Long Bright River(59)

—Where’s your car? I ask Truman, and he tells me.

For a while, I say nothing.

Then, at last, I ask him. Do you think she was in that house? I say.

Truman thinks for a long time.

—I don’t know, he says. She could have been. I didn’t see her downstairs. But there was a second floor, and I know something was going on up there.

I nod.

—Mickey, says Truman. Don’t do anything stupid.

—No, I say. I wouldn’t.





Truman’s phone rings then, and he glances at it before telling me to pull over, saying that he’ll jump out where we are.

—I can drive you all the way to your car, I say.

—It’s okay, says Truman. It’s not far.

He seems antsy to get out. The phone keeps ringing.

He taps the roof of the cruiser, once, as he’s leaving.

It’s only then that I realize that I never even told him about my meeting at lunch with Ahearn. If anyone would have advice on this front, it’s Truman—but Truman has already answered his call.

I watch him for a while as he walks away.

I wonder, again, whom he’s speaking to.





At last, the day is over. I worry the whole way home about how Thomas’s day has been. I yearn for the release of reconnecting with him after a time apart: a quick hit of dopamine that lowers the shoulders and slows the breath.

It’s already close to pitch-black when I arrive at home, and it’s not even five p.m. I despise these days: the darkness of the darkest part of winter. Every glint of sunlight feels edible, something sweet to swallow and store for the long cold night.

The first thing I notice when I arrive is that there are no lights on in Mrs. Mahon’s house. My stomach clenches, just a bit. I exit the car and trot through the snow, up to the front door. I ring the doorbell. Without waiting long enough, I knock, too.

I press my face to the glass at the side of the door, trying to see anything inside. Where are they? I’m ready to kick down the door. I’m back in work mode, my hand near my weapon.

I’m about to knock again when the door swings open. Mrs. Mahon is on the other side of it, the room behind her dim. No Thomas. She looks at me, blinking through her large glasses.

—Is Thomas here? I ask.

—Of course, she says. Are you all right? That pounding on the door, good lord. You almost gave us a heart attack.

—I apologize, I say. Where is he?

And just then he appears next to Mrs. Mahon, a strip of red above his upper lip. He’s been drinking something sugary. He’s grinning.

—I hope you don’t mind that I gave him Kool-Aid, says Mrs. Mahon. I keep it in the cabinet for when my great-nephews come over.

I have never seen Mrs. Mahon’s great-nephews in the entire time we’ve been living here. No, that’s fine, I say. Special treat.

—We’ve been watching a movie like in the movie theater, Thomas says, his voice shrill with excitement.

—He means we made popcorn and turned the lights off, says Mrs. Mahon. Come in, you’re letting cold air into the house.

Inside, while Thomas is getting his shoes and jacket on, I notice a picture hung on the wall of the entryway: it looks like a class photograph, grainy and worn. There are many rows of children, ranging in age from kindergartners to young teenagers. The rear two rows are nuns, dressed in cardigans and skirts and simple head coverings, like the nuns in the parish school Kacey and I used to go to. The photograph is black-and-white and difficult to date. It’s hard to imagine that Mrs. Mahon was ever a child, but the image says differently. Quickly, I scan the children to see if I can recognize her, but suddenly Mrs. Mahon touches my elbow.

—While he’s off getting ready, she says quietly, I should tell you that the man stopped by again.

My heart sinks.

—Did Thomas see him, I say.

—No, says Mrs. Mahon. I recognized him out the window, so I told Thomas to go upstairs for a moment. And I told him you no longer lived here. Just as you asked.

Relief.

—How did he react, I say.

—He seemed disappointed, says Mrs. Mahon.

—That’s fine, I say. He can be as disappointed as he wants. He believed you?

—Seemed to, said Mrs. Mahon. He was very polite.

—He can be, I say.

Mrs. Mahon sets her jaw and nods.

—Good for you, anyway, she says. Most men I have no use for.

She thinks a moment and then adds, One or two of them, I tolerate.



* * *



—

Thomas is full of stories when we enter the apartment.

—Mrs. Mahon let me watch E.P., he says.

—What’s E.P.?

—A movie. It’s a movie about a guy who goes on a kid’s bike.

—A guy?

—A monster.

—E.T., I say.

—And he says E.P. phone home. And Mrs. Mahon showed me how to do that with my finger, like this.

He extends his little pointer finger toward me, and I touch it with mine.

—Like that, he says again.

—Did you enjoy it? I ask.

—Yes. She let me watch it even though it was scary, says Thomas. He’s wired from the movie and, probably, from too much sugar.

—Were you frightened?