Long Bright River(63)

While I wait for her to respond, I call Truman. He answers right away.

—Mickey, he says, when I’ve finished talking. I can’t believe you. What were you thinking.

I feel myself growing stubborn.

—Truman, I say, I was simply relying on the evidence I was given to make an informed decision. I knew he’d be out of that house at two-thirty. I knew the house needed to be searched for clues to Kacey’s whereabouts. So I made the decision to do it.

Over the phone, I can almost hear Truman shaking his head. Putting his hands to his temples.

—No, Mick, he says. That’s not how things work. You could have gotten killed. You understand?

Hearing Truman say it this way, so bluntly, I falter.

—Listen, he says. You’re in over your head. Both of us are. Did you even report her missing yet?

I hesitate. I tried, I say. I tried to tell Ahearn. He was busy.

—Then tell a detective, says Truman. A real one. Not us. Tell DiPaolo.

My resistance to the idea increases with every appeal Truman makes to me. I can’t put my finger on why, but distantly a bell is sounding in my brain, and if I could just get Truman to stop talking, perhaps I could hear it.

—Mickey, Truman says, you’ve got to get serious, now. This guy knows about Thomas. He used Thomas’s name. No more messing around.

Finally, the reason for my reluctance presents itself to me. I picture Paula Mulroney’s incredulous face as she said to me the words that have haunted me since I heard them. That’s one of your guys, she said. Your guys. Your guys. Then I picture Ahearn as he received this information. How quickly he shoved it aside.

There it is, at last. The reason I haven’t told my colleagues about my sister’s disappearance: I am not certain, anymore, that I can trust them.

Truman has gone silent. I’ve gone silent. The only sound between us is our breath.

—Hey, he says finally. You might not give a shit about your own life. But Thomas does. And I do.

Reflexively, my face reddens. I am unused to such direct statements from Truman.

—Are you hearing me? says Truman.

I nod. Then, remembering that I’m on the telephone, I clear my throat, and say, I am.



* * *



—

After I’ve hung up, my phone dings once.

A text from Ashley.

Nope.



* * *



—

    At home tonight, I spend an extra half hour reading to Thomas on the sofa. I listen to him tell me the small tribulations and successes of his day. I count with him as we name the days until his birthday celebration, happy to know there is something in his life he is looking forward to.





CARLOTTA AND LILA, Thomas begins chanting, as soon as he sees them across the McDonald’s. CARLOTTA AND LILA. CARLOTTA AND LILA.

We rushed to get here. We’re fifteen minutes late for Thomas’s own party. South Philadelphia is a half hour from Bensalem, and somehow time got away from me.

The girls run toward Thomas.

—Hello, I say to their mothers, and they both say hi. Lila’s mother gives me a hug, which I accept stiffly. I know them both vaguely from Thomas’s time at Spring Garden Day School, but I had to look up their first names before I called them.

They are two different types. Carlotta’s mother is older than me, probably in her mid-forties, with curly hair and a practical zip-up parka and mittens that look hand-knit.

Lila’s mother is around my age, early thirties. She has bangs and long wavy hair and she’s wearing a blue coat, clasped with a belt, and both are so beautifully made that I want to reach out and touch them. On her feet are boots with chunky heels and in her ears are delicate golden earrings that dangle almost to her collar. She looks like she works in fashion. Like she smells nice. Like she has a blog.

In my slacks and my white button-down, I probably look like a waitress.

Both mothers, in different ways, seem like they came from good families, went to good colleges.

Both of them, I realize sharply and belatedly, look like they have never eaten at a McDonald’s in their lives.

—This is so great, says Lila’s mom, Lauren. The kids are in heaven.

But Carlotta’s mother, Georgia, appears mildly concerned. She’s scanning the play equipment as if looking for danger.

—I didn’t know they had an indoor playground, she says to me.

—They do, I say. It’s the draw. It’s the only one in the city, and Thomas loves it. I’m sorry you had to come all the way here, though.

—No problem at all, says Lauren. It’s not hard to get here. We just took Columbus down. And they have parking, she adds. What a luxury.

—No problem, Georgia agrees, after a beat.

We stand together in silence for a moment, watching the children play. Lila and Thomas have scaled the ladder that leads into a little elevated playhouse, and Carlotta is bathing in the ball pit, flailing her limbs wildly, as if making a snow angel. I glance at Carlotta’s mother, who, from the look on her face, seems to be wondering how frequently everything is cleaned.

—So how’s work? Lauren asks me. I never spoke to anyone at Thomas’s school about what I do, but I imagine both women used to see me picking him up in uniform sometimes, when I didn’t have time to change.

—Pretty good, I say. You know. Busy.