Long Bright River(78)
Where are you, I say. Please call me. I’m home.
* * *
—
It’s then that the words of Connor McClatchie arrive in my mind like a fire alarm. You’ve got a son, he said to me. Thomas, right?
It takes me ten seconds to consider my options.
At the end of it, I call 911.
I have never before interacted with Bensalem’s police force. They are small, but very professional. Within minutes, the house is a crime scene. Two patrol officers arrive first, a young man and an older woman, and they interview me quickly.
Downstairs, Mrs. Mahon is being interviewed separately.
It feels strange to be working with a police department outside of Philadelphia. It seems reasonable to me that being an officer myself would be helpful to me in this moment, and yet I can think of no one right now on whom I might call. Every connection I have—Mike DiPaolo, Ahearn, Simon, even Truman now—feels lost to me, for different reasons. Even my own family is lost to me. I can think of no one at all to call, and in an instant, the depths of my solitude are made real to me. The world closes in around me, one notch tighter, one notch tighter, until my breathing turns shallow and quick.
—Easy, says the female officer kindly, noticing this. Easy. Deep breaths.
I have never, in all my life, been on this side of an interview. I do as she instructs.
—What do you know about this babysitter? the female officer asks.
—Her name is Bethany Sarnow, I say. I believe she’s twenty-one years old. She does makeup in her spare time. Occasionally she takes classes at CCP. Online, I think.
The officer nods. Okay, she says. Do you know her home address?
I blank. No, I say. I don’t, actually.
I pay Bethany in cash. Under the table. Twice a month.
—Okay, says the officer. How about any of her friends or family members? Anyone you can think of to contact?
Again, I shake my head. Berating myself. I had exactly one reference for Bethany, her instructor at the makeup academy, and even she, if I am being honest with myself, had sounded lukewarm.
—I’m worried about something, I say, my throat catching. Something in particular.
—What’s that? says the officer. Her partner, the young man, has joined her now, after taking a cursory look through the apartment. I know what it must look like to him: shoddy, run-down, messy. Not the kind of place one has guests to.
—My sister is missing too, I say. At least, I don’t know where she is. And there are people who know that I’m looking for her and may not be happy about it. And also, I’m a patrol officer in the 24th District of the PPD, but I’m under investigation right now. But it’s due to a misunderstanding. Or maybe foul play.
The officers exchange a quick look, but it doesn’t escape me. I’ve been in their shoes. I know what I sound like.
—No, no, I say. It’s not like that. I’m an officer. I’m a cop. But I’m on suspension right now, because.
I trail off. Stop talking, I think. Just stop talking. I hear Truman, too, saying it in my ear.
—Because? says the young man. He scratches his nose.
—Never mind, I say. It’s not important. I’m just worried about a possible abduction.
The female officer shifts again. What gives you reason to believe your son might have been abducted? she says. Is there anyone in particular who concerns you?
—Yes, I say. Connor McClatchie. But there are other possibilities too.
The male officer walks down the hallway to radio to Dispatch. I can’t hear exactly what he’s saying. The female officer continues to interrogate me, and slowly, more and more people arrive on the scene.
Just then, a terrible pounding begins on the door.
Through its glass window, I see Mrs. Mahon’s face, her hair wild, her expression unreadable.
—Let me in, she is saying through the door.
They’re back, Mrs. Mahon says, once I have opened the door. She is looking right at me, ignoring everyone else in the room.
It takes all of my effort not to collapse to my knees, to put my head in my hands, to burst into tears.
—Where are they, I ask.
—In the driveway, says Mrs. Mahon. A man’s with them.
I run out the door, ignoring the male officer as he says, Just a moment, ma’am, please.
I fly down the stairs, followed more slowly by Mrs. Mahon, and around the house, and there is Thomas, looking serious, standing off to the side with a detective who is squatting down next to him, her face inches from his, talking to him.
I go to Thomas. I lift him into my arms. He buries his face in my neck.
I scan the driveway.
There is Bethany, crying. Next to her is a young man I don’t recognize. He’s been handcuffed. His face is red and furious.
* * *
—
Later, I will find out that this is Bethany’s boyfriend. That the two of them thought it would be a good idea to go to the mall, to take Thomas with them in the boyfriend’s car, unequipped with any child seat, a car in which the backseat does not even have functioning seat belts. The two of them thought it would be a good idea to do this without so much as a note or a text. (I thought you might be mad, Bethany will say to me, and I will say, Correct.) In half an hour, I will fire Bethany, and Bethany will ask me, with no irony or compunction, for a reference.