Long Bright River(77)

I’m standing in line, formulating my order, when someone calls my name from behind.

—Mickey? someone says. A woman. Is that you?

Immediately, I tense. I do not like the feeling of being caught unaware. Being watched when I’m unprepared to be looked at.

Turning in place, I see that the voice has come from Lila’s mother, Lauren Spright. Today she’s wearing a loose knit cap and a sweatshirt with stars all over it.

—Hey! says Lauren. It’s so good to see you. I’ve been wondering how you were, since.

She pauses, thinking of how to phrase it. Since the party, she says.

—Oh, I say. I shift my weight back and forth. Put my hands into the pockets of my pants. Yes, I’m sorry about that, I say. It was a scene.

—How’s Thomas doing? Lauren says.

—He’s fine, I say, too quickly. None of your business, I want to say. But I sense in Lauren something genuine: hers is not a superficial or prurient concern.

—I’m glad, says Lauren. Meaning it.

—Hey, she says. Do you guys want to come over to our place sometime? Lila talks about Thomas every day. It would be nice to get them together again.

—Help you? says the boy behind the counter, impatiently. I did not realize I had reached the front of the line.

—All right, I say to Lauren. Yes. That would be great.

Lauren is retreating, letting me order. I’ll call you, she says.



* * *



—

Coffee in hand, I drive south on Frankford, and then north on Delaware Ave. Then, surprising myself, I turn into the parking lot that borders the pier that Simon and I used to go to. The waterfront has changed since those days: SugarHouse Casino now looms to the south. New parking lots have sprung up nearby, and new condo buildings look out on the river.

But our pier is unchanged: still decrepit, trash-strewn, largely abandoned. The same stand of trees, bared by the winter, still obscures the water from view.

I park and get out of my car. I walk between leafless trees, push aside branches, step over weeds. On the wooden pier, I put my hands on my hips. I think of Simon. I think of myself, sitting here, eighteen years old, half a lifetime ago. I think about what kind of man, what kind of person, would work so hard to win the affections of a child. Because that’s what I was, in the end.





By one p.m., I’m tired, and probably hungover, and starting to feel sick. I’ll let Bethany go early. Give her the afternoon off. I pull out of the parking lot, merge onto 95, and drive north.



* * *



—

When I open the door to the apartment, it’s quiet. Thomas still, occasionally, takes an afternoon nap around this time of day, though that’s rarer and rarer.

I take off my jacket and hang it on a hook. I eye the kitchen as I pass it. It’s littered with dishes from breakfast and lunch, and Bethany is nowhere to be found. I take a deep breath. Let it out. This is another conversation I’ve been meaning to have with her: If you could tidy up throughout the day . . .

Then I tell myself, Choose your battles.

I walk down the hallway. Thomas’s door is closed. If he’s sleeping, I don’t want to wake him up.

The bathroom door is closed too. I stand outside it for a moment, listening. Thirty seconds go by, and I hear no running water, no sounds from inside.

Finally, gently, I knock on it.

—Bethany? I whisper.

I try the door handle, at last, and open it a crack.

—Bethany? I repeat.

Finally, I open the door wide. No one is inside.

I spin around. Open the door across the hallway. Thomas’s room. His bed is unmade, but empty.

I call out, now. Hello? I say. Thomas? Bethany?

The apartment is still silent.

I run into my own bedroom, and then turn and run back to the front of the apartment, looking frantically for a note, for any clue to where they might be.

Bethany’s car was in the driveway. And it’s too cold out for them to have gone for a walk, I think—not that Bethany was ever one for walking, even when it was nice out.

I run outside, then down the back stairs, not bothering with a jacket. I leap over the landing and do a U-turn at the base of the stairs, running fast around the house. The wind bites through my sweater.

I look inside Bethany’s car as I pass it. But it, too, is empty. The booster seat I bought for Thomas, I notice, is still not installed.

I pound on Mrs. Mahon’s front door. Then I ring the doorbell, too.

I think wild and horrible thoughts. I imagine the body of my own son, splayed out, lifeless, a version of the many victims I have seen in my years on the job. Somehow, I have only ever seen one child after death, a little girl, six years old, hit by a car on Spring Garden. I wept. Her image has never left my mind.

I ring the doorbell again.

Mrs. Mahon answers, finally, blinking through her large glasses, wearing a brown fuzzy bathrobe and slippers.

—Are you all right, Mickey? she says, taking in my expression.

—I can’t find Thomas, I say. I left him with his babysitter this morning and now they’re gone. There’s no note.

Mrs. Mahon’s face goes pale. Oh no, she says. Oh no, I haven’t seen them today.

She peers out the front door. Her car is still here, isn’t it? she says.

But I’m already gone, rounding the house again, running back up to the apartment, where I grab my phone and call Bethany—no answer—and then text her.