one bit.

“There’s nothing here,” I say to myself out loud, hands held up in defeat.

I attack the living room and the kitchen with a vengeance, canvassing every drawer, every piece of mismatched furniture, behind picture frames, under the rug. I slip a hand behind the sofa cushions and search there, too; I knock on the drywall and listen for somewhere hollow, a secret hiding spot. I check inside the air return for a stash of goodies, but still, there’s nothing there. Just dust and dirt and dead air.

And then I have an idea, some place I haven’t yet searched. I climb on top of the kitchen cabinets and search that half-inch gap between the cabinets for a hideaway, a last-ditch attempt at finding some clue, any kind of clue. Anything. I trek dirty footprints across the Formica countertop but I don’t care.

But still, there’s nothing there.

It’s from up on top of the countertop that I see it, my face red and sweaty from romping around the apartment on another fruitless mission, my heart beating quickly, my breathing heavy and uncontrolled. I’m rolling my sweater sleeves to my elbows when I catch sight of the light blue item on the floor, sitting there behind the door, right where I left it.

Esther’s purse.

I leap from the countertop—my knees unleashing a groan—and run to the purse. How is it possible that I didn’t think to look inside her purse? Turning it upside down, I toss its contents out on the floor, shaking the purse to make sure I get everything out. I set it aside, but not before zipping and unzipping the pockets, feeling the lining for a secret compartment. But the only thing that’s left behind is a stick of gum.

This is what I find spilled across the wooden floors of our apartment: a sewing kit, a headband, a little mirror, three tampons, some Altoids, Esther’s light blue quilted wallet—to match the light blue quilted purse—tissues, a book and some keys. A key for the main walk-up door, a key for our apartment door, a padlock key for her storage unit.